#when he was still figuring out his doctor

[fayes-fics]

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.

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

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

[sourpeachsayshi]

Praise kink with Nanami, please😭

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: therapist!nanami; client!reader; guided; forbidden; doctor-patient relationship; size kink(?)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ notes: I went overboard with this one.

nanami's eyes darken, his glasses resting just below the bridge of his nose, irises blurring like the haze between night and day. he uncrosses then crosses his legs, desperately trying to adjust the bulge in his pants. his notebook is still resting comfortably on his lap, one of his hands fidgeting with the pen that he lightly taps against the paper, while the other traces the outline of his lip.

your legs are spread apart, your skirt flipped up, underwear pulled to the side. your shirt unbuttoned, exposing the lace fabric of your pretty, pretty bra. the sight of your cunt forms a knot in his throat, which he swallows while trying to forget the many nights he's jacked off picturing himself fucking you.

the one who came to him after leaving her horrible husband. who has struggled to find any sexual pleasure ever since, and who timidly admitted that she finds her underwear soaked after every session with dr. kento.

"I don't think," you sigh, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. "I don't think this will work..."

"but you look good," he reassures, noticing your lashes flutter at his words. "Wet. I can see it from here..."

your face burns with embarrassment, and you part your lips to say something though no words come out.

"just keep listening, okay? you're doing really well for me, I promise this will help," he lies through his teeth, his cheeks tinting a shade of crimson of him abusing his role. "your middle and index finger, use it to rub your clit, not too fast...nice and easy..."

you oblige, and that doesn't take him by surprise. you listen to his guidance, start massaging the nub of your clit gently. a few minutes pass, but he's busy paying attention to your reactions. the way your breath hitches and your chest hiccupping as you try to stifle a moan.

"don't hold it in," he coos, "give in to your natural reactions. it's okay, I'm right here. I'm watching you, helping you. you trust me, right?"

"yes, doctor," you whimper and he hums in response.

"feels good?"

"uh-huh"

"you sound lovely, like you're enjoying it..."

"mmph~"

"faster. add a little more pressure, that's right..." he continues, "how do you feel?"

"warm-" you add, breathless and needy which only fuels his desire. "I l-like it, I like how it feels..."

"This is excellent progress, I'm proud of you," he praises, a hint of a devious smile ticking the corner of his lip. "try putting a finger in, there you go..."

his eyes narrow as you sink your middle finger into your hole. you gasp in slight shock, taken aback that you actually enjoyed the tiny stretch. nanami nearly snaps the pen his half. knowing full well that the length and thickness of his fingers would do far, far better.

you pump in and out, so slowly like you're trying to figure out what pacing you prefer. "doctor kento," you moan, though you are not addressing him with anything specific except to simply call out his name.

his cock twitches.

he takes his glasses off, and folds it neatly between his pressed shirt. he closes his notebook, the page filled with mindless scribbles that he put together to distract himself from being aroused by you.

"when we discussed your sex life prior to your marriage, you mentioned you enjoyed receiving oral," he states.

you gaze up at him with doe eyes from underneath your lashes, finger fucking yourself tenderly as you shake your head in confirmation.

he gets up from his seat, takes a few steps closer as he carefully rolls up his sleeve. he kneels before you, the afternoon light sparkling against his golden hair. his face far too close to your cunt.

"a more manual approach might do you some good," he mumbles, his large palms reaching for your plush thighs.

the heat burns behind your ears and down your neck, your muscles in your lower belly start quivering with delight and anticipation.

"you're gorgeous, by the way," he admits, dropping his professional mask and allowing his inner thoughts to speak on his behalf. "it's a shame your ex couldn't appreciate that..."

he moves on hand to circle around your wrist and draws it away from your soaking cunt. he brings your shaking fingers to his lips to taste your essence before releasing you with a pop.

"so sweet," he purrs. he drops your wrist, his hands smoothing over your inner thigh and over the curve of your pelvis. when he looks up at you, you almost don't recognize the devilish expression on the face of such a gentleman. "you deserve to feel this good. may I?"

you melt into the pillow behind you, your heart pounding so hard against your chest it makes the room around you spin.

"we'll go for as long as you can handle. alright, sweetheart?"

"yes, doctor kento"

"good girl," he murmurs, the depth of his voice making you tremble in your seat. "such a good girl..."

your eyes roll to the back of your head, a cry leaving your lips that sounds like an ache when he brings his tongue to your sex and drags upward along the glittering slit.

no more secrets x

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento smut #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut

[ghouljams]

What Once Was

A perspective shift, a pause, a brief respite before doubt takes hold again. Android!Ghost feels his heart beat.

You grew up in Manchester, or at least you had a job out there. You don’t like thinking about “growing up.” As far as you’re concerned you’ve been doing this your whole life. Fixing things. You had a job, an apprenticeship, with a bot mechanic at one of the industrial plants. You’d taught yourself coding, but at risk of electrocution you’d found someone to teach you the rest. It was hard, but the work was rewarding. You were young, but unlike people, bots care more about the results than how long a doctor has been a doctor. They didn’t ask questions, they didn’t know they should have. 

The area was rough, you always liked the industrial parts of town, but even you could admit the place had seen better days. There was this old butcher shop. Real old school, but people like that. Meat tastes better when it’s cut by human hands, you’d heard someone say once. And there was this kid working there, Simon, he couldn’t have been much older than you. You saw him on your lunch breaks sometimes. You shared your sandwich with him.

He smiled sometimes, more than you would have thought given everything you knew about him. He liked working with his hands, you got that. He liked being away from home, you got that too. He never called you crazy when you talked about bots like they were people. He was sweet, you liked that about him. 

He disappeared one day, without saying goodbye. You figured that was just what happened to people who lived like you two did. You didn’t even bother with a police report. Maybe you should have.

-

You still sit with your knees pulled up to your chest when you’re working on small parts. Your brows still furrow the way they did when you were a teenager. Ghost watches you flip down your magnifier over your eyes and remembers teasing you about needing glasses from squinting too much. You still blow the dust out of old cartridges and stick them into your arsenal of wires just to listen to the technicolor drone of ancient video games while you work.

“Just the music,” you’d told him years and years ago, “it helps me focus.”

You’re exactly the same, and yet you’re so unfathomably different. Or maybe he’s different. Different in the ways that matter most, in the ways that mean you’ll never recognize him. It’s better like this. He’s been through too much to be the sort of man you deserve. Barely a man at all, really.

That doesn’t stop him from circling you, like a moth to a flame, or a weary soldier to the comfort of home. He finds himself in your workshop with repairs that aren’t repairs, with injuries that he’s never been bothered by before. Ghost sits and lets you run diagnostics, lets you poke and prod at his gears, and he never says a word. Never mentions that you still look beautiful in work lights, that you shouldn’t hold your tweezers in your mouth because you always pinch your lip, that you’re still you even when he isn’t sure he’s still himself. He never mentions that he has a million things he’s never told you, that he wanted to tell you but never got the chance to. 

He thinks them sometimes: when he’s watching you work, when you smile up at a bot warmly, when you ask him what’s wrong, when you start walking towards him before you even know what he needs, when you lay your hands on him and he flips every sensor to try and feel your warmth. He thinks that he loves you, that no matter how little of him is left he’ll always love you. He could love you with nothing, with bare circuits and white matter, and that would be enough to keep him going.

It was enough to keep him going. It isn’t anymore. Not when you’re here, so close and still a thousand miles away. Not when you don’t recognize him, when you don’t see the scrawny kid from Manchester in the corded steel and dense circuitry. 

Did you think of him when he left? Did you worry? It always felt melancholic, said as a joke that neither of you laughed at: it’s gonna kill me one day, this world’s gonna kill me. Was that what you thought happened? When you knew about his father, when he sat down for lunch with fresh bruises and a split lip, did you think that’s what happened when he didn’t show up the next day? Did you mourn him?

He should have taken you with him. Sixteen. Young enough to kill for a living, but still too young to save you. He couldn’t save anyone, couldn’t even save himself. 

They shouldn’t have put him back together.

Not if it meant he’d see you again.

Not if it meant you’d look at him like this,

Like nothing.

Repairs that aren’t repairs. Injuries that never bothered him before. Diagnostics. Circling. He knows it will burn him, he can feel the heat, but he can’t stop. Androids aren’t supposed to feel. Men aren’t supposed to be metal. And you don’t love him.

Not anymore.

(If you ever did.)

#cod x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #mw2 ghost #ghost cod #android!ghost #cyberpunk au #gn!reader

[extasiswings]

Post-4x13 Fics

I was going to go on a reblog spree, but instead figured I would just put all of my S4 finale spec/post-4x13/S5 spec fics in one handy list.

some things you just can't speak about

A collection of S4 finale spec fics.

a flower in a gun (a bird in flight)

Even if Buck felt the same—and Eddie isn’t convinced of that, doesn’t have the arrogance to assume—what right does he have to say please, to say wait, to ask Buck to put his life on hold indefinitely while Eddie sorts through the tangled mess in his head in the hope that one day he’ll finally be ready? He can’t be that selfish. Especially not with Buck. [Or: in the aftermath of the shooting, love endures.]

mark me like a bloodstain (or a tattoo kiss)

Eddie finds words difficult. So he comes up with other ways to show how he feels. [For the prompt: "You've always felt like home."]

stars choose their lovers (save my soul)

Most of the time, Buck feels like there’s no one in the world who understands Eddie as well as he does. Most of the time. Because there are still some other times when he’s completely in the dark.

safety and home

The thing Eddie remembers most about the shooting isn’t the shot itself, or the pain, or even the fear—it’s the cold. [Or: Eddie dreams of drowning]

burning like a slow flame

For the prompt: "I felt it shelter to speak to you." “With all due respect, Mr. Diaz,” the doctor says, “you’re in the emergency room because of an acute stress response in which your brain tricked your body into believing you were in danger to such an extent that you thought you were dying. I’m not sure you’re as fine as you think.”

slipping away (call on me)

For the prompt: "I exist in two places, here and where you are." Buck feels like he lost part of himself when he watched Eddie being rolled through the emergency doors and he hasn’t gotten it back. There’s a hollow space in his chest crowding out his lungs so he can’t draw a full breath, squeezing his heart so his blood isn’t circulating properly. He’s a shade. Half-alive. And the other half left on a city street, in an ambulance bay, in a hospital room.

paint me a heaven with your bloodied mouth

Buck. Four letters. One syllable. Eddie knows it’s a nickname. He doesn’t know why Buck picked it or why Buck seems to use it exclusively, but he figures it isn’t really his business. And also that it probably isn’t that deep—all of them use nicknames at work or otherwise in their daily lives. Eddie himself might find it weird if anyone outside of his immediate family suddenly started using his full name regularly after so many years of only rarely hearing it from anyone else. So. Eddie calls Buck "Buck." And he doesn’t think anything of it. At least…not at first.

#chapel writes #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic

[octaviaabadassblakee]

Watching the 911 ladder truck on Buck's leg episode, and my bucktommy heart can't help but thinking about how it would go if it happened now.

If Buck and Tommy had been on like 4 dates, and still figuring things out. They've only kissed like 3 times total, and Tommy can't help it but he's definitely smitten. And then there's a whole firetruck on Evan's leg and he's an hour away on a call. Watching the news on his phone as he waits for everyone to load up on the helicopter to go back to base. And his heart is beating so fast he's pretty sure it'll come out of his chest. He can barely breathe, watching this kid with a bomb impede the 118 from helping Evan. Thank god someone else is qualified to fly this helicopter back because Tommy can't think straight.

He watches the whole way back, nearly sobs when the community comes together to get the truck off him. Confused when the guys practically push him out of the chopper and he's on a roof. A hospital roof. And he's then he's running. He sees Chim and Hen and their confused looks first. Can barely get the words out. "How is he?! How's Evan? Where is he?!" And they take pity on him and tell him he's in surgery and the doctors are pretty sure he'll be ok. And then the rest of the team, and Evan's sister, show up. And he waits. And waits. And tries to play it cool. Tries to look like a worried friend and not a guy whose heart might get ripped out of his chest if Evan dies. Then the doctor says it went well and they're sure he'll walk again and he's in recovery. Soon after, they all have people to get home to so it's just him and Maddie. And she gives him a knowing smile, tears in her eyes. And he breaks down. Quiet tears running down his face.

And when the nurse tells them they can wait in his room, Maddie tells Tommy to go ahead. She's getting coffee and food. And so he sits with Evan's hand in his, stares at him. Takes comfort in seeing his chest rise and fall as he breathes. And when Evan wakes up, and Tommy looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and still has his hand in his, Tommy panics for a second. Forgetting no one knows. And then Evan smiles. Squeezes his hand and thanks him for being there. And finally, after hours, Tommy can breathe again.

#ugh chey types things #bucktommy #911 #evan buckley #tommy kinard #I could absolutely lose my mind over these 2 #9-1-1 #911 abc #my writing

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

hi, saw that your Sdv requests are open. I currently have my dogs sitting on my lap and had a thought. How would the sdv bachelors respond/react if the farmer said they didn't want kids and would rather adopt some dogs (or cats or any type of animal if I'm being serious) instead of having children.

Love your writing. Hope you have an amazing week.

Hey hey 👋 Thank you for your kind words and for the ask, dear anon! I'm glad you like my writing and I hope you like this hc too. Have a nice week as well 🫰💕

SDV bachelors react to the Farmer when they said they wanted to adopt a dog/cat/other pet instead of having a children:

_________________________________________

Shane doesn't see any problem with this at all because he had previously sworn to himself that he wouldn't have children. Especially since Shane has already tried a few years as a father figure and realised it's... hard. Don't get him wrong, Shane loves his niece, but with his depression and alcohol abuse previously, he knew he wasn't the best godfather for Jas. But he has plenty of experience with caring for chickens, so Shane brightened with joy when his spouse suggested having more chickens instead of kids. Charlie would have more friends!

Harvey had always dreamed of a happy family, but the local doctor had never specifically thought about having children. He came to the conclusion that he would be happy with Farmer in any scenario. And recently, a friend of Harvey's from Zuzu City was looking for owners for three orphaned stray kittens... So after a conversation with his spouse and mutual agreement, Harvey now have the three furballs who greet him with chorus of meowing, climb up his pyjama, demanding food, and make Harvey and Farmer smile every day.

Sebastian was all for it. He didn't want to have kids either, and didn't have any particular reason. He was afraid that Farmer would take this rather negatively. But since they are both on the same page, how about expand their terrarium and get more cute frogs? Sebastian still remembers that the Farmer named the rescued frog "their son," so "they're already parents to green babies." Sebby will be happy about the addition to their frog family (and won't forget to lightly tease his beloved spouse again).

Sam holds up the Farmer's dog. "But we already have a baby!" And the pooch barked back, wagging his tail happily. Well, they're glad that Sam reacted to their words very calmly. But later the guitarist himself admits that he doesn't see himself as a parent. Especially since they are both so young, and there's still a lot to do and explore. But he also would like to have another puppy. Sam even called Marnie to ask about adopting a puppy. Or maybe two? How about three? All in all, Sam, like Farmer, would be quite happy without children.

Elliott had long since chosen the right words and the right place, for, as it turned out, he himself had wanted to raise the matter with Farmer. The writer decided that since they were both almost entirely devoted to their work and hobbies, they would not be able to pay proper attention to the child, and it would be unfair to the baby. What was the writer's surprise when Farmer told him that they also wanted to discuss the possibility of being childfree. And also the idea of having another cat. Elliott was fine with it, believing that their first cat would like a new friend.

Alex was a little discouraged by Farmer's question, as he was thinking of just discussing with his spouse about children/adoption. Not that he wants kids right away without prior preparation, of course not. But after listening to Farmer's opinion, Alex couldn't disagree with their reasoning. Perhaps he just wanted the happy family life he didn't have as a child. But he was already happy with Farmer. And he'd be even more happy if Farmer agreed to have a couple puppies. Dusty would definitely enjoy the new company!

#stardew valley #sdv #sdv shane #sdv harvey #sdv sam #sdv sebastian #sdv elliott #sdv alex #sdv headcanons #thanks for the ask! #Come to think of it... The only person whose childfree life be a major blow to marriage is Penny #Because for her - children and family are the meaning of life #While others in the dialogues (although they are glad that they became parents) have never insisted on it so much. Only Penny

[captainremmington-13]

A Lady Made of Snow

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own The Hunger Games franchise, the images above, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, or any of the characters in this fic other than Bellova. I also do not condone the beliefs or actions of Coriolanus or Bellova.

SUMMARY: Coriolanus hands Bellova over to Dr. Gaul, knowing that she is his only chance to regain control of her, and subsequently, his future.

⚠️Warnings⚠️: THIS IS A DARK CHAPTER. It contains violence, torture, verbal/physical abuse, mention of suicide, Coriolanus and Dr Gaul being evil, swearing

A/n: I’m s o sorry this took FOREVER to write, it took me a long time to figure out what direction I wanted to take the plot☹️

Coriolanus shivered, pulling his expensive trench coat tighter around his body. Dr. Gaul’s lab was always cold, and she refused to turn up the temperature, as she claimed it would compromise the well-being of many of her beloved mutts.

The doctor, his boss and mentor, walked into the small room, standing at his side. She looked down at the unconscious Capitol heiress in the middle of the room, and smiled brightly. 

“I daresay this is the prettiest lab rat I’ve ever worked on.”

Coriolanus nodded wordlessly. He had always had a hard time understanding how Dr. Gaul was able to treat humans like dolls without feeling remorse. Now, he was finally starting to get it.

Bellova laid on a metal table, dead to the world. She was completely nude, which would’ve flustered a younger, weaker Coriolanus. But in the present situation, he was much more concerned with what Dr. Gaul had in store for her. 

There were thick leather straps secured around Bellova’s ankles and wrists, preventing her from leaping off the table and trying to escape. Even if she somehow undid them, there were Peacekeepers right outside the laboratory door that would intercept her in a heartbeat.  

Dr. Gaul set her case of equipment on the stand next to the table. She opened it up swiftly, revealing a plethora of tools. There were several syringes with odd-colored liquids inside, sharp instruments that gleamed menacingly in the brilliant white light of the room, and a variety of unidentifiable objects (which Coriolanus assumed she’d invented herself). 

“What are you planning to do?” Coriolanus asked. 

Dr. Gaul gave him her signature crooked grin. “Pull up a chair, Mister Snow.”

Coriolanus did as he was told, moving a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the table. Once he sat down, Dr. Gaul spoke again.

“I am going to run a scan of her brain while she’s still unconscious. See what went wrong with the serum I gave you. Then, I will determine what the next course of action should be.”

“What do you suspect happened that reversed the serum’s effects?”

“Her sheer willpower,” the doctor replied. “Miss Reginelle has always been extraordinarily strong-willed, it is not completely surprising that her mind was able to fight against them and win.”

“Is there something that triggered it specifically?” 

Dr. Gaul pursed her lips. “I don’t have a clue. But perhaps with a little…persuasion, we can get her to tell us. That way, we can ensure that the same mistake is not made again.”

.

.

.

After a thorough physical inspection was conducted, Dr. Gaul determined it was time for Bellova to wake.

As Dr. Gaul pushed the needle that housed the serum that would bring her back to consciousness into her arm, Coriolanus found himself holding his breath. He paced back and forth, wringing his hands anxiously. He wasn’t sure why he was so afraid. She was completely helpless, strapped down and trapped in the laboratory, and yet she still seemed to pose a threat.

After a few moments of silence, Coriolanus saw Bellova’s eyes open slowly. The sharp gaze in her pupils immediately told him she was still her true self. That wouldn’t last for long, thankfully. 

Bellova squirmed, tugging at the leather straps. She looked frightened, even more so than when Coriolanus had wrapped his hands around her neck.

“Where am I?” she croaked.

Dr. Gaul cackled quietly, the harsh noise echoing slightly throughout the room. “Oh, little bunny, you’re in my lab. You’ve been here so many times, you must recognize it.” The condescending lilt in her voice made Bellova’s pale face flush pink. “Or perhaps your mind is too frazzled to think properly.”

“I can think just fine, thank you,” Bellova hissed. “And don’t call me bunny. Now untie me, or I’ll make you wish you were never born, you sick, decrepit bitch.”

Coriolanus stifled a laugh. The fact that Bellova still possessed the courage to hurl insults while completely vulnerable was truly astounding.

Dr. Gaul just smiled wider. “Oh, but what’s the fun in letting you get away? Mister Snow and I are going to help you, make you a much better version of yourself. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No-“

“Too fucking bad,” Coriolanus interrupted her, casting her a cruel smile. “You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Bellova’s body tensed as she tugged on her restraints, clearly wishing she could hit him. This only amused Coriolanus further.

Dr. Gaul leaned down, her lips inches away from Bellova’s right ear. “If you don’t stop struggling, I’m going to slit your pretty little throat and cut up your flesh to feed to my babies.”

Bellova shuddered, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was clearly trying her hardest not to cry. 

“I don’t care if you kill me,” she whispered. “A brutal death is better than a lifetime of domestication.”

Dr. Gaul looked at Coriolanus. The gleam in her eye told him that she had an idea. 

And knowing her, it was bound to be a gruesome one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as Coriolanus stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor Dr. Gaul’s lab was located on, he was able to hear the screams. 

He winced, and gripped the strap of his satchel tighter as he strode down the hallway. He’d started to get used to the ear-splitting sounds, but that didn’t make them any more pleasant.

When he entered the laboratory, he hung his bag on a hook on the wall and headed towards the isolated experiment rooms. Dr. Gaul had set aside most of her other projects and left them to her assistants and the other Gamemakers. 

She was hellbent on breaking Bellova past repair. 

“How is it coming along this morning, Dr. Gaul?” Coriolanus asked as he swept into Bellova’s room cell. His mentor looked up from her work, and gave him a knowing grin. 

“Our little bunny seems to be just as stubborn as the first day we began playing with her.” 

He sighed, walking over to where Bellova laid. She looked awful. Her hair was matted, the whites of her eyes were bloodshot, and she was clearly malnourished. She was shaking, undoubtedly from pain and exhaustion.

After all, Dr. Gaul had been literally poking and prodding at her for almost four days straight. 

“When are you going to just give in?” Coriolanus asked, his tone dripping with venom.

“Fuck you,” she spat, crying out a moment after. Dr. Gaul had pressed a device that delivered an electric shock throughout her body to her neck, making her convulse and twitch. 

“Mind your manners, little girl,” she snarled. “Or I’ll increase the pain tenfold.” 

Bellova closed her eyes again, as if trying to disassociate to escape her reality. 

Dr. Gaul walked around the table to stand at Coriolanus’s side. 

“She’s not going to give in,” she murmured. “She keeps saying that she’d much rather die. There’s a high risk she’ll try to commit suicide. Her death would cause commotion within the Capitol’s elite, and I can’t have such disorder disrupting the peace we’ve worked so hard to instill.”

Coriolanus exhaled sharply. “So what do we do? Pretend she’s a rebel and turn her into an Avox?”

Dr. Gaul shook her head. “That would make you look extremely suspicious. You would also be seen as a threat to the Capitol. No, the only option we have is to create a new version of the serum. One that will take a stronger hold on her brain and make her truly, completely compliant. And you will never have to worry about any…unsavory behavior from her again.”

Coriolanus nodded. “I think it may be wise to keep a syringe with me at all times. That way, if something does occur, I can quickly take back control.”

The doctor gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. 

“You’re thinking more and more like a true Gamemaker every day, Mister Snow. Perhaps I’ll meet with the others soon and discuss having you join us officially.” 

Coriolanus smiled to himself, glancing once more at Bellova’s defeated form. 

Snow lands on top indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, Dr. Gaul called the Snow penthouse, requesting for Coriolanus to head to the Citadel immediately. It was nearly midnight, so the doctor had to call almost three times before a groggy Tigris answered.

As he pulled open the laboratory doors, his heart pounded annoyingly fast. What if something had gone horribly wrong? What if Bellova had finally succumb to the torture, and her death would be the end of his climb to glory?

“Come in quickly, Mister Snow,” Dr. Gauls voice sounded. Coriolanus did what he was told, hurrying to Bellova’s room, trying to hide the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him.

When he threw open the door, he stopped dead in his tracks. 

Bellova no longer looked like a corpse. In Coriolanus’s opinion, she looked absolutely perfect.

Her hair has been washed and brushed, ridding it if the mats and tangles it had acquired in the past several days. Someone had clearly styled it, as her naturally straight hair now fell in mesmerizing curls across her back and shoulders. A makeup artist had covered her bruises and various scars, giving her skin a glass-like finish. Her body was covered with a light pink dress adorned with lace and cutesy bows, which contrasted her original personality so much that it was comical. A pair of white socks covered her feet, which matched perfectly with the dainty heels she wore.  

Coriolanus thought back to when Tigris was a young girl, and played with porcelain dolls. They had been a gift from her mother, and she treasured them more than anything. That is, until they were lost during the war. Coriolanus vividly remembered the single picture Tigris still had of her dolls, which she had kept on the wall of her room for years. Their perfect but lifeless figures were nice to stare at, but lacked character and depth.

It was almost eerie how much Bellova resembled them.

“What did you do to her?” Coriolanus blurted out, cringing internally at how unprofessional it had sounded.

Dr. Gaul smiled proudly. “I fixed her, of course. She put up quite a fight, though. Wouldn’t stop screaming and kicking until I had sedated her. Then, I did some minor brain surgery to remove any trace of the old serum before injecting the new one. This one should be completely devoid of flaws.”

He glanced at Bellova, who was still out cold on the experiment table. “So…has she lost her memory again?” 

The doctor sighed. “I hope so. But there is no true way to tell until she is awake.”

Coriolanus felt his patience start to deteriorate at an alarming rate, and grit his teeth to prevent himself from loosing his temper. “Please wake her up now, then.”

Dr. Gaul raised an eyebrow, and he could tell that she was inquisitive of his desperate tone. He didn’t understand why. Didn’t she know how important this was to him? If Bellova wasn’t truly fixed, he would have to spend even more of his time and energy protecting his reputation against the damming information stored somewhere in her mind.

But if Dr. Gaul was truly confused about his urgency, she didn’t vocalize it. Instead, she grabbed a terrifying-looking device that somewhat resembled a gun and pressed it to Bellova’s temple.

As soon as she pressed a red button, the device sent a shock through the unconscious girl’s body, causing her to jolt awake. Her grey pupils darted around fearfully, and she let out a pitiful whine of distress. 

Both the mentor and the apprentice held their breaths, anxiously anticipating Bellova’s first words.

Bellova’s lips, which has been painted over with a shiny cosmetic gloss, trembled ever-so slightly. She made eye contact with Coriolanus, and he swore he could feel his heart leap into his throat. Not in the romantic sense, of course. It was simply the thrill of being in control. 

“Coryo,” Bellova whispered, reaching out to him.

Coriolanus slowly walked towards her, taking one of her hands cautiously. Despite her innocent appearance, he didn’t trust her just her. 

After all, she’d tried to kill him mere days ago.

Bellova’s eyes swarmed with large tears, gripping his hand tightly. “I’m so confused, w-what’s going on? Why am I not at home? Am I sick?”

Coriolanus barely held back a groan of frustration. He’d have to lie on the spot, again. It was hard enough the first time, and he would have to alter the facts now that the initial lie was no longer completely relevant.

But before he could start weaving the web of deceit around Bellova’s fragile mind, Dr. Gaul spoke up.

“Silly girl, don’t be worried. You’re just having your routine checkup.”

Bellova’s brows furrowed. “Checkup?”

“Yes, my dear. I have to poke around your brain every once and awhile to make sure you’re alright.”

“Oh,” she replied simply. She turned to Coriolanus once more, her expression one of utter helplessness. “But…why am I so…Coryo, I don’t understand. I don’t understand myself, or anything or…”

Coriolanus met Dr. Gaul’s piercing gaze. Her expression was blank, but it told him everything she needed to know.

He was so close to winning the game he’d played with Bellova since they were children that he could practically taste it.

All it would take to secure his eternal victory was a handful of well-chosen words.

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊❆ ‧

TAGLIST: @daenerysqueenofhearts, @squidscottjeans, @euphemiaamillais, @gracieroxzy, @effectwalker, @vxnilla-hxrddrugs, @mystargirl-interlude, @have-a-nice-day-k

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments! Again, I deeply apologize for the long wait for this chapter, I promise the next installment will come out much faster🖤

Also, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

#coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x oc #tbosas #the hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #original character #thg prequel #dr gaul

[thefangirlfever]

DBF! Miguel O'hara x reader (part 6)

Tags: F/M, age gap (reader is 28 and Miguel is 48), taboo relationship, mention of medication, depression and racial prejudice, reader is a woman of color, angst, mention of death and grief, slow burn

Disclaimer: English is not my first language.

See the end for notes.

Words count: 6503

================================================

Miguel and you had come to an agreement. You were in charge of the dinner from Monday to Thursday and he took care of it the rest of the week. But even like that, he couldn’t help but intervene into your cooking; no matter how many times you’ve told him to “trust the process”.

“But how can you be sure that it’s gonna taste good if you don’t even follow the recipe?”

You rolled your eyes, amused by his comment while adding a last spoon of spice to the boiling soup on the stove.

“Who needs the recipe when you got vibes and confidence?”

He was now the one rolling his eyes. He hated to admit it but your recipes always managed to taste edible, good even, despite your inability to follow a recupe. You should have already been responsible of a food intoxication but you didn’t. Cooking by your side was always an experience, truly. But it also managed to help him relax after a long day at work. You even looked more relaxed while doing so.

You turned toward him, holding a spoon of soup and asked him to try the soup with a small grin. Miguel could only oblige when you looked at him this way and so he leaned forward to sip a bit of the soup. And just like he had guessed it, it was delicious. He may not be the most objective taster out there but it was still good. The creamy and rich texture made him think that you must have some hidden talent because he has seen you cooking without a recipe and there was no other logical explanation for it to taste that way.

“So? Not that bad, huh?"

It was nice to see you were feeling better now. After only a few days of his attention, you were already back on your feet. His gaze traveled down your figure, noticing your now rosy cheeks and the way you looked generally better. Maybe the countryside had a better effect on you than what you could have expected? But he couldn’t ignore the tired lines on your face, meaning that you were still sleeping poorly.

“Miguel…” Your soft, questioning voice took him out of his thoughts and he blinked twice, collecting his thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking…”

“About what?”

“Do you...still have trouble sleeping?” The sudden change in the conversation surprised you but you didn’t immediately deflate the conversation or tried to run away, which was a progress in Miguel’s eyes.

“Yes, I do.”

“Have you considered taking something to help you fall asleep?” Miguel wasn’t surprised when you shook your head no. He still asked: “Not even melatonin?”

“I used to take some when I was in high school but...it wasn’t strong enough.”

His eyes opened wider and he stuttered: “In high school?”

“I was an anxious kid.”, you simply replied. He didn’t have any trouble believing that.

“I could get you something more efficient if you want…” You turned off the stove and shook your head.

“I...I don’t have a good history with strong medications.”, you simply replie. Most doctors you’ve met so far were quite insistent, always trying to convince you to take those type of things. But speaking from your personal experience, you didn’t like how they made you feel. And in general you’d rather avoid any type of medication.

Miguel didn’t insist, thankfully, and he simply nodded.

“Well...if you need anything, you can always ask me.”

“I think I’ll stick with herbal tea for now but thanks.”, you replied while smiling. And he gave you back your soft smile. You seemed in a great mood and he thought it was not the right time to ask anything about your history with medication. Plus, he was not on duty anymore. He could simply enjoy this moment with you, without thinking about anything related to his job.

The two of you were setting up the table and he had to remind himself to leave a good distance between you. Nevertheless he still looked at you from the corner of his eyes, watching every movement you made, from the very tip of your fingers to the way you balanced your weight on your feet. It’s been a month since your arrival and Miguel has felt something changing inside him ever since. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but he has been waiting with so much enthusiasm for every chance to see you. Every moment you shared had become the highlights of his week. And you were more present in his thoughts than he wants to admit it. Your father had told him how much of a nice girl you were; saying things about how the two of you would get along so well. But Miguel had this feeling that your father may have underestimated just how good the two of you got along… Because he had the feeling that was he was feeling when you were together had nothing to do with friendship or what he was supposed to feel.

You have also noticed how closer the two of you seemed to be. It’s not a bad feeling but you would have never guessed the two of you would feel this comfortable in the presence of each other. Maybe Sarah was right. There was nothing wrong in asking for help… And Miguel has been a great help so far on so many levels. He didn’t just help with the house; you have the feeling that he helped you personally.

You’re taken out of your thoughts when you hear Miguel saying: “That color looks good on you.”

You looked down to where his eyes were. He was looking right at your sweater, an old one that you have found this morning in the back of your closet. You couldn’t remember exactly when was the last time you wore it or even when you bought it, probably during one of your phases in high school. It was bit loose on your shoulders and it hung loosely over your clavicles but the soft fabric felt like a blanket and the color really appealed to you when dressing up this morning. It was a soft lilac, almost the same shade as an aster.

“Oh thanks. It’s just an old thing, I guess…”

Miguel’s eyes have been nothing but locked on the way the fabric exposed your clavicles or the slope of your neck; especially with your hair tied up tonight. That color reminded him of a flower but he was not sure which one exactly. You reminded him of some flower. As embarrassing and corny as it may sound. He thought he was way past this at his age but it seemed like he was wrong. The mohair wool had caught his eyes ever since he came in the kitchen and he couldn’t stop wondering just how soft it acutally felt, how easily his fingers would slide through it…

He promised himself he would not look at you like that. He can’t do this. You trust him. Your father trusts him. He knew better than this and he didn't want to be that type of man who pried on younger, inexperienced and fragile women. He swallowed back the rest of his compliment, which turned into a lump in his throat and he looked away; just when your father called for you.

The three of you were sitting around the diner table, chatting lightly, joking from time to time. It’s been quite a long time since you shared a real meal with anyone. Since you began living alone, you were usually relying on take-outs and would eat in your bed in front of a show, enjoying the calm of your apartment after a long day at work. Your apartment… You had left a double of the keys to Sarah like most people would do so their plants would be watered and all these kinds of things. But there were no plants to water at your place, no animal to take care of… Sometimes this place didn’t feel like yours. But you had to move quickly after and that was the fest thing you had found. It was not objectively bad but...it was not your home.

The conversation had slowly shifted toward the topic of your school years when Miguel told your father about the restoration work that would begin soon. You still remembered vividly the walls of red bricks with the wine climbing on them, the windows decorated with the drawings of the students, the ugly yellows wallpaper… Maybe it was not a bad thing that this place was going to be renovated. It will be safer at least.

“It will be for the best.”, your father declared before taking a sip of his coffee. “Those buildings were already there when I was a student after all.”

“So they must be really old.”, Miguel joked and your father laughed heartily.

“Are you implying that I’m some type of dinosaurs or something?”, he asked with a grin and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling too. It was nice to see him laughing around. Miguel’s presence only did good things to him.

“I would never.” You looked at Miguel’s expression and he had the exact same grin on his face. But when he was the one smiling, your eyes would linger a bit longer on his face, on the curve of his smile… He caught you looking at him and you were suddenly very invested in the appearance of your cup of tea. Your father didn’t notice anything and kept joking:

“Well, you’re not getting younger either, my friend.” He added with a knowing smile in your direction. “Poor Y/N, you’re stuck here with those two old men…”

“You’re not that old.” You protested weakly and you were not sure who you were trying to convince of that and if you were only speaking about your father. Your father sighed and his smile looked a bit more contrite.

“Well, I’m not getting younger for sure…” He looked at the cast on his leg with a look you've been catching more frequently on his face recently. He was in pain. Not physical pain. But he had to come in terms with his mortality, with the fact that he was growing older...exactly the same way than when your mother died. “I just think you would maybe enjoy more the company of people of your age.”

You were not sure of where this is coming, so you slowly took a sip from your cup, waiting for him to finish talking. Miguel was also waiting.

“Why wouldn’t you try to link up with some of your old friends? You know, most of them didn’t move away.”

Miguel suddenly looked more intrigued and interested by the conversation. It was true that so far, you haven’t mentioned any of your past acquaintances. You couldn’t be this antisocial truly. With a shrug of your shoulders, you replied as casually as you could:

“Well, they must all be busy.”

“I’m sure they would be glad to see you too.” His soft tone didn’t fool you. You know how stubborn he could be when he had an idea in mind. So you asked: “What did you do?” His satisfied smile proved you that your assumptions were right.

“I called one of your best friends and asked her to come visit over. And she gladly accepted.”

“Who did you call?” Miguel watched your exchange like one would watch a tennis game, his head swinging from left to right.

“Actually I called a few people.” Your father said with a bright smile and that was when it hits you. He genuinely thought he did something good. As much as you appreciated his effort, you couldn’t help but groan, slightly annoyed. What were you supposed to say to your old friends? Would you even be able to talk with them or link up the way you used to? Would they even recognize you?

***

The next day the living room was filled with laughter and the faint sound of chit-chat. Sitting on the edge of the couch, you quietly observed your friends from high school. The atmosphere in the room reminded you of the time you would all have slumber parties in high school. Except that it was only 4 in the afternoon and that you had traded your snacks and corny movies for homemade cookies and old album photos.

The three women facing you looked nothing like the pictures you were watching and at the same time they couldn’t be more themselves than they were now. On your right Jane was no longer wearing the thick glasses she used to have when she was younger, having them replaced by lenses but the movements of her fingers reminded you of how she would always adjust the frame of her spectacles back then. She had already apologized three times for being late but who would blame a business woman like her to have more important meeting in her day? Assya’s cooking skills were still unmatched and you thanked the Lord for her cookies, delicately wrapped into a pink paper. Her calloused hands from all her work were still looking rough but your eyes could’t miss the wedding band on her finger. A bright diamond on top of a silver ring. And there was Margareth, Mag as she’d rather have you calling her, whose athletic silhouette was now draped under a delicate green tailor suit. Even under the large jacket, she couldn’t hide the impressive bump of her stomach.

And there was you who was giving “I peaked in high school” energy compared to them. But none of them seemed to address this or even wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. They seemed to respect your silence and they ware graceful enough to not comment on your tired face or rub too hard their happiness on the said tired face. None of them mentioned your mother as they keep flipping the pages of the album. Assya even slided a new box of cookies toward you when you were finished with the first one. So...it was a bit better than what you were expected.

Jane pointed at one of the pictures and started telling a story about this day. Her memory was quite impressive to you. You barely remembered that day. The four of you were looking at the camera with a bright smile. You were all sitting in your bedroom, during one of these infamous slumber parties. The more you looked at the picture, the more you realized that your friends were not the one who changed. You did.

The four of you were still down the memory train when the front door opened. It can’t be your father. As soon as your friends came in, he disappeared into the patio, saying that he wanted to give you as much space as possible. It could only be Miguel. It was a nice surprise for him to be here this early. There was something comforting into knowing that he’ll be back after almost every day...

You turned toward the door, a bit too enthusiastically, and watched him making his way toward the living room. He was the one in charge of the dinner tonight and he was carrying a crate full of fresh vegetables. His forearms flexed slightly when he lifted the box and for some reason, you couldn’t take your eyes away from this sight.

“Doctor O’hara, I wasn’t expecting to see you there. Is this where you’ve been hiding all these weeks?” Assya asked with an amused smile while crossing her arms over her chest. She had told you she’s been working as a nurse at the clinic but it was only now that you realized what it meant. She knew Miguel. For some reason the small grin she gave him annoed you, wedding ring or not.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you there either. Do you guy know each other?” Miguel asked with a polite smile and all the women nodded in unison. His eyes stopped on the silhouette of Mag and he asked in a caring voice:

“How are you feeling today?”

She slowly patted her stomach and replied: “He’s been really quiet today. No nausea whatsoever.”

“Good. If you need anything, my office is always open.”

It was your first time seeing him interacting with his patients and colleagues, and again, you could’t believe that people like him actually existed. People who were so selfless, people who cared and who could genuinely talk to other beings. And for a second, you could picture him at the clinic, working, giving orders, taking care of his patients… Just how many parts of his life did you actually ignore?

Miguel was slightly amused by the sight of all four of you reuniting in the living room. Once again, it seemed that you have underestimated yourself and your social skills. Everything seemed fine. His eyes trailed over you, taking in your polished appearance. You tried to make yourself look a bit better for today and he actually realized that it was the first time he saw you wearing some make-up. It was just a bit of blush and lipstick but his eyes are drawn to the shape of your lips tinted in a deep carmine. The same color rushed to his cheeks and he looked away before saying in a firm voice:

“I’ll let you to your memories now, ladies.”

You watched him going to the kitchen, a bit disappointed. You were not sure of what just happened because it lasted only a millisecond but if you had listened to your body, you would have followed him into the next room. Instead you just sat there, quietly, while your friends started giggling. Assya was the first one to break the silence:

“I know I’m married but…”

“Please, don’t finish this sentence. I already know what you’re going to say.”, replied Jane with a growing smirk.

“Come on, you can’t blame me. He is fine.”

The two of them whispered in order to not be heard from him and you felt like you were back to your high school years when you would all tease each other about your crush. So, it looked like you haven’t been the only one noticing that he was attractive…

Mag gave you a knowing look from the other side of the couch and your eyes were drawn to the shape of her stomach. While Jane and Assya kept bickering around, you decided to shift the conversation away:

“So...when is it due?”

She must have sensed your uneasiness because she chuckled softly. You have always been awkward around children and maternity, so it was not a surprise. Again, her hand gently patted her stomach.

“In two months I think.”

“It’s a boy?”

She quietly nodded and as soon as this conversation begins, you found yourself unable to ask anymore questions. It’s not that you didn’t care but the topic of motherhood made you feel uncomfortable, even more so these last years… Hopefully she changed the conversation when sensing your discomfort.

“So...it seems that he comes here often?”

“Who?”

“Doctor O’hara.”

“Ah...yes, Miguel...well, he is here to help my father. They’re good friends and I think it’s good that they are hanging together.” It felt like you were trying to justify yourself or something. You cleared your throat and grabbed your coffee while Mag kept looking at you with a knowing smile.

“He is nice, isn’t he?”, she asked after a few seconds and you simply nodded slowly.

The rest of the afternoon went by pretty fast as the four of you got lost again in your memories. Assya was the first to leave because she had to pick up her kids at daycare and Jane and Mag followed quickly. Once they were gone, you let the silence of the house wrap around your and youfinally rested your face against the wooden panel of the door for a few seconds with your eyes closed. As much as it was nice seeing them again, you feltl drained of all your energy and you would probably need a few days to recharge your social battery.

The sounds of footsteps made you turn around and there was Miguel, looking at you from the end of the hallway, a soft smile on his lips.

“Are you alright?”

You leaned your back against the door for a few seconds as a migraine started hitting your head. He could sense that something was off and that you needed to rest despite your attempt at reassuring him. He slowly moved closer to you and only stopped when he was a few feet away. He didn’t exactly know what made him act this way but there was again this lingering need to take care of you in ways that would make him feel ashamed if he could admit it.

“I can leave you alone if you want…”

“No it’s okay.”

Your eyes trailed up and down his figure in the dim light of the corridor and your eyes locked on the apron he is wearing. The white fabric had turned yellow at some point and the blue flowers on it looked withered. On one of the pockets there was a small heart. You had embroidered yourself when you were younger, as a gift to your mother.

Miguel seemed to realize his mistake and he started to untie the apron. He didn’t mean to offense you by taking this memory of your mother out of the cabinets. He just took the first thing he had found to cover himself. He was about to apologize when your hands stopped his movements, holding his wrists firmly.

“Don’t take it off.”

Your voice was only a murmur but he clearly heard you. With a soft sigh, he intertwined his fingers with yours while your two bodies got a bit closer. The mere light from the window of the door looked like a halo around your hair and he has to catch his breath. The room suddenly fels like it had been completely deprived of air while he got lost in your eyes. What if he got closer? What if he held you in his arms, only for a few seconds? What if…

The questions rushed in his mind, pressing him to decide what to do. But he had the feeling that none of this is what you need at the moment, nor what he should do. The grip of his fingers on yours finally loosened and he stepped back.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” You watched him slowly walk away before leaning back against the door. Your body slowly slid down the panel and you end up sitting down the floor, a mix of boiling, raw emotions that you couldn't identify lingering inside your chest.

When you were finally back inside the living room, you noticed that Miguel had left a glass of water and some aspirin for you. You smiled at the sweet attention and immediately swallowed one pill. He also had cleaned up a bit the room and yet, all the album photos were still out. Your father was sitting down the couch, absorbed in the old pictures, so much that he hadn’t notice your presence at first. You didn’t need to look over his shoulders to know what, or rather who he was looking at. In fact you’d rather disappear from the room rather than bring the attention to this topic but he caught the sound of your footsteps as soon as you started moving

“Hey…” he gently called you out. When he turned around, you caught a glimpse of the picture he was looking and you were unfortunately right. It was a picture of you and your mom. It had been taken the first year you all went camping in family. “How was the afternoon with your friends?”

“Good. Thanks.”

He was smiling in a way that would break even a heart of stone. With a tired sigh, you dragged your body to the side of the couch and sat by his side.

Your mother was holding you in her arms on the picture. You zere both wearing matching green windbreakers, an idea from your father because he was wearing the same one on the other side of the picture. There was something so comforting about staying in her arms like that. She was not a frail woman with he square-shaped shoulders, her burly arms tanned after hours spent in the garden and she was always carrying around her a scent like the one of a fireplace. You were sure that it was how a mother’s hug was supposed to feel for a long time in your life, strong, maybe a bit rough in the beginning like a mama bear holding her cubs. It was the only kind of hugs that could chase away the monsters under your bed or in your heads once you grew up.

Your father’s fingers glided over the page and you felt a bit uncomfortable. You squirmed over your sit, not knowing what to do. Should you offer a few words of comfort? Hug him? It would be quite appropriate but you were not sure your hugs would feel as comforting as hers.

He sensed your discomfort and flips the page. A large smile slowly crept up his face and he started laughing. It was a picture of you at a dance recital, around age 8, dressed as a large daisy. You cringed at the picture. Your chubby cheeks were squished by the fabric of your corolla and you were all red and sweaty, because of course the taffetas of the dress was too hot for the month of May.

“Dad, can we please ignore that?”

“No way, you’re looking adorable. And your mother spent so many time on your costume.”

The sound of your banter had attracted Miguel and he smiled when he seed that you seemed to feel a bit better. When your dad called him in, you felt a cold sweat running down your back.

“Dad, no.”

But the catastrophe happened too fast for you to react. Miguel sat on the other side of the couch and as soon as he looked at the picture, a goofy smile curled up his lips.

“No wonder you enjoy gardening. It’s like your natural habitat after all.”, he teased you gently. Your father laughed loudly at what you would have considered a pretty lame joke if it wasn’t for the adorable smirk that he was wearing. On the next picture, you were dressed as one of the rats for the ballet Nutcracker and you thought that you might actually die of embarrassment right now.

Miguel was having a blast seeing all these pictures that your dad always commented on with a funny story. Not only did he get to see an other side of you but he also caught the blush that crept up your cheeks and that slightly annoyed pout you were doing. Ever since he met you, he had never seen you embarrassed or really flustered. This might be the most emotions you’ve shown in one time and he quickly diverted his attention from the picture to your profile. After seeing the pictures he could clearly see how well of a mix you are between your parents. You got the lanky silhouette from your father, his long and thin face with the sharp eyes and pronounced chin. And from your mother, those curly locks, your nose with the high arch and those cheekbones… The said cheekbones were turning more and more flushed, their shade according well with the one of your tinted lips.

"Stop looking", he taunted himself.

As the pages kept moving and your dad talking, you slowly relaxed and your arm was now resting on top of the head of the couch. Just like Miguel’s. You were still trying to act unbothered the first time his fingers brushed against yours, thinking it might be an accident. But when it happened again, you were not so sure anymore that it was a mistake. Your two hands were resting behind the couch and your fingers were brushing from time to time, especially when Miguel was laughing at one of your dad’s jokes. At some point his forefinger brushed against your wrist, right against the edge of your sleeve.

You quickly pulled your hand back to yourself. Not out of discomfort but because you felt confused. This was not an invitation from your part...but you wouldn’t have minded for this contact to last a bit longer either…

Miguel didnn’t dare thinking that he was disappointed. Touching an inch of your skin even for a few seconds was still worth every hour of hesitation and turmoil that would come after it. How could your skin be so soft? So tempting? All when he had seen of it so far was your hands and a bit of your neck?

Still unaware of what was happening behind his back, literally, your father turned to an other page. It was a picture of you on your last recital. You were around fifteen years old, dressed in a dainty pink tutu, glitters sprinkled all over your hair. You had spent hours cleaning them off with your mother afterwards...

“This was your last recital?”, Miguel asked but it was your father who replied.

“She had to stop after that. You know how it is? High school, college entrance exams…”

Miguel didn’t reply but he did furrow his brows and nodded with a serious look on his face. He would have liked to ask more questions about this part of your life that looked so surreal. How come this little girl with that bright smile and her face covered in glitters turned into the woman you were today? He could’t also help but wonder if you still remembered a few dance moves…

But your father had flipped the pages once again and now there was an other picture of you with a boy around your age. His skin was the same shade as yours and brown curls flowed down to his shoulders. The two of you were standing close to each other, at a respectable distance with a shy look on your face. Miguel knew too well this type of picture and when he looked back at you, he was expecting to see some reaction on your face. Maybe you would be a bit embarrassed, flustered or at least nostalgic? But to his surprise you had a blank expression on your face. He didn’t know if it’s good or not. Before he could ask anything else, your father said in an obnoxious voice:

“You were such a cute couple together, David and you. You remember that day, Y/N?”

“Mhh...not really.” You seemed pretty unaffected by the picture, which was not something that Miguel was expecting from someone who just saw such a memory.

“Oh come on...you really don’t remember? It was for your birthday. You remember that nice necklace he gave you?”

You nodded without saying anything. You knew it was useless to argue with your father over this topic. He had always loved David, almost like a son. The fact that his parents were from the same diaspora as your father only made them get closer and your father had always assumed that you would end up with David. He was a nice guy, sure. But there was a reason why you never kept seeing each other after high school and you remembered it while looking at the picture. There was no chemistry between you, even a blind could see that, whatever your dad liked to think.

Miguel’s eyes were still locked on your profile and the more you were looking at the picture, the more anxious he was getting. Why were still silent? How was he supposed to understand the way you were looking at this picture? Was this good? Bad? Did you miss that David guy? Why was he suddenly just realizing that you must have had former partners? And why did he make him want to take your hand back in his, to pull you closer to him?

Your father didn’t seem to realize that there was a slight tension because he kept digging his own grave:

“It’s been a long time since you saw each other. Did you even call him? You know, I think he would be really happy to talk to you…” and with what was supposed to be a playful nudge, he added: “And I heard that he is single.” Miguel quickly caught the pink hue on your cheeks and it made his stomach twist as if he was sick. Were you embarrassed? Or was there more to this reaction? God, he hadn’t realized until now how hard it was to read you and he wished he could ask you directly. But...he was not entitled to ask that of you. Who was he to think that?

“Dad, I’m not going to call him.”, you replied while organizing the albums on the coffee table. “We had a good time and now it’s over. What happened in the past belonged to the past.”

Miguel almost sighed out of relief but your father was quick to reply: “Maybe you should start thinking about the future...I mean, you’re almost thirty and I haven’t seen you with anyone in a few years now.”

That was a low blow.

Even if it had been said in a rather understanding voice, you couldn’t help but feel your blood boil. This was the last conversation you wanted to have with your father. Miguel felt like his presence was unwanted and he tried to make his way out of the living room as quietly as possible. He would be in the kitchen if you needed help but there was no need for him to make you feel like he was prying on this delicate moment.

***

It was not your first time having this argument with your father. In fact, you remembered the last time it happened. It was a few years ago when you decided to move with your last boyfriend. Most parents would have welcomed such a good news but your father wasn’t too happy about it. First of all, he never really liked this man. History would prove him right, but it was not for the good reasons that he disliked him.

“He is not what I imagined. He is..."

Not like us.

That cryptic sentence took all its sense when you introduced your boyfriend to your father. He didn’t fit in. Your father wanted someone who could speak his language, who could share his memories of the country they left…

“And you’re living with him without even getting married?”

“You know what the people will say!”

“I raised you better than this…”

Hearing him screaming was somehow less hurtful that his resigned voice. He could sound so disappointed sometimes that you almost wondered why you even kept trying.

But at least at the time, you had your mother by your side. She always knew how to calm him down. She was like this bridge between the two of you and somehow she was the only one who would manage to help you find a compromise.

At least when she was alive.

***

You couldn’t run to your mother after an argument anymore and you’d rather stay alone than talk with anyone else. At least, that’s what you used to think. Now that you were back in this house, you might as well go and see her.

The next day, you grabbed your windbreaker and headed out of the house before your father had waken up. You had spent the last evening, alone in your room. It’s been so long since the two of you fought; you had forgotten how bad it could hurt sometimes. The thought that Miguel could have heard your argument made you feel so embarrassed. What was he thinking now?

The air around you was crisp and you could feel the scent of the pines and the muddy ground this early in the morning. It was a perfect day for what you were about to do… The gates of the cemetery had barely opened when you walked inside. It was a few days before Halloween and a few people would come and clean the graves soon, change the flowers… Seeing all the decorated graves made you regret not bringing anything. And given your father’s state, no one probably brought anything to your mother’s grave.

She was right where you remembered her. The plaque with her name stood at the foot of a small hill. A vase with withered flowers, a decoration with a dove...exactly how you remembered it to be. You carefully sat in front of it and watched the black marble. A few remaining raindrops from the night slid down the material, on top of her name engraved on it.

“Beloved mother and wife.”

Finally, some peace and some silence.

You didn’t know how long exactly you stayed there, sometimes contemplating the grey sky, sometimes the delicate intricacy of the letters of her name. Next time you would bring some flowers you promised as much as her than to yourself. At some point while looking at the build-up of stormy clouds in the sky, you noticed a large silhouette, all too familiar, moving down the hill.

What was he doing here?

You tried to get up despite your numb legs and the silhouette seemed to walk faster in your direction, his long coat flowing behind him. It was only when the first raindrops fell down that he managed to join you.

Miguel didn’t even dare asking you anything, if you were feeling alright, who you came to visit… the answer to each question was obvious. Instead, he simply offered you shelter under his umbrella and a tissue for your wet eyes.

“Do you want to stay a bit longer here?”, he finally asked after a few seconds. You shook your head and the two of you made your way out of the graveyard. His arm was holding yours, guiding you gently toward the exit, his sturdy shoulder brushing against yours from time to time.

When you reached his car, Miguel opened the door for you and then sat in front of the stirring wheel. But he didn’t feel like taking you back home now. And neither did you.

The rain was hitting the roof of the car in a loud, discorded melody. You could barely see the world outside through that much rain. A slight fog had covered the windows with the warmth of the heater, and yet your shoulders don’t stop shivering.

Miguel’s comforting hand gently squeezed your shoulder as he tried to make you look this way, a vain attempt to anchor you in the moment.

“Hey…”

He was slowly getting a bit more worried that you’re not responding but he doesn’t dare insisting. His hand stopped at a few inches from your face before he slowly leaned back into his seat. The silence inside the car was only troubled by your heavy breaths as you tried to compose yourself. After a few minutes, he couldn’t hold it anymore and asked: “Do you want to talk about it?”

You were not sure if he was talking about the argument with your father or your visit to the cemetery but you still shook your head. He felt a bit relieved when he heard your voice, even if it was barely a whisper:

“I’m fine, Miguel.”

An other heavy silence filled up the space inside the car and quite surprisingly you were the one breaking it this time, again.

“Why were you here?”

His eyes seemed suddenly very focused on the stirring wheel and he absented-mindly started rubbing his pointer finger with his thumb while looking for his words.

“I needed to visit someone.”

===============================================

Notes: This was a pretty messy chapter, so I want to thank anyone who took the time to read this.

I'm currently working on the seventh chapter and just so you know, I'm very impatient to write it.

Taglist: @safixiovi @laysmt @reverieblondie

My Masterlist!

< part 5 / part 7 >

#miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #atsv #astv miguel #miguel 2099 #fanfic #spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #dbf!miguel #miguel angst #daddy issues #older dad bf #this fic has turned into my therapy #i'm sorry

[jjkamochoso]

The Perfect Fit

Story Overview: Levi Ackerman begrudgingly finds himself falling in love with the Survey Corps’ seamstress. Will they be able to own up to their feelings for each other? Or is their love doomed to fail before they discover the truths of each other’s hearts? This slow burn reader insert story will be filled with angst, yearning, and a bit of mystery as we slowly unravel the truths behind Y/N’s past… and explore her and Levi’s future!

Chapter 9

Chapter 8 linked here

Chapter 10 coming soon!

Levi Ackerman x female reader

Warnings: cussing, blood mention (nothing overtly graphic)

When you entered Levi's room to get him clean clothes, you took the time to be by yourself for a moment, trying to collect your racing thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly-- you went from being sound asleep to stitching up Levi's flesh. Not that his injuries were life threatening or something he had never dealt with before, but it still shook you when you remembered that even someone as strong as him isn't invincible. You took in a trembling breath, moving to rest your face in your hands for a second but you stopped before they made contact. You hadn't noticed until now that your hands were covered in Levi's blood. You groaned. Of course they were, he was bleeding like a damn geyser. You didn't want to soil his fresh laundry with your stained skin so you ran to the nearest water basin to begin your cleanup. With your now clean fingers, you began to warm up a big bucketful of water to use to wash off Levi since you knew he hated being dirty but was too injured to do it himself. While the water was heating up over the fire, you ran back to his room to grab some towels and his clothes. When you dropped them off in your room, Levi gave you a quizzical look.

"Why are you running around like this so late? I'm going to my own room so you can get some sleep." He sat up with his feet dangling over the edge of the bed, threatening to get up again and it took everything in you not to shove him back down like you had done minutes prior when the doctor was in there.

"Levi," you sighed, "please relax. I'm warming up some water so I can at least clean off the grime you're covered in. Then I'll help you into your room."

"Tch. You don't think I can clean myself?" As he stood from the bed, he winced and grabbed the side with his injured ribs. You stood there, eyebrows raised as he failed to prove to you he could act independently at the moment.

"By all means, Captain. Go fetch the bucket without gritting your teeth and swearing. If you can do that, I'll believe you don't need help."

If looks could kill, you would've been dead a hundred times over from the glare Levi gave you as he sat once more. "Brat."

You let out a triumphant "humph!" and left to collect the bucket, now heated up. When you came back, you swore you heard Levi release of a sigh of relief, and you figured it was because he was ready to lose his mind if he had to sit there covered in blood for any longer. You took up your usual spot next to him on the bed and dunked the first cloth in the water, bringing it to his wounded arm. He moved lightning fast, grabbing the cloth from your grip.

"I can do it myself," he grumbled, eyes fixed on an empty spot of the room, "I'm not an invalid."

You chose your next words carefully as your hand hovered over his own, fearful of scaring him away with your touch. "Levi. You're not an invalid and you're not a burden. You're injured and I want to help you in any way I can. Not because you're not capable, but because I want to make your life a little bit easier in the ways I know how." You drew in a sharp breath as your voice went small. "Please. Let me help you."

For once in his life, Levi wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't stand the thought of you seeing him in such a state of weakness, fearing you would think of him differently than the strong soldier he was supposed to be, but here you were, instead fighting to come to his aid. He knew you were compassionate and caring so it was probably just in your nature to help people you deemed in need of it. Deep in his heart he hoped it was also because you recognized the connection you two shared, whatever it could be categorized as. He relinquished the cloth to your open and waiting palm, laughing internally at the surprised look that came onto your face when you realized he had complied with your pleads. You gently took his arm in your hands and began to cleanse the area around his stitches, not wanting to irritate the skin further.

"Is it alright if I clean the other arm for you? I don't want you to pop the stitches if you do it yourself, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable, either." He had an unreadable look on his face but his eyes held a softness that you were now becoming accustomed to and was a look that you secretly hoped was reserved just for you.

"That's fine," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. You nodded and worked on his other arm, down to his hands, up to where his shoulder met his neck. He was starting to feel less tense as the warm water and your benevolent touch melted away the stresses of the expedition. When you got the go ahead to wash his back, Levi's eyes fluttered closed at the first graze of the cloth. He had never received attention like this. He had never thought he even wanted, desired, craved, something like this before he met you. You were always going out of your way to help him, but it wasn't out of pity. It was like you enjoyed doing things for him in the same way he did for you too. Little did he know, you were thinking of the same sort of thoughts as you wiped away the accumulated sweat from his scar littered back. You didn't know much about his life before the Scouts, no one except Erwin and Hange did, but judging by how faded some of the scars were, he got them decades ago and you concluded he had a rough upbringing. Not that you were surprised, no one is as guarded as he is for no reason. You were just glad he accepted your help and allowed you to see him in such a vulnerable state. You figured you had to mean something to Levi to see him like this, let alone lay your hands on him.

"Okay, back is done. Chest next?"

He nodded as he faced you again. You readied the washcloth with more warm water, trying to balance being gentle with him while being speedy enough to not douse him in cold water if it sat too long. You were extremely gentle, taking great care not to touch his ribs more than necessary. You had gotten over your timidity of seeing him shirtless, knowing that professionalism took priority when you looked at him in this state.

"Done. Legs are next, do you need help taking off your pants?"

Both of you were too exhausted to laugh at the connotations of that sentence. Levi was able to do most of it but you swooped in to finish the job of releasing the pant legs from his ankles so he didn't have to bend over. Thankfully his legs weren't too dirty so it was quick work. You turned around as he changed into fresh underwear and you helped him shimmy into the rarely worn pajamas you found deep in his dresser drawer. You collected his dirty clothes into a pile to clean later and when you went to assist Levi into his own bed, you slapped your hand to your head.

"I totally forgot to wash your face. All that hard work and I forgot to polish up the money maker."

You wore a teasing grin while Levi rolled his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. He found it so attractive that you took great care in your work, no matter what you did. He was about to stop you from raising the wash cloth to his face and suggest he could do it himself, but he decided he wanted to be selfish for once and relish in your loving contact for the limited time he had access to it. You gently dabbed the cloth onto his cheek, careful to not pull at the skin. You felt your heart rate skyrocket as you became acutely aware of just how close his lips were to yours. You felt his steady breath land on your arm as you brought the cloth to his forehead, pushing his hair out of the way, and then to his other cheek. You were getting lost in his blue gray eyes that never left your own. He was staring you down, not in a way that was threatening, but more like he was studying you. You were studying him too, as you had before in other quick glances, but this time felt different. Neither of you were afraid of the other catching you in the act of shameless staring. You both were unabashedly looking at one another, no ounce of shame or uncomfortable energy present. It was strangely familiar the way you observed each other, like you had done this every day of your lives. Come to think of it, ever since you moved to the castle, you and Levi had looked at each other a lot. Your eyes always found solace in his reassuring gaze, no matter the occasion. After a joke of yours that had the dining hall in wheezing laughter, after a sarcastic comment of his that had you fighting for your life so as to not get reprimanded by the higher ups for giggling. Bad news, good news, worse news. Any time anything happened, there was no doubt that you two would lock eyes and share silent understanding. Even now, as you tried your best to clean him up, there was no need for words. You were sharing unspoken thank you's; him to you for taking care of him, you to him for letting you do so. The air seemed to get heavier around you as you inadvertently leaned in toward him the slightest amount. Levi sensed the almost imperceptible movement but he didn't flinch away, even though his body was begging him to break away from your closeness. It was decades of dealing with shitty people in shitty situations that taught him not to trust anybody and that there's more than likely an ulterior motive behind any action someone takes toward him. Still, he found himself no further away from you as his mind reeled, telling him to run away from whatever was happening before you could hurt him.

That was the thing--he wasn't afraid of you hurting him. He had known you a little over half a year but you had proven yourself to be just as valuable to him as his closest companions and shared all of their greatest traits: you were caring like Hange, passionate like Erwin, as headstrong as Isabelle, as focused as Furlan. You were an amalgamation of every person he had ever cared about. They had never done him wrong and he'd be damned if he thought you were any different. The one thing that set you apart from those people, though, was the nature of his bond with you. You had gone from strangers to close friends in no time, which was fine with him, but his attraction to you had been confusing him nonstop since that day he ripped his cape for you. Levi was a total stranger when it came to romance. Having no good role models to show him what romantic love could be like, he grew to fear it. It was just a distraction, a pesky thing like a fly, that could only lead to heartbreak. In a world where death loomed around every corner, Levi felt he couldn't afford to lose any more people. If romantic love was as life altering as people claim it to be, losing a significant other would be world shattering. He put his life on the line many more times than the average person--what kind of boyfriend or husband would he be to subject his girlfriend or wife to the pain of losing her mate? What kind of man would he become if he himself felt the loss of yet another person he would go to the ends of the earth for? As all these thoughts flooded his mind, he still couldn't find it within himself to create a gap between you two. His heart was pounding in his chest and his blood felt like it was on fire as he took the cloth that was still resting on his face from your hand, enjoying the feeling of your skin on his own. He found an unsoiled spot of the same cloth and brought it up to your face, causing you to jump a little at the unexpected contact.

"You got my blood on your face," he said, still not breaking eye contact as he wiped your cheek with a tender brush of the fabric. You smiled airily as you savored this side of Levi rarely seen by anyone. You were sure that in any other lifetime you and Levi would've kissed by now, seeing as you were in such an intimate position, but this universe was far too cruel to allow you to indulge in affection like that. Still, you didn't let that stop you from relishing in the fact that you were here, with Levi, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as you were. You knew he would've pulled away in an instant if he didn't want to be so close so you took it as a win. However, you didn't want him to get too overwhelmed from your lovelorn staring so you cast your eyes and chin a bit downward. Levi immediately got your attention again by bringing his free hand to your chin and lifting it delicately so he could see your eyes again. You felt nauseous, but in the best way possible. Did he really just do that? Your heart felt like it was battering against the walls of your chest as Levi kept his eyes trained on you once more. It was like he was trying to use his irises to communicate to you everything he wouldn't dare say out loud. Luckily for him, you understood him perfectly. In a show of your dedication to him, you tilted your forehead forward and he easily comprehended what you were doing, meeting his own forehead to rest on yours. Your noses grazed each other and you had never felt a sense of peace wash over you like it did in that moment.

"I care deeply for you, too," you answered him, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes shined brighter than you had ever seen before and he was ecstatic you accepted the message he found too excruciating to speak. A barely there quirk of the lips was present on Levi, the man beyond relieved that he wasn't the only player in this game of love. You knew it was extremely late and you wanted Levi to rest before the sun came up so you reluctantly pulled away from him.

"Sleep here. I got some rest before you came back so I don't need the bed for tonight. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask." Levi went to protest but you shot him the most serious look you could muster. That was enough to quiet him down as he sunk into the bed, exhaustion creeping over him as he finally succumbed to sleep. You truly weren't tired so you kept your hands busy, scrubbing the blood from his clothes and sewing up his ripped shirt. Before you knew it, the sun started shining into your window and you hurriedly pulled the curtains closed so Levi wouldn't wake up. You were still in a bit of shock that he practically confessed his feelings for you, but you were more so pleased that you weren't misconstruing his actions the past few months. You knew nothing would really change in your relationship after this revelation, and you took comfort in that. You guys would be doing the same things you had already been doing, but with the truth of the intent behind the actions known. There were no expectations or societal pressures you had to bow down to, it would just be two people enjoying each others' presence and knowing you had each other's backs, no matter what. You definitely wouldn't be opposed to it if Levi suggested he wanted to try more romantic things one day, but you were a patient person. You'd wait a thousand lifetimes to kiss him if it meant he was by your side, just existing. Even if he never found himself comfortable enough to try something like that, you wouldn't fault him. His unyielding gaze was more than enough reassurance for you. You were brought out of your thoughts by your growling stomach. It must be time for breakfast! You went down to the dining hall and grabbed your food to go. It was pretty empty, which you figured considering most of the Corps just came back a few hours ago. You took a few pieces of fruit and some bread for Levi as well, carrying all of it up in a napkin. You'd make him some fresh tea when he woke. You quietly slid out a chair at the table to eat so you didn't make a mess and stress Levi out with your crumbs everywhere. As you ate, your eyes wandered along the room but they, of course, landed on the black haired man in your bed. His chest rose and lowered with the deep breathing of sleep and his lips were slightly parted. In all honesty he looked pretty beat up and you hoped his recovery would go smoothly. He hated being out of commission and you were eager to take him on your charity trip to the interior. You peeked out of the curtains and saw the sun was now high in the sky, signaling early afternoon. You wrote up a small note to hang on your door to tell people to drop off their torn clothes in a quiet manner outside the door and you'd get started on them in order of first come, first served. With a full tummy and in a dark, warm room, you felt yourself starting to get sleepy. You tried to blink away the tiredness but it was no use as you were yawning nonstop. You hadn't heard any footsteps outside your door meaning work hadn't been dropped off for you yet. You figured a little nap wouldn't hurt so you tried resting your head on the table but you were supremely uncomfortable. Levi had your only pillow and you frowned at your lack of thinking things through. You didn't want the creaking of the door to wake him or else you would've gone to his room for an extra pillow. You figured he wouldn't care if you shared the bed, right? You'd just lay your head near his feet and it'd be like you weren't even there. You stealthily placed the chair at the foot of the bed and laid your head on your outstretched arms. It must've been even comfier than you expected because you fell asleep almost instantly.

Levi immediately woke up when he felt the bed dip slightly but when he saw it was you, he calmed down right away. He couldn't resist wearing a soft grin when he noticed you were out like a light once your head hit the plush mattress. Feeling comforted by your company, he was able to fall back asleep as well, this time dreaming of you.

Chapter 10 coming soon!

Taglist: @blueeclipsepaperstudent

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x reader fluff #levi fluff #levi angst #levi ackerman x reader angst #captain levi

[thefiery-phoenix]

YANDERE OVERHAUL HEADCANONS

He'd be attracted to people who don't have that 'sick disease' also known as a quirk. He'd want someone who's pure and clean and the minute he sees you and your quirkless form, he thinks you're an innocent naive helpless little darling that he NEEDS to protect since the pro heroes suck at doing their job

The idea of him keeping you locked away and isolating you from the rest of the world so you can rely ONLY on him for everything is really tempting and appealing to him (Sadistic prick)

If you had a really strong and useful quirk, he'd still be attracted to you though. Just, he'll make sure to get rid of it and rob you of it by stealing it so he won't have to see you 'suffer'. And THEN, he might lock you up and leave you in isolation 

If you're someone he decided to protect from everyone else, oh man... I PRAY for ya. He'll try befriending you and worming his way into you life and pretty soon, he'll ask you to come live with him. You agree but when you start rebelling against him, you'll be restricted from using your favorite things and lose your freedom

He thinks that he'd doing everything for the sake of your 'best interests' and to be honest, he knows more about you than anyone, even YOURSELF, considering the amount of time he spent stalking you and asking his men to keep an eye on you. He's like a doctor, but a really creepy and short tempered one. He'll give you regular checkups so expect constant fussing by him over you since he thinks proper health, nutrition and hygiene are a TOP priority 

If you're behaving well, you'll get all sorts of things you want but you'll have to EARN them by gaining his trust and behave good around him since there's only so much fun one can have when they sit and stare at a wall for 24 hours everyday 

The WORST thing this sicko might do is try convincing you in his sick and twisted way that he's NOT treating you bad. And after a while, you'll fall into his trap and web of lies and you'll start believing him and start feeling guilty if you misbehave around him. Damn does this dude know how to pull out an UNO Manipulation card 

Punishments are simple if you try escaping or behaving badly. If you yell and scream at him and throw insults at him, he'll just ban you from using your favorite things and it'll be a really LOOONNGGG time after you get them back. You won't be getting them back till you apologize and admit that you were in the wrong. If you manage to hit him or kick him, you'll be denied of his attention for a while even after you cry out an apology

He isn't going to punish you physically but his punishments can take a really HUGE toll on your mental health and state of mind and so.... like I said, for the sake of your sanity just don't argue with Bird Face and agree to everything he says 

If you manage to attack him with a weapon (One, HOW TF did you manage to do THAT!? And 2, that's actually way cool Hehehe.... okay, I sound like an evil twin of Sangwoo,imma stop nowTvT) , you'll be isolated in a room with white walls and he'll only come by to give you your meals and THAT'S IT. No screen time, no favorite things, nothing. He'll isolate you till you're practically BEGGING him for forgiveness 

This dude ain't a Romeo so don't expect him to be all lovey-dovey with you. But occasionally when he feels like it, he might hold you and hug you from time to time and say how glad he is to have found you, his little pure angel to care for and protect. Who KNOWS what would have happened to you by now if you didn't come under his care?

He'll let you roam around the backyard ONLY (Not without you having at least a dozen of heavily armed bodyguards keeping a close eye on you) and if you still complain, he's gonna make sure you're grateful for letting you at least step out of the house 

He'll let you look after Eri and Eri just ADORES you. She sees you as a parental figure and I won't be surprised if she develops platonic yandere tendencies and feelings towards you. She'll be sad and pouting when you won't focus your attention and honestly, WHO can resist her CUTE adorable little face? I sure as heck can't....

So... Mr Bird Mask is really SCARY yandere who can haunt you in your dreams and become your WORST nightmare unless you abide by his rules and laws. And THAT children, is today's moral of the story UvU

"Angel.... I'm doing this for YOU now it's time for your daily checkup. Don't be a brat, I only want what's best for you~"

#yandere bnha #yandere bnha x reader #yandere kai chisaki #yandere kai chisaki scenarios #yandere kai chisaku headcanons #yandere kai chisaki oneshots #yandere kai chisaki imagines #yandere kai chisaki x reader #yandere overhaul #yandere overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul scenarios #yandere overhaul oneshots #yandere overhaul headcanons #yandere overhaul imagines #yandere overhaul x reader imagines

[seaweedstarshine]

You know that time in the comics when the Doctor is so depressed, he shuts off the lights, turns on an interrogation spotlight, locks himself in the console room, and argues with a bunch of judgmental shadow-figures resembling his past incarnations?

And all the TARDIS' lights go out and her interior becomes a maze to keep his companions out of the console room, all from her psychic connection with the Doctor (“moodbleed”)?

And his companions are left wandering in circles for two days as the air goes “stale,” not knowing where he is but thinking the worst, while he hallucinates in a dark room?

...because I'm thinking again about the times this definitely happened when he was with the Ponds.

#when they find him- Rory (one good nurse™) asks neutral questions to check on his emotional state while respecting his space #Amy knows when he's locked himself alone long enough to call River (fortunately Amy talks to her daughter often) #River can calm the tardis and go directly to the Doctor. she sits with him and nods when he rants. she tells him hes loved. #eleventh doctor #11th doctor #doctor who #words by seaweed #(eleventh) doctor is neurodivergent tag #honestly same. I don't want anyone looking at me when im in that way because eyes are very uncomfortable lasers slicing my thoughts #so river doesn't look at him. she looks away and lets him look at her so he knows she's not looking at him. she also does active listening #the shadow-figures in this comic are beyond psychosis coded #emphasis: it isnt presented like some conference of past selves here (which the doctor can't just do anyway- see Power of the Doctor). #and the shadow figures dont have personalities anyway. the way theyre drawn is VERY psychosis coded (as is 11 this whole Si Spurrier run) #this is from Eleventh Doctor Year 2 Issue 3 (set between A Christmas Carol and The Impossible Astronaut) if anyone's wondering #note that he put on his comfort fez I love him #alice obiefune #poor Alice got drove up the wall from wandering in the dark for two days… I think Amy and Rory get to get used to it if they're together #eventually they work out a plan to calm the tardis enough to show them the comfy spot in the bunkbeds to wait and give him space #he joins them in their bunkbed for platonic snuggles. all in the same bunk. Rory doesnt mind. they make sure the doctor knows hes loved <3 #I think- having been percieved as psychotic growing up- Amy would be conscious about making sure the doctor knows she still adores him #I really want this fic to exist

[dykevanny]

what if Gregory fixed Freddy’s head and called an ambulance for Vanessa after the fire escape ending and they became 3starfam but slightly more fucked up . What then

#Vanessa still battling William but he’s been weakened by the fire so she can hold him at bay. Trying to go play the games but can’t raghhh #Greg played 1 and 2 and got his hands on the discs #he knows something’s up with her #Freddy’s like. Dealing with the thoughts abt being a mass produced object even more. Dissociating from faz ent quicker and mourning his #Friends who he knows didn’t leave that burning building #Gregory confused and scared and not knowing the full story carrying around freddy and hanging around a hospital (while Vanessa is in a #Convenient coma) and lying to the doctor that he’s her nephew (bc he knows she needs help…) (the doctor ends up figuring out that they aren #Related but lets it slide bc hey #if he ran away from a foster home and she’s his current guardian who is the doctor to step in… if he ran from one home he’d run from this #Lady if she was bad #Anyway. He can communicate with ness and will through devices I think it’s funny #When she wakes up tho . Arcade time #Idk idk thoughts

[dragonanon]

Me: *Trying to go about my day like a normal person *

My brain: “What if we made a TADC OC that’s basically a slime monster girl, but she’s based on the kind of toy slime that has a bunch of cutesy objects in it?? And when she was a human she was a highly skilled and respected Intensivist working at an ICU?? And as a doctor, she was known for being gentle and compassionate to all her patients, and she treasured the staff members working under he?? And she saw all her staff as members of her family, and was fiercely protective of them?? But also while she always appeared extremely confident and well put together, deep inside she struggled daily with a massive inferiority complex and imposter syndrome?? Because she never believed she deserved any of the praise she received despite her work, and constantly felt the need to prove herself by going above and beyond in her work?? And all the plays into why she’s a slime girl now, because even though she always appeared as strong and confident in the surface, inside she’s soft and anxious??

And while she doesn’t remember her life prior to entering the Digital World, during times of crisis or when someone’s injured or at high risk of abstracting, suddenly doctor mode activates?? She quite literally pulls herself together and becomes completely solid like plastic, and gives off a strong aura of confidence and authority?? Thoughts, terminology, and emotions that are foreign yet seem SO familiar surge through her, and without really thinking about it she talking and acting just like she did as an ICU doctor; leading her to quickly take control of the situation with firm confidence before gently tending to the injured/abstracting individual. She doesn’t understand how she knows any of what she’s saying as she gently tends to, and or talks the individual back down from the edge, but it feels so natural to her! It’s like she was MADE to do this, and had actually done it many times before despite having no recollection of doing anything like this previously?? And as she slowly helps the individual ground themselves in reality once more, she’s still maintaining a perfect composure during the whole ordeal, not once showing just how afraid she really was and instead just remaining laser focused on helping the “patient” in front of her??

And it’s only when her “patient” has finally stabilized somewhat that she finally notices everyone staring at her in awe, and then she starts barking orders to everyone to get the “patient” back to their room so they can be admitted into the hospital for surveillance, and that she wants a full blood panel and PHQ-9 assessment completed while she fills out an incident report for the hospital’s records. And everyone is so taken aback/still in shock that they just kinda go along with it because she sounds so sure of herself no one knows how to argue otherwise.

It’s only when someone breaks out of their stupor enough to ask her how she did all that/what the heck happened that she snaps out of it, and she softens into her goopy self again as she tries to clumsily explain she has no clue what happened but was just overwhelmed by these sudden thoughts and emotions, and despite not knowing where any of it was coming from it felt like she just instinctively knew what to do and how to do it.

Someone points out to her that she looked and sounded just like a doctor back there, and that maybe that’s who she was prior to entering the Digital Circus. She doesn’t believe it, insisting that there’s no way someone like her could be a doctor, but everyone insists that she absolutely could be and that what she did was incredible?? And now she’s kinda the unofficial doctor of the circus despite still not believing she was, or could ever be, a doctor??”

Me: *Sitting on the couch letting my brain hyperfixate* 👁️👄👁️

#this…this ended up being WAY longer than i intended #but my brain has literally been CONSUMED by this idea #that trope of ‘amnesiac somehow instinctively knows how to do the the thing because they did it previously’ is a fav of mine #she might not remember her old life but the caregiver instincts and knowledge is still very much ingrained into her #and it comes out full force when someone is in need of medical attention #she orders caine to go prepare a hospital bed and he’s like ‘yes ma’am!’ before taking off to do that #he makes it 2/3s down the hall before realizing what just happened and poofing back #in his defense she was so confident and authoritative his coding went ‘ah a doctor. you should always listen to medical professional.’ #shitpost #tadc #long post #the amazing digital circus #tadc oc #haven’t quite figured out a name for her yet #but i’m tryna name her in a way that would allow the nickname ‘squish’ to be acceptable #because squish as a nickname for a slime lady makes me laugh

[oc-cinematic-universe]

i LOOOVE thinking about fantasy disabilities!!!! i love figuring out what people would have to do to accommodate them! it's literally awesome!

#fun after-comic joe facts time yayyy so joe's soul got a little bit fucked up #its just this small crack. which makes him entirely unresponsive to anything for like 5 minutes max #at seemingly random intervals. it slows down and doesnt last as long as it heals but its still like #not good lol #and its just gonna keep happening the rest of his life because souls fuckin heal weird #its one of many problems disorders he has to deal with this ones just special because doctors have #NO clue what to do with him so he and his friends just gotta figure out how to cope with it themselves #after a while he can kinda tell when its about to happen a few seconds before it does #so because he's rarely left alone anyways because he. cant take care of himself much anymore #he can give them a warning and they will make sure nothing dangerous will come from it and just wait for him to come to #as it heals and becomes less of a problem it kinda becomes more of a problem ironically #he does reach a point where he can mostly handle himself. but he cant do shit when that happens #except try to sit down asap. so while it happens less often it causes More Incidents. alas #i think kiara's way of dealing with it happening in particular is so silly #cause she just. grew up with him like this. this is just normal to her she's never questioned it #like oh ok dad's blanked out again i will just wait so patiently for it to be done so i can keep showing him #my mlp toys and explaining mlp lore to him #it happens and she just stops what she's doing and waits for him then continues as if nothing happened #everyone else gets so fussy about him when it happens but kiaras just #are you done? ok so pinkie pie is the laughter pony #he thinks its awesome he loves her so much

[chxrryrose]

my doctor told me it’s pretty much certain that i have pcos and all my brother has took, from the basics of the illness that i explained to my family, was that i have more testosterone and now he basically does this every time he sees me

#it’s been a really long process of trying to figure out wtf is wrong with me physically #and it’s still not done #but now it feels like we’re getting somewhere at least #but shoutout to my dad because i was told ages ago that this was a possibility we were looking into #and then the doctors confirmed it on the phone today #and when i was telling my parents he already had a tab open on his phone of pcos as he’d already been reading about it🥲🥲

[cosmicrhetoric]

my dad (fellow sufferer of chronic migraines) turned to me and went haha you know if either of us had a brain tumor no one would ever know. 😶 like damn ok

#maybe its cause migraines were so normal for both of us but especially him when i was a kid #that I've been conditioned to believe headaches are not smth you go to the doctor about #i got my meds in twenty min too cause the doctor who wrote me a prescription was the same as my dads and we have very similar symptoms #i think there's an external reason for me this week though idk what but its rare for me to have this kind of head pain #personal #its always like oh i know how to deal with a migraine and then i do it and never speak to a medical professional abt it #and they way he handled it was also what he figured out in his youth and its HORRIBLE advice #when the pressure gets too high for him he makes himself throw up to alleviate it which is literally the worst thing you can do #but thats what he figured out when he was 14 and now im still doing stuff i figured out when i was 14 and good lord