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#yes we have been having more immigrants

entropy-sea-system · 1 year

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I think one reason I try to make my headspace form appear more 'adult-like' and less leaning towards adorable-cute(but more towards hot and maybe vaguely intimidating) is because I don't want to be infantilised. Idc if ppl like a decade or more older still see me as a kid sort of for being 20(and I am literally bodily 20), but I don't want my peers or ppl only slightly older to assume I'm a child or desexualise me(as in like treat me as someone who doesn't want to be involved in anything sexual and has nothing sexual about my existence).

Peers and even slightly younger ppl have already infantilised me enough in my lifetime just bc I'm autistic and quiet. I'm not the uwu innocent 'child' people want me to be. It also bothers me as an alloaro bc sexuality is a large part of my identity personally and I don't want romance or friendship. Ppl irl assumed I'm lonely and want friends when that wasn't the case.

I would actually kind of be repulsed if someone assumed all I want is friendship, especially if they just think so bc I'm aro (I'm way more apl than aro). I just idk when I was 18 I was a little more tired of childhood than I am now. I was tired of the ageism and sure it doesn't go away entirely once you turn 18 bc they still treat young adults like we 're irresponsible and don't know anything but should still meet expectations.

I think when I was a tween and teen there were expectations from peers to act a lot older than we were. We were expected to like live action shows and movies, especially pg-13 and r-rated ones. It made no sense to me. There's no shame in liking cartoons or kids shows even as an adult. That's not a reason to infantilise someone, and there really shouldn't be a reason to do that to anyone in the first place.

Like idk but. Why should I have wanted to go to parties or be obsessed w some band as a tween/young teen?? Why should I have engaged with more violent/adult media and understood every vague sexual innuendo?? Why should I have been wearing expensive brands? Those aren't requirements for respect. Maybe it's just the district I went to middle school in but yeah...

#ageism #vent #negative #Also TIRED of ppl calling adult characters child coded #Im sorry what do we have to be 7'6" and extremely muscular or curvy etc. To be an adult #Like. Fear that ppl will see any character or real person who appears too adorable cute uwu to them to be a child #And that includes me #Like. I dont want to be seen as a child when Im not.#Also biting and maiming its literally ableist to call a character whos an adult child coded just bc theyre autistic #PLEASE Entrapta is 30.#Also have major issues w how ableist they were in writing her...#ableism #desexualization #me being autistic and indian(south asian) has meant that i have often been desexualised.#tag I found while searching and. Yes. This.#Ofc the desi part was more relevant when I was an immigrant in the US bc #But still relevant in my country of origin bc. They expect us to be nonsexual here and stuff #But like yeah.. Idk a lot of expectations that we should just study and not have sex except for reproduction in an arranged marriage #And ik Ive talked about this sometimes but. Its so fucking ingrained. Most other cultures just dont get it #this is abt bc we're a system my headspace form is not same as the body its different #but also abt where I went to middle school p sure lots of classism bc it was full of rich ppl due to where it was located #like in a community w townhomes n stuff #So that explains the obsession w brands #But maybe not the expectation to be more mature #Its funny bc legally a 13 y/o cant watch an r rated movie even if its just violence but when you're 13 your peers may expect you to have #Done so #but also I was slightly younger than most in my grade bc august bday #so. Like. Yeah an age diff of 6 months may have made some peers infantilise me 🙄#Also like. When I have a crush on a fictional character whos an adult but theyre not human (humanoid) or from a show w a very cutesy #cartoon-y style I feel scared that ppl r going to assume the character is a child n see me as a creep

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mypoisonedvine · 7 months

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𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 | boyfriend's dad!cillian murphy x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | for some reason, your first instinct after the breakup was to talk to his parents; maybe because you'd come sort of uniquely close to them, for a relatively short relationship. you might not have gone to their house if you'd known you'd find mr. murphy there alone...

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (18+ ONLY!! unprotected sex, creampie, oral m and f receiving), age gap (reader's age unspecified, cillian is 45+), hurt/comfort (but, you know, sexual comfort), infidelity, slight manipulation/coercion since the reader is very vulnerable at the time, somewhat inexperienced reader, degradation and praise, a little bit of breathplay, hair pulling, slight dacryphilia?, reader is slightly implied to be an immigrant/foreigner

note: yes I use his real name but this is just fiction and not meant to have anything to do with the real cillian murphy or his life/family so please keep that in mind!

He had a smile on his face as he opened the door and greeted you, but it fell instantly when he saw you biting down on your quivering lip, looking down to hide how red and watery your eyes were.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, voice heavy with concern as he reached out and rubbed your shoulder. "Oh, god— come in, come in— what's going on?"

He ushered you into the house, shutting the door behind you and wrapping his arm around you as you sniffled. "I-I'm sorry—" you began instantly. “I thought— I don’t know why I even came here…”

But, actually, you sort of did. You’d been wanting to talk to Cillian’s wife, hoping for some motherly advice, until he answered the door and you abruptly remembered she was in England on business for a week or something. And you couldn’t exactly show up on somebody’s doorstep crying and say ‘oh, sorry, I thought your wife would be home— I’ll come back in a few days’.

You weren’t disappointed by running into him instead, really, you just felt a little weirder about it. The two of you had never actually been alone before.

"Don't apologise," he soothed, "it's okay, just tell me what's happened. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you sighed, trying to compose yourself a bit as he guided you to sit on the couch with him. "Yeah, I'm okay, I just... um, well, it's sort of stupid—"

"I'm sure it's not," he offered with a small laugh, "if it's got you this worked up."

"We, um... I think we broke up?"

"What?" he breathed, knitting his eyebrows together— he cared more than you expected... but it sort of made sense, Mr. Murphy had always made you feel welcome here. Mrs. Murphy too, maybe ina different way. Yes, it's bizarre to respond to being dumped by going to visit the guy's parents, you needed a sort of... mature, familial presence right now while you were so far from your own.

You took him through the whole drama as efficiently as possible, trying to regulate your crying so he could actually attempt to make out what you were saying. He listened thoughtfully, perhaps with too much attention compared to what you expected— after all, this was stupid college drama and he was so much more mature than all that. Still, you appreciated a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on.

"And, uh, that's how he ended it," you finished with a sigh, sniffling as you recalled the heartbreaking conversation. "He basically told me that he's too young to be stuck with one person, and he needs to 'explore his options'..."

"Then he's an idiot," Cillian groaned, "and I hate to say that about my own son— but he's a fuckin' idiot."

"Well," you mumbled, "I don't know— I thought maybe he had a point. I mean, we're pretty young..."

"But look at you, honey," he offered pityingly, "you can't tell me this is what you wanted."

"No, but—"

"And yes, you're young," he added, "but not too young— not if it's real."

You bit your lip to stop it from shaking any more, and he cooed at you gently as he reached up to rub your shoulder.

“Poor girl,” he breathed. “Honestly, I always… well, maybe I shouldn’t say it now…”

You looked up at him expectantly, and he smiled nervously as he glanced away.

“Well… I guess I always thought that you could do better,” he admitted with a soft laugh, “but, you know, I didn’t want to say anything, of course. He was lucky to have you, and I just hoped he would treat you right, but…”

“I thought I was the lucky one,” you replied with a thin smile and another little sniffle. “He could be really sweet, you know— he used to be. And I always thought he was, uh, sort of… you know, out of my league.”

“Oh, honey, no,” Cillian frowned, moving his hand up to your face and holding your cheek, wiping a small tear away with his thumb. “You’re gorgeous.”

You laughed awkwardly, not sure what to think— or how to think— with him looking at you like that. “I… I don’t know, you’re sweet, but—”

“No, really,” he assured, and only when you met his gaze did you realise how close he was. You wouldn’t call it too close, only because it didn’t bother you like you knew it should. “You’re so beautiful.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing actually came out… there was nothing to say. He was coming closer, you knew it, and you wanted to reach up to stop him just as much as you wanted to shut your eyes and give into it. You ended up sort of splitting the difference: you rested your hands on his shoulders, but didn’t push him away, and gasped slightly just before he kissed you. Even a second of resistance could’ve given you some plausible deniability, but no, you fluttered your eyes shut and kissed him back; it didn’t help that you could feel how warm and strong he was through the t-shirt, holding on tighter to his shoulders with a hum.

His hands wandered to your waist, pulling you into him— and you were like putty, embarrassingly enough. With him kissing you like that, you really couldn’t do anything but let him pull you around wherever he wanted. His lips were soft and gentle, his tongue teased you so carefully, and he even sighed against your skin in the sweetest way… you were totally helpless already.

Sure, some part of you knew how fucking bizarre this was— that you were kissing Mr. Murphy, your boyfriend’s dad— well… ex-boyfriend’s. You weren’t blind, you noticed how attractive he was when you met him, but you’d managed to successfully ignore it since then. It made sense, after all, since the first thing you’d noticed about your boyfriend was his good looks… but Mr. Murphy was handsome in a totally different way. Strong and broad— not especially massive or anything, still a lean guy— with thin streaks of grey in his hair, a patient sort of smile, subtle wrinkles around his eyes that added a sense of wisdom to his expression… really, he was a bit more of your type. But that was something you had forced yourself not to acknowledge— until now.

You sat up slightly, holding onto his neck, breathing in sharply through your nose as you kissed him back a little harder. You could feel him smiling— god, even just that made you feel so desperate— and he even moaned ever-so-quietly when you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed against your lips, breaking away just enough to make you open your eyes— his lashes seemed especially long as he looked down at your legs curled up on the couch (and his hands petting them slowly. “You haven’t been treated properly for a long time, have you?”

You whined in the back of your throat involuntarily as you nodded— how could he see right through you like that? It wasn’t like it was bad with your ex, it was just… not good. Not enough. You wanted to feel wanted, not used— not a means to an end.

“Will you let me?” he asked softly, breathing beside your ear on his way in to kiss your neck. You gasped, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close, head falling back to give him as much of you as he wanted. His tongue was fucking fiendish, the way he used it to tickle along your pulse, the sharpness of his teeth making you jolt only for him to soothe you with his plush lips.

“Yes,” you panted, “fuck— I, god, I can’t believe we’re doing this…”

He laughed a little. “I can,” he admitted. “All I could fucking think about since I met you…”

That surprised you— you’d never noticed anything that would’ve made you think he thought of you that way… but knowing that he, apparently, had made a shiver run up your spine.

He certainly hid it well, playing the part of the slightly-embarrassing dad and polite husband so well that you never would’ve known… oh god, his wife. You didn’t want to think of her now, yet the unavoidable memory stirred arousal alongside guilt in your gut. You had no idea you were this sort of person— but you weren’t really operating logically right now, anyway.

He held your face again as he pulled back, petting your cheek— it made you feel especially juvenile when he did that, holding your chin to examine you. This wasn’t really the ideal state for you to be looked at, in your opinion, with you having been crying all evening. But he looked amazed by you, even if it was just for a moment before he looked down at your body and smirked.

“Take this off,” he instructed, tugging at your shirt slightly. You thought it would’ve been a little more romantic if he helped you out of it, but it was alternatively a bit sexier that he was just going to sit back and watch you strip for him. It must have been his way of demonstrating his power over you, that you were just going to take it off and toss it aside without question. Which, of course, you did.

He smiled proudly at the sight, and before you could even get your bra off, he started to carefully tease you through it— fingers running around the edge, moving the straps off your shoulders, tickling up your sides as you shifted nervously on the couch.

“Look’t that,” he whispered proudly, and you took a second to realise that he was referring to your nipples getting hard enough to poke visibly through the fabric; you felt self-conscious all of a sudden, even if he was clearly enjoying what he was seeing. “So needy, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” you admitted, whining when he reached inside the cups and ran his fingers over your breasts— they usually weren’t so sensitive. “Fuck,” you breathed, shutting your eyes as a way to try to escape his gaze. “I… I need you.”

“Fuck, baby, don’t talk like that,” he groaned, “m’gonna try to take my time with you— how am I supposed to do that if you say such lovely things?”

His lips were on your neck again— and he was leaning you back, laying you down under him, tugging your shorts down with a bit more urgency than he’d had before.

When you were basically naked— or at least, your bra and panties pushed out of the way enough that he could see what he needed to— he purred at the sight, grinning as you hastily undressed yourself the rest of the way.

"Of course he couldn't appreciate this," Cillian sighed, baring his teeth just a bit. "Of course he couldn't appreciate a perfect fucking body like this— a perfect little pussy like this..."

You were about to open your mouth to say something, though you hadn't even decided yet what it would be, but only a low moan came out when he held your legs open and dove between them, humming as he lapped at your clit. You couldn't imagine why you were so sensitive, but your whole body was shaking already just from the gentlest motions of his tongue...

"Fuck," he said, muffled against your skin, before he pulled back enough to bite playfully on your thigh. "Fuck, darling, you taste delicious. Christ. You're too perfect..."

He devoured you again, exploring all over you with his tongue as your thighs kept instinctively clamping down on his head. He kept looking up at you through it all, even when you couldn't stand to meet his gaze and had to arch your back from the pleasure. "Fuck!" you yelped, grabbing tightly onto his hair. "Fuck, Mr. Murphy, I— oh, god..."

"He never made you come like this, did he?" Cillian realised with a groan, nearly growling when you shook your head. "Has anyone?"

"N-no," you shakily admitted, and he moaned around you as he suckled harder on your clit for a moment until you whined loudly.

"Oh, poor thing," he cooed, "how could anyone taste this sweet cunt of yours, and not want to spend hours between your legs?"

He didn’t need to spend hours, though— the taboo nature of the situation seemed to turn your body into overdrive, making you so sensitive and desperate… or maybe that was just the effect he had on you, but it was hard to say.

The point is, all too soon, you were shivering under him, back arching up off the couch, holding on tightly to his hair. He hummed approvingly, even moaning against you as he slid his tongue inside; he must have been able to feel you pulsing, moving closer and closer to the edge, because he shut his eyes tight and seemed to focus harder and pushing you further until you couldn’t take anymore.

“Fuck, fuck!” you sobbed, thighs shaking around his head; there really was no exploration to it, no teasing, he just went right in and expertly played you like he’d done this a thousand times. Maybe he had… but, obviously, he’d never done it to you. Were you that easy to solve?

Obviously, that question suddenly became the last thing on your mind as your orgasm wracked through you. He growled encouragingly, still keeping his pace, but you could barely hear it past the ringing in your ears— and your own cries of his name, of course.

He only broke away when your squirms turned into real avoidance: you could only take so much, especially with him suckling on your clit like that.

You were almost nervous to open your eyes again— and you were right, he looked so gorgeous between your legs, obviously smug with having just made you come, it was nearly criminal.

“Is it really that easy to make you come, honey?” he laughed, petting your legs sweetly as he pulled back, looking up at you with a proud grin. “That’s so fucking cute, baby…”

As he sat up again, wiping the slick off his mouth with the back of his hand, you got this weird, clingy feeling— wanting to chase him even just as he barely moved away.

But he’d sat up for a reason, and you started to realise it when you sat up, too, and noticed the thick bulge in his jeans.

"Why don't you show me what you can do, sweetheart?" he encouraged with a smile, opening his belt for you. "I'm sure you've learned a thing or two..."

Though you still felt terribly nervous about it, you leaned forward towards his lap. Would it be awful to admit your mouth watered when he freed his cock from his jeans and boxers, holding it out for you as a little bead of precum formed at the tip?

"Show me, baby," he whispered again, "and look up at me."

You nervously blinked up at him, meeting his gaze from his lap, as you wrapped your lips around his swollen head. He bit his lip right away and reached up to hold onto your hair, groaning as you swirled your tongue.

"Fuck," he smirked, "you're sort of a tease, aren't you?"

You weren't trying to be, really, but it didn't sound like he minded too much...

"Oh, fuck," he moaned deeply, making you pulse inside as he tilted his head back. "Fuck, baby, that's good— your mouth is so fucking warm..."

He gasped and panted as he held your head, guiding it to bob just a little faster than you had been moving. "Sweetheart," he choked, "you're so fucking good... fuck!"

The praise made your chest fill with warmth, even if there was still some part of your brain that was recovered enough from the orgasm to remember how horrible this all was. It was horrible, but perfect— and feeling his cock throb against your tongue was perfect, too.

You’d never been told you were so good at this before, but he kept moaning and petting your head encouragingly, whispering the most wonderful and filthy things. “Just like that, honey,” he cooed, “mm— pretty thing… knew that mouth of yours would feel so fuckin’ good… just keep sucking my cock, sweetheart.”

That you did— harder and faster, stroking what your mouth couldn’t fit, moaning softly around him. As you tried to take it deeper, desperate to please him, you gagged on his thick head.

“God, it’s so cute when you choke on it, baby,” he chuckled. “Do it again.”

This time it was almost too much, but he held your head down and groaned deeply. It would’ve bothered you more— not being able to breathe— if he didn’t sound so sexy right then…

Thankfully, he pulled you off just in time, making you yelp as he held you by your hair— only to kiss you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Moaning, you melted into his arms, and let him guide you to straddle his lap. Feeling his jeans against your thighs and his shirt against your chest made your heart skip.

He took another long look at you when he broke away, a new darkness in his bright eyes.

“You’re so sexy,” he laughed softly, running his hands over your nude form and raising a brow as he watched goosebumps break out over your skin. “God, I need to be inside you…”

You bit down on your lip but it didn’t do much to suppress your whimper; lifting yourself up a bit, you grasped his cock and slid it through your folds, guiding him to your entrance.

You both gasped when he slipped inside, even when it was the slightest penetration— his whole head wasn’t in yet, and you just knew it would stretch you more than you were used to.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned loudly, tilting his head back, “you’re so wet, sweetheart…”

Lowering yourself, you took in a shaky breath, whining slightly as he opened you up one inch at a time... and each one seemed somehow thicker than the last. His fingers seemed to dig deeper into the skin at your hips and ass the lower that you sank onto him.

You could barely believe that you took it all; that you relaxed into his lap fully even when you feared being split in half by how thick he was. “Oh my god,” you blurted out, operating on instinct as you started to move— grinding back and forth, desperate for friction despite having been satisfied by his incredible mouth just a few minutes ago.

"Fuck, there you go," he encouraged with a growl, looking down at your hips rocking in his lap. "Ride me, just like that— fuck, ride my cock, little fuckin' whore..."

You whimpered at the insult, holding tighter onto his shoulders, but it only made you move faster. "S-so... so deep, Mr. Murphy," you whimpered.

"Yeah? You can take it," he promised darkly, holding tighter onto your waist as he dropped his head back with a low groan. "God, you're tight— fuck."

You gasped as he bucked his hips up, creating more pressure against your over-sensitive clit. "Oh, fuck," you breathed, struggling to cope with all the sensations he was giving you.

Both of you settled on the right pace, and he switched between resting his head back against the couch (giving you a nice view of his gorgeous neck, how could just a neck be so sexy?!) and looking down to watch you go. “So fuckin’ cute,” he praised— though you were sort of surprised to hear him describe you that way at a time like this. “So needy, honey… you want more, don’t you? You wanna go even faster.”

Now that he said it: yeah, you did. You bounced up and down, your moans coming out all shaky and uneven because of the movement, and he grinned proudly.

His hands wandered up from your waist to your chest, groping you eagerly as you gasped out his name in response. “Love these tits of yours,” he informed you, sounding oddly sweet for how dirty of a compliment it was. “Took everything in me not to stare at them when you’d come over for dinner… see what you do to me, sweetheart? Haven’t felt this desperate since I was your age.”

Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing, reminding you of how much older he was at a time like this. He purred when he felt you clench on him, obviously affected by the comment.

“Should’ve known you’d give in right away,” he went on, softening his voice to nearly a whisper as he watched you move with heavy eyes; you angled your hips back and moaned louder, his cock rubbing against just the right spot every time now. “Hungry little thing like you— now I wish I hadn’t waited so long. We could’ve been doing this the whole time… I could’ve shown you how much better it can be, when somebody really takes care of you.”

Whimpering, you felt another heady pang inside you— if he kept talking like that, you wouldn’t be able to keep your head on straight… then again, the fact that you were here proved that you were less stable than you thought.

“Faster, sweetheart,” he ordered again suddenly. “I wanna see how desperate you can get.”

You furrowed your brows together, almost pouting, but did exactly what he wanted— you wondered if you looked as pathetic as you sounded, riding him recklessly, chasing another peak even when it took all of your strength in those shaking legs.

He grabbed you by the jaw and guided you into another desperate kiss— all teeth and tongue and low moans. “Good fucking girl,” he snarled. “Good little slut.”

“Fuck,” you panted, moving faster. “Fuck, I’m close—”

“I know, honey,” he cooed, nodding as he moved his hand down to your neck. “Show me how bad you need it, sweetheart. Let me see it, I wanna see you come for me.”

Tossing your head back, you cried out his name again— why did you always do that when you came?— and felt it overtake you. It was even heavier than the last one, even more numbing and draining, and you didn’t even notice how hard you were digging your nails into his shoulders.

When your body failed and you came to a shaky stop, he didn’t give you much time to catch your breath: he grabbed you tight, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, and began to buck his hips up into you quickly.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” you whined, overwhelmed by the feeling, holding onto him tightly just to have something to keep you grounded.

“Fuck, m’gonna come inside you,” he warned with a growl. “Gonna fill you, baby, you’ll be so fuckin’ full of my come—”

You sobbed and buried your face in his neck, starting to cry again for a completely different reason than before.

“Tell me you want it,” he ordered, speaking roughly right against your ear.

“F-fuck, I want it,” you gasped, “I want you to come— fuck— come inside me—”

He choked out a few more swears, he held you tight enough that you started to imagine what his bruises would look like on you tomorrow, and with a low groan of your name, it all suddenly slowed to a stop. You moaned weakly when you felt his cock flexing against your walls, even more heat pooling inside you. With what little energy you had left, you softly kissed his neck— until he seemed to come back to reality and pushed you back enough to be face-to-face with you again.

You realised suddenly that you were still sort of crying from the intensity of it all, and got nervous with him staring at you like that. “I’m sorry,” you sniffled as you wiped your face.

“Don’t apologise,” he told you again, moving your hands away so he could look at you himself. “Besides, you look even cuter when you cry.”

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #dilf!cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy rpf

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fuckyeaharchaeology · 2 years

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The reconstructed face of the “Cheddar Man” (c. 7,000 BCE) compared to his living descendant, Adrian Targett

The Cheddar Man is a Mesolithic skeleton that was recovered from England’s Cheddar Gorge in 1903. At around 9,000 years old, the Cheddar Man is the oldest complete skeleton ever discovered in the UK, and has long been hailed as the “first Briton.” DNA analysis on the Cheddar Man from 2018 indicated that he was lactose intolerant, had light-colored eyes, dark brown or black hair, and had a dark to black skin tone. Although the discovery of the Cheddar Man’s dark skin tone was surprising for both scientists and the public alike, it corresponds with recent research suggesting that genes linked to lighter skin only began to spread into Europe about 8,500 years ago - approximately 32,000 years later than what was previously believed.

In addition to the development on his skin tone, the Cheddar Man surprised scientists in 1997 when DNA analysis revealed that he had a living descendant - a retired history teacher named Adrian Targett. Targett and the Cheddar Man share the same mtDNA, which is inherited through the mother. In other words, they share a common maternal ancestor. What is even more remarkable is that Targett lives in Cheddar, only a half mile away from where his 9,000-year-old ancestor was discovered.

Targett was not invited to the initial reveal of his ancestor’s new facial reconstruction, but he has since seen it and has commented on the family resemblance. “I do feel a bit more multicultural now,” he once joked in an interview “And I can definitely see that there is a family resemblance. That nose is similar to mine. And we have both got those blue eyes.”

The development of the Cheddar Man’s skin tone has generated resistance, especially among far-right and white supremacist circles. Targett, however, is unbothered by it, stating that it is “marvelous what scientists can reconstruct once they sequence the DNA.” When asked if he thought whether the findings affected the way people think about race, Targett responded: “Yes, I do think it’s significant. Not many people in Cheddar mind it. But the lesson is that we’re all immigrants, whether you’ve been in a place for 10 minutes or 9,000 years. We’ve all come from somewhere.”

#archaeology #Cheddar Man #england #forensic anthropology #DNA analysis #genetics

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psychoticallytrans · 9 months

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I believe very strongly that if you want to be an ally to marginalized groups, you should absolutely read and watch material bigoted against them.

This is because one of the big things that radicalization pipelines benefit from is the principle I've seen framed as "milk before meat", where they feed you palatable, easily digestible ideas, often with a kernel of truth, in order to work you up to the core of the bigoted ideology. If you go to the meat first, you will choke on it. This will make you more easily able to spot it when they try to feed you the milk, and more resistant because you know the meat it's building up to.

There are two keys. First, you need to start with the meat, and second, you need to read it with a sharply critical eye.

If you're looking to read something fatphobic, for example, Harry Potter may be a great mainstream example, but it's in a way that is so culturally acceptable that it can slip by if you aren't looking for it. "None For You: How Fat People Are Ruining America and the Planet and What You Can Do About It", on the other hand, is rather obvious in its biases, allowing an amateur to see them clearly for easier interrogation of the premise. Most bigoted material can be acquired by piracy or through your local library. This is one of the big reasons that libraries stock bigoted material.

Then, start noting down all of the things that the material says that seem to make sense, or that you are sure are true. There's no shame in this. Bigoted ideas are ingrained in your upbringing, and on top of this, a lot of bigots will take real problems and build on them in ways that are bigoted.

For instance, anti-immigrant sentiment in the USA is often bolstered by the fact that wages in the USA are effectively decreasing, along with job security. They say that this is because immigrants are taking the jobs, decreasing the amount of value that is available to USAmericans. To a USAmerican who does not know much about immigrants, but does know that their paycheck buys less and less, this sounds like a plausible explanation.

Then, later, look up exactly what they are saying. What are the real issues? (Racism and unchecked capitalism.) Why are they being used to bolster this argument? (Because it takes the heat off of powerful people and puts it on powerless ones, redirecting the hate to people it can more easily hurt, which satisfies the rage of the USAmerican, drives a wedge between them and immigrants, and takes heat off of the powerful.) What are real ways to tackle the real issue? (Solidarity with immigrant workers, especially undocumented ones, unions, and working for better social safety nets.) Why did I fall for that? (You did not have enough information.) Can I notice this rhetoric in the future and avoid falling for it? (Yes.)

Know that many of the ideas you encounter will be normal. Much bigotry is normal. Normal is not automatically good or right.

Know that there will be useful ideas interspersed with some bigotry. A lot of people with useful ideas have been bigots. This does not mean we must discard their ideas, nor that we must accept the bigotry. It does mean that we need to critically examine the ideas to see if they are rooted in and/or affected by the bigotry, and if it is possible to effectively remove them from their bigoted origins, or if the bigotry is so wound into the ideas that they is no longer useful if you wish to avoid harming the group the thinker was bigoted against.

This is difficult work to do. It is intellectually intensive, and emotionally exhausting. You will start seeing bigotry in all kinds of places, including media you thought of as "good" and "progressive", and that will also be emotionally exhausting and dispiriting. It will also mean that you are no longer passively absorbing those bigoted ideas because you settled on the idea that this media is "good" and that as long as you only consume "good" media, you will be free of bigoted ideas- a premise that is disturbingly popular for how incorrect it is. Knowing how to recognize and discard bigotry in works is far, far more useful than flatly refusing to consume more overtly bigoted works.

One way to make it easier is to form reading groups, so that you can lean on each other when reading something that's affecting you badly. It also means that there's more than one person processing the bigotry, so other people might notice more subtle parts of the bigotry that slipped past you in your own reading, allowing you to have a fuller picture of the book. If you can't form a reading group, more famous bigoted works often have criticism available online for you to read through. Remember to do your own research. What makes doing this so valuable is increasing your own ability to detect bigotry and to think critically about material you are consuming.

You do not have to limit yourself to traditional media, either. There are forums and social media bubbles that are hotbeds of bubbling, seething bigotry that is more extreme and repugnant than the vast majority of published work. Reading these conversations can be useful for the exact same reasons that reading overtly bigoted books, articles, letters, and essays can be, and they often contain more up to date dogwhistles. However, this is a riskier move. Social media is built to make you keep scrolling, and you can easily find yourself at your wits end and vulnerable to a bigot whose rhetoric is slightly less obvious than the others. In addition, it can be tempting to interact- at which point the bigots will either attack you or try to recruit you, both of which are damaging to you. Only read the conversations of bigots if you are well supported and have strong impulse control, and read them in small doses.

You are not immune to propaganda, but you can partially inoculate yourself into being less vulnerable by consuming it in controlled circumstances that match your ability to recognize it as such and reject it.

#long post

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saintjosie · 7 months

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i’m gonna cave and say one more thing about demilypyro because it irritates me to no end that people are accusing me of lacking reading comprehension when imo the actual issue is a tremendous lack of historical context and how out of touch people are with how absofuckinglutely devastating christianity has been to the modern world, especially for people of color.

But sure, some christians and weirdos online think trans people are icky so it's not real, probably. lol.

THIS is the part of her post i have tremendous issue with. it’s not her coping with humor. and i hope it’s obvious that i think transphobia is bad.

christians have done SO so much more harm than just thinking that queer people are icky. because before colonization happened, queerness was common and accepted, and in many cultures, even revered.

but then guess what, the roman empire happened. and then after the byzantine empire happened.

and then after that the still very much alive institutionalized catholic church rooted it’s cancer in the world.

and then after that, the british, french, spanish, portugese, german, italian, and yes, dutch (being particularly relevant, demilypyro supposedly being from the netherlands) empires happened.

and of course, we now have america.

and thus through conquest, bloodshed, and genocide, white people spread christianity to literally every corner of the world and with it, christian values of homophobia and transphobia.

as a second generation korean immigrant, first generation american, and the eldest child of a pastor, i am directly impacted and incredibly traumatized from white colonialism.

so yeah, it pissed me off more than a little bit how quick people are to accuse me of lacking reading comprehension and jumping to defend someone who made at best, a carelessly offensive and at worst, horrendously privileged comment.

if you don't have to think at least a little bit everyday how horrendously fucked up things are because of christianity, then that is an immense privilege.

i stand by what i said and i hope that more people seek to actively decolonize themselves instead of reveling in passive ignorance.

#josierants #tw christianity #demilypyro #zero tolerance policy for white people shit

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palms-upturned · 4 months

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But you can take direct action AND vote harm reduction as much as possible. In fact, you SHOULD be doing that. Yeah there are too many people whose stance ends at "vote for the least bad" but the problem is the worst of the politicians have dedicated followers who will aggressively vote their guys into the office to the detriment to everyone else. So, yes, get involved and march and everything else but please still vote harm reduction. That's all most of us are asking. Because the worse side of this is still going to be doing genocide, they're just going to be sure to bring some of that genocide home and use it to ensure immigrants and queer people here are killed as well.

I think you need to sit with that last sentence you wrote. The point of my post was that if you cast a vote for people who actively participate in genocide in another country because you think their domestic policy is better for you, then you have to be able to understand and sit with the fact that you are breaking solidarity with colonized people. You are voting for the “leopards who promise to only eat the faces of people in the global south” party. You have to be prepared to accept what people extrapolate about you and your politics from this rather than take it as a slight against your morals that you need to defend yourself from.

Immigrants and queer people are already dying here. The Biden administration has not curbed the sudden rise in homophobic/transphobic legislation we’ve been seeing. Roe v Wade has been repealed, and we very nearly lost the Indian Child Welfare Act, too. We’re seeing a covid surge with numbers rivaling the very start of the pandemic, but none of the protections that we had at the start, which weren’t even good to begin with. And now that people are mobilizing across the country for Palestine, this administration is actively making it more difficult to even express anti zionist sentiments in public. Palestinian communities here are facing increased policing. You can talk about harm reduction all you want, but I struggle to see the value in supporting a party whose only appeal is “at least we’re not the other guys,” who can brazenly go against the majority of the American people over and over and over because they believe that they’ll remain in power no matter what because hey, what’s the alternative, let the republicans win? If there are no stakes for them, then what’s the fucking point? Why would they ever accede any demand that their constituents ever made of them? And if not, then what good is it to put them in positions of power?

Personally, I will never forget any of what I’ve seen as long as I live, and you will never catch me voting for any of these people. I won’t legitimize their strategy. I think it’s a fucking bad one, and I think that these people are never going to do anything but toe the colonial line. I can’t stop you from voting however you want to vote, but I genuinely fail to see how trying to rally people to vote against their better judgment is a better use of your time and energy than trying to rally your party to do something that people would actually vote for. In the meantime, regardless of who’s in what seat, the work laid out before us remains the same. It is always the same. We have to protect each other separate from and in spite of the state.

#asks #anon #genuinely in awe that ppl are still sending me asks like this

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suzukiblu · 1 month

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If you feel up for it, for the writing meme prompt, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor, with the song You And Me by Lifehouse? If it's not your thing I totally get it though and hope you have a great time and fun writing the things that do catch your fancy!

I think we ALL knew that I was gonna do baby Kon for this, lbr. Also ngl, this came out way more cracky than the prompt would suggest it should've but it is absolutely my favorite thing I’ve written for this meme so far, as the necessity for the following cut should help attest, haha.

Unfortunately, Lex takes one look at Cadmus’s progress report on the newly-crafted Experiment Thirteen and realizes he has paternal instincts.

Well, that’s inconvenient. And a little disgusting, honestly. Certainly a disappointment.

He supposes it could be worse. He could be Lionel about this.

Anyway, that’s how he has a physiological four year-old on his lap when he hears the news about Superman coming back to life and fistfighting an evil cyborg with his own face about it, because of course the man didn’t have the decency to just stay dead. Why would he, after all?

Lex needs a drink. That would be a bad example for the physiological four year-old, though.

Then again, Experiment Thirteen should be completely immune to the effects of Earth-based alcohol in about another four to six months of consistent yellow sun exposure, so . . .

Lex is halfway through his second brandy when Superman shows up on his balcony at super-speed wearing a very pretentiously dramatic black suit and looking both winded and bewildered. And still alive, unfortunately.

“Don’t you have a murderous cyborg to be ensuring is in custody?” Lex asks dryly, deciding to just not acknowledge the presence of the physiological four year-old who’s moved on to messily but methodically coloring on the floor underneath his desk. Lex didn’t actually give Experiment Thirteen either a coloring book or crayons, mind, but he appreciates the clone’s resourcefulness in breaking into the office supplies. Anyway, it’s useful for developing its hand-eye coordination and fine motor control.

Superman’s pupils are pin-pricks, barely even there at all. Which is an unusual reaction from him, and Lex notes that fact reflexively but doesn’t particularly care about it. Meant-to-be-dead people do unusual things, especially the alien ones. And it isn’t as if–

“Baby,” Superman blurts, his eyes wide.

Lex . . . pauses. Takes a slow sip of his brandy.

Alright then.

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he settles on eventually, raising an eyebrow at him. Experiment Thirteen peers out from under the desk, immediately decides Superman isn’t an interesting presence, and then goes back to coloring all over Lex’s floor. It seems to be drawing either a puppy or a chain of complex genetic sequencing, but judging by the kinds of things it’s been drawing so far, it’s fifty-fifty. Lex has been getting the impression the clone actually likes art, which is a baffling interest to find in his own progeny, but how does that quote go . . . “I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet”?

Or something like that, anyway.

“No, I–baby,” Superman stresses, looking bewildered as he floats down a little closer to the open balcony door.

“. . . yes, I’ve noticed,” Lex repeats, raising his eyebrow again and taking another sip of brandy. Superman looks frazzled, bobbing up a little higher in the air again to get a better view of Experiment Thirteen under the desk. Experiment Thirteen keeps ignoring him in favor of its coloring, displaying no apparent interest in the most powerful uninvited guest in the history of illegal immigration. Lex experiences a moment of overwhelming paternal pride, which is such a bizarre and unanticipated experience that he doesn’t even know what to do with it.

“Where’d he come from?” Superman asks with a wondering expression. Ugh.

“A cloning lab,” Lex replies dismissively, setting his near-empty glass down on the desk. It’s hardly worth lying about Experiment Thirteen’s origins at this point. He didn’t want to murder everyone in Cadmus to keep the secret. He might need them if there’s an issue with Experiment Thirteen’s genetics later, after all. “We mixed it up a couple weeks ago while you were off wasting everyone’s time being dead."

“You had my baby?” Superman says, tilting in the air and still staring at Experiment Thirteen, as if he's somehow forgotten both how much kryptonite Lex owns and how much kryptonite he keeps specifically in this office. “While I was dead. You had my baby while I was dead.”

. . . alright then, Lex thinks again, both eyebrows raising this time.

“I really wouldn’t put it that way, personally,” he says. “Also, I don’t recall saying it was in any way yours.”

“Baby,” Superman repeats inanely, then lands on the floor and ducks down into a crouch to peer under the desk better, his pupils still reduced to barely-there pinpricks. Lex is so mystified he doesn't even activate the security system or the weaponized red sun lamps. Experiment Thirteen frowns at Superman–Lex, again, basks in unanticipated paternal pride–and then turns its back on him and hides all its drawings from him as seriously and carefully as if they were under NDA.

It's almost adorable, frankly.

Not that Lex finds things adorable, of course.

“His heartbeat's so cute,” Superman says, looking absolutely fascinated. Which is surprisingly useful of him to mention, actually, since Lex had previously been vaguely concerned that Experiment Thirteen's odd thrumming heartbeat might be a sign of a heart defect, but apparently it’s just a Kryptonian thing. A . . . “cute” Kryptonian thing, according to Superman.

Lex is increasingly mystified by this interaction.

“Can’t say I’ve spent much time listening to it, personally,” he lies, because he has in fact obsessed over that heartbeat’s health and stability since first finding out about its unusualness and has done a truly aggravating amount of research into heart murmurs and conditions and the like. But that’s hardly Superman’s business, now is it.

“. . . what’s his name?” Superman asks hesitantly. Lex is possibly having an out of body experience.

“Experiment Thirteen,” he says. Superman immediately looks offended.

“We need to give him a name, Lex,” he says. Lex, again, has an out of body experience.

“‘We’?” he repeats incredulously. “I made it, I get to decide what it’s called.”

“He’s got my DNA!” Superman protests, looking indignant. Lex has absolutely no idea how to process that expression.

“It has both our DNA, in fact, yours was too irritating to stabilize alone,” Lex informs him dubiously. More accurately it was literally impossible to stabilize alone, but he’s not mentioning that to Superman. “So it has my DNA, and I made it. And also put eight point two billion dollars into its production, as a lowball estimate. Therefore I’m the one who decides what its name is, thank you very much.”

“Lex,” Superman says disapprovingly. “You can’t call a baby Experiment Thirteen.”

“It’s physiologically developed enough to complain if it doesn’t like it,” Lex retorts, narrowing his eyes at him. Superman frowns at him. Lex has never had a more ridiculous conversation with the man, including all the times Superman’s tried to appeal to his nonexistent “better nature”. “Well it is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Superman says, then ducks back down and peers at Experiment Thirteen again, gentling his voice to address it while Lex is still incredulously mouthing “ridiculous”? to himself. “Would you like a real name, kiddo?”

Experiment Thirteen sticks its tongue out at him.

Lex is finding parenthood to be a very rewarding experience, actually.

#clex #lex luthor #clark kent #kon el #conner kent #superman #superboy #superfamily #rinfic #anonymous

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thebrightestwitchofherage · 4 months

Text

A brief History of Mizrahi Jews in Arabic countries and Their expulsion

A\N: While I am an Ashkenazi Jew, I have done A LOT of research, and have both Iraqi friends and relatives to corroborate this with. Also, I'm petty - an Iraqi user who comments regularly on my posts seems to forget about his own country's Jewish history... Well, I hope he forgot instead of the more likely reality: It seems like Arabic people nowadays aren't aware of Jewish history in their countries since they either killed to expelled them all. Thus is born the constant argument that all Jews originated in Europe and are merely settlers in the Middle East.

I realized that what may be obvious to me won't be obvious to others since I'm a history nerd who grew up in Israel with plenty of rich archeological evidence and resources surrounding me. I'm happy to make these posts in hopes of educating others and contributing my part to ending antisemitism and prejudice. ___________________

You might have seen the following picture in one of my previous posts:

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Unfortunately, in this case, it concludes hundreds of years of discrimination, violence, and exile for Mizrahi Jews. * It is important to note that numbers are slightly varied between sources, but the meaning is clear.

In a nutshell- all throughout history, the fate of Jewish people in countries where they weren't the religious majority was the same:

Discriminatory laws, blood libels, being blamed for disasters > violence & murder > Pogroms * > and eventually- exile or mass murder AKA ethnic cleansing \ genocide.

Pogrom- the term refers to violent attacks by local non-Jewish populations on Jews in the Russian Empire and in other countries.

Every Jewish community has its own Pogrom. While my side of the family might immediately think of the Kristallnacht or persecution & pogroms in Hungary, it is different for Jews from different backgrounds. You can read about a few cases of forced conversion to Islam here.

A brief History of the land of Israel

The land of Israel has always been considered a strategic passageway, and so many empires throughout history have conquered it:

* I simply cannot accurately write 3000+ years of Jewish history in the land of Israel. I found that this video summarizes it perfectly.

Exile from the land of Israel

Jews were exiled from the land of Israel numerous times since the Assyrian empire conquered Israel in 732 BCE, to what we call "the diaspora" גולה. It was not by choice and we were persecuted everywhere we went.

Jews were not allowed to legally return to Israel until 1948 when the British mandate over the land of Israel ended and Israel was formed. Yes, even during the Holocaust.

The Jewish answer to exile - Aliyah עליה There have been 5 waves of illegal immigration from all over the world to the land of Israel before 1948, recorded in modern times.

Chart taken from Wikipedia (their chart was the best I could find in English)

Forced Conversion

Whether in conquered Israel or in exile, Jews were often forced to convert to either Christianity or Islam. The choice was between conversion or death.

*You can read more about some of the forced conversion of Jews during history here and here.

First Case study- The last jew of Peki'in, Margalit Zinati

Peki'in is an ancient village in the upper Galilee, Northern Israel. Nowadays, its population is mostly Druze.

Peki'in has had a Jewish presence since the Second Temple period, until Arab riots in the 1930s*. Meet the remaining member of the Zinatis, the only family who returned. (aish.com)

*Read more on the Arab riots of the 1930s here and here. Margalit is currently the last Jew living in the village of Peki'in . She is the last direct descendent of the Zinati Cohen family. The Zinati family's origins are dated back to the Second Temple era. The former Jewish community of Peki'in maintained a presence there since the Second Temple period (516 BCE – 70 CE). That is when the polytheistic Persian Empire conquered the land of Israel. For reference- that was approximately 500 years before Jesus was even born! "During which the Second Temple stood in the city of Jerusalem. It began with the return to Zion and subsequent reconstruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, and ended with the First Jewish–Roman War and the Roman siege of Jerusalem." (Wikipedia)

As an adult, Margalit chose to not marry so she could stay in Peki'in and continue her family's Jewish legacy in Peki'in. She later became in charge of the ancient synagogue in the village and turned her basement into a visiting center \ museum of Jewish history in Peki'in- "House of Zinati". in 2018, she lit up a torch as part of Israel's 70th Independence Day Torch lighting ceremony (which is considered an honor given to influential and trailblazing people).

-Margalit Zinati pictured in the Peki'in Synagogue yard, 2016 Picture taken from Wikipedia, uploaded by Deror Avi.

Second Case study - Iraqi Jews (Babylonian Jews \ יְהוּדִים בָּבְלִים)

Iraqi Jews are one of the oldest documented Jewish communities living in the Middle East. It is estimated that they originated around 600 BC.ת

The Farhud الفرهود הפרהוד

Unfortunately, Iraqi Jewish history ended in the same pattern I've described earlier. The Farhud was the violent mass dispossession against the Jewish population of Baghdad, Iraq between 1-2 June 1941. was the pogrom or the "violent dispossession" that was carried out against the Jewish population of Baghdad, Iraq, on 1–2 June 1941, It immediately followed the British victory in the Anglo-Iraqi War.

Background for the Farhud:

WW2- At the time, many Arabic countries in the Middle East agreed with Nazi ideology.

History of violence towards Jews.

The Anglo-Iraqi War (2–31 May 1941) - caused rising tension, and as usual, it was turned on the Jews.

personal family ties to the Farhud My relative was born in 1939 in Iraq, to a big upper-class Jewish family. Unfortunately, the mass exile of Jews in the 1950s didn't skip her family: she was stripped of her belongings and exiled to Israel along with her family. In the 1950s there were approximately 140,000 Iraqi Jews. As of 2021, there are only 4 left.

----------------- Please feel free to add anything I missed in the notes. And as usual - remember I am a human being. If you cuss or harass me, I will block and report you.

______________

Online Sources: * https://www.israelhayom.co.il/article/865383 - Hebrew article, Title means "Sad ending to a magnificent history: Only 4 Jews left in Iraq".

What was the Farhud https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farhud

History of the Jewish community in Baghdad https://cojs.org/the_jewish_community_in_baghdad_in_the_eighteenth_century-_zvi_yehuda-_nehardea-_babylonian_jewry_heritage_center-_2003/

What are Pogroms?https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/pogroms?gclid=Cj0KCQiAkeSsBhDUARIsAK3tiedM7DuwIaSQX-kRxvXTgCDxN6-zqeo_DNNFgyanSYGyGOhwu_0vfrkaAg6REALw_wcB

The last Jew of Peki'in, Margalit Zinati https://aish.com/the-last-jew-of-pekiin/

Arab riots of 1930s- https://www.gov.il/en/Departments/General/ben_zvi_30 https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/the-1936-arab-riots

Israel's history from ancient times & timeline : https://www.travelingisrael.com/timeline-land-israel/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=iiUIWnU-Ofk

Second Temple era - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Temple_period

Forced conversion of Jews across history- https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt18mvnct.7?seq=4

https://academic.oup.com/book/32113/chapter-abstract/268043723?redirectedFrom=fulltext

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i-hate-accidents · 15 days

Text

i hate accidents: the beginning

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, positive/supportive families, allusions to alcohol abuse in [I.viii]

word count: 13.9k (of 38.8k)

story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.

additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).

author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.

reading tip: whilst the author is proud of it, she understands the intro to the first section is long. if you wish to get more straight to y/n and benedict's story, the author suggests jumping to [I.ii]. they won't be offended that you did heh.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you do not know how you got here.

well, that is not true; you quite literally walked from the markets and followed the directions that penelope had given you, but you did not think those directions would lead you here.

this is a mistake. i must have taken a wrong turn, gone up instead of down, made a left when i should’ve taken a right.

or perhaps this is a dream? yes! that has to be it! a dream! i must have lulled off and dreamt myself here, for whatever reason. once i close my eyes and open them again, surely i will be at home, or the markets, or the workshop even. surely!

so, you close your eyes shut.

you had been walking about the markets on your non-work day, some weeks ago, browsing the wares you wouldn’t (and couldn’t) buy, eavesdropping on any conversation of intrigue, observing the bustle of the crowd going about their day, mindlessly thinking of the next thing to write, daydreaming—when you had collided with someone. they had let out a squeak, their materials flying out of their hands, as you had fallen on your back, thankfully not hitting your head. in your periphery, you had seen how the person had crawled to your side and looked at you with urgency and concern.

“i am so sorry!” their voice was pretty. sweet and lovely. you lifted yourself up a bit to see the person you had collided with. they were also pretty— beautiful, red-haired, and hooded in blue.

their eyes widened.

“er, i meant,” they spoke again, but this time with an— irish accent? their voice was still sweet and lovely but very distinctly irish and distinctly different from their voice mere moments before. “are you hurt?”

“i am all right, thank you.”

“very well,” they said, still in their irish accent, “then i must be going—” and they shot themself up and turned, you assumed, to run away.

“wait! you’re a writer, yes?”

as you had hoped, the person in blue froze. they slowly turned to you again, apprehension and intrigue in their eyes.

“how do you know?” their voice was mangled between their two accents.

“unless you pluck birds for fun,” you stated as you collected the scattered materials they had dropped in the collision, “these are quills.”

you stood up, approached them, and held out their quills to take, offering a smile. the stranger took the quills and put them in their bag. they returned their eyes to you and returned your smile.

“thank you,” they responded in their english accent.

“i know how precious those are, so i am very glad to see they won’t go to waste. well, they wouldn’t have gone to waste either way; i would’ve taken them if you hadn’t turned around.”

that caused the person in blue to laugh.

“i assume you are a writer?” they inquired.

you don’t know what had overcome you; you don’t know why you had been so trusting of this stranger, especially with something such as your writing, but you had been. you reached for your then most recent, folded up quarto, kept between your bosom and your blouse, and offered it to the stranger to read. they took it, shifted their eyes from line to line, turned it to read the crossed lines, and then looked up at you, beaming.

“this is brilliant!— oh, forgive me; i did not even ask for your name.”

“y/n,” you extended your hand. “and you?”

the stranger seemed to stiffen but quickly relaxed themself, taking your hand in theirs and shaking them. they beamed still, but something of their smile had grown quietly mischievous.

“can you keep a secret?”

when you open your eyes, you huff out a breath in a poor attempt to assuage yourself from the reality of your situation: you are not dreaming. here you are—you—at grosvenor square.

you knew of your friend’s circumstances as she had shared it: she is a noble lady, a third sister of the featherington family, who has been writing scandal sheets of high society’s romps and happenings since her ‘debut,’ as she had put it (you hadn’t understood how she had used that word and became further confused upon her explanation of it), under a pseudonym called lady whistledown. penelope has been kind enough to let you read her sheets, and you find it ridiculous what these high society persons do for their lives and utterly brilliant with what wit, snark, and compassion even penelope commentates on that world.

but you did not ever, ever think that she would bring you to it, let alone into it. when penelope had said that you were to meet her most beloved friend, you had thought it would be in an obscure alley or a room hidden behind a bookcase in an unassuming shop—not the literal neighborhood in which she, and presumably her friend, lives! by your posture, by your clothes, by your very existence, it is blatant how much you do not belong here.

i should run. i am going to run.

and so you turn and start—

“y/n!”

—when you hear the sweet voice of your friend. you scrunch your eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling through your nose, and turn around and see penelope in a picturesque green dress, lifting up her skirt with gloved hands, scurrying down the pavement of her neighborhood towards you, beaming. despite the anxiety that rages within you at this very moment, your heart swells upon seeing your friend in such enthusiastic spirits, and you smile despite yourself.

“good day, pen.”

she takes hold of your bare hands in her gloved ones and gives them a squeeze. perhaps she can discern your nerves because you start to feel yourself calm ever so slightly by her gesture.

“i am so glad you are here,” she says.

“i am—— glad to see you,” you then lower your voice. you do not know why; it is not as if your lowered voice will help conceal your existence in this place. “are you certain i am permitted to be here?”

letting go of your hands, penelope swats at the question.

“the bridgertons and i care not about such things.”

“the— bridgertons?”

“yes!” she turns and gestures to the grand brick house with wisterias. “it is at their home, after all, in which we will be spending our time together.”

your jaw drops.

“we are staying inside the house? not simply meeting outside the house?”

this is not a dream. this is a nightmare.

penelope returns her eyes to yours, and it startles you with what tenderness she gazes at you.

“i understand that you are fearful, y/n. i had presumed you would not have come if you had known we would be here. but i would not have led you to bridgerton house if i did not think you would be safe here. the bridgertons are the most inviting, kindly family of the ton— of high society,” she amends upon seeing your confusion at the word ‘ton.’ their name for their world, it seems. “eloise has assured me that we shall be in her bedchamber for the entirety of our time together. and if you wish to leave, for any reason, at any point, i shall accompany you, and we shall leave together.”

with closed eyes you heave a sigh through your nose. you flutter your eyes open and offer penelope a weak, but sincere, smile.

“very well.”

penelope squeaks in excitement, taking hold of your hand once more, giving it another squeeze of encouragement, and leads you towards this bridgerton house as she so called it. she raps at the stately door thrice with great eagerness, seeming to knock in perfect tandem with your beating-too-quickly heart.

an elderly man opens the door, about to greet penelope and her guest, when a young femme shoves herself through the opening.

“thank you, giles!” she calls out as if the man is across the road and then looks at you, ferocity in her eyes. it ought to unnerve you, the whirlwind force of this stranger, but it doesn’t. you just return her gaze with a large, albeit a bit bemused, smile.

“penelope has shared so much about you,” the stranger states and takes hold of your hand. “let us get inside!” and yanks you into the house. she turns, looking straight ahead, and barrels forward, pulling you with her.

as the fiery femme seems to soliloquize excitedly to herself, you look back at penelope who merely wears an amused smile at her friend’s antics as she follows behind.

“oh!” the femme exclaims suddenly. she halts you both and sharply turns to you, still gripping your hand, grinning. “my name is eloise. eloise bridgerton.”

“y/n y/l/n.”

“excellent. now! with introductions all sorted—”

and she turns and barrels you both right, rather than heading straight ahead to the grand staircase as you had presumed she would.

“eloise—” eloise’s fervency had provided a reprieve to your anxiety, but the confusion in penelope’s voice puts you back ill at ease, “where are you—”

“it’ll take just a moment, worry not, pen!”

eloise leads you down a hall, noises and voices of all sorts coming from an entrance to a room, growing louder and louder as you approach until they reach the peaks of their volume as eloise halts you both once more, to your mortification, at the entrance of that very room.

“family, penelope, y/n, and i shall be in my bedchamber. we have much to discuss. please do not bother us,” eloise proudly announces to the entirety of the room.

silence falls. all eyes—and there are many eyes—are on you.

oh, my god.

you turn to penelope. her overall manner is calm and composed, but you can see the disquiet in her eyes. she peers into you, the apologetic look conveying, i did not know this would happen.

you turn back to the family.

a lady. a lady of older age. two gentlemen with a difference in age. a boy. a girl, the youngest amongst them.

how is it with a house this massive in the middle of the city that the entire family is present in this one room? well, the room is the size of the two floors of your home combined, if not larger, so in that sense it is sound—but your question still stands.

this has to be the entire family. surely. there are so many of them. this has to be the entire family. yes?

“no talking, no music playing, no fighting?” inquires a droll voice walking into the room, “has someone—”

you turn your head to follow the source of the voice and make contact with dumbfounded ocean eyes.

butterflies flutter in your stomach.

oh.

shit.

“y/n, this is my second eldest brother, benedict bridgerton,” eloise states. “benedict, this is my friend, y/n y/l/n. do not bother us once we are in my bedchamber.”

he stares and blinks at you but then assumes a gentlemanly posture and bows his head.

“it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss y/l/n.”

without any forethought you start to extend a hand to benedict until you hear penelope give a slight cough only you, she, eloise, and he can hear. receiving the hint, you retract your hand and pretend to swat at your skirt.

“err— yes. likewise.”

another cough.

“mis, ter?— brid… ger?—ton,” you articulate with complete and utter uncertainty of how this world’s introductions function.

he cocks his head and furrows his eyebrows at you, something like amusement playing at his features. he wears a lopsided smile that he is barely attempting to conceal. his expression should be infuriating. and it is. but, it is... charming, too. and welcomed.

you have never felt more embarrassed or more pleased in your life.

shit.

“before the three of you retreat to eloise’s bedchamber,” declares an authoritative voice, breaking your reverie. you turn away from ocean eyes and see the lady of the room approaching you. much to your surprise, she smiles. to an even greater surprise, her smile seems sincere. “i must insist that i introduce myself and the rest of the family to our guest.

“i am viscountess kathani sharma bridgerton, the lady of this house,” she curtsies with perfect elegance. “it is a delight to welcome you to our home, miss y/l/n.”

“thank you for having me— lady bridgerton. and you may call me ‘y/n.’ you need not use such, uh, formalities with me.”

“very well; then you may call me ‘kate.’”

you furrow your eyebrows. she had introduced herself as ‘kathani’ but now asks you to call her ‘kate.’ it makes you think of mama and papa; they shared with you once how they had chosen to go by different names upon emigrating to england. when you had asked why, they simply replied that it would be easier for others in this country to address them.

“may i call you ‘kathani’ instead?”

surprise flashes over the dignified demeanor of the viscountess. she regards you with softness in her eyes.

“yes. yes, you may.”

resuming her full composure, kathani guides you to the eldest of the gentlemen and introduces him as her husband, viscount anthony bridgerton, the lord of the house. he offers you a small smile with a bow of his head and greets you ‘good day.’ you try not to wince at his decorous use of ‘miss’ with your first name, but you suppose it is merely in these people’s natures.

kathani continues and leads you to the lady of older age, introducing her as dowager viscountess violet bridgerton. she dips into a lovely curtsy and, on her rise, gazes upon you with a gentle smile. you feel compelled to respond in kind, but it would certainly not be as graceful as hers, and worse, she may interpret your slovenly attempt as a lark. so, you refrain.

the viscountess next introduces you to mister colin bridgerton (you summon all your self-restraint to keep your countenance neutral—this is the boy who hurt penelope); then to mister gregory bridgerton (he bows so ceremoniously towards you, you cannot help but be endeared by his resolve); and lastly to miss hyacinth bridgerton.

“why are you dressed like that?” she inquires.

“hyacinth!” the dowager viscountess reprimands. she must be her mother. she sounds like a mother. it reminds you of how your mama reprimanded you and your siblings as little ones; the memory and the exchange make you hold back a laugh.

“what! what did i say wrong?”

you ought to feel self-conscious, your lower standing brought into further display to everyone in the room, but you detect neither malice nor judgment in the young girl’s voice. just genuine curiosity. so, you smile.

“my family and i have different means to clothes, amongst other things. i wear these when i work or go about my day. though,” you regard your attire and then— hyacinth?, feeling the glimmer in your eye, “it makes for running around and playing make-believe quite easy.”

“make-believe! gregory, do you hear that! miss!— miss—“ she turns to you with a cocked head.

“y/n.”

her eyes shine once again.

“miss y/n plays make-believe! we must play!” hyacinth latches onto your hand and, with remarkable strength for a child who cannot be older than two and ten, pulls and drags you towards the entrance of the room. “come along, gregory! wouldn’t want to be the last one there!”

“no fair! you cheated!” the second youngest shouts back, dropping all previous ceremonies, and scrambles towards the entrance.

“hyacinth! y/n is not your playmate! she is here with me and penelope!”

“plans do change, dear sister,” hyacinth retorts. eloise’s jaw drops, and the rest of the family bursts into laughter. the entire exchange warms your heart. in so many ways, they are so proper, so wealthy, and yet they are not all so different from your own family. they seem to really care for one another.

“when did you get so smug!” eloise shoots back.

“small wonder where she could’ve learned that from,” you hear colin, the traitor, murmur. turning your head, you see him give amused, pointed looks to eloise and kathani. the latter grins wickedly, and her husband beams at her with pride.

“there are only so many hours in a day!” hyacinth complains. you face her once more, still holding her hand.

“what about this? i will play with you and your brother for an hour, and then i will be with your sister and penelope for my remaining time here. i want to honor the wishes of each of my new friends.”

hyacinth considers this with much theatricality to her expression. she then grins.

“that is an excellent plan,” she remarks, looking to eloise for her thoughts. you follow her line of sight. eloise rolls her eyes and sighs, but a smile rests on her lips.

“very well, then.”

feeling peace restored, you smile in return and, in doing so, in your periphery, catch the ocean eyes of the second eldest brother. benedict. he is looking at you. why is that? you feel your cheeks flush and the tips of your ears heat. his gaze is somehow gentle and intense and indecipherable all at once, and the flutterings in the pit of your stomach grow, and intensify, and start to overwhelm you—

when you are tugged back to reality with a tug forward.

–

< hyacinth leads y/n through the house to the gardens with gregory by her side. y/n is both uneasy and in awe of the things she sees. eventually, they arrive in the gardens. y/n notices two swings hanging off of a large branch of an old tree and is utterly endeared by the sight; it confirms what she has been thinking: though the bridgertons are wealthy, they are warm and welcoming.

< just as hyacinth declares that she has found a suitable spot for make-believe, two male voices ask if they may join. hyacinth, gregory, and y/n turn and see benedict and colin approaching. colin shares that though y/n seems lovely, it would be unwise of the family to leave the two youngest with a stranger; though y/n agrees with his family’s caution, she refrains from wanting to strangle the person who hurt her friend.

< gregory whines and asks if they can begin before eloise complains. hyacinth agrees and says that they need to assign characters. y/n suggests that hyacinth should be a sorceress and gregory should be a knight; these proposals delight the youngest bridgertons. y/n volunteers herself as the villain and decides to be a banshee; she turns to the elder bridgertons and asks what they wish to be.

< before they have a chance to respond, hyacinth proposes that benedict should be the princess who has been captured. benedict indignantly asks why, and hyacinth simply states because he is the most sensitive of the family. sensing how the sibling argument is about to evolve, y/n intervenes and suggests that, like a sensitive princess, perhaps benedict is merely in tuned with his emotions, even amidst adversity; it is, in its own way, a compliment. benedict’s eyes become indecipherable upon the comment, but he wears a small sincere smile. gregory then proposes that colin is y/n’s changeling henchman.

< make-believe ensues, and it is very sweet and very silly. eventually, gregory is called in for latin tutoring and thanks y/n for the fun with a deep bow; hyacinth is called in for pianoforte lessons. >

hyacinth launches herself at you with a hug. pulling back from the embrace, she beams.

“we must continue when you return next!”

before you can even start to reply, she turns and skips off towards the house. you hear how gregory makes a comment about coming in first, and suddenly the youngest bridgertons are in a race against one another, shouting taunts and insults. you can’t help but smile.

“they seem to quite like you.”

your smile falls. you turn and face towards the two elder bridgertons, the traitor being the one to have spoken.

“colin bridgerton,” you begin, “yes?”

he smiles and nods. you surge forward and shove your finger into his face, his smile now wiped.

“if you ever hurt penelope again, i shall make certain that it is the last time you ever do. do i make myself clear?”

when he does not respond, you repeat yourself, and he slowly then quickly nods. satisfied, you turn towards ocean eyes and point your finger at him.

“and you look after him.”

“what did i do?”

“be a proper elder brother and serve as an example for your misguided sibling. understood?”

“i— yes. of course. understood.”

you smile again.

“wonderful. i am glad we three are in agreement. it was good speaking with you, gentlemen. good day.”

you turn away and start to walk towards the house.

“i quite like her too,” and you hear the restored smile in the third bridgerton’s voice. “what about you, brother?”

you hasten your steps towards the house. though mere moments before you had felt emboldened and brave, you fear hearing benedict’s response. you do not why.

–

< eloise, penelope, and y/n extensively discuss literature and writing; upon talking about women writers, y/n shares how she does not fully see herself as just a woman. >

“so, what are you?”

you wince. you have kept good on your promise and joined eloise and penelope in the former’s bedchamber, but you are swiftly wishing you had been able to stay with hyacinth, gregory, colin even, and benedict. you had attempted to explain an aspect of yourself to eloise but not to very much fruit, it seems. you want to hide and escape and run from this place—

“eloise.”

—when penelope comes to your defense.

“what? what is it?”

“perhaps you could have phrased your question with more tact and thoughtfulness.”

eloise looks between the two of you, concern flooding her eyes.

“did i— did i not?”

penelope turns to you.

“are you comfortable to answer?”

“i would prefer that i didn’t.”

you hope that your eyes are sufficient enough to convey the immensity of gratitude that you feel towards penelope in this very moment.

“y/n,” begins eloise, “i did not realize—”

“and what are you three gossiping about?”

you jump, penelope squeaks, and eloise growls a noise of exasperation. turning towards the voice in the doorway, you are visited, once again, by the third and second bridgerton siblings.

“and what makes you think we are gossiping?” demands eloise, “because we are w— people?”

you feel the corners of your mouth tug upward. at least she is trying. wanting to keep the attention on benedict and colin rather than yourself, however, and with genuine curiosity, you cock your head at the two gentlemen.

“do you two always come in a pair?”

“not always,” replies benedict. and he smiles at you, “today is merely a special occasion.”

stupid butterflies.

“speaking of such,” colin proceeds. “kate has requested that the three of you join the family in the drawing room.”

< the five of them make their way to the drawing room. kate shares that, on behalf of the family, she would like to invite both y/n and penelope to dinner. though at first honored to have been invited, upon hearing “dinner,” y/n realizes how late it has become and looks out the window: the sun is halfway set. she apologizes and says that she cannot stay because she resumes work the next day. her latter statement renders some of the people in the room confused, but kathani states how she understands and that y/n is welcomed to join dinner whenever she visits.

< seeing how confused y/n is, anthony shares that y/n is welcomed to visit their home whenever she is able and whenever she would like, and the rest of the family pipes in with how delighted they would be if she does. not knowing how she deserved such kindness from people who were mere strangers at the start of the day, y/n thanks the bridgertons and says that she would love to. penelope chooses to stay for dinner and says that she will see y/n next week. y/n affirms that she, and the bridgertons, will.

< kathani and benedict offer to escort y/n to the entrance. y/n walks down the steps and passes the gate but, before she goes, takes one last look at number five until next week and sees benedict still in the doorway. y/n notices, but reprimands herself for perhaps imagining it, that his smile grows when his eyes lock with hers. with flutterings in her stomach, y/n offers a wave. he gives a small wave back. she turns and goes, smiling all the way home. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“benedict has been making more appearances as of late,” penelope remarks.

the three of you all look up—you and pen from your writing, eloise from her reading—to see benedict entering through the doors and heading towards the other side of the drawing room. he looks over at you— at you all and offers a smile before he plops himself down onto a chaise and begins to draw.

“yes, it is strange,” eloise considers to the two of you. “for so long he had been moping about, locked away in his bedchamber aside from mealtime or the occasional visit to the drawing room. he’s even picked up his charcoal again.”

“again?” you inquire, averting your gaze from the artist to your friend. “had he stopped prior?”

“he had entirely put it down after—” eloise sighs. whatever memory she has recounted, it does not seem to be a pleasant one. you look to penelope; you sense that she shares a similar sentiment by the sad look in her eyes. you are curious but you choose not to press.

“it has been quite some time since he’s last drawn. but now, whenever i see him, whether in his bedchamber or the billiards room or some other room in the house, he’s drawing. he frequently arrives to mealtime with charcoal stained fingers—much to the chagrin of mama and anthony.”

you all laugh. benedict looks up at you three, and from here you can tell he wears a curious expression, no doubt wondering what you are laughing about. when he exaggeratedly arches an eyebrow, eloise just makes a face at him. benedict rolls his eyes, smiling, and for the briefest moment, you feel as though he is looking at you. but you’ve always had an active imagination. when you blink, he has returned to his drawing, a smile still on his lips.

“i wonder what has changed?” eloise softly says, still looking at benedict. for all her fire and spirit, you see how deeply she cares for her second eldest brother.

“perhaps he has found a muse,” penelope poses rather than queries. you shift your gaze from eloise to penelope, and you’re curious about her expression. she seems... delighted? benedict finding his passion for art again does sound delightful; you know firsthand how difficult it is to pick yourself up from a slump. but that’s not what she seems delighted by. she just looks at you. with a soft smile. why? what does benedict have anything to do with you?

you feel your cheeks and the tips of your ears flood with warmth. you don’t know why, but penelope’s expression unnerves you, in a pleasant sensational way.

you clear your throat.

“i am happy for him,” you say, returning to your quill and folded quarto, haphazardly writing down whatever words come to your mind.

ocean. charcoal. smile. flutters.

shit.

it is not until what feels like an uncharacteristically long moment later that you hear penelope resume her writing and eloise resume her reading. you try not to imagine what they could have silently exchanged with your gaze averted.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you suck in a sharp breath and shoot out of your seat.

“you do not!” you shriek, hastening towards kathani, eloise, and the stack of books they have just settled onto the table. you had arrived early to the bridgertons’ home, at the invitation of kathani, so early that the rest of the family seems not yet to be awake.

(which is strange, you find, as it is nearing 8 o’clock. most mornings, at this time, you are already well into the bustle of work.)

kathani had prefaced, rather enigmatically, that she and eloise had a surprise they wished to share with you. you had your suspicions as to what it could be related to, and with each passing moment, you are suspecting, very excitingly!, that you are very correct.

“indeed, we do,” kathani grins and gestures to the stacks.

taking no hesitation to the offer, you grab from the top of a stack and open to the title page.

the dramatic works of william shakespeare. vol. 2: a midsummer night’s dream / the merry wives of windsor / much ado about nothing.

you shriek again, this time accompanied with hops of excitement, flipping to the final third of the book.

“much ado! this is the one i’ve read!”

dorothea, a fruit seller, had offered a copy of it to you (at a lowered price, she had emphasized) when she had learned of your liking to stories. she grandly stated that she had started to write down the dialogue during low-attendance performances at the theater and then brought her handiwork to be typed and printed at a not-to-be-named press. but if the pages’ handwritten annotations alluded to anything, you suspected that she had managed to purloin a performer’s copy of the script. you felt a bit of pity for the poor performer who misplaced it, but you respected, and still respect!, dorothea’s moonlighting.

you shoot your head up from the book and are greeted by the grins of your two friends. “which one has romeo and juliet?”

this past autumn you had overheard several candlemakers at the markets animatedly discussing the ‘incandescent’ portrayal of the titular character by an actress from ireland. a performance, described as ‘incandescent’ by candlemakers! embodied by a storyteller who has emigrated here! hearing all those wondrous things made you insatiably curious to one day read the text that made such wondrous things happen.

“i believe,” eloise says, pulling the second from the bottom of a stack, “it is this one.”

you twitch your fingers; you have to refrain yourself from snatching the book from your friend’s hand. when it is in yours, you open to the title page and feel your eyes, along with your smile, widen.

“it is, it is! oh, this is extraordinary!” you flip furiously to your desired page and, once you find it, start to read,

prologue. two households—

—when you hear kathani say, “we had thought of starting with that one.”

that makes you rip your eyes away from the words and look up at the two ladies.

“‘starting with’?”

“when eloise, penelope, and i learned of your eagerness to read shakespeare,” elaborates kathani. her saying that makes you flush; you had not realized with what apparent enthusiasm you had spoken of the poet. “the three of us had discussed that the four of us could read his plays together. if you would like, of course.”

your jaw drops. you cannot help the squeal that emits from your mouth. hopping once again in your excitement, you throw yourself at your friends and wrap your arms around them both.

“if i would like! i would be delighted!”

you pull back from your hug with the two ladies and are greeted by gleaming eyes and wide grins. you feel how your expression matches theirs. it has only been a little over a month of your friendship with eloise and kathani, and the rest of the bridgertons at number five, but they each have somehow found a way to carve themselves out in your heart. and if this most recent kindness by eloise and kathani indicates anything, perhaps you have found a way to carve yourself out in each of theirs.

(and you promptly ignore the thought of what that could possibly mean for ocean eyes and charcoal-stained hands, flutterings within you be damned.)

“how shall we allocate the book?” you say aloud out of genuine inquiry and a deep desire to revert your heart, mind elsewhere. “shall we read passages aloud and then pass it on to the next reader?”

< eloise makes a remark that indicates her confusion at y/n’s question. kathani, who is more privy to the situation, shares how she has her own copy as do eloise and penelope. the stack that they’ve brought is an extra set that the bridgerton house has that y/n can use. this perplexes y/n. she cannot understand how a household can have multiple copies of a book, let alone copies of a whole anthology of many books. before y/n can doom-spiral into thinking, penelope arrives at the entrance of the drawing room. reading of romeo and juliet commences.

< just as y/n finishes reading the scene in which romeo and juliet meet for the first time at the capulet ball and then kiss, y/n notices in her periphery benedict approaching the four. kathani remarks how unusually early he is to be awake and ready for the day; y/n notes to herself how there seems to be some sort of mischief in the viscountess’s smile. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“i shall be y/n’s teacher,” the viscount declares.

“you were adamant on her not fencing, and now you are insistent on being her teacher?”

“it would be hardly appropriate, colin, for two young unmarried men to be in such close proximity to a young unmarried lady, as proximity of teacher and student in fencing would require.”

“are you always this— antiquated?” you inquire.

that earns a snort from kathani. anthony, looking betrayed, turns to his wife; she merely shrugs in reply, mirth shining in her eyes. he turns back to you, eyebrows deeply furrowed and mouth fully frowning.

“and what do you insinuate by that!”

“are you so distrustful of your own brothers, the ones for whom you have served, and still serve, as a model, that you think they would take advantage of me in such a situation—”

you sense how the eldest bridgerton is about to retaliate and arch a severe eyebrow at him in response; you refuse to be interrupted.

“or are you so unbelieving in persons of feminine dispositions that you think i shall be compromised by the mere closeness of a body different from my own sex?”

there is a silence, and though you cannot see them as you stare down the viscount, you can feel how the others exchange delighted glances with one another and hold back their laughter.

“you have two choices, my lord,” you offer.

“neither of them are suitable! and do not call me ‘my lord’!”

“is that not the proper way to address you?”

“it is, but you—!” he huffs out air through his nostrils, like an indignant dragon in a fairytale; it is a very silly, very amusing sight. “we have not even begun the lesson and you are already the most exasperating student i’ve ever had!”

you turn to colin and benedict, grinning.

“you two must have been saints then.”

“would you expect any less?” colin grins back.

your wide smile remains intact until your eyes fall on the expression of benedict. you are entirely uncertain of what emotion he could be possibly feeling until he seems to realize where he is, and how you are looking at him, and breaks out into a brilliant smile with matching brilliant ocean eyes. you quickly snap your head away from him, ignoring the fluttering of butterflies summoned within you upon the shift in benedict’s expression, and turn to anthony.

“shall we begin, then?”

–

it turns out that you are quite the quick learner when it comes to fencing. after putting on a fencing vest that had previously belonged to benedict—

“because you are the shortest of the three of us, brother,” remarked colin after the second son inquired why it had to be his former vest that you were to wear. benedict scrunched his nose and eyebrows in displeasure. (perhaps you should have taken offense to his opposition, but it was truly of no personal consequence to you and the reaction it created in him was truly adorable.)

“i am not!”

“you are, indeed,” anthony deadpanned.

“prove it!”

and the three eldest sons of the esteemed bridgerton family stood next to one another, comparing their heights. you turned to kathani, eloise, and penelope.

“are they always like this?”

“idiotic?” eloise deadpanned, sounding remarkably like her eldest brother.

“indeed, they are,” grinned kathani.

—over your blouse, you are immediately put to lessons. anthony explains the basic concepts of fencing and then demonstrates elementary strikes and parries, occasionally adjusting your stances to the proper forms. noting how quickly you took to the lessons, he calls for a match between the two of you to observe how you would apply your skills in combat.

“you are retaining information exceptionally well, as well as executing the techniques rather impressively,” states your teacher as you deflect his strike. you try to hide your gladness in his praise as you smirk and push his blade away with the terzo of yours.

“ah, so my sex is not a detriment to my abilities; that is good to know.”

you hear snickers and snorts from around you.

“i said nothing of the sort!”

“did you think it?”

your opponent frowns further, slightly turning his head away from you to steal a glance at his wife. he turns back to you.

“i did,” he admits defeatedly.

“it takes a true man of honor to rise up to his folly,” you remark honestly, as you strike anthony’s arm with the tip of your sabre. loud cheers burst from the onlookers and an aghast but proud look emerges on the countenance of your teacher; you grin, “and a fool to leave his defenses so easily open.”

impressed by your display of sport, and seemingly overcoming his antiquation, at least for the moment, anthony decides that you will match against colin and then benedict.

“how are you to improve if you are to face the same opponent?” claims your teacher with his usual air of annoyance, but you detect his pride in your accomplishment.

it is also decided that the matches will end when one scores a point.

and so, you face colin. it is easy to keep pace with him, not due to lack of skill on his part but complete and utter determination on yours. you tried to convince yourself, in the beginning of your match, that the remnants of your anger towards the third bridgerton brother, and how he treated your friend, did not fuel your determination to score the point— but it did and does. and successfully so, as you strike colin in his left shoulder. perhaps you do it with too much force as the strike reels him off balance (and perhaps you are delighted that it has done so), but he quickly resumes composure and flashes you a grin.

“i see more and more everyday why you and pen are friends.”

that softens your heart. you should be dubious of his charming remark, but you aren’t; it is too sincere, as is he, and you begin to see, even if minutely, why penelope cares for him.

“she has good taste in the company she keeps, i’m learning.”

that makes him laugh, as it does the others, and you look over and see how pen’s countenance shines with joy. that is enough to put your anger towards colin at ease, and turning towards your defeated foe once more, you return his smile and bow your head. bowing his head in kind, colin leaves, and in his place arrives your next and final opponent; he is smiling like a boy.

“best for last?” he remarks as he prepares his starting position. you roll your eyes, ignoring the warmth that starts to fill the center of your chest.

“this shall determine that,” and settled in your starting position, you and benedict begin your duel.

you have observed something of the eldest bridgerton brothers in your matches against them. anthony struck like fire, bombastic and ferocious. colin stood his ground like earth, his guards resolute. and benedict—

benedict moves like water. free. fluid.

as if he is dancing while dueling.

both you and he have reached a stalemate. you have managed to parry every one of his strikes, and he has managed to deflect every one of yours. you can feel how those watching are holding their breaths, waiting for someone to land the point.

you try not to startle when you hear benedict’s voice as you guard against his strike.

“it takes quite an astonishing person to earn the praise of anthony bridgerton.”

“are you so surprised that i am such a person?”

“quite the opposite, y/n,” he catches one of your strikes and grins at you. “i think you are entirely perfect in that regard.”

you roll your eyes once again but cannot help the blush that you feel spread across your cheeks as you push back his sabre with yours.

“do you honestly think charm will win you the point?”

“do you find me charming?” you ignore the heat that creeps up your neck and the voice in your head that has already answered his question far too quickly for your liking. “no, i do not think so lowly of such a formidable foe.”

and he winks at you.

and somehow, without you realizing how you got there, benedict strikes the center of your chest.

“but a little distraction does help.”

his point earns a round of groans and bleats from the crowd. instead of looking offended, benedict just laughs and approaches you, gloved hand outstretched, a boyish smile once again on his face. despite your loss, you cannot help but smile too. you place your gloved hand in his.

“it was a pleasure to duel with you.”

“yes. likewise.”

perhaps you imagine it, but you feel his thumb swipe against the side of your hand. it is featherlight, hardly felt with both your and his hands gloved, but felt nevertheless. before you can process the sensation any further, he lets go of your hand. with another smile, he bows his head at you as the crowd of people approach you both, penelope raving about your matches, eloise expressing her wish to fence now, anthony already commenting on what you could do better in your next match.

and without you realizing it, you gently swipe against the side of your gloved hand.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

"mama? papa?"

it is a rare occasion when you, mama, papa, and your sibling eat together, and an even rarer occasion to do so for a second meal, but this night was such a night. the three of them halt their conversation and look over to you.

"how did you know you were in love with one another?"

there is a small silence, but then, without looking at one another, they smile in tandem.

"it was at first sight, really, for me,” your papa says as he offers his hand to mama. “as trite as that sounds."

mama takes his hand into hers.

"i as well."

"when i looked into your mama’s eyes, i knew that something was different. that my life had changed."

"for the better, dearest?"

papa laughs heartily.

"no, actually. it has been misery ever since."

you and your family laugh as mama playfully slaps at papa’s hand. it warms your soul every time they do this, when they tease one another and are light because of the other. it makes you believe in love each time.

mama and papa lace their fingers together again, smiling, still gazing at one another. as if it is just the two of them in their own world. mama, turning her smile from papa to you, speaks again.

"the flutterings in my stomach wouldn’t quiet, and they only intensified as we approached closer to one another that day and grew closer to one another with time."

she looks nostalgic until something mischievous quickly overcedes her countenance.

"why do you ask, my dear? has someone captured your eye?"

"or, better yet, your heart?" papa tags along.

ocean eyes and charcoal-stained hands flash by in your mind.

"no!" you say too hastily. "no, of course not. it’s— for one of my writings, is all."

you repeatedly poke at your bit of boiled chicken to avoid any further inquisition from your parents’ gazes.

–

sat by your window, you stare up at the night sky when the voice of your sibling infiltrates your dreaming.

“it’s one of the brothers, isn’t it?”

you whip your head over to them. they don’t even look at you; they are preparing for bed.

“pardon me?”

“is it the artist brother?”

“what!”

fluffing their pillow, they smile.

“so i am correct.”

“i didn’t even say anything!”

“that is not true. you said ‘what.’”

“that reveals nothing!”

pleased with the setting of their bed, they ruin their work by plopping their bottom onto it as they finally face you in what you realize now is a confrontation.

“of course it doesn’t, the word on its own. your reaction, however? could not be more transparent of your feelings.”

“i have no feelings!”

“is that why you asked mama and papa about being in love? because you have no feelings and you need to be told what they are?”

“i!—— i am going to bed!” you lift yourself up from your seat at the window sill, turning away from the peace of the night sky, and crash onto your bed. you lay on your side, faced towards the wall, refusing to make eye contact with your sibling. you lift up your sheet with too much force and lay it over your body and head. “good! night!”

after some silence, you hear the creak of your sibling’s bed and, a moment later, feel a featherlight touch on your upper arm. you give it a thought, and perhaps against your better judgment, you lift off your sheet, turn, and are greeted by the gentlest of expressions from your sibling.

“i think it is wonderful, y/n. whoever it is, they are very blessed to have your affections.”

your heart swells. you love your sibling.

“how did you know it was the artist brother?”

“so i am correct!” they smile with a shrug. “i deduced based on how much you’ve been writing about paint and charcoal as of late.”

you almost shoot upright from your bed.

“you’ve been reading my writing?”

“well, if they weren’t to be read, why do you leave them spread out on the table?”

“because there is no other place to store them!”

“and how good that is, or else i wouldn’t be able to read your fantastical stories or have been able to discover who your beloved is.”

“you are impossible!”

they kneel next to your bed and place their head on your shoulder.

“i love you too.”

you exhale the last of your frustrations, adjusting yourself a bit so that your sibling can rest their head more comfortably. without realizing, you stroke their hair, just as you always have.

“i quite like the story about the mushroom family,” they state after some time. “i’m happy that the middle mushroom child befriends the peony and then the hyacinths. i am happy they are happy.”

you feel your eyes start to drift.

“his name is benedict, by the way.”

you hear your sibling’s need for sleep in their reply.

“that’s a lovely name.”

“he is,” you murmur as the peace of the night falls over you.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“good day!— robert?”

“good day, y/n!” and robert holds the door of bridgerton house open for you to pass.

“pardon the confusion in my greetings—”

“no offense taken on my part!” the late adolescence beams. you grin back. with how utterly enthusiastic robert is all the time, one would think it is part of some ruse. but it is not; he is just that genuinely delighted by life, you’ve observed.

“i am grateful. i had expected to be greeted by giles, is all.”

robert frowns. you feel the corners of your mouth tug downward in response, concern starting to swell your heart.

“he is ill at the moment.”

“ill! with what?”

“i know not. i had admitted the doctor perhaps not even a quarter of an hour ago. but worry not too much, y/n! from what the viscountess has shared with the servants earlier this day, giles shall make a quick recovery. and lady bridgerton has yet to be wrong in anything!”

relief floods your body. giles is of elderly age, so it calms you to hear that his ailment seems not to be too severe. and you can’t help but smile not only by robert’s sunny temperament but also by his rightful faith in kathani.

“that is all good to hear.”

“shall i announce you to the drawing room?”

“oh god no. i am quite all right, but thank you.”

“understood! then i must pardon myself; i must retrieve miss bridgerton and miss featherington.”

“‘retrieve’? are they not in the drawing room?”

“i was informed by dowager lady bridgerton, who was accompanied by miss bridgerton and miss featherington themselves at the time, that they would be in the gardens until your arrival and to retrieve the young misses upon your arrival.”

“i see. well, i shall be in the drawing room then. thank you again, robert.”

“it is my pleasure, y/n!” he beams once more and takes off to complete his task.

how odd, you think to yourself. this day seems rather unusual to the ones you’ve had thus far at bridgerton home. and it is hardly even noon! you become lost in your thoughts as you approach the entrance to the drawing room—

when you are greeted by benedict, and benedict alone, lounging with his legs thrown over the arm of a chair, staring sternly at the page he draws on.

“oh,” is all you say.

benedict snaps his focus from his book to you, his countenance transforming from deep concentration to frustration to genuine surprise in a mere moment. he scrambles up from his seat, book in one hand and charcoal in the other, posture now proper, and he bows his head.

“miss y/l/n.”

never before have you been alone in a room with a man. a gentleman. a gentleman with a handsome face, charcoal-stained hands, and beautiful ocean eyes.

you roll your eyes.

“blimey, it is just me. there is no need to bow. and why are you calling me miss y/l/n?”

benedict smiles.

“all right. y/n.”

shit.

perhaps that was a mistake.

“where has your family gone?” you inquire as you go to sit in the chair parallel to his, ignoring the flutterings within your stomach. “it is uncommon to enter the drawing room of bridgerton house and not be greeted by talking, or music playing, or fighting.”

smiling, benedict falls back into his seat and resumes his drawing.

“hyacinth is with her reading tutor; gregory is with his fencing instructor; colin is eating some sort of pastry, i am certain, in town; anthony and kate are likely— preoccupied—”

you snort; benedict’s smile grows broader as he smudges charcoal with his thumb, a small furrow in his eyebrows now forming.

“and mother has managed to rope eloise into learning about the flowers of the gardens, and eloise, being eloise, has roped penelope into doing the same.”

“and what of you?”

“and what of me?”

“why have you chosen the drawing room as your whereabouts?”

benedict cocks his head towards his drawing.

“it’s in the name of the room, is it not?”

“ah, a man of wit, i see.”

“i am a man of many attributes, y/n.”

ignore the butterflies.

“such as?”

“what attributes would win your favor?”

“so that you may lie to me and say you possess them?”

“of course not; the list is merely too long and i shan’t bore you with a soliloquy.”

“so, a man of thoughtfulness.”

“oh yes, a myriad of thoughts.”

“name one.”

“how much i am enjoying our conversation.”

and benedict shifts his ocean eyes from his drawing to you, a smile on his lips. he is being playful, but you detect no deceit in his expression. it infuriates you, really. how charming he is. how endearing. how sincere.

you return his smile.

“as am i, benedict.”

you sit in comfortable silence a moment more until benedict breaks the gaze, returning his oceans eyes and smile back to his drawing. his smile, however, does not last for very long.

“this sketch, on the contrary—”

and he rips out the paper from his book, crumples it in his hand, and throws it onto the carpet of the floor, giving his deed not another moment’s notice. he puts his charcoal to a new page in the moment next.

your smile falls.

“do you know how much paper costs?” you demand.

benedict looks back up at you with scrunched eyebrows and a smile having returned to his lips. he tilts his head.

“why? should i?” he inquires. nonchalantly. delight in his ocean eyes.

as if you are making a jest.

as if this is amusing. as if this is nothing.

it reminds you of a recent memory.

eloise had generously given you sheets of paper. hitting a stride in your writing and wanting to continue, you had asked, after much internal deliberation, if you could have a ripped half of a quarto upon running out of all negative space on your current one.

“have a foolscap. have a whole lot of them, actually,” she said easily, taking a good chunk of her stack and handing it off to you.

“eloise, are you certain?”

“of course. it is just paper, after all.”

“right. yes— of course. thank you.”

eloise hummed affirmatively in response, returning to her passage, as you stared at the small stack of foolscap in your hand. that amount of paper would have been eight months’ wage, perhaps even more.

a gentle touch of a hand on yours brought you out of your clouding thoughts. you looked over and saw penelope looking at you softly. understanding her unspoken thoughts, you held her hand and gave it a squeeze.

thank you, you mouthed.

"i must be going,” you say aloud. “goodbye, mr. bridgerton.”

you stand, turn, and quickly exit the drawing room.

“y/n. y/n!”

you hear him scuffling up from his lounge and start to follow you. you hasten your steps towards the entrance.

moments before you can open the doors of bridgerton house to the respite of the outside world, you feel benedict take hold of your wrist, stopping you in your steps, and it infuriates you how gently he does it. how you can pull away from his touch if you want to, how you can just go if you choose to. but you do not.

it infuriates you how much you want him to hold you.

you turn to face him.

“please— wait,” he breathes. “what did i do wrong? what have i done to upset you?”

you look at him incredulously. then it dawns on you.

“please. tell me,” benedict practically begs. with such softness in his voice.

it infuriates you.

“i know money is of no concern to you, or your family, or fair ladies and pretty gentlemen. but it is for the rest of us. for the rest of us who have to work to keep the ones we love fed, clothed, warmed, sheltered. that is a fact with which i have been concerned since the very moment i could think for myself. and for you—of the male sex, of pale skin, of inherited riches—it is something to discard onto the carpet of one of your family’s many houses. the paper you threw to the ground would have paid for a month’s worth of warmth for the entirety of my family’s home. and you ask me what you have done to upset me?”

he says nothing. he just looks at you, damned ocean eyes and all. gentle. attentive. like he could care; like he does care.

you feel your nostrils flaring, your blood pounding in every vein of your body. you finally rip your wrist away from his loose hold, already missing his touch.

“i shall take my leave. please give my regards as well as my apologies to eloise and penelope. goodbye, benedict.”

you turn away from him, yank the door open by its handle, and step outside, walking composedly at first, then quickly, then sprinting, then running. to be as far away from number five of grosvenor square as you possibly can be. to be far away from crumpled up paper, charcoal-stained hands, gentle touches, and ocean eyes.

you rub your wrists against your eyes.

stupid bloody tears.

stupid fucking heart.

why am i so afflicted by this? why am i crying? why do i hurt?

because i love—

no.

you cannot fall for him. he is someone you cannot have, cannot want, cannot— cannot…

it cannot happen, the two of you.

and most likely of all, you are not someone he wants. not someone who he would love. not the way you—

you are a fool for getting this far. but these feelings, they will pass. somehow. you will forget them. you will forget him. this is not the fairytales you read, not the fairytales you write. daydreams, hopes, love for a gentleman— there is a reason you are a writer.

you write the things you can never have, the things that will never happen.

you and benedict will never happen.

this is the prayer you tell yourself that evening before sleep takes you. you pretend not to be affected by the tears that afflict you as you do so.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< y/n does not go to number five the next week on her non-work day as she had grown accustomed to. she had tried to write at her table in her home to preoccupy herself, but her teardrops were ruining what she had already written. she considers going to work to distract herself, but y/n knows her unexpected presence would be a detriment to her fellow workers’ established flow of day. she decides to go to the markets to try and get fresh air and a change of scenery and to do anything to interrupt her spiral of thoughts and emotions.

< while at the markets, y/n hears her name called and turns to see penelope in her blue cloak. y/n asks what penelope is doing here, and penelope gently replies that she can ask y/n the same thing. she shares with y/n how, the week prior, after she received news that y/n had left bridgerton house, she left to find y/n in the markets and at her workplace but to no avail.

< their conversation continues. penelope shares how y/n was missed last week; by her, by the family, by benedict. y/n tries to dismiss her words and how the past few months have been a mistake and that she shouldn’t be there with pen or the bridgertons, that she’s not meant to be in their world.

< with patience and empathy and grace, penelope gently encourages y/n to return to bridgerton house next week, and y/n, though her heart aching and reluctant, agrees because she misses them. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you sigh deeply.

have courage, y/n.

and you rap your knuckles twice against the stately door of number five. a moment later, the door opens, and you are greeted by a beloved grin.

“miss y/n! i have not seen you in weeks!”

you cannot help but smile back.

“good day, giles.”

“oh, where are my manners!” and the elderly doorman bows at you. you huff out a laugh, feeling how your face contorts with distaste.

“blimey, please don’t. i am not a lady, giles.”

“you could’ve fooled me, miss y/n.”

you shoot him a severe look; he merely continues to grin.

“you know of my feelings towards being called ‘miss.’”

“i am getting older; my memory frequently fails me, miss y/n.”

“and yet you’ve recalled how we haven’t seen each other in two weeks.”

“three.”

you grin.

“precisely.”

“well, it was quite the surprise when I fell ill the following week!” then giles frowns. “and it was an even greater surprise to have not seen you when i had returned the week following that.”

you look at the ground, unable to face the inquisition in his sad, kindly look, but when you bring your head back up, you manage a smile.

“it is no matter. i am here now. that is most important, yes?”

the elderly man smiles.

“yes, i suppose you are right, y/n,” and he holds the door open for you to pass.

“aside from bouts with ailment, how have you been, giles?”

“still standing upright, still opening and closing doors,” he beams without a bit of sarcasm. “and what of you? how have you been?”

“i’ve been—— well. and the family?” you say quickly, wanting to move the conversation away from you and your feelings.

“the same as is to be expected. though—”

concern starts to swell in your heart. what has happened in the fortnight you have not been present?

“mister benedict has been absolutely despondent.”

“oh,” is all you say. giles’ gentle joviality transforms into solemnity, and it makes your heart ache even further.

“on the rare occasions i do see him now, he is leaving for the gentleman’s club in the bright light of day and coming home at an ungodly hour, drunk as a wheelbarrow, wreaking of what smells like every available spirit in london. he had stopped dipping rather deep sometime ago, much to my relief, so it was an utter shock to return to my station and to see him back on the cut, and deeply at that,” the elderly man sighs. “i wonder what has happened for him to be so…” he unexpectedly turns to you, his countenance sanguine, “do you happen to know?”

you swallow as you ignore the sensation pooling in the pit of your stomach.

“no, i— i do not.”

“i see. well, whatever it might be, it is clear how much it deeply afflicts him,” and giles offers you a small, sad smile. “you know mister benedict; he has always been the most sensitive of the family.”

i do.

i do know benedict.

you clear your throat.

“do you happen to know where eloise and penelope are at this moment?”

giles cocks his head at you but is kind enough (you thank the heavens) not to press your change of topic.

“the last i had seen them, they had spoken of viewing the art gallery. do you know the way?”

“i am unfamiliar.”

he smiles again, and it makes you smile in return.

“then i am most glad to escort you there.”

–

giles opens the doors to the gallery, and ahead, in front of a portrait, you see the turnings of penelope, eloise, and—

“y/n,” he utters.

“benedict,” you breathe.

and he looks just as surprised as you are.

you look to giles, his eyes wide and mouth agape, and then to eloise and penelope. upon seeing their expressions, you feel your eyes narrow.

“ah, penelope!” shouts eloise. everyone else turns to stare at her. “with y/n’s arrival, i must change out of my, my art gallery viewing dress! and— and, into my... drawing room! sitting— dress...”

eloise scrunches her entire face in displeasure, confused by her own poorly concocted excuse. that does nothing to deter her, however, from clamping onto penelope’s wrist and barreling forward towards the doors of the gallery.

“come along, pen!” she calls out to the friend she is pulling right behind her. as they pass you, eloise gives you a strange and strained smile bearing all teeth, and penelope offers apologetic eyes and an encouraging smile.

giles looks to you, to benedict, and to the two escaping ladies. mouth still agape, all he manages is,

“i suppose— i shall see to that— miss bridgerton and miss featherington arrive to miss bridgerton’s bedchamber... safe—ly…?”

he mouths, i’m sorry!, at you before quickly bowing his head at benedict, fleeing the scene with remarkable speed for an elderly man who has recently recovered from illness, and leaving you at the entrance of the art gallery.

closing your eyes, you deeply inhale through your nostrils as you place your hand to the space between your eye and your temple. on your exhale, you wipe your hand hard against the side of your face and open your eyes, whipping your head to look at the second eldest bridgerton brother. it seems that he has been staring at you this entire time, stupid (stunning) ocean eyes and all.

“would you like to paint a picture?” you snark. “you are the artist in the room, and it would certainly last longer. or perhaps you have run out of paper?”

he does not respond, indecipherable expression unchanging, and it unnerves you how guilty you feel at goading him, at taunting him, and he merely takes it. you sigh again and cross the gallery to where he stands. resisting the urge to look at him again, as you feel his gaze still on you, you instead look at the painting ahead of you.

it is a portrait of a gentleman. with dark chestnut hair and mutton chops. he wears a blue jacket, a darker blue vest, a cream cravat, green breeches, and brown boots. a watch on a ribbon hangs from his vest; it looks familiar. he looks familiar. a benevolent smile rests on his lips.

you look at the plaque at the bottom of the gilded frame.

edmund bridgerton, the 8th viscount bridgerton.

you look back up at the painting, captured by a particular feature.

“you have his eyes.”

“his are gray; mine are blue.”

you roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. (you try to ignore the flutterings that bloom upon hearing his voice again.)

“yes, but that’s not what i was referring to. they peer into you— not with scrutiny, nor judgment, but with kindness, curiosity, compassion. an eagerness to learn about you. pools of welcoming. cool tones that radiate warmth.”

you cough, ripping your eyes away from the portrait to inspect the scuffs of your boots. you feel embarrassment spread throughout your entire body as heat creeps up your neck.

“the painter is excellent at their craft. it is as if i know him, your father.”

silence falls in the expansive gallery, the calm and kind eyes of viscount bridgerton looking down upon you and his second eldest.

“i’ve missed you.”

you snap your head up to look at benedict, your eyes making contact with his ocean ones. welcoming and warm. honest and... hopeful?

i’ve missed you, too.

“benedict, it has only been a fortnight since we saw each other last,” you respond aloud, your voice coming out so much softer than you had intended. you offer him a small smile, an olive branch of sorts. something of relief starts to fill his ocean eyes, but his demeanor does not change.

“i behaved arrogantly, and you did not deserve to be the recipient of such behavior. no one does, and i am so— i am so sorry, y/n.”

and you know he is. you resist the urge to touch his cheek, to comfort him with your caress, to selfishly have your skin touch his. instead, you look on at him.

“i do not ask you to grant me your forgiveness; i know i am unworthy of it. i just— i just wanted you to know how i felt, and feel still. and how i shall work on myself to be better, to do better.”

the butterflies in your stomach flutter maddeningly. you emit an exhale from your nostrils. the urge to touch him intensifies, and you feel yourself flex your hand to let go of the sensation. you huff out another breath, and smile brightly, sincerely, at benedict.

“well,” you begin, “with our friendship renewed, care to show me what other paintings you love in this gallery?”

benedict’s ocean eyes beam with relief and joy, a brilliant smile lighting up his face, and it takes all your self-control not to drop all discretion and wrap your arms around him in a crushing embrace.

“i would love nothing more, y/n,” he declares.

you try not to flutter your eyes closed at the words ‘i,’ ‘love,’ and your name in the same breath from benedict’s lips. at the pleasantness and home you feel in them. you smile on.

“where shall we begin, then?”

you and benedict walk together as he approaches a miniature in a wooden frame ornately carved with floral motifs. he admits that he has not the slightest clue which bridgerton ancestor this is, and that makes you snort. grinning, he points out how adeptly the artist portrayed the translucency and fluidity of the lady’s veil and how particularly impressive it must have been to accomplish such effects in paints during the early 1600s, if the remnant dating of the artist’s signature is correct. you remark how particularly impressive it is that a painting has endured two hundred years of existence, details still intact, and benedict responds simply that rich people have a way. that makes you snort again, and that makes benedict grin again.

he then leads you to a portrait of kathani and anthony, the viscountess sat in a chair with the viscount stood behind. you marvel at the painting—how much it looks like them, how much it captures kathani’s confidence, how much it captures anthony’s conviction, how much it captures their love. excitement coloring his voice, benedict imparts to you how he was given the opportunity to observe and assist the painter on the days the latter was commissioned to portray the viscountess and the viscount. he also shares with you how impossibly difficult they were as models, always giggling and kissing and looking away from the painter and talking to one another, being overall sickeningly saccharine. you chortle and share with him how that does not surprise you in the least bit. despite his annoyance upon recalling the memory, an incredibly fond smile rests on benedict’s lips. turning from his lips back to the painting, you remark how in love they are, and he remarks that, indeed, they very much are—and turns his fond smile from the painting to you.

coughing, you walk over and ask about the landscape of an enormous building. benedict names it as aubrey hall, the ancestral home of the bridgertons. you recall how you had heard of it early on in your friendship with the bridgertons; you had been unable to see them one week as they were preparing for kathani’s first ball as viscountess at the home. you also recall how the usually collected and confident kathani was anxious and uncertain during that time. benedict, beaming with pride, says how, of course, she absolutely excelled and how all of the ton—he rolls his eyes then and you guffaw—enjoyed themselves at the event. while kathani had done an unsurprisingly resplendent job, the ball was not very entertaining to benedict. he much more enjoyed the annual bridgerton game of pall mall leading up to the event. after announcing how kathani had won—much to the contradictory disappointment and delight of her husband—and answering your questions about what sounds, to you, like a very silly, very fun game, benedict suggests that you join them next year. you laugh, finding it impossible to imagine yourself at a home such as aubrey hall, particularly for the entirety of three days, but your heart swells at the invitation and the sincerity in his voice, and you say aloud how you would love nothing more.

your spontaneous tour eventually comes to an end, and the two of you make your way towards the entrance, still discussing the various art you had seen. as you and benedict walk out of the gallery, a thought crosses your mind.

“none of your work is on display.”

you notice how benedict stiffens. you feel your smile tug into a frown.

“ah, yes. i do not think my work is— up to snuff— with the work on display here.”

“horse shit.”

benedict’s jaw drops, his face aghast and regaled in reaction to what you assume is your choice of language. you merely shrug.

“you have not even seen my work!”

“i do not need to see your work when i can already see how harsh you are being.”

he scoffs, and it aggravates you.

“fine— i will show you, then, and prove to you my point.”

“fine, then! show me, and i will prove to you my point!”

–

“you are full of horse shit!”

you and benedict are in his bedchamber, where all his works are hidden away. he has shown you canvas after canvas, sketch after sketch, charcoal drawing after charcoal drawing, his palette of color ideas— and he still has the audacity to say that his work is not “up to snuff” for the bridgerton gallery.

benedict looks aghast again, perhaps by your language, perhaps by what you are (very rightly, very correctly) insisting. he shakes the canvas that he holds in his hand in your face.

“look at the proportions, y/n! they are entirely off!”

you roll your eyes, swatting his arm away, and begin to rummage through his other work. you pull a sheet and hold it up to benedict’s face.

“look at this sketch, then look at the canvas. there is a very clear, marked improvement, and with only a—” you look at the dates at the bottom right corners for confirmation, “—a difference of two days!”

“what does ‘improvement’ mean if the improvement is not even good!”

“it is good! and! improvement is everything, benedict! it is progress!”

“what—”

you and benedict jump back from one another by the sudden new voice. you had not realized how close the two of you were as you were shouting at one another, how close your faces were to one another, how close your lips were to—

a blazing heat creeps up your neck, at the tip of your ears, and across your cheeks as you turn from benedict’s flustered face to the scowl of the eldest bridgerton sibling in the doorway.

“—are the two of you doing?”

“brother! i— i was merely showing y/n my work.”

you vigorously nod your head. anthony’s glare remains unaffected.

“alone? together? in your bedchamber?”

your heart almost leaps out of your chest, your eyes about to bulge out of their sockets as you look around the room, suddenly aware of where you are. you are in benedict’s bedchamber. alone. together.

“i—” you start, very pathetically. “i—— we—”

anthony curtly bows his head at you.

“y/n, i would like to have a word with my brother. in private. please.”

“of— of course, right— of course!”

you hastily put the sketch on a nearby table and walk towards the door, pass anthony as he steps in, and are about to run down the hall and away from the scene when—

you turn and steal a glance at benedict, mustering up all the apologies you can convey through your eyes. despite the peril of his current predicament, his ocean eyes soften immediately, and a thousand butterflies erupt in your stomach and flutter around viciously. he offers you a slight smile, one that is sincere and unregretful. you offer one back, just as sincere, just as unregretful, before anthony gives you another bow of his head and closes the door.

–

“are you pleased by the results of your consorted trickery?” you state blandly upon seeing the young ladies that you thought were your friends sitting in the drawing room.

eloise looks up from her pamphlet, beaming at you, as penelope wears a wide and proud smile. well, at least they have answered your question.

“trickery?” eloise feigns. you roll your eyes; their expressions answer honestly, but their words continue their game. “i have no idea what you are referring to. pen and i were merely keen on viewing the art gallery today, and i thought, my blue-deviled of an elder brother ought to stop moping about; what better to get him to leave his bedchamber than by way of his favorite topic?”

“and his other favorite topic,” penelope adds. eloise chortles, and you feel the tips of your ears heat.

“what is that supposed to mean!”

eloise waves a dismissive hand at you.

“benedict knew nothing of your arrival, as i am sure you deduced by his surprise,” but the second eldest daughter grins wickedly. “though, from the sheer amount of time you have spent together thus far today, i am also sure the surprise was very welcomed, indeed.”

“by both parties, it seems.”

you promptly ignore the flush you feel on the apples of your cheeks. your friends are lucifer incarnate split into two.

“well, then you must be delighted to know that your shared plot has led to punitive action against him.”

that surprises them. (good. you are relieved to finally have some sort of an upperhand in this conversation.)

“‘punitive action’? by whom? for what?”

“by—”

the three of you hear a set of footsteps. you look to where the sounds are heard and see the two eldest bridgerton siblings enter the drawing room, the elder approaching you with conviction and the younger trailing behind him like a pet that has just been reprimanded. the sight would make you laugh, if you weren’t the one to have instigated the current conflict between the two brothers.

anthony stands before you, posture perfect and chin held up high.

“y/n, thank you for your patience. please allow me to apologize most ardently on behalf of my brother for his complete and utter lack of propriety. it will not happen again as i shall be more vigilant in tracking his every deed. i do hope this incident of my brother’s disrespect does not taint the beloved friendship between you and our family.”

and he deeply bows his head at you.

your jaw drops. benedict shuts his eyes tight and scrunches his face. penelope bops her gaze amongst the three of you. and eloise just howls, causing anthony to break the gravitas of his decorum and shoot a glare at her.

“it is no laughing matter, eloise!”

“it is harmless fun, brother! a pursuit of intellect exchanged between two creatives, who also happened to be by themselves. i have never heard of a baby being conceived from sharing some art.”

“ELOISE BRIDGERTON!”

you have now entirely hidden your face behind your hands; no one needs to witness the deep crimson that you are certain is spreading very rapidly across your countenance. an absurd hope also blooms in you that if you cannot see the others, then the others cannot see you.

“what ever is the matter in here?”

your eyes shoot open upon hearing the much needed voice of reason. removing your hands from your face, you see kathani enter the drawing room, a confused expression worn on her face.

“my dearest,” anthony begins, “i have offered my deepest apologies to y/n for benedict’s disgrace.”

“disgrace,” scoffs eloise, crossing her arms.

“disgrace!” reiterates anthony with increased fervor. kathani’s confusion does not lighten. she looks to benedict, whose eyes are scrunched closed again (his nose looks adorable this way), and then to you.

“are you all right, y/n?” she inquires gently.

“i—” you had intended to say, am well, but that would be a lie. you are utterly mortified. so, instead, you state the truth.

“benedict has been a gentleman. he has treated me with the utmost respect, and when he has done wrong by me— which! which has nothing to do with our being in his bedchamber!— he—” you steady your voice, determined to say this right, as you know and feel it with and in your heart, “he has corrected himself and bettered his words and thoughts and deeds.”

“you hear that, brother? no harm has been done.”

“eloise, you were not even there!”

“i believe what eloise means, anbe, is that you are being dramatic.”

“dramat— they were in his bedchamber, kathani! together! alone!”

kathani rolls her eyes, her attempt at diplomacy entirely gone.

“speak louder, anthony; just a bit more and the entire country shall hear you.”

the viscount pouts grumpily at his beloved, emitting a huff of air through his nostrils.

“you must trust y/n by her word,” the viscountess states.

“or do you not trust someone of feminine disposition to speak for herself?” eloise inquires.

“pen!”

you all snap your gazes to the entrance of the drawing room and see colin making his way to your friend in blue, followed by—

“y/n!” shouts gregory and hyacinth as they run towards you.

“y/n, penelope!” remarks violet and approaches you both. “how delightful it is to see you! you—” she says, reaching out for your hand, gently taking it in hers, and smiling kindly at you, “—in particular. it has been a moment, y/n.”

it melts your heart, really. the sincerity of affection that flows so easily from violet bridgerton. you recall the kind eyes and benevolent smile of her late husband. it is no wonder you so easily fell in love with this family; true, real love is woven into the very fabrics of each of their beings.

you look at them. hyacinth and gregory cling onto your slides, holding you tight. kathani and anthony are engrossed in debate, affection in their eyes despite the heat in their words. colin and penelope speak with and blush around one another as eloise, unknowingly (and, in your opinion, frustratingly, endearingly), butts into their conversation. and benedict. who, with the gaze of the entire room no longer on his so-called indiscretion, is looking at you. softly. with those damned, wondrous, bewitching ocean eyes. a smile on his lips that makes the flutterings in your stomach unbearingly, wonderfully unyielding.

you truly, really love this family.

you love the bridgertons.

“though,” the dowager viscountess starts.

shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you see how violet looks at the others in the room as half of them now pointedly avoid eye contact with the matriarch and the other half share a similar sentiment to her.

“is everything all right?” she turns to you, peering curiously into your eyes. “has something happened?”

you cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of you. violet seems taken aback by your reaction, as are the others in your periphery, but her eyes, as well as theirs, shine on.

“i think,” you say, smiling, “it is just another day with the bridgertons.”

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determinate-negation · 6 months

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What is important to understand about that moment was that Zionism was a political choice — not only by western imperial powers, but also by Jewish leadership. They could have fought more strenuously for Jewish immigration to the United States. And a lot of the Zionist leaders actually fought against immigration to the United States. There were a number of stories reported in the Jewish Communist press about how Zionists collaborated with the British and Americans to force Jews to go to Mandate Palestine, when they would have rather gone to the United States, or England. There’s a famous quote by Ernest Bevin, the British Foreign Secretary, who said the only reason the United States sent Jews to Palestine was “because they do not want too many more of them in New York.” And the Zionists agreed with this.

While this may seem like ancient history, it is important because it disrupts the common sense surrounding Israel’s formation. “Yes, maybe there could have been peace between Jews and Palestinians, but the Holocaust made all of that impossible.” And I would say that this debate after 1945 shows that there was a long moment in which there were other possibilities, and another future could have happened

[…]

Question: Who or what is responsible for the erasure of this history of Jewish, left anti-Zionism?

I wouldn’t blame the erasure solely on the Soviet Union or Zionism, because we also have to think of the Cold War and how the Cold War destroyed the old Jewish left, and really drove it underground and shattered its organizations. So I think we also have to see how the turn toward Zionism was understood as something that would normalize Jews in a post-war era.

With the execution of the Rosenbergs, the Red Scare of the late 1940s and ’50s, and the virtual banning of the Communist Party, which had been throughout the 1930s and ’40s half Jewish, for much of the Jewish establishment, aligning themselves with American imperialism was a way for Jews to normalize their presence in the United States. And hopefully that moment has to some degree passed. We can see the emptiness and barrenness of aligning ourselves with an American imperial project, with people like Bari Weiss and Jared Kushner. Why would someone like Bari Weiss, who describes herself as liberal, want to align herself with the most reactionary forces in American life?

It’s a bloody matrix of assimilation and whiteness that emerged out of the Cold War suburbanization of the 1950s. Israel was part of that devil’s bargain. Yes, you can become real Americans: You can go to good U.S. universities, you can join the suburbs, enter into the mainstream of American life, as long as you do this one little thing for us, which is back the American Empire. Hopefully, with the emergence of new grassroots organizations in the United States, among Jews and non-Jews who are questioning the U.S. role supporting Zionism, this calculus can begin to change. With the rise of Jewish Voice for Peace, IfNotNow, the Democratic Socialists of America and the Movement for Black Lives all taking a serious stance against U.S. support for Zionism, the common sense in the Jewish community has begun to move in a different direction, particularly among the younger generation. The battle is very far from over, but it makes me just a little optimistic about the future.”

- The Forgotten History of the Jewish Anti-Zionist Left

#what ive been saying #anti zionism #✡️#mine #history

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prettylittlels · 4 months

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my picture (tom blyth x reader)

summary: just fluff

a/n: i love this concept! i had been thinking about it for a while. but please send request cause i don't have any more ideas 😭

🍂💫🥨🌇🪐🧵

tom visiting your family would be the most heartwarming thing you'll ever see. imagine him, being so excited to meet the people who raised his wonderful s/o, bringing them gifts and food showing his appreciation. if you had foreign/ immigrant parents, he'd start studiyng their language weeks before meeting them, so they don't think he's disrespectful. and your family? oh, they would love him. since you didn't bring that many boys around home, they noticed you had something special. your dad would tell him embarrasing stories, and your mum would show him childhood pictures. there was one where you were covered in mud, dirty after playing with your cousins, where you looked like the happiest kid in the world. tom gasped at the sight and asked if he could keep the small frame. tom still has the little picture, hidden in his leather wallet.

-tom, love- you ask your partner sweetly -can i borrow 10 pounds?-

-yeah, of course- answers the taller man -just grab some money from my wallet-

you search through your purse for the brownish bag. tom had developed an annoying habit over the years: if he needed to bring something, instead of putting it in his pocket or using a backpack, he left his stuff inside your purse, stuffing it full.

-here it is!- you said triumphantly

opening the wallet, you search for the cash. one 5 pound bill, another 5 pound- wait. what's that photo of you doing in here? you take out the small print out of its tight storage space to inspect it better.

-tom?-

-yes, baby?- he responds, his charm evident in his speech

-where did you get this?- you wave the picture in the air.

tom blushes furiously. his most prized possesion has been discovered!

-your mum gave it to me the last time we went to your parents' house - he admits shyly -i asked her if i could keep it and she said yes-

you start to smile but hold it back as you take something else out of the bag: your phone. you give it to tom and wait for him to do something.

-what do you want me to do?- he laughs at you

-open the case-

tom carefully takes it off your phone to find another little picture, but this time its his. six-year-old tom clad in a blue and yellow bathing suit, only his skin was redder than the red roses that appeared in the background.

-where did you get this?- he confronts you, slowly inching closer to you

-your dad-

- our parents sure love to embarrass us- laughs your boyfriend

-not like i love this picture of you- you say, grabbing him by the waist and bringing him closer

-i think yours is better, love - and he wraps his arms around your middle

-i hope our kids have pictures like that or worse so we could gift them to their future boyfriends or girlfriends-

he leans in slowly and places s soft put passionate kiss on your lips. you tighten your grip on his waist and his hands travel. one goes to cup your cheek, and the other cups your ass.

you start to deepen the kiss even more when he squeezes your butt twice and pulls out of the embrance.

-i'd love that- he adds, while looking down fondly at you.

#book recommendations #bookworm #tom blyth x you #tom blyth x reader #domestic fluff #tom blyth

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quixtrix · 5 months

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dolph was always meant to be doomed; something of an analysis

i'm on my third rewatch of captain laserhawk, and on this one i've been focusing more on the little details that you don't get on your first or even second time watching it. i've noticed little things, such as pey'j helping and then going on to shield a hybrid who's dressed similarly to jade in the third episode. but i've also noticed bigger things, such as alex and dolph.

keep in mind that this show is just filled to the brim with political messaging, it was purposefully designed that way. so when someone mentioned on here that alex was an accelerationist, it explained a lot. we don't know much about alex in terms of his backstory, we only know he helped dolph after dolph attempted to mug him and they ended up falling in love. it's also implied that alex and dolph have been repeatedly reported on the news as terrorists more than we've seen, with rayman referring to them as being the usual suspects when the kaiju attack happened, despite dolph literally not even being there when alex did that shit. they're known to do this shit, and we know alex is a charismatic guy. it's not too far fetched to say once or while dolph was falling in love with this gayass white saviour saint that alex talked him into this shit for alex's own purposes. because yes, he has a cause, but he's also a bit in over his head, maybe with power. he's aware of the power he has over dolph, how he actively uses the 'i love you' card multiple times when they're together and when they're not together. he just had a bit too much confidence in his hold over dolph, but to be fair, alex, you were topping some indulgent mob boss for your cause (because let's be honest of course your sources would be tight if they were being fucked for it) then continued fucking said mob boss and got caught with your dick out by your ex who you think you can get back with. alex uses people as tools, he just doesn't put his shit in the right places at the right times.

i'm getting off track, but the point i'm getting to is that alex most definitely saw dolph, a man who clearly has some jacked up eden tech smacked onto his twink ass, at his lowest, and picked him up like a shiny new toy. he was always going to use dolph. but how come dolph is so easy to use? he's starved for kindness. he's the stray dog that comes up to you at restaurants to act all nonchalant because 95% of the time he gets neglected, but the second he gets offered scraps, he shows how hungry he is. we don't know much about his childhood, and what we do know is under the lenses of literal eden propaganda. we do however know how people get like underneath the hand of eden.

everyone say thanks to rayman, who concidentally, is dolph's foil. both of them worked under eden as their lap dogs, one as a propagandist and the other as military, but dolph had gotten out of the hold the propaganda had on him while rayman's barely shaking it off. both of them are also portrayed as poor little tragic immigrants and the impoverished stand ins both in universe and story wise. they're the feel good picking yourself up american dream stories that people can feel inspired by or feel proud about the country with. dolph had a photo with a kid holding a doll of him. before he became ex military, he was definitely the guy they paraded around as a previous lost cause that eden helped. red, who's as political as his assigned colour, bitches about identity politics in that one off line for a reason. he also jus hates brown people fr he kicked me down a flight of stairs

now we can assume that dolph had picked himself up out of the propaganda machine somehow. he realised he was used and he didn't want that shit. he's attempting to get himself his own life, for fucks sake. he jus happened to get lead on by the wrong guy, which then lead him to get used by eden AGAIN. this time not only in a physical way via soldier work, but emotionally too, with sarah easily manipulating him with what? a sob story and helping him out, maybe being friendly with him along the way.

he wants a normal life. he wants a goddamn normal life. he jus continues to be selected as a tool.

you can see how fucking starved he is for kindness. you ever think about the fact that in his dream life, he sees jade and pey'j? he knew these people for less than a week, yet they get a place in his dream life. most notably, jade gets a speaking role in his dream life. the only other person who speaks, besides marcus, is alex, someone who had known him and shown kindness to him. jade has also shown kindness to dolph. she's the friendliest face there in the ghosts, being the first one to check on dolph when he wakes up, offers an explanation to him, and also makes an effort to include him in her little shenanigans with the video and all!! dolph was all emo alpha wolf and all, but despite his constant cold shoulder, she was kind!!

there was someone who was more than kind though; bullfrog. because bullfrog actively looked out for dolph, despite his constant pushback against bullfrogs advice whenever they weren't separated. and in the end, it's bullfrogs kindness and compassion that hits dolph the deepest. dolph gets out of his depressive state to go back for bullfrog. he cares about people, he goes out of his way to do shit for the people who show him the slightest bit of kindness. he backed up sarah after one good conversation with her to marcus for fucks sake. dolph is just a guy who keeps getting used though. he's so loyal to anyone who looks his way that it's a fatal flaw that ends up with his head blown up. he's a shakespearean tragedy at the moment. i hope in the potential season 2 that he gets to have more moments where he gets to be his own person. not defined by an organisation or a person or a cause, but what he chooses to define himself by. he's on his way there. he jus deserves to be allowed to live for himself. after all, he has already met his end of that story. he can make a new one.

anyways if u reached the end of this im down to discuss this :D i also did get a few points from other people on here, but let me know what u think nd all

#SORRY THIS WAS A RANT #A LOT OF YAPPING #i jus have a lot of thoughts about dolph #i adore him #he deserves so much #and i hate how he gets overlooked IN HIS OWN SHOW #dolph laserhawk #captain laserhawk #rayman #character analysis #sorry guys very passionate abt my boyfriend #alex taylor #captain laserhawk bullfrog #captain laserhawk jade #pey'j

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badingsm · 3 months

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VIII — Meetings, Buddies, Romanoffs

Warnings: Cursing, jealousy, a bit suggestive, and the buddies (?)

Note: I'm rusty, I know.

"I didn't like their pasta. It's bland."

"Me too." Natasha chuckled lowly, walking hand in hand with you towards the immigration office, where you'll both be interrogated by Loki Laufeyson himself.

"Good morning." You smiled at the old lady in front. "Natasha and Y/n Romanoff?"

There was a little pause while the older woman named Jennifer (you noticed her nametag) looked through the schedules for today before nodding and kindly leading you to a room.

It has white walls trimmed with nothing but cleanliness. The neat stacks of papers were placed atop the table as you both entered cautiously and plopped down against the sofa in front of the windowpane, where the sun shone brightly like it's signaling there's good news for you to hold on to, making you smile to yourself. There's also the faint smell of tobacco and whiskey combined, causing your nose to scrunch, and before you could even go further into observation, Jennifer spoke once again.

"Mister Laufeyson will see you soon; he just got caught up with some important meetings," She informed apologetically, but you both brushed her worries off. "For the mean time, please let us accommodate you with some drinks and snacks. I'll send someone back in, alright?"

"Please don't bother-"

"Thanks!" You cut your wife off quickly, and you feel the burn of her gaze on the side of your face as soon as the door shuts. "What?"

"You're still hungry?" She questioned incredulously, but her tone betrayed her with amusement. "After everything we ate?"

"Hey!" You pouted. "I told you, I didn't like the food! But it was pricey, so I wanted to finish it, you know?"

"Oh, baby, you didn't have to do that!" Natasha laughed before groaning, "You'll barf on me on the night again."

"I won't," You said smugly.

Knock knock!

"Juice, water, snacks—Y/n?"

A familiar voice had drawn your attention away from your wife, causing your eyes to widen in recognition.

"...hi?" You pathetically choked out when you felt Nat's hand on your thigh. "Darcy."

"Y/n!" Darcy beamed with her bright red lipstick, raising her glasses back up as they slipped on the slope of her nose. "How have you been? It's been... ages."

"Yeah." You laughed hesitantly. "So, um.."

Natasha cleared her throat to make her presence known.

"Oh, wait. Nat, this is Darcy." You nodded to the brunette, cringing inwardly. "And Darcy, this is Natasha, my wife."

"Hey!" Darcy Lewis smiled at your wife, who only lifted her brow, unamused. "Nice to meet you!"

"You two know each other?" It seemed more like a statement than a question. "How?"

You rubbed your neck uncomfortably and chewed your lip. "Well. Uh.."

"Well?" Nat said, raising her brow and frowning. "Please do enlighten me, my love."

Well, you couldn't really formulate any proper words, and Darcy noticed that.

So, being the frank person that she is-

"We were fuck buddies before."

And, as I already stated, frank.

Very, very, very frank.

"Excuse me?" Natasha looked at you, daring you to agree with Darcy's statement so she could throw you off, but you just gave her a weak smile while rubbing your neck awkwardly.

Her shoulder stiffened and her jaw clenched, and you knew you were in trouble.

"That was before," You mumbled truthfully, taking her hand.

"And? Am I supposed to thank you for that?" She said, her tone stern while glaring at you. "Know what? I don't think I'm feeling well for this meeting; I'd just call Laufeyson and reschedule this shit."

You panicked when she stood up, freezing in your spot, prompting her to turn to you with a sarcastic smile. "What? You wanna stay here and reunite with your fuck buddy or-"

"Or nothing!" You shrieked, catching up. "Come on, babe, let's go home."

"Yes," She replied shortly, opening the driver's door and locking it before you could even enter. Lowering the window slightly, "I am going home. You? Go to your fuck buddy, yeah? Seems like you miss her anyways."

You groaned while watching the car drive off into the streets, alone to yourself, as she didn't even listen to your protests.

This is gonna be a long ride.

Two days later.

"Babe, we're already on the plane, and you're still not talking to me?" You frowned, shifting in your seat. "Lola will notice this, and she'll be upset to know that we're fighting."

"Trust me," Natasha muttered. "She'll be more feral about your little... buddies."

"Hey!" You pouted, "Darcy is one! And don't get me wrong, sure, I used to play with women before, but I'm all changed now, okay? This is Y/n Y/l/n 2.0! Will love you like a pro!"

She made a disgusted face, making you laugh before she leaned her head towards your shoulder, causing you to sigh in relief and kiss her forehead as she slept through the flight.

"Natasha, Y/n!"

"Hi, Lola!" Natasha kissed your grandma's cheeks when the older woman pulled her in for a hug. "Um, Ma, bless."

Natasha burrowed her in-law's hand before she raised it into her forehead to show her respect, which made you smile because she's adapting your culture.

It's adorable.

"Where's Papa?" You frowned, saddened by the feeling of déjà vu.

Thankfully, your mother was quick to clarify things. "He's in the parking lot and waiting in the car."

You grinned and grasped your wife's hand while carrying your small luggage on the other.

"Baby?" Natasha whispered on your side, causing you to hum in response. "Remember what happened with the immigration?"

"The one with Loki? I still think we've done a great job-"

"No, the one with Darcy," She smirked. "I'm telling that to Lola."

"Please, no!" You widened your eyes, horrified.

You watched her run away from your side as she caught up with your grandma and began narrating dramatically your interactions with Darcy.

You knew you were doomed, but you couldn't help but chuckle at how serene it feels to see your wife getting along with your family after all the circumstances that you've both gone through.

But again, good luck.

Lola's wrath would be a thousand times worse than anyone's, especially with how Natasha made you look so dirty in her eyes.

"I should be mad at you," You mumbled as you both walked towards the street, about to buy some of Natasha's favorite foods that she missed back when you were both in New York to assess her papers. "But you're cute."

"Ew." Natasha scrunched her nose. "I prefer badass."

"Mhm." You nodded, laughing a little as you looked down towards your linked hands to hopefully kiss it, but before you even knew it, you bumped into someone. "I'm sorry, I wasn't—Ingrid?"

"Oh, hi!" The blonde smiled widely. "What are you doing here?"

"I was actually born here," You said, feeling a jab on your stomach before you saw your wife's raised brows. "And this is my wife, Natasha."

"Well, this is awkward." You heard Ingrid mumble lowly to herself, but she was quick to dismiss it. "I was sent here for a couple of weeks to complete some business deals."

"Really?" You questioned.

"Yeah." Ingrid nodded, and she felt someone staring at her so hard that she felt like there's already a hole in her forehead. Soon enough, she confirmed that it was your wife. "I should probably, um," She awkwardly gestured her way, "Yeah. I should go."

"Well, goodbye!" You smiled, nodding.

"Bye!"

"And who's that woman?" Natasha asked as soon as Ingrid had left. She feels like history is literally repeating itself, "Again?"

"Uh." You rubbed the back of your neck, and Natasha knows what that means already.

She sighed, clenching her jaw. "Tell me how many more of your fuck buddies I would meet. Should I do some meet and greet with them already?"

"Baby, I don't even intend to see them." You paused when she scowled. "Hey, it's not my fault! Honest!"

"Tell me, how many women do you have?!"

"My-" you shrieked. "What?!"

"I'm sorry," She scoffed sarcastically. "Should I rather say, fuck buddies?"

"No, god!" You cringed. "I hope she's the last one, though."

"Oh, so you admit that there's a lot! You're an absolute fucktoy-"

And before she could even start an argument, you covered her mouth quickly and began pulling her towards where you saw someone grilling your favorite street foods.

"I'm hungry!"

"Go starve," Natasha scoffed.

"Baby, come on, I promise she's the last."

"Y/n?"

You heard another familiar voice, making you wince when Natasha's glare doubled its intensity from before.

"Lucy, hello." You smiled lightly towards the brunette, feeling Natasha's hand on your thigh possessively.

"Well, here are your orders." She placed the plates on the table along with the sauces before nodding politely and attending another customer, but not before saying, "Let's catch up soon, yeah?"

You laughed unsurely when you felt your wife squeeze your leg in warning.

"Sorry, I have to go now!" She grinned before dashing off to attend to other customers.

"Really? Even her?" Natasha looked at you incredulously. "Seriously, this is not funny anymore."

It's not your fault that your past flings keep popping up here and there, but you don't want to invalidate Natasha's feelings of jealousy because they're surely valid.

And usually, it takes a lot for Natasha to be calm after one of her jealous moments, but you're more than happy to reassure her anyway.

"Babe, we talked about this." You started, "I love you so much, I wouldn't dare to cheat-"

"Y/n?"

Another familiar brunette had appeared in your vision, making Natasha fume this time.

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Natasha breathed out, chuckling sarcastically. "I'm going home. Enjoy your food, Y/n."

"Baby, wait!" You quickly stood up to follow Natasha, not even glancing at the other woman. "Hey! Nat!"

"What?!" She snapped.

"I'm sorry.."

It's simple, but Natasha knew that it's deep, and you meant to say it in more ways than one.

"No." Natasha shook her head, sighing after a while. "It's stupid anyway."

"You have every right to be upset, you know. There is no need to lie about it; I know you like the back of my hand."

"It doesn't matter." She rolled her eyes.

"Certainly does." You nodded. "I'm sorry for everything, okay? I want you to know that I would never ever leave you, especially if it's for another woman. I love you too much, and I hope you know that."

Silence.

You were afraid that she'd run away again, but soon all your worries were gone as she kissed you possessively.

"Mine," She mumbled, biting your lips.

That made you smile, sighing in relief.

"Let's go," Natasha chuckled, pulling your hand.

"Where are we going?"

She smirked seductively, "We're making babies."

And there, my gays, that's how Atasha Margaret Y/l/n-Romanoff and Andrew Nathan Y/l/n-Romanoff were brought into this world after you both had settled into bed with Lola's baby maker blanket covering both of your bodies.

The end.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #black widow #marvel #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #jealous natasha romanoff #the proposal series

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molsno · 1 year

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I've already written about why male socialization is a myth that needs to be discarded, but in the responses to those posts, I sometimes find tme trans people who concede that yes, the concept of male socialization should be rejected, but refuse to let go of their own supposed female socialization. this always makes me quite reasonably angry, for two reasons:

I dislike it when people hijack my posts about transmisogyny to talk about things that aren't transmisogyny.

rejecting male socialization but embracing female socialization is still innately transmisogynistic.

you might find yourself wondering how that second point could possibly be true. it's true for a lot of reasons, and I'll explain to the best of my ability.

"female socialization" is the idea that people who were assigned female at birth undergo a universal experience of girlhood that stays with them the rest of their lives.

right off the bat, this concept raises alarm bells. first, it is a bold (and horribly incorrect) assertion to claim that there is any universal experience of girlhood that is shared by all people who were afab. what exactly constitutes girlhood varies greatly based on culture, time period, race, class, sexual orientation, and many, many other factors. disregarding transness for a moment, can you really say that, for example, white women and black women in modern day america, even with all else being equal, are socialized in the same way? the differences in "socialization" only become more stark the fewer commonalities two given people have. to give another example, a white gay trans man born in 2001 to an upper middle class family in a progressive city in the north is going to have a very different life than a cis straight mexican woman born in 1952 to an impoverished family and risked her life immigrating to the us in the deep south. can you really say anything meaningful about the "female socialization" that these two supposedly have in common? I think that b. binaohan said it best in "decolonizing trans/gender 101":

Then in a singular sense we most certainly cannot talk about 'male socialization' or 'female socialization' as things that exist. We can only talk about 'male socialization**s**' and 'female socialization**s**'. For if we take the multiplicity of identity seriously, as we must, then we are socialized as a whole person based on the nexus of the parts of our identity and our axes of oppression. ... Indeed, it gets complex enough that we could assert, easily, that each individual is socialized in unique ways that cannot be assumed true of any other person, since no one else shares our **exact** context. Not even my sister was socialized in the same way that I was.

and while I could just leave it at that and tell you to read the rest of their book (which you should), it wouldn't sit right with me if I just debunked the concept without explaining exactly why it's transmisogynistic at its core.

now, I should preface this by saying that I believe trans people have a right to identify however they want, and I think that trans people deserve the space to talk about their lives before transition without facing judgment. there are tme trans people who consider themselves women and there are trans men who don't consider themselves women at all but nonetheless have a lot of negative experiences with being expected to conform to womanhood. I don't want to deprive these people of the ability to talk about their life experiences. however, I do want them to keep in mind a few things.

first of all, "female socialization" is terf rhetoric. terfs talk all the time about how womanhood is inherently traumatic, which they regularly use as a talking point to convince trans men to detransition and join their side. when your whole ideology hinges on the belief that having been afab predestines you to a life of suffering, who is a better target to indoctrinate than trans people for whom being expected to conform to womanhood was a major source of trauma and dysphoria? the myth of female socialization is precisely why there are detransitioners in the terf movement who vehemently oppose trans rights.

that's why when tme trans people talk about having undergone female socialization, it's almost always steeped in the underlying implication that womanhood is an innately negative experience. even if they don't buy into the biological determinism central to radical feminism, that implication is still present. because, you see, womanhood can still be innately negative because the result of being viewed as and expected to be a woman is that you are inundated with misogyny.

that right there is why clinging to the notion of female socialization is transmisogynistic. it allows tme trans people, many of whom don't even consider themselves women, to position themselves as experts who understand womanhood and misogyny better than any trans woman ever could. that's why I find it disingenuous when a tme trans person claims to reject male socialization but still considers themself as having undergone female socialization; how could they possibly benefit from doing so, other than by claiming to be more oppressed than trans women, by virtue of supposedly experiencing more misogyny?

by being viewed as more oppressed than trans women on the basis of female socialization, they gain access to "women's only" spaces that trans women are denied access to. their voices are given priority in discussions about gendered oppression. people more readily view them as the victims when they come into interpersonal conflict with trans women. they become incapable of perpetrating transmisogyny on the basis of being the "more oppressed" category of trans people.

how exactly could such a person not be transmisogynistic, though? if they believe that gendered socialization is a valid and universal truth that one can never escape from, then what does it even mean for them to reject the concept of male socialization? if they were to actually, vehemently reject it, then they would no longer be able to leverage their own "female socialization" to imply that trans women aren't real, genuine women on account of not having experienced it. and make no mistake - there are very few tme trans people who subscribe to the myth of gendered socialization that even claim to reject male socialization. most of the time, they're very clear about their beliefs that trans women have some "masculine energy" that we can never truly get rid of after having undergone a lifetime of being expected to conform to manhood. and as a result, they continue to treat trans women as dangerous oppressors.

that's why gendered socialization as a concept needs to be abandoned wholesale. there's nothing wrong with talking about your experiences as a trans person, but giving any validity to this vile terf rhetoric always harms trans women, just like it was intended to do from its very inception.

#txt #transmisogyny #my writing #1k

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