#Inherited Jewels

[europesroyalsjewels]

Burmese Ruby Tiara ♕ King Charles III    

[pynkhues]

ooooooh would love your comment on this post (maybe just straight up under that post). considering your own stance on magnus' fortune 👀

https://www.tumblr.com/virginiaisforvampires/762167499843321856/hi-i-often-see-this-opinion-being-repeated-that?source=share

I mean, in terms of how it's possible for that anon's ask, I'd say that it's because a lot of the wealth Magnus left Lestat wasn't money, it was jewellery and artefacts that will generally gain value over time, so are probably worth eye-watering amounts of money now. Apologies for my crappy photos, haha (conveniently my copy of TVL is still on my desk), but:

(He then just looks at how beautiful he is in the pearlhandled mirror for like, four paragraphs lmao, I love this book so much).

But yeah, I mean, I disagree with that tumblr user's thesis that Lestat is very intelligent and invested well, honestly. I love Lestat a lot, which I think everyone on here probably knows at this point, haha, he was a formative character for me growing up and I love that we're getting such an incredible adaptation of him now, but Lestat sort of lacking intellectually is, to me, a pretty central (and charming!) part of his character.

He was an incredibly abused and neglected child - deliberately uneducated by both his parents, one out of a desire to control, and the other out of a lack of patience - and while for many children that can and does shut the world off, what I love about Lestat is that, especially in the books, it's bred this almost childlike sense of enchantment and wonder for him for every new thing he gets to experience.

And look, yeah, there is a pragmatism in him, which has I think been wrung out of being the only semi-competent person / the only true survivor in his family, and that pragmatism I think is probably what saw him hand over the wealth to an institution who could care for it, but at the same time, I don't know if I agree that Lestat likes to be a provider necessarily.

He invests in people because he loves them, and he gives them money because he has it (and probably feels a degree of detachment to it as a result of how he got it). Lestat buys the Theatres des Vampires and continues to send them money because he loved Nicki, and he invested in The Azaelia because he loves Louis - the fact that the latter was a good business investment and Louis a smart and capable businessman is incidental - Lestat would've invested anyway which we can basically see given the Theatres des Vampires has already had to downsize theatres and seems to be haemorrhaging money yet Lestat never cut them off.

I guess what I'm saying is that when it comes to everything - money included - Lestat's a character who thinks with his heart, not his head.

[riddles-n-games]

Is anyone else not interested in the love story this season for The Summer I Turned Pretty and instead more emotionally invested in the house being sold, Susannah's death affecting the boys and their brotherhood in addition to their crippled mental health? I feel so bad for them both and really think that they need therapy although I'm sure that's already something most people agree upon. Oh, and I'm living for Taylor's character development. The side characters seem to be serving this time, but I must admit my boy Jeremiah is also slicing through with his own maturity and no one can tell me otherwise. Emotions are slapping hard, and I'm not caring for that terrible love triangle excuse of a storyline.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: yandere, classism, degradation, possessiveness, obsessiveness, blackmail

gn reader - feminine clothing (jewelry: earrings, necklace)

Thinking about your rich boyfriend…

Rich boyfriend – who buys you clothes and jewelry every time you have a date, even when you tell him you feel bad receiving them all – that you have nowhere to wear such nice things – that a simple date is really more than enough. 

Rich boyfriend – who ignores you with a smile and shake of his head, asking you how you expect him to stop when you’re just the absolute cutest? Looking at him with those moon-big eyes, humble crinkle between your brows, and your lip tucked nervously between your teeth to keep from gawking. 

Rich boyfriend – who orders for you at all the restaurants he takes you to because he knows you’ve never been anywhere like it. Looking so adorably lost in your seat, flushed when staring at the menu written in a language you can’t read – knowing even if you could, you still wouldn't know what any of it meant. You’re so, so, so precious – eyes peeled like you’re a pet who’s just been allowed at the table for the first time.

Rich boyfriend – who plays four instruments, speaks five languages, went to an Ivy League institution, and will inherit his entire family’s business being the spoiled only child that he is.

Rich boyfriend – who just loves the messy household you grew up in – loves how you and your siblings interact with each other, looking like a bundle of pups all crammed in the same cage at a pet store – how your childhood bedroom is the size of his closet – filled with all sorts of trinkets you’ve kept growing up – stuff that would usually wind up in the trash at his house – polaroids of you as a teenager, past boyfriends in kissing booths, prom pictures, concert tickets, and old rusty friendship lockets. 

It’s all so… He scoffs. The word for it escapes him.

Suppose he doesn’t quite recognize the pricelessness of sentimental value as opposed to something actually sellable – but he finds it cute that you do. 

Though, it bothers him to some degree as well… that you would value an old pair of earrings gifted you by your grandmother instead of the actual antique diamond pair he’d procured for you. After all, one was a real historic piece worth a fortune a Russian duchess had snuck into England during the war, and the other was old junk made by a noname jeweler.

Rich boyfriend – who chokes on his spit when you sit him down and tell him you want to break up – who thinks he’s misheard – that you’re joking, playing some uncultured game he’s never been exposed to, some ill-taste past-time only poor people do to escape their bitter reality. 

But you’re not joking… 

You’re breaking up with him…You.. You… broke trash of worker-class scum… you’re breaking up with him?

You give him back all his gifts in a cardboard box – telling him you’re grateful but that you truly don’t have any use for such things – that you think your worlds are too different to coincide. 

Of course, you refrain from telling him you think he’s a classist snob. You have a feeling it would have gone completely over his head if you’d tried anyway, so there really was no point to it.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who’s never been told no in his entire life…

Rich ex-boyfriend – who buys your street and plans on scrapping it to make brand new mansions in a project he dubs “cleaning up the slums” – evicting and putting you and your entire family out of the home you’d spent your entire life growing up in.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who thinks you’re crawling back to him when you schedule an appointment at his office – who thinks you’re going to come in with bleary wet eyes and grovel like the lowly peasant you are – let him save you from poverty and homelessness, make you his charity case – his pretty diamond in the rough who’s never quite able to wash all the coal off.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who trashes that same office when you leave after having given him the address to the pawnshop you sold the one pearl necklace you’d kept as a token of your relationship – telling him he should feel free to go down there and get it back – that you’re using the money to buy a better house and you just wanted to come and thank him for that. 

Of course, you wanted to slap him too – spit on his tie or maybe just take a piss on his desk – but you left it at that.

Rich ex-boyfriend – whose next move is to buy your family business, who hires a private eye to dig up dirt on you and all your family, burying you in fines from age-old petty crimes, gets you kicked from your scholarship.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who goes to that pawnshop and reports the pearl necklace as a stolen item and has the police arrest you. Spinning a story about how he thought you were this humble sweet thing, only for you to rob him behind his back.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who comes to visit you in the custody suite where you sit cooped up with all the other wretched mutts on the cold concrete floors – scolding you for making him come down to a dirty police precinct, for having him breathe the same air as all the lowlives held up there.

Rich ex-boyfriend – who tells you he’ll make it all go away.

He’ll drop the charges, let your family keep their house – or buy them an even better one, whichever you prefer – he’ll even promote your family business and pay for all your siblings' education – he’ll give you everything. 

Anything you want, it’s yours.

But he owns you.

BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul

JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Naoya

HQ – Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins

BLLK – Reo, Rin

HxH – Illumi

[ak319]

Yan Socialite brother x reader

Ezra Alvarez , your younger brother, has always been your number one supporter. From a young age, he was taught that tradition dictated the older sibling would inherit the business and the farms—essentially, everything. This meant all the power would eventually be in your hands. But Ezra wasn’t a moneygrubber seeking favor, he genuinely admired your intelligence, strength, and the way you cared for the family, especially him. From the moment he gained consciousness, he aimed to be your best friend and sole confidant. He longed to be the person you turned to for counsel, and slowly but surely, things were unfolding just as he wanted.

Let's start from the beginning. Ezra and you were quite different in many ways, largely due to the contrasting upbringings you had. For example, while you cherished solitude and indulged in expensive hobbies like horseback riding, archery, and swordsmanship within the privacy of your estate, not to mention almost always busy learning and handling the business with your father. On the other hand, Ezra thrived in social settings. As a fashion designer, it was his job to attend lavish parties and stay connected with the latest trends. However, his socializing had a deeper purpose, to monitor the people in high circles and gauge their intentions toward his family, especially you.

Ezra was always vigilant, keeping tabs on potential rivals and meticulously recording this information. He made sure you were aware of everything you needed to know, and thanks to his discreet tactics, you were advancing. The way he giggled looking up at you when you patted his head in praise was endearing, if he were a puppy, his tail would surely have been wagging.

Ezra would do anything for his older sister because you're the best sister in the world! Despite being used to receiving expensive trinkets, he always gets teary-eyed when you gift him something special. Given your usually stoic and aloof demeanor, he can't help but cry tears of joy when you show him affection and smile at him. He ceaselessly rambles on about his latest projects and clothing line while you sit there, reading a book and nodding along, often clueless about what he’s saying. Yet, he still cherishes these moments because it’s only HIS sister who takes time out of her busy schedule for HIM. How could he not be grateful? That would be a crime. No other sister would ever do this for their brother! Anyway, back to designing some jockey apparels for you. You really need new ones.

As much as he dislikes your boisterous hobbies, he uses them as an excuse to spend time with you. He eagerly asks you to teach him, no matter how dirty his nails or clothes get, or how much he might risk getting sunburned. Every bit of it is worth it when someone like you is his mentor.

Your parents reprimended you for spoiling your baby brother but you always shrugged it off saying "How can I not spoil my only baby brother?." That's right sister, I am and will be always your only brother. He always makes sure to pass a victorious smirk to his parents who could only sigh in defeat at both of you.

Whenever it rains, he remembers how you love the rain while he hates it because it's all muddy but on the other hand memories of him as a kid getting scared of the thunder and you holding him in your bed in your protective embrace always warms his heart. Maybe this is where the habit of cuddling you has developed. Even now when something in his life goes wrong or he is having a tantrum , only your the one who can calm him or otherwise he is crying screaming and complaining for days and yes this is a true incident , the whole estate was close to becoming deaf if you hadn't come back from your academy bringing some new jewels and his favourite pastries for him.

Speaking of the academy, Ezra had to swallow the urge to throw another tantrum or cling to your feet when the time came for you to leave for further studies. He knew you had to do this for your own sake and the future of your family business. So, instead, he became like a second mother to you, sending letters to make sure you weren’t skipping classes—even though he knew you weren’t that kind of a person. He frequently asked about your meals and sports activities, but the part he hated most was even thinking about you having a potential lover. God, he couldn’t help but crumple up the third letter when he wrote about it, but he had to know. The thought of being secondary in your life, in everything, terrified him. What if you brought home a gold digger?! That’s how he saw anyone who came close to you. They didn’t care about your personality or charm, they were after that KA-CHING! And him being one of your top prized assets, he wasn’t about to let that happen.

His heart however calmed down when you replied with a simple 'No' about the question. Yay! Whenever you came back from academy , he was even more excited than your parents, who always found his enthusiasm adorable. How he ran back and forth scolding the servants for not cleaning your room properly , not having your favourite dish up to notch like DO YOUR FUCKING JOBS PROPERLY! He wouldn't stop yapping when you sat for tea after dinner but no matter how much you were exhausted from your journey , you still listened to him.

As cunning, witty, and sophisticated he was, Ezra made mistakes too, and in his mind, the worst mistake was failing at a task you assigned him. He would cower under your anger, fully aware that he had messed up. He was still learning the ins and outs of the tedious household budget—something he would have to manage for you one day—but it was boring, okay? Numbers just weren’t his thing. Even if you scolded him, he always waited for your apology, which you offered in your own way—like taking him out to his favorite café or silently sharing a cup of tea in his room. Moments later, he’d be hugging you, petulantly whining about you getting angry at him. He hated how you chuckled at his childish attitude, but deep down, he loved it too.

Life was going well until, one day he received a letter that you were unable to attend father's funeral due to work back in the academy. He knew it was a lie , you WOULD NEVER abandon your family like this , even your mother was skeptical. But since there was no sign of you coming back, he handled his grieving mother and the arrangements himself as much as he was dying inside due to your absence. Where were you? They needed you. You were their head now. He was worried sick.

After the guests left , it was only his uncles and aunts who sat in the living room while he came down after putting his mother to sleep.

"Ezra, dear boy. You must be tired, but there is something we need to discuss with you." The words made his blood boil, and he fought the urge to slap the indifferent looks off his father’s brothers and sisters. He knew exactly why they were still here—they were nothing but vile, disgusting pieces of filth, circling like vultures after the family’s money. He had always seen the malicious intent in their eyes when they interacted with you, and it broke his heart how you treated them as family while they plotted to push you out of the way. But he kept up the façade of a nice, obedient nephew, knowing that it would be handy for a moment like this. Where were they when he was struggling to handle everything? They only arrived at the last minute for their sibling's funeral. His poor father had died surrounded by snakes. But he swore he would never let the same happen to you. He would never betray you, his blood, like these filthy excuses for humans.

He wanted to throw up as they offered their insincere condolences, but he remained firm. They inquired about your absence, talking shit about your cold behavior for not being there, and this was his cue to play his cards right. Slipping into his favorite role as the bimbo younger brother, he wept, agreeing with their criticisms, and even cursed you, despite how much it made his heart ache. Eventually, they began to open up, believing in the hate and jealousy he pretended to harbor for you. While they didn’t reveal your whereabouts, they made it clear they deemed you as an unworthy heiress. He fake-laughed through his tears, gaining their trust the best that he could. They even had the audacity to suggest dividing the property among themselves, without even considering his mother as the rightful owner of anything. Oh, they were going to be obliterated.

He then promised to hand them the papers during a party he was going to arrange that too in a ferry. Acting on the information you once gave him, he contacted some gunmen for emergencies, making the necessary arrangements. Oh what a sight it was to see the ferry filled with the corpses of his treacherous relatives. One of the assassin came and informed that they had you abducted and thrown into a mental asylum on your way back to the estate for the funeral. His mouth hung agape at the revelation, his whole body seething with fury, and without wasting a moment, he set out to bring you back. But not before ordering the ferry to be blown up in the middle of the sea. He cackled maniacally from the dock as he watched the explosion, then leaped onto the back of one of the hitmen like a kid, gleeful at the destruction of those who had wronged you.

Once you were back and grieved a bit which only lasted for a few moments before you had to take care of covering up the bloodshed your baby brother did. But at the end you did it and currently Ezra was beside you on the arm of the chair while you worked on your late father's study table , now yours. "You are not mad at me, are you?" He asked softly, voice almost breaking at the end.

"You did what had to be done. I would have done the same to anyone who came after my family like this," you said, hearing him sniffle beside you. You gently caressed his arm, your gaze still fixed on the parchment. "Don’t cry, you know how much I hate seeing you cry, Ezzy." You felt him lay his head on your shoulder, his soft brunette locks brushing against your ear.

"Thank you… I couldn’t fucking stand them anymore, doing such… such a horrendous thing to you."

He suddenly burst into giggles, his feet dangling. "But it was fun! You know, before his death, Uncle Auden wore that hideous yellow sack coat. I saw it through the binoculars—God, he looked like a penguin getting on the ferr-!"

"Ezra." Your warning tone almost made him flinch. "What did I tell you about speaking ill of the dead?"

"I think they deserve a pass." His pout was defiant yet playful, and you couldn’t help but smile. His laughter was light, a contrast to the heaviness of this week.

He couldn't be more blissful than this. You looked as if you were made to sit in that chair, and he felt immensely proud to have cleared the path for you. He always would. As his heart pondered the future, a frown creased his brow. The thought of a day when you might stray, bringing a partner into the estate, unsettled him. Though that day seemed far off, he was already prepared to make their life hell. After all, the chances of you siding with a partner over him were slim. He has got his older sister wrapped around his manicured pinky.

➺Ezra x reader x hubby

[fushitoru]

EDIT: check out the series here!

thinking about writing a bridgerton!gojo fic (series?)....

duke gojo, who has stirred up everyone and their mamas with news of how he is finally joining the marriage scene this season after years of fooling around. of course, to no one's surprise, he is the season's most eligible bachelor. he's the strongest, whether that be in terms of wealth or other manly pursuits gentlemen ought to be good at. gojo isn't marrying for love. he just needs to be tied down to secure his inheritance so he can gamble and fool around at the gentleman's clubs with his friends until he drops dead one day.

you seek to be the perfect daughter in front of your parents. you have been taught to be the picture of grace and nobility, proficient at all things a lady must be good at: needlework, art, music...you name it. but deep inside, you have an affinity for literature---feminist literature. you secretly feel aversion towards the idea of marrying just to be a submissive wife but will not show it. you are perfectly content marrying any man that should not harm you as long as he has the means to provide for you and make your family proud.

upon your presentation to the queen, you are immediately crowned a diamond. the first ball of the season comes, and gojo undoubtedly has his eyes sight on you as the diamond of the season. after all, why would a duke need to settle for anything less when he can buy the shiniest jewel?

on your dance with him, you give all the template responses. "i would sire as many kids as my husband desires." you are afraid of pregnancy and even more so of raising kids. "of course I read byron!" you hate byron's poetry.

gojo is content, and you, tired of all the stares and hushed whispers that have followed you through the night, leave to get fresh air outside in the terrace. only to overhear:

"a bit simpleminded. has no opinions of substance that should cause conflict. she's perfectly fine for a wife. i shall begin courting her and will soon pro---"

at that moment, you have one thought in your mind: you will never marry satoru gojo. in fact, you abhor him.

cue insults thrown back and forth. when it comes down to having to marry gojo, the most eligible bachelor and the option that will make your parents the proudest, will it be a matter of fillial piety or...love?

dear reader, this season has definitely come forth with many promises of thinly veiled hatred, jealousy, and burning passion.

oops this is longer than the silly little thought i wanted to post but welp. the smut i have planned for this is outright nastyyy

comment if you'd like to be on the taglist for this

i also promise i have not forgotten about beach boy gojo :3 running into a bit of writer's block for that so my inbox is always open for ideas <3

[ozzgin]

I'm the anon who asked if your requests are open and i got busy assignments + presentations that i almost forgot about the request but now i remembered and it's based on my dream i saw that night..

How about a vampire who lost his relic (presumably a ring) and reader happens find it and tries it on, now the vampire is all panicking because guess what? That was a betrothal relic and it has binded the vampire's soul with the one of reader. They can't pull it out/take it of.. oh well, now they are stuck and obviously the vampire hates the idea of being stuck with a pesky human but hey they are kinda stupid..? How tf they tripped on thin air? Or how they are still alive even after being food poisoned 5 times a month? Vampire is now babysitter for his human *sighs * what has he gotten himself in..

(Please add yandere elements later on, my brain stoopid but i want a hot Victorian era vampire being obsessed with me ^^ muah!)

(I'm sorry this is so lengthy TT)

Yandere! Vampire x Reader

Featuring a ridiculously lucky Reader who constantly manages to escape a Vampire's assassination attempts. Did someone order a supernatural edition of enemies to lovers?

Content: gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior, mentions of stalking, romcom

[Monster masterlist] [Original works masterlist]

"Are you alright, (Y/N)?" your friends gasp in unison, eyes fixated on the fallen ceramic pot that scarcely missed you, now laying shattered at your feet. You laugh reassuringly and wave your hand in dismissal. "It's the fifth time it happens today. Maybe there's a storm coming?"

From within the shadows, menacing eyes glowing red follow your movements. "Damn it!" The mysterious man curses under his breath. He stares enviously at the bulky ring on your finger. The ring bearing his Family signet, where part of his very soul resides. It has stayed with him for centuries, and somehow, to his utmost shame, he lost it. By the time he rushed back to retrieve it, you were carelessly sliding it down your finger. He wanted to strangle the life out of you right then and there, but he felt it: the immediate surge of contractual power, dominating his will and holding him back from breaking your bones. "It's a little tacky, isn't it?" your friend remarked. You nodded in agreement and tried to remove it, but the metal band tightened around your skin, painfully constricting your digit. It was stuck. It was too late.

Now he has to rely on cheap trickeries like this one. Sure, he may not be able to directly plunge his fangs into your neck, but the bonding curse does not shield you from "accidents", you see. It would be a real shame if that flower pot was to land straight into your head, ending you instantly and thus breaking the connection with him. Except you simply refuse to die. A mystery, a paradox, one that enrages him to no end. It's almost as if the ring is bringing you fortune at the cost of his misery.

"Have you had any luck removing that ugly thing?" the person standing next to you mentions. The vampire lord grits his teeth at the blasphemous words. This is what's become of him: a deceitful buffoon, having to sit and listen to his inheritance being mocked relentlessly. He holds back the urge of shouting that thousands have bled to death in order to forge that magnificence. "Not at all", you respond idly. "I tried taking it to a jeweler, and she said she could try to cut it, but she ended up having a heart attack right in the middle of it. She didn't even look that old, maybe it runs in her family?"

Unbelievable. The thought of reclaiming his relic haunts every second of his day, to the point he's become your shadow. Stalking your every move, your every breath, observing his prey and waiting for an opportunity to strike. He can already picture that pathetic face of yours, twisting in pain, begging for-...huh. Well, look at that, you're reading one of his favorite books. Perhaps you do have a little taste, after all. It won't save you from your terrible fate, but he might skip the prolonged torture.

There's plenty of quotes out there about knowing your enemy in order to guarantee your victory, though one might wonder where the limit of such knowledge resides. Or what counts as useful to begin with. The vampire lord is presently wondering about this very aspect, as he mouths your coffee order from a distance. Less sugar, huh? You did mention losing your sweet tooth. He shakes his head indignantly. Absolutely not! The throb of his heart is fueled by raw hatred and nothing else. One of days he will savour your demise.

Your ridiculous luck might just end today. You've taken a shortcut on your way back home, and didn't expect a shady, burly man to block your exit. A perverted grin stains his face as he approaches you, twiddling with his pocket knife. "Alone at this hour?" You frown and try to find a way out, but the man suddenly begins to heave and convulse before your eyes, grasping at his chest as the skin shrivels and dries. He collapses at your feet, body wilted as if it's been emptied of its vitality. The Vampire Lord clicks his tongue.

To think he'd rush to rescue his sworn enemy, a pitiful mortal like you. He didn't even get the chance to consider the aftermath. You stare at the stranger, confused but observant. Pale skin, crimson eyes, unnaturally sharp canines...and the fact he just drained a living being into a bloodless corpse: everything hints to one possibility. "Are you by any chance a vampire?" you find yourself mumbling. "You must've graduated from Harvard with those deduction skills", he responds sarcastically.

Everything else unfolds in a haze. Wasn't he planning to kill you and retrieve his ring? When the hell did he offer to walk you home to avoid more creeps? Why is he twirling his hair sheepishly whenever you praise his demonic powers? Oh, but it gets worse: why did he suddenly feel the urge to kiss you before returning to his cursed lair? Why did he accept your invitation to spend the night at your place instead? One moment ago, he was doing his best to curse you off this Earth. Now he's tugging stray strands of hair away from your blushing, whining face, asking you if it hurts. Damned human.

"How did you know I like this? Have you been stalking me?" you joke, nudging your undead boyfriend and setting the gift aside. "More or less", he confesses with a yawn. He recalls all that time spent dutifully spying on your oblivious self. "You know, a human like you shouldn't be able to dodge death like that." He turns to you and scans your features. Then, abruptly embarrassed, he ruffles your hair to block you from noticing his blush. "I suppose my failure was the better outcome. It's not too bad, having you around."

[thewritetofreespeech]

In the Dark

pairing: Aemond x Targaryen!reader [Rhaenyra & Daemon's daughter]

summary: one night, while coming back from the Street of Silk, Aemond runs into an all too familiar figure in the dark. request from @brideofcthulhu10

tags: married reader, targaryen incest, tw: knives, tw: mentions of potential SA

-------------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

The Street of Silk was never quiet, but they were usually a bit more subdued this time of night. Aemond had planned for it this way.

Leaving the comfort of the palace to find comfort somewhere else, the prince always snuck out under the cover of darkness and returned just the same. No one the wiser. No one able to catch him and mock that he would be out here with whores instead of in bed with his wife. No one able to know what he was really doing here….

The prince adjusted his cloak to pull around him to make his way back to the secret tunnels of the castle. He rounded the corner and paused as he caught a glimpse of another figure in the streets. Not unusual, but not the usual sort either. Aemond’s good eye scanned the potential witness and noticed that their cloak was made of much finer material than any other in Flea Bottom. Too nice for peasants, though it clearly made efforts to seem plain.

Aemond growled through his teeth as he realized who it was. Even with the cloak, those whisps of silver hair that snuck out of the hood are a dead giveaway. Although Aemond had already memorized the gait. “What are you doing out here?” He hissed at his wife as he appeared behind her like a shadow.

You spun around fast. Wide eyed in startled fear, which quickly faded when you realized it was him. An odd feeling for Aemond, as it was usually the other way round when people realized it was him. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“What are you doing out here?” He repeated, still hissing, but more from the whispering now. “What are you doing outside the castle, alone, at night, without an escort?!” His blood boiled with each new remark to his list. Aemond thought his wife clever for a time, but he would have to rethink that in this lunacy.

You glared at him. “I do not need an escort.” You insisted. “And what are you doing out here? Last you told me; you would be with Ser Cristion for the night.”

The apple of his throat bobbed, but Aemond refused to admit he gulped at the accusations of his wife. True, they were both at fault here. Sneaking out unbeknownst to their people and partner. The only difference was that Aemond’s transgression did not come with the inherited danger a young lady, alone, in the middle of the night had. Your life was not your own now, and Aemond was angry that you were being so careless with it.

“That is immaterial. You do need an escort. What if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

“I can handle myself, Aemond.” You continued to insist. Why did the Gods have to give him such an infuriating woman as a wife? “I’m not the soft petal that other women in the palace are. I’m a Targaryen.”

True, you were not as soft as the other ladies. Rhaenyra may bare bastards left & right, and Daemon may be an opportunistic lech, but they had done right by their daughter. Teaching you to not only be an adequate lady of court, but also a skilled rider, both of dragon & horse, and how to defend yourself. Targaryens were never short of enemies. It was best to be prepared. But their Targaryen jewel had not been trained in the same way Aemond had. More how to hold a knife and properly thrust when the moment came, but not actually overcome a group of attackers if swarmed.

“Targaryen’s bleed just as much as anyone, ābrazȳrys.” Aemond told her. Stepping close. You predictably take a step back away from his ire. “We are not immortal like our beasts. What would you have done if I had been another man? Two men? Twenty?”

Your back eventually hit a walk. Locked on with Aemond’s eye as you felt a swell of fear in your belly at his words. “I…I would run away.”

Aemond cruelly laughed at your answer. “You would outrun twenty men? You’re fast, byka ābrazȳrys,” he remembers the races they had when they were children, before he sprouted to his current height, “but not fast enough to outrun twenty.” He then used that impressive height of his to quell around you. His arm coming up to place his hand against the wall. Blocking one exit. “What would you do if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

There was a tense moment between you. You felt trapped. You have to force your body to stay still and not tremble. “Stop it Aemond.” You hiss as you try to push him away. He’d made his point. Perhaps this was a bad idea. But you would never admit it.

“Who's Aemond?" Your eyes flickered up to him as Aemond’s voice sounded different. Void of the subtle hints of affection he had for you, and stone cold. A blade was suddenly out from by his pocket and by your throat. “I'm just a faceless, masked man in the dark.”

Your back went straight against the wall as you tried to create as much space as possible between you, Aemond, and the knife. “S-Stop it…”

“Make me.” Was his reply. “You’re a strong, capable Targareyn, aren’t you? Make me stop.”

You realize you can’t. You’re too afraid. This was indeed Aemond, your husband who loved you, but your mind kept thinking on what if this wasn’t Aemond. What if this had been a strange man in the dark? What is this wasn’t a test but truly real? An enemy of your mother? An enemy of Aemond? Or just a man like so many in the city who pulled women into dark alleys and forced them to their needs? What if this had been real?

Aemond saw the fear welling up inside you as tears came to your eyes in panic. He put the knife away and leaned in to give you a kiss. His build softening around you as the point had been made and the ‘game’ was over. You cling to Aemond in relief. Like a life raft out to sea. Overcome with emotions you kiss your husband desperately in a manner unbecoming of commoners in an alley, much less royalty.

Aemond kissed you back with equal fervor. Never missing an opportunity to kiss you. Relief also washed over him as well, thinking on the what-ifs if he had not run into you and another man did. What could have happened to you. The prince growled possessively at the thought and ran his hands over your body to claim it from these imaginary brigands. You moaned against his lips. Breasts heaving as you pant against him while his knee slid up between your legs as he bucked against you. “Let us go home issa jorrāelagon.”

You nodded fervently. You just wanted to go home now. Be with your husband. Be in the palace walls. Be safe.

The prince released you and the two of you walked back through the cobblestone streets for the tunnels. “Why are you out here anyway, issa jorrāelagon?” He realized you had never answered him.

“Father told me once of a spot past the Iron Gate that, if you look out at it at sunrise, you can see Valyria.” Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye. What a ridiculous story. Valryia was leagues away. He’d barely come close to it on Vhagar; though in truth he would never fly near the place after what happened to Princess Aerea. “I know it’s silly, but I wanted to see it.”

“Why now?” He asked. You had lived in King’s Landing on & off for most of your life. Had you wish to see ‘The Valyrian Sun’ (yes, he knew what she was talking about) you could have done so at any time before. Why now, alone, when such danger was about for them?

“In times of trouble, I look to the Old Gods more, like your mother looks to the Seven.” Daemon’s influence, no doubt. Or perhaps it was just her own. Aemond parroted the phrases and did the prayers when asked by his mother, but he would not truly say he was bound to one set or the other. “I thought it might bring me some clarity on things. Some answers.”

“Answers on what?” You don’t answer, which made Aemond suspicious, but he doesn’t pry further. “Why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?”

“I thought you wouldn’t go if I told you it was something my father taught me.”

He frowned. Did you really think him that petty of the man that he wouldn’t go just because Daemon Targaryen taught of it first. “Come. This way.”

You do not have time to react as Aemond took your hand and pulled you down a different alley. “Where are we going?”

“The proper way.” He told you. “You were headed for the Dragon’s Gate. Yet another reason why you need an escort.” You frown at Aemond’s slight but follow after him.

The two of you meet the ‘Valyrian Sun’ together. There is no cast of Old Valyrian in the sun beams, nor any of the answers you seek. But when you turn to look at Aemond amongst the sunrise, you feel some kind of peace. Some kind of answers. “Let’s go home.”

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Steve Harrington is a “Primadonna” and Electra Heart girlie and Eddie Munson is “Shampain” and The Family Jewels girlie and I will NOT be accepting criticism

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[europesroyalsjewels]

Bering Ruby Necklace ♕ King Charles III    

[erynalasse]

I think that up until the Fëanorions swore the Oath and killed for it, they absolutely had inheritance rights over their father’s treasures.

In canon, Thingol claimed what were basically finders-keepers rights to Lúthien’s Silmaril. If he’d done that without the murders—and I think he would have—most of Beleriand would probably have condemned it. Murder, again, is not the correct response to this hypothetical, but I think imposing sanctions and demanding it back would have been fair. Again, it’s an inheritance! Thingol doesn’t have any rights to this Silmaril, and neither do his descendants. That’s true whether or not the Kinslayings happened.

But see, I don’t think the Fëanorions deserve the jewels either. The general laws of inheritance hold here, but they matter much less than why the Fëanorions should be rewarded for murder with the things they murdered people for. It’s very much a “yes but” situation.

A distant relative is my vote. Or I think Maglor and Maedhros had the right idea with tossing them away where people couldn’t find them.

[kafk-a]

yday i learned that in 1959 while traveling w her nieces my great-grandmother was held at knife point because she was adorned w jewels from head to toe (lol ?) to which she reacted by simply taking the knife by the blade in her right palm . arms unmoving and unflinching eye contact until her hand started to bleed until the man fled w shaky knees and jumped out of a moving train. like ... this is my lineage. this is what i am literally made of. i have inherited the same unfearing loving disposition from her and my grandmothers and my mother. the same courage and relentless optimism also courses through my blood. this is who i am. why should i ever be scared of anything

[sugurugetos]

Sauron was greater, effectively, in the Second Age than Morgoth at the end of the First. Morgoth squandered his power of being in the endeavour to gain control of others. [...] Morgoth at the time of the War of the Jewels had become permanently incarnate; for this reason he was afraid, and waged the war almost entirely by means of devices, or of subordinates and dominated creatures. Sauron, however, inherited the corruption of Arda, and only spent his (much more limited) power on the Rings; for it was the creatures of earth, in their minds and wills, that he desired to dominate. In this way Sauron was also wiser than Melkor. Sauron was not a beginner of discord; and he probably knew more of the Music than did Melkor, whose mind had always been filled with his own plans and devices, and gave little attention to other things. 

[cupids-chamber]

— THE CONCUBINE GAME !! | chapter one . . . The first chapter, where you'll be able to catch a climpse of the inner dynamics between the emperor's y/n's secretary and their personal guard, a small entry and brief taste of what's to come, while learning a bit more about our beloved emperor and their staff . . .

— Themes ; Harem / historical au , Twisted wonderland , multiple characters x reader , royalty au , includes rsa + yuuka/yuuken. ♡

The wind was howling, the pitter patter sound of rain could be heard throughout the grand walls of the palace. The sound of heels clicking urgently on the wooden floors, echoing through the empty halls, as Yuuken rushed his way through to the emperor's chambers. It was late, yet he’d been overworked all week preparing the palace for the arrival of certain selected members of the Royal Harem, some were particularly demanding with the way they wanted things sorted out and Yuuken prided himself on never failing to impress. 

He banged on the door rather aggressively, “Your majesty, I have certain design plans I need you to finalize before Prince Leona’s arrival, and the first few concubines enter the palace, we don’t have much time!”, he yelled out trying to get the emperor’s attention, it was already late into the night and the palace staff were working overtime meeting every demand that they were given. 

Yuuken flinched feeling something touch his shoulder, and right before he could move back and attack, he heard an all too familiar voice—”Don’t bother trying to get their attention, Y/n’s at a meeting”—Yuuka spoke, a small grin on her face while she watched Yuuken try and collect himself, “This late?”, he asked confused, “also please try and address them by proper titles in public”; Yuuka shrugged in response, pausing for a moment before she spoke up once more, “I’d like to keep things the way it is, and you should probably take a break because they’re not coming out of the room at all, it’s something about politics . . . I wasn’t really paying attention”. 

Yuuken sighed, slumping his shoulders as he leaned onto the door of the Emperor's chamber, “I-i . .  just want everything to be perfect, everything’s been so . . hectic for their majes—y/n and I just really want to provide some stability, you know?”, he said softly, letting his exhaustion take over for a moment and Yuuka’s expression softened, “Hey—you’re doing great, there's a reason y/n gave you full creative liberty”, she ruffled his hair giving him a genuine smile, “don’t push yourself too hard alright? None of us are expecting you to be perfect, not even y/n . .” she finished, as Yuuken closed his eyes and whispered a small, “I know . . .”

Setting: Meeting room Location: The west wing. Time: 11:36pm 

You fiddle with your fingers, trying to shift the jewelry that you were covered in, in an attempt to feel more comfortable with the weight that the jewels provided, holding you down . . , as another argument ensues between the nobles, these past few days have felt like a choir, in fact most of the months since you ascended have felt terrible, nothings been exciting—from inheriting an empire doomed to fail, to trying to pick up the scraps of what was left of your fathers reckless decisions and fixing it into something at least palatable, the pressure of everything has left you in a bottomless pit, you needed freedom a refreshing start—something you lost—when you inherited the throne . . . 

“—Ah, your majesty?”, one of the nobles spoke up, and you bit your lip, how you hated that title, the moment you inherited this role, your friendships haven’t quite been the same, everyone who you’ve trusted in the past, have now become just another subject, trust is no longer something you earn, as loyalty and trust is to be expected when the crown is on your head.

Setting: Inner Cold Palace Garden Location: Rundown Gazebo Time: 12:46am 

"—and they never thanked me'', Yuuken hiccuped out, words slurring due to his alcohol intake, he waved the half finished bottle of some form of expensive imported wine in his hands, swinging it around dramatically; Yuuka chuckled, taking a sip from her glass as she looked around at the scenery of the garden—it used to be much prettier and well taken care of, way back before the previous emperor—y/n’s father—went haywire. . . 

"Hey Yuuken, remember when we used to play together here?" she asked without thinking, meeting his eyes for a brief moment all the while Yuuken took another big gulp from his wine bottle . . and then he spoke, "Yeah—you and y/n pushed me into the lake, I still hate the water", he slurred over his words slightly and Yuuka chuckled in response, if only things could've stayed as simple, but now Y/n didn't even have the time to maintain the garden where they're friendship once first blossomed, Yuuka sighed, leaning her head down on the table—which had seen better days— . .  the same could be said about their relationship with y/n themselves . . 

Masterlist | Introductions (being reworked) | Next chapter

♡. Synposis ; After many months of persuading, the emperor, Y/N L/N had finally agreed to take in a select few concubines and consorts—not an official partner.. but concubines. This caused an uproar in court; however the emperor promised to choose an official partner; amongst the crowd of concubines and consorts.. Who will the emperor choose?

— taglist ♡ (open) : . . tumblr is not letting me mention over 5 people per post, and the staff won't do anything about it, so I recommend just joining my server and picking out the new chapter ping role as it makes things easier for me.

© cupids-chamber, do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation.

[skzdarlings]

omg that sounds so fun!!!! (Sorry if this was quick I have your post notifs on) imma jump on this early!!! can we get “do you really think you’re in a position to give orders?” W changbin? 😩😩😩

summary: you are in love with the son of your family's greatest enemy. he sneaks into your room one night after a party.

pairing: seo changbin/reader content info: petite!reader. mentions of past body insecurities. romeo-and-juliet style love affair. sneaking around. gun play that is somehow more romantic than kinky but still kinda kinky. explicit sexual content. word count: 2900 words.

-

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy!

-

You catch his eye across the room. 

There are a hundred people between you, bustling in their designer gowns and glittering in their jewels.  The hotel ballroom is an incandescent chamber of silver light.  The sun has long since set but the party plays on in its excessive splendour, never tiring of itself. 

You are tired of it.  The glamour of this lifestyle has turned more tedious than not.  At the centre of all this majesty is money, and everyone in this room prioritizes their wealth and capital above everything else.  They have fought and slandered and killed each other and they will do it all again, but they throw their galas nonetheless. Places to celebrate themselves and their so-called achievements, to flaunt their successes in self-congratulation. Everyone laughs and dances, spinning around the ballroom, sipping their champagne. 

You smile and demur, pretending you are having a good time.  You sit with your family and only interact with their trusted allies or those who would be. 

He is vehemently not included in that. 

Seo Changbin. 

He is across the room with his family, your family’s greatest enemy.  Your father and his father are titans of business and the family rivalry spans generations.  It started with your great-grandparents and you are destined to uphold it.  You will marry an appropriate man of standing, someone who will expand the empire, someone whose allyship is worthwhile in both the monetary and social strata.  You will have children and raise them to take your place, to inherit your name and all the blood and money that comes with it.  

Those same expectations are on your enemy.   You hold gazes across the sparkling sea of people.  You look away first. 

You are coerced onto the dance floor by one of your father’s chosen men.  You join that sparkling sea. It is always bizarre to brush elbows with these people, knowing very well they would not hesitate to put a bullet in your head under any other circumstance.  You catch the sight of a few discreet weapons as you are twirled around the dance floor.   Ostensibly, weapons are not allowed inside the gala as fighting is prohibited, but these people always take their precautions. 

Your dance partner spins you.  You twirl as per the dance, then stumble to a halt because Changbin is standing there.  He is dancing with someone too, has them spun out the opposite way.  You stand in the middle of the ballroom looking at each other, faces equally stoic. 

He is dressed in all black, austere and intimidating.  His black hair falls in a sweep across his forehead, just this side of too-long so it obscures his eyes if he tilts his head a certain way.  He is always so meticulously hidden in public, nothing but a walking shadow.  He is a dark reflection of his family and their grim reputation.

But his jovial laughter is in your mind, his witty quips, his jokester nature.  He is devastatingly charming and endlessly humorous. 

You would never know just looking at him.  Changbin is not the tallest man in the room but he more than compensates with his bulk and power.  Pretty much anyone would be big next to you, but you know what your hand looks like when laid against his, how all encompassing the breadth of his big arms feel when they wrap around you. 

He does not touch you.  He looks.  He smirks, like he knows your heart is racing.  Then he spins away.  Your partner pulls you back. 

The dance continues.

-

You say you are sick and leave the party early.  You are escorted back to the house with your usual security flank, sitting in the backseat of your limo with a guard on either side of you.  They wear bulletproof gear under their uniform, matching pale blue in the family’s colours, and wearing bulky glasses to shield their eyes.  They are all armed to teeth, wearing their holsters and belts.  They dwarf you almost comically.  They do not speak to you.

When you reach the house, you go straight to your bedrooms.  You have three rooms to yourself, each lonely space spilling into the next.  You dress in your closet, leaving the gown pooled in a silk mess on the floor.  You discard your jewelry and amble to your main room in a satin nightdress and robe.

You almost miss it, the sound so faint, but you swear a gentle knocking comes from your balcony doors.  They are still sealed shut.  Security did not notice anything remiss upon arrival, but there is a blind spot in the security camera on your balcony.  There are no cameras inside your room for privacy purposes.  But no one would know that unless you told them.   

And you have only told one person. 

You approach the balcony doors, wary.  You peer into the night, eyes roving the grand expanse of the brightly lit garden and swimming pool.  Wind rustles through the leaves of the trees and a security guard is finishing his round. 

You step onto your balcony slowly.  The security guard can only see you when you lean over.  He waves at you before leaving the yard, continuing the rest of his patrol elsewhere.   You watch him go. 

The world is quiet as it ever is.  You can hear the buzz of the pool lights and the tinkling of your wind chimes, little else.  You lean against your balcony railing and look over the yard.  You weigh the luxury of the estate against its cost.  Not for the first time, you ruminate on how it is absolutely not worth it. 

You sigh and turn.  Then you freeze at what, who, you find. 

You mistake him for a security guard for half a second, which nearly gives you a heart attack because they are never on your balcony.  But he is just wearing one of their uniforms.  You are not sure when he stole it, tonight or previously.  

Seo Changbin stands there in the blue uniform shirt and gun holster, winking at you behind bulky glasses.  He is pressed against the wall in the solitary blind spot, nodding his head to your balcony door.  If you open it a little wider, he can sneak in undetected. 

Like he has done a dozen times before. 

You feign nonchalance for the camera, humming to yourself as you step into your bedroom.  You push your door open all the way, positioning yourself in distracting view of the lens while he sneaks inside.   Then you follow and slam the door shut.  You both take a curtain and draw them together, meeting in the middle. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say.  It is not what you want to say.  You want to say, thank god you are here.  I missed you so much.  But that is an utterly foolish proclamation.  You know better.  You have always known better. 

But the son of your family’s greatest enemy is standing in your bedroom anyway.  He looks at you, at where you clutch your robe, at where you wet your lips.   He removes the glasses and tosses them aside, as if to study you more closely. 

“I shouldn’t,” he says.  You cannot tell if it is an agreement or a question. 

“No, you shouldn’t,” you say.  You take a step back, because every second in his proximity only compels you closer.  It is surer than a planet caught in a gravitational pull, threatened to be shattered by the sheer cosmic power of the star holding it in orbit.

He steps with you.  When you take another step, he follows.  Back and back and back.  He feels big in this space.  Even though your room is massive, his presence shadows your little world.  When your back hits the wall and he looms in front of you, he is all you can see.  Nothing else exists beyond him. 

“Changbin, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you say, though you know it is useless to protest your liaison with any logic, because this is a matter of the heart and not mind.  That rebellious heart of yours beats faster.  “If anyone found you here… we’d both be in so much trouble.” 

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he says.  He speaks with such easy confidence, like it is a matter of fact and not hope.  He says it so certainly that you almost believe him. 

“You can’t promise that,” you say. 

“Yah, shame on you,” he teases.  “You know I always keep my word.” 

It is true.  Though Changbin has a formidable reputation, it has little basis in actuality.  He is a man of strong moral principle.  He does not like the fighting and brawling and warring.  He does not hurt innocent people, nor does he put civilians at risk for the sake of a stupid business. 

And he has treated you with more loving respect than anyone else in your life. 

Of course you surrender to him, again and again, sighing now as you lean against the wall and release your robe.  It falls open and reveals your little nightdress.  His gaze dives down your body, igniting sparks inside you.  You were once insecure about your appearance, taking to heart your mother’s admonishments, that you were scrawny and gaunt, nothing but a burden as they struggled to find a match for you. 

It is no struggle for Changbin.  He curses even though he has seen you a dozen times.  He holds your hips, then runs his strong hands up your body so you shiver all over.  He cups the back of your head and draws you close, like he intends to kiss you.  You are ready for it, eyelids heavy and lips parting. 

With his other hand, he reaches for his chest holster.  You blink as he slowly draws the gun, as he brings it closer to you.  It feels like your whole body turns to liquid heat, heart thundering as he rests the barrel so delicately against your temple. 

“See, baby,” he says, “if they find us, they’ll blame me.  What was a little thing like you supposed to do, ah?  Fight me?” 

You are breathing harder, already so hot with anticipation.  You gasp when he tugs you closer still, the gun still tapping your temple. 

His lips are so close to yours, they almost touch.

“Poor baby,” he says.  “She’s so good to her family.  It’s not her fault Seo Changbin climbed in her window and fucked her in her little nightdress.”  He moves the gun, making your breath catch again.  The barrel touches your lips then moves down, down.  It brushes a sensitive nipple, then moves lower still.  The cool metal brushes your inner thigh under your nightdress and your knees starting shaking, a delicious heat twisting in your belly.  “Tsk, tsk,” he says.  “No panties.  Maybe it’s not my fault completely.” 

“We really shouldn’t do this,” you say, but it is still not what you want to say. I want you, I need you, so so badly.

He smiles and lifts the gun again, all the way up to your mouth where he taps your lips.

“Do you really think you’re in a position to give orders?” he asks.

It is so funny; Changbin is holding a gun to your lips but you feel more safe than dancing among those people at the party.  You trust him so completely, so irrevocably, that you do not feel truly threatened for even a moment.  There is something so liberating and joyous in allowing your body to go completely lax, in forgetting all your many grievances for the short but blissful time you have with him.  Your heart is so full you could burst. 

You kiss the tip of the gun, then smile. 

“Well,” you say.  “What are you waiting for?” 

He tosses the gun onto the bed so he can hold you with both hands when he kisses you.  You moan against his lips.  His searching hands are careful where he touches you, squeezing and loving. He cups the small curve of your breast in his palm, rubs there until electric desire shoots to every extremity.

You shrug your robe off and he wastes no time gathering you into his arms. He holds you so securely, picking you up with no effort at all.  Then you are pressed against the wall with him pressed against you. 

“Yes, yes,” you say, gasping, as he kisses down your neck.  He hikes you higher, catching you effortlessly, guiding your legs around him as he kisses down to your breasts.  He wraps his lips around a nipple through your dress, making you clench your thighs around him, which makes him giggle like the maniacal tease he is. 

“You like that,” he says, and tugs your dress down to get his mouth on you properly.  He is so good with his tongue.  You feel a little giddy, thinking to yourself that it is his true weapon.  Fast, precise, teasing you and working you until you are tugging at his head and grinding against him. 

“I need you,” you say, breathlessly, “Changbin, Changbin—”  

You seldom take your time, given the danger of the situation.  With the house empty and both your families occupied, you have time tonight to go a little slower, but you simply cannot wait.  You are both accustomed to instant satisfaction when together.  Your body feels wrong without him inside it.  You need him like a breath of air. 

“Please,” you say.

You do not have to beg much.  He fiddles with his belt and his zip, then he repositions you.  You cover your mouth to catch your squeal when he pushes inside you.  He moans into your neck to stifle his own sounds. 

“Baby, so good for me,” he murmurs, sounding intoxicated from the silky feel of you, wrapped around him so completely. 

You know the feeling.  You are incapable of forming sentences, clinging to him desperately as he fucks you steadily against the wall.  He holds you with just one arm, the other palm planted flat to the wall, near your head.  You clutch his big bicep while your other hand sinks in the hair at his nape.   You fuck until he is close, when he carries you to the bed and lays you out. 

You lean forward and take him in your mouth, sucking him down until he comes.  He bites his wrist to keep his volume down. 

You wipe your lips, smiling.  Then you sprawl back on the bed, nightdress turned to little more than a sash around your middle.  You slide it off completely.  Even though he just came, he is already looking you with hungry eyes.  He puts a knee on the bed, evidently ready to pounce.   

You pick up the gun and point it at him, quirking a playful eyebrow.  He blinks at you, surprised, then smiles as well. 

“Baby,” he says.  “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Do you really think you’re in a position to give orders?” you reply. 

It just makes him laugh.  The sound makes your heart gush with sentiment.  He looks so handsome and sweet, hair pushed back, a light sheen of sweat on his neck.  He is still mostly dressed, tucked back into his pants, but they are open and slung low, his shirt all untucked. 

He gazes at you with deep, dark eyes, nothing but affection on his face.  He plays your game and strips his shirt off, then he crawls across the bed until he is close enough for you to rest the barrel of the gun against his temple. 

“Go on,” you say, nodding. 

Truly, his tongue is the greater weapon.  The gun does not stand a chance, falling out of your hand, forgotten, as he descends between your legs.  You feather his hair through your fingers, then dig into his scalp, riding the motion of his mouth as he licks and sucks and kisses you down there.   You come with a shivering sigh, your legs shaking. 

He lifts his head and wiggles his eyebrows.  “Good?” he asks, to which you can only nod.  “Ha-ha,” he says, lightly slapping your thigh.  “Of course it was.  It’s me.”

You laugh, shaking your head and playfully rolling your eyes. 

“You are incorrigible,” you say. 

He climbs up your body and kisses you on the lips, tasting of you.  It makes you whimper, delighted. 

“I think you meant to say incredible,” he teases.  “That’s okay, I understood you anyway.” 

“I’m sure you did,” you say.  Because there is a great deal of truth in that statement.  You and him are on opposite sides of this ridiculous feud, but you are in exactly the same place.  No one understands you better than him. 

That understanding is written all over his face.  He smiles tenderly, cupping your cheek in his hand.  His next kiss is the definition of romance itself, sweet and long, enough to make you swoon. 

“How much time do you think we have?” you ask.

“Not much,” he answers, then kisses you again.  “Don’t think about it now.  It’s okay, baby.  I got you.” 

“I know,” you say.  You wrap your arms around each other and hold tight, kissing again while you can.  The truth is, neither of you is in any position to dictate your fate.  But he kisses you like that does not matter, with no past and no tomorrow on the horizon.   You take control of this moment and consider it a happy ending for as long as you can.