#also fire's virtue to me is actually also passion | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wilcze-kudly · 3 months ago

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What do you think of this?

https://www.tumblr.com/rifari2037/761435740681928704?source=share

Oh wow that's a lot of points. And it looks like the OP is living the cottagecore dream judging by all the cherrypicking and strawman building they're doing! Though I do think they make some good points, or at least they have the spirit. It's clear they're passionate about their ship and they want to defend it, which is understandable. I don't want this to come off as shading some random shipper, because I can respect their dedication and the gathering of references, even if they present points rather disingenuously and their use of references is incorrect.

In their first point, OP calls upon the very obvious reference of La Pietà, particularly Michelangelo's statue of it, as basis of their opinion that Katara is presented as Aang's mother.

Now, Pietà is actually a term used to reference anything related to Mary mourning Jesus's death, so there are multiple statues and pieces of art depicting that biblical scene, however the most famous, and most refrenced one, is Michelangelo's statue, so much so that it had become synonymous with it.

While yes, the most obvious and straightforward interpretation of Pietà is a mother grieving her son, there are many other interpretations of it in fiction and art, due to how ancient the concept is.

One very obvious connection to be made is the similarity of Aang and Jesus. While atla is primarily based around non Christian media, the concept of a 'deity in a human body/human touched by god' suffering and dying to save humanity is hardly a novel concept. It just so happens that the Christian mythos is the most widespread iteration of this theme, with plenty of art and themes to reference.

La Pietà symbolises the death of a saviour, the destruction of a godlike deity by misguided humans. It shows us this deity's first and truest believer grieving their death.

The utilisation of a refrence to Jesus is also a nice reference to Aang's future revival, because that is also what happened to Jesus. The theme of rebirth is surprisingly prevalent in references to Pietà.

It's actually very interesting that this scene refrences Michelangelo's sculpture in particular, since one of the bigger controversies surrounding the statue at its time is how young Mary looked, much too young to be the mother of a 33 year old Jesus. Many believe that this depiction is meant to showcase Mary's purity, and some believe that this was a refrence to Dante's Divine Comedy, particularly a passage where Dante highlights not only Mary's role as Jesus' mother, but also her role as God's daughter and the spouse of the Holy Spirit (the Holy Trinity be weird like that). Presenting her as the pinnacle of human virtue.

This is an interesting angle, because (even though this concept eludes a large chunk of the fandom) Katara is young. She is a child. And she's also pretty damn virtuous. Throughout the show, Katara is compassionate, determined, hopeful, strong and a myriad of other things. She is who keeps the Gaang going in the Desert, she is the one who saves Aang, she shows compassion to the people of the Fire Nation. She represents and embodies the goodness and hope of humanity in a way many female characters can't.

If we're gonna refrence the Bible, we can compare Kataang to the Holy Spirit being so taken by Mary's virtue, to the point where an aspect of it becomes human like her, by her.

(Does this make Bumi II Jesus? Maybe)

Boiling this reference down to "momther" seems like a disservice to Katara, because Mary represents a whole lot more than just that too. Or maybe I'm just an ex Catholic from Poland which is like the seed of the Cult of Mary.Now, don't get me wrong, many of the aspects of Mary's story do have some icky undertones, but the concept of her in Christian mythos and in popculture has evolved extremely.

It's also important to note that atla isn't unique in referencing La Pietà, even for romantic couples. The statue was quite a big infulence on art, even without its symbolism, to the point where it's sometimes heralded as the start of a short time period named the High Renaissance (which sounds much more fun than it actually was. Alas, no weed in late 15th century Italy.) Many media used it as a shorthand for grief, loss and sorrow, utilising many different pairings. Yes, even romantic.

What, are we gonna say that the Batman and the Joker had a mother/son relationship now?

Pietà means 'pity' or 'compassion' in Italian and I think this perfectly sums up the essence of the theme, particularly in modern art. It is meant to invoke the viewer's compassion, our pity, our sorrow.

And the scene where Katara, a 14 year old child caught in a war, cradles the dead body of Aang, another child, who is burdened with the weight of being a godlike saviour, should evoke pity, should it not?

Also Op references that one interview where Bryke say that Kataang is like having a crush on a babysitter, which, if anyone has the link to the full interview, I'd appreciate it, because I wanna have the full context before I make a call. It could be a clumsy explanation of a trope, it could be taken out of context, etc. Op does not provide enough of the material for me to formulate a proper opinion.

Op's second point is that they believe that Kataang anti's claim that Katara never had romantic feelings for Zuko and that Katara was like a sister to him. They provide the scene of Katara examining Zuko's scar as evidence of potential romantic feelings from Katara's side. As they say, it is unusual for Katara to inspect a wound so closely before proceeding to heal it. Now, I don't think Katara had any regular water with her in the catacombs, which may be an explanation.

And when we see Katara usually heal, it's because someone is dying/freshly wounded. Like you don't have to poke around in the bleeding lightning hole in Aang's back to go: huh maybe this needs medical attention. And in the cases of her using healing to reverse Jet's brainwashing there really wasn't anything to inspect.

Now as a professional burn scar haver, I can say that, especially in the first few years, a lot of doctors inspected my many scars by physical touch. This is, from my understanding (do forgive me for not remembering I was like a toddler) is to assess the damage to the skin, whether or not certain glands are working properly and regulating the skin, etc.

ButI guess next time I go to the dermatologist to have my scars examined and they inspect the burn on my hand they're actually tryna hold hands romantically. Good to know. I'm gonna get railed by so many doctors. 🥳

Another reason for Katara stalling could be because... well, she did bond with Zuko, but he still does have a history of being bad™️. Like as kind as girlie is, there probably was a bit of a "should I really use all my super special magic water on the guy who tried to kill me like a few months ago?" type of questioning there.

I believe the creators also mentioned that Katara did experiments on the spirit water and determined that it only works on people with a strong spiritual connection, so she may be pondering if the water would even work.

As for Zuko and Katara being sibling coded, I think it stems from Katara and Azula obviously being foils and the very blatant juxtaposition of the Fire Nation Royal Family and that of Katara and Sokka's.

These two families have very obvious similarities and their dynamics are often used as foils.

So it isn't a leap for people to put forth the idea that Katara embodies everything Zuko wanted Azula to be as a sister and longs to have the relationship Sokka and Katara want.

We don't see much of Katara and Zuko's interactions after they make up, but we do occasionally see her poking fun at him, not unlike she does with Sokka, but that is just an observation. The gaang banter between each other a lot. But the ending to the Last Agni Kai, where Katara literally heals the damage Azula made to Zuko also does solidify this point, at least symbolically.

The Op claims that another anti Zutara take is that Zuko and Katara's elements do not mix and can't work well together, and prove it to be false by showing how well Zuko and Katara work in combat situations. And you know what? They have a point there! Zuko and Katara are very capable together and they are honestly incredibly fun to watch when they team up!

....and then OP slides their way into the false eqivalence fallacy, which is a habit they seem to pick up especially for the last 2 points.

OP brings up the 2023 film Elemental, to back up their point, however, instead of utilising the comparison of tropes, they substitute their point with simply describing the plot of the movie and making loose allusions to zutara as a ship.

When bringing up references, it's best to pick out common tropes/storylines/themes. For example, they picked out the symbolism of fire and water, which is an excellent first step. However, then they proceed to describe an event where the characters of the movie touch, creating steam, which, if they want to make this comparison, they need to connect somehow to Zutara.

I assume they wanted to imply that Zuko and Katara could also create something new by working together? However, they'd have to explain this comparison, because one of the predominant themes of Katara and Zuko's relationship is healing the old. The idea of healing Zuko's scar, the attempt at retribution for Kya, Zuko and Katara healing their relationship being symbolic of them healing the great pain the Fire Nation caused to the Water Tribe, etc.

Im not saying this comparison can't be made, I just want OP to elaborate because they just yeeted vague concepts at us and expected us to extrapolate.

Where the theme of creating something new lays more with Zuko and Aang's relationship, as Zuko describes in his coronation speech if I'm not mistaken.

I think Op could've pulled this comparison off if they'd gone more in depth, because there certainly is a proper comparison to be made. (I assume. I haven't watched Elemental. Op just presented their point poorly. They could've just lied to me I just want them to at least lie well).

In the last point, OP attempts to debunk the claim that Zuko and Katara have no chemistry. And once again, I agree with them! I think Zuko and Katara have very good onscreen chemistry. Their banter is fun to watch, they work well in action scenes and their emotional scenes always hit pretty hard for me.

Whether or not this chemistry is romantic chemistry or not is left up to interpretation. Because when we talk about chemistry between characters, it can refer to things other than romance. It's, in generalisation, something that makes us care (for good or bad reasons) about a relationship between characters. For example, Katara has good chemistry with Sokka and Toph. But it isn't necessarily romantic chemistry (though I am a big Katoph truther).

Now the term chemistry has been mainly taken over by romance because we can't have nice things, so I don't blame OP for looking at this rather nebulous concept purely through the lense of romance.

Side note, I think OP mixed up IRL romantic chemistry and the different types on onscreen chemistry when pulling up a definition, but that's beside the point. But I'd perfer thek to specify exactly which type of chemistry they mean, like are we talking 'weird pickup artist chemistry' or 'these characters make me feel something chemistry'.

However, I think OP once again presents a very lacklustre example of this chemistry and utilises false equivalency to prove their point.

Instead of bringing up Zuko and Katara's actual chemistry, OP utilises a different movie as a crutch. They compare the ending of the movie Tangled, where Flynn Rider is injured and later healed by Rapunzel to the admittedly very similar scene of the last Agni Kai.

Where I can see where they're attempting to go with this, they're trying to point out romantic tropes that could be applied to Zuko and Katara's relationship, they kinda miss the mark?

They bring up a narrative, when the point is meant to be about chemistry. Where a good narrative and storyline can enhance chemistry, romantic chemistry is often more about character interactions.

As I pointed out previously, Zuko and Katara do have chemistry as characters. Whrm pointing this chemistry out, utilise the many similarities and mild differences of their ideals and personalities, point out where these differences clash and where their similarities intersect. Dissect their interactions, how they influence each other.

It may not force the reader to consider romance as much as building your argument around an established romantic couple like Flynn and Rapunzel would, but it will present your points genuinely and allow readers to slowly come around to your points instead of forcing the conclusion on them.

Going "oh pair A did this, and pair B did this too. Pair A is a romantic couple, therefore pair B is also a romantic couple" is literally comparing apples and oranges and proves very little.

I see what OP is trying to do and I appreciate the effort, and even agree with some of their points, to an extent. I would also like to know where they got a lot of these ideas about what zutara antis think because it doesn't really add up with what I have seen from this side of the fandom, but maybe I'm just not as invested as I used to be in the ship wars.

I also don't want to send any harassment towards OP, please.

From just reading their post, they seem rather young and other than the first point, their post consists purely of just pointing out tropes they enjoy and applying those tropes to a ship they like. Yes, they presented their points kinda clumsily but they were simply expressing their preferences and opinions.

Where they presented some of their points in a manner that was a bit disingenuous and leading, this is also not a crime. And I don't think they wanted to intentionally mislead people, just express their own thoughts without going too in depth with them. Which is fine too, we're all just screaming into the void here on tumblr.

As arguments for Zutara go, tqhis si probably the least egregious I've seen in a while. It's benign, just someone talking about their preferences and not being used to presebting their arguments in this form.

#the pieta stuff is so overdone tho #like yes we know dude #katara #zuko #aang #kataang #pro kataang #anti zutara #pro aang #pro katara #avatar #atla #avatar: the last airbender #the last airbender #avatar the last airbender

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monstersinthecosmos · 11 months ago

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I know you probably don’t want to dwell on the show and the negative but I absolutely hate what has happened on here and how hateful people are in the VC fandom it’s just very demoralizing and makes me want to retreat from anything besides the books completely. The discourse was spicy before the show but everything is just even more divisive now and it has sucked the fun out of it. Not really an ask more of a vent sorry

Hi there!

You’re correct that I don’t particularly find it fun to dwell on the negative stuff – as you said yourself, SOMETIMES THE DISCOURSE SUCKS THE FUN OUT OF IT. But I do understand how you feel and I want to say a couple things and I hope this helps you find a groove.

First of all, I did my best not to acknowledge it too much because I didn’t want to validate the folks who were being cunts to me lol, but please know that this fandom (at least on Tumblr) has ALWAYS been kinda fucking violent towards me LOL. I started VC tumbling back in 2016 and it’s ALWAYS been a fucking trash fire. It is hard out there for Marius stans lmfao.

Like, when I was first posting on Tumblr and acclimating to the Tumblr culture it was so much of like, me feeling brave enough to share meta only for someone to be RB’ing me to tell me I’m wrong, or me talking about how much I liked something about Marius only for someone to vague me, or it was me hosting the huge fandom Discord back in 2017 only for people to then come on tumblr and complain about how the Discord was way too Marius Friendly as if like, a drama-free space where we can discuss the books makes it a harbor for predators.

Of course I also had the gaggle of fucking morons who were constantly stalking me, catfishing their way into my servers to try to take screenshots and write call outs and cancel me, who would not stop preaching about how “all these big blogs” are “actually such terrible people” because “look at the things they ship” even when I’d never been unkind to them, even occasionally donated to their GFMs. These are folks who think they’re morally in the right for protecting the virtue of Armand’s poor teenage asshole and executed this justice by stalking and harassing an ACTUAL PERSON LOL. Like, listen. I’m sorry to burst ur bubble, but Armand doesn’t exist. He’s letters on a paper. I’m actually a real person and you’re up my fucking ass because I don’t’ even fucking know why, you’re jealous of my fucking Tumblr engagement or something? Which one of us is actually the creep here lol?? Is this a race to the bottom to be the valedictorian of clown school on the website for homeschooled clowns?

I’ve also had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of acephobic discourse, being told I don’t do enough to protect every individual in fandom from their own bullies as if it's my job to do that, being called ableist for how I wrote Daniel in my fics even though I was projecting and discussing my own personal experiences – I’ve also had a project collaborator have a tantrum and try to steal my work until I had to threaten with legal action, I’ve been put on block lists, I’ve had many people consume my fics in secret without actually leaving comments because I’m too toxic for them to communicate with in public.

BLAH BLAH BLAH.

This was all before AMC showed up LMFAO. It was not easy for me! It’s still not always easy!

And so yeah like, by nature of the fandom EXPLODING we are going to see more drama. More people is more drama. The nature of the discourse often hedges into real life issues that people are very opinionated and passionate about and there are conflicting needs inside the same space about how to hold conversations. Even just the other day I RB’d a joke about Anne Rice and OP got upset with me because they didn’t want actual fans interacting with it. Whoops! I didn’t know! I just thought it was funny. ;.;

Even in good faith and with the best of intentions we’re going to step on each other’s toes, and we’re gonna find people we don’t vibe with. And that’s normal and it’s fine.

What ISN’T normal is this inability to disengage that I think we see often in online space, and I don’t want to get into a whole side essay about all the reasons why I think that happens. But sometimes you gotta be the bigger person and take it on the chin.

Like, yeah, it sucks. It sucks the fun out of the room when you share a space with such bitter people who can’t be kind to each other. But like. THAT’S A THEM PROBLEM, YOU KNOW? And I think we gotta remember that sometimes people like that do it for the attention or the spike of dopamine when they can pick a fight and honestly like, you don’t need to waste YOUR OWN time on it, but you’re also doing that person a kindness if you don’t enable the bad behavior.

And it sucks that Tumblr’s mute tools are awful!!!!! It would make navigating so much easier to be able to curate the dash a little better and keep the bad actors out of your space. I sometimes just fuck off and don’t even come online for days if I know I’m not in a good headspace and won’t have the strength to just fucking ignore it, because sometimes drama catches my eye and I get nosy and go down the rabbit hole, too – having ADHD makes it really hard to avoid sometimes LOL – but like I try to be reasonable and love myself enough to avoid it when I can help it. I’m not willing to make my own problems everyone else’s problem, and I hope that some of these shit starters in fandom will get there, themselves.

So yeah it blows when the vibes are fucking atrocious, and it REALLY blows when it’s a fandom this small where you can’t avoid it. Even when it’s a vocal minority it really just kills the fucking mood.

BUT WHAT I WILL SAY.

Whenever I say shit like “write what you want to read” and we’re talking about fanfic, or even meta or even silly headcanon posts or jokes, that also means draw what you want to see, it also means make what you want to hold, apply it to any creation you can think of. Put the thing you want to see into the world. And it counts for fandom, too.

I don’t want to be part of a fandom that’s constantly infighting and attacking people, so I don’t fight and attack people. I don’t want to be called a predator for being a Marius fan and so I don’t engage in posts that say as much, not even to argue, because I don’t want my followers (who might also be Marius fans!) to have to see that on their dash. I want us to protect our peace and create a space we want to be in.

Like I have a policy that any time someone says I’m a freak or any time I see truly godawful word salad discourse, I go out of my way to post something kinky and offputting about Marius LMFAOOOO because I want to be surrounded by reasonable fun people who share my sensibility for fiction. AND SOMETIMES IT’S CRICKETS, AND SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO WORK HARD TO FIND YOUR PEOPLE. But at the end of the day I know I’m being my most sincere self and I’m trying to have a good time and just post fun things that I enjoy. And like, the book fandom is small as fuck and we’re all famished, but I think if more of us did that, we’d build a much more productive and tolerant space.

And for all the shit I’ve mentioned, all the drama and attacks and all the times people have harassed me or tried to make me feel small, you know what? I just got back from @apoptoses & @cup-of-lixx 's wedding and they met in VCblr! We spent all week with our VCblr friends! We all went to New Orleans together last Halloween !

When I used to work on ships it was like a fandom friend world tour! I had so many coffees in port with my vampire friends!

I’ve learned so much about writing from all the time I’ve spent here and the community of writer friends who supported me! There’s folks I met on VCblr that I talk to LITERALLY every day! They are such huge parts of my life and genuine life-long friends!!!!!!

Sometimes it seems like the ROI is garbage but like, so much of finding the joy is also learning to protect yourself from the negativity.

It IS out there. It DOES suck. And it’s lonely when you haven’t found your people yet. But fandom doesn’t have to be the 500 angry assholes arguing with each other about a fucking TV show, it can be your 3 besties in a private group chat having a great time.

Like I just drove @hekateinhell to the airport (met THROUGH TUMBLR!) and on the way back I was listening to an episode of Last Day and they were discussing the concept that “community is a life raft” and it hit me so hard man!!!!!!!!!!!

Find your people! Block the shit starters! Mute discourse buzzwords that you know are going to upset you!

Keep! Posting! What! You! Want! To! See!!

Fandom is self-generating, we can do this!

My inbox is always open and BELIEVE ME I have been motherfucking persona non grata in this place before and I know how rancid the vibe can be so please come talk any time it's grinding you down, I got you!!!!!!!!!!!!

#fandom lolitics #also some more thoughts in the tags lol but #this also means LEAVE COMMENTS #not just on fics but like on art on HC posts on whatever #talk to people!#support each other!!!

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fleshwerks · 6 months ago

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Still thinking about Spiridon.

He's evolved with me, though the bones of him have been there from the start. In my mid and late 20s I kind of viewed his inaction as an enlightened virtue. I had his solution to the trolley problem be seen as noble, but the world's changed and I got older, and now I see him for the man crippled by indecision and unwillingness to step on toes that he is. Still, I think the essence of him is noble, it's just that the world doesn't agree, his 'nobility' is that of someone who, for the most of his life, led a very isolated life in his Dalish clan, and whose worst grievances were aimed at a very small, magocratic society that the Dalish exist in.

For all his mad talk about how people are predictably horrible, and how the vast majority of people are selfish and will always choose a selfish act over self-sacrifice, he's still painfully believing in that people should govern themselves; not only that. People are able to govern and save themselves, and people do not need, or should not look at gods, Keepers, Inquisitors, lords, kings and empresses for guidance, strength and absolution.

But again, the world and the people in it are very different from what he feels they are. He knows it, he just refuses to believe it. Because believing it would mean acknowledging someone's superiority, and someone else's inherent weakness. He's afraid what acknowledging gods, kings and Keepers means for him. It's like lowering yourself to dust by pleading to a god or seeking audience with a Keeper or king.

He's terribly proud in his own way, but a lot of it is just defense. He spent his entire life taking orders while seething with hatred and envy at his clan's mages who were the only ones allowed to directly interact with the People's past, and dispense it to the 'lessers' through their own prism, with their own agenda, because the mages of the Dalish weren't always good people just because they were mages. The blood purity idea, the idea of what constitutes as a 'true elf', the gods-blessed, ran strong within Dalish societies, and him being half-Dalish, half-helafolk, and being ripped from literature, histories and knowledge just to bolster the ranks of warriors after a disease ravaged the clan... yeah. He's sworn to never do what some self-appointed superior tells him to do again. He has stiffened his neck, his head won't bow.

Unfortunately, it also means that he refuses to also see what the world really is like. He knows what it's like, he just keeps his eyes on the horizon, or straight up closed, because hey, if he can't see it, it isn't real, eh. And in that lofty pride and idealism, the world burns, and the people hate him for it, for standing for nothing but some distant dream of a different, fairer, more independent world. That's his problem. He never deals with what he has, he's always dreaming of some distant, better future. He's not putting out the wooden house's fire, even if people are burning in that house, because he's already thinking of the safe, stone domicile that'll be built in the site of the tragedy in the future.

I think that despite wanting to lead and actually having the wisdom and compassion to be a good leader, he would be much better serving as an advisor, a logistician. He'd excel at the job of both planning for the future and its ideals, while also keeping the energetic, passionate Inquisitors and other visionaries sober and on the ground by taking on the much needed but also loathed role of the guy who tells you 'here's why you can't have fun.'

It's kind of similar to Lea Surana. That one can't truly live in the moment, either, except his beef is with God(s) whom he loves and seeks to follow, but also whom he demands answers from, and seeks to supplant for the good of all, and his own peace. Whilst Spiridon is listless, indifferent and afraid, Lea Surana burns with the fires of hell and obsession. Spiridon in his heart of heart knows what the world is like and resents it for it, whilst Lea Surana finds the world as it is quite beautiful, it needs improving, not changing. Spiridon is a good man but a bad leader, Lea Surana is a bad man, but a natural-born, fair and energetic leader, unscrupulous in his goals, but utterly fair towards those who are in his employ, or who work with him, again, because he finds the world as it is, good bad and the ugly, beautiful, whilst Spiridon fucking hates the world. It's just that his moral code and in-born idealism don't allow him to do anything to change it according to his vision because if he has one thing going for him, it's his ironclad belief that he is full 'people' too, and people, in his experience, are proud, foolish, stubborn, tyrannical selfish, and wrong more than they're right. Full people lack farsight, they don't really think ahead or laterally, they think in the moment, and are prone to assuming that what they think is correct applies to all. And because he himself is 'full person' too, it means that he too is unreliable and prone to grave mistakes. He doesn't really trust himself, and he doesn't want to become all the people he's hated and still hates by assuming that he and he alone has the wisdom to decide what is right for the world. Guy's almost an anarchist. If he had the guts and the self-assuredness to actually sacrifice some people for his vision.

I think these two are the best characters I've ever created, and they're getting better because I'm getting older and wiser and seeing their flaws without feeling the need to clip 'em. Melaina Mossine's trailing close behind, but she's a comparatively new character, she hasn't had the time to marinate yet.

I need a DA character meme. It's time to give the boys their due again.

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princess-of-the-corner · 7 months ago

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I know Endeavor got better but this is still fucking hilarious

No because here's the thing what are they measuring in this vs? Is this a trial by combat or capacity as a father and husband?

Because I can tell you that Enji easily wins this either way.

Like I need only one sentence for each but I'm in a rambley mood so let's look at this for a minute:

Combat:

Enji is fireproof. That negates 75% of Ozai's abilities.

Yeah he has lightning and some combat skills, but if they get into a fight? By the time Ozai realizes he should use lightning instead of fire, Enji has already ignored all flame attacks and gone for physical combat.

Speaking of physical combat. The size difference here. Ozai seems to be an average height and build. So like 5'9"/179cm. That's actually the height of the actor who played him in the live action, Daniel Dae Kim. Let's say he's about the same weight too which gives me 170pounds/77kg. Endeavor is 6'5/195cm and 260 pounds/118kg.

So there's a clear size advantage here.

Now let's address their actual combat abilities:

Ozai is a spoiled royal who /can/ fight, but rarely does. The only people we see him fight are children, one of whom gives up while the other beats his ass and only has any struggle due to the Comet happening and powering him up. Most of his wins are done by having other people fight for him, and having enough ability to harm the people he wants to control (whether it be by virtue of being leader of a nation(which he got by being lucky and underhanded) and can fuck up someone's life, or years of abuse convincing his kids who are better than him that he could easily hurt them if they dare to be disobedient). Enji, on the other hand? Has spent about 30 years of his life being in direct combat against other people.

So yeah. Enji is winning the combat fight easily.

Now for the skill as husband and father.

Honestly there's still an easy clear winner because Enji is the one who went 'hm. I've been An Asshole™. Let's fix that.' but let's talk on the easy win from a completely different angle!

Enji, even at his absolute worst, still did genuinely care about his family. He gave Rei a choice whether to be part of this or not, and he got her help when her mental health went fucky. He wanted Toya to stop trying to be a Hero because he was scared it would get him killed and no father wants to watch their son die. Fuyumi and Natsuo were well taken care of and allowed to follow their own passions, despite being functionally 'useless' in the goal of making a Hero child(and you can't even argue this was done out of obligation of having children as both are legal adults he has no obligation to anymore). While Shoto got the worst of it, even that came from a place 'I want you to be the best' and from Enji's pov this is fun father/son bonding over shared interest while also helping the kid be the best he can be. Not to mention all of his awful actions were spawned from unmanaged PTSD and insecurity over that fact, and were things that he admitted were probably wrong but justified for some larger 'good'.

Now, while none of this excuses said awful actions. It brings a whole different light to it when compared to someone like Ozai, who never cared about his wife and children as anything more than tools for his own wants(whether that be power or amusement by hurting them), only forcing them to do what he wanted and pitting them against each other and never apologizing for any of it and enjoying how awful he was being.

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rowanvalerian · 1 year ago

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The Basics of Tarot

Tarot cards contain 78 cards split into two categories. The first category being the Major Arcana. The Major Arcana follows The Fool's Journey. The second category being the Minor Arcana, which is what i really want to talk about.

The Minor Arcana is divided into four suits, similar to playing cards. However, instead of diamonds, hearts, spades, and clubs, tarot cards are categorized into cups, pentacles, wands, and swords. Each suit includes an ace, numbers 2 to 10, a page, a knight, a queen, and a king.

Each suit represents one of the four elements.

Cups

Cups are representative of water making them representative of your emotional self. Your emotions, desires, dreams, romance, and creativity.

When you see cups in a reading, it's an indication that you should pay attention to the emotional aspects of your life. This could mean exploring your feelings, understanding your desires, and tapping into your creative energy. Cups also remind you to nurture and express your emotions in a healthy way.

Pentacles

Pentacles are tied to the element of earth. They represent your physical self. They encompass various aspects of your material life, including financial matters such as careers, jobs, and actual currency. Additionally, pentacles also encompass the realm of ideas and represent the power of manifestation.

In addition to using pentacle cards for readings, another application is utilizing them as a tool for enhancing manifestation. By focusing your intentions and energies through these cards, you can amplify your ability to bring your desires and goals into reality.

Swords

Swords represent air. They represent your mental self, thoughts and ideas. They also represent intellect and wit. They bring a sense of clarity and sharpness to your thoughts, cutting through illusions and revealing the truth. This sharpness can also lead to conflicts and disagreements, as swords can symbolize the clash of ideas and differing perspectives. To me, they feel cold just like a breeze is cold.

In readings, swords can indicate mental challenges, intellectual pursuits, and the need for rational decision-making.

Wands

Last but not least, Wands represent fire. Tied to spirituality, they can represent your highest being and all of your flaws and virtues. They are cards of intuition, inspiration, transformation, passion, and spiritual growth

It is important to note that just like fire, Wands can be both constructive and destructive. While they inspire and motivate, they can also bring challenges and conflicts.

#tarot #tarot cards #divination #cartomancy #tarot reading #tarotblr #tarot deck #witchcraft #witchblr #pagan witch

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cbsghostsmetasandtrevor · 10 months ago

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I love Trevor too, but I can't really blame Jay for not being a fan. By virtue of his ghost power and computer semi-literacy, Trevor has done the most actual physical and mental damage to people that Jay cares about and their business. He's like a big, sweet, clumsy ghost puppy that keeps accidentally breaking stuff, and since Jay can't see or hear him he misses all the puppy kisses and just gets broken furniture and pee puddles.

Here's the thing there are multiple reasons why he should have been forgiven by now. I went into this in my Jay vs Trevor post last year.

Yes, Trevor can manipulate the computer the same way Sass can manipulate dreams, Alberta can make orders with the Alexa, Thor can burn things down, and Flower (previously) could mess with people's minds.

Trevor did cause some money issues for the business/the house, BUT he's also been the ONE ghosts to contribute the MOST to the household account.

HE is the reason the house was saved and they could even open the business due to Ari's blackmail & because he knew David well enough in the S2 finale to send them to find out Kelsey was a fake.

HE has money-wise made up for any costs he's given them using his power.

Meanwhile, Sass caused their first summer to be difficult due to the Tree impacting their business & made them buy a car they didn't need and sold at a loss. Thor burned down the gazebo, which costs money. Hetty & Alberta got Freddie hired and fired which costs money. Alberta bought into Steph's thing and ordered a bunch of bread. And So on. I'm sure there's other things.

Plus, he also saved Sam's life and much of what he does with computer is to help the others.

As for "mental" damage, what mental damage? Sam is friends with him and clearly just doesn't give a damn anymore except when he got "extra" due to Hetty's instance. Bela wanted to be with him, so...

To be honest, I am very passionate about this and absolutely don't want to argue about it. It just... the whole thing really, really bothers me.

Thanks for the ask :)

#cbs ghosts #ghosts cbs #trevor lefkowitz #jay arondekar

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xxdoubledaisyxx · 12 days ago

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*knock knock*

… (… but they don’t know 👻)

What is the difference between a carp and a chrysanthemum?

🥹…who?

The way of the story.

picajoke.

How will you serve your sentence.

Don’t make me priest bless you gay, because it would be my pleasure to give you happiness. I am the Devil’s priest.

So choombasa and go. Make way for my enemy and stay out of the line of fire.

He comes to die because I called him to be killed. Let there be no time wasted giving the turd what he wants, and flush him out of history with a good plumbing fixture. Then none of this bad stuff about life we are suffering because of those arrogant and selfish idiots will be remembered except for those times when a horrific toilet event is in order for recall. Otherwise we will all be fully pre-occupied with the cute and lovable goodness accomplished to enjoy and cultivate forever, and such sordid memories of human folly will be furthest from our minds unobtrusive.

For the record, in acknowledgment of the flaw of suicidal selflessness my example is a true occasion of perfection in flawed nature abstractly.

It is truly convenient for me to save everyone selflessly because of how horribly miserable my life is on account of their ignorance, apathy, and unrestrained sin. That makes me suicidal and reasonably so, thus I actually want to die as the very reason that makes me so passionate about the way of the story, my fantasy dream goddess divinity sacred pudding princess Nep my heart, and saving the world to have more time and peace of mind to adore and glorify her and her friends with.

That’s why I am selflessly suicidal. It is actually my virtue of selfishness coming full circle for the ultimate return on my life investment.

You didn’t miss anything if you weren’t enraged by me. They did.

Have you ever seen a living word before? What about a living football stadium if you zoomed out enough? Band included with leaders in cheer and spirit, our sorores, beloved girlfriends, and secret crushes.

What is that word?

ramball

because that’s what we play in Rio Rancho before El Niño came to town with the Cleveland Storm, but they ahyte. I checked them at the door on my way out. Side quest you could say.

high school football rules.

All nations follow suit. Give my team the fight of their lives, with a special title for the first one to unseat them from the title of season champs. It will take some time… generations, but what are generations to what is eternally good? Take this satchel of pigskin and plant it in a chum bucket. Grow yourselves some high school football and reap the benefits. Then challenge the boys and I to a game of tackle at the park. On a weekend. In the rain. Of early winter.

We will both walk away victorious, whether or not we caught the final scoring touchdown after a bruising and bloody few hours of good game.

Also grow yourselves some roller derby with this moldly and inhabited skate wheel.

#picajoke #inventor #spirit technology #career idol #under new management

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navree · 2 years ago

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I’m almost afraid to ask: what is the Sara Snow debate? Do I need to brace myself for another Jonsa vs Jonerys type showdown 😱

SPOILERS INCOMING for anyone who wants to kept in the dark and experience the story naturally:

So, as we know, Jace starts off the Dance by going to Winterfell, where he meets with Cregan Stark and asks him to pledge his sword to Rhaenyra. According to one of the chroniclers who makes up the narrative of the Dance that we get in Fire&Blood, while there Jace meets Sara Snow, Cregan's bastard sister, and immediately falls passionately in love with her, and the two end up sleeping together, which pisses Cregan off until Sara reveals that she and Jace were really in love and had gotten married in accordance with the old gods in front of a weirwood tree, and then promptly got down in the Winterfell godswood.

All well and good, except for one minor catch: we don't know if Sara Snow ever actually existed. The only person who writes about her is Mushroom, a court fool who is seen as notoriously unreliable, and often embellished or just flat out made stuff up, and any of the more salacious rumors about the Dance was likely shit he wrote down for the fun of it. In particular, the Archmaester Gyldayn, who's "writing" Fire&Blood (given that it's an in-universe history book), seems very dismissive of the fact that Sara Snow ever existed, or that Jace would ever break his vows to Baela for her (though he does concede that if Sara did exist Jace likely could have had sex with her, but not married her), but he also doesn't help himself from sounding biased due to describing her as a "half-wild, unwashed Northern bastard" of "uncertain virtue", which, like, dude OK then.

So the big debate is a) does Sara Snow exist (and as such will she be in the show) and b) is Jace going to fall in love with her? There is one side who says no, that Sara was an invention of Mushroom's and that Jace would never do Baela like that, and another side who says that Sara could exist and Jace could well have fallen for her. For reasons that absolutely baffle me, the side that absolutely hates Sara and any thought of her existing, let alone having an affair with Jace and being the other woman to Baela's betrayed spouse, tend to be Jonerys shippers, while the side that's really into Sara and her potential relationship/love story with Jace are Jonsa shippers, and I'm very confused because, like, again, it's the prototype for Jonerys, it's hitting the same notes just at a different octave, and I don't understand why the roles aren't reversed here.

I think they might go with Sara, just for a few more female roles, and whether or not they go with the Mushroom account or switch things up is debatable (they've eschewed a lot of Mushroom stuff, but not all Mushroom stuff), but I think it would make Jace a bit more interesting, because right now the younger generation for the Blacks is the most boring, cardboard cutout group of people in this show, name me one personality trait either Baela or Rhaena have, or anything about Luke that we didn't learn in episode 10 when they remembered that they needed people to feel literally anything for him before he died.

(Personally I'm just over here casually curious and praying furiously that the Helaena/Aemond people stay calm when Alys Rivers shows up, power to all ships and y'all do y'all but I'm here to watch Aemond ride-or-die in love with his hot witch wife and I would like for there to be no insane rivalries or people getting weird or referring to women as "unwashed" for no reason other than you don't like that they might get in the way of a ship)

#personal #answered #selkiesstories #house of the dragon spoilers #hotd spoilers #(aegon the conqueror after marrying rhaenys even tho that wasn't seen as an option watching aemond do the same thing: new fave descendant)#anyway yeah that's the big sara snow thing so interesting to see where they go with that #the divide is still really weird to me the jonerys people should be all up on that

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itstheimpossibledream · 4 years ago

Text

Homecoming

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Word Count:1990

Warnings: Smut,DaddyDom!Henry, Oral (female reciving)

Summary: Henry takes you to his hometown but, you become slightly jealous of the attention he recieves. Please do not repost my fics without my permission but, we always love a reblog ! Inbox& Requests always open!

You stepped into the hotel room, immediately taking off your jacket and throwing your purse to the floor.

"What the fuck Henry?" you asked as you whirled around to face him. The beach day date of his hometown was his thing, it was supposed to be planned so that the two of you could finally spend some free time together. But, the entire day had ended up with Henry signing autograph after autograph; being hit on by a waitress here, asked out by a bartender there, and he's just taking it as though it is completely normal. You had spent so much time choosing your outfit, ordering clothes for the weekend. It had been so weird to be in his hometown. His parents had been entirely shocked Henry even wanted to come visit home again.They were on a vacation somewhere, Henry spared no expense on their travel it was the one thing the job actually made easier. He was used to the money being able to satiate everyone else in his life, that when it failed to impress you, he had no idea how to go from there. It shocked you how thoroughly and completely he had outweighed telling you what he's feeling. The one thing you wanted more than anything was for Henry to let you in. To just explain his emotions and say what he was thinking. The brooding charm was sexy, and it had no doubt gotten you home from the club that night. But, as boyfriend material he was wearing you thin.

"Why can't we just get one moment together?Or does that not matter to you anymore? We came on this trip in an attempt to be together yet the whole time we have never actually been together. In Fact, I think I've spent more time in your apartment during filming than at your actual home. I'm trying to get to know you Henry, I am but I can't do it if you're constantly flaunting yourself for people.”

"Flaunting?"he asks " You wanted to see my first job, I took you there.That wasn't flaunting.That was me trying to let you in, and the second the waitress compliments me you get upset."

"Compliment!..... Henry? Compliment?Fucking really ? She told you she and the other waitresses had a bet on how big your dick is!" you exclaimed, sitting down at the edge of the bed, partially running a hand through your hair .

"Yeah but I didn't tell them !" he fired back "Look, (y/n) I am trying here. You have to meet me halfway.This is what people are like around me. I want this to work , I -I want this to be something " He slowed his speech down looking directly into your eyes,so piercingly blue. " I also need you to promise me that you're going to try. I-darling I need you to try." he kneeled on the floor in front of you, grabbing your hands and forcing you to look into his eyes. His eyes pierced your soul, he always knew what to say to keep you from walking away. You sighed,removing your hands from his, finally committing to taking down your ponytail and letting your curls frame your face.

"You are beautiful. I'm sorry people reminded me more today of that than they did of you, you need to hear it just as much, if not twice. You deserve it......Everything about being with you makes me feel lucky."

You looked down at him and took notice of the fact that you usually never looked down on him. Seeing the top of his head was a virtue. He was being vulnerable. You also noted the cologne he had on, not overtly strong but,enough of a scent for you to notice. His eyes looked strong, so serious and eager to please you. You gently leaned in and kissed him. You laughed as you felt him smile into your kiss. He reached a hand up cradling the back of your head over your hair, his thumb caressing your cheek. He steadies you, leaning further in. You felt safe, in this room in your little love cocoon. The salty smell of the sea water wafted through the window and you hated yourself for ruining what was meant to be a beautiful time.Waves of emotion washed over you as you inhaled him deeply.

"So you like to argue don't you?" you felt Henry's smile turn into a smirk as he ran his other hand along the up the curve of your thigh, to the edge of your shirt. He played with the hem of the shirt denying you the contact he knew you desperately craved. You pushed your hips further in, closer to him and he exhaled into you. You knew he could feel the heat reverberating from your core, and you were sure his jeans were tightening by the minute. Hooking an arm around his neck you pulled yourself up and into him. He situates his hand on the side of your face slowly dipping his thumb into your mouth. You pull off his baseball cap and toss it behind you. So much for him being disguised during the date. You couldn't get away from the fact that seeing that passion from him, that honesty had moved you.On the other hand he was an actor, that's what they were supposed to do right? say the right thing?

"You know, next time instead of getting jealous" he mumbled in between kisses you could just tell me to follow you to the bathroom. I could be extra loud when I cum too, so they know I belong to you." he lifted you up by your ass and threw you onto the bed.

"aren't you always extra loud when you cum?" You asked wriggling out of your vest and shirt beneath him.

"Isn't that what you like?" he retorts, trying to ignore the fact that he was slightly stuck inside his shirt. Yes he was perfect at saying the right thing but, he was still a person,still real, still riddled with insecurities like anyone else. It just didn't help that the rest of the world rarely saw it. That first night you met he had stood near you in the club for a little shy of an hour before saying anything at all.

He tugs harder on his shirt and you watch as the stretch makes the muscles in his sides more visible, the outline of his ribs below the expanse of hair on his chest that you had never particularly been into, yet on him seemed masculine and mature. Trailing down to the V. His abs and hips meeting in this perfection of symmetrical musculature was enough for you to understand why any woman would swoon at the thought of him entering a diner and crossing his toned legs at the table even with a baseball cap pulled over his eyes.

"Now you're getting shy." He jests at the fact that you had not answered his question but proceeded to take him in.

"Tell daddy what you want." he encouraged, his voice barely a whisper. God, when he said things like that, it made you unable to respond. So, you decided not to,grabbing his hand and moving it down into your sweatpants, to your core pressing it hard against your clit. He began to move his hand slowly as he smiled down at you; The smile lines at the corner of his mouth, playing games with your heart.

"Is that it then ? You just want me to touch you?" his warm hand inched lower and you could feel him lightly dip a finger into you. You moan to your own surprise, andhe immediately removes it. You watch his face, intent and you're slightly embarrassed by the attention, but it's enough just knowing that he wanted to be inside of you, any part of him. You buck your hips up to him in an effort to convince him to finger you again but, to no avail.

"Unnnhhh.No. sweetheart I said tell me " he says shaking his head.

Your voice comes out shakily and much smaller than expected.

" I want- I want you to make me cum." you say breathlessly

"What else?" he leans in , his face turning hard and stoic.

"I want you to degrade me, to use me." He breaks into a full smile now, wide and you exhale loudly as he forces two fingers back inside of you. He chuckles at the noise you make, knowing full well what he's doing to you.

"You want me to use you like a toy because you're a whore." He says matter of factly, picking up speed between your legs.

"You're so wet just thinking of me using you, aren't you princess?" he growls into your ear.God he was really going for it today, and you were loving every minute of it.

"You're so needy already I didn't even get a chance to fuck you." he chuckles and you feel his palm shift right onto your clit.

You manage to whisper "Right there" knowing full well it may be the only instruction you are allowed to give for the rest of the day. But,he doesn't move his hand.

"You like that pressure on your little clit don't you baby?" he asks. You look up at him pleadingly, eyes begging for him to allow you to have this orgasm. "Come for me then, go ahead" he says lifting his eyebrow. You look down at his hand buried inside you under your sweatpants and begin moving your hips faster.

"Come on Daddy's hand since you want to come so bad." he mocks , you buck onto his hands, knowing you are close. You let out a small whine and you can see as his blue pupils blow out with lust. More whimpers come and before you know it you are releasing all over his hand, breathing into his mouth .

"That's my fucking girl." he smiles broadly looking down at you. You cover your eyes with your forearm, embarrassed to know that he had watched your face the entire time.

"You are so beautiful right now." he says as you manage to break into a slight smile, still refusing to make eye contact. You feel the weight on the bed shift as he moves. When you finally remove your arm , you see him at the foot of the bed. Somehow, he had found his hat and he tugs it on as he reaches for his phone on the hotel table.

"What are you doing?" you ask

"O nooow you want to talk to me." he chuckles as you roll your eyes "I'm getting room service for us so we don't have to go anywhere. It's just going to be you and me, like it should've been."

You sit up in bed promptly "Well, I still want to know about this place! What you did, what you liked, what you learned in your hometown."

"This is what I learned, " he says, gesturing to the bed."This is what I'm good at."

"Please, Henry you're good at more than just sex."

"Am I ? My agent isn't exactly having the easiest time right now." he says slumping on the edge of the bed.

"Hey- we both have shit that we could think of all weekend to make us pissed life isn't going our way...or- or we could say fuck it , and enjoy this bit of time we have together because we don't know when it's going to happen again. "

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry sweetheart." he smiles.

"You're forgiven. Now, " you say moving yourself forward and crawling towards him on the bed. "It's your turn" reaching for his belt buckle. He immediately lays back, ready for you to do whatever you wanted with him. Maybe this trip wasn't going to be such a bust after all.

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laurasimonsdaughter · 3 years ago

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The Counterfeit Marquise

A literary fairy tale published in 1697, presumably by Charles Perrault and François-Timoléon De Choisy (who spent a considerable amount of his life in drag, just like the protagonists of this story).

Translated by Ranjit Bolt, featured in Warner’s Wonder tales: six stories of enchantment (1996).

Cw: gender disphoria.

The Marquis de Banneville had been married barely six months to a beautiful and highly intelligent young heiress when he was killed in battle at Saint-Denis. His widow was profoundly affected. They had still been very much in love and no domestic quarrels had disturbed their happiness. She did not allow herself an excess of grief. With none of the usual lamentations, she withdrew to one of her country houses to weep at her leisure, without constraint or ostentation. But no sooner had she arrived than it was pointed out to her, on the basis of irrefutable evidence, that she was carrying a child. At first she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing a little replica of the man she had loved so much. She was careful to preserve her husband’s precious remains, and took every possible step to keep his memory alive. Her pregnancy was very easy, but as her time drew near she was tormented by a host of anxieties. She pictured a soldier’s gruesome death in its full horror. She imagined the same fate for the child she was expecting and, unable to reconcile herself to such a distressing idea, prayed a thousand times to heaven to send her a daughter who, by virtue of her sex, would be spared so cruel a fate. She did more: she made up her mind that, if nature did not answer her wishes, she would correct her. She took all the necessary precautions and made the midwife promise to announce to the world the birth of a girl, even if it was a boy.

Thanks to these measures the business was effected smoothly. Money settles everything. The marquise was absolute mistress in her château and word soon spread that she had given birth to a girl, though the child was actually a boy. It was taken to the curé who, in good faith, christened it Marianne. The wet nurse was also won over. She brought little Marianne up and subsequently became her governess. She was taught everything a girl of noble birth should know: dancing; music; the harpsichord. She grasped everything with such precocity her mother had no choice but to have her taught languages, history, even modern philosophy. There was no danger of so many subjects becoming confused in a mind where everything was arranged with such remarkable orderliness. And what was extraordinary, not to say delightful, was that so fine a mind should be found in the body of an angel. At twelve her figure was already formed. True, she had been a little constricted from infancy with an iron corset, to widen her hips and lift her bosom. But this had been a complete success and (though I shall not describe her until her first journey to Paris) she was already a very beautiful girl. She lived in blissful ignorance, quite unaware that she was not a girl. She was known in the province as la belle Marianne. All the minor gentry roundabout came to pay court to her, believing she was a rich heiress. She listened to them all and answered their gallantries with great wit and frankness. My heart, she said to her mother one day, isn’t made for provincials. If I receive them kindly it’s because I want to please people.

Be careful, my child, said the marquise: you’re talking like a coquette.

Ah, maman, she answered, let them come. Let them love me as much as they like. Why should you worry as long as I don’t love them?

The marquise was delighted to hear this, and gave her complete licence with these young men who, in any case, never strayed beyond the bounds of decorum. She knew the truth and so feared no consequences. La belle Marianne would study till noon and spend the rest of the day at her toilette.

After devoting the whole morning to my mind, she would say gaily, It’s only right to give the afternoon to my eyes, my mouth, all this little body of mine.

Indeed, she did not begin dressing till four. Her suitors would usually have gathered by then, and would take pleasure in watching her toilette. Her chambermaids would do her hair, but she would always add some new embellishment herself. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in great curls. The fire in her eyes and the freshness of her complexion were quite dazzling, and all this beauty was animated and enhanced by the thousand charming remarks that poured continually from the prettiest mouth in the world. All the young men around her adored her, nor did she miss any opportunity to increase that adoration. She would herself, with exquisite grace, put pendants in her ears – either of pearls, rubies or diamonds – all of which suited her to perfection. She wore beauty spots, preferably so tiny that one could barely see them with the naked eye and, if her complexion had not been so delicate and fine, could not have seen them at all. When putting them on she made a great show of consulting now one suitor, now another, as to which would suit her best. Her mother was overjoyed and kept congratulating herself on her ingenuity. He is twelve years old, she would say to herself under her breath. Soon I should have had to think about sending him to the Military Academy, and in two years he would have followed his poor father. Whereupon, transported with affection, she would go and kiss her darling daughter, and would let her indulge in all the coquetries that she would have condemned in anyone else’s child.

This is how matters stood when the Marquise de Banneville was obliged to go to Paris to deal with a lawsuit that one of her neighbours had taken out against her. Naturally she took her daughter with her, and soon realised that a pretty young girl can be useful when it comes to making petitions. The first person she went to see was her old friend the Comtesse d’Alettef,11 to ask for her advice and her protection for her daughter. The comtesse was struck by Marianne’s beauty and so enjoyed kissing her that she did so several times. She took on herself the task of chaperoning her, and looked after her when her mother was busy with her suit, promising to keep her amused. Marianne could not have fallen into better hands. The comtesse was born to enjoy life. She had managed to separate herself from an inconvenient husband. Not that he lacked qualities (he loved pleasure as much as she did) but since they could not agree in their choice of pleasures, they had the good sense not to get in one another’s way and each followed their own inclinations. The comtesse, though not young any more, was beautiful. But the desire for lovers had given way to the desire for money, and gambling was now her chief passion. She took Marianne everywhere, and everywhere she was received with delight.

Meanwhile, the Marquise de Banneville slept easily. She was well aware of the comtesse’s somewhat dubious reputation, and would never have trusted her with a real daughter. But quite apart from the fact that Marianne had been brought up with a strong sense of virtue, the marquise wanted a little amusement and so left her to her own devices, merely telling her that she was entering a scene very different from that of the provinces; that she would encounter passionate, devoted lovers at every turn; that she must not believe them too readily; that if she felt herself giving way she was to come and tell her everything; and that in future she would look on her as a friend rather than a daughter, and give her such advice as she herself might take.

Marianne, whom people were starting to call the little marquise, promised her mother that she would disclose all her feelings to her and, relying on past experience, believed herself a match for the gallantry of the French court. This was a bold undertaking thirty years ago. Magnificent dresses were made for her; all the newest fashions tried on her. The comtesse, who presided over all this, saw to it that her hair was dressed by Mlle de Canillac. She had only some child’s earrings and a few jewels; her mother gave her all hers, which were of poor workmanship, and managed at relatively little expense to have two pairs of diamond pendants made for her ears, and five or six crisping pins for her hair. These were all the ornaments she needed. The comtesse would send her carriage for her immediately after dinner and take her to the theatre, the opera, or the gaming houses. She was universally admired. Wives and daughters never tired of caressing her, and the loveliest of them heard her beauty praised without a hint of jealousy. A certain hidden charm, which they felt but did not understand, attracted them to her and forced them to pay homage where homage was due. Everyone succumbed to her spell and her wit, which was even more irresistible than her beauty, won her more certain and lasting conquests. The first thing that captivated them was the dazzling whiteness of her complexion. The bloom in her cheeks, forever appearing and reappearing, never ceased to amaze them. Her eyes were blue and as lively as one could wish; they flashed from beneath two heavy lids that made their glances more tender and languishing. Her face was oval-shaped and her scarlet lips, which protruded slightly, would break – even when she spoke with the utmost seriousness – into a dozen delightful creases, and into a dozen even more delightful when she laughed. This exterior – so charming in itself – was enhanced by all that a good education can add to an excellent nature. There was a radiance, a modesty in the little marquise’s countenance that inspired respect. She had a sense of occasion: she always wore a cap when she went to church, never a beauty spot – avoiding the ostentation cultivated by most women. At Mass, she would say, One prays to God; at balls one dances; and one must do both with total commitment.

She had been leading a most agreeable life for three months when Carnival came round. All the princes and officers had returned from camp, and everywhere entertainments were being held again. Everyone was giving parties and there was a great ball at the Palais Royal. The comtesse, who was too old to show her face on such occasions, decided to go masked and took the little marquise with her. She was dressed as a shepherdess in an extremely simple but becoming costume. Her hair, which hung down to her waist, was tied up in great curls with pink ribbons – no pearls, no diamonds, only a beautiful cap. She had dressed herself, but even so all eyes were fixed on her. That night her beauty was triumphant.

The handsome Prince Sionad was there, dressed as a woman – a rival to the fair sex who, in the opinion of connoisseurs, took first prize for beauty. On arriving at the ball the comtesse decided to go and sit behind the lovely Sionad. Chère princesse, she said as she drew near and introduced the little marquise, here is a young shepherdess you should find worth looking at. Marianne approached respectfully and wanted to kiss the hem of the prince’s dress (or should I say the princess’s) but he lifted her up, embraced her tenderly and cried delightedly: What a lovely girl! What fine features! What a smile! What delicacy! And if I’m not mistaken, she is as clever as she is beautiful.

The little marquise had responded only with a bashful smile when a young prince came up and claimed her for a dance. At first all eyes were fixed on him, owing to his rank. But when people saw her answering his questions without awkwardness or embarrassment; saw what a feel she had for the music; how gracefully she moved; her little jumps in time; her smiles, subtle without being malicious and the fresh glow that vigorous exercise brought to her face, total silence, as at a concert, descended on the hall. The violinists found to their delight that they could hear themselves play, and everyone seemed intent on watching and wondering at her. The dance ended with applause, little of it for the prince, popular though he was.

The acclaim that the little marquise had received at the Palais Royal ball greatly increased the comtesse’s affection and concern for her. She could no longer do without her and she offered her rooms in her house, so that she could enjoy her company at her leisure. But on no account would her mother agree to this. The little marquise was almost fourteen and, if the secret of her birth was to be kept, it was vital that no one should be on intimate terms with her except her governess, who got her up and saw her into bed. She was still quite ignorant of her situation and, though she had many admirers, felt nothing for them. She cared for nothing and no one but herself and her appearance. People spoke to her of nothing else. She drank down this delicious praise in long draughts and thought herself the most beautiful person in the world; the more so since her mirror swore to her every day that the praise was justified.

One day she was at the theatre, in the first tier, when she noticed a beautiful young man in the next box. He wore a scarlet doublet embroidered with gold and silver, but what fascinated her were his dazzling diamond earrings and three or four beauty spots. She watched him intently and found his countenance so sweet and amiable that she could not contain herself, and said to the comtesse: Madame, look at that young man! Isn’t he handsome! Indeed, said the comtesse, but he is too conscious of his looks, and that is not becoming in a man. He might as well dress as a girl.

The performance went on and they said nothing more, but the little marquise often turned her head, no longer able to concentrate on the play, which was The Feign’d Alcibiades. Some days later she was at the theatre again in the third tier. The same young man, who drew such attention to himself with his extraordinary adornments, was in the second tier. He watched the little marquise at his leisure, as fascinated by her as she had been by him on the previous occasion, but less restrained. He kept turning his back on the actors, unable to take his eyes off her and she, for her part, responded in a manner less than consistent with the dictates of modesty. She felt in this exchange of looks something she had never experienced before: a certain joy at once subtle and profound, which passes from the eyes to the heart and constitutes the only real happiness in life. At last the play ended and, while they waited for the afterpiece, the beautiful young man left his box and went to ask the little marquise’s name. The porters, who saw her often, were happy to oblige him; they even told him where she lived. He now saw that she was of noble birth and decided, if possible, to make her acquaintance, even if he went no further. He resolved (love being ingenious) to enter her box by accident.

Ah, madame, he cried, I beg your pardon: I thought this was my box. The Marquise de Banneville loved intrigue and made the most of this one. Monsieur, she said to him with great frankness, we are indeed fortunate in your mistake: a man as handsome as you is welcome anywhere.

She hoped in this way to detain him so that she could look at him at her leisure; examine him and his adornments; please her daughter (whose feelings she had already detected) and, in a word, have some harmless amusement. He hesitated before deciding to remain in the box without taking a seat at the front. They asked him a hundred questions, to which he replied very wittily. His manner and tone of voice had an undeniable charm. The little marquise asked him why he wore pendants in his ears. He replied that he always had: his ears had been pierced when he was a child. As for the rest, they must excuse these little embellishments, normally only suitable for the fair sex, on the grounds of youth.

Everything suits you, monsieur, said the little marquise with a blush. You can wear beauty spots and bracelets as far as we’re concerned. You wouldn’t be the first. These days young men are always doing themselves up like girls. The conversation never flagged. When the afterpiece was over he conducted the ladies to their coach and had his follow it as far as the marquise’s house where, not daring to enter, he sent a page to present his compliments.

During the days that followed they saw him everywhere: in church; in the park; at the opera and the theatre. He was always unassuming, always respectful. He would bow low to the little marquise, not daring to approach or speak to her. He seemed to have but one object, and wasted no time in attaining it. Finally, after three weeks, the Marquise de Banneville’s brother (who was a state councillor) called and suggested that she receive a visitor – his good friend and neighbour, the Marquis de Bercour. He assured her that he was an excellent man and brought him round immediately after lunch. The marquis was the handsomest man in the world; his hair was black and arranged in thick, natural-looking curls. It was cut in line with the ears so that his diamond earrings could be seen. On this particular day he had attached to each of these a pearl. He also wore two or three beauty spots (no more) to emphasise his fine complexion.

Ah, brother, said the marquise, is this the Marquis de Bercour? Yes, madame, replied the marquis, and he cannot live any longer without seeing the loveliest girl in the world.

As he said this he turned towards the little marquise, who was beside herself with joy. They sat and talked, exchanging news, discussing amusements and new books. The little marquise was a versatile conversationalist, and they were soon at ease with one another. The old councillor was the first to leave, the marquis the last, having remained as long as he felt he could.

After this he never missed an opportunity of paying court to the girl he loved, and always made sure that everything was perfect. When the good weather came and they went out walking to Vincennes or in the Bois, they would find a magnificent collation, which seemed to have been brought there by magic, at a place specially chosen in the shade of some trees. One day there would be violins; the next oboes. The marquis had apparently given no instructions, yet it was obvious that he had arranged everything. Nevertheless, it took several days to guess who had given the little marquise a magnificent present. One morning a carrier brought a chest to her house which he said was from the Comtesse Alettef. She opened it eagerly and was delighted to find in it gloves, scents, pomades, perfumed oils, gold boxes, little toilet cases, more than a dozen snuff boxes in different styles, and countless other treasures. The little marquise wanted to thank the comtesse, who had no idea what she was talking about. She found out in the end, but reproached herself more than once for not having guessed at once.

These little attentions advanced the marquis’s cause considerably. The little marquise greatly appreciated them. Madame, she said to her mother with admirable honesty, I no longer know where I am. Once I wanted to be beautiful in everyone’s eyes; now the only person I want to find me beautiful is the marquis. I used to love balls, plays, receptions, places where there was a lot of noise. Now I’m tired of all that. My only pleasure in life is to be alone and think about the man I love. He’s coming soon, I whisper to myself. Perhaps he’ll tell me he loves me. Yes, madame, he hasn’t said that yet; hasn’t spoken those wonderful words: I love you, though his eyes and his actions have told me so a hundred times. Then, my child, replied the marquise, I’m very sorry for you. You were happy before you saw the marquis. You enjoyed everyone’s company; everyone loved you and you loved only yourself, your own person, your beauty. You were wholly consumed with the desire to please, and please you did. Why change such a delightful life? Take my advice, my dear child: let your sole concern be to profit from the advantages nature has given you. Be beautiful: you have experienced that joy; is there any other to touch it? To draw everyone’s gaze; to win all hearts; to delight people wherever one goes; to hear oneself praised continually, and not by flatterers; to be loved by all and love only oneself: that, my child, is the height of happiness, and you can enjoy it for a long time. You are a queen, don’t make yourself a slave: you must resist at the outset a passion that is carrying you away in spite of yourself. Now you command, but soon you will obey. Men are fickle: the marquis loves you today – tomorrow he will love someone else.

Stop loving me! said the little marquise. Love someone else! And she burst into tears.

Her mother, who loved her dearly, tried to console her and succeeded by telling her that the marquis was coming. There was a lot at stake and this incipient passion caused her considerable alarm. Where will it lead? she asked herself. To what bizarre conclusion. If the marquis declares himself – if he plucks up courage and asks for certain favours – she will refuse him nothing. But then, she reflected, the little marquise has been well trained; she is sensible; at most she will grant such trifling favours as will leave them in ignorance – an ignorance essential to their happiness.

They were talking like this when someone came to tell them that the marquis had sent them a dozen partridges, and that he was at the door, not daring to enter as he had just returned from hunting.

Send him in! cried the little marquise. We want to see him in his hunting clothes. He entered a moment later, all apologies for powder marks, sun burn and a dishevelled wig. No, no, said the little marquise. I assure you, we like you better dressed informally like this than in all your finery. If that is so, madame, he replied, next time you will see me dressed as a stoker.

He remained standing, as though about to leave. They made him sit and the marquise, kind soul, told them to sit together while she went to her study to write. The chambermaids knew what was what and withdrew to the dressing-room, leaving the lovers alone together. They were silent for a while. The little marquise, still flustered after her talk with her mother, scarcely dared raise her eyes, and the marquis, even more embarrassed, looked at her and sighed. There was something tender in this silence. The looks they exchanged, the sighs they could not contain, were for them a form of language – a language lovers often use – and their mutual embarrassment seemed to them a sign of love. The little marquise was the first to awake from this reverie.

You’re dreaming, marquis, she said. What of? Hunting? Ah, beautiful marquise, said the marquis, how lucky hunters are! They are not in love. What do you mean? she rejoined. Is being in love really so terrible? Madame, he replied, it is the greatest happiness in life. But unrequited love is the greatest misfortune. I am in love and it is not requited. I am in love with the most beautiful girl in the world. Venus herself would not dare put herself before her. I love her and she does not love me. She has no feelings. She sees me, she listens to me, and she remains cruelly silent. She even turns her eyes away from mine. How heartless! How can I doubt my fate? As he spoke these last words, the marquis knelt down before the little marquise and kissed her hands – nor did she object. Her eyes were lowered and let fall great tears.

Beautiful marquise, he said, you’re crying. You’re crying and I know the reason for your tears. My love is irksome to you. Ah, marquis, she answered with a heavy sigh, one can cry for joy as well as pain. I’ve never been so happy. She said no more and, stretching out her arms to her beloved marquis, granted him the favours she would have denied all the kings of the earth. Caresses were all the protestations of love they needed. The marquis found in the little marquise’s lips a compliance that her eyes had hidden from him, and this conversation would have lasted longer if the marquise had not emerged from her study. She found them laughing and crying at the same time, and wondered whether such tears had ever needed drying.

The marquis immediately rose to leave, but the marquise said to him pleasantly: Monsieur, won’t you stay and dine on the partridges you brought? He needed little persuading. What he desired more than anything else in the world was to be on familiar terms in this house. He stayed, even though he was dressed in hunting clothes, and had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the girl he loved eat. It is one of life’s chief delights. To watch at close quarters a pink mouth that, as it opens, reveals gums of coral and teeth of alabaster; that opens and closes with the rapidity that accompanies all the actions of youth; to see a beautiful face animated by an often repeated pleasure, and to be experiencing the same pleasure at the same time – this is a privilege love grants to few.

After that happy day the marquis made sure he dined there every night. It was a regular affair and the little marquise’s suitors, who had had no cause to be jealous of one another, took it as settled. She had made her choice and they all admitted that beauty and vanity, however powerful, are no defence against love. The Comte d’****, one of her most ardent admirers, had a keen sense that his passion was being made light of. He was handsome, well built, brave, a soldier: he could not allow the little marquise to give herself to the Marquis de Bercour, whom he considered vastly inferior in every respect to himself. He decided to pick a quarrel with him and so disgrace him, thinking him too effeminate to dare cross swords with him. However, to his great surprise, at the first word he uttered when they met at the Porte des Tuileries, the marquis drew his sword and thrust at him with gusto. After a hard-fought duel they were parted by mutual friends.

This adventure pleased the little marquise. It gave her lover a war-like air, though she trembled for him nevertheless. She saw clearly that her beauty and her preference for him would constantly be exposing him to such encounters, and she said to him one day: Marquis, we must put an end to jealousy once and for all; we must silence gossip. We love one another and always will. We must bind ourselves to one another with ties that only death can break.

Ah, beautiful marquise, he said, what are you thinking of? Does our happiness bore you? Marriage, as a rule, puts an end to pleasure. Let us remain as we are. For my part, I am content with your favours and will never ask you for anything more. But I am not content, said the little marquise. I can see clearly that there is something missing in our happiness, and perhaps we will find it when you belong to me entirely, and I to you. It would not be right, replied the marquis, for you to throw in your lot with a younger son who has spent the bulk of his fortune and whom you still know only by appearances, which are often deceptive.

But that’s just what I love about it, she interrupted. I’m so happy that I have enough money for us both, and to have the chance of showing you that I love you and you alone.

They had reached this point when the Marquise de Banneville interrupted them. She had been closeted with her agents, and thought she would refresh herself with some lively young company, but she found them in a deeply serious mood. The marquis had been greatly put out by the little marquise’s proposal. Ostensibly it was very much to his advantage, but he had secret objections to it, which he considered insurmountable. The little marquise, for her part, was a little annoyed at having taken such a bold step in vain, but she soon recovered, deciding that the marquis had refused out of respect for her – or that he wished to prove the depth of his feelings for her. This thought made her decide to speak to her mother about it, and she did so the following day.

No one was ever more astonished than the Marquise de Banneville when her daughter spoke to her of marriage. She was sixteen and no longer a child. Her eyes had not been opened to her situation, and her mother hoped they never would be. She was careful not to agree to the match, but to reveal the truth would have been a painful solution both for her daughter and the marquis. She resolved to do so only as a last resort. Meanwhile she would prevent, or at least postpone, the marriage. The marquis was in agreement with her on this, but the little marquise – passionate creature that she was – begged, entreated, wept, used every means to persuade her mother. She never doubted her lover, since he did not dare oppose her with the same firmness. Finally she pushed her mother to the point where she said these words to her: My dear child, you leave me no choice: against my better judgement I must reveal to you something that I would have given my life to conceal from you. I loved your poor father and when I lost him so tragically, in dread of your meeting the same fate, I prayed with all my heart for a daughter. I was not so fortunate: I gave birth to a son and I have brought him up as a daughter. His sweetness, his inclinations, his beauty, all assisted my plan. I have a son and the whole world believes I have a daughter. Ah, madame! cried the little marquise, is it possible that I …? Yes, my child, said her mother embracing her, you are a boy. I can see how painful this news must be for you. Habit has given you a different nature. You are used to a life very different from the one you might have led. I wanted you to be happy and would never have revealed the sad truth to you if your obstinacy over the marquis had not forced me to. You see now what you were about to do? How, but for me, you would have exposed yourself to public ridicule?

The little marquise did not answer. Instead she merely wept and in vain her mother said to her: But my child, go on living as you were. Be the beautiful little marquise still – loved, adored by all who see her. Love your beautiful marquis if you like, but do not think of marrying him. Alas! cried the little marquise through her tears, he has asked for nothing more. He flies into a rage when I mention marriage. Ah! Could it be that he knows my secret? If I thought that, dear mother, I would go and hide myself in the furthest corner of the earth. Could he know it? In floods of tears now, she added: Alas, poor little marquise, what will you do? Will you dare show your face again and act the beauty? But what have you said? What have you done? What name can one give the favours you have granted the marquis? Blush! Blush, unhappy girl! Ah, nature you are blind: why did you not warn me of my duty? Alas! I acted in good faith, but now I see the truth and I must behave quite differently in future. I must not think about the man I love – I must do what is right.

She was uttering these words with determination when it was announced that the marquis was at the door of the antechamber. He entered with a happy air and was amazed to see both mother and daughter with lowered eyes and in tears. The mother did not wait for him to speak but rose and went to her room. He took courage and said: What’s the matter, beautiful marquise? If something is distressing you, won’t you share it with your friends? What? You won’t even look at me! Am I the cause of this weeping? Am I to blame without knowing it?

The little marquise dissolved in tears. No! No! she cried. No! That could never be, and if it were so I would not feel as I do. Nature is wise and there is a reason for everything she does.

The marquis had no idea what all this meant. He was asking for an explanation when the marquise, who had recovered a little, left her room and came to her daughter’s aid. Look at her, she said to the marquis. As you see, she is quite beside herself. I am to blame. I tried to stop her but she would have her fortune told, and they said she would never marry the man she loved. That has upset her, Monsieur le Marquis, and you know why.

For my part, madame, he replied, I am not at all upset. Let her remain always as she is. I ask only to see her. I shall be more than happy if she will consider me her best friend.

With this the conversation ended. Emotions had been stirred, and would take time to settle. But they settled so completely that after eight days there was no sign of any upheaval. The marquis’s presence, his charm, his caresses, obliterated from the little marquise’s mind everything her mother had told her. She no longer believed any of it, or rather did not wish to believe. Pleasure triumphed over reflection. She lived as she had done before with her lover and felt her passion increase with such violence that thoughts of a lasting union returned to torment her. Yes, she said to herself, he cannot go back on his word now. He will never desert me. She had resolved to speak of it again, when her mother fell ill. Her illness was so grave that after three days all hope of a cure was abandoned. She made her will and sent for her brother, the councillor, whom she appointed the little marquise’s guardian. He was her uncle and her heir, since all the property came from the mother. She confided to him the truth about her daughter’s birth, begging him to take it seriously and to let her lead a life of innocent pleasure that would harm no one and which, since it precluded her marrying, would guarantee his children a rich inheritance.

The good councillor was delighted at this news and saw his sister die without shedding a tear. The income of thirty thousand francs that she left the little marquise seemed certain to pass to his children, and he had only to encourage his niece’s infatuation for the marquis. He did so with great success, telling her that he would be like a father to her and had no wish to be her guardian except in name.

This sympathetic behaviour consoled the little marquise somewhat – and she was certainly distraught – but the sight of her beloved marquis consoled her even more. She saw that she was absolute mistress of her fate, and her sole aim was to share it with the man she loved. Six months of official mourning passed, after which pleasures of all kinds once again filled her life. She went often to balls, the theatre, the opera, and always in the same company. The marquis never left her side and all her other suitors, seeing that it was a settled affair, had withdrawn. They lived happily and would perhaps have thought of nothing else, if malicious tongues could have left them in peace. Everywhere, people were saying that, while the little marquise was beautiful, since her mother’s death she had lost all sense of decorum: she was seen everywhere with the marquis; he was practically living in her house; he dined there every day and never left before midnight. Her best friends found grounds for censure in this: they sent her anonymous letters and warned her uncle, who spoke to her about it. Finally, things went so far that the little marquise went back to her first idea and decided to marry the marquis. She put this to him forcefully; he resisted likewise, only agreeing on condition that the marriage would be a purely public affair, and that they would live together like brother and sister. This, he said, was how they must always love one another. The little marquise readily agreed. She often remembered what her mother had told her. She spoke of it to her uncle, who began by outlining all the pitfalls of marriage and ended by giving his consent. He saw that, by this means, the income of thirty thousand francs was sure to pass to his family. There was no danger of his niece having children by the Marquis de Bercour whereas, if she did not marry him, her notion that she was a girl might change with time and with her beauty, which was sure to fade. So a wedding day was fixed on, bridal clothes made and the ceremony held at the good uncle’s house. (As guardian he undertook to give the wedding feast.)

The little marquise had never looked as beautiful as she did that day. She wore a dress of black velours completely covered in gems, pink ribbons in her hair and diamond pendants in her ears. The Comtesse d’Alettef, who would always love her, went with her to the church, where the marquis was waiting. He wore a black velours cloak decked with gold braid, his hair was in curls, his face powdered, there were diamond pendants in his ears and beauty spots on his face. In short, he was adorned in such a way that his best friends could not excuse such vanity. The couple were united for ever and everyone showered them with blessings. The banquet was magnificent, the king’s music and the violons were there. At last the hour came and relatives and friends put the couple together in a nuptial bed and embraced them, the men laughing, a few good old aunts weeping.

It was then that the little marquise was astonished to find how cold and insensitive her lover was. He stayed at one end of the bed, sighing and weeping. She approached him tentatively. He did not seem to notice her. Finally, no longer able to endure so painful a state of affairs, she said: What have I done to you, marquis? Don’t you love me any more? Answer me or I shall die, and it will be your fault.

Alas, madame, said the marquis, didn’t I tell you? We were living together happily – you loved me – and now you will hate me. I have deceived you. Come here and see.

So saying he took her hand and placed it on the most beautiful bosom in the world. You see, he said, dissolving in tears, you see I am useless to you: I am a woman like you.

Who could describe here the little marquise’s surprise and delight? At this moment she had no doubt that she was a boy and, throwing herself into the arms of her beloved marquis, she gave him the same surprise, the same delight. They soon made their peace, wondered at their fate – a fate that had brought matters on to such a happy conclusion – and exchanged a thousand vows of undying love.

As for me, said the little marquise, I am too used to being a girl, and I want to remain one all my life. How could I bring myself to wear a man’s hat?

And I, said the marquis, have used a sword more than once without disgracing myself. I’ll tell you about my adventures some day. Let’s continue as we are, then. Beautiful marquise, enjoy all the pleasures of your sex, and I shall enjoy all the freedom of mine.

The day after the wedding they received the usual compliments and, eight days later, left for the provinces, where they still live in one of their châteaux. The uncle should visit them there: he would find, to his surprise, that a beautiful child has resulted from their marriage – one to put paid to his hopes of a rich inheritance.

#Charles Perrault #François-Timoléon De Choisy #genderqueer folktales #trans representation #laura retells #except not really it's more like laura copy pastes this time

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thewritetofreespeech · 4 years ago

Text

Words: 3800+

Rating: M

Pairing: Benimaru (TSSK) x Reader

Summary: Rimuru-sama had told Benimaru about a tradition from his world called a 'honeymoon'. He thought it was a great idea.

AO3

It had been several months since the night you and Benimaru had become true husband & wife.

After the envoy left, you talked more about things. As expected, there were still a bit of growing pains in forming your relationship from what it once was into what it was now. However, you were making it work.

Benimaru was patient and kind as ever, but unexpectedly different when you were alone together. You hadn’t thought he would be like this. You had only seen him in a ‘formal’ capacity most times, the job of the Commander in Chief of the Jura forces was one that never really rested, or appropriately close when with the rest of your friends. Now though, you got to see another side of him.

He was funny. Playful. Once he let his guard down, he wasn’t nearly as intimidating as you’d originally thought. Actually, he could be quite goofy. His devotion was not only to Rimuru-sama and your people, but also devoted to you. He was always asking how your day was and if things were alright. Making sure you were provided for. Passionate.

You blush as you put away the linens you had folded up from outside. Benimaru had apparently not been kidding when he declared he’d claim your body everyday if he had to to prove it was his. Not that he needed to prove it. You had openly and willingly accepted yourself as his, and he yours. Still, almost every night, he came to you when you laid in bed together to physically profess his love. The man seemed insatiable. Though you weren’t exactly complaining.

You look up from your chores as the devil himself appeared. Coming through the door as if your thoughts had conjured him.

“Benimaru-kun! You’re back early. Did the meeting go well?” The kijin nodded as he removed his sword and sat it in it’s usually place next to the door. “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t expect you home so soon, so I haven’t started dinner. I’ll get started now, but it will be a little bit.”

“In a moment [Y/N]. I need to talk to you.”

You pause on your way out the door and back track back over to the table to sit across from your husband. “Rimuru-sama has asked me to go on an ambassador mission in the mountains. To seek an alliance with the Yuki-Oni there.” You blink a little in surprise at the news. Though you were sure Benimaru could handle this, and seemed very pleased at being selected by your lord, you have to wonder about the forethought he put into it. Sending a fire oni to speak with a village of snow oni seemed uncharacteristically irresponsible of your lord.

“Well, I’m happy for you dear. I’m sure your trip will be successful.” Benimaru seemed to beam brighter at being complimented by you. “So I’ll see you in, what, a few days?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would come with me.” You were taken by surprise again. Had Rimuru-sama asked you to come? “I asked Rimuru-sama about it, and he said he could spare you for the few days.” Benimaru added, as if reading your mind. “It would be a nice chance for you to see places outside of Rimuru City. And Rimuru-sama told me about a tradition in his former world called a ‘honeymoon’. It’s when two newly wedded people go on a trip together shortly after their married to spend time together.”

“But, Benimaru, we’ve been married for more than a short while now?” True, your real married life had only begun a few months ago, but you had been married for over a year now.

“I know. But we didn’t go on one or do anything when we got married. I thought it would be nice.” The usually proud warrior looked down at the hardwood of your table, blushing and rubbing the back of his head in a shy manner. “Plus, I don’t want to go if I have to leave you here. I was serious when I said I never want to be without you by my side.” A declaration he had also made more than once since that night. “I’ll…be lonely without you.”

You put your hand against your mouth, pretending to be in thought. In reality you were trying to hide the goofy grin spreading across your face. How could someone so fierce and intimidating also be so adorable?

“Ok, I’ll go with you.” You finally announce, as if you had thought it over and come to a decision. “It would be nice to see the world a little. And, if Rimuru-sama can spare both of us, I see no reason not to go.”

The red head beamed ecstatically at your reply, then leaned over the table to give you a peck on the cheek. “Excellent! I’ll let Rimuru-sama know and tell Shuna to finish making your cold weather wardrobe!”

“Shuna? Hey wait.” Benimaru stopped in the doorway. “You asked Shuna to make me a cold weather wardrobe before you even asked me? What if I had said no?”

The oni looked at you like the thought had never crossed his mind. Then he grinned again and said ‘well, it all worked out’ in a rush before he left again. Alone, you shook your head. Honestly. What was your husband thinking sometimes?

*****

It took some time to get the preparations set, but soon enough you were ready to travel to the mountains to visit the Yuki-Oni.

“Safe travels, onee-san!” Shuna told you in parting with her usual bright smile.

She had called you that before, but in recent months it sounded more like she meant it. Thinking of you more now as a true ‘big sister’, married to her brother, than an older woman she could depend and rely on. The former was still true, but it was clear in her tone she thought of you more as family.

You depart Rimuru City with everyone’s blessing. Coming to see you off until you were out in the country side and off on your journey.

It took a few days to make it to the Yuki-Oni village. Between the distance and intentionally treacherous path up the mountain, it had taken a bit of time. It hadn’t been all bad. While still down in the valley you had stopped for a picnic once or twice, and laid in a field of flowers you had come upon for a bit to soak up the sun and sweet smell. Benimaru said that this was one of the things that Rimuru-sama told him people did on their ‘honeymoon’. You weren’t sure about that, but it was a much-needed respite from your travels.

Arriving at the village, you were greeted warmly by the ice monsters. They all seemed very demure and polite. A cool sort of air about them that really fit with the cold aesthetic of their homeland. The men were all tall and hard looking, while the women were all beautiful and waif like. Pale alabaster skin, long white hair, piercing blue eyes. You were glad you came with Benimaru now. Not that you thought for a moment he would be unfaithful to you, but you still didn’t like the idea of those beautiful creatures lingering around him.

You were shown to your quarters in the elder’s home before you were to meet with the council of elders. The idea of having to convince a council concerned you. It was harder to persuade a group than one. And the Yuki-jiji all looked like they were a group of men not to be easily swayed. “Maybe I should stay here?” You question as you unpacked your things.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t think the Yuki-jiji appreciate women in their council meeting.” They didn’t even let their own women in. Let alone a human one. The last thing you wanted to do was insult these people, and their traditions, by forcing yourself in to the situation. “It might be best if you just go.”

“Ridiculous.” Benimaru said with a sneer. “We didn’t come all this way for you to sit in a room and be cast out.”

“I thought we came for our ‘honeymoon’?” You said as a joke. Trying to break this awkward tension.

“We came for two things.” He quipped back at you. “I want you to come with me. I want us to go together. I’m…not good at this sort of thing on my own. Rimuru-sama put his faith in me, and I’m grateful for this opportunity, but I think it’s misplaced. I’m much better at forcing an agreement at sword point, not conversation.” The kijin looked away, clearly irritated at himself for not being better at it no matter how hard he tried, before looking back at you. “If you’re there though, you’ll keep me grounded. I find your presence calming. So I’ll be less likely to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t make a fool of yourself, whether I’m there or not.” You assure him while placing your hand against his cheek. It hurt your heart to hear him berate himself like this. Rimuru-sama picked him because he was more than just a strong arm at the end of a sword. Why couldn’t he see that? “Alright. I’ll go. I don’t know if it will really help but I’ll try to be supportive. To you and our cause.”

Benimaru smiled. Then tilted his hand to kiss your palm before squeezing it in his hand. “Let’s go then.”

*********

The meeting lasted most of the day, and well into the evening. By the time you both return to your provided quarters, you were both exhausted.

“Rimuru-sama will be happy to hear of our success.”

“I’m sure he will be. Jura seems to be growing by leaps and bounds.” Who would have thought?

“It’s all thanks to you.” Benimaru said as he came up to sit on your right.

“Me?” You remark in surprise. “I didn’t do much of anything?”

“That’s not true.” The oni said with a soft smile, shaking his head. “The way you talk to people. The way you talk about our home, and the virtue it brings. Not just it’s strength. How it’s a place for all. They could see that’s something they want to be apart of. Rimuru-sama was very wise to have you come along. As he always is.”

Your cheeks tint at Benimaru’s words. Such high praise something you never seemed to get used to. No matter how much he or the others lavished you with it, you always felt so awkward to be complimented by people.

“So, the evening is ours now. What shall we do?”

“Well, I was going to take a bath, buuut….” You look over at the provided tub. Not looking warm & inviting like a bath should, but cold & dark like a vat of despair. “I guess the Yuki-Oni aren’t a fan of hot baths.”

“I can heat it up for you.” Benimaru declared. Already activating his powers to do so. “A thing like this is not so hard. I’ll have it warmed up for you in a moment.”

“That’s amazing Benimaru!” You gush at your husband’s resourcefulness. Who knew he could be so handy?

The oni grinned wide. Briming with pride at the praise. He went over to the tub and slipped his hand into it. The water almost instantly steaming at the contact. “There! That should do it.”

“Ahhh…warm bath…” You sigh happily. Moved nearly to the point of tears at the idea of being warm for the first time since you got here.

You move to discretely remove your clothes and get in the bath, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye from Benimaru. The man not moving to leave as you’d anticipated, but undress as well. “What are you doing?”

The red head stopped in removing his undercoat and looked at your curiously. “Taking a bath?” The expression on his face saying ‘didn’t we just have this conversation’.

“Wait a minute! This is my bath! Did you really heat this up to steal my bath from me??”

“What? No! Of course not! I thought we could share.” He looked back to the tub, completely missing the blush and sudden halt in all function from you, as he examined it. “It’s big enough.”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate to do that here.” You reply nervously. Cheeks still pink as you had a pretty good idea where this would lead.

“Come on. It’s just a bath.” Bemimaru insisted. “Besides, my powers for this work best when I’m in close proximity. If I’m not touching it, the water will just grow cold again.”

You have the sinking suspicion that he was lying to you. But it was a very convincing lie, and one you couldn’t really argue with. “Alright. But behave! We’re here as Rimuru-sama’s ambassadors. We shouldn’t be fooling around while guests in another person’s home.” A person whom you were trying to sway to your cause.

The red head nodded and assured you he meant no funny business. Again, you had the sinking suspicion he was lying to you, but couldn’t actually prove it, so you went along. You both stripped down and get in the tub. The only way you would both fit was if you practically sat in Benimaru’s lap. His back resting against the side of the tub while your back rested against his chest.

“Aaaahhh…” Your ‘chair’ sighed loudly. Feeling his sigh vibrate through your back as he relaxed. “This is great. We should have done this sooner.”

“Agreed.” You reply as you relax too against him. The warm water soaking out all the tired muscles from your journey and tension you had felt before the meeting. Making you complacent.

You both stay like that for a little while. Relaxing in the warm water in complete silence. Until you feel Benimaru’s hand brush against your arm. “What are you doing?” You asked in a drowsy, but mildly suspicious, tone.

“I was going to wash your back for you.” He replied against your ear. Making you shiver. “Can you lean forward for me?”

That nagging suspicion of his intent still clung to the back of your mind, but it was getting pushed further and further back by the warm water and his soft words. Having your back washed did sound nice.

The water slouched around a little as you moved to sit up and lean over the other side of the tub. “Is this ok?” You ask. Looking back over your shoulder from where you had cradled your head in your arms on the rim.

“Yeah….” Benimaru replied in a low voice. Looking at you. “That’s perfect.”

Your husband shifted around carefully, both to not hit you or splash the water out of the tub, as he came up on his knees behind you. The soft, wet sponge touched your back tentatively at first. But once you relaxed and even let out a soft sigh it became more diligent. His hands pressing a little harder with the sponge to give you a dual back wash & massage. It was extremely pleasant. The warm water and his warm hands on your body. So much so that you might moan a little when he came to your lower back.

“Ah…don’t do that to me…” Benimaru said. His voice sounding odd. Pained. It sounded so strange that you opened your eyes a little. You hadn’t realized you closed them. “I’m trying to be good and honorable. But if you moan like that, it gets very hard.” You’re not sure if he meant ‘it’ by the situation in question or the erection you were now feeling brush against your leg. When had that gotten there? You gasp at the feel of him against your thigh, but also the sponge and his hand shifting to your front; just at the top of your breast. “Please [Y/N]. Let me be with you. I can’t stand being without you anymore. It’s been so long.” You want to tell him that it’s only been a few days. But apparently, in ogre time, that was an eternity. He genuinely sounded like he was in agony right now. Not to mention that his hands wouldn’t stop touching you.

You’ll blame the warm water, and being so relaxed, and his damned skillful hands later, but your resolve broke quite easily. “Yes. Yes, I want you too Benimaru.”

You think you hear a happy rush of air level his lips before he moved forward and enveloped you. His broad chest encasing your back as he laid against it. His hands dropping the sponge to make direct, intentional touches with your body. His cock slipping between your legs to brush against your apex in pseudo-love making. You both moan.

He rutted against you like that for a moment. Thrusting against the outside of your opening. The hard lines of his cock brushing against the bundle of nerves at the top, making your insides quake and spasm greedily around nothing. “B-Benimaru….” You whine as you pressed back against him. His torturous touch driving you mad. “Please.”

Your husband groaned a little, low in his throat, before he kissed his mark behind your ear, where he had bitten you that first time, before lifting off to enter you. Being relaxed and the warm water made it easy, but he was as gentle as ever with putting it inside you. There was still a slight stretch with his size, but it’s a feeling you grown not only accustom to but relish. Just having him inside you made you moan wantonly.

“Ah…I keep telling you. Don’t do that to me.” Benimaru replied to your moan. You couldn’t see it with him behind you, but you could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. He pulled back and began to thrust, low and slow, into you. “I can’t control myself when you moan like that for me. How am I supposed to keep calm, and quiet, when you make my blood boil like that?”

“I’m…sorry…” You stutter out. Your voice staggered from his deep thrusts and your own labored breath of pleasure. “It just….feels…so good…..!” You moan again when his thrust went deeper this time. Hitting that place inside you that made you see stars.

He couldn’t control himself? What did he expect you to do when he was making love to you like this?

If anything, this was his fault

“Hmmm…this is no good…” You let out a surprised noise as Benimaru pulled out. You look over your shoulder. A little wounded at the comment. Not good? But before you could ask, or get more upset about the comment, Benimaru turned you around so you were facing him. Thrusting back into you in one swift move of your back hitting the tub and knocking all words out of your mouth. “I wanna see your face. It’s no good if I can’t see you and kiss you any time I want.” Then he did just that.

His tongue thrust into your mouth like his cock into your lower half. Swallowing your moans now that were flowing out unabashed. Doing it the other way had been nice, but you have to agree. This way was much better. Being able to kiss him. See his amazing body. Look into his beautiful eyes burning with such passion & love for you was bringing you closer to the edge than ever before.

“B-Beniamru! I…I’m close!”

“Me too.” The oni grunted out. Kissing your ear when you wrap your arms around his neck. “Cum for me my love. Let’s go together.” He always seemed to have a way with words with you, because you did as you were told and came around his cock.

His thrusts continue for a few moments longer, pounding through your orgasm, before they stop and Benimaru shuttered in your arms. A sign that he had finished too. You stay there for a moment. Holding each other loosely in the tub, before the kijin pulled back and looked around you like he just remembered where you were.

“I think we fucked all the water out of the tub.”

Your mouth scrunched up and you pinched Benimaru’s shoulder. “Don’t be vulgar.” He was right though. Now that your brain had resumed function again, you could see that half the water in the tub was gone. The floor soaking wet to the point you had to groan. No way you were going to be able to clean this up or explain this away without attracting attention.

The oni yipped at your pinch before he chuckled, then kissed you softly. He then stood from the tub, wet and naked and proud, before lifting you up out of it as well like a princess and carrying you over to the bed.

“We’ll clean it up later.” He stated, seeming to read your mind once again, as he laid you on the soft futon. “It’ll be alright.

“I still can’t believe you talked me into it.” You grumble. Pretending that you had been seduced, rather than whole heartedly accepting your husband in all aspects, as you dried yourself off. “What will the Yuki-Oni think.”

“That we are too people in love.” He replied quickly and with a smile. “The elders are all men. I’m sure they remember what it’s like to be young and in love, and unable to keep your hands off their young, beautiful wife.”

You blush a little at his words, but don’t really want to think about those old men being happy with their wives. “I suppose it’s a natural thing, but it’s still very rude to have sex in someone else’s house.”

“Maybe for humans. But we oni don’t see it that way.” Benimaru replied. Tossing his towel away. “Besides, Rimuru-sama said that this is something that most newlyweds do on their honeymoon.”

You shook your head as he pulled back the covers to let you both get under them. The room growing cold again now that you weren’t in the warm water, or doing other warm, pleasurable activities.

You snuggle together under the blankets. Watching the fresh snow flutter down outside the window. “Did you really need to be touching the water for your powers to work?” You finally ask.

You don’t know what his answer was going to be. But judging by the way your husband stiffened and balked at the question, you know now that he had been lying to you. “Well….it does work best that way. In theory. But….no….”

He turned away to not look at you. Or the steely stare you leveled at him. “Benimaru. I can’t believe you lied to me.” Sweat drops seemed to start pooling at his forehead as in flinched at your harsh words. Then he let out a startled sound as you flipped over on top of him, forcing him to look up at you with a confused expression. “You’ll have to be punished.”

#;pen & paper (fanfiction)#benimaru #benimaru x reader #benimaru tssk #benimaru (Tensei shitara Slime Datta Ken)#tensei shitara suraimu datta ken #tensei shitara slime datta ken #tensei shitara suraimu datta ken imagine #tensei shitara suraimu x reader #tensei shitara slime datta ken x reader #that time i got reincarnated as a slime #random fandom

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church-history · 3 years ago

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October 15th - St Teresa of Avila - Doctor of The Church

Feast day: Oct 4th / Oct 15th

Patronage: Spain, sick people, people in religious orders, people ridiculed for their piety, lacemakers, Požega, Croatia, Talisay City, Cebu, Philippines

Early life:

Born in the early 1500’s in Spain, St. Teresa’s family had an interesting history. Her grandfather was a convert from Judaism and would actually face the inquisition for allegedly returning to Judaism. St. Teresa’s mother raised her as a pious young girl and the young Teresa loved reading the lives of the saints, particularly the martyrs. She was so inspired by these stories that when she was 7 years old she and her brother left home to try to become martyrs, seeking out Muslims invading Spain. Thankfully her uncle found the two young children and brought them back home. Teresa’s mother died when Teresa was 14 years old and Teresa would turn to the Blessed Virgin in a much deeper way after this traumatic experience. She left for boarding school, where she was educated by religious, and she eventually joined the Carmelite order.

While in the religious life, Teresa began to read deeply mystical literature and became deeply interested in the progression of the soul's relationship with Jesus Christ. This interest was not purely academic however, as Teresa’s own mysticism was deepening.

Visions and Mysticism:

Teresa began to experience visions of Jesus Christ that some people claimed were not from God at all, but Teresa was reassured by her spiritual director that these were real. These mystical experiences led to perhaps her most famous mystical experience. In one of her visions she saw an angel pierce her heart with a spear with a golden tip and the pain, instead of being debilitating, became a movement into ecstasy for the mystic. As she herself wrote, “I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it.” This event became symbolic of her life, that she was chosen in a special way to share in the pain of Jesus Christ.

The great Italian sculptor Bernini would eventually create a masterpiece depicting this event that can be seen in the Santa Maria della Vittoria Church in Rome.

Writings:

Her writings focus on her mystical theology, particularly the ascent of the soul towards God. She says that the soul goes through four stages in its ascent. The first stage she called the Devotion of the Heart. In this stage the person engages in deep mental prayer and through effort and concentration begins to pray on Christ’s passion. The second stage she called the Devotion of Peace. In this stage, God gives a special grace of quiet and peace to the person, and although distractions may come, the supernatural gift of peace is present. The third stage she called the Devotion of Union and in this stage God gives the gift to the person of becoming one with Him in that their reason is completely subsumed into Him and the only thing left that the person can control is their memory and imagination. The fourth, and final stage, she called Devotion of Ecstasy. In this stage the person, through the grace of God, is totally unaware of their own self and their own body and is completely subsumed by God.

It is important to note that human discipline and effort can only get one to the first stage, the other three stages are all gifts freely given by God and as such may be withheld from some people. They are also usually only given to those people who are quite mature in their spiritual life and so many people never achieve them in their lifetimes.

Doctor of the Church:

By virtue of her writings on mental prayer and mysticism Teresa was declared a Doctor of the Church, alongside saints such as Augustine and Thomas Aquinas. Her writings, together with the force of her life, led to reforms in the Carmelite order. However, rather than simply calling them reforms, it would be more accurate to say that through her life St. Teresa succeeded in calling the Carmelite’s back to their original charism after they had begun to stray.

From her writings to her contribution to the understanding of mental prayer and mysticism, to the continued faithfulness of the Carmelites, we have so much to be thankful for in the life of St. Teresa of Avila. The best way we can honor her is to begin to engage in the first stage of her soul’s ascent to God and begin to practice mental prayer of our own, and hope that God gives us the grace of bringing our soul into union with himself.

Source: https://www.coraevans.com/blog/article/the-incredible-life-of-st.-teresa-of-avila

#st teresa of avila #saints #catholic #catholic history #october 15th #Carmelite

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jedi-kat-18 · 3 years ago

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do you color code your screaming twenties folks?

Oh absolutely yes! I also like to think about the symbolism behind certain colors! Cynthias' main color is pink, with some yellow/gold or white on the side. Pink can symbolize femininity, joy, and romance, so it fits for the youngest, happiest member of the group. Yellow/gold is for joy and wealth, two things she has a lot of, and white is just a good compliment to those other two. Henry’s color is red. I associate red with Henry’s passion and stubbornness. It’s the color of blood and shows up on a lot of heroic characters in fiction, so it fits the moral center of the group. His color scheme also has black, with roughly the same meaning as it has for Susan, and white/silver/light gray, for calmness, clarity, and patience, virtues he develops over the course of the story. Also, it’s a very stereotypical “vampire” color palette, fitting for the horror nerd who actually ends up as one. Jacob is mostly different shades of brown, with some white and black. For metallic colors, he’s bronze, because it’s a shinier version of brown, and reminds me of those statues that portray Justice as a blindfolded woman holding scales, and gunmetal gray, for cigarette smoke and, well, guns. He’s the physically strongest member of the team, and the most practical and down-to-earth. I want his color scheme to mark him as “in-between” Sam and Henry, more principled than Sam, but more pragmatic than Henry. Joshua’s main color is orange. Joshua is passionate and energetic, but less intense than Henry. Orange is the color of fire, and makes me think of warmth, happiness, and community. It’s cheerful, but not as wild as pink. Brass is(obviously) the color of brass instruments like the saxophone, and has more practical uses than gold, while still having a similar yellow shine. Joshua is more grounded, but still a dreamer at heart. Sam is green, partly because I thought it would be cool if the guy with the last name “Greene” actually wore green. For him, green symbolizes knowledge, logic, and calm. It’s also the color of plant life (his archeological expeditions take him to a lot of jungles), snakes (he owns a pet snake), and poison. He’s the most pragmatic and secretive, so the darker shades of green work for this that. He wears glasses on a gold chain, so for him gold symbolizes ancient treasures, very fitting for an archeologist. Susan is black and purple. Black is for secrets, night, magic, and quiet determination. It’s also the color of photography film, fitting for an investigative reporter. Purple in this case is more like ultraviolet or blacklight, a light we can’t see normally, but can reveal hidden things if you use it the right way, much like the way Susan uses her magic.

#screamin' 20s #cynthia blake #henry pebbleton #jacob abernathy #joshua newman #susan abernathy #samuel greene

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theawkwardterrier · 4 years ago

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my whole trajectory's toward you, and it's not losing momentum (call it anything we want)

Summary: Anthony had expected a certain amount of trouble when he took over managing the Danbury campaign. He didn’t imagine this amount. He didn’t imagine that it might at some point become something other than trouble.

There was mention of rival political campaign managers Kate and Anthony and even though I couldn’t quite get there - or make a scene happen which directly featured Newton 😔 - I did manage rivals and political campaigning. So here’s something to serve as incentive, congratulation, or brief respite depending on how far @thesokovianaccords has gotten in her grad school application process. Sorry if it’s a bit OOC, Livia - maybe it’s just the right degree to make sense in a modern AU? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Read on AO3

A week into running Dr. Danbury’s campaign, Anthony realizes that he has made a grave error in allowing himself to give in when his mother requested “a bit of a favor.”

At the time she’d asked, he had just gotten the news that his previous candidate was dropping out of his own race for health reasons, and of course, Dr. Danbury has been a fixture for his entire life so he might well have stepped up merely because she needed help (despite knowing that the reason she needed the help was that she’d fired her entire previous campaign team). Besides that, he has rarely been able to deny his mother anything, and that’s even before she brings up the number of hours she spent in labor with him (twenty-two, as he well knows by now) but still...he damn well should have ignored all that this time.

For his money, the most annoying part of not being listened to by the candidate is that her instincts have mostly served her well. Three days after he started, she ignored the common wisdom of maintaining decorum and not insulting the opposition which he had reminded her of before she went on camera, and had only benefited from it; apparently the majority of the constituency agreed that the particular candidate she had been asked about was indeed a “first class wanker who should pray nightly for the brains God gave a goose.” At least she had heeded Anthony’s advice to refer to the man as “my opponent” rather than using his name and giving him free advertising in the soundbite as it was played on nearly every news broadcast for the next several days.

“Well, we seem to have come out of this one all right,” she says, sipping her coffee and looking just the slightest bit smug - he doesn’t lie to candidates, so he had been obliged to report that the latest polling numbers actually went up after the incident. “Anything else, Bridgerton?”

Swallowing the speech he wants to give about how easily things could shift during a campaign, not to mention the difference between what people told a pollster and how they actually cast their votes, he says, “Perhaps we might look to hire a policy director, ma’am? To help...guide the campaign a bit more?”

“If we did, I should wonder what I had hired you for.” She looks at him over the tops of her glasses as if she can tell he is dreaming of responding that ah, well, it seems he is unnecessary, and perhaps he will just excuse himself from the position now. He makes sure his expression remains neutral and finally she waves a hand. “Well, let me see some names and CVs after the weekend, and I shall decide then.”

“Very good.” He extremely purposefully does not sigh until he is out of her office and striding along the corridor of their campaign headquarters. There are plenty of people who will take a call from him on short notice and who will back him with the candidate. Yes, if he can’t quit altogether (and he can’t if he wants his regular seat at Christmas dinner) then having someone in his corner is just the ticket.

He arrives for work on Monday even earlier than his traditional first thing in the morning, wondering to himself whether it will be better to simply present his top applicants or if he should throw in a decoy or two to make his choices shine even brighter - although perhaps that’s just the sort of ploy that the candidate would sniff out in a heartbeat after a career of wrangling university students. Still debating, he turns the corner toward his office, only to find Dr. Danbury in the hall outside, speaking with someone. Anthony doesn’t recognize the person from the back, can only see a fall of shiny, dark hair, so he guesses it is one of the volunteers, perhaps someone new who has arrived early for orientation. He hopes that Dr. Danbury isn’t being too intimidating.

“Ah, Bridgerton,” the lady in question calls down the hallway, and something about her tone makes Anthony’s spine go straight. “Good morning.”

Still, he clings to his good mood as he greets her. “Let me put my things down, and then we can go over your schedule for the day. And I have those CVs you had requested as well.”

“Nevermind those,” she says, and the little smile on her lips makes every one of his nerves stand on end. “Did you know that your mother and I went out for a drink on Friday evening? Oh, yes, we had a wonderful time, and your brother Colin came around to escort us home. Such a lovely boy, had some delightful stories about his trip to Greece - and so interested in the campaign. In fact, he had a brilliant thought when I mentioned your idea for bringing on someone new to help shape things alongside the two of us.”

Whatever virtues his brother Colin might possess, interest in the campaign is absolutely not among them. Skin humming all over, Anthony manages a casual, “Oh?”

“Indeed, and luckily I was able to organize it all over the weekend so you wouldn’t have to do a thing.” She gestures toward her companion, and with a sick swoop in his stomach, Anthony knows who he is going to see before she shifts around.

“I believe you two have met before?” Dr. Danbury says, voice fading just a bit beneath the static in Anthony’s ears as Kate Sheffield turns to face him.

They have not actually met before, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t know of each other.

The first time Anthony heard her name, it was her sister saying it - about twenty times in a row, if he’s being honest. He met Edie Sheffield two years back at one of his mother’s galas. Edie ran a different prestigious kids charity than the one Mum was fundraising for, so he’d wondered if inviting her was somehow inviting the enemy or maybe bragging. But Edie was sweet, and passionate about her job, and looked absolutely gorgeous in sapphire satin, and he settled into a night of getting her drinks and chatting her up, despite the fact that she didn’t seem as interested in speaking with him as she did in mentioning that he really must talk with her sister.

He’d stayed the night in the hotel where the gala had been held (alone, in one of the rooms which had been set aside for guests from the event; he’d put Edie in a car at about 11) and was planning on taking his mother to breakfast after she came down from her own room. When he went to check out, however, the desk attendant handed him a message which had been taken down for him on hotel stationary.

Dickheads like you shouldn’t try to get with my sister. Don’t do it again.

“Is there anything else that I can assist you with?” asked the attendant, holding onto her poker face remarkably. Perhaps they taught that in hospitality programs.

He’d crushed the note in his hand before smoothing his own face placidly and handing over his credit card. His mother was all smiles and chatter during breakfast, but his mind was still on the note, which seemed to have burned itself behind his eyelids.

Dickheads like you - oh, so only other types of dickheads need apply? And get with? Were they twelve years old and couldn’t use grownup words? Not to mention the signature, such as it was. Trying to play mafia boss, expecting that he’d know who had sent it. He did, but it took a lot of bloody gall to assume that he would.

Not as much gall as Don’t do it again. He couldn’t even think of that part, the demeaning certainty of it, without a certain vein beginning to throb in his forehead.

In the two years since, he found himself falling back into analysis of the note - it was barely more than a dozen words, so how could there still be so much to parse? - whenever her name came up, which became more and more frequent as she moved from nothing campaigns in the most forgotten corners of the country to deputy deputy whatever on somewhat more consequential ones. She was gaining a reputation among his peers. They said she was smart and canny, that she had a knack for looking at the bigger picture and acting on her instincts.

(Someone who’d once worked with her had also mentioned that it helped that she didn’t have a high opinion of her looks, didn’t flaunt herself the way some women did around the office - she certainly didn’t have a reason to do so, but sometimes that didn’t stop them.

“Oh, be fair,” said the other man. “She does have quite a nice—”

They’d shut up when he’d walked into the room - everyone knew better than to talk that way around him, and it wasn’t just because of “all those sisters” the way some people said. Eloise had been interning with the campaign that summer, and for the rest of the day while he’d talked with human resources, he’d let her make mistakes on all of their lunch and coffee orders and give them the wrong data for their reports when they’d made her look it up instead of doing it themselves. When he’d fired them, he spread the word on why, but left the particulars out of it.)

The note returns to his mind whenever someone new has their one experience of suggesting Kate Sheffield as a potential hire, or when he thinks he’s seen her in the background of some press conference or event for another candidate, or if he runs into Edie at another charity function, where he absolutely does not flirt with her just that extra bit harder while part of his mind thinks Your move directly toward her sister who he has never actually met in person.

Until now.

“We’re acquainted,” he tells Dr. Danbury, managing to remain polite by avoiding Kate’s gaze. He leaves it at that.

They’re the first two in the conference room for the all-staff the next morning, and somehow he’s not surprised.

“Good morning,” he says as he comes in to find her over by the coffee. She’s doctoring it significantly, clearly already familiar with the quality to be found in a campaign office. He always buys his own; he can’t stand the amount of milk and sugar and oddly flavored creamers required to make the other stuff palatable (and don’t even get him started on the alleged tea).

Tone cool, she replies, “Mr. Bridgerton,” and takes a sip from her mug.

It isn’t as if the staff goes around calling him “Tony” or “boss,” and only the most knock-kneed newcomers call him “sir.” He’s Anthony to most. He has no inclination to correct her.

He works to keep his tone casual and courteous as usual when he introduces her to everyone (“And this is Kate Sheffield, who will be doing some consulting for us”) but something about it must catch Dr. Danbury’s attention, because she raises an eyebrow at him from her end of the table and rests both hands atop her stick.

The fact that the candidate is aware that something is going on between the two of them makes it all the more exasperating when two days later she signs off on Kate’s media and advertising plan over his own. He shows up for dinner with Daphne and Simon that evening as planned, knowing that Daphne would be completely willing to pull the pregnancy card if he tried to get out of it, but she sends him home before the waiter has brought the dessert menus because he keeps muttering about how more people travel by tube and railways and for longer distances but are more likely to take more individual rides on buses and what that means for posting print ads.

(The numbers are seared into his mind, considering she’d included a full breakdown with three kinds of graphs and bloody footnotes in her presentation.)

Getting released from the restaurant early gives him extra time to go back to the office for a bit and put together a preliminary get out the vote strategy. He calls in several favors as a part of it, including one from an old friend of his father’s who asks incredulously, “Really? For this?” clearly wondering whether Anthony’s reputation is deserved if he’s pulling out all the stops for something so routine.

It’s well worth it, however, when Dr. Danbury raises an eyebrow as she looks over the document he’d put together, and tells him, “Well done, Bridgerton, very well done indeed. I think this shall do nicely.”

He does not even glance toward Kate; there really isn’t any need to gloat.

Well, one tiny peek won’t hurt.

Her jaw is set and her eyes are flinty, but she gives him just the slightest nod, as if to say that he might have won this round, but she’d like to see him try the next one.

Just before three in the morning, he wakes himself, panting, from a dream that makes him think he might have to report himself for workplace sexual harassment.

“I would have hoped you’d have better self-preservation instincts,” he says aloud to his body. “Or at least better taste.”

Collapsing back against the pillows, he pushes his mind toward images of ex-girlfriends and celebrities, but no, there is Kate, strong and challenging and gorgeous above him, a vivid afterimage that refuses to go away, and he sighs and gives into it, trying to set himself to rights so he can get past this and find at least a bit more sleep.

Anthony has never been the sort of boss who shouts at people in the office - he has always tended toward cold anger and “you know what you’ve done, now fix it” stares, and doesn’t intend to act differently now. But as he stalks over to Kate’s desk, he finds a fiercer anger taking over, just a bit.

“You changed my media statement,” he says, voice silken with it as he leans his palms down on her desktop and rests his weight on them. He is speaking low, the words just for her, although his eyes roam over the others moving busily around the main space of the office.

She turns her chair slightly, so that he feels the brush of her hair on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up; it shifts his attention fully in her direction. Her hair tie had snapped earlier, and the thick topknot she tried twisting for herself has collapsed, leaving it free around her shoulders. He snaps himself back from examining the shining curls as she says, “Yes, I did.”

Part of him admires her straightforwardness, that she takes responsibility without even trying to deny it. The other part...well, the anger hasn’t exactly disappeared.

In a level tone which would have his siblings looking over in alarm, he says. “I had worked that statement out with the entire communications department.”

“The entire communications department does what you tell them to do. It’s what you pay them for.”

“And what, exactly, do I pay you for?”

They are facing each other now, their bodies a bit too close for it. She is looking directly at him, voice sharp and clear as glass. “I was hired by the candidate, to help run the campaign that she wants. Your statement was just a polite walkback of her words.”

He has the sudden thought that the brown of her eyes could be warm, that her gaze probably is warm when she’s looking at her sister or the dog whose photo she has framed on her desk (a plump, panting little corgi wearing a bright blue bow tie, absurd), but he’s never seen her that way. He’s only ever gotten this, annoyance and disdain and perhaps disappointment.

Still, he responds, “Her words need to be walked back if she wants to someday be more than the candidate. In this constituency, colonial reparations aren’t a popular enough issue to increase turnout for those who weren’t already interested, and it’s exactly the sort of thing which will put off those who were on the fence. We’re trying to flip a seat by reminding people of what their current MP is doing wrong; we have to stay on message, not muddy things with topics too few understand. Sending out a statement moderating the comment is the right move.”

“But that statement isn’t what the candidate believes, and her future constituents should know what her actual position is - they likely aren’t as stupid as you seem to think. And besides that, she has the right stance in the first place.”

In the weeks since she arrived, he’s found that the things people said of her were true: she is smart, perhaps too smart for the good of either of them, and decisive, easily seeing what’s been done and what needs to be and acting on it, the exact sort of person you would want at your side as you plot a course forward. But he hadn’t realized that she was a believer.

There are fewer idealists in politics than one might think, or at least who have risen to her level. He always finds them a bit off-putting, and it startles him even more with her - he had thought he recognized in her a sharpness and pragmatism which reminded him of his own.

“Don’t do anything like this again,” he says, trying to temper his own abruptness even as he is somewhat unsettled by the conviction in her. “Or I’ll fire you, and I don’t care what the candidate says about it.”

“I think she would have quite a lot to say in that circumstance,” Kate tells him, but she turns back to her keyboard and doesn’t argue anymore.

At least until the next day, when they end up nearly nose to nose in his office as Anthony maintains that they can’t get anyone’s hopes up with a promise of immediate action on climate change, especially considering the priorities in the party platform and the likely makeup of the next parliament, and Kate practically shouts that they’re showing people where their convictions lie and that Dr. Danbury will fight for them if she gets the chance.

When Anthony dreams of her again that night, they are not talking about policy at all. But when he wakes up, edgy and aching as he is, he finds himself hoping one day to see her smile at him the way he did in his sleep; he wants to know if her eyes really are as warm as he imagined.

On Saturday, there’s such persistent nagging in the older sibling groupchat that Anthony finally gives in and agrees to leave the office for a night out. Forcing him into some allegedly relaxing activity is a time-honored tradition when they’re coming into the final stretch of a campaign; he’s certain the others have been discussing tactics in one of the numerous other chats that are always going on. (The last he’d glimpsed, the sibling group which didn’t include Gregory, Hyacinth, or himself - but did, irritatingly, include Simon - was named “Anthony’s Scary Forehead Vein.”)

“Please tell me that we aren’t going to paint ceramics again,” Anthony says as he walks, hands in his pockets, beside Benedict. Their group is too large to all move together on the sidewalk, which is a bit of a relief. “I don’t think I could put up with another night of Eloise reminding me that there are stencils if I need them.”

Benedict very narrowly and very obviously avoids laughing at him. Now that Anthony thinks about it, actually, his brother had spent that particular outing using a dozen colors to intricately decorate a mug, spending so long on it that they had nearly closed the place around him. Their mother drinks her tea from it frequently, however. “Thankfully there won’t be any pottery or painting tonight.”

“And it’s not—”

“Not a club,” Benedict assures him, then grins. “Can you imagine Simon trying to make certain no one came within a foot radius of Daph on the dance floor?”

Anthony shakes his head, looking ahead of them to where his sister and brother-in-law are walking together, not holding hands, but so close that they might as well be. He still feels a bit strange about the two of them together, especially after all the drama on the way, but he can see that they’re in love each other, even if he can’t really imagine why anyone would want to be, and they’re extremely obviously happy, so he’s trying to grow accustomed to it. He can also absolutely see Simon working himself into knots playing mosh pit bodyguard.

“So where are we going, then?” he asks, but before Benedict can answer, Eloise, broken away from her friend Penelope, tosses her arms over their shoulders and wriggles her face between them.

“You’ll just have to see,” she says, and Anthony doesn’t have to look at her to know that she is twitching her eyebrows at them. He probably could get it out of her if he tried, but he actually is finding himself feeling a little lighter being out with everyone, so he just waits and ten minutes later, they’re entering an already fairly crowded pub. Colin and Eloise go over to register them as a trivia team - or more likely to bicker over what name their team should have. As if realizing the same, Daphne squeezes Simon’s hand once and pushes over to join them.

(Her stomach is still flat, even for someone looking, but Anthony notices that she places a protective hand over it as she walks through the crush anyway.)

The rest of them go to claim a table and start putting together an order for drinks and appetizers. Anthony is leaning across, shouting a promise that if Penelope doesn’t finish her chili loaded potato wedges, they’ll certainly be taken care of, when someone behind him asks, “Excuse me, can we borrow this chair?”

“Sorry, there are more of us coming,” he says politely, turning to face the woman. She’s thirtyish and tall, but that’s all he takes in before he spots, over her shoulder, the rest of her group. They’re all chatting with each other, wearing matching T-shirts in a variety of bold colors which declare them the Quizzie Bennets, and in the center, her hair up in a ponytail and definite warmth in her eyes, is Kate. Edie stands beside her, picture perfect nose crinkled in a teasing way, but all Anthony can notice is that he’s never seen Kate in jeans like this, that the odd, bright purple of her shirt looks electric instead of ugly against the dark of her hair, and all he can think is that he never imagined her as relaxed as she is, weapons laid down.

She seems to detect his gaze then, and as she meets it he expects the weapons to be picked right back up. There’s certainly surprise, a guardedness to her eyes as they meet his, but then she narrows them in his direction, as if saying game on.

So that’s how she wants to play it, he thinks, then turns to the others and says, “No alcohol.”

Benedict blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

“In solidarity with Daphne,” Anthony offers.

“Daph does know that it’s pub trivia,” Simon says. “And she’s not—”

“Fine,” Anthony interrupts before the compliment train can get rolling. He sets his jaw. “I mean that we need to keep clear heads if we’re going to absolutely trounce everyone here.”

Penelope looks a bit alarmed by the vehemence in his tone and Simon quirks a brow, but the others are game enough - Bridgertons have always had a competitive streak, and apparently the rest of them actually chose this particular trivia night because it’s done aloud, infinite bounce style, instead of on paper.

“We play with live ammo around here,” Eloise declares gleefully once she’s returned and been updated on what she missed.

“Damn right we do,” Anthony mutters to himself, glad that he is seated with his back to Kate so he can resist the temptation to see how irritated she looks just now, or how face might be a little flushed and her ponytail loosened from the heat of everyone packed together inside…

“Who exactly do you keep looking for?” asks Colin, who’d plopped himself into the chair Kate’s teammate had asked about. He cranes obviously around, and Anthony turns firmly back to the table before his brother can follow his line of vision.

For all that they didn’t pick their team in order to be serious contenders, they do cover the bases fairly well. Anthony has politics and current events, obviously, along with history. Penelope plays backup there as well, and covers literature alongside Colin, who handily takes on geography too. (Anthony has always inwardly wondered how reasonable it was to build a career around wanderlust and Instagram and freelancing for travel magazines, but if it brings them victory tonight, he will never question again.) Benedict apparently took in more about nature than any of the rest of them who grew up in the Kentish countryside, and knows quite a bit more about art and art history than Anthony had expected. Daphne, unpredictably, knows a lot about sports - she claims that it’s what happens when you spend your life being rambled at as “another one of the boys” - and, more predictably, music.

Anthony hadn’t expected Simon’s skill with numbers to be particularly helpful, but now he’ll have to buy him a drink at some point, both for doubting and for pulling them out of a sticky situation involving Bernstein's constant. He wishes that Francesca wasn’t too young to have come out with them - there are several instances where they could have used her chiming in with quiet calm about anything related to economics or science, but they instead have to all give questionable contributions in that regard. They all chip in for pop culture, too, although Eloise is clearly the master - she actually yawns as she announces that of course the country where Monica’s boyfriend Pete Becker took her on their first date was Italy, and Anthony has never been more grateful that he lets everyone sponge off his Netflix login (although would it really kill them to not be using all the screens on the rare occasions he actually has the time and inclination to watch something?).

The trouble is that there are plenty of other teams who are clearly regulars, and they were put together in order to be serious contenders. The questions and answers are flying through the air, the quizmaster, a skinny older man with big hair shouting “Correct! For ten points,” more often than not, and most importantly, the Quizzie Bennets are availing themselves nicely. (He should have guessed as soon as he saw the matching T-shirts.)

Questions his team can’t answer correctly bounce to them next, and he can’t help but toss Kate an incredulous look after she not only answers that Angela Merkel was voted chancellor of November rather than October 2005, but also rattles off the margin for and against. Her eyes meet his as if she was expecting his glance, but she just shrugs before wrapping her lips around her straw and taking a dainty sip of her drink. He has to look away then.

Still, Team Quizerton (apparently the name that both Colin and Eloise had hated enough for Daphne to negotiate them to agreement) has done well enough that Anthony feels confident as they move into the final round.

“And what will the twist be tonight?” the excitable quizmaster asks, although he then just presses a button on his phone rather than spinning some kind of enormous wheel. His face lights up as he announces grandly, “Ah, the ladder!”

He quickly outlines the rules: each team will have five questions selected for them in ascending order of difficulty, with point values from ten to fifty. For each correct answer, they will receive the corresponding points and the option of requesting a related bonus question for half the initial question’s value. Wrong answers mean a point deduction, double for bonus questions, and the end of play for that team. You can also pass, choosing another team to answer and forfeiting further questions for yours but freezing your points where they stand.

It’s more like a game show than any trivia night that Anthony is familiar with, but he actually appreciates the strategy element; he can understand why this would be Kate’s preferred contest.

He considers giving a pep talk to the table, but all of them - except for Simon, who’s looking somewhere between vaguely amused and bored - are dialed in, ready to claim victory, so he settles back and readies himself for it too.

It happens in the final round. Anthony is just allowing himself to feel the slightest bit smug at having earned them another 75 points by not only correctly responding that Sri Lanka was the first country to have a female prime minister, but answering the bonus of her name (Sirimavo Bandaranaike) and year of election (1960) as well. The quizmaster nods, turns, and reads off the next question: “This famous playwright’s last words were reportedly ‘I knew it! I knew it! Born in a hotel room and, goddamn it, dying in a hotel room.’”

There’s a strange, deep silence, then a buzz of whispering among the Quizzie Bennets, and Anthony is struck by the realization that they don’t know the answer. He certainly doesn’t either, and a glance around at his group tells him that they would have been screwed had they gotten the question, but it doesn’t matter. Excitement licks up his throat, victory so close he can taste it…

And then Kate’s head comes up from the huddle, and her eyes meet his, and he knows exactly what she is going to do before she does it.

“Ten seconds!” says the quizmaster.

“Trust me,” Kate mouths to her teammates, and then says aloud, “We’d like to pass, and give the Know It Ales a chance to answer.”

Anthony’s mouth goes dry. Stupid team name aside, they’ve been confidently answering questions all night, and this time is no different. Their leader is nearly bored as he immediately says, “Eugene O’Neill.” And Anthony can barely hear the room around him over the blood rushing in his ears as they answer the follow-up too.

When the quizmaster declares the Know It Ales the champions for the evening, Kate slings her arms around her teammates and cheers as if he’s announced her name instead. The other Quizzie Bennets look puzzled, but when she stares defiantly at Anthony, chin raised, beaming, glowing not like she’s in the spotlight but like she’s the light itself, he somewhat suspects that she’s the winner indeed.

“Isn’t that—” Colin starts somewhere close to Anthony’s ear.

“No, it is not,” Anthony tells him firmly, and wrestles him off to pay their tab.

Later that night, after he’s somewhat successfully distracted himself with work and somewhat less successfully distracted himself with looking for something to watch (why isn’t everyone asleep, and even if they are up, could they really not leave him one available screen?) he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his work phone in one hand and his personal one in the other. And even though he knows exactly how bad an idea it is, he very carefully references the campaign contact group and keys one number into a new text message in his personal phone.

Sorry that this didn’t seem to be your night. Best of luck to your team next time.

He shoves out a breath and stands as soon as he’s sent it, forces himself to start getting ready for bed; she’s probably asleep now, or she might read it as rude or sarcastic and choose not to respond, and the text is just going to sit there, awkward and interminable…

There are plenty of ways to be lucky, thanks very much, and I think we found one - although I look forward to reclaiming my rightful title someday soon. See you on Monday, Bridgerton.

Regardless of what he tells himself, he can’t quite get the stupid grin off his face as he shuts off the light. He’s under no illusions about who his dreams will feature tonight.

Monday night before the election, Anthony leaves the office past eleven. He rubs his eyes as he walks past dark cubicles and conference rooms - unsurprisingly, he’s the last one around - and decides that what he needs more than sleep is something to eat, and not whatever cup noodles or single egg he might come up with at home. No, he needs comfort food, something generous and hot and greasy as Benedict’s face the year he was thirteen (not that his at fifteen was much better).

His favorite hole in the wall is open until midnight, so he stumbles over there and buys the biggest order of chips he can, the enormous burger nearly an afterthought. The place is tiny and not the sort of spot that has ever even heard of ambiance, but he’s tired and the idea of waiting to get back to his flat and eating in its emptiness isn’t particularly appealing. He turns with his food in hand and finds Kate looking up at him, startled, from one of the three tables.

He could take one of the others, leave them to eat in awkward peace, or he could pretend he had always intended to have his food to go. Instead he comes over and asks, “Can I join you?”

Her capable hands moving just a note too slowly, as though giving him time to reconsider, she collects the documents from the opposite side of the table, tapping them into order as he waits patiently. She folds her fingers atop the neat stack in front of her once she’s finished, watching as he dives into his meal; he should probably be embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t really have the energy.

They talk about inconsequential things - how the weather forecast might cause trouble with voter turnout, the unfortunate office incident with Johnson and the speakerphone last week, mutual political acquaintances - and Anthony realizes that it’s the first time they’ve ever done this, just made small talk without disagreeing. Kate doesn’t lose her sharp tongue simply because they are in casual conversation, but it’s different when her remarks aren’t directed at him; hearing her pert analyses of other candidates and campaign staffers actually makes him laugh.

She’s left half a piece of cold fish and polished off more than a few of his chips (completely unthinkingly, he’s sure) when they’re informed that closing time’s come and they have to clear the table. It would be completely natural for them to part ways and see each other in the morning for another round of sparring, but he finds himself saying, “I think I might go get a drink,” and finds her answering, “I think I might join you.”

He regrets it just a bit when he’s balanced on the bar stool (he really is exhausted; this is the earliest he’s been out of the office in days) but then Kate raises her wineglass and says, “To the homestretch,” and smiles just a bit as he touches his glass to hers. The light falls cozy and dim around them and he can still see exactly how long and competent her fingers are, wrapped around the stem, the places where strands of hair have escaped their pins, trailing down to rest against her exposed throat.

Right, he thinks inanely to himself. Right, excellent, this was a good choice, and belts back his scotch before signaling for another.

“Those were your siblings?” she asks, taking a sip of her own drink. “At trivia the other night?”

“Some of them were...are…” He shakes his head, trying to straighten out his own meaning. “It was some of my siblings, the oldest four, and my brother-in-law, and my sister’s best friend.” Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, “I saw your sister was there as well.”

“Hmm,” she says, taking another sip of her cabernet, and he can see her spine stiffening, armor reasserting itself.

For the first time, he realizes that she could easily hate Edie, her younger sister - her younger half-sister, even - who is sweet and accomplished and more apparently pretty, the one people’s eyes turn to when the Sheffield girls are around, but what Kate displays is no begrudging love.

It would probably be better for him to change the topic, get them back on safer ground, but though he might be smart, he’s not necessarily wise, so he tosses back his second scotch and asks, “Why did you warn me off her the first time? You didn’t even know me.”

“Yes, but I knew of you,” she says. As always, she faces the comment head on, doesn’t even pretend not to remember exactly what he’s talking about. “I was starting in the industry, I needed to have an ear to the ground and at least a general sense of the players, and I didn’t like the sense I got about you. It didn't make me think you were the kind of person to trust with my sister.”

“I’ve never—I would never—I don’t think I’ve—” he says, stumbling, slightly stricken. He knows that there are whisper networks about the people - the men - in their field, knows exactly who some of the whispers are about and has done his best to be the type of person who helps make those whispers into shouts. It would kill him a bit to find out that he’s done something that would make someone feel the need to speak about him that way.

“Not necessarily on a personal level,” she says, suddenly gentle, then circles her finger around the rim of her glass and amends, “Well, not that way. People actually said you were very smart and a good employer, but when I learned more about your history, the jobs you’d worked on in the past, it didn’t feel like there was any principle to your choices. As if you were just willing to sell yourself to whoever asked, or at least whoever looked good on a resume. Edwina deserves more than that.”

She is looking at him extremely frankly, as if she hasn’t just shrugged away the idea of the career he’s built, but with the way she says her sister’s name, the softness of it, how she somehow makes the full, old-fashioned version more personal than the nickname - he understands that sort of devotion. Hearing it from her steals the irritation beginning to build even as she continues. “I could never even entirely figure out why you went into politics rather than something else. You’re reasonably intelligent, you could have done any number of things if you weren’t particularly invested in the issues.”

Somehow, instead of the protest he was expecting, that he was intending, what comes out is simply, “It’s the family business.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Bridgerton Group. My father started it.” By her expression, she doesn’t think that two generations exactly makes a family legacy, but for once she holds her tongue, and his, loose with drink and exhaustion, can’t hold back.

“I grew up playing under the table at a dozen campaign offices across London and having poster mock-ups as my placemats. When I was a bit older, I was allowed to volunteer, and I loved seeing him there, in his element, listening to proposals and then telling everyone, ‘Well, here’s what we’re going to do.’” He swallows. “He—My father died, just after my first year at university, and I wasn’t old or experienced enough to take his place. The staff went off to work for other people, and all I could think about was how disappointed he would have been, to see this thing he’d built, this thing he loved, fall apart so easily. The entire time until I graduated, while I was getting experience with other consulting firms and working on other campaigns, I was just waiting until I could do justice to what he left behind for me.

“He nearly called it ABC Consulting, but my mother told him that it sounded too juvenile. My parents had me and my brothers fairly young - he was still a student when Benedict and I were born - and he wanted to name it after us.”

He realizes as soon as he’s said it that he’s only ever admitted that once before, to Simon on a similarly drunken night during their final year at school, forgetting the way that Simon and his father were, or weren’t, with each other; his friend’s face had closed up as soon as the words had left Anthony’s mouth, and they’d never talked about it again. But Kate’s face is open, listening, more than he thinks he’s ever seen from her, in such a way that he thinks he could reveal anything to her.

He could tell her about the trouble he and his brothers got up to as children, or how he likes watching baking shows to relax even though he’s not worth a damn in the kitchen, or that he can’t stop himself from adding another mile to his morning run each time he finds a gray hair. He could start talking about how complicated his feelings have grown regarding the man who was once his best friend, or about the way his entire chest had burned as his mother placed a squalling Hyacinth into his nineteen-year-old hands before closing her eyes and about how he never wants either of them to know that he’d tried to force himself not to tremble and had trembled anyway. But this isn’t the time for any of that, so he continues.

“I wanted to put it back together for him. There were candidates I took on in the early days who were stepping stones, necessary to building a reputation but who I wouldn’t work with again now that I have the reputation and the choices that come with it. And I have my own opinions on the issues - some of which might match yours more closely than you’d expect - but I’m there to make sure that the candidates who hire me succeed in getting where they want to be. I’m good at that, and I’m committed to it, and I’ve never run a campaign I wasn’t proud of. Sometimes, though, being around you, I wonder if you're going to eventually talk me into a different philosophy.”

His glass is full again though he isn’t sure when that happened, and a group of middle-aged men with ties undone and suitcases beneath their eyes fumbles past the bar behind them toward a booth, but the only thing he is paying attention to is Kate’s considering gaze on him as she absently swirls the wine remaining in her glass.

“I have the feeling,” she finally says, “that when you say a different philosophy, you consider it a more naïve one. And I’m not certain that our opinions on the issues would really match up considering that you grew up with family money.” Her voice is not arch or insulting, though, and he would certainly know.

“We were...comfortable,” he admits. She raises a waspish eyebrow in response.

“No one who’s actually middle class would ever put it like that,” she informs him. “You most definitely have a trust fund.” But she actually smiles at him, and for once he knows what it’s like to have Kate Sheffield look at him with warmth in her eyes.

He’d quite like to have that again.

“Do you think—?”

“That we should dignify the remarks with a response? No, I absolutely do not.”

Anthony glares down at the article he has pulled up on his phone, then looks over at Kate, striding down the hall beside him, eating slices of peach out of a reusable container. For a moment he’s distracted from the rumormongering on behalf of one of their opposing campaigns; he thinks of Kate’s hands carefully working the knife around the fruit, of the way her tongue flicks over to catch the juice when she takes a bite…

“I could reach out,” he says, too loudly, before he walks into a wall. “I know the head of the campaign over there, I can remind him about the spirit of fair play and all that, especially this close to the finish line.”

She looks over at him incredulously, snapping the top onto her empty Tupperware. “I don’t care if you were the best man at his wedding, he’ll laugh you off the phone. I’ve had at least three listicles of our candidate’s best insults toward her opponents forwarded to me just this morning.”

“I had the feeling that wouldn’t work.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Just three days left, for better or worse. “Fine, so we say nothing and hope that it passes out of the media cycle quickly and doesn’t do too much damage to the absentee votes.”

“As I said from the beginning.”

“You are far too determined never to let me have the last word,” he says, just the slightest bit amused, as they circle around the desks of the main office, edging their way over to hers.

She snags the toe of her ballet flat on a computer charger trailing across the floor, stumbles, but he catches her hand just in time and sets her upright again. She continues walking as if it hadn’t even happened, raising her voice enough to be heard over the chatter and buzz of phone calls as she teases, “What would be the fun in that?”

Aghast, he says, “We aren’t here to have fun, Sheffield.”

“Oh, did you actually want to win?” She tosses the empty container onto her desk as she drops into her chair, then looks up at him, swiveling slightly from side to side and shaking her head. “You really are a cliché.”

“Yeah, well, here’s another one: get to work.”

“I’m not sure that’s technically a cliché, but I suppose I could do that,” she says, with a shrug and a grin, turning toward her computer. He watches her for another few seconds, and then takes himself off to his office before he becomes too much of a cliché himself.

Despite the phone call he had earlier with his mother promising her that he wouldn’t, he falls asleep on his desk the night before the election, startling himself awake hours later.

“Too bloody old for this,” he mutters to himself, grimacing as seemingly every joint and muscle in his body quite firmly announces itself when he stands. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he gathers his things and makes his way through the darkened office.

Except it isn’t as dark as he’d expected. He scans the desks to try to figure out who left their lamp on, and finds Kate with her head resting on her arms, essentially imitating him from ten minutes prior.

Briefly, he stands there, not entirely sure what to do, but then he walks over, hand hovering by her shoulder before he gives her a light shake.

“Kate,” he says softly, crouching so he’s closer to her level. Her loose ponytail drapes over the burgundy of her blouse, quite close to his hand. He had not realized that he would recognize the scent of her, clean and straightforward with a subtly delicate edge; he should have known - he’s been smelling it in his dreams for weeks. He swallows and shakes her once more. “Kate, you should go home.”

“That was meant to be my line,” she says, far more lucidly than he would have expected. He shifts back as she stirs and sits up, massaging her fingers over her eyes. “I had the feeling that you weren’t going to leave at a sensible time, so I was planning on reminding you before I went home, only apparently I can’t leave at a sensible time either.”

“No, I suspect that sensible times to leave the office don’t involve the letters A or M,” he agrees. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

As she readies herself to leave, he tries to remember that the way she stretches out her back or takes down her hair, how she swings her bag over her shoulder, the quick, assessing way her eyes cover the room to make certain everything is in its place: all of that should be unremarkable. But there’s a moment, just the tiniest sliver of time, when she’s flicked off her desk lamp and they begin to walk out together in the glow of the emergency exit signs and the dim light of windows from other office buildings - she glances over at him, his hair rumpled, tie and briefcase dangling from one hand, and he thinks that he sees her swallow in a way that he recognizes all too well.

And then the moment is gone, and they’re out on the sidewalk, about to go their separate ways, the car he’d called for her already waiting.

“Big day tomorrow,” he says over the top of the door, holding it open as she climbs in. “Are you ready for it?”

“I’m always ready.”

He laughs, soft as the night around them. “Yes, I suppose you are. Good night, then.”

She looks at him one last time in the yellow beam of the streetlight, still a bit sleepy-eyed but no less aware for it. “Good night, Bridgerton,” she tells him, and drives away, and he can’t help but wonder about what if she hadn’t, what if he’d said something or she had made a choice, what if she didn’t drive away from him again.

The day of the election is always the worst for him - all the work behind him, nothing really to be done but let the people vote. He’s in the office earlier than usual anyway, early enough that he isn't certain it was worthwhile going home, but this, at least, he can control. He manages to keep himself busy throughout the day, but it’s all just a countdown to that night.

Somehow, despite - or perhaps because of - the sleeplessness and planning and stress, it isn’t one those contests that drag on. Dr. Danbury is brought on stage at about a quarter to one alongside the other candidates; the results, when the returning officer announces them, are decisive.

She’d brushed away his offers to help or choose a staffer or hire someone to work on her speech with her; instead she’s written it herself, and although brief, it’s as firm and irreverent as she is. He suspects that no one will ever pack as much sarcasm into referring to certain colleagues as “the right honorable.”

He makes some calls and receives congratulations from his mother and siblings, who have long since ceased to find these sorts of things interesting enough to attend but who make certain to keep up from home. As Dr. Danbury frees from handshaking and small talking, he makes his way over to her.

“Congratulations, ma’am.” He holds out his hand, which she eyes with a lifted brow.

“Anthony Bridgerton, I’ve known you since you were charming people from your mother’s arms, and considering that - not to mention all we’ve been through together over these last months - I think you can stand to give me more than just a handshake.”

He hugs her, which feels odd and tells him more than anything that the campaign is over. When he pulls away from her, she pats his cheek. “Now, go celebrate. You’ve earned it. I’m certainly going to.” And she winks.

The campaign staff is making plans for drinks and dancing and even just going home to raise a glass with loved ones. He wades into the group, patting backs and shaking hands, speaking briefly to some of them, smiling all the while.

And then he sees Kate, toward the edge of the crowd, chatting with one of the young guys from finance. Edwina is beside them, likely not as inured to the excitement of the night as the Bridgertons.

Kate, the taller of the two, spots him, leaning over to say something to her sister before weaving her way over. He tips his head toward a quieter little hallway, and they go over together, leaning against parallel walls.

“Congratulations,” they say to each other at the same time, and then immediately after, “I only wanted to say—”

He nods at her to go first. It’s only polite. But there’s an unusual sort of trepidation about her face, a pause that he doesn’t expect, that makes him wonder if she wishes that he’d taken the initiative. Still, she’s Kate, so she takes a breath and comes out with, “Edwina is here tonight, and if you still wanted—Clearly I misjudged you, and so if you were still interested in her, I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh,” he says, and that is all he can manage for the moment, standing frozen and watching Kate force her shoulders back and her gaze to his.

He does not know precisely how to communicate the depths to which he has realized that he does not want to date Edie Sheffield, that he never wanted to date her, that his interest lies entirely elsewhere. What he says instead is, “I had wanted to ask you to stay on with the Group. Permanently. You’re very, very good at what you do, and I think that...You know, your perspective and your clarity during the campaign was extremely helpful, extremely valuable, to me.”

He can picture it plainly, has been picturing it already: Kate taking him to task about every little issue, forcing him to remember the things outside of the campaign itself, the bigger things. Kate, with her hair swept up and her eyes bright and furious, challenging him to be the best version of himself, or at least to want to try.

But then she looks up at him and says, “I’ve actually had another job offer recently. The candidate—I’m sorry, the MP-elect wants me to be her new chief of staff, and I was already inclined to accept.”

“You’re going to be incredible at that,” he says immediately, blank shock quickly giving way to sincerity then laughter. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Maybe I just didn’t think that Parliament was ready for it.”

“That’s probably for the best, though. Element of surprise and all.”

Her voice doesn’t trail away but as his laughter does, so does her smile, her animation; the air seems to fall thin and still. He doesn’t know that there’s ever been a beat of awkwardness between them like this, not even when they have been at their most prickly with each other, but it’s there now, in her eyes as she looks across at him, in his gut as he wonders what to say next.

“I’m glad you got another job offer,” is what comes out, and there is her unamused, interrogative eyebrow, hovering upward.

“So you weren’t serious with yours?”

“No, of course I was, it’s only that...Well, I’ve been your boss up until now, regardless of how much you might believe it should be the other way around.” That even gets him a slight returning smile, enough for him to ignore the dryness in his mouth and the franticness of his chest to say, “And if you had taken the job with me, I would have continued to be your boss. Which would have made it rather unacceptable for me to ask you out.”

In the space of that breath, with the silence heavy between them even as they stand right beside a crowded room, even as Dr. Danbury’s voice crows easily above the others, still practiced from projecting through the university lecture hall, he wonders if she is going to leave him like this, cards on the table, only the fall below him.

“Well,” she finally says, slow as anything. She is looking up at him, considering and careful, but he knows that her mind must be working at triple its already remarkable speed. “If I’m going to be around the city, and there’s no conflict of interest…”

He doesn’t entirely like the way it is turning into something neat and logical in front of him when he’s never felt anything close to that around her. He doesn’t like the way she looks tentative, pushing back against the edge of something more than caution - fear, perhaps, as if this might be a trick, as if the idea of allowing herself to crack open is unbearably terrifying, and it looks wrong on her face, so bold and familiar, he never wants to see that expression there again. He reaches out across the space, and when she reaches back, he takes her hand.

“Kate,” he says. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever known and possibly the smartest, you are wildly, overly principled and somehow make me want to be the same, you never let me have a moment’s peace, I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’d like to go on a date with you.”

“Well, that does sum things up nicely, Anthony,” she tells him, and despite herself, he can see a little snatch of a smile just there, the warmth growing in her eyes as they look right into him, the fear working its way from her. Still, she tries for nonchalance as she says, “My contract with the campaign doesn’t end until Friday. We can do Saturday night, if you’re up for it.”

He’s up for it. He takes her out Saturday night for dinner, hides a smile as she pokes fun at his shoes, gets into an argument with her about education funding, and goes to bed more distracted by a half hour of pressing her against her front door (and then onto her sofa for another twenty minutes) than he has any right to be considering he isn’t fourteen. He spends Sunday night with her too, and on Monday they go to see a movie they both hate but can’t stop talking about, and he is fairly certain he is going to spend essentially every night with her for the rest of his life.

It isn’t peaceful - and only likely to get busier once they both really get back to work - and her dog is a nuisance and Colin tries to take credit for the whole thing, and they’re so happy that neither of them cares.

#Bridgerton #Bridgerton fic #Anthony Bridgerton #Kate Sheffield #kathony #(is that what we're calling them?)#Kate/Anthony

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