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eleanor-bradstreet · 2 years ago

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Love to Spare - Part 6 (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader; Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Warnings (?): Angsty feelings, smooching Word count: 2k Part 5 Part 7 Masterpost

Summary: You receive a proposal at a moonlit ball.

The ball the following night was being held, of all places, at Bridgerton House. The viscountess’ chosen theme was ‘Midnight’, and the dress code called for dark hues of blue, the Bridgerton family color. You were outfitted with a gauzy navy gown smattered with sparkling silver embellishments, long silver gloves, and a glinting crystal tiara, filigreed with shapes of stars. You acknowledged how beautiful you looked, but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to appreciate it when you knew it was done to appease your new husband and make you worthy of display when your engagement was announced. Your stomach was rolling with anxiety all day and it only increased as the hours grew later.

Walking up to Bridgerton House was surreal. Seeing the elegant mansion that was Anthony’s property somehow made you feel small. Your nerves were at fever pitch contemplating what awaited you inside. This had been the entire purpose of your entry into society. It was what was necessary to protect your family’s welfare, it was what you had been readying for for weeks. And yet, now that it came to it, something inside you was trembling and not with excitement. You needed to see Anthony. You needed to tell him about Sir Edgar’s proposal and get his perspective and his blessing before you made the most significant commitment of your life. You needed to borrow some of his strength. But he would be playing host. You couldn’t take up too much of his time. And Benedict…you couldn’t even think about Benedict, or the cruel irony of getting betrothed to a Graham while in the Bridgerton home.

Your head was spinning so much by the time you entered the main hall, you felt faint. You begged off your mother for a moment of fresh air and stumbled out onto a small terrace that overlooked the back garden. The clear night was participating famously with Lady Bridgerton’s theme, as a large moon shone bright in the sky, casting stark shadows everywhere. You tucked yourself into a wisteria-choked corner away from the windows and wrung your hands, just trying to breathe.

A familiar voice broke through the stillness as if on cue. “Miss y/l/n?” Benedict, devastating in a dark blue ensemble, walked up the terrace steps from the garden, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You look…” He shook his head, gaping. “Tell me I’m awake because I fear I may have strayed into a dream.”

The poetic cheek did force a small smile from you. “You’re awake, Mr. Bridgerton. But please, the flattery isn’t helping my nerves.”

You resumed tugging at your gloves while his brow furrowed. “What is there to be nervous about?”

There was so much you wanted to tell him but couldn’t. Like the fact that the very sight of him, looking as handsome as he did, was only adding to your distress. You heaved a shaking breath. “I am expecting tonight will be…consequential.”

He paused and something seemed to shift in his eyes. That fathomless depth you had seen the night before was back. His voice reverted to that honeyed tone which made you lose all sense of time. “What a coincidence, I am expecting the same.”

You had no idea what he could mean. Was his family making some announcement? Would he be making his own proposal that night? Something icy clamped around your throat envisioning a smiling young woman taking his hand amidst applause. You silently chastised yourself. These thoughts simply had to stop. You tried to keep your voice cool and even. “And what consequences are you anticipating, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He stepped toward you, his long shadow starting to rise up the length of your dress. “Significant ones.” His voice had somehow lowered even further to a rumble.

“That my joy is multiplied.” Another step closer.

“That my heart is unburdened.” And another.

“That my very life is altered from this night forward.” He was looming over you, crowding out the moonlight as your back pressed against wisteria and brick, his dark eyes locked into yours.

Oh god…he couldn’t…this couldn’t be…he wasn’t…

But you could sense what was coming in your very bones, and despite how you knew you should protest, you didn’t. You swallowed thickly, offering up your last feigned attempt at ignorance in a choked whisper. “Significant indeed. What event could occur that would have so great an impact?”

“One which includes you.” Then his large hands gently cupped your face and his lips descended to yours, and colors exploded behind your eyelids that you had never seen in the natural world. You sank into the flowers behind you and his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady against him as his lips caressed softly.

When he pivoted his head, you panted, “Mr. Bridge…”

“Benedict.” He murmured against your lips, his voice reverberating into your chest. “Call me Benedict.” Then a second kiss, stronger, needier. You drank him in, savoring every detail, your body drawing you into him while your heart and mind warred in confusion.

He pulled back, his eyes alight in a way you had never seen.

“Benedict…” You breathed. The name so precious to you, used for the first time.

He held you, brushing his knuckles along your jaw as that crooked grin spread across his face. “Y/f/n, would it still your nerves if you spent the night on my arm as my fiancée? If this house suddenly became your family home?”

For just a brief moment your heart soared. Your most daring dream was yours for the taking. But then you thought of Anthony, of his reaction the night of your first ball, of all the help he had given you in securing an engagement from Sir Edgar. You began to stammer, feeling yourself torn in half a dozen directions.

Benedict stepped back and held your hands in his. “I can’t bear it any longer, this game of ours. You are a learned woman, trained to seek the truth. I believe you know my truth.” Then he sank to one knee, his grey eyes piercing in the moonlight as he looked up at you with a smile. “I want you to be my wife. I want your future and I want to make it everything you desire. Marry me, y/f/n.”

You couldn’t breathe. Nothing had prepared you for this. Somehow being offered the thing you wanted most in the world was only serving to break your heart. Though your lungs were struggling to work, your mind somehow snapped into focus. You were trained to untangle life’s messes by following the logical path, stating the facts, making your case.

“Benedict, I am courting Sir Edgar.” You said breathlessly.

His face fell a bit, but he shrugged off your statement. “You are not engaged to him. You can turn him down. Do you love him?”

You almost snorted at the simplicity of his question. Love was the last thing you had been worried about in your criteria for a husband. “Love is not the only factor in a successful relationship.”

At this he chuckled and stood again, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Spoken like a true solicitor.” Then he leaned in and whispered, his tone the very definition of seduction. “Consider these factors. My every waking thought is of you.” He kissed the skin below your earlobe. “Your name is on my lips every night.” Another kiss, lower on your neck. “And your face is in my mind every morning.” A kiss on your collarbone. “Every time we part, I’m driven mad waiting to see you again.” A final kiss just above the neckline of your dress. “I know that we suit one another.”

You shuddered at the heat of his lips and how he was reciting back to you all of the ways you felt about him. Your voice was shaking, “How do you know that?”

“Because of how you treat my brother. You care for him the same way I do. I didn’t know I’d ever meet a woman with the spirit and smarts to put up with the likes of him.”

Anthony. You had to remember Anthony and how he had forbidden this. You simply could not marry Benedict. Despite everything your body and heart were screaming for, you wouldn’t allow it to happen. It was too much entanglement. You didn’t want to be the cause of spite between these men that you cared for so deeply. You felt bitterness at being forced to choose and mocked him. “So a marriage would be convenient because I could help you look after him?”

He was taken aback. “No, no, it’s more than that.” He shook his head and took your face in his hands again. “You are so much more. You were building a life for yourself outside of all this.” He gestured vaguely back toward the house where the sounds of the party could be heard. “Do you know how rare that makes you? A jewel among pale stones.” He ran a thumb across your cheek and looked at you in that marvelling way again. “That is all I want too. Let me take care of you and we can build that life together. With passion, direction, a sense of purpose! Let me share in the beauty of your mind and your soul.” His hands travelled down the length of your arm and he brought your hand to his lips.

“You are exceptional.” His voice grew soft as he kissed your glove, the same way he had when you first met. “And I have felt exceptionally happy spending time with you.” He turned your hand and kissed your palm. “I love you, y/f/n. And will do so until my heart stops beating.” Then he held your hand to his chest.

Everything within you was shattering. You had never heard such beautiful words, and they were uttered by the most beautiful man you had ever seen. He could be yours, for the rest of your life. But at what cost? Your feelings for Benedict ran so hot, but you knew that your feelings for Anthony ran deeper. You could not betray your oldest friend, not even for a chance at what seemed to be perfect happiness. For all of your long years together, Anthony had always been a loyal friend. You owed him the same in return. Tears began to sting your eyes.

“Benedict, we can’t.”

He let your hand fall, pain creasing his brow. “Why not?”

Your voice was hoarse as you tried to keep from sobbing. “We would make a mess of things. It’s too complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all!” He threw his arms wide, desperation cutting into his words. “Do you have feelings for me or not? It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not.” You were crying freely now.

“It is!” He shouted, his voice wounded. “Either I’m mad or you’re not being honest. Look me in the eyes.” He closed in on you, searching your face. “I know you’re too ethical to lie to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you have felt nothing between us. Tell me how you truly feel.”

Blinded by your tears, all you could see was his anger. But you knew that if you were going to have one Bridgerton brother despise you, you would rather it was him. You needed to get out of there.

“I’m sorry.” You gasped, then tore away back into the house.

You somehow managed to find your mother and make it to a carriage before you broke down sobbing. She didn’t press you for an explanation, likely assuming that you were mourning your independence as you approached your engagement. All she did was soothe you and promise to sort everything out tomorrow. You hadn’t even seen Sir Edgar that night, nor Anthony, and you didn’t know when you would again. You didn’t know what you should say, or who you should say it to. You laid awake, tears running into your pillow, letting your sense of reason silence, for the final time, the protestations of your heart.

Tagging: @venomsvl @colettebronte @faye-tale who are following along so sweetly; and @makaylan @chaoticcalzoneranchsports to whom I apologize again for pain <3

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zackprincebooks · 3 months ago

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The Mistress of Rosehorn Hall, Chapter 3: The Meeting

The fated moment arrives:

Sarah feels halfway between meeting her future husband and meeting her undertaker. Her heart keeps beating like thunderclaps during a storm and despite not having eaten since she boarded the train, Sarah's stomach seems to be full of lime concrete. The staff of Rosehorn Hall seems to be utterly unaware of this, and everyone smiles and nods to Sarah excitedly as Josephine walks out with her. A butler whispers something to a maid, and she giggles, making the back of Sarah's neck prickle. Her giggling abruptly ceases with a singular look from Josephine. “Pay them no mind, Miss Linwood. We are all happy to finally have a Lady in residence.” Sarah makes a noncommittal noise in response. She's not focusing on what Josephine is saying; her gaze is focused solely on the smell of roses and the sight of the garden as they approach the garden terrace through a stone archway. She's not admiring the shine of the silver goblets under the gas lamps, she's not awed at the rising crescent moon over Briar Garden under the hill, she's not salivating over the delicious meal underneath glass and silver domes—no, Sarah's eyes are solely on the lanky figure rising from his high-backed chair as he walks slowly towards her.

Want to support me? You can buy me a pizza!

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the-other-art-blog · 4 months ago

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I wrote something...

Happy Sophie casting day! I can't believe it happened on a Friday afternoon.

I saw that rumor that the lake scene may be tones down and I never wanted something more. So, this is how I would handle that scene on the show.

You can read it on the link above or after the cut:

“Who is out there?” he called out.

Sophie froze. What was she supposed to do? Afraid and embarrassed, she closed her eyes tightly and stopped breathing, as if that would make her invisible. She prayed for a hole to open under the ground to escape.

“Sophie?!” He asked astonished that she was spying on him. “Good God, what the hell are you doing here?”

Sophie came out of the bushes and stood turning her back to Benedict while he got dressed. Now that Benedict knew she was there, a rush of embarrassment came over her.

“I went for a walk. What are you doing here?” she countered. “You’re supposed to be ill. That”—she waved her arm toward him and, by extension, the pond—“can’t possibly be good for you.”

Sophie kept her eyes on the knothole in the tree trunk in front of her, trying to ignore the sound of Benedict dressing up.

It was no use. She had a dreadfully wicked imagination, and there was no getting around it.

“You may turn around now.”

She turned her head around first to make sure he was, in fact, dressed. She was relieved and If she was to be honest with herself, a fair bit of disappointment, he was quite decently dressed, save for a smattering of damp spots where the water from his skin had seeped through the fabric of his clothing.

“Were you spying on me?” Benedict said with his charismatic grin.

“I wasn’t!” She said in an acute tone that betrayed her. His grin only grew.

“It’s very bad form to spy on one’s host,” he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.

“It was an accident,” she grumbled.

“Oh, I believe you there,” he said. “But even if you didn’t intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it.”

“Do you blame me?”

He grinned. “Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be offended,” he said.

“I’m not pretending.”

He leaned a bit closer. “To tell the truth, I’m quite flattered.”

“It was academic curiosity,” she ground out. “I assure you.”

His smile grew sly. “So you’re telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you’d come across?”

“Of course not!”

“As I said,” he drawled, leaning back against a tree, “I’m flattered.”

“Well, now that we have that settled,” Sophie said with a sniff, “I’m going back to Your Cottage.”

“Wait, Sophie,” Benedict said barely touching her arm to stop her.

“You have already embarrassed me beyond repair. What more could you possibly wish to do to me?” Sophie pleaded but she also didn’t move. “Please, let me go hide in a hole. You’re obviously not sick anymore. You don’t need me.”

“I’m not sure about that.” He said quietly, almost to himself.

Gently, he caressed the inside of her forearm, touching the inside of her elbow. Suddenly, Sophie wasn’t in Wiltshire on a lake, she was in Bridgerton House in Grosvenor Square, specifically on a private terrace with Benedict. Benedict was having a similar experience, although he was not sure why, only that this moment with Sophie had brought up sensations he hadn’t felt for anyone but the Lady in Silver.

The air suddenly felt hot, very hot, and Sophie had the bizarre sense that she no longer quite knew how to work her hands and feet. Her skin tingled, her heart raced, and the bloody man was just staring at her, not moving a muscle, not pulling her the final few inches against him.

Just staring at her.

“Benedict?” she whispered, forgetting that she still called him Mr. Bridgerton. He smiled. It was a small, knowing sort of smile, one that sent chills right down her spine to another area altogether.

“I like when you say my name,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to,” she admitted.

“So pretty,” he said softly, “like a storybook fairy. Sometimes I think you couldn’t possibly be real.”

Her only reply was a quickening of breath.

“I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered.

“You think?”

“I think I have to kiss you,” he said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. “It’s rather like breathing. One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”

Benedict’s kiss was achingly tender.

[There’s a big chunk from the book that I don’t want to copy, but I would leave it the same.]

“You’re crying,” Benedict said, touching her cheek.

Sophie blinked, then reached up to wipe away the tears she hadn’t even known were falling.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.

She shook her head. No, she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to kiss her just as he had at the masquerade, the gentle caress giving way to a more passionate joining. And then she wanted him to kiss her some more, because this time the clock wasn’t going to strike midnight, and she wouldn’t have to flee.

“Who are you, Sophie?” he asked. “Who are you, really?”

She spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you mean?”

“Something isn’t quite right about you,” he said. “You speak too well to be a maid.”

Her hand was nervously fidgeting with the folds of her skirt as she said, “Is it a crime to wish to speak well? One can’t get very far in this country with a lowborn accent.”

“You could be a governess.”

“I have no references. My previous employment didn’t end in the best circumstances and I was let go with nothing. I was lucky Mrs. Cavender accepted me without them, but she could only offer me a position as a housemaid. Besides, with only her in the house, she didn’t need another lady’s maid, let alone a governess.”

“You could be a lady’s maid,” he suggested. “At least then you wouldn’t be cleaning chamber pots.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

“A companion to an elderly lady?”

She sighed. It was a sad, weary sound, and it nearly broke his heart. “You’re very kind to try to help me,” she said, “but I have already explored all of those avenues. Besides, I am not your responsibility.”

“You could be.”

She looked at him in surprise.

He gently caressed her cheek, making her close her eyes momentarily to enjoy the feeling.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she yelped.

“Benedict,” he corrected, his lips at her ear.

“Come to London with me, Sophie. Come live with me,” he said gently.

“What?”

“Come with me. I can take care of you, you won’t need to worry about work ever again.”

“You want me to be your mistress,” she said flatly.

He gave her a confused look, although she couldn’t be sure whether that was because her statement was so obvious or because he objected to her choice of words. “I want you to be with me,” he persisted.

The moment was so staggeringly painful and yet she found herself almost smiling. “How is that different from being your mistress?”

“Sophie—”

“How is it different?” she repeated, her voice growing strident.

“I don’t know, Sophie.” He sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Sophie—”

“No. I can’t do this, Benedict,” she said, barely able to look at him. She took a couple of steps back.

Benedict cleared his throat, lowered his head, and looked to his left, clearly embarrassed to be rejected. In two years he hadn’t opened his heart to anyone. The heartbreak the Lady in Silver left and the hope to find her hadn’t let him. But now, with Sophie, the feelings of being with someone like in his past adventures came back. If he set a house for her, he could visit her.

“I better go.” She began walking towards the house.

“Wait, Sophie, let me explain,” he pleaded as he followed behind.

“You don’t have to, I understand perfectly what you mean. And the answer is no. Nothing you could say could make me become your mistress.” She said, not stopping.

“Alright, but we still need to go to London. I promised I would find you a job at my mother’s house.”

“And I told you I could find a job for myself. I’ll go to town and make inquiries, someone must be looking for a maid.”

“What if it’s another house like the Cavenders?” He asked concerned. Sophie stopped, right before she went into the house. She stayed quiet, visibly frustrated because he was right.

“Please, in my mother’s house, there’s only her and my young siblings. You will be safe there, well fed too. The staff is well paid as far as I know. My mother will find a post for you even without references. My sister Eloise is always in need of a maid, and Hyacinth could use another tutor.” He could see Sophie’s shoulders relaxing. He interprets it as a good time to come closer again. As she didn’t retreat, he reached her arm. “I won’t see you cast adrift.”

“I have been adrift all my life,” she whispered, and she felt the traitorous sting of tears prick her eyes. God above, she didn’t want to cry in front of this man. Not now, not when she felt so off-balance and weak.

He touched her chin. “Let me be your anchor.”

“I promise you’ll be safe. We could leave today after dinner or we can ask Mrs. Crabtree to prepare something for the trip and have dinner at an inn.”

“An inn?” She asked skeptical.

“There is no way we are reaching London within a day. We have to make stops to change horses regularly and eat something. I always stop at an inn in Oxfordshire. It’s a reputable place, I promise.”

Sophie considered her options. Benedict was right, he was her best shot, her only shot at safety. She hated that. She always hated being so vulnerable.

“Alright. I can go tell Mrs. Crabtree. Hopefully, she hasn’t begun making dinner.”

“I’ll prepare the phaeton.”

Sophie nodded weakly but made her way to the kitchen.

Notes:

What do you think? This way we don't get into very problematic territory. The proposal is still there because I think it's a necessary part of the story, but I reread the chapters for this and ugh, it's too much. I don't want to get too attached to rumors, but a toned-down lake scene is definitely on my wish list. So, they could replicate the same kiss they had at the masquerade, same gestures, hands position, etc. Just to show visually that it's happening again. I don't know, is that a good idea?

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #benophie #benedict x sophie #benophie wish list

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hopepaigeturner · 2 years ago

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Ahhh I’m literally living for your S4 theories/ideas posts please don’t ever stop! I’m curious though what would you like to happen at My Cottage and lake scenes? I really do hope they focus on establishing Benedict and Sophie’s emotional connection here but I worry they won’t want to spend more than an episode in this setting or without cutting to too many scenes back in London/the ton…

So, buckle in, here we go. (Lake scene will be in another post)

An Offer From an Avid Reader: The Importance of My Cottage Pt.2

This Pt.2 of my ideas concerning the S4 adaptation of the 'My Cottage' period in AOFAG. I've decided to split it up because...altogether I think it's too long for one post.

Pt.1= Why My Cottage is needed (here).

Pt.2= How Benophie's relationship could be developed during this period.

Pt.3= ,How these ideas would link in with an episodic structure and other S4 storyline. (analytically)

What needs to happen:

Pre-lake scene we need to see how perfect Benophie are for each other. We need to see their relationship grow from acquantances to friends (and more). The viewer needs to see easy intimacy, emotional bonding and the foundation fo theri friendship.

Key adaptation changes:

Firstly the structure/context of My Cottage period needs a couple tweaks.

First. Instead of transpiring over two days before Mr and Mrs Crabtree return-> this period should last atleast 3 weeks.

This time frame will allow a reasonable amount of time for the pair to develop friendship/ care for each other without any restrictions.

Idea: During the storm, a tree falls blocking the path. No one can get through—it is just them two in that house.

Second. Sophie has yet to recognise Benedict.

This will happen during the My Cottage period, but I feel delaying recognition will let the pair be on an even keel as they create this relationship. And come on, it took Benedict’s months to recognise Sophie, we can forgive Sophie for not recognising him for a few weeks.

To make this plausible, during the masquerade scenes, Benedict does not reveal his name. Yes, Sophie identifying him as ‘Benedict’ links with Benedict’s whole ‘not just no.2’ arc. But I also think this sentiment could work if the pair have been chatting for a while and their identities do come up. Benedict asks the question and Sophie replies—you are an artist. Not only would she not identify him as ‘no.2’ but identify him as his own person without the association with the Bridgertons. In Sophie’s eyes he is literally just ‘him’ (Benedict), just the person he has presented to her on that terrace—not his family nor his status. (Also, we don’t need to have the Colin interaction.)

Third. The viewer does not know details of Sophie's backstory.

The viewer can guess that Sophie=Lady in Silver. But they do not know anything else. While in the books JQ likes to dump the backstory at the beginning of the tale, I think it would be more suspensful and interesting for the viewer to gradually uncover it as the series goes on (Idea for another post).

Idea: Sophie taking care of Benedict

The first scenes at My Cottage is Sophie taking care of Benedict during his fever. And this would occur in the concluding scenes of Episode 1 and the opening of episode 2.

Mainly the lead up to this can match the book. The pair arrive in the storm; the exchange of Benedict not wishing Sophie to sleep in the servant quarters. Benedict’s cough worsening to fever, Sophie undressing him, getting him into bed etc. (And yes, let’s make this as COMEDIC as possible.)

The one thing I would change is the whole ‘kiss me’ fever scene. With Bridgerton’s current reputation concerning consent, I think Sophie kissing a fever-ridden Benedict would make matters worse. That does not mean we can’t have Sophie calming Benedict down during a fever or her sarcastic commentary during his groans and moans.

All of the above would be happening at the tail end of episode 1.

I have an idea that the end of the episode is Sophie snooping through Benedict’s things, finding his hidden sketchbooks and enjoying, appreciating his art. And just as she is about to turn the final page to see the final sketch—Benedict coughs horrifically and Sophie returns to nursing duties.

However, the camera stays focused on the sketchbook, the pages tumbling to a close, a ripped page slipping out—a sketch of the Lady in Silver uncannily similar to Sophie.

END EPISODE.

Opening of Episode 2: WARNING MAKE CONTAIN SPOONS

As stated above, it is my wish that Mr and Mrs Crabtree do not arrive for three weeks rather than after one night. Therefore, the ‘morning after’ scene in the book needs to be changed…

Benedict wakes up groggy, disorientated to find Sophie tucked into a chair, after caring for him. Benedict smiles at the sight before realising the peculiarities of the situation and wakes her up. Sophie startles awake and she explains the facts that Benedict does not remember.

A possible exchange:

“Well, well, quite forward of you to disrobe me.”

“You were shivering.”

“Did you at least appreciate the view?”

“I saw no view, thank you very much”.

The conversation keeps going on, the pair bantering and riling each other up (ensuring Sophie breaks the servant-meek-and-mild routine she instinctively adopts), before Benedict becomes exhausted again, allowing Sophie to flounce out in frustration muttering.

“I cannot wait to be rid of here. As soon as my clothes are dry I am gone.”

//SCENE//

“Damn it.”

Sophie dressed and looking up in horror at the mess of fallen trees completely blocking any exit.

//SCENE//

Sophie sitting down next to Benedict with a tray of food and announcing,

“We have a slight problem.”

“Hmm?”

“We cannot leave.”

“Whatever do you mean? Delicious food by the way.”

Sophie is a little flustered by the compliment and so the viewer realises that Sophie is not used to such kindness.

“None of us can leave until the tree blocking the entire road is cleared.”

While talking Benedict is surreptitiously moving food onto her plate after noting how hungry Sophie is.

“So, you are stuck with me.”

“I suppose I am.”

“For atleast a couple fo weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“My house is the furthest for the village and I obviously have lots of provision, so I always make sure the damage in the village is dealt with before me. I think you find we have enough food…”

Benedict continues to rib her for a little until he notices how nervous she is. He set the food aside and offers that, if Sophie wishes, they may keep separate lives during the period, then vows that he would never make untoward advances and her safety is of paramount importance to him.

Sophie accepts this but makes a quip that indicates that she does not necessarily wish for total separation. (“After all who is going to cook?”). She laughs away Benedict’s offer of culinary skills, and their banter turns into something softer, a little bit of ease slipping between the pair.

Eventually, Sophie bids him good night, Benedict eyes following her as she exits with a little smile.

“This should be interesting.”

*~*~*~*~*

I wish to point out that I don’t have too many concrete ideas for these scenes, so I do not mind if people can write a better one. What needs to happen (the objective) is that Benophie establish the first shoots of a bond/friendship and set up for the pair to bond further over this period.

Now, the following ideas are ones not in the book and just some ideas of how the Benophie romance could develop over the My Cottage period’. These ideas are not in the least bit prescriptive, but just ideas tat I feel serve the story, build the romance and also link in with my other ideas for events occurring later in the series.

Idea: Moment of Emotional Connection/Vulnerability

This is really important. I am an utter sucker for two characters connecting through emotions/past and being vulnerable to one another…

The evening after Benedict has healed, and Sophie has accepted to stay, she is trying to process everything and accidentally knocks over her water jug which crashes to the floor along with a framed portrait of Benedict’s father that gets ruined in the water.

Sophie instantly, hectically, tries to tidy up, but the whole situation triggers a memory. The viewer sees this memory in flashes; a disembodied voice full of fury; Sophie’s tears; the foreboding clack of heels along the corridor…

Benedict rushes to see what has happened to Sophie and instantly rushes forward to help her, calling her to get away just in case she is hurt. He does react to his father’s destroyed portrait, (a clench of his jaw perhaps) but as soon as he sees the pure terror in Sophie’s eyes he quickly tries to calm her down, and brings her over to the bed. Sophie at this point is still trying to apologise over and over again while she is in the midst of a panic attack.

And Benedict helps her calm down.

(This could be through any of the various techniques used to calm panic attacks down. I am most confident in the 54321 technique which goes through all the senses. But this is not necessarily prescriptive for the scene. The point is that Benedict somehow knows what he is doing and it works.).

Once Sophie is calm, (still apologising), Benedict realises that Sophie has cut herself badly on the jug. Benedict immediately brings her into his room and starts to clean the wound (after finding appropriate materials) regardless of Sophie’s protests until he says,

“Just stop complaining and let me take care of you.”

Sophie is stunned into silence, watching in disbelief as Benedict starts tidying her wound, his hands gentle, face concentrated on her.

I have written a much longer scene for this but basically, Benedict coaxes Sophie to open up about why she had the panic attack—even if that is a vague answer about bad treatment from an ‘old mistress’ (*wink* Araminta *wink*). And when Sophie starts to press about the picture, the topic stumbles onto Edward Bridgertons death.

Here Sophie continues to probe Benedict about how he grieved his father, because every time he answers he discusses how he helped all his other siblings during that tricky time (reading to Eloise, playing with Gregory, getting Francesca to talk etc.). Until the viewer and Benedict get to the realisation that he never actually grieved, instead took on the role of emotional support because of Violet’s depression.

Finally, after Benedict wrestles with this thought, he stumbles upon what he did do to grieve…he sketched. Telling a story about how his Grandma Alexandra always made him sketch with her every day for at least an hour. Sophie makes a comment about the sketchbooks he found whilst ‘snooping’ and Benedict firmly tells her he is not an artist, that it is a fantasy he has put aside. “That is a shame for you have the correct temperament for one.” she replies. Benedict looks at Sophie as if she is a marvel, causing the air to soften around them.

Benedict finally finishes bandaging Sophie’s hand (with tips from Sophie) and the topic turns to how the next couple weeks are going to work now that Sophie’s dominant hand is out of action. Benedict shuts down her insistence that she shall cope just fine. Then he offers to do the work. Sophie laughs but realises that Benedict is not joking. Benedict explains that with Sophie’s expertise and Benedict’s hands, the house could be kept to a liveable standard. A banterous back and forth ensues with Sophie and Benedict giving reasons until Benedict ask her to provide another solution. She cannot, so reluctantly agrees.

The scene ends with Benedict taking Sophie back to her room, the joviality of their banter falling away to leave something sweeter, something that reflects the moonlight shining down through the window.

“Good night, Benedict,” Sophie whispers. “And thank you—for everything.”

“Good night, Sophie,” and then he catches her hand and kisses it reverently. “Tonight, has meant more than you can imagine.”

And then he leaves, off down the corridor and back into his room.

Sophie shuts the doors and flops onto the bed with the first proper, teeth-smiling grin the viewer has seen so far in the series.

Benedict mirrors Sophie with the same soft smile before sighing with contentment.

END SCENE

Mhmm we get some ‘character who has never been cared for before finally receives care’ scenario going on—a common trope but nonetheless a golden one.

What I have outlined is not prescriptive, but the objective of the scene is to show Benophie providing emotional support for one another. For we have two caretkers here who do everything for other people. Yet who asks after the caretaker? In Benophie’s case, it is each other.

(Also, with the viewer not knowing Sophie’s backstory yet, it would give insight into Sophie a bit more).

If the show nails this then I'll be like...

Idea: Benedict Bridgerton being a domestic boi.

That's right ladies and gentlemen. It's Benedict turn to join the hapless helpless Bridgerton club.

ESTABLIHSING SCENE:

The next morning, after their emotional tete-a-tete, Sophie walks downstairs to find the kitchen in utter disarray. Benedict is standing in the middle swearing at the oven.

“What is going on here?”

Benedict swivels around.

“I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“I thought you had never cooked before?”

“Well how hard could it be!”

Sophie looks at the soot on his face and the countless matches around the oven—she raises an eyebrow

“Quite hard from the looks of it.”

Benedict is not pleased.

SMALLER MOMENTS:

So, Benedict starts his ‘education’ so to speak. And yes, he is terrible, and Sophie get a few good laughs out of it and the pair bicker and banter—but Benedict tries and gradually gets proficient. (In the montage you could have Benedict make Sophie a terrible cup of tea, then later in the montage we see him make a proper breakfast with nice tea).

And yes, we can get an obligatory Benedict-chopping-wood-shirtless scene because gosh this is Boink-erton after all.

I would love this to be a little vignette of Sophie sipping her tea muttering. “Completely unnecessary, it is not even that hot outside.” But still staring as Benedict chops wood shirtless—blushing when Benedict catches her and waves.

Another potential moment:

Benedict walks in from the garden with strawberries and offers one to Sophie.

“Strawberry? They are delicious.”

“Where did you get strawberries from?”

“The vegetable patch and greenhouse.”

Sophie halts, with a look of utter exasperation.

“We have a vegetable patch?”

Cautiously, Benedict points in the general direction and nods. This just seems to exasperate Sophie further.

“Are you telling me that I have been trying to scrounge food from scraps when we have a vegetable patch? Next you shall tell me that we have an orchard.”

“Well…”

Sophie throws her hands in the air.

“Unbelievable!” And she starts striding out to investigate, muttering just loud enough for Benedict to hear, “Scraps I have been using when we have a complete vegetable patch—honestly…posh boys…”

And Benedict is just left there, head cocked, mouthing; We? As if trying the word out. He smiles—that does not sound strange at all, actually it sounds…right.

PURPOSE:

Not only can can these moments highlight the pair's growing ease and comfort, but it will also show Benedict how to live a more simplistic life—a simplistic life he enjoys.

Ofcourse at the end of the day Benophie have a perfectly comfortable life, but I think with experiencing how he can be happy in such a simplistic, hard-working lifestyle will help Benedict overcome some more of his reservations for marrying Sophie.

Idea: Sophie in Breeches.

I’ll say it again, and I will keep saying it until the Bridgerton writers somehow hear me.

Sophie wearing breeches. Sophie wearing breeches. SOPHIE WEARING BREECHES!

The scenario. Now that Sophie is staying for three weeks, (rather than three days as in the book) it is more imperative that she finds something suitable to wear—atleast something she can wear while she washes her typical dress/dresses. And because of her injury she is not as busy. So eventually (after Sophie’s current breeches fall down yet again), Benedict suggests she just cuts up a pair of his and sew a pair herself. (He has far too many clothes anyway).

So, Sophie does. It takes a couple days (sewing with her non-dominant hand is quite slow). Then one breakfast Sophie presents herself in full breeches and shirt, using the shirt as a type of chemise with her stays on top. Benedict almost spits out his tea.

POSSIBLE ESTABLISHING SCENE:

The scene could continue, with Benedict asking Sophie to wear a waistcoat (because at least then he doesn’t have to imagine what her stays are pushing up). She agrees…

“Benedict!”

Benedict halts and starts running to her call.

“Sophie! Sophie?” he trails off when he sees her just staring into a wardrobe. She turns to him in disbelief.

“How many waistcoats does one gentleman need?”

Scene continues where Sophie makes exaggerated remarks about cost/quality/quantity, gently bullying Benedict into choosing one for her because he is the ‘artistic’ one. He makes a self-deprecating comment that she brushes away and he chooses one, one that ‘matches her eyes’. In this scene Benedict could see his long-forgotten art supplies, planting a little idea in his head…

And this is what Sophie wears all the time during this period. We could see her wear Benedict’s past waistcoats and I even have an idea that on the day Benedict starts sketching again (more below) she wears the same waistcoat he wore during the drug trip in S2E3 (back then he had a breakthrough of his art, just as how Sophie inspires an artistic breakthrough in the present).

It’s not necessary at all, but just a self-indulgent detail on my part.

Idea: Poetry Competition

ESTABLISHING SCENE:

Sophie and Benedict are lounging at the kitchen table, dinner yet to be cleared away.

“Alright Beckett, who wrote this?

“Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”

Sophie gives him an exasperated look.

“That one is too easy—Alexander Pope. Rape of the Lock.” Benedict shakes his head after being scuppered. Sophie sits up. “My turn—

"Thou silver deity of secret night, Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade; Thou conscious witness of unknown delight, The Lover's guardian, and the Muse's aid!"

“Lady Mary Montagu. ‘A Hymn to the Moon’.”

“Correct. You know of female poets,” Sophie comments with a tone of surprise.

Benedict grins, stands up and recites.

"Thou silver deity of secret night, Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade; Thou conscious witness of unknown delight, The Lover's guardian, and the Muse's aid!

By thy pale beams I solitary rove, To thee my tender grief confide; Serenely sweet you gild the silent grove, My friend, my goddess, and my guide.

E'en thee, fair queen, from thy amazing height, The charms of young Endymion drew; Veil'd with the mantle of concealing night; With all thy greatness and thy coldness too."

“See?” He sits back down. “Does that meet your expectations?”

“I—uh, well…” Sophie tries to make coherent thoughts after being entranced during Benedict’s recitation. “Yes, yes, it does.” She clears her throat, Benedict looking extremely amused at her flustering. “Go on then—your turn.”

Benedict pauses for a moment before reciting a short stanza, eyes boring into hers, a gaze full of sincerity that matches the sweetness of his words.

Once more it takes a couple moments for Sophie to reply.

“I do not know that one. But it was…it was utterly beautiful.”

Benedict gives her a timid smile.

“That is one of mine.”

“You wrote that?”

Benedict squirms once more under such a direct compliment, but for some reason he does not wish to deflect.

“Yes, yes I did.”

Sophie scoffs.

“You, Benedict I-am-not-an-artist Bridgerton wrote that?”

“Yes?”

She looks at him in disbelief.

“I do not know why you are so modest; it is very clear to me that you are an artist.”

“Sophie…no I am not—”

“You speak beautiful poetry, can pick out flattering colours to compliment one’s complexion—and you even present dinner in a pretty pattern or palette.”

“Sophie, I am not an artist!”

Sophie is silenced at his terse tone; he deflates.

“I am sorry…I know you mean well.” He fiddles with her hands, now well aware of how she withdraws after a harsh tone or mistake. “But I tried…I tried and failed.”

Benedict then reveals everything about the royal academy. And it is clear to the viewer that it still affects him.

“…I know Anthony meant well but he did to understand—he still does not understand that I…I wanted…”

“You wanted to prove yourself on your own merit, rather than your family’s. You wanted one place where your last name was irrelevant. A place where you were Benedict—not just a Bridgerton.”

Once again, Benedict is staring at her.

Sophie blushes and shrinks away.

“I apologise. I spoke out of turn and have been impertinent—”

“No, no, no—not at all.” Benedict says earnestly, catching her hands so she cannot move away. “Your words were…your words were brilliant,” he softly caresses her hand with his thumb, eyes earnest as he says, “You are brilliant.”

Sophei shakes her head and pulls away. Benedict catches her jaw, so his hand is cupping her face.

“Why do you do that?” he asks softly.

“Do what?” Sophie whispers back even though it is only them two for miles.

“Whenever you speak your mind or even just talk, you apologise."

“I am a maid,” Sophie says although the viewer can see that this is not the whole truth.

Benedict shakes his head and earnestly says,

“Not here, here you are Sophie. And I like your voice, I like your opinions, I like your laugh.” His words seem to have a significant impact on Sophie that the viewer does not understand yet. (More on that in a post about Sophie’s arc) ““You do not need to stay silent, never on my account, never with me. Promise you will not.”

“Benedict,” she whispers. “It is not that easy.” But his eyes do not waver.

“Promise me.”

“I promise I shall try. If you promise to stop ascribing insults to yourself that are counterfeit.”

“I promise I shall try.”

Sophie smiles and breaks the hold, she wipes under ehr eyes and Benedict allows her to return to easier ground--another little thing he has learnt. Sophie returns to the game.

“I think it was my turn;

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes;”

“Byron? Really?” Benedict comments derision very clear.

“You are not enamoured with Byron?”

“Not particularly,” Sophie gets a wicked glint in her eye, “Sophie—no,"Benedict cries.

“Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies—”

“Sophie, no, please—”

“I am merely fulfilling my promise, Benedict." She quips back, before continuing with even more gusto than before.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face…”

Benedict keeps shaking his head vehemently, but Sophie continues. She gets up, reciting the poem like an actor on a stage and Benedict can only watch, his smile unwavering at this wonderful woman in front of him.

*~*~*~*~*

Not only does this bring artsy discussion about poetry, it gives Luke T some great romantic moment a la S2E2. It also hints at Sophie's slightly out-of-the-ordinary education (for a maid).

And it is also sets up another one of my ideas. That upon returning to London, Benedict notices that Sophie is struggling a little to adjust/unhappy, so starts the game anew by slipping little bits of paper back and forth. It becomes a way of communicating when they cannot speak their hearts.

Idea: Painting and Story-telling—two artists with the same heart.

ESTABLISHING SCENE:

There is finally an afternoon with nothing to do and Sophie finds Benedict lounging outside.

“Is there not washing to do?”

“No.”

“Cleaning?”

“I swept the floors, and you did the windowsills.”

“Dinner?”

“We prepared it after lunch—just sit-down Sophie.”

Sophie sits and fiddles

“Do you not have a book to read? Must I remind you that you may take any from the house.”

“No…for once I do not feel like reading.”

“Please find something to do because I’m trying to concentrate.”

And that is when the camera pans down and we find that Beneidct…is sketching.

“Oh, you are sketching.”

“Yes, I am trying to atleast, but nothing—none of it is right!” he grunts in frustration and snaps the book shut. “Pointless. All of it pointless.”

“It is not pointless,” Sophie points out settling down next to him. “You told me you have not painted in years so ofcourse it is not going to be right—you are out of practice. Do not give up after a mere half-hour.”

“Fine, but would you please settle. Otherwise, I fear I might not find any inspiration.”

“I am a maid, Benedict. I have spent every day of my life since the age fo fifteen working from sun up to sun-down I do not…settle.”

Benedict looks at her and his face softens, he shifts slightly towards her.

“When you are trying to go to sleep—what do you do to relax your mind?”

Sophie blushes.

“Well…I make up stories.”

“You do? What type of stories?”

“Silly little things.”

“I hardly think anything that comes from a mind as brilliant as yours could be silly.”

“I make up stories about fairies and knights and castles…” Sophe;s eyes drift as she revisits past memories, “in the house I grew up in there were lots of folktale and fairytales. I must have re-read them a thousand times...I have always found reading as a way to escape. And in those stories, and my own, I could escape into a world where evil is thwarted and good triumphs. I find solace in that…”

She is brought back to the present by Benedict squeezing her hand. She turns to him.

“I had never thought about reading that way…I have always drifted towards poetry because of its freedom both in composition and subject. Poetry speaks truth unlike fiction,” he comments.

“And art?”

Benedict ponders this slightly.

“Art conveys a message, an emotion or a moment. My favourite paintings are the ones where the emotions are imbued within the colours or brushstrokes. To capture a singular emotion, or just a singular moment, so clearly that anyone can take solace with it—that is what the great artists do.”

“Capturing moments…I like that phrasing.”

“All the pretty words in the world are useless if my skill is no good.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“My mother would say that.”

“She is a wise person.”

“She is. Why not tell me one of your stories?”

“You truly wish to hear?”

“My sister Eloise is a writer; I love sitting on the swings as she explains her novel to me. It’s inspiring and I obviously need inspiration,” Benedict gestures down to the empty paper.

Sophie tries to settle down and Benedict returns to his paper. But the words fail to come.

“Why not close your eyes?” Benedict suggested. “And just tell me who your heroine is.”

Sophie obeys and settles further (on the grass or a lounger? Not picky) and starts telling him about her heroine (who shares a startling number of similarities to herself), before moving on to describe the mystical beast that accompanies her on these adventures. Benedict continues sketching and time passes until Sophie finishes recounting one of the many adventures she has conjured.

As she finishes, there’s silence while Benedict sketches. Sophie takes a moment to apreciate his profile—brow furrowed in concentration, blue eyes intent. And suddenly she feels a little self-conscious.

“Did I leave you suitably inspired?” she asks. Benedict murmurs, eyes still intent on shading something. She bites her lips then lunges for him,

“Well, will you atleast let me have a look—”

“Sophie wait—” she snatches the book out of his hands. Benedict winces, words rambling as Sophie stares. “It is a very rough sketch and the wings are not the correct shape, not to mention the shading on the horns—”

“It is brilliant.” He finally looks up to find her staring at his sketch, eyes wide with…wonder? She looks up at him with shining eyes. For a moment, Benedict forgets to breathe. “You are brilliant.” She shows him (and the viewer) the sketchbook.

Benedict has drawn the mystical animal that Sophie had just described, every little detail included.

At the sight Benedict blushes and rubs the back of his neck.

“That is very kind of you to say, but—”

“Oh stop being so modest.” She sits down net to him, fingers going over the lines. “Look,” she points to the sketch, “it is almost exactly how I imagined it in my mind. It is—you have…” she turns to look at him, “you have captured the moment.”

SMALLER MOMENTS:

Just a shot of the pair being content in silence. Sophie reading while Benedict sketching. Or the pair lying on the grass talking to one another, laughing with one another, discussing artists or authors. (Let's also have them both being unable to sit straight in chairs)

*~*~*~*~*

This is my idea to help flesh out Sophie a little more. I found it really weird that the only thing we know Sophie likes doing is reading. But nothing else--not the type of literautre, not the reason. Nothing. I honestly think JQ did it for plot convenience (so that Sophie can read to Benedict as he recovers).

So I think Sophie hasread a lot but I think due to her past but she likes escapist literature in particular. And her own stories were a coping mechanism that turned into a little passion. It does not need to be as grand as Eloise's aspirations.

(I have more ideas about how this can play out later in the season, later in the series concerning baby Bridgertons).

I also think having Benedict be inspired directly from something Sophie described, strengthens the idea that Sophie= his muse.

Idea: Dance lessons

SMALLER MOMENTS

During a cooking lesson Benedict and Sophie are bantering about his cooking proficiency. The conversation goes along the lines of “I can teach you something” and Sophie expresses disbelief. Benedict starts listing of things (from the serious to the comedic) until he gets to dancing. Off-handedly Sophie says she has always wished to learn how to dance but never had the time. Benedict insists he teches her, in payback.

So yes, as part of the montage/moments you have Sophie and Benedict having dance lessons. Little moments ranging from Benedict chivalrously (romantically) righting her when she stumbles, to the pair laughing at their hapless attempts or wincing when Sophie steps on his toe.

ESTABLISHING SCENE:

The main scene concerning the dance lessons is the scene where Sophie recognises Benedict as the man from the ball.

This is because it is the night Benedict decides to teach the waltz—just as he had done on the terrace two years prior. The pair start with their usual light-hearted tone as he teaches her the steps but as the scene goes on… their bodies are gradually getting closer and closer. Sophie continues to miss-step and Benedict whispers.

“Just look into my eyes.”

And she does and the moment becomes even more charged, the music that had played during the terrace dance-scene swelling. It is almost shot for shot of that prior scene at the Masquerade.

“Keep looking into my eyes,” Benedict whispers, his voice hoarse.

“I am,” Sophie whispers back as they spin and spin although she does not feel moor-less but secure and tethered in his arms.

“And what do you see?” They are so close that they are whispering onto one another’s lips.

Sophie opens her mouth just about to say—

“My—” She never finishes the word (My soul), for she is catapulted back to that night on the terrace, (the scene replaying on the screen but hazily to show it is only in Sophie’s mind).

And finally, she realises—Benedict was her mystery artist.

The realisation jerks her out of his arms, the charged moment fracturing.

“Sophie?” Benedict asks. But suddenly it is all too much for her, the weight of realisation, the depth of her feelings threatening to drown her.

“I—I—I must—good night, Mr Bridgerton.” She stutters before running away, out of the room until she finds her bedroom door and locks it behind her. She collapses to the floor, hand to her heart that is beating wildly, her eyes wide, and she whiseprs,

“It is him.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Duh, duh, duh! End of episode 2.

End of this post...for now.

What do you guys think?

#an offer from an avid reader #an offer from a gentleman #benophie #cute romantic feels #x1000 #well done lads #we're 2/3 through #I hope you enjoyed some of this #look at me trying to find funny GIFS to break up my brain dump #s4 speculation #bridgerton #I promise the next post will be shorter

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braemjeorn · 2 years ago

Text

CHAPTER VIII [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre: general audience, wholesome summery fluff; regency period drama

wordcount: 4k

summary: improvements of a household

warnings: regency era setting; countryside; countryside estate; and their tenants, peachs; and laughter of a fond dad

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson @nixtape-foryou @do-you-know-what-else-is-big

Commodore Bang maintained all manners of acquaintances — most of his friends among them stood as godparents to his sons. Mari did not catch many names, except that Mr Bambam was Changbin’s, while Minho’s were his uncle on his mother’s side and Commodore Bang’s sister. Seungmin’s godfather was away on a tour across the sea, but the Commodore received gifts from his butler. That, and many other parcels from their father, was the highlight of the day after for the boys.

“Miss Son, look!”

“Do you like it?”

There were wooden and lead soldier figures, books, pencils and papers for each boy; a pendant of glass dove for Hyunjin; and a silver pen for the eldest two. Lady Jang gave them each a handkerchief. Changbin received a new book and bookends from Mr Bambam, on the occasion of his birthday. Minho was twirling his pen; he had been quiet since the Commodore assembled them all into the drawing room to share his gifts. Among the hum and excitement of his brothers, suddenly he remarked, “You never gave us gifts before.”

The Commodore's face mellowed as regarded his son. It was easing how he took care to let some warmth break through his cold and austere shield. “I wanted to,” he said.

The eldest was hardly mollified by this change. Nearing midday they still revelled in the gifts, but Minho set his pen on the table and muttered to Mari that he needed to see his cats in the barn.

“But lunchtime is approaching,” she said.

“I’ll return soon.”

Minho’s chair remained untouched through lunch. The footman sent to fetch him returned to inform the Commodore that his son refused to attend. Between Lady Jang and Mr Bambam's witty conversation, Mari fidgeted as she heard the two. She was rising to excuse herself and see the boy, but Commodore Bang's voice paused her, “I will seek him, Miss Son. Do not fret yourself, and please enjoy the custard.”

“He must not miss his meal," Mari insisted as he passed her. "It won't do for his health."

Commodore Bang hummed. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water, then rose and walked to the end of the table. “Then I shall seek him now—do sit down, Miss Son, let me. Lee Hongjin, tell the kitchen I should like a slice of pie.”

“Of course, Commodore,” the footman bowed and rushed out of the dining hall.

“ Bambam, you will entertain our guests for a moment?”

Mr Bambam sighed, “If needs be so.”

“Then you boys mind Miss Son.” Commodore Bang turned to Mari, “And I’ll leave you in charge of them to go about their day. And Lady Nayoung…” The Baroness, who occupied the table’s end at Mari’s right, gave him her hand, which the Commodore bowed over.

“You must excuse my company for some moment. I have to make an understanding with my son,” he said. “One which has been too long postponed.”

“I suppose I can spare your society to hasten it,” responded the Lady. Commodore Bang grasped her hand and left the hall. Mari did not see him again until she stepped out into the terrace in the late afternoon. Minho walked with his father, appearing from the bushes that surrounded the kitchen's garden. The boy caught sight of her, turned to his father, and his steps picked up into a jog towards her. Mari extended her hand, yet surprised when he circled his arms close about her. If she questioned it he will evade her, so she rested her hand upon his hair. “I hope another time you escape the company I will not find you in a worse state of illness.”

Minho let out a small chuckle, and then he pulled away to regard her.

“You must be knighted by the king, Miss Son,” he said.

Mari scoffed. “What nonsense is that?”

“For doing something I thought impossible,” the lad continued. Mari noticed that he was flushed, but he was already moving towards the house before she could fuss over it. “You truly are heaven’s intervention!”

“How very eloquent of you,” Mari drawled in confusion. Minho grinned, shrugged, and rushed in, leaving her standing there. The Commodore came up after him and nodded when she acknowledged him.

“It ended well, sir? The... understanding?” Mari inquired.

Commodore Bang smiled. “Better than I dared hoped.”

Mari would not pry further than that. “I’m glad.” She was about to turn away if not the sight of him tickled her mischief. “See, it’s not so difficult.”

Commodore Bang’s head snapped towards her, a frown marring his brows. “Pardon?”

“Smiling,” she pointed out.

“Oh.” Understanding had eased his feature, but soon his lips quirked up again and a chuckle broke through. Mari smiled, turning to follow Minho.

“I had feared you would not know a joke, sir,” she hummed.

“You thought so little of me?”

One afternoon, Mari and the boys set out of the house for their walk. While inquiring her about the day’s destination — that they might run ahead, Seungmin caught their father following them. Commodore Bang had a hat and gloves ready on his hand, waving back to his boys.

“Any particular destination to choose?” he asked. Mari was still tying up her bonnet, and they looked at her for the answer. But Commodore Bang spoke again before she could reply.

“If you don't mind me joining, would you like to pick peaches?”

While appealing, it was a novel offer; they turned to him with big wondering eyes.

“Where?” Yongbok asked.

Commodore Bang set his hat on firmly, pointing away to the south and began to describe the route to his tenant’s land. They agreed on the new destination, then skipped around the pathway and headed out of the garden.

“Miss Son, you are coming along?” Commodore Bang called.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Mari replied, more surprised than the boys by his involvement.

“Why should I—you are the one who proposed this idea in the first place.” She came down the stairs, and he added, "And I hope you will have mercy to not leave me alone in the company of these rascals.”

The boys and Mari knew the path, but now they took a turn to the left where they had usually walked ahead. Trees made an arch over their path. They passed a few stone walls, and the grassy lawns inside them, until they gave way to branches laden with round fruits. The boys exclaimed in awe, and the Commodore directed them to an opening of the orchard. They walked among the trees to reach the other side. Mari saw the main house at a distance from the orchard, and standing there was a middle-aged man. His thick brows lifted in surprise at seeing the children's appearance, but they curved warmly with his smile as he took notice of the Commodore.

"My goodness ‘tis Lord Bang. I nearly thought you were an intruder. How do you do?" They shook hands. "A pleasure to have you at my fields, sir, a pleasure—though unexpected—I'm glad to see you well. My, isn’t it a beautiful day! And the young masters! How do you do?" He tipped his hat to them, then to Mari. "I saw all seven of them walking with our Miss Governess here a few days ago, and thought, worlds! They're doing very well are they not!? Trampling around the fields and climbing up the hills, it’s good to know that they enjoy our humble grounds. And you seem to be getting along well with the young lady, that’s delightful. It's a good blessing that everyone in the house is happy and healthy.”

“Indeed it is. Though, Miss Son may take all the credit for perpetuating it,” the Commodore said.

Mari sighed, “Commodore…—”

“For as you know, Mr Byun, I have been far too often away in town to do any good,” Commodore bang easily interjected.

“I will take no grudge for that sir—let’s not mind that,” Farmer Byun shook his hand again. “We all know you were having a hard time, and all that is important is that I am seeing you well and smiling with my own eyes. And that’s very good itself!”

Commodore Bang nodded to the statement; he asked the farmer about his crops and the upcoming harvest. The boys were wandering off and looking about. Mari counted their heads and found the twins standing a bit behind them, near a tree. One of the branches was low enough, with fruits close to their reach. Their heads were together in a whisper, and Jisung raised his finger, giving the lightest poke to the peach. It barely shook the fruit. He grinned, Yongbok did the same, and Mari walked towards them as they snickered.

“Jisung, Yongbok-ah…”

The twins turned their heads to look up at her. “Miss Son, they’re very pretty,” Yongbok declared.

“Fuzzy aren’t they?” Mari smiled. “Take care when you touch them, they might fall.”

“Will they?” Jisung asked.

“Peaches fall to the ground when they’re ripe. Heavy as they are.”

The boy hummed and returned to admiring the fruit. His hand brushed over his nose and pronounced his sudden wish to eat it.

“So do I,” Yongbok seconded.

Abruptly, Hyunjin and Seungmin rushed past them deeper into the orchard; they heard Mr Byun’s called out, “Will the young masters have some then?”

Commodore Bang approached and handed Yongbok a large wicker basket.

“We’ll have this much, and no more until harvest, pups. So share the space with your brothers,” he instructed.

“We may pick them ourselves?” Yongbok asked.

“Like this?” Jisung had reached for the fruit he touched earlier and pulled at it.

“Give it a little twist, Jisung,” said the Commodore. “Better than just pulling it. There!”

Mari urged them to their brothers, and with many pairs of hands picking, it didn’t take long for the basket to fill up. Commodore Bang lifted Jeongin into his arms, and let the youngest pick a peach at a higher place. It pleased the baby very much, and he was content to hold the fruit in his hand. They bid Mr Byun goodbye, with the Commodore promising to come back during the harvest. They stopped by a stream and sat on the rocks. Jeongin handed his father the fruit. After letting the water rinse it, he pulled out his pocket knife, then peeled and cut up the fruit into pieces.

“Here, have a taste,” he said, letting them all pick a piece, even reaching far that Mari might take a piece over four heads. The sweet juice bursting into her mouth engrossed her pleasure, eliciting her praise for Farmer Byun's care. They all shared two peaches, though Hyunjin dropped his cut with a yelp.

“Hyunjin, you silly boy,” Minho sighed. That was all he was scolded with; other than the giggles from his younger brothers.

“I’m sorry,” the chastised younger murmured.

“Don’t you worry, the worms and birds will delight in it,” Commodore Bang consoled, offering another cut. “Anybody wants more?”

“But Appa hadn’t even had any!” Changbin exclaimed.

It was beyond Mari’s grasp how the days after unfolded. One day Jisung paused to start his reading before the class; then crossed the room to shove his father out into the hallway. The Commodore had been watching the boys' studying unnoticed and laughed through Jisung's eviction. While Mari was mortified by the sudden visit, Jisung whined that his father was "most embarrassing!”

Commodore Bang accompanied Lady Jang to tour the country in the afternoons or make calls with the other gentries. In the evenings they would leave for dinner or parties. But between those hours when he was not occupied by such engagements or his duties, he was among the boys. In the gardens as they water the sprouts for their morning, and make arrangements for the plant’s future with Mr Park. The afternoon after naps was now dedicated to kites or bowl pins. The walks in between were for him to indulge in climbing trees or searching for birds and insects in the meadows.

Mari could sit easy as they play in the garden, or join them in their walks. But she delighted the most (and was in great awe) to notice the Commodore's frequency in involving himself in some of the boy’s occupations, and how easily the boys pull him into their amusements. He was a good sport to their youthful humour, amiable in the face of their teasings—for he never could stop himself from laughing at their sharp wit. His sternness was only present when an action might bring a possible injury, or when banters were on the descent to sharp animosity. To that, he proved Mari’s words true in managing to make them attend to his words. The boys respected him and he always made an effort to consider all sensible reasons to resolve their feuds and settle back into harmony. With the trouble forgotten, they return to boyish romps and he laughed at them.

Commodore Bang was in every sense of the word, a devoted father. Ever since that particular morning with Mari, 'twas as if a burden lifted off him, all restraints unbounded. He took great liberty to lavish them all in nurturing care and attention, for they would baulk at his blatant loving gesture. Another by way of his time and presence. Yet for all of Mari's delight, it was soon countered by some worry.

It was one morning when Mari had roused early, as she was wont to at times. She wrapped herself in her robes and sat on her table to do her letters and journal. Some shuffling outside, and a knock at the boys’ door disturbed her. She heard it open, and murmurs of low conversation. For a long while she listened, then wrapped the robe tighter about herself to look outside. Minho and Changbin were awake, well dressed in their trousers and jacket. The younger grinned at the sight of her, bidding good morning and receiving a low perplexed one in return. The child approached, and whispered, with constrained excitement, “Appa is taking us riding!”

“Before breakfast?” Mari wondered. Minho nodded, and giggled at her confusion, despite his sleep-ridden face.

“Don’t you worry and think that they might have escaped,” Commodore Bang said. “We will only be away for an hour.”

“But so early?” Mari said. “Commodore Bang, do you not sleep?”

She knew full well that he had attended a party last night with Lady Jang and Mr Bambam; he might have returned a mere two or three hours before. But the Commodore tilted his head, and said, “I shall after breakfast.”

His eyes were alert, she'd take assurance in that. She still could not help but press her lips, and spoke again, “Do take care of your health, sir.”

“As you wish, Miss Son.” He nodded his head to her and called the boys out down the hallway.

They returned to the small breakfast party, in high spirits and ravenous appetites, much to the younger ones' envy. Commodore Bang hushed them and made a firm promise — despite Yongbok's wide, pleading eyes — that only when they turned ten, they might come down the stable with him.

“Minho’s lessons are long overdue — I apologise for that, son,” he said. “But then there's better steadiness in you already.”

“I suppose so,” Minho replied, after a silent contemplation. He then declared louder, “But didn’t Harabeoji set Appa to stand on a great shire horse when you were three years old?”

Commodore Bang winced, holding back a laugh as his sons cried at him for the story. But of course, he would not refuse to indulge them well with the story, letting them have the satisfaction of teasing him. Mari knew if it meant that they could be occupied with him for some moment longer, he would forsake all and do it. Though she would not wish it to cost his health.

Commodore Bang had his duties to his tenants in the days, his balls and assemblies at night, the afternoon and early morning spared to his younglings. Mari knew he was at rest while the boys are studying. Then he would join them for lunch, and again in the afternoon to see whatever mischief they’re up to, ever enthusiastic to be involved or to hold them close.

One such afternoon Mari mused on the terrace, neglecting her book while watching the Bangs trying their new archery targets. Yet Yongbok toddled towards her, joined by the others to reach the basket of fruits and bread on the table. The Commodore trailed behind them. “I have reasons to claim that you are irked at me, Miss Son,” he declared by way of greeting.

It was a sudden remark, though when Mari turned he had spoken with generosity and amused eyes. Knowing he was open humour at the moment, she asked, “And what reasons are they?”

“Your manners, Miss Son; the look on your face when I took them away for some games.”

He nodded towards the children, who were taking hearty bites of the pastries with no mind to the adults' conversations.

Mari chuckled with dry mirth. “You have stolen my companions for lengthier hours than last month, Commodore,” she said, making a point by letting Yongbok settle on her lap. “Yet it irks me more that it is not justified for me to be resentful, considering their father genuinely wishes to indulge them.”

Commodore Bang laughed. Having the boys spend their time between the two meant that Mari's share decreased. But her vengeance towards the man was mild compared to her delight at the happier days. Exuberance was a pleasant air to behold in him, and she marvelled at his radiance as he was between his boys. Mr Kang and Minatozaki-san agreed how such pleasant air had emerged from him.

“He does look remarkable these days, praise the heavens for that,” Mr Kang commented as they had tea in the kitchen. Having more spare hours allowed Mari to join their company and hear their opinion on matters.

"Would you say younger?" Mari asked.

Mr Kang chuckles, "I vouch for your statement, Miss Son."

“Well, wringing them seven with his own hands will try him enough, Mari," said Minatozaki-san. " And no, I'm hardly cruel. It's the least he can expect as their father. Aren’t the roses lovely? They’ll be perfect for winter.” The housekeeper took up her stringed stalks of roses, handing them to a younger maid. They are hanging them upside down on the knobs above the kitchen. Minatozaki-san had become busier on account of a great event this autumn.

“We might even need to borrow some hands from the inn,” she said. “The ball is but three weeks from now, I should like to have it a well-done affair. After all, it is the first ball in some four, or three years. We have to take some measured preparations to make it grand—as grand as Barlnshore should be.”

"I can write the letter, if you'd like," Mr Kang offered.

"Thank you, Younghyun. I appreciate it."

"How many invitations?" Mari inquired.

Mr Kang and Minatozaki-san turned to each other, a slight frown on their brows as they calculated and made recollections. "Fifty families?" Minatozaki-san estimated.

"The bachelor nephews included," Mr Kang added.

"Good gracious," Mari shuddered. “But it is private at the least. It would not be as crowded as an assembly ball.” She remembered the twenty pairs of dancers surrounded by the entire habitants of S—. The room was full of shuffling people and clacking shoes. It was too much for Mari — she spent the night above the floor chattering and arguing with Jung Soojin.

Lady Jang had proposed the idea for the ball, after viewing the boy’s accomplishment one evening. Jisung and Seungmin had played without Mari, with Minho and Hyunjin singing along to the tunes. It was a splendid performance, to Mari's pride. Between the praises and claps Jang Nayoung simply popped the request. “But why have a grand house with a ballroom but no parties? Wouldn’t it be marvellous to see the whole house light up? And you might say it was in honour of me, Chan, but what better way to meet and greet your friends in the country properly?”

With Commodore Bang’s easy affirmation, Barlnshore was soon set in a flurry. Though Minatozaki-san’s excitement demures those of the younger maids, she was not entirely out of spirit in setting the house into liveliness.

“With his class in society, he could not reduce his respect to smaller numbers,” Mr Kang hummed in response to Mari.

“And it’s the boys’ first time as well,” Minatozaki-san murmured. Then she turned to Mari, “It might be a disaster if Jeongin finds his house suddenly packed in. You know the boy is so timid before new things, Miss Son.”

“Indeed he is,” Mari agreed. “But—his brother’s excitements might distract him.”

Though the Commodore and Lady Jang was present during the arrangement to settle the menus and flower arrangement, much of it was left to Mr Kang and Minatozaki-san to oversee. Mari often slipped into the servant’s hall to help. Any time her charges napped or were relegated to their Father’s hand for some while, she would don her apron and find some napkins to sort and fold, or vases and drapes to choose for the housekeeper.

The ballroom hall took most of the work. It had been locked for some three years; although the servants had kept it in good condition with the occasional dusting, significant changes were made at present. The dark curtains were removed and exchanged for newer red ones. There was dust to wipe, brass candle holders and mirrors to polish, as well as carpets to air. Then they were to open the paintings under their veils and restore them as necessary.

Barlnshore was gifted to Lady Bang—then Miss Hwa Jaebin as was—from her widowed aunt. But it was a recently built house. Therefore the paintings were relatively new, instead of portraits from generations of family members. Most were hung on the ballroom walls. Some were purchased or commissioned: views of landscapes from the Commodore’s seaside town and the Hwa family's grand halls and gardens. Some were smaller pictures of animals and flowers, painted by Lady Jaebin, and some were the boys’ portraits in watercolours. There was a grand picture of the family as three, or five, then growing into seven. The children in groups, a few more of the Commodore in his naval uniform; Minho at eight years old. Most striking of all was that of Lady Jaebin—her femininity striking among the eight men in her life. The portrait was covered in black crepes, alongside the pair of her and the Commodore’s portrait. Commodore Bang’s was painted in his earth-green suit, with golden and black shadows behind him. Lady Jaebin sat with a smile towards the audience, her lilac gown contrasting sweetly with her blonde hair and the red background.

“Master Jeongin! ‘Tis your mother!” the maid who unveiled the crepe exclaimed.

The youngest had just risen from his nap and wandered into the ballroom for its commotion. He said little on account of sleepiness, but after a fixed stare towards the portrait, he sneezed.

“Bless his soul!” Yeonji laughed. “Take him away from the dust here, Miss Son. You’ve been a great help.”

The boys took advantage of the polished floors of the open ballroom to slide as they pleased. Mari only shrugged when Commodore Bang observed their amusement. For the ball, he had agreed—among eagerly consenting nods—that they may stay for half an hour later than their bedtime, with the condition to maintain proper manners and hushed voices. With what Mari thought was good foresight, he allowed them to run about on the terrace outside the ballroom. The boys’ loud ‘yes’ settled it all, anything to humour themselves to a different night.

“Does your father play by chance?” Mari asked had asked Minho after their performance. She handed him his tea.

“Oh, he does,” the lad exclaimed in a hushed whisper. His eyes drifted to his father, who was occupied with tickling Seungmin. “We’re quite musical—I must’ve told you. And he plays better than he sings. He’s a nice tenor voice, but Eomma sings stronger.”

“How about he performs for us some other time?”

Minho chuckled, “Appa’s modest about such things. One must force or threaten him altogether.”

[Minho and Changbin and their car driving debacle in SKZ-CODE Jeju was just the peak first and second child duo. I’m living it, I’m living for implementing it in this AU]

[uni has started again and after struggling through the first week and completing a maddening event, I'll be darned if I don't upload the few chapters I've managed to work on the hols. the fact that I have the mornings off on Mondays makes it all the better for this new semester so you'll know what to wait for these weeks👀 BRAEM HAS RETURNED what do you think of this new chapter now? replies, reblogs and likes are always appreciated and thank you for reading!]

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stcrfeesh · 2 years ago

Text

off the precipice (懸崖勒馬)

1: Countryman's Forgotten Country

READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED; Please read the masterlist first before proceeding.

There were invisible lines that divided the city of Liyue into two: the Northland Ring territories and the Glazed Moon jurisdictions.

It wasn’t that the city was divided into two halves. Rather, it was that everything—every building, phone booth, and street lamp—in all parts of the city were most likely under the rule of either one of the gangs.

Each nook and cranny was either a territory of the Northland Rings or under the jurisdiction of the Glazed Moons. This division was even more evident in the higher-class areas of the harbour city.

The glimmering bars and casinos of Yujing Terrace weren’t just bars and casinos—they weren’t mere entertainment establishments the rich would frequent to blow their money. Every neon sign that lit up the double doors of those places was—in one way or another—owned by the gangs. And, by extension, they would own the entire place too.

Except for one.

The Abyssossque was touched by neither gang. Let alone the Liyuen government. A newly-opened foreign nightclub in the richer districts, owned by some unnamed foreign billionaire. To tourists and the citizens of Liyue alike, it was most known for its architectural glamour, its extravagant performances, and its fine vintage alcohol.

But to people like Lumine Viatrovna, the nightclub was the heart of all foreign crime. From corrupt Fontainiene officials laundering money to the Snezhnayans’ illegal drug dealing—you name it all.

Lumine stood from the balcony of the second floor. It overlooked the wrinkled old patrons spectating around the roulette tables from below. She held on tighter to the woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she made a quick survey of the area.

Despite the grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the club was still dimly lit. She couldn't see any other details that were of note. All she could see were the two exit points: one up front and one just behind the grand stage, and that information wasn’t even helpful.

“You seem to be taking longer than usual.”

Lumine did not flinch at the sudden sound—the sudden voice. She remained as calm as she had been the entire time and ignored the voice as though it hadn’t even spoken to her at all. She made one last sweep of the floor below before turning around.

“You can’t just ignore your handler, you know,” The voice said again, this time tauntingly. Lumine only let out a small sigh before she headed for the stairs.

“Of course I can,” She answered nonchalantly. If anyone were to see her, they would’ve immediately thought that she had a couple of screws loose. A pretty lady all alone, talking to herself. That was a behaviour unheard of.

The voice scoffed at her reply before speaking once more, “I’ll put you in a shitty operation next; let’s see how long you can last without me.”

"Oh, I'll do just fine. Trust me." Lumine rolled her eyes. She had always gone solo on operations; her handler’s empty threat did absolutely nothing.

Her lips formed a thin line when she finally reached the last steps of the stairs: “I’ve got eyes on the target—and please, stop talking for a second. It’s weird. It’s like you’re speaking in my head.”

She wanted to turn off her Bàojī * so bad, but she couldn’t. So, Lumine cursed ancient technology and its modern advancements instead.

Long ago, the nation of Sumeru had successfully created technology that delivered information at lightning speed. The people of the nation only needed to ask, and knowledge was immediately served on a silver platter for them to consume.

Lumine remembers reading about them in an old history book—they had called them Akasha Terminals. Though it was proven useful for a long time, conflict arose within the nation because of the technology, and the use of Akasha Terminals was put to a halt.

Centuries later, the Liyue Qixing invested money in a replica of the ancient Sumerian system. The device followed the same technology, but they had found a different purpose for it. So, instead of a portable library, it had been fashioned for encrypted correspondence. It was confidential technology that only the covert divisions of the Qixing were privy to—and only they were able to use it.

They called it the Qíngbào ěrjī, intelligence receiver, which they then shortened to Bàojī.

The voice from her Bàojī laughed at her sarcastically. “Because I am,” It said. “Now, get to work, Aster. We need that file.”

Lumine nodded to herself as she subtly followed a man clad in blue. She readjusted her gloves as she tapped the jewelled hairpin on her head and watched the man enter a hallway. But just before she was able to pursue her target any further, she bumped into a body.

Lumine does not fall from the impact, courtesy of two arms that steadied her: “Oops, don’t worry, I’ve got you.” She looked up to see a man wearing an eyepatch, “You alright there, sweetheart?”

She stared up at the man, her eyes darting towards the hallway—it was deserted. She lost her target. With a clenched jaw, she turned her attention back to the man whose arms were still on her: “Yes—yes, I’m okay. Thank you.”

The man finally let go of her: “Sorry. You seem like you’ve got somewhere else to be. I won’t keep you here any longer.” Lumine muttered a final thank you, giving the man a nod.

She made a beeline for the hallway entrance, readjusting the skirts of her qípáo before she continued on. When she entered, the first thing she noticed were the doors. The entire hallway was lined with doors.

“Dermo,” * She muttered the Snezhnahan curse to herself. How in Teyvat was she supposed to know which door was the right one?

“I lost him,” Lumine said, letting out another curse after. “I don’t know which door he entered.”

“Well, that’s shit,” Her handler replied. “There should be a guestbook log by the reception table, but this is The Abyssosque we’re talking about.”

“It’s not under the Qixing’s control; I can’t move freely. I know,” Lumine supplied for her handler.

There was a brief pause. Her handler did not retort back, and for a moment, Lumine thought her Bàojī was broken.

“Okay—” Her handler’s voice came back, and she let out a breath of relief. “Cliffbreaker’s on it. And... our Mr. Alexeev should be in VIP room four.”

Konstantin Alexeev. A Snezhnayan higher-up official by day and a crime lord by night

Lumine hated men like him—people who posed and waved to the public, promising them a better country, only to singlehandedly cause their nation to crumble behind closed doors in exchange for a few million mora.

Coincidentally, Alexeev was also the biggest investor in The Abyssosque, which was the foreign nightclub Liyuen authorities couldn’t manage to infiltrate for months. And fortunately for Lumine, the likes of him were the very same people that would switch lanes in a heartbeat when bribed with the right price.

People like him deserved to die.

Lumine knocked on the door, opening it wide enough for her to poke her head in. There, she spots Mr. Alexeev, sitting cross-legged by a couch with a glass of what seemed to be fire water in hand. She allowed herself entry, flashing him a smile with her red-stained lips.

“Good evening,” She greeted him, gently shutting the door behind her. “Are you expecting any company tonight?”

“Are you the girl Dmitri has sent?” He asked, his Snezhnayan accent thick on his tongue. She thinks for a split second. This was way easier than she had thought.

When Lumine nodded, Mr. Alexeev gives her a once-over before grinning. There was a certain glint in the man’s eye, and it made Lumine’s blood boil like tea in a screeching teapot on the stove. She was revolted by him.

He motioned for her to come close, patting the space beside him, “It’s alright, kotonok,* I don’t bite.”

Lumine wanted nothing more than to spit at him, and she would have, had it not been for her handler speaking to her in her head, “Secure the file first before you do anything rash.”

So instead of all the vile things she could do to him, Lumine chose to just follow what the man said and settle down beside him. As all rich scoundrels do, the moment she sat beside him, his hand found its way to her knees. If she had been clenching her fists, then Mr. Alexeev was none the wiser, because his eyes were too busy roaming elsewhere.

Disgusting.

“You don’t seem like you’re from Liyue,” He commented, a brow raised as he did so. “Where could you be from, kotonok? Fontaine, perhaps?”

Lumine forced out a giggle, “Think a little bit closer to home, my lord.”

“Oh? Mondstadt, then? It must be Mondstadt.”

While Mr. Alexeev was preoccupied with playing guess-the-answer, Lumine had already carefully inspected the room. It was supposed to be somewhere nearby—a white folder with the Snezhnayan coat of arms stamped on it.

She looked back at him and smiled sweetly, “Apologies, I suppose I should have said think of home instead.”

He paused for a moment to think, his brows knitting together. Suddenly, his eyes lit up in recognition. He laughed amusedly, “I didn’t think Dmitri would find me someone from my homeland.”

“Snezhnaya had no tears left to cry for people like me, and so I found myself building a new life here in Liyue.” She said, leaning further back into the couch, trying to see if the file was anywhere on him. “Perhaps it was fate that had us meet in such circumstances, my lord.”

Mr. Alexeev set his glass of fire water down, his other hand now on her arms.

Do not flinch, Lumine told herself. Do not flinch, or this whole thing will fall.

“I should at least know your name, yes?” He insisted, the same revolting grin on his face. “I do have every intention to compensate you handsomely.”

“Alexandra,” Lumine answered quickly, remembering the name of a Snezhnayan queen of old. “Alexandra Romanova.”

“Miss Alexandra, what a beautiful name,” He said, and it takes every part of her not to let out a snort.

Mr. Alexeev scooted inappropriately closer to her. Close enough that she was able to get a whiff of the lingering scent of alcohol on his breath. From the man’s position, she finally spots a folder tucked between his back and the backrest of the couch.

A white folder with the Snezhnayan coat of arms. Bingo.

Mr. Alexeev’s movements came to a halt when Lumine swung her arm, her palm coming into contact with the man’s face. The sound of her slap resounded in the room, and Mr. Alexeev moved away, glaring daggers at her.

“I’m so sorry,” Lumine apologised, though she did not actually mean it. It felt good to put someone like him in his place. Lumine immediately stands away from the couch and says, “I just got nervous. I’m not used to this; I’m so very sorry.”

He took a swig from his glass of firewater before he stood from his seat, a hand on his reddening cheek, Lumine’s palm mark still visible. He sneered, “Ty suka—You fucking bitch.” *

He made his way towards her, grabbing her wrist. He then made a quick switch to his mother tongue, “You’ll be accepting payment and yet you dare raise a hand on me? Do you even know who I fucking am?”

His grip on her wrist is tight, and Lumine was certain she would end up bruised after all this. She looked at him in fear, then indifference, and finally in amusement. The file was free for her to take, and she was finally free to do whatever she wanted.

In the city of Liyue, there were two rules the people must strictly follow—rules set by the Northland Rings and the Glazed Moons.

One, you absolutely saw nothing happen. You are an unknowing passerby; you did not see anything. Two, you do not stick your nose in places you do not want people to find your body in. What the gangs do has nothing to do with you.

Within the gangs, however, there was a third rule: During operations, leave no enemy of the state standing.

“Oh dear,” She tilted her head to the side, “This is not very gentlemanly of you, my lord.”

With her free hand, she patted her thigh, moving the slit of her qípáo aside to retrieve a silver dagger from its holster. She aimed it at him: “Might I suggest that you unhand me this instant, Mr. Alexeev? It would do you a world of good.”

At the sight of her weapon, Mr. Alexeev did as he was told. He took several paces away from her, staggering in his steps. “What—who are you?” He asked, eyes frantic.

She does not answer immediately, only giving him a nonchalant shrug, “A woman must not reveal all her secrets, but I suppose I can let you in on this one. Let’s just say I’m a fellow countryman who has forgotten their homeland…” *

Mr. Alexeev’s eyes grow wide at her words. “I am a Snezhnayan official! You cannot touch me—I have diplomatic immunity!”

Lumine aimed the dagger right at him. Or at least, he thought it was aimed at him.

When she finally threw the dragger, it made a loud thud as it hit the wall beside him—missing his face by only a single strand of hair. She smiled, pulling her hairpin out and allowing her hair to fall freely down her shoulders. “I promise this won’t hurt.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” He was pale in fear when he asked. “Don’t you dare take a step closer... or I-I will make sure to ruin your life! I am Konstantin Alexeev! Do you not know who I am!?”

Lumine walked towards him, her hairpin in her hand. “Oh? That’s not what you wanted mere minutes ago,” She taunted, her face now dangerously close to his. She brings the pin to his neck, ever so gently sliding it across. It does not draw blood, and Lumine chuckles. “See? I've already told you, haven’t I? It won’t hurt.”

Mr. Alexeev stares at her in bewilderment before he brings his hands to his throat. He struggles to breathe.

“What did you do to me?” He asked, trying not to choke on his own words.

“I only gave you what you deserved.” Lumine put her hair back up into a bun, securing it with the same jewelled hairpin used to put him to eternal sleep.

She watched him fall to his knees, and she did nothing more than shrug at him. She stepped over his fallen body, reaching over to take the folder from the couch, before she walked towards the wall to pull her dagger out.

Konstantine Alexeev spent the next three minutes twitching on the floor, frothing at his mouth.

Before he takes his last breath, Lumine crouched down and whispered to him, “Good night, Mr. Alexeev.”

I may or may not have forgotten to mention that Lumine uses a Snezhnayan surname for this fic...

情報耳機 (Qíngbào ěrjī), shortened to 報機 (Bàojī) is basically just an earpiece except you hear the voices in your head.

Dermo is a Romanised word that means Shit in Russian.

Kotonok is a Romanised word that means Kitten in Russian.

Ty suka is a Romanised phrase that means You bitch in Russian.

World Quest Spoiler! In the Hidden Inazuma World Quest "Shuumatsuban Operations", the phrase "Fellow countrymen who have forgotten their homeland" is a phrase used by Snezhnayan spies to identify one another.

MASTERLIST | ← Previous | Next →

#stcrfeesh; series #stcrfeesh; undercover teyvat #off the precipice #懸崖勒馬 #xiao x lumine #xiao x reader #xiao x traveler #xiao x traveler!reader #genshin impact spy au #angst #fluff #spy au

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azukiel · 1 year ago

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The Pharaoh's Lotus

Chapter 1

Her gaze scrutinized the horizon, her bright violet eyes studying the crooks and crevices of the ragged grey rocks that jutted from the hillsides in the distance. The valley emanated a sublime glow now as the rays of the waning sun bathed them with its last warmth of the day. They almost shone like citrines and rubies as she fixated her gaze, reflections of yellow and deep red hues shimmering as the sun descended to slumber.

Oh, how she relished in the sun’s rays, feeling a pang of sadness with the ending of each day. But too, the moon held its mysteries and fascinations deep within her heart, and she appreciated it symbolised rest and escape, escape from the turmoils and vexations created by her life at court. She would do anything to spend her days wandering through the immense gardens of wildflowers and rugged spruce trees within the palace courtyards or playing her harp or lute by the shimmering expanse of a private lake. But, alas, her days were preoccupied with her duties. She was a princess of the royal household of her cousin Mursili, exalted and grand king of all Hattusa.

The smoothness of her milky olive skin wrinkled into a frown as she thought of her displeasure towards her cousin. Twitching her petite, rounded nose, she pushed the ebony ringlets of her hair back behind her round shoulders as the chilling breath of autumn swept through her private balcony. Her slim frame quivered from its cool kiss, and she pulled her shroud snugly over her shoulders. Flicking her long lashes upward, she caught the cry of a hawk as it circled far above. She, too, longed for such freedom.

“Your Highness, Malawashina?” A small voice called from the heavy mahogany doors leading to her terrace. Yet her ears could hear naught but the cries of the hawk, for it beckoned her to join it in its flight. “Your highness...?” It was that voice again, but now more desperate.

Blinking hard, Malawashina turned to face the petite servant girl in her doorway. “Oh, my little Utati, apologies. I did not hear you enter.”

Utati, a small girl mature far beyond her years, did well to hide her displeased frown. She frequently got in trouble for allowing her mistress to daydream and wander off too often.

“Her royal lady, Puduhepa, your exalted mother, seeks your presence currently.”

Malawashina smiled to mask her inner displeasure. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone. “I wonder what it is now?” she pondered as she let out a heavy sigh. She loved her mother beyond measure, but the numerous duties she had to uphold as princess had made her tired and weary.

“Who knows?” The younger servant shrugged, her dark ash curls bouncing on her shoulders as she did so. “It most likely has something to do with your irritable cousin.”

Malawashina glanced sideways at the girl, her expression becoming blank.

“That is treason to speak such words, Utati,” she warned.

Utati huffed and pouted her round lips. “You know it to be true,” she protested.

“Now, please, your Highness. Your esteemed mother awaits. If you continue to dally, surely I will be the one in trouble again.” Malawashina looked into the girl’s obsidian gaze with remorse.

“And so we best not tarry here, little one.” And without another word, she whisked herself almost teasingly past her servant.

“Do not call me little! “ Utati called out as she gathered her skirts to run after her mistress.

Malawashina now stood serenely and in all her regal finery to be announced before her mother.

Puduhepa, her chestnut locks flecked with strands of silver, stood tall and poised like a lily stalk fresh in bloom. She calmly folded her bejeweled hands before her as she spoke to one of the many royal scribes, their faces aglow from the nearby brazier fires. Malawashina believed it held significant importance, as their expressions were quite severe.

When Utati announced her mistress’s arrival, Puduhepa tilted her head upwards with a brilliant smile. Then, nodding to the scribe, he swiftly collected his things and made his leave.

“Ah, my darling daughter!” Puduhepa's grey eyes dazzled brilliantly in the firelight as she outstretched her arms to embrace her.

“You took no time to arrive, so surely you must have caught wind that I have splendid news to impart to you?” Her smile brightened evermore. Yet, her cheerful demeanour only sought to shroud the pain within her heart that the news she was to tell would mean she would never see her beloved child again.

“Do you?” Malawashina answered, her face dropping with little enthusiasm, her eyes drooping to the floor beneath their feet.

“Oh, my dear girl,” her mother chimed, “why such sourness?”

“I think you and I both know why.”

“My darling,” her mother embraced her warmly in reassurance. She understood well her daughter’s apprehension.

“This time, it is someone perhaps deemed worthy of your hand.”

“Who in this land is worthy enough?” Malawashina mumbled under her breath.

“You know Mursili has wanted me in his bed for years,” she added.

“And yet he cannot have you,” her mother replied dryly. “He knows that. No, you will finally wed someone far more refined than that slimy, spiteful snake.”

Malawashina quirked an eyebrow at her mother. Of course, the grand Royal Lady Puduhepa rarely resulted in insults of any type. But Malawashina knew how much her mother despised Mursili for what he had tried to do. Malawashina had been but a girl, and he was an oversexed, arrogant adolescent. He had caused a formidable slight, not readily forgotten nor forgiven. He had changed little since that time, regardless.

Utati and Puduhepa’s maid did well to muffle their snickers.

“Then, tell me, mother, who is this person grand enough to marry me? No one within our territories exists!” She scoffed a laugh.

“I never said it was anyone from here. However, that would indeed be preferable. But, no, you are to go to Egypt.”

Malawashina’s bright eyes faded like a star that had finally lost all its light and had dulled away into the abyss. “E... Egypt?” She instinctively repeated.

Short gasps came from Utati and the servant girls. Puduhepa shot them a quick glare of warning and the young girls retreated a few steps.

“You ought to be pleased, Malawashina. You are to be married to the Pharaoh! A grand honour. With your marriage, our great nations shall finally be at peace.”

“But they are the enemy!” Malawashina almost shouted, her usual milky brown face now pallid with indignation.

“Hush your voice!” her mother reprimanded as she took her daughter by her wrist and pulled her deeper into her chambers, away from prying eyes and ears. By the time they reached their desired destination in Puduhepa’s private gardens, Malawashina was already in tears.

“How can you accept this, mother?” She sobbed, finally. “That... that man, if he can even be called such; that beast they so call Pharaoh ordered his armies against us. Because of him, many of our brave warriors were slaughtered, and much of our territory was lost.”

“Such is the cost of war,” her mother answered calmly, sighing then as she glanced up at the brilliant glow of the moon rising above them. "My dear, Kadesh has been a disputed territory long before our time, and it has always been fought over," her mother calmly answered, sighing while glancing up at the brilliant glow of the moon rising above them. “Not only between Hatti and Egypt, you know this. But our greatest and most powerful contenders have always been the Egyptians. Yet did they take Kadesh this time? No, my dear, they did not.”

“A successful victory for our people....”

“No, my dear, it was definitely not.” Her mother corrected gently.

“We suffered the most losses. That was abundantly clear. But they, too, lost many. You understand that these men, both our own and their own, were fathers, brothers, uncles, and husbands. Now they will never return to the people that loved them, and they may be devoured by the great goddess Taknaš, or, as the Egyptians believe, be not allowed to cross into the Duat.”

Malawashina’s usual graceful demeanour was now afflicted as she hung her head in sorrow. “They all died for nothing. Only for the greed of power.”

Puduhepa’s grey gaze also dulled from sorrow, and she took her daughter’s soft face into her hands, stroking the tears from her cheeks. “You are right,” she said finally. “There is never a justification for war; For all the senseless killing. But men will never believe nor understand that. Men only want to puff out their feathers like a bunch of pompous peacocks.”

Malawashina chuckled as she sniffed, flicking her lashes upwards to look into her mother’s loving gaze. “Roosters more like it,” she added.

Her mother, too, chuckled then and embraced her once more. “You needn’t worry, my darling Mala. These roosters have finally reigned in their cockiness and come to peace. It is far more beneficial in every sense of the word. Egypt is prosperous, and her Pharaoh holds immense influence and respect throughout the world. Hatti would benefit from this through political marriage and trade agreements if your cousin can keep his senses intact for long enough.”

“Well, we have reached the political marriage agreement already,” Malawashina grumbled, still not impressed with the idea. “Who came up with this idea, anyway?”

Her mother pushed out the creases that had now formed on her daughter’s brow because of her frowning. “Your father did,” she answered. “But it was, in fact, the Pharaoh who requested you.”

Malawashina stared at her mother, stunned at the core. “And Mursili agreed to this?”

“He had no choice. As part of this arrangement, the Pharaoh requested a bride no less than a princess. Your sister is far too young to marry, and you are the only unwed princess remaining in our lineage. Also, he had heard of your beauty and wit.”

Malawashina rolled her eyes at her mother’s attempt at flattery. “Oh, mother, it is well known he has many women in his harem. I will be just another broodmare to be discarded once he’s had his use of me. If he even chooses to have one.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken!” Her mother laughed, some sparkle again returning to her eyes. “As part of the agreement, you were to be given a high rank within the harem! The highest!”

Malawashina’s eyes shot open, and her dainty mouth almost hit the marble floor beneath them. “Surely the Pharaoh would never give up the Great Queen Nefertari’s position! The entire world knows that she is his moon and his stars! His most beloved! I’ve heard of the grandeur of the temples he has built in her honour!”

“And you are right, my darling,” her mother nodded. “He would never give up the position of my sister, the Lady of Grace, Nefertari. So instead, you will be placed as Grand Princess, secondary wife.”

Malawashina gasped. “I would displace the Princess Isetnofret, would I not?” Her voice shook in disbelief.

“You, my darling, are of royal blood. She is not,” her mother stated factually. “A sacrifice he will make, and one much to your advantage.”

“I am not ambitious enough to hold such an advantage.” Malawashina lowered her gaze. Puduhepa brought her daughter's face up to scrutinize her intently. “Oh, but you are, my child. You are my daughter.”

“The dowry...?” Malawashina then hesitated.

“Worth a thousand times more than your weight in gold.”

~1~2~

#historical romance #historical fiction #ancient egypt #ancient love #ancient romance #ancient egyptian story #ramses #Nefertari #please read my story #please leave comments #wattpad writer #authors of tumblr #writers of tumblr #writers of ao3 #writers of wattpad #writers of instagram #pharaohs #The Pharaoh's Lotus

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ladymercysletters · 4 years ago

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The Moment I Knew// Anthony Bridgerton - Epilogue

Word Count : 1820

Warnings: childbirth

A/N: based on this request from @albeeox. As usual I have not beta’d this. I just hope it makes sense.

You waddled into the breakfast room at Aubrey Hall, squeezing into a seat before letting out an exhausted huff. Anthony had been sat at the head of the table, nose deep in his morning paper as he waited on cook to bring breakfast. He didn’t hear you come in until the slow squeaky drag of the chair next to him drew him out of the pages.

“Y/N you should have called me” he said, setting down his paper instantly. “Did you take all of those stairs yourself? In your condition?” his voice getting higher with each question. You gave him a stern but ultimately buttery look at his worry.

“Yes dear. My waters have not yet broken, I am perfectly able to take the stairs.” You fixed him with a glare as he moved to push your chair in. “And I am famished.” Just as you said that several maids entered with trays of breakfast on gleaming silver trays.

“Just as I thought my love. Which is why I instructed cook to prepare one of everything… except kippers” he added, knowing the smell had turned your stomach even after your morning sickness had passed. Trays of eggs; and toast; and meats and fruits were all laid out in front of the two of you, just as they had been for the past month. Ever since the doctor had told you it would be any time soon.

After breakfast was finished and taken away you settled back to mull over your bump. Anthony picked up his newspaper again but you noted his eyes never left the rim of the pages. You looked at him watch you, to his mind surreptitiously before his eyes locked on yours.

“Yes darling.” He said immediately, pushing his paper to one side and drawing his chair and inch or two closer to yours.

“I didn’t say anything” you questioned, watching with curiosity as he pulled his chair up next to yours, arm finding its way around the back of your chair.

“You were looking at me, is everything alright?” his tone was sweet but almost frantic. He placed a somewhat shaky hand on top of yours.

“I’m fine my love” you smiled, watching as Anthony’s hand became steadier over your protruding stomach the more he held it there. “You know he settles when you’re near?” Anthony’s head shot up at your words, his deep brown eyes almost pleading for the truth. “I’m not lying. It’s like he can sense it. When he hears your voice or you touch me in any way, he settles”

“And how do you know it’s a He?” Anthony dopily smiled, kissing your cheek as he squidged closer.

“I have a feeling”

“Well, I’d be perfectly happy with either. We are in no rush for an heir and I would like an excuse to lavish you with as much affection as you desire.” The lopsided smirk on his face, evidence of his rakish youth but the love in his eyes held a more settled gentleman’s gaze. Anthony rested his head on your shoulder as he continued to caress your swollen stomach, nuzzling into your neck – contented to spend the rest of the day just like this.

You convinced Anthony to walk with you in the gardens after breakfast. He had mildly argued that he needed to prepare for a meeting with his steward later but your baby kicked under his hand and he melted into submission.

You stood amongst the autumn foliage, watching as the gardener’s little girl toddled over to her father holding a trowel.

“I can’t wait to be a father” Anthony murmured in your ear as he held you from behind. You smiled at his little slip of thought.

“You’ll be an excellent father.” You turned in his arms, belly pushing you further away from his face than you would have liked. Anthony reached across the distance between you to plant a loving kiss on your pouting lips.

“I must get back to work: Martin is coming at one and I have not so much as gazed at the books this month.” He whispered through a smirk before turning to leave.

It was a little while later; you had decided to take tea on the terrace, enjoying the afternoon sunshine whilst it lasted, and Anthony had been in his study, nursing an early brandy as he thought on crop rotations, when he heard it. A shrill scream followed by the crash of bone china on a stone floor; that could only mean one thing. Y/N! Anthony ran as fast as he could from his study, bolting down the hall and through the morning room to see you buckled over on the floor. He rushed to your side

By the time the doctors arrived Anthony was practically having a heart attack on the front steps. Since getting you up the many stairs of Aubrey Hall himself (He insisted everyone else would hurt you if they so much as touched you), Anthony had run from your rooms to the front steps every time he heard you whimper, or the distance sound of horses. He practically dragged the aged senior by the collar to your chamber, rushing to your side when he saw you panting and sweaty, and looking fully ready to birth his child.

You panted as your maid guided you, Anthony taking over the moping of your brow as the doctors began his examination. As the afternoon turned to evening, Anthony’s temper didn’t … well, temper – with every whimper or wail let from your mouth he argued with the doctors to do something. Despite numerous insistences of both nurse maids and doctors insisting Anthony leave the room as it ‘just was not seemly for a lord to see a lady this way!’, he stayed; gripping your hand as you squeezed with each contraction.

“Please, your Lordship, allow the doctors to worry for your wife’s condition. It is our profession.” He was chastised.

“MY WIFE IS IN PAIN AND I WILL BE WITH HER UNTIL SHE IS WELL AGAIN” Anthony snapped back, looking like he would be ready to bite the next hand that tried to see him to the door. The furrow in his brow deepened as the senior doctor announced it was time to push. Through each effort, Anthony only looked on more and more distressed, unable to take the pain away from you: with each scream his mind reeled with flashbacks to his youngest sister, Hyacinth’s, birth and how he’d almost lost his mother that day.

After an hour of intense pushing, both you and Anthony looking as sweaty and exhausted as each other your child was still no closer to being born. The doctors rushed around; one feeling your stomach for movement, the senior, with his notebook doing (in Anthony’s opinion) Sod All, and the last, between your legs, occasionally checking for further dilation. Suddenly the young doctor feeling your stomach snapped his head up and beckoned the senior over.

“The baby is in breech” the elder doctor mumbled with a stained sigh – moving as fast as Anthony had seen him as he rummaged in his medical bag for instruments. You let out a cry of pain as your tried in vain to push again. Anthony panicked at the doctor’s announcement.

“Breech? Breech? What does that mean?” Anthony stood, still holding your hand with both of his as he glared at trio.

“It means, Your Lordship” the small senior man said sighing “that the baby has decided to descend feet first and, as such” he took his glasses off to clean them “is stuck.” Anthony’s heart leapt to his throat and lodged there.

“Well do something. Now!” he choked out, trying to sound as intimidating as he had been. Your breaths came out in short pants as you tried not to panic and faint. Your lady’s maid had your other hand in her own, comforting you with soft words and the occasional dab of a damp cloth to your forehead as the men argued above you.

“We are preparing to turn the child. It is a difficult thing to do but she is not yet crowning so it may be possible.” The elderly man said smoothly.

“May be possible?”

“Yes. At this stage it is the only option.” He said lowly, just to Anthony, breaking the news as softly as possible as you were otherwise occupied.

The next thing you felt was a decisive clamp of hands around your protruding belly as the small, senior doctor guided the taller but decidedly younger one in moving your baby around in your stomach to turn it the right way. The movement was sharp and stinging but it was strange that you could actually feel the child moving. When the doctor gave the word, you began pushing again, the other doctor; who had, even at this stage, not said a word reached behind him to retrieve a large metal appendage. You felt a cold sensation at your opening as he inserted the instrument; as the baby began to appear, he clamped them around the crowning head and gently pulled. The force of the birth and the still odd angle they appeared to be at made you throw your head back with a scream. You faintly heard Anthony call your name but the rushing of blood in your ears drowned out everything but your own screams.

Over six hours since Anthony had first found you, collapsed on the patio, your baby was finally born. You let out an exhausted laugh as they were lifted over the linen shroud at your waist and passed to a nursemaid to clean and wrap. Anthony’s face was nearly split in two by a radiant grin; the look of complete and utter adoration in his eyes never left as he looked from you to your child and back again. You beckoned him to go and he let go of your hand for the first time all evening and walked over to the nursemaid on the opposite side of the room to watch his first-born being wrapped in a soft muslin cloth.

Anthony reached out to hold the child, cradling him in his arms as he walked back over to you. The baby let out a quiet scream as he yawned for the first time, a big pair of dark brown eyes staring back as Anthony as he welled up.

Dearest Reader, It is with great pleasure that I can announce that the Viscountess Lady Y/N Bridgerton has born her child, a son named Edmund. Although the child appears to have arrived some months before due, I have been informed that both mother and child are in splendid health and that the Viscount is determined to keep both holed away at Aubrey Hall for the foreseeable season ahead, giving us all, even greater cause than usual, to hope that the annual Bridgerton musicale goes ahead as planned.

Lady Whistledown, 18 March 1813

#bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton imagine #my writing #the moment i knew

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stiltonbasket · 4 years ago

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OMG I am loving qin su!wwx verse but I'm dying at the Burial Mounds cliffhangerrrrrr AHHHH but also all in your own time bc we respect boundaries =D

When Lan Qing and Lan Jueying left the Cloud Recesses earlier that morning, running away to Lanling to see their A-Die had seemed like a good idea.

“Something’s wrong, and no one will tell us what!” thirteen-year-old Jueying complained, packing an emergency qiankun bag. “Jiujiu never has time for us anymore, and A-Die and Father are being weird, and A-Die came back from the conference early, and then he came back, and then he left again! Where did he go? Jie, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. And we can’t even go to Gege for help,” Lan Qing muttered, because their xiongzhang left for a group hunt in Changlun just yesterday. “Hurry up, A-Ying. We need to get out of here before shugong comes back.”

Their journey to the Jinlintai went smoothly enough, since A-Qing and Jueying often travel there with their parents; but then they landed on Koi Tower’s main terrace, and that was where everything started to go wrong.

“You have to let us in,” Lan Jueying says haughtily, when the doorwardens try to make them turn back. “My parents are here, and I want to see them.”

The two Jin guards in front of them exchange uncomfortable looks. “Nie-zongzhu and Lan-zongzhu are not here,” one of them tries to say: because not even a Jin would dare cross a young mistress born to two major sect leaders, especially when one of them is Sect Leader Nie. “They have gone to the Burial Mounds.”

“Then where is Jin-zongzhu?” A-Qing asks, imitating the sharp tone her shugong always takes with misbehaving disciples. “He is our shushu, so now that we are here, we must not leave without paying our respects to him.”

“Jin-zongzhu is occupied.”

“Is he so busy that he would turn away his nieces?” Lan Jueying says, batting her eyelashes until the wardens glance at their feet. “We’re tired, you know! I wasn’t even strong enough to fly this far until last year!”

Eventually, the two Jin guards lead them inside, and Jueying asks to see Auntie Su.

“She’s--unavailable,” an attendant says through gritted teeth. “She was found to have been possessed by the Yiling Patriarch.”

A-Ying and A-Qing glance at each other. Their jiujiu brought a veiled woman home two months ago, and A-Ying originally mistook her for their Aunt Su: but the lady Jiujiu keeps spending time with is thinner than San-shushu’s wife, and sounds very different, and Jiujiu would have known immediately if someone within nine or ten feet of him was possessed or not.

But if that really was Aunt Su, then perhaps...

“Take us to Jin-zongzhu, please!” Jueying cries. “We think we know where she is!”

“Han-ge, she said--”

“But Jin-zongzhu--”

“He’d want to know about this!” the younger guard hisses. “Ge, take them to him!”

The older warden heaves a sigh and then gestures towards a corridor.

“Follow me,” he grumbles. “Jin-zongzhu told us not to say anything, but if you know where Jin-furen is, he’ll have time to see you.”

And that was how they ended up down in the Jinlintai’s dungeon, crying like babies in A-Die’s arms behind the bars of a prison cell when Jin-zongzhu strips them of their spiritual powers and confiscates their two precious swords before locking them away.

“What’s going to happen to us?” A-Ying gulps. “A-Die, what happened to Auntie Su? And why did San-shushu make you come here?”

“We didn’t mean to tell him that she might be at the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Qingxia sobs. “I just thought--he sounded so worried, A-Die, but then he made someone take us down here, and we th-thought it was going to be a guest bedroom, and--”

“He said you were here to keep you safe!” wails Lan Jueying. “But he was lying, Jiejie said so! Is father coming to save us?”

“Don’t cry,” murmurs Lan Xichen, drying his daughters’ tearstained faces on his collar. Neither of them can tell how long he’s been trapped in the dungeons without his lingli, but it must have been at least a day and a half, or maybe two days, and his stomach keeps growling from hunger because he won’t eat anything Jin-zongzhu sends him. “A-Die knows a way to get you both somewhere safe, all right? You must be very still while I work, and hold on to your sister as tight as you can.”

Jueying nods and wraps her little body around Lan Qing’s. “Like this?”

“That’s right,” he soothes, kissing the silver cloud ornament over Lan Qing’s forehead and the tip of A-Ying’s button nose. “When you get there, tell the first person you find what happened, and that your baba went to Luanzung Gang with Huaisang and all the other cultivators who were at the conference.”

“Where are we going?” A-Ying asks, so quietly that A-Qing can scarcely hear her. “A-Die?”

Lan Xichen shakes his head and points upward, reminding them that anyone could be listening, so Jueying and A-Qing cling to him for a few more seconds before standing back to give their father room to work.

But instead of reaching into his locked jindan for power, Lan Xichen tears past the bounds of his lower dantian for something deeper than spiritual energy, and then the dank dungeon melts away into nothingness around them--taking Lan Xichen’s body with it, just as the pale front of his gown paints itself crimson with the blood dripping from his qiqiao.

“I love you, qian jin,” Lan Xichen gasps, whipping his head in the direction of the footsteps coming down the stairs. “Tell your father that I--”

Lan Jueying screams.

“A-Die!” she howls, as Lan Qingxia grips her sister’s waist for dear life. “Diedie, no!”

But no one answers, and when Lan Qing finally opens her eyes, she finds herself standing in their fuqin’s bedroom with Jueying sobbing in her arms.

#wangxian #nielan #mo dao zu shi #my fic #the untamed #qin su!wwx

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suburbanbeatnik · 4 years ago

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Françoise de Bernardy’s Alexandre Walewski: The Polish son of Napoleon- the first chapter

If I went to the (long and tedious) effort of translating the first chapter of Françoise Bernardy’s 1976 biography of Alexandre Walewski, I figure you guys should see it too. Enjoy!

* * *

MARCH 1810. Paris is moved by the preliminaries of Napoleon's marriage with Marie-Louise. In a few days, the archduke Charles has to marry in Vienna, in the name of the French Caesar, his yesterday's victor, the daughter of the German Caesars.

 At 2 rue du Houssaye, in the then aristocratic district of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, a small hotel of elegant appearance. On March 10, at the end of the afternoon, the Emperor brought a cradle decorated with silver laurel. The room where the imperial gift is deposited is hung with light blue. On the wall is a beautiful portrait of a woman by Gerard: blonde, with beautiful eyes and a fine, gentle face. The mirror of the fireplace reflects the charming features. Near the Boucaut armchairs, a Martin varnished chiffonier, behind, half-folded, a large screen of Coromandel lacquer.

A heroic fighter in the last wars of Polish independence, Mathieu Laczynski, staroste of Gostyn, died young and desperate, leaving a widow and six children who can barely live off the mortgaged land of Kiernozia.

The years pass, aggravating the ruin. The four sons are valiant but weak, spendthrift, covered with debts, whether they work on the land or fight in the Polish legions in the service of France. Only one hope, a rich marriage for the oldest daughter, Marie, born in 1786, who is beautiful and good.

An almost septuagenarian but very noble neighbor, Count Anastasius Walewski, offers this rich marriage when Marie has just turned seventeen. At first, the young girl rejects the idea of a union with an old man, twice widowed, whose son Stanislaus is already a made man. But Mme. Laczynska urges her daughter. She knows that he has a warm heart and a devoted soul. Count Walewski is generous. If Mary sacrifices herself, he will secure the future of her brothers and sister. How to resist seventeen years? At the beginning of 1804 Marie became countess Walewska. In June 1805 she had a son, Antoine, a fragile, weak, viable child, who was taken over by the count's sister, Hedwige, an abusive spinster. She leaves behind a distraught young woman with a sad heart and empty arms. Only the sense of duty and a deep passion, which lifts her out of herself, the love of the country, sustain her. Marie lives on the hopes that the victories of the imperial France over Austria, Prussia, and Russia, the powers that once shared Poland.

This patriotism and these hopes brought Marie Walewska to meet Napoleon in Blonie on the road to Warsaw on December 31, 1806. In the weeks that followed, this patriotism and these hopes persuaded the young woman to become the mistress of the French emperor, first forced, then willing, then in love. In the spring of 1807, she lived with him in Finckenstein, where the warrior spent some quiet hours preparing for the Friedland campaign.

Unofficially separated from her old husband, Marie Walewska came to Paris at the beginning of 1808. She remained there until the Emperor's departure for Bayonne. If the fever of the senses has subsided between them, if the lovers are often and for a long time separated, nevertheless Napoleon remains attentive and Marie attached. And then there is always Poland, whose destiny once more seems to be played out during the campaign of 1809. In May, Marie writes to Napoleon, reminds him of his promises, offers to join him in Austria, and on May 18, from Schoenbrunn, which he is about to leave for his headquarters in Ebersdorf, the Emperor replies to the young woman.

"Marie, I have received your letter. I read it with the pleasure that your memory always inspires me. The feelings that you keep for me, I carry them with me.

"Come to Vienna, I wish to see you and give you new proofs of the tender friendship I have for you. You cannot doubt the value I place on everything that concerns you. A thousand tender kisses on your beautiful hands and one on your beautiful mouth. "

A month later, back at Schoenbrunn, on June 20, fifteen days before the battle of Wagram, the Emperor sent Marie an affectionate letter.

"Dear Marie, your letters have pleased me as always. I do not approve of your having followed the [Polish] army in Cracow, but I cannot blame you.

"The affairs of Poland are restored, and I understand the anxieties you have had ... I acted, it was better than to lavish consolation on you. You don't have to thank me, I love your country and I appreciate the merits of many of your people.

"It takes more than the capture of Vienna to bring the end of the campaign. When I have finished, I will move to be closer to you, my sweet friend, because I am anxious to see you again. If it is at Schoenbrunn, we will enjoy together the charm of its beautiful gardens and we will forget all these bad days.

"Have patience and keep faith. "N"

After Wagram, Countess Walewska moved to Moedling, a few miles from Vienna, and throughout the summer of 1809, while peace was being discussed, the Emperor came almost every day to spend the evening, the night - with Marie.

Slow, sweet weeks which, if they seem to consecrate the liaison by the expectation of a child, however, by precipitating the divorce, also prepare the rupture. Indeed, Marie wishes to return to France with the Emperor, but Napoleon, now assured that he can procreate, determined to separate from Josephine, does not want to. The presence of the young woman in Paris would disturb him as he prepares his second marriage. He asked the Countess to return to Poland and on October 13 - the Emperor left Vienna the next day - Marie took the road to Warsaw.

On December 18 - the divorce was pronounced on the 15th - from Trianon where he went to his departure from the Tuileries, Napoleon writes to the countess Walewska. How the tone has changed since the letters of May and June, and how the young woman must have suffered. It is no longer a lover, but the sovereign who speaks, only the concern for the child still shines through. "Madam, I received your letter. All that it contains touched me much. I was pleased to see that you arrived in Warsaw without any unpleasant accident. Take care of your health, which is very precious to me, and put away dark thoughts, the future should not worry you. Teach me that you are happy and content, that is my greatest desire."

Unconsciousness of men. It is almost in the same terms that the Emperor tries to console Josephine...

Happy? Happy? Marie is not happy while she is waiting for Napoleon's child so far away from him, while Caulaincourt seems to be about to sacrifice the Polish hopes in Saint-Petersburg... In 1807, prince Poniatowski asked countess Walewska not to reject the sovereign on whom the fate of Poland depends. In 1810, he probably asked Marie to come to Paris to defend the cause of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw and she agreed. Thus, she was in Paris at the beginning of 1810.

Marie Walewska looked sadly at the cradle. It is true that Napoleon welcomed her and spoke tenderly of the child she was carrying - a son, he had no doubt. But the young woman's heart is heavy. The Emperor had come the day before to bid her farewell. He would not see her again until she had given birth. What will Marie do? Stay in Paris? Retire to the country? To Warsaw? But can she return without the count's permission?

All of a sudden hurried footsteps, a panting courier. "A letter from Poland!"

The count's handwriting...

"Walewice, 21 February 1810

"Dear and honored wife,

"Walewice is more and more a burden to me, my age and state of health forbidding me any activity. I have come there for the last time, in order to sign the deed by which my eldest son acquires it.

"I advise you to come to an agreement with him about the formalities to be completed at the birth of the child you are expecting. They will be simplified if it is in Walewice that this Walewski is born.

"This is also his opinion, and that I write to you. I do so, conscious of fulfilling my duty, praying to God that he may have you in his care.

"Anastase Colonna Walewski".

Marie weeps with relief, with gratitude. Without wasting a minute, she claims her chaise de poste.

Poland is still under a blanket of snow when the Walewska princess arrives in Walewice. The young woman was pleased to see the long white house again, with its two wings covered by terraces and the triangular pedimented porch. This "colonial style" is surprising in the Polish plain: it is a memory of the veterans of the American War of Independence.

April soon brings its first greens, the buds burst in the woods. Marie Walewska takes long solitary walks. Her term is near. What will be the future of this child in whom Slavic and Latin blood are mixed? If it is a son, will he be a soldier, a diplomat? If it is a daughter, will she have fewer difficulties than her mother? What Marie wishes for her child is happiness...

On May 4, Countess Walewska gave birth to a son. At the end of his life Alexandre Walewski will write:

"My birth was accompanied by lightning and thunder, and it was predicted that my life would be stormy and even life-changing.

"To satisfy an old family prejudice, I was held at the font by two beggars, which was supposed to bring me luck... "

Three days pass, then on May 7 the priest of Walewice, acting as civil registrar, registers in the commune of Bielow that "Mgr Anastase de Walewski, staroste of Wareck, residing in Walewice, age of 73 years ", presented him "a child of the male sex, born in his palace on May 4 of the present year at four o'clock, by clarifying to us that he was born from his marriage with the lady Marie, nee de Laczynska, his wife . ... and that he intended to give her the following three names: Alexandre-Florian-Joseph. In view of this declaration, we have proceeded to the redaction of the birth certificate of the said child, in the presence of Mgr Stanislas de Walewski aged 30 years ... and of Mr. Joseph Ciekerski,doctor of medicine and surgeon deliverer ... which birth certificate was signed by us as well as by the above-mentioned and the required witnesses after reading made. "

Anastase Walewski thus fulfills all his duty towards a woman whose honesty and uprightness he appreciates. To this child who is nothing to him, he assures a name, a legitimate filiation, a heritage. This is a striking proof of the affection and esteem he has for Marie. Stanislaus Walewski is fully associated with this testimony by his presence in front of the priest of Walewice.

On his side the Emperor did not forget Marie.

On April 16 (1) he wrote to her:

"Madam, I receive with great pleasure your news, but the dark ideas that I see that you nourish do not suit you well. I do not want you to have any. Teach me soon that you have a beautiful boy, that your health is good and that you are cheerful. Never doubt the pleasure I will have in seeing you and the tender interest I take in what concerns you. Farewell Marie, I await with confidence your news."

(1) When it was published, this letter was dated February 16. This date hardly seems acceptable. First of all, it is clearly a reply to a distant person whom the Emperor will have "pleasure in seeing". Above all, Napoleon knew that the child was due at the beginning of May and he could not hope that he would be born "soon" - prematurely. Date of April, when the young woman withdrew to Walewice, this text takes on its full meaning.

Leaving a few days later for Belgium and Holland with Marie-Louise, he is informed by quick couriers and, as soon as he knows the birth of Alexandre, he sends for the child Brussels lace and twenty thousand gold francs, for the mother, a very special tribute if we think of Napoleon's admiration for the poet, the works of Corneille, printed in Rouen in 1648, in a beautiful binding by Trantz. Does the Emperor want to signify to Marie that she has the high and tender soul of a Chimene, that he remembers her faithful and generous love?

Napoleon called the young woman back to France on September 3. After thanking her for the news brought by her brother, Theodore Laczynski, he adds in effect: "If your health is well recovered, I desire that you come on the end of autumn to Paris where I desire very much to see you... "

An amicable agreement is then definitively reached between Marie and the count Walewski. The latter gives her a large part of his fortune and entrusts her with the custody of their son Antoine. In Paris Marie Walewska moves back to rue du Houssaye. The months pass. Marie lives far from the court, does not meet Napoleon who, all occupied with Marie-Louise, seems to be interested in the young woman and her son. Finally, in February 1811, the Emperor came to see little Alexandre. It is a beautiful blond child, but whose dark complexion recalls that of the Bonapartes. He has the round head of the Latins, the high and wide forehead of his father, his eyebrow, his mouth and his chin, but the eye does not have the deep blue of the Corsican, reflection of the Mediterranean, it does not have either the sparkle which had always to brighten in the imperial pupil, the brown eye of Alexandre is pleasant and merry. A second visit follows the first one, then it is the rupture, without clashes, without discussion, like a fruit that has reached maturity.

Napoleon, however, is very concerned about the material well-being of Countess Walewska, to whom Duroc brings ten thousand francs every month. Especially the future of his son. On the eve of leaving Paris for Russia, on May 5, 1812, he made the young woman come to the Tuileries and gave her a patent which instituted in favor of Alexandre a majorat of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds of income, with the title of count. The majorat is established on goods situated in the kingdom of Naples.

One evening in January 1813, Alexandre was awakened with a start. Dressed in a hurry, he was taken to his mother.

"Two elderly men were with him, one of whom took me on his lap and kissed me. His physiognomy made a deep impression on me; it was certainly the first memory of his life."

The Emperor's solicitude for his Polish son did not waver. In the middle of the dark hours of the French campaign, fearing that Murat would confiscate the first endowment, he charged his treasurer general, M. de La Bouillerie, to establish a new majorat of fifty thousand pounds of rent on the canals for the young Walewski; he also had a hotel at 48, rue de la Vicioire, bought in the name of Alexandre for 137,500 francs, of which Marie was the usufructuary (1).

Come the great reverses. In the defeated Emperor, abandoned by his former companions, Marie Walewska sees only the man who has loved her, whom she has loved. She runs to Fontainebleau and is announced. Napoleon, absorbed, does not see her again immediately, and then does not think about her anymore. Weary of body and soul, he looks for oblivion and rest in poison, but does not find it.

All night long, in an anteroom, Marie waits for him to call her. In the morning, she finally goes away, discreet, fearing to be unwelcome. The Emperor learns a few hours later of her apparent negligence. "The poor woman," he murmured, "will think she has been forgotten," and on April 16 he was anxious to reassure her. "Marie, I have received your letter of the 15th, the feelings that you have expressed touch me deeply. They are worthy of your beautiful soul and the goodness of your heart. When you have arranged your affairs, if you want to go to the waters of Lucca or Pisa, I will see you with great and lively interest, as well as your son for whom my feelings are invariable. Be well, think of me with pleasure and never doubt me.”

(1) On February 4, from Nogent, he writes in his own hand to La Bouillerie: "I have received your letter relative to young Walewski. I leave you carte blanche. Do what is convenient but do it immediately. What interests me is above all the child, the mother afterwards." A judgment of the court of the Seine, of April 4, 1818, will authorize the tutor of the "minor" Walewski it to sell the hotel of the rue de la Victoire and it to replace the funds produced by this sale in the purchase of Walewice of which Stanislas Walewski wants to get rid.

In August 1814 Marie Walewska travels to Italy with her son, her sister Emilie and her brother Theodore. The Emperor encouraged her again on August 9:

"Marie, I have received your letter, I have spoken to your brother. Go to Naples to arrange your affairs. On my way there or on my way back, I will see you with the interest you have always inspired in me, and the little one of whom I hear so much good news that I am truly happy and will be happy to embrace him. Farewell, Madame, a hundred tender things.”

On September 1 Marie arrived on the island of Elba with her son, Emilie and Theodore. Immediately a rumor spread among the population and the small garrison: Marie-Louise and the King of Rome had just arrived. The good people are mistaken. The Viennese woman of light soul and weak flesh is in Aix, already all in Neipperg.

Is Napoleon going to retain Marie who has come to offer him her life? Certainly he is moved to find her always so faithful and so generous. But the Emperor thinks first of the Empress, first of the King of Rome, and he fears that Marie-Louise, warned of the coming of the Polish girl, will take the pretext not to join him. Surprisingly, does he not guess that the choice is already made?

In any case, he receives Marie Walewska in a half-mystery, at the hermitage of the Madonna.

Leaving the countess the three rooms of the little house, Napoleon settles for the night in a tent under the chestnut trees. When he came out in the morning, he found Alexandre playing. He called him, sat down on a chair, took the child in his lap, then sent for Foureau de Beauregard, the doctor who had followed him to Elba, and the latter wrote to Alexandre Walewski on June 22, 1843: "You are that pretty little Alexandre that I saw, almost twenty-nine years ago, on the Emperor's lap near the Madonna delle Grazie on the island of Elba.”

“The Emperor wanted the child, who had no youngster with him, to be there," says Marchand. The Emperor placed Mme. Walewska's son next to him, he was very good at first, but it didn't last long and, as his mother reproached him, the Emperor said to him: "So you are not afraid of the whip? Well! I urge you to fear it; I have only received it once and I have always remembered it." Napoleon then tells how one day when he had mocked his grandmother's clumsy walk, Madame Mere had firmly corrected him. "The child had listened with the greatest attention, the Emperor said to him: 'Well, what do you say to that?’— ‘But I don't make fun of Mama,' he said with a little air of contrition which pleased the Emperor, who kissed him and said: 'That's well answered.’"

Rare picture of Napoleon with his Polish son.

That same evening, September 2, Marie Walewska took the road to Naples again in small steps. The endowment of Alexandre, confiscated on September 15 with all the other French endowments of the kingdom of Naples, is restored on November 30. Perhaps on the intervention of Caroline, who always liked Marie Walewska? Perhaps Murat had some shame to add a meanness to his betrayals? In any case the Emperor was satisfied and he told the King of Naples on February 17, 1815, adding: "I recommend her to you and especially her son who is very dear to me. "She came to Paris in the spring of 1838 and was ‘touched by the assiduous care’ that Walewski gave her during her stay. Caroline Murat wrote to him on November 23: "I am sending you the letter from the Emperor that I had promised you; you will see in it the proofs of the affection that he had for you... "

The countess Walewska lingers in Naples. Alexandre will keep a vague but pleasant memory of this stay, of the toys that he received there. At the beginning of 1815 the mother and the child embarked for France. Caught by a corsair, they escaped him in great difficulty.

Marie learned of the death of the count in Walewice on January 18, 1815. Now that she is free, what will she do with her life? To marry General d'Ornano, who has been courting her for a long time and for whom she has a deep inclination? Perhaps... She has hardly had time to decide when on March 1, 1815 Napoleon lands in Golfe-Juan.

It is the prestigious return, the intoxicating reception of Paris, the feverish days of work. Before the departure for the plains of Flanders where the imperial eagle will fall, Marie, always faithful heart, goes to the Elysee with her son. Alexandre found the visitor from the rue du Houssaye at the palace. He wears, as on the island of Elba, a blue uniform with a white lapel. "He told my mother that he was going to leave for a campaign. He asks me if I want to go with him. My mother refused. ‘Well madam, I will take him by force.’” These words still ring in my ears. "

Waterloo, the second abdication, the halt at Malmaison. Marie once again comes to the Emperor. So many bonds united them, gratitude for the resurrected Poland, and then love, and then the child. Without a doubt, she is ready to accompany him in this exile from which Napoleon's immense weariness, after a life so full and so ardent, awaits rest. But he does not accept, happiness is no longer for him, he enters the legend.

Despite the clear light of this beautiful summer day, everything is sad and gloomy on this June 26 and Malmaison is a kingdom of shadows: shadow of Josephine, unfaithful and charming, shadow of Duroc and Bessieres, shadow of the madman Junot, shadow of the absent ones too, Eugene, Murat, the companions of glory and youth, shadow of Talleyrand and Fouche who betrayed him, shadow above all of this young consul who took France in his arms and with a sincere effort straightened it.

Marie and the Emperor speak at length. Alexandre, serious and silent, listens to them without understanding. The countess is crying softly, she would like to retain Napoleon, to persuade him not to abandon himself to destiny. It is a vain effort, the Emperor does not hear her, nor does he hear Hortense. Marie finally decides to leave and Napoleon leans over to the child and gives him a long kiss. Later the man made, the wall man who became ambassador, then minister of the resurrected empire, will remember that he thought he saw a tear running down the cheek of the defeated of Waterloo.

Three more days the slow agony continues, three more days Marie returns to Malmaison and on June 29 she will be among the last faithful who, on the threshold of the house, will see the Emperor sinking with a firm step into the park, crossing the small gate, will hear the door of the heavy car slamming while the bells of the church of Rueil ring...

* * *

A long year... Europe catches its breath, gets used to the absence of the man who for fifteen years has dominated it and who disappeared at the bottom of the Atlantic.

On September 7, 1816 Marie Walewska married Ornano, who had been exiled by the Restoration, in St. Gudula in Brussels. Antoine and Alexandre Walewski stayed in Paris. Under the guidance of M. Carite, a friend on whom the countess entrusted the education of her children, and of an old valet, Andre, the two little ones join the Ornanos at the waters of Chaudfontaine near Liege. The new household moved soon after to Liege itself, in a charming house on rue Mandeville, today rue de la Fragnee. On June 9, 1817, a son, Rodolphe, was born. After his release from exile, Ornano returned to Paris with his wife in October 1817, but Marie died soon after, on December 11.

In her will Madame d'Ornano entrusted the guardianship of her Polish sons to her brother Theodore Laczynski, who was in Paris at the time. "He will have to report frequently to my dear husband on the state of Alexandre's health, to take his advice when this child will be of school age. Place him in a school where his father-in-law will be able to go and visit him sometimes and supervise his education... "

Laczynski takes the two orphans to Kiernozia in Poland. Alexandre likes this quiet and patriarchal life. Memories of the imperial era haunt the house. In the evening, Antoine and Alexandre linger in the living room. Theodore Laczvnski takes the lead in the conversation, he talks about the French Revolution, Paris, the imperial campaigns, especially about the Emperor. As Duroc's aide-de-camp, the Pole often approached Napoleon. The children, with bright eyes, listen "with indefinable interest". Laczynski's dream is to go to Saint Helena, to take his wards there...

After a few happy months in the country, Theodore Laczynski decides to settle in Warsaw and gives the children whose education cannot be neglected any longer a tutor. A strange choice. The times decidedly wanted it. While Queen Hortense entrusted Louis-Napoleon to the son of the conventionnel Le Bas, the young Walewskis, in their snows, were given to a certain Muller, a "philosopher teacher" as he called himself, of a very advanced republicanism. Laczynski quickly separates from the astonishing character and, in order to restore the balance, his pupils spend half a year in a Jesuit college in Warsaw, where Alexandre makes his first communion. Then they left for Geneva in 1820.

Napoleon's son stayed there for four years. After a happy, pampered life with the gentle and tender woman who was his mother, the child had two more easy years. Now here he is, thrown alone - his brother Antoine is leaving him soon (1) - in a new, even hostile environment, in a foreign city whose Protestant austerity must have clashed with the Catholic heredity of this Pole with Latin roots. And yet, as he himself wrote, it was from this period that his spiritual life began. The city of Calvin suits this calm, somewhat soft temperament. No flashes of anger or outbursts. Order, measure, a certain fundamental rigidity. In Geneva, one day in the summer of 1821, the child of Wagram, the one who prayed for the Emperor because he was his father, learns of the death of the captive of Saint Helena.

(1)Recalled probably by the tsar. Antoine Walewski died young, without children from his marriage to Constance Grotowska.

No trace in the memories of the imprisoned man of what he thought, felt... Did he ever know, except by the cold instructions to the executors of his will, that Napoleon, although absorbed by the concern for his imperial son, nevertheless thought of his Polish son, recommended him to Bertrand, expressed the wish that he enter a regiment of lancers, and above all that he become a Frenchman. "He is really of my blood, and that is also something."

Alexandre Walewski is a boarder at the Academy's rector's house, which receives about twenty young people. His lavish lifestyle, the apartment, the governor, the servant, attracted jealousy and bullying. In spite of his young age, Alexandre decides to avoid a situation which, if it goes on too long, will become painful. He gets the governor recalled, keeps the servant but puts him at the service of the community. He has easy money - his hands will always be wide open -, he lends to his comrades and shows himself to be generous. He is a serious, authoritarian boy, aware of his importance. The traits of his character, which we will find again during his life, are already marked: he is honest, upright, but he is neither cheerful nor fanciful. He evokes his life in Geneva as follows: "I was at twelve very tall for my age, and I considered myself a young man; so much so that I was already going a little into the world, to balls, to little parties... I stayed in Geneva for four years. I left Geneva on an order from the emperor of Russia."

* * *

On his return to Poland in 1824, Alexandre Walewski was emancipated by his tutor. He settled in Walewice, where he led a stately life. Princess Jablonowska, a sexagenarian cousin who had once been the friend and confidante of Maria Walewska, helped him to entertain. The house of the young man, of this so young man, is soon to be very sought after.

Precocious from a worldly point of view, Alexandre Walewski is also precocious with women. The Latin blood is hot, the Slavic blood as well. Judging by what he wrote in the first draft of his memoirs, shortly after his arrival in Walewice, Alexandre had an affair. He had an affair with a "vulgar girl" that left him feeling disgusted and that would keep him away from such promiscuity in the future. The numerous women who will mark out his life will be from now on women of talent or: women of quality.

On December 22, 1825, Alexandre sends to the General d'Ornano his wishes for the new year. This letter, green, charming, which confirms the impression of maturity of a boy who is not sixteen years old, also reveals the affectionate feelings that he feels for his stepfather.

“It is nearly three months since I wrote to you and many things have happened since I took possession of my land in Walewice. First of all, the castle was repaired, which was in great need of it, and then my good cousin wanted the whole region to hear, with loud trumpeting, that I had become its lord. More than a hundred people did us the honor of attending the magnificent ball that she gave. It was very cold outside, but fortunately there was no snow that night. I was celebrated and saw people from the past whom I pretended to recognize and who were charmed by it. The dowagers even kissed me, but not the young girls, which would have pleased me more. I made up for it by dancing with several of them.

"I must confess also that I fell several times into the sin of pride. I don't know who said anything about my academic successes, but I have been in the hot seat and have been made to take part in political, diplomatic, literary, and I don't know what else conversations. How many compliments have I heard about my intelligence, my reason, the power of my arguments, etc., etc., etc.? And then I noticed that the girls preferred me to many other dancers. As the lessons given to me were profitable, I remembered that it was especially necessary to court ladies of canonical age and they brought back to me very flattering appreciations on my modest person, expressed by exquisite mouths...

"General Zayonczek is one of my most frequent visitors... He rambles a little, but this does not affect his memory. He remembers very well all that happened in Warsaw when the Emperor came there before the battle of Eylau... He is very popular with the great Duke and even with the Czar's court. Some people criticize him, but I think it is good that we have our great men in favor. It can only be useful for us...

"We will reopen the Warsaw hotel in a few days. Ah! if we could see you there!

"Your tender and respectful Alexandre. "

Son of the patriot Marie Walewska, son of the Emperor, Alexandre attracts Polish hopes. He would gladly be taken as a standard bearer. Grand Duke Constantine, the skillful and often benevolent governor of the kingdom, wanted to neutralize him. He offers him to join the Russian army, to become his aide-de-camp. The young man "stubbornly" refused. He was put under police surveillance and told to leave the country. Tsar Alexandre had once recommended that Napoleon's Polish son should never be allowed to go to France: his brother remembered this.

Alexandre decides to escape. With a passport obtained at a high price, he goes to St. Petersburg and hides there, waiting for a favorable opportunity to gain more free land. He learns that the police are looking for him to bring him back to Warsaw where his fate will be decided. Four hundred leagues on foot, a probable prison do not tempt the Pole. He had to escape at all costs. He reached Kronstadt and boarded a steamer bound for England. The police have found his trail, and they launch an armed barge in pursuit of him, ordering him to stop: inadvertently or unwillingly, the captain does not obey the summons and, thanks to his superior speed, makes it to the open sea.

* * *

In London, Walewski received an enthusiastic welcome from the elegant society, the opposition. The Whigs, that is, the Liberals, have always regretted the treatment of the Emperor, and Lord Holland has protested in the House of Lords against the conditions of captivity. With Napoleon gone, the regrets became remorse...

In spite of the attentions of which he is the object, the young man does not linger in England. He will return there with pleasure and in 1828 he will spend several months: summer, autumn, making a long stay in Chatworth at the Duke of Devonshire, the most prominent of the great Whig lords. But it is in Paris that Walewski intends to settle down. He arrived there in the autumn of 1827. He found his father-in-law, with him Flahaut, Sebastiani, Gerard, veterans of the time. The salons of the Faubourg Saint Honore, of liberal tendency, receive him with great pleasure. He is charming at his entrance in the Parisian world, this young Walewski. Slim, slender, elegant, he has beautiful dark eyes and a dreamy smile. His slight accent adds to his charm when he courts a woman, and he waltzes divinely - like a Slav.

And then, isn't he called the natural son of Man? The Marechal de Castellane notes on November 1, 1827: "At Mme de Flahaut's, I saw for the first time a young M. Walewski, son of Mme Walewska and of the Emperor Napoleon. He has the eyes, the sound of his father's voice, he is taller than him and very well turned out (1)."

(1) Many years later Walewski pronounced the eulogy of the count of Rayneval. An old general of the Empire suddenly begins to cry. "I attended the farewell that the Emperor made to his guard at Fontainebleau and I just heard the sound of his voice.”

What is more surprising, the faubourg Saint-Germain, stronghold of the ultras, is infatuated with Walewski who becomes the darling of the "ultra-duchesses" according to Lady Morgan. Haussonville on his side confirms it to us. "The debuts of Count Walewski took place, singularly enough, under the auspices of what is most exclusive and purest in the aristocratic society of Paris. It was as if it were a watchword among the most sought-after ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain to give the most benevolent welcome to the young man whose features were strikingly reminiscent, but with a pleasant and gentle physiognomy, of those of a famous mask. The first of these was the one who was to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be of a man who was not a man of the world. He let the most haughtiest women, those who were about to consider themselves the prettiest or the wittiest, put themselves to the expense for him, either of brilliant toilet or of beautiful spirit, each one according to the means of seduction which suited her best. Thus, every evening in the fashionable salons, there was a real race to the bell tower between a learned marquise... who affected to speak to each ambassador the language of her country and a beautiful duchess [it seems to be the duchess de Guiche] who was then in Paris the type of the sovereign elegance. Between these ladies the bets were open and the chances seemed doubtful, Walewski taking care to share equally between them his discreet attentions...”

A cloud rises however on the horizon. Pozzo di Borgo, the Russian ambassador, a Corsican who had been in the service of the tsar, pursued with a Corsican hatred all that was Bonaparte. He asks for the extradition of Walewski, this "rebel, fugitive from the Russian Empire". By order of Charles X, who doesn't like Pozzo, Villele, on the eve of leaving the ministry, refuses it. Walewski could stay in France on condition that he avoided official circles and made himself forgotten.

Life is very pleasant in these last years of the Restoration. Lady Blessington has left us a pleasant picture of the society of the time. The manners are ceremonious and the young people surround the old women with delicate attentions, whether it is a flattering silence when the beautiful ones of the past are remembered or a lively eagerness to render them small services: handkerchief, bouquet or fan picked up, shawl placed on cold shoulders. France is the paradise of old women, especially if they are witty, England is the purgatory, says the Englishwoman without ambiguity. The amorous intrigues are discreet, hidden from the public, and those whose affair is best known affect the most reserved manners. Hypocrisy perhaps, but the Parisian world takes on an air of dignity and decency.

Once a week, the women of quality open their salons to a circle of intimates who meet like-minded people every evening in a friendly house. Small closed coteries, where strangers are not admitted. For them, balls, dinners and parties in full dress. For the regulars, the amiable negligence of the half-clothes and the free, unceremonial chat. “Yesterday I went to a small party at Madame de Jumilhac's [a sister of the Duke of Richelieu] where Walewski served as my introducer," said the Pole Andre Kosmian on November 7, 1829. “Without being rich, she received three times a week the flower of the Parisian world. Her small salon is only open to ten or twelve people at a time. It is very difficult to be admitted. I owed this favor to Walewski who is the gate child of these ladies."

Walewski likes this refined society as much as he likes it. He is linked with the due de Chartres. They are tall, one dark, the other blond, they look alike and for three winters they never leave each other. Walewski also met Thiers at Madame de Flahaut's house: their friendship will never be denied. He finally met Morny, the son of Flahaut and Queen Hortense. "They are both of distinguished and graceful manners, without support, gifted with an air as it should be which is in them as a native gift... "

Lady Blessington, a very good judge, noted in 1829: "The more I see Count Walewski, the more I like him. He has the spirit, intuition and perfect manners. I have always considered it a good sign for a young man to like the society of old people and Count Walewski marks the preference for men of age to be his father."

When the count d'Orsay and the due de Guiche create in 1828 the circle of the Union, Walewski joins one of the first. He found there many Englishmen, Lord Granville, the English ambassador who had married a sister of the Duke of Devonshire and whose son was to be a minister in 1852. Caradoc, the future opponent of Walewski in La Plata, Normanby. He also met Talleyrand... There is a lot of talk about horses, it is a passion of the time and also a fashion. The races begin to be very popular at the Champ-de-Mars and at the Bois de Boulogne. Walewski goes there with assiduity. He runs and plays...

“In the meantime, I attended horse races for the first time in my life," Kosmian said in November 1829. Unfortunately, they ended in a way that was unpleasant for Walewski, because Walewski was always doing crazy things, throwing money out of the window. In England and here in Paris, he lost at cards up to a hundred thousand francs. Having stopped on the slope, he no longer plays cards, but, which amounts to the same thing, he plays at the races. There is a very rich Englishman here, Lord Seymour [Milord l'Arsouille], who lives only for horses and for whom betting on races is a passion. He is the one who is constantly pestering poor Walewski. Last Saturday, they had only two, each on his own horse. Walewski rode an English racehorse; Seymour a hunting horse; but Walewski had to carry sixty pounds more! Everyone who knew anything about racing said in advance that Walewski was making a fool of himself and that he would lose. He wouldn't listen to anyone - and lost. The stake was five thousand francs. He has seventy-five thousand pounds of income; what a comfortable and pleasant life he could lead. Perfectly well seen in the world, universally loved... But one has to tell him the truth... he doesn't want to hear anything until now. It is a great pity because what a good and noble nature it is and of how much pleasure in society ... "

The year 1829 had been cheerful, the beginning of the year 1830 is not less. On February 9 a great masked ball was organized by Mrs. Alexandre de Girardin in the concert hall of the rue Taitbout. Mme. Alfred de Noailles intrigues during one hour Rodolphe Apponyi, the king of the cotillion leaders; on the other hand, he recognizes at first sight the princess of Lieven and both of them go in the box of Walewski so that they intrigue their turn.

Alexandre is twenty years old on May 4, 1830. He is a man. Will he continue to waste his life in frivolity, thinking only of the world, of women, of races, of gambling? Does he forget the hopes cherished by his mother, does he remember that his father wanted him to be a soldier? Will he, who is free, get bogged down in the pleasures of Paris like the Duke of Reichstadt, he who is a prisoner, in the soft life of Austria? Will the sons of Napoleon be only dandies?

Walewski was a calm observer of the Three Glorious Years, and the return of the tricolor flag, which his father had flown in Vienna, Berlin and Moscow, did not arouse any echo in him. Polish by mother, Polish by heart, Polish by nationality if not by language (1), only the tocsin of Warsaw is going to move him, to awaken him suddenly.

(1) Walewski was not fluent in Polish. Joseph Tanski tells that when he came to London in 1854 to talk to the ambassador about projects he did not wish to see revealed, he offered to speak Polish to Walewski, the valet being present in the room. The latter refused, admitting that he could not sustain the conversation.

#alexandre walewski #marie walewska #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #polish history #francoise bernardy #long post #translation #joachim murat #caroline bonaparte #d'ornano

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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years ago

Text

Sunday 13 October 1839

7 ½

1 55/..

Moscow arrived yesterday

fine morning F56° at 9 am and breakfast at 9 10/.. in about an hour – everything comfortable Left Mrs. Wilson (no. 6 Galernay Oulitza [Galernaya Ulitsa], St. Petersburg) at 11 55/.. am last Monday (the 7th instant) and alighted here, Howards’ hotel, Moscow, at 3 ¾ pm yesterday – chez Ivan Ivanoff Goward. Na Bolshoi Dmietriefka v’domai Kooptcheeki Artemovoi pod no. 472, Moskva – Had arranged my books and settled myself last night – Had Mrs. Howard – very civil – then reading or 1 thing or other this morning till A- and I read prayers at 11 35/.. in ½ hour – then till 2 55/.. reading Murrays’ encyclopaedia of geology and A-‘s on the Hebrews ancient history par Messrs. Poirson et Cayx Paris. Louis Colas, Editor, Rue Dauphine, no. 32; L. Hachette, libraire, Rue Pierre-Sarrazin, no. 12: Madame Veuve Maire-Nyon, Quai Conti, no. 13 1838 – at 2 55/.. had Leopold the laquais de place recommended by Handbook – Mrs. Howard this morning mentioned a man of the name of Louis and was sorry he was engaged – Leopold has 6/. per day and engaged him at that price, not meaning to keep him longer than necessary – 10 days or a fortnight at most – gave him 2 of my own cartes de visite and 2 of A-‘s to take to the proper person to ask permission for us to see the treasury at the palace in the Kremlin and to see the Tartar palace there – and gave him Lord Clauricards’ letter to take to prince Galitzin [Gallitzin]–

Monday 14 October – as I write out the above of yesterday it just occurs to me that I ought to have enclosed my card with the letter undercover now what will be the effect of this gaucherie? I do not care much I have no toilette with me no clever maid and no lady anything to help me out it just occurs to me that I will writ[e] compliments in French and enclose my card with an apology – (called off to tea)

A- and I out at 3 ¼ to 5 23/.. a quiet reconnoitring walk by ourselves having engaged Leopold from tomorrow – went straight down out street – turned left – passed the theatre in a straight line till turned right into the Kitai gorod [Kitaj-gorod] and went straight forward till turned up one of the covered passages of shops – returned and pursued our street straight forwards to the end and turned up to another passage which led us to nearly opposite the gorgeously grotesque cathedral of St. Basil – went in – full of people – elbowed ourselves in and elbowed ourselves out – we had seen nothing like this church – nothing in the sale style, but the church on entering Novgorod – a small chapel in point of size – little more than the base of the dome, but the walls absolutely and literally covered with gold silver and painting – we did not pursue the painted passages (meaning to see all better another time) but en sortant made for the Spaskoi gate and entered the Kremlin – walked along the terrace – what can exceed the view of Moscow from here? – its vast extent – its motley [?]of European and Asiatic style – its hundred churches and its pomp of domes! I had had no idea of such a scene – all my expectations were exceeded – the river is as good as

SH:7/ML/E/23/0102

the Seine at Paris – the stone bridge 8 arches – the iron bridge 4 or 6? we then examined the great bell, Tsar Kolokol (king bell) – good taste of the present emperor to uplift it in 1837 from its sunken resting place (where it fell) to its present handsome base of granite wall 5 or 6ft. high – we looked about us quietly – made our sortie by another gate (nearer the theatre and our own street) and returned much pleased with our walk – home at 5 23/.. – dressed – dinner 6 to 7 – Read A-‘s ancient history (vide line 7 last page) and slept over it till tea at 9 to near 10 – had Grotza – then sat reading Handbook and making notes for tomorrow till one tonight – then stood reading the preface and 1st 24pp. of vol. 1 Karamsin – history of Russia – (A- bought it at St. Petersburg 11vols. 8vo. = 30/. chez Belizard, editeur) fine day – F62 ½° on my table at one tonight –

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btxtreads · 4 years ago

Text

Silver Nights

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: TERRIFIED

↳ Pairing: Choi Beomgyu x Reader

↳ word count: 2.1k words

↳ rating: G

↳ genre: fluff, angst

With a smile in her face, Y/N skipped happily towards the piano room. She kept smiling as she held the doorknob—about to push it open when she realized it was cracked open just a little bit.

She peered inside with a huge grin, eyes searching for the black-haired prince when her gaze fell upon his figure towering over Lady Eunjae as she strained her neck to reach his head—arms wrapped around his neck and lips attached to lips.

Stunned, the girl’s eyes widened. She closed the door silently, sighing as she ignored the slight pang in her heart.

Only common fools dream of princes.

She clenched her jaw tightly, feet softly padding against the carpeted marble floors of the castle as she trekked back to her room.

But he’s not a prince, isn’t he?

Opening the door to her room, she picked up the brown envelop resting on her bed. She pulled out the document, eyes once more reading the words ‘Certificate of Adoption’ in disbelief.

Can’t she dream for him, then?

Her phone rang—a text from her boss asking for any update on her story. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say that she had a scoop, and spill out every single thing she knew. She didn’t want to hurt him, but why did he call her over only to kiss Eunjae in the piano room when he knew full-well she was on her way.

Her fingers tapped the letters swiftly—I do. Then, she gazed out the window, eyes falling on the bright blob of pink sitting on the palace terraces, feet swaying as he watched the sun set against the snowy palace. She deleted the message.

None yet.

Yeonjun’s head was down, not moving. This would have been concerning if it wasn’t for the loud slurping she heard from the boy. Obviously, he was eating another cup of ramyeon from the stash he recently hoarded at the local convenience store.

“Hey.”

Yeonjun’s head snapped up, a smile in his eyes as he continued slurping. He gestured to the space behind him as he winced at the spicy taste of the noodles. The girl grinned, taking he offer.

“That good?” Y/N asked, gesturing to the noodles.

“Yep, want some?”

“I’d hate to take some away from you.” Y/N laughed as the pink-haired prince continued eating.

There was a moment of silence. There was no sound other than Yeonjun’s slurping and the soft gust of wind against the trees. Then, the boy cleared his throat.

“Shouldn’t you be with Beomgyu right now?”

Y/N turned over to the prince.

“Ah, he seemed occupied.”

“Hm?”

“He was with Lady Eunjae,” Y/N explained, smiling softly. “at the piano room.”

Yeonjun’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes falling on the window to the piano room as if contemplating.

“I thought he didn’t want to talk to her.”

“Seemed like they resolved their issues, then.” The girl shrugged. “They seemed awfully close.”

She internally winced. She hoped she didn’t sound like a jealous, entitled bitch—but, really? When the guy you’re sort of attracted to, and you almost kissed, called you over somewhere—only to see he was kissing a princess. That was such a hit on her self esteem.

Yeonjun smiled, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. He set his ramyeon down next to him.

“You know, Beomgyu, all his life he’s been called childlish and immature—not the least bit princely, you know? He was too happy and innocent for his own good, sometimes.” Yeonjun started, tapping his fingers on the marble terrace. “Then, he met Eunjae.”

“Prince meets the princess, then?”

“Yeah,” the pink-haired prince chuckled. “He fell in love with her hard, and fast. She wanted something—she got it. He has to be this hot, mature, model boyfriend—he did it.”

“What a fairytale.” Y/N replied, sighing.

She can never win, can she?

Yeonjun laughed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if he told you, but she wants him for his money and fame—because he’s going to be the king.” Yeonjun shrugged. “You—you’re different. We actually like you, you know?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.” Yeonjun snorted. “but sure, I’ll act like you don’t.”

Y/N and Yeonjun shared a small laugh before the boy picked up his noodles once more.

“Seriously though, I see you two.” Yeonjun smiled gently. “Don’t—Just take care of him, okay?on’t lie to him or break his heart like Eunjae did.”

Reluctantly, the girl nodded and gave him a soft smile. Both turned back to the sunset, the other one with a smile on his face while the other had her mind running into overdrive with guilt.

I already am.

“Why are you calling my boyfriend?”

“Hueningkai, he’s my boyfriend. Give Soobin the phone.” Y/N whined as she pulled the document out of the envelope again, frowning.

“No, he’s—“

“I’m neither of your boyfriends, give me back my phone.” Came a muffled reply, the familiar whining voice making a smile pop up on her lips. “Hello? Y/N?”

“Hey. Can you two turn on the camera?”

There was a moment of silence, a few loud taps and shuffles, before a video popped up on the screen.

Two faces greeted her on the screen.

First was a tall boy, black hair unmade as he wore a beige cardigan—a concerned look on his face as he gazed at the screen.

“What’s up? Is everything alright?”

The girl only shook her head softly, perching her head on her hands as another boy popped up on the screen—his curly brown hair unkempt on his head a he smiled brightly.

“Are you getting jailed?”

“Stop asking me that.” The girl laughed. “No, no. I’m good—I just miss you both.”

Teasing smiles popped up on both the boys’ faces. The brown-haired boy faced the other with a giggle.

“Did you hear that, Soobin-hyung?”

“Sure did, Hueningie.”

“Shut up, both of you.” Y/N laughed.

The boys followed suit before her phone rang. Y/N frowned, declining.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Kai asked, mouth full of chips as he snacked in front of the camera.

The girl hesitated, sighing as she shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” Soobin asked in concern.

“Well,” Y/N started. “What do I do about…”

Soobin and Kai exchanged glances as the girl showed them the certificate of adoption. Kai shrugged, makign Soobin sigh.

“Well, I can’t exactly tell you what to do, Y/Nie.” Soobin said. “What do you want to do?”

“I-I don’t really know either.”

“This is ultimately up to you, babe.” Soobin only replied.

“Whatever you decide, we got your back.” Hueningkai cheered, hands landing hard on Soobin’s shoulders—making the boy cry out in pain before batting the younger’s arm.

“Hueningkai, that hurts!”

Y/N laughed loudly before her head snapped up.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone at the door.” Y/N said, putting the certificate back in the envelope. “Be right back.”

“Okay.” Hueningkai replied before bickering with Soobin once more.

The girl padded over to the door, pulling it open to reveal a sheepish Beomgyu—fist clenched and held up in a knocking position.

“I’m sorry to intrude.” Beomgyu apologized. “Were you busy?”

“Just talking to someone.” She smiled.

Beomgyu hummed, eyes falling to the open laptop resting on her bed. Soobin was screaming loudly—the only one visible on the screen. A giant flying rabbit plushie flew over—slamming against his face and causing him to fall out of the frame. Then, there was a very loud, piercing laugh. Y/N turned back, wincing as Soobin rapidly sat back up and smiled innocently—waving at the prince.

“Someones.” The girl corrected, running a hand through her hair. “This is Soobin, the loud one is Kai.”

The said boy popped up in the screen—upside down—and waved. The prince smiled softly, nodding in acknowledgement.

“Hello.”

“So,” Y/N smiled. “What can I help you with?”

“I was waiting for you earlier, at the piano room.” Beomgyu replied softly, reaching out to her hand and taking it in his. “You didn’t come.”

Y/N winced, images of what she did actually see in the piano room popping out in her head.

Did he really want her to look stupid by admitting that she was hurt by seeing him kiss Eunjae?

The girl only cleared her throat, pulling her hand from the prince awkwardly.

“Uh, I was talking to my dad.” Y/N said, turning her head back and widening her eyes at Soobin and Kai—the former winced while the other followed the scene with interest, shoving a bunch of chips in his mouth as if he was watching a movie.

“Ah,” Beomgyu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, do you want to take a walk?”

“Oh—I was talking to the boys.”

“No, go ahead.” Soobin said. “Have fun, kids.”

Kai’s head turned, a frown on his face.

“But—“ Kai started, but before anyone could say anything else, the call dropped.

“Will you go on a walk with me now?” Beomgyu repeated hopefully.

The girl turned, back to the boy—gaze locking with his pleading eyes.

“Please, Y/N?”

The girl sighed, running a hand through her hair.

“Sure, let me go get my coat.”

The two walked side by side, the crunch of the snow being crushed underneath their feet loud against the palpable silence. Beomgyu fidgeted with his coat as Y/N pursed her lips, holding ehr hand out to catch the falling snow. The prince broke the silence

“Are you okay?” Beomgyu asked. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine.” Y/N said, shaking her head.

Beomgyu didn’t reply, frowning. He bowed his head down, mumbling.

“You seem cold.”

“I’m used to the weather.” Y/N said in what was hopefully a reassuring voice, shrugging.

“I’m not talking about the weather.” Beomgyu sighed, turning to the girl. “Talk to me.”

Y/N sighed, looking away from the boy and letting her eyes follow the trail of christmas lights hanging on the outer skirts of the forest.

“Do you, uh—” Y/N started, biting her lip. “Do you often go on a midnight stroll around the palace grounds with your sisters’ tutors?”

Beomgyu stopped, furrowing his eyebrows. He gently grabbed her wrist, stopping her in place and slowly turned her around.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t do this, Beomgyu—Prince Beomgyu.” The girl smiled weakly, ignoring the way his face fell at the use of his title. “What would Lady Eunjae say?”

Beomgyu closed his eyes, his shoulders falling.

“So, you saw.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, tugging her wrist gently out of his grip. “Yeah, I saw.”

Beomgyu sighed as the girl started walking once more. With a frown, he continued walking too—falling in line right next to her.

“She came up to me—she was saying how we should get back together. A king needs a queen.” Beomgyu explained. “She said I couldn’t make it without her.”

Instead of reassuring words like he expected, the girl only let out a gentle hum.

“I see.” She said. “Should I say congratulations, then?”

“No.” Beomgyu shook his head. “I-I don’t—“

“Yeonjun told me earlier about what happened between you and Eunjae, you don’t have to explain.” Y/N said, smiling softly. “Don’t worry.”

“Hyung?” Beomgyu frowned. “Are you and hyung close?”

The girl shrugged.

“Not really—I just talked to him outside while you were making out with Eunjae.” Y/N commented.

There was a harsh tug on her arm, pulling her back. She turned around, crashing aginst Beomgyu. There was a frantic look in his eyes.

“Y/N—no. Please, listen to me.” Beomgyu said. “Whatever you think there is between Eunjae and me, it’s done. It’s over.”

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows as Beomgyu pleaded.

“She kissed me, I pushed her away. Please, believe me.” Beomgyu beeged. “I don’t love her anymore.”

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, Beomgyu.” Y/N said in confusion, pulling herself away from him gently. “I’m pretty sure your love life is none of my business.”

Beomgyu shook his head, reaching out once more and holding her hand.

“I want it to be your business.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows, an exasperated sigh escaping from her mouth.

“Beomgyu, what the hell do you mean by—“

The prince’s head reached down, lips attaching to hers in the most gentle manner. His hands reached up to cup her cheeks. Then he pulled away.

“Stop telling me that you don’t care.”

Y/N bit her lip, her eyes gazing into his before she leaned back up—kissing him with all her might. Her hands ran through his hair as his fell on her waist. A smile painted on both of their faces as they kissed under the falling snow.

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eastertag · 4 years ago

Text

Nothing In This World

@bonsaiiiiiii gift for @myladykayo

prompts:

•anything Scayo

•Dance/Dancing

•“I need a hug.”

AN:

heyo there! I am your…Easter buddy…(?) well, here is my gift for you with the 3 prompts you gave me! it’s quite short but fluffy. I apologize in advance if this might be a bit of a trash but I really couldn’t find my inspiration these days and it’s been quite hard, I have to admit.

“My head is killing me.” Kayo snorted, hearing in response a playful scoff, Scott approaching her and assuming her own position, elbows lent against the balustrade and gaze lost in the lights of New York.

She changed position, leaning with her back to the balustrade. She looked for a moment at the large sliding glass window that gave inside, the breathtaking view of New York behind her. Then she looked out of the corner of her eye at Scott. “You know that. I should be anywhere but here.”

1½ hours earlier

“I understand that you wanted to take me on a date so badly, but was this necessary?” Kayo whispered nervously in Scott’s ear, clumsily clinging to her dress. She had chosen the dress of the most neutral color and that gave as little in the eye as possible, despite the attempts, failed, of Sally and Lady Penelope to make her choose something more flashy.

She still remembered the moment that morning; Lady Penelope attached to her right arm, Sally attached to her left arm, dragging her to shops, perfumeries, and so on. They had sailed their way between sequins, hoop earrings, golden eye shadows, scents of the rarest exotic flowers and, above all, very tight and very showy clothes. In the end Kayo had chosen a black dress, a little tight and long sleeved, with bare sides and the zip behind. Simple and without glitter, pailettes and other nonsense, even if this cost a bitter price. That was a makeup session.

“Well, because I thought this event would be a perfect date!” Scott responded by putting on an innocent smile, stretching out his hand as to show the ballroom imbued with people.

Kayo looked up at the large crystal chandelier to avoid the sight of all those people, then looked back at Scott without telling him anything.

“How about dancing to break the ice a little bit?” Scott asked, leaning his hand toward her.

She thought about it for a moment. “Okay.” She took his hand, letting him drag her to the ballroom. Only that the path was interrupted by an obstacle, or rather a friend.

“Scott! Kayo! What a pleasure to see you here. Good thing you made it.” Colonel Casey appeared in all her usual beauty, her various medals shining under the warm lights.

“Colonel, thank you for inviting us.” Kayo politely responded, although she didn’t have that much desire to come.

“Please, make yourself comfortable and feel free to have a glass of champagne or some appetizers. So how is…work going?” Casey asked, quickly changing subject in view of a gentleman who was approaching them.

After cordially greeting the man who turned out to be an important mayor, it was Scott who took the lead in the speech. “Tiring as always, although I must say it’s going much quieter than in the past few weeks.”

“I can tell by the white hair you wear, kid! Tell me, what do you do for a living?” The mayor commented, observing both him and her, that refrained from rolling her eyes exasperated.

“I work as a pilot for a major rescue organization.” He answered dryly but smiling, avoiding to omit more details than necessary.

“Ah, I understand…something serious then. My son tried to save lives, too, you know, as a doctor, but he realized it’s not for him anymore.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“Eh, that’s the way life is! We’re not all as good as International Rescue, are we?”

Although she had no desire to participate in the conversation, Kayo found herself grinning, of course always trying to pass unnoticed; meanwhile the others laughed at the joke, to then continue the speech. Noticing that it was taking a long turn, she excused herself to go out. Scott looked at her for a moment, then turned back to the group of people who had gathered around him and continued the conversation. Kayo took the opportunity to do the same thing that the Colonel did, which was to disappear from view, heading for the large balcony overlooking the fantastic view of New York.

She pushed the glass door to the side that gave access to the terrace and then closed it behind her, slowly walking towards the balcony and resting her elbows on the balustrade. The cool evening wind tickled her bare hips and legs, giving her some short shivers along her back. The view that she had in front of her was magnificent, and if there was one thing that she had to thank Scott for, it was this very view; she would have done it once she got back, possibly if he had been free from groups of people who had been following him. And it’s a good thing they didn’t know that he was the commander of International Rescue, otherwise Scott wouldn’t have survived a horde of people by now.

Kayo sighed heavily, looking towards an isolated spot where they had left Thunderbird 1 to rest. As much as she loved traveling with her Shadow they both preferred to save space, traveling together on 1. Although now she couldn’t see the blue rocket, she still laid eyes on it, hoping to teleport there and fly away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a presence approaching from behind her. She knew that presence well, so she avoided turning around and kept looking at that dark spot. “My head is killing me.” Kayo snorted, hearing in response a playful scoff, him approaching her and assuming her own position, elbows lent against the balustrade and gaze lost in the lights of New York.

“And where exactly?”

“Home, for example! The hood is still out there, don’t forget.” She paused, passing one hand over her communicator, this time a thin silver bracelet with floral theme -according to Lady Penelope, the other bracelet, the one she usually wore, was too crude for the occasion-.

“In fact, now I’m going to search for-”

“No.” Scott interrupted her. “We’re not here to search.”

“But-”

“You’re at a party, and you might as well have a good time, right?”

The hologram Kayo summoned vanished from view, her looking at his blue eyes seriously.

“Well…I’m not exactly the type to party…”

“Start now. In the meantime, you owe me a dance.”

Kayo sighed, nodding and taking his hand, letting herself be carried back into the great hall, where all the couples danced embraced at a slow dance.

“Of course you have perfect timing.” Kayo smiled as she passed between the dancing couples, her hand intertwined to Scott’s.

“It’s a natural gift.” Scott smiled back, stopping in the center of the room, right under a glittering chandelier. He turned Kayo to him, who shyly approached him. “Ready to have fun like never before in your life?”

Kayo laughed, and for the first time in a long time her laughter was neither forced nor mocked. Just spontaneous. “But if this is a slow dance!”

“Then that means you’re gonna have to hold onto me.”

“That’s ok. I really need a hug right now.” Kayo approached him further, laying her hands on his shoulders, Scott doing the same with her hips. They both hugged each other, swaying in time with the music, while the whole world around them danced at the same melody.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 2004 #thunderbirds 1965 #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #kayo kyrano #submission

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star-spangledstud · 5 years ago

Text

Better Than Me (2/2)

Part one is here!

Summary: You really are better than them.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (female!)Reader.

Word Count: 3000-ish.

Warnings: Angst. Fluff.

It was ridiculous. So ridiculous that it bordered near downright insane. Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Impractical, stupid and completely, utterly ridiculous. Beautiful, sparkly and downright amazing, but ridiculous. You fucking loved it.

The baby pink, bejeweled handgun sat inside a pink velvet box on your lap. The bow, which was also pink, of course, was lying at your feet, which were clad in bedazzled silver Louboutins. Gems of all colors on the rainbow covered it on all sides, from the barrel to the handgrip and along the safety pin.

You gazed up at Tony, who wore an amused expression on his face, before glancing over at Pepper. She had her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, clearly horrified by Tony’s gift choice. The card read that it was from both of them. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

“Happy birthday, kid.” He said with a smirk that nearly extended from ear to ear.

“I don’t even want to know how much you spent on that,” Pepper muttered, shaking her head while you took the thing out of the pink and white polka-dotted tissue paper.

The others sighed audibly when you smiled, annoyed that Tony’s gift overshadowed theirs yet again. To be fair, they’d all expected it, but all of them secretly hoped any one of their gifts would be your favorite.

“I love it,” you said, twirling the weapon around in your hand, “and I agree with Pepper, I can’t even imagine how much you spent on this thing...”

“You’ll make it work,” he mused, “Two million dollars, by the way, and you could just thank me.”

Your breath caught in your throat and for a moment, you were sure Pepper was going to faint. Natasha shook her head, watching the scene unfold in horror. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. Wanda, who seemed to share none of her feelings, had created a monster out of you.

“Thanks, Tony,” you blew him a kiss, unable to get up from your seat at the dinner table that was covered in white roses in silver vases and wine that came from expensive bottles.

“It’s very pretty,” the witch said, “Can I hold it?”

“Please,” you shoved it into her hands, “by all means.”

“You’re insane, Tony,” you said as you took the gift Bruce had gotten for you from his outstretched hands with a smile, “Absolutely fucking nuts, but I love you for it.”

Your eyes went around the room, finding Steve at the end of the table of which you sat at the head. You were the birthday girl, after all, the pink satin sash draped around you said so in large, cursive letters and so it was your turn to have the most important seat of the house. It was a ridiculous ordeal, he thought so anyway, but you were smiling and chatting and enjoying the company of your friends and it was good to see. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened and knew very well he was to blame.

He was the one who pushed you away, even though it was for your own good.

You took Thor’s gift just as the waiter began to serve your first course, and since he was seated closest to you, you thanked him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Steve’s gift came last. You didn’t expect anything from him given the circumstances.

Four hours, six courses and many glasses of wine and Asgardian mead later, you found yourself back in your room. Gifts given to you by your fellow team members were sprawled out on your bed, ranging from a pair of silk pajamas with glittery Ugg slippers to match from Wanda to Starbucks and Sephora gift cards from Sam and everything in between. Chocolate covered strawberries in a glittery box, two romance novels, a bottle of beautifully aged red wine from Asgard and a peach-toned Dior lipstick, all tokens of appreciation given to you by the people you cared about the most.

Despite the hardships that you faced the previous year and the social distancing that occurred during that time, you couldn’t deny how good it felt to be with the team again. You’d changed a lot in a year, grown to be a different person than the one you were before. It wasn’t necessarily a good or a bad thing in your mind, it just happened naturally.

You sat down beside the velvet box, eyes automatically flying towards the item on your far left. A drawing of you, sitting on a terrace, staring out into the sunny skyline with a cup of coffee in your hand. It was an old drawing by the looks of it because your hair was much shorter and a different shade and your clothing was far plainer than it was now; black jeans and a white t-shirt. A signature that read SR sat in the bottom right corner in messy, doctor-like handwriting. It made your toes curl.

Of course, he was the one with the overly personal gift. You didn’t know whether it was because he simply had no fucking clue what 21st-century women liked to receive for their birthdays or whether he’d purposely done it to make you remember the day it was drawn, but the latter happened and now, you were sitting on your bed with prickling eyes and goosebumps that lined your skin.

You remembered that day very vividly. You’d only been an Avenger for three months and were struggling to adjust to the fact that you had to suddenly follow orders. Before joining the team, you’d worked alone, hired by people with deep pockets and dark intentions. You made your own rules.

The first time Steve had taken you out for coffee he kind to offer you advice. At first, you thought it felt a little like he was trying to be the human resource manager with the way he talked to you, you continued to meet up every Saturday afternoon and as the weeks passed, something in the dynamic changed. He loosened up, got rid of his Captain America persona and instead became Steve. You didn’t know what caused the change, but it was good, allowed you to actually get to know the man behind the suit and vice versa.

That particular day was a good one, It was a sunny day in spring, not too hot and not too cold, with a soft breeze that carried the scent of fresh flowers across the terrace. You’d ordered a latte, Steve liked it black. You weren’t talking, but instead, a comfortable silence hung between you. You’d brought a book just like you always did and read it while occasionally eyeing the people that passed you by. Steve, whose cheeks had become fiery red out of the blue, pulled out a leather-bound sketchbook and began to draw.

You never asked him what he was drawing, even when he stored away his pencils and shoved the book back inside his tote did you not bother to pry. Not even when you became so close you’d sometimes fall asleep together on the couch, did you not ask.

You knew now, but they didn’t say ignorance is bliss without reason.

You began to mindlessly pick at three layers of lavender toned sparkling nail polish, pulling at it as it came off your fingers with far too much ease. You’d paid the lady $60 for your manicure three days prior and now, you were ripping it off. With a deep sigh, you pushed yourself up, gripping the back of your heels so you could slip them off with ease. You’d probably never wear them again.

You slowly began to clean up the mess, discarded packaging, boxes, and gift bags and placing them in the corner of your room near the door. You put everything away except for the drawing, which you couldn’t decide what to do with. Why was it such a big deal to you, anyway? You hardly spoke to Steve anymore and if you did, it was during pre- and post-mission briefings. Maybe that’s why it made you feel so strange. it didn’t feel right, such a personal, intimate gift after how far the two of you had drifted apart.

He hadn’t asked you about Netflix in four months and you hadn’t offered your expertise on which shows and movies were the best. You didn’t bring him coffee anymore but instead, he made his own, never leaving enough in the pot for you to make a cup as well. The message he sent you was loud and clear and in return, you were an open book.

He’d grumble when a stranger was seated at the breakfast table on Sundays courtesy of your hospitality, avert his eyes when they tried to kiss you openly (which you refused). The pang in his chest would hit him when he saw Ubers out front whose engines were running to carry you to your dates in high-end restaurants and fancy bars. He wasn’t jealous, he kept telling himself. He was just worried about your safety when you disappeared into the night with strange men. Men that weren’t him, ironically.

He should’ve seen you when you were right in front of him. When you were there, literally waiting for him to make a move on you, begging him with your mannerisms and your looks, your glances, and smiles even when his jokes weren’t funny. He knew damn well you would make an amazing couple, that you could take on the entire fucking world as a duo, but he was too scared to put it on the line, too scared of what might happen once the bad guys caught a whiff of your relationship. They’d already tried to destroy Bucky and Jesus Christ, they nearly succeeded. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing you to an organization like HYDRA, or worse. He never told you this. You had no idea. You were convinced he didn’t want you because of your flaws. Because of who you were.

You got over it, shut out the thought of ever holding hands with Steve in public, the thoughts of ever feeling his lips softly pressing against your plump cheeks and his body weighing down on top of you while his voice vibrated against your ear and neck. You managed to forget about him, managed to exchange the memories and fantasies of him for diamond necklaces, silk blazers, and expensive shoes. You traded him in for strangers with big bank accounts driving nice cars wearing expensive suits. They managed to fill the void he created by pushing you away.

So yeah, the gift bothered you. It was too nice, too sweet, so sweet you had to struggle to stay stoic when thanking him earlier. You literally had to stop yourself from smiling too big, from allowing tears of gratitude and happiness to completely ruin your make-up. if things had been different, you would have done those things. They weren’t. He didn’t want you and now he was being nice. It didn’t make sense.

Just as you were about to change into a different outfit for the evening, your phone vibrated. You picked it up off your nightstand and opened it. It was a text message, but not from the guy who would be knocking on the front door in the coming hour.

I didn’t get a chance to personally wish you a happy birthday. Can we talk? -S

You gripped the device so hard you nearly crushed the screen. Six months ago, a message like this would’ve had you crying on your bathroom floor for four hours. Now, it just made you angry. So angry, that you picked your studded Louboutin off the floor and chucked it at the wall. The heel broke off against the concrete, but you didn’t notice. You weren’t going to wear them again anyway.

Your fingers typed furiously, breathing coming out in shallow huffs. Images of the girls he’d brought back to Tony’s party’s flashed before your eyes while your fingers went faster than your brain could keep up with.

Roof. Omw.

Whether he understood the abbreviation ‘omw’ or not, you didn’t take the time to guess. You left your room without changing into the other dress or putting on new shoes. The elevator went up agonizingly slowly, but it was too late to go back and take the stairs. The buttons were pushed and the door closed.

He was standing by the edge, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. In contrast to you, he had changed his attire, leaving the light blue button-down he was wearing earlier for a plain white t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looked down at your feet, noticed how your polished toes were bare and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when he caught the expression on your face. You weren’t surprised to find him there first. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d come up there running. Apparently, though, he did know what ‘omw’ meant.

“What the hell is this?” You asked, waving your phone in front of his face, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, voice wavering.

“What do I mean? What...,” you snorted, “What do you mean?! The gift, the talking? We shouldn’t be here.”

“But why?” He knew why but chose to ignore the sensical part of his brain that told him he shouldn’t be doing this.

You lifted your arms, a deep breath leaving you while you considered what to say. You wanted to come up with an excuse, tell him you were busy or that you’d lost sight of not just him, but the entire team, but fuck it, lying wouldn’t get you anywhere. It had never gotten you anywhere before.

“Because I have to get over you.”

He was silent, taking in your words. They stung, even though he already knew the truth they carried.

“I couldn’t have you constantly hanging around me anymore. I couldn’t stand seeing those girls hanging off your arm at those stupid parties and I sure as hell didn’t want to hear how fun they were and how great and wonderful and how amazing, and-”

He stepped forward, gripping your arms. The sudden contact made blood rush to your head, making you nauseous and dizzy simultaneously.

“I spent so much time wondering why they were better than me,” you mumbled, “I still haven’t figured it out.”

“They aren’t better than you,” he replied softly, “they don’t even compare to you.”

You looked up, eyes large and glossy and so goddamn pretty with that champagne eyeshadow and winged liner and Steve thought he was going to lose his mind then and there.

“I had to let you go because I’m afraid,” he admitted, “terrified of what might happen if anyone tries to get to you because of me.”

“Steve,” you tried, but couldn’t find words.

All this time, you thought he didn’t like you. That he wasn’t interested in you, didn’t want anything from you but a friendship at most. You’d taught yourself to ignore your constant desire for him because it would never be reciprocated.

“When you distanced yourself from me, I knew I’d messed up, but it was too late. I’d dug a hole for myself and there was nothing I could do to get back out,” he snorted, “I needed those girls as a distraction, but none of them are as good as you.”

He smiled sadly, taking your hands in his larger, calloused palms and began to rub circles on your knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I’ve been stupid and an ass and I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as you. I fucked up, Y/N.”

The skin on the back of his neck was soft when you clasped your fingers around it, muscles tensing up when you began to pull him down to meet you. Without heels on, you’d lost a significant amount of height on him, causing him to tower over you. On a hot day, he could be your personal parasol, shielding you from the sun with his entire body.

“Idiot,” you mumbled before his mouth found yours.

He kissed you, hands gripping your waist out of fear that if he were to let go, he’d wake up in his bed alone. But it wasn’t a dream, he knew it because the soft feeling of your glossy lips against his own was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

“Idiot,” you said again when you took a moment to breathe.

“I am,” he kissed you again, the sweet taste of Chardonnay and that night’s dessert - creme brulee and vanilla ice cream - still lingering on your tongue, sending his senses in complete overdrive.

“I don’t want to stay away from you anymore,” he said finally, “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

You smiled, heart ready to explode from the sudden burst of happiness you experienced for the first time in a long time. Maybe Wanda was right all along.

“Steve, I can defend myself. You know that, right?” You mused.

“I’ll kill them if they try.”

He captured your lips with his again. The scent of his cologne, oud, and pine, nearly caused your knees to buckle from under you. You didn’t even realize the goosebumps that lined your skin, or the fact that the date you were supposed to meet up with had already bailed on you. It didn’t matter, because you finally had Steve where you wanted him. It only took for the two of you to drift apart almost completely for you to realize that you could never truly get away from one another.

You placed your head on top of his chest, allowing his body heat to warm you up in a hug that engulfed you. It was nice, the feeling of his chest rising and falling slowly while you watched the city’s skyline in the dark. The want for it had been suppressed for so long you almost forgot what it felt like.

“Steve?” You asked, peeking up at him through false eyelashes and three layers of waterproof mascara.

“Hmm?”

“Your gift was my favorite.”

Yeah, all of those bitches definitely weren’t better than you.

#steve rogers imagine #steve x reader #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers #marvel imagine #marvel smut #marvel #marvel writing #captain america imagine #captain america #captain america smut #captain america fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fic #jammywrites #avengers imagine #avenger x reader

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