#and I’ll find something interesting to read

[luveline]

hi jade! I remember a while back you wrote a drabble about hotchner!reader having a really bad panic attack and Spencer and Aaron helping her at the hospital, and it gave me a lot of comfort to read it. would you be interested in writing something about Spencer and Aaron taking care of hotchner!reader as she adjusts to her new meds?

—Spencer and your brother, Aaron, take care of you when your new prescription gives unexpected side effects. fem (adopted) 2k

When things got quiet at home, you’d get tense. 

Your apartment is silent. No whir of the heating, no washing machine clatter, no voices. You sit on the couch with your legs pulled up, turned to the armrest with your cheek pressed to the seat's backing. Your phone is in your hand at a low percentage. You’ll get up to charge just as soon as you can remember what you’d wanted to be doing in the first place. 

Spencer was going to call you. He’s sweet, really. You didn’t expect for love to feel easy; you never thought someone could like you without allowances. You’re quiet sometimes, your nerves are shot. You ask for reassurance too much, too often, and you don’t believe them when they’re given. 

You aren’t smart, or funny, or particularly hard-working. 

But Spencer loves you, you’re almost certain. Or maybe he’s just content to be half happy. It wouldn’t surprise you if he called you to break up with you —what use have you been to him lately? You’re tired everyday. You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you never want to go out. You can barely make it through the working day. 

Your phone beeps in your hand. 

Outside, it says. If Spencer’s there, please make sure he’s fully dressed.

You manage to smile weakly. Aaron saw Spencer once getting out of the shower, and he was dressed, thank you very much. You hadn’t done anything salacious as he might’ve assumed from the situation, just showered together, but Aaron always lets you know before visiting now. 

Doesn’t ask, by the way, but you don’t actually want him to. He’s like, the only good thing in your life beside Spencer. 

Aaron lets himself in and finds you immediately. “Hey, honey,” he says. 

He slipped into the affectionate older brother role not long after meeting you, and he’s been worse since you were in the hospital. Which is to say, gentler with you. 

He slips a bag of groceries onto the counter. He pans around the room. It’s cleaner than usual here, but none of the lights are on, nor the TV. You can see him notice it. 

“You okay?” he asks, pulling groceries from the bag. He’s brought milk, bread, eggs, and fresh soups from the nice store nearby. “It’s quiet in here.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Yeah? Any wobbles?” 

He’s asking if you’ve had a panic attack or anything like it, but for the last few days you’ve felt veritably numb. “I’m okay,” you say. 

You should bring up your symptoms. Clearly, lexapro either isn’t right for you or the dosage is too much; you’re a zombie these last couple of days. Medications don’t always work straight away, so for a time you’d felt like your script was useless, serving only to make you nauseous, but the sickness has finally gone away. 

He opens the fridge to put away the groceries. He’s sliding the bread into your bread box when he says, “Honey, aren’t you gonna answer that? Your phone?”

You blink down at your phone. Spencer’s contact glows in front of a green background. 

You click answer and pull it to your ear. “Hello?” you ask softly. 

“Hey, angel. How are you feeling today?” 

You clear your throat. “Fine.” 

“I was thinking I’d come over?” 

“You’re outside?” you ask. 

“How’d you know that?” 

“Must be something in the water.”

“I’ll come up now. I brought some things for dinner.” 

You manage your first laugh that dreary day. It’s nearly normal. “Okay. I might not have room.” 

Spencer promises to be up quickly and disconnects the call. You lift your chin to find Aaron already looking at you. “Do I look okay?” you ask. 

“Beautiful, don’t worry.”

“Is this an ambush?” you ask. 

“Not an intentional one. Can I make you something to drink?” 

He’ll make you something you like, you trust. You try to sit properly on the couch before Spencer gets here, rubbing under your eyes, checking there’s nothing on your t-shirt and sweatpants. It might not matter if there were, you know Spencer thinks you’re pretty without makeup or fancy clothes, but he doesn’t necessarily have to be truthful about it. 

“Aaron,” you say, before you can forget, “did… was Jack’s soccer okay?”

He passes you a mug, squeezing your shoulder lovingly. “It was great. I’ll show you the photos.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t go.” 

You were supposed to. Spencer even drove to pick you up, but he got here and your meds weren’t working and your heart was beating wrong, so you stayed home. 

“It’s okay.” Aaron looks like he wants to hug you, but he doesn’t. “Nobody’s mad at you for that.” 

“For other things?” 

“Nothing.” 

Your door opens again. Spencer bursts in with two things, a brown paper bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers. It’s a pretty huge bouquet, as they go, white and pink flowers, cornflower blue chrysanthemums spotted throughout, the end of his scarf stuck in the flowers and his coat unbuttoned in the struggle. “Hey. Hi, Hotch.” 

“Spencer,” Aaron says, which is strangely warm. 

Spencer shoves the bouquet aside to see you. “Hi, you okay?” 

You force yourself to stand. It’s obvious you’re not feeling right, your head whirring, but you have to make sure he still wants you. “Spencer.” 

He puts the bouquet down. The groceries next. “Angel,” he says, meeting Aaron’s eyes quickly, then back to you, where he smiles sympathetically, “How long have you been feeling like this?” 

You’ve only taken a few steps toward him when he catches you for a hug. It’s nice and polite, but not without tenderness. He doesn’t pull your weight in like he would if you were alone, but he holds your back and sits a quick kiss against your cheek as he pulls away. 

“I don’t really know, a few days?” you suggest. 

“You could’ve told me. Or Hotch, you know?” 

“I know, I was going to, just–” You press your hand to your eyes. “Didn’t really notice it was happening.” 

“Don’t get upset,” Aaron says, coming to join you both in the kitchen. “It’s alright. Spencer isn’t scolding you, he just wants you to know we’re here for you no matter what happens.” 

“I don’t feel like myself,” you say.

“That’s okay,” Aaron furthers, holding you by the shoulder, his hand settling behind the nape of your neck, “we can talk to your doctor again, this isn’t permanent. We’ll talk to them today, if it’s what you need.” 

“I’m sorry. Not many people have such an adverse effect to lexapro, I was hoping you wouldn’t be an exception,” Spencer says. 

To your surprise, Aaron answers for you, “You couldn’t have known. This is just something we’ll have to keep doing together.” 

Someone sits you down. Aaron warms his fancy soups and toasts the bread he brought, making a plate and bowl for each of you without asking. Spencer barely balks. You manage another laugh, for which you’re rewarded with two smiles. 

Aaron can’t stay much longer, having to pick up Jack from Jess’, but he offers to come back. You decline, not wanting Jack to see you feeling as depressed as you are. He promises to call the doctor tonight and leaves in a rush. He must’ve stayed longer than he should’ve. 

Spencer is more forthcoming with soft touches once he’s gone. He didn’t eat much but neither did you, pushing the plates across the coffee table. He’s still wearing his coat. 

Fond, you reach for his chest and begin slipping buttons from the eyelets. “You’re staying, right?” you murmur. 

“If you’ll have me.” 

You open his coat and push it away from his shoulders. He dressed fancy even when he’s not going anywhere, it’s so strange, the button up and the tie and the sweater vest, all of it, but you love it. You run your hand down his vest. He lets his head dip forward. Not for kissing, just to be near. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Just feel wrong.” 

“It’s not really a good idea to stop taking the lexapro now. It’s technically an antidepressant, and your body won’t adjust well.” He holds your waist as you hold his. “But this is weird, huh?” 

“Feels weird.” 

“Short term, uh, I think we should just try and make sure you feel alright today. Is there anything you need?” he’s murmuring, rubbing his thumb into the soft of your stomach. “I can get anything. Or we can do anything.” 

“You don’t have to… worry about me.” 

“Are you kidding?” he asks softly.

“We haven’t been…” You trail your hand to his stomach, where it stays. “I just don’t expect you to deal with this, you didn’t sign up for this.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. I had no idea what I’d find out about you or what you might go through when we first met, but I wanted to find out. I wanted to take care of you then, and I do now,” he says simply.

“It’s not good timing for me to be like this.” 

“Stuff happens all the time. I wouldn’t want to wait for you to be perfect before we met.” He smiles genuinely. “Not that you’re not perfect.” 

“I really feel like I’m not even me.” 

“You’re you,” he says, dipping so close to you that you can’t see his face anymore, just his skin.

You slouch into his chest, coaxed by long, lithe arms cradling you, as kind as anyone’s ever touched you. He smells clean, your nose finding its way to his stiff collar. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“You don’t have to be. Nobody wants you to be sorry, okay?” 

It’s a new feeling. Spencer spends the night with you on the couch and doesn’t for a moment seem like it’s something he doesn’t wanna do. You end up laying on his chest, his fingers drawing lines like a meandering figure skater up your back. Twirls and loops, long laps around your spine. When your phone rings, he’s nice enough to click answer and hold it to your ear. 

“Aaron?” you ask sleepily. 

“Hey, honey. I’ll be by tomorrow to take you back to Dr. Chester’s office, alright? If you don’t want to keep taking your lexapro, don’t. But if you can manage it, take another tonight, and we’ll figure out the new plan after your appointment.” 

“Okay,” you say, feeling very small. “Thank you for doing that for me.” 

“I’d do anything. Jack says he loves you, he’s making you a painting of yourself. He’s very good at the colours.” 

“I bet he is,” you say loudly. In the background, you can hear Jack’s pleased little thank you. 

“Do you want to talk a while?” he asks.

“That’s okay, Aaron, I’m half asleep on Spencer right now.” 

“Good, that’s good. Tell him to take good care of you, okay? Or I won’t be happy.” 

Spencer laughs above your head. “When is he ever happy?” he jokes in a whisper. 

“Shh,” you say, giving Spencer a light shove. “He says he will.” You swallow a lump, as you’ve had to do all day, but it isn’t rawness that colours your voice now. “I love you. Thank you for, uh, calling the doctor. Thanks.” 

“I love you too. I’ll leave you to sleep now. I’ll come at eleven, alright?” 

“Alright. See you tomorrow,” you say. 

Your voice is weak. Spencer pulls the phone away and hangs it up, tossing it without force onto the coffee table, before wrapping his arm around you snugly. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” Spencer says. “You’ll see, things aren’t going to be like this forever. It’s statistically impossible.” 

“Ooh,” you croon, pressing your tired face back into his chest, “I love when you talk statistics to me. Tell me more.”

He draws shapes into your back, his voice a murmur as he starts to talk. 

[delirious-donna]

Kento finds your journal and vows to return it, but not before he accidentally sneaks a peek… or, the time he read that you wanted to climb him like a tree.

Oh fuck - no! No no no. Please don’t have read it. I’ll do all my weekend chores rather than playing videogames and I’ll even unpack that final box that has been sitting in the spare room if you’ll do me this one solid favour.

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

tw: embarrassing situations, teacher Kento and teacher reader, thigh riding, use of pet names (darling and sweetheart), dirty talk, Kento being more forward than usual, rewrite of an old story (it’s better now, promise), brief appearance of Satoru

The notebook caught his eye; magenta in colour, clearly well-thumbed and definitely not meant to be here, in the teacher’s lounge. He rolled his neck against the uncomfortably lumpy couch until the cracking noise of stiff joints popping made him wince.

With a resigned grunt, Kento sat forward and glanced at his watch.

His next class was due to begin in ten minutes and if he were honest, he felt rather unmotivated to inspire the next generation on this particular day, a feeling that was becoming painfully regular. Fixing the knot of his tie, which he had loosened upon entering the lounge, he lamented on how every day seemed to bleed into each other.

It had been so stiflingly long since anything new or of interest had occurred and he was starting to feel drained from the mundane, walking through each day like a zombie. Heaven help him, it was a frighteningly familiar feeling.

On his way towards the door, he picked up the offending notebook that was stuck between the couch cushions and glanced at it curiously. Your name was emblazoned on the front cover, written in glittery silver ink. Nanami passed a finger over the lettering, his lips tilting into a thin smile at how irreverent it appeared.

He knew you were a few years younger than he was, that you had only become a teacher at the start of this academic year after a sudden change in career, and to say you were a little shy would be a gross understatement. Kento could probably count the times you had spoken to him on one hand, and each one had been a rushed experience, as if you couldn’t wait to retreat from his presence–was he really that intimidating?

At that rather depressing thought, he resumed walking, intent on delivering your notebook before arriving at his own classroom to greet his darling little bastards charges for the afternoon lecture.

Of course, things would never be that simple, nor straightforward when you worked alongside Satoru Gojo.

The white-haired whirlwind hurtled into him as soon as he ventured into the hall. A barking laugh bounced off the walls as Gojo clapped him heartily on the back and effectively knocked the notebook from his grasp to flutter to the floor.

“Ah, Nanami-san, just the man I was looking for,” he thundered. “Could you do your bestest friend in the whole world a favour?”

“If you are referring to yourself with that sentiment, Gojo, then the answer is of course, no.”

Satoru pouted, Kento grimaced.

Celestial blue eyes peered over the rim of his round sunglasses whilst Kento bent to retrieve the book that had tumbled out of his hands and was now spread open at his feet. His eyes narrowed on the hastily scrawled text that he couldn’t quite make out, but… that was his name that he was staring at.

He was aware that Satoru was still talking, the man would continue to ramble away to himself forever, but Kento held his hand aloft to cease the incessant drone.

A strange, but not unpleasant heat coursed through his veins, and something he hadn’t felt in the longest time stirred in his chest. The wild thump of his heart drowned out his pesky colleague’s yammering as he was finally able to read the line of text that referred to him. A sentence that you had hastily scrawled and then ringed again and again with a fluffy cloud border.

Why does Nanami-san have to be so goddamn big and sexy? What I wouldn’t give to climb him like a tree…

He was sure that he could feel the warmth spread up his neck, his collar suddenly too tight, and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the runny saliva pooling inside his mouth.

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t admired you, although always from afar. He knew he wasn’t the most social of men, a sentiment his annoying friend constantly reminded him of. Added to the fact that Kento had been sure you were terrified of him, and he had no intention of making you feel uncomfortable, he kept his distance and his daydreaming to himself and the privacy of his bedroom and shower.

Only now, did he wonder if that discomfort had been something else entirely…

“Will you do it?” Satoru asked, shaking his arms with his long spindly fingers and offering a wide cocky smile.

“I wasn’t listening, and no. I’m going to be busy,” he replied, brushing his fellow teacher’s hand from his forearms and pushing past him to his classroom.

He could care less for the deflated look that the snowy-haired menace threw over his shoulder, there were more important matters on his mind and a knowing smirk curved his lips. The smirk was mirrored by the very man he gave his back to, and that was just fine in his book.

No longer did he detour to return the notebook. Oh no--he’d deliver it back to you safe and sound once the day was over and everyone else had cleared out.

~

It had been a long day. A tiring one too, and the prospect of spending your precious evening hours behind your desk marking exams and writing assignment commentary was unwelcome.

As if the universe could hear your lament, they sent you a curve ball you could never see coming…

A determined knock shook you from your thoughts. The pen in your hand fell to the desk at the same moment you leaned back in your chair, inviting your unexpected visitor to enter.

Your mouth ran dry as the very man you least expected to be calling in on you, walked inside. Least expected but most wanted, secretly, of course. There was no way you were earning yourself a reputation for flirting with your colleagues, even if he was so painfully handsome it made you chew the insides of your cheeks every time you were in his presence. Not because you were shy, because you were a little, but because you didn’t trust what might come out of your mouth! Best to keep those thoughts inside your head where they were safe.

Kento turned to shut the door, the lock flicking silently into place so as to avoid any embarrassing interruptions, before he bowed his head in greeting.

“Nanami-san, what can I do for you?” you asked, impressed that you had managed to speak without tripping over your words. It was certainly an improvement on previous attempts.

It was near impossible not to admire him as he stood near the back of the class. The collar of his azure dress shirt had been loosened, the tie askew as if he had been pulling at them both with insistent fingers. Fingers that were currently drumming against the taut muscles of his forearms. There was something about a man with his sleeves rolled to the elbows that never failed to send you into a feral kind of heat, and right now was no different.

Why did he have to look so downright tantalising? Why did your thighs have to clench together like you were some horny beast in an actual heat?

The aloof expression, the way that he seemed to caress you with his hazel eyes and the simple pleasure of how big he was. At the end of the day, you were no better than an animal, and you animal brain was saying that big was good. Big would rock your world given the chance.

“I found something that belongs to you and thought I should return it,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh? That’s kind of you, what is it?”

You wondered what he could have found, mentally scanning your memory of something you might have misplaced or been looking for. Standing, you took two steps forward but froze in place at the sight of your personal notebook held in his large hand. Surely your heart had seized in your chest, it certainly felt like it had.

Oh fuck - no! No no no. Please don’t have read it. I’ll do all my weekend chores rather than playing videogames and I’ll even unpack that final box that has been sitting in the spare room if you’ll do me this one solid favour.

Your eyes widened, looking from the notebook to his face and back again. For a second you thought your silent pleas had been answered, but when had life ever been so benevolent to you before? Kento winked almost imperceptibly, and you wished that a sink hole would form beneath your feet to save you from this mortification.

Heat rose to your cheeks in rushing waves. You swayed unsteadily on the spot with your hand outstretched for the book, desperate for some distance but needing the offending item back in your possession.

Kento chuckled and the deep baritone rumble felt as if the sound resonated within your own body. It stroked at you with exploratory phantom touches although he hadn’t moved. Your every muscle tightened whilst you waited for him to hand over the notebook that held some of your wildest fantasies.

When he held it over his head instead of depositing it into your awaiting sweaty paws, you swore it felt like the air was sucked from the room. It seemed like he had read a very specific piece of information, and you would die of embarrassment.

“I suggest…” he drawled almost lazily. “That if you want it back, you best climb me for it.”

“You—you weren’t meant to read that,” you whispered, staring into the depths of the floor.

A pair of sturdy but unassuming boots came into view. You frowned, surprised.

Two fingers fit beneath your chin and raised your head up to meet his gaze. There was a prominent frown between his eyes that hadn’t been there seconds prior, and you couldn’t help but admire his sharply angular face even if you were doing your best to look anywhere but into his eyes.

“I apologise… perhaps that was a bit too forward. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but you see... I’ve thought about you a lot and not just because I found your notebook? Journal? Doesn’t matter.” Kento exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “You think I’m big? I don’t see it myself, but then I was never my best critic.”

You nodded in affirmation, where was the point in denying it now? His eyes softened, crinkles forming in the outer corners whilst his thumb lightly grazed your jaw. Roasted coffee grounds and notes of sandalwood invaded your nose as his head bent lower, towards your ear.

“Then I will repeat myself only once, sweetheart, climb me if you want it back.”

And so, you did.

You climbed him like a feral little animal.

You reached the offending notebook and hurled it to the floor without a second thought. His laughter was warm and the most boisterous you had heard from him. It made you follow through with your impulse to hook your arms around his strong neck, fingers curling into the rough undercut at his nape. Your legs were quick to follow, circling his waist until your entire front rocked into the wall of muscles that was his body.

“Tell me, what else have you put in that saucy little journal about me, hm?”

“You didn’t read it all?” you asked, almost shocked at his level of restraint if it were true.

Kento shook his head, and you believed him. He wasn’t one for lying. “I wanted to hear them from your mouth.”

“Oh… that’s… mm. Anyone ever told you that you’re as perfect as a fictional man, preferably one created by a woman? Don’t answer that,” you clamoured, pressing your hand across his mouth as it stretched open to reply.

“There’s—uh—this one thing.” You nudged the tip of his nose with yours, moving to speak directly into his ear.

Kento’s breath caught in his throat as you whispered about getting off on his thigh, his hold at your waist, which has stayed appropriate until then, tightened and moved towards your backside—squeezing.

With you still attached to him like a koala, he seated himself on the edge of your desk, lowering you until you were spread over one of his incredibly thick thighs. Your skirt bunched around your middle to accommodate the position as his expansive palms wandered your sides, pawing at your hips and palming your ass with a groan.

In no time at all he was dragging you along the length of his thigh. Your underwear was ruined by this point, your clit throbbed from the friction, the seam of yours and his clothing catching you in deliciously new ways and you still hadn’t kissed him.

You remedied this terrible oversight with enthusiasm, delighting when he startled at your forwardness before he melted, shoulders sagging. It was everything and more. No fantasy could live up to the reality. Kento kissed softly, thoroughly. Whilst he continued to lead the rhythm of your body as you rode his thigh, he was more than happy to let you lead here.

His mouth was surprisingly hot for a man who always seemed to remain cool and composed, a deep groan rumbled in his throat when you curled around his tongue and sucked on the warm, wet muscle. The warmly spiced scent and taste of Kento filled your lungs and evaporated any sense of reason you might have had about making out with a fellow teacher in your classroom. It didn’t matter. Only this mattered.

“Feel good?” he asked as you parted for much-needed air. His rough fingers gripped into the fat of your behind, reaching beneath the hem of your skirt to bunch the cotton of your underwear until he was forcing the material between your slick pussy lips.

You nodded enthusiastically, drawing his lower lip into your mouth and sucking on the tender flesh in earnest. Kento was manhandling you in a way that would make any staunch feminist blanch, but it was exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed.

“You’re making a mess on me, darling.”

“So, I’m you’re darling, am I?” You quipped back despite sounding out of breath. He was right about the mess, there was an embarrassingly long wet streak on his tailored slacks from being manipulated along his thigh. You were fucking yourself against the strong muscles that flexed beneath you and leaving the evidence for anyone to see.

“I think I’d like that,” he admitted with a hum, planting kisses to your neck and collarbone.

Your orgasm was coming in fast; the combination of the friction against your clenching cunt, the large palms gripping into your ass as if he owned it and his delicious mouth teasing your skin was speeding you towards the finish line in haste. His admittance that he might like some kind of relationship with you was the final nail in your coffin, so to speak.

“Nanami-san!”

Blond hair fell into your vision, urgent lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to your cleavage and the swell of your breasts. His tongue flickered at your flesh, warming you up before sucking possessive purple bruises that would be hard to explain later.

“Kento,” he breathed against your collarbone, “call me Kento, my darling.”

Gods, could he be any more perfect? It was as if he knew exactly what to do and say to set you off like a firecracker!

You shrieked in surprise when Kento lifted you like you weighed nothing—you most definitely did not weigh nothing. He held you tight as he turned your body so your back was flush with his chest, rearranging you over his broad thigh once more but this time you could feel the prod of his prominent erection at the outside of your hip. It was thick and imposing, distracting but only in that you wondered what it would look like, feel like—in your hand and stretching your walls.

“Go on, be a good girl and get yourself off on my thigh,” he cooed, nipping at your earlobe.

Kento grabbed at your breasts, squeezing the doughy mounds between his fingers whilst you rode his thigh to completion, pinching you through lace and chiffon. The orgasm that hit was staggering; it stole the air from your lungs, the equilibrium of your body and the sight from your eyes.

White lights pulsed behind your eyelids as you gushed like a surging waterfall over his trousers, ruining your underwear and skirt in the process. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't for the primal-sound growl that emanated from his chest. The almost bestial sounding war cry that made you shiver whilst you floated back down from ecstasy.

“Atta girl. There it is. Mhm, so good for me. So receptive. Can I take you home?” Kento asked, his voice thick and strained with unspoken emotion. “Cause I think it’s my turn now, and I can't wait to see how goddamn perfect you’re gonna look taking my cock.”

You smiled, drunk on the bliss. “Sure thing, big boy, but let’s not make this our get together story for the grandkids, yeah?”

You were so glad he found your notebook, even if you had no idea that it was Satoru Gojo that you needed to thank in the first place...

[dancinglikebutterflywings]

F*ck Tradition | Yoongi

- Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fiancee!Reader - Requested by: No One - Synopsis: Y/N takes Yoongi with her to go wedding dress shopping because her fiancées opinion is the only one that matters. - Requests: Open for now. Please read my requesting guidelines before requesting. - Warnings: None - Word Count: 1,125 - this was meant to be a timestamp but turned into something longer. - Taglist: Open. Send an ask or fill out the Tag List Form.

Min Yoongi Masterlist | BTS Masterlist

"You should try it on," Yoongi suggests to his fiancée, noticing her stealing glances at the black wedding dress tucked away in the corner, far from the sea of traditional white gowns. It feels like the hundredth time she's looked at it since they arrived, and while Y/N might think she's being subtle, he can see her fascination as they wait for the consultant to help them.   

"Try what on?" she asks, attempting to make her interest in the dress look less obvious as she focuses on her soon-to-be husband. 

"The black dress that you can’t keep your eyes off," he grins, fully aware of her feelings. After all, he knows her better than anyone else. Leaning in a bit closer, he lowers his voice. "I can see it in your eyes, Y/N. You love that dress already." 

"But wedding dresses are supposed to be white, right? Something traditional. What will people say if I choose that?" she asks, unsure. 

"Who cares about other people’s opinions?" he replies confidently. "It’s our wedding day, mine and yours, and we can wear whatever we want. If that dress is the one you want, then wear it. Fuck tradition. We’re already breaking it."  

Biting her bottom lip, Y/N glances back at the dress, its fabric shimmering subtly under the store's lights, the deep black hue contrasting beautifully with its white surroundings. It’s unlike anything she’s ever imagined, yet she finds herself drawn to it. 

Before she can say anything, their consultant returns, "Sorry about that," she apologises for the wait, "Have any of the dresses caught your eye?" 

"The black one over there," Yoongi replies, pointing to the dress while Y/N shakes her head in protest. She’s about to decline, but he gently stops her. "Just try it on and see how you feel in it." 

Noticing the uncertainty in Y/N's eyes, the consultant adds, "Many of our brides are opting for non-traditional dresses these days. Just last week, we sold a lovely baby blue gown, and a dusty pink one a month ago." 

Y/N glances between Yoongi and the consultant, her heart racing at the thought of stepping outside the traditional boundaries of what colour a wedding dress should be. The black dress, with its elegant silhouette and intricate lace and beading detailing continues to lure her in. But, the weight of tradition looms heavily in her mind, casting shadows of doubt.  

"Okay," she finally concedes, her voice steadier now. "I’ll try it on." 

The consultant beams, clapping her hands together in delight. "Wonderful! Let’s get you into that dress," she says and leads them to a more private fitting area before going back to get the dress.  

As Y/N steps into the fitting room, her heart races with a mix of excitement and anxiety. She glances at Yoongi, who takes a seat on the couch, his expression a blend of encouragement and anticipation. 

“Just remember,” he says, his voice steady, “this is about you and you get to wear whatever you feel comfortable in.”  

Y/N nods, taking a deep breath as the consultant returns with the black dress draped over her arm. “Here we go!” the consultant smiles, “let's get you into the dress.” 

A wave of excitement washes over Y/N as she follows the consultant into the cozy dressing room nearby. The thrill builds as she undresses, and the consultant assists her in putting on the dress. The cool fabric glides against her skin. As the consultant makes adjustments, Y/N catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The dress fits her curves beautifully, enhancing her figure in a way that feels both empowering and stunning. The lace flows elegantly down the dress, and the beadwork sparkles in the light. For a moment, she forgets about the traditional gowns she had considered.  

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice soft. The reflection looking back at her is not just a bride; it’s a woman who feels confident and daring, ready to embrace one of the most significant days of her life.  

“You look amazing!” the consultant praises, stepping back to take in the sight of the dress. “It fits you perfectly. We might not need to make any adjustments. It seems like it was made just for you.”  

Y/N turns, her heart racing as she twirls slightly, the fabric swirling around her. A smile spreads across her face, the joy of the moment enveloping her.  

“Shall we go show your future husband?” the consultant suggests. 

Y/N's heart skips a beat at the thought of Yoongi seeing her in the dress. She nods eagerly, her excitement bubbling over.  

The consultant leads her out of the dressing room, and to where Yoongi is still seated on the couch, waiting. Y/N takes a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her stomach.  

She gives Y/N a reassuring smile, and with a gentle nudge, she steps forward. “Ready to see your beautiful bride?” she asks, getting Yoongi’s attention. 

Yoongi looks up from his phone, his expression turning from curiosity to awe in less than a second, and Y/N feels a rush of warmth flood her cheeks. 

“Wow,” he breathes, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of her in the black dress. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”  

A shy smile spreads across Y/N’s face. “Do you really think so?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief and hope.  

“More than anything,” he replies, standing up and stepping closer, his gaze never leaving her. To him, the dress reflects her personality—bold, elegant, and unapologetically herself. “That dress... it’s perfect for you. It’s like it was made for you,” he repeats the consultant’s words from earlier. 

Y/N’s heart swells, and she can’t help but feel a surge of confidence.  

The consultant watches the exchange with a satisfied smile. “I’ll let you two have a moment alone,” she says, stepping out of the room to give the couple some privacy.  

Yoongi and Y/N share a look filled with love and excitement, and in that instant, all the stress and pressure of wedding planning fades away. Y/N can feel tears in her eyes as she stands before him. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions swirling within her. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“For what?” he asks, reaching out to wipe away the tear that had fallen, as he steps even closer to her, being mindful not to step on the dress. 

“Noticing me looking at the dress, convincing me to try it on,” she replies. “Knowing me better than anyone else.” 

“So, this is the dress?” he asks. 

“This is definitely the dress,” she confirms, smiling softly. 

“You look so beautiful,” he says returning her smile and pulls her in for a kiss.  

@staytiny2000 - @do-you-remember-summer-127 - @alexxavicry

[satellite-evans]

The Artist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: sometimes, an artist is far more interesting than the art itself.

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst? Anthony not being able to mind his own business, briefly mention of parents passing away

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lady Danbury’s soirées were the heart of the social season—part chessboard, part battlefield, where every glance and whisper held strategic importance. Benedict Bridgerton, however, approached such gatherings as an observer rather than a player. He found the art on the walls more captivating than the posturing of the ton.

Wandering through Lady Danbury’s grand halls, Benedict stopped before a painting of a turbulent sea, his thoughts briefly drifting to his own half-finished sketches. A voice interrupted him, sharp and vibrant.

“It’s ambitious, but overworked. The sea churns, but the emotion feels... manufactured.”

He turned to see her: a young woman standing a few steps away, her posture poised yet unguarded. She wore her beauty with an effortless confidence, her eyes a vivid storm of intellect and intrigue. She wasn’t like the other women at the ball, fluttering fans and batting lashes. She observed the world with precision, as though she’d already decided it was hers to command.

“An intriguing critique,” Benedict replied, his interest piqued. “Though perhaps the chaos was intentional. Sometimes life demands a lack of restraint.”

Her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Chaos is compelling, but it must be tempered with truth. This, Mr. Bridgerton, is a performance.”

“You know my name,” he noted, smiling. “You have the advantage over me, Miss...?”

“Y/N,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “And I find that knowing one’s audience is the first rule of any conversation.”

He inclined his head. “A lesson I’ll remember. Tell me, Miss Y/N, are you always this direct?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned back to the painting. “Do you sketch? You look at this piece as though you’re searching for something beyond the surface.”

Benedict blinked, surprised by her insight. “I do, though I’ve yet to create anything worth showing. You?”

“I paint,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But my work isn’t for the ton’s galleries. Some things are too personal to display.”

“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said, stepping closer. “What would it take to see one of your pieces?”

She tilted her head, her gaze teasing. “Persistence. But I should warn you—I am not easily impressed.”

Benedict smiled, already intrigued by the challenge. “Good. I prefer earning my victories.”

Before she could respond, Lady Danbury’s voice carried through the hall. “Ah, Benedict, I see you’ve met Miss Y/N. And what do you think of her opinions? Sharp as a rapier, aren’t they?”

Benedict glanced at Y/N, his expression warm. “Quite sharp, indeed. But rapier wit is vastly preferable to dull pleasantries.”

Lady Danbury chuckled. “I agree. Well, don’t let me interrupt. Though, Y/N, your brother Charles is looking for you. Something about the carriage.”

At the mention of her brother, Y/N’s composure shifted slightly. “Thank you, Lady Danbury. I’ll find him shortly.”

As Lady Danbury swept away, Benedict offered Y/N a small bow. “Will you grant me the honor of a dance before you leave?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement. “If you’re persistent enough.”

Before Benedict could craft a suitably clever reply, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Y/N, it’s getting late.”

Both turned to see a tall man striding toward them, his posture commanding yet measured. He was dressed impeccably, the weight of responsibility apparent in his expression. His resemblance to Y/N—sharp features and the same striking eyes—was unmistakable.

Charles stopped beside them and inclined his head politely toward Benedict before addressing his sister. “The hour grows late, and I believe Lady Danbury is beginning to hint that the soirée is winding down.”

Y/N offered her brother a cool yet affectionate look. “You always did have an impeccable sense of timing, Charles.”

Benedict, recovering quickly, stepped forward with a polite bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened slightly at the name before he returned the bow with measured precision. “Charles Y/L/N, Earl of Whitestone.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Whitestone? I believe my brother, Anthony, has spoken of you. He mentioned you were recently elevated to the title.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his tone guarded but civil. “Anthony and I have known each other for some years. He’s a good man, and an excellent Viscount.”

“As I’m certain you’re an excellent Earl,” Benedict replied smoothly, sensing the protective edge to Charles’s demeanor.

The corner of Charles’s mouth twitched upward, though he remained composed. “I do what I can, though the title comes with its share of burdens. And you, Mr. Bridgerton, seem to have a knack for engaging my sister in conversation.”

Benedict chuckled lightly, inclining his head toward Y/N. “Your sister is an extraordinary conversationalist, my lord. I find myself quite fortunate to have made her acquaintance tonight.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who appeared unruffled by the exchange but wore a faint smile of amusement. “Fortunate, indeed,” Charles said evenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe it’s time to depart. Y/N?”

Y/N turned back to Benedict, her expression unreadable but her tone cordial. “Thank you for the discussion, Mr. Bridgerton. Perhaps we’ll meet again, should the occasion allow.”

Benedict bowed, his tone warm. “I certainly hope so, Miss Y/N.”

As Charles and Y/N walked toward their waiting carriage, Benedict watched them leave, his thoughts lingering on the sharp wit and quiet allure of Y/N.

Charles, walking slightly ahead of his sister, cast a glance back toward Benedict, then murmured to her, “He seems taken with you.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly as she replied, “Let him be. I’m hardly an easy conquest.”

Charles smirked faintly, his tone fond but serious. “Good. Just remember, Y/N, you’re worth far more than simple flattery and fleeting interest.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze forward but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly as Charles and Y/N made their way back to their townhouse. The dim glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets, casting fleeting shadows across Charles’s pensive expression.

“You like him,” Charles remarked, breaking the companionable silence. His voice was even, but his words were laced with a quiet observation.

Y/N glanced at her brother, her expression unreadable. “He’s intriguing. Sharp-witted. But liking someone, Charles, is a luxury I can ill afford.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “Luxury or not, you seemed more yourself tonight than I’ve seen in months. There’s no harm in entertaining the idea—provided you remain cautious.”

Y/N’s gaze softened at her brother’s concern. “I appreciate your vigilance, my dear Earl of Whitestone. But let’s not rush to paint him as either hero or villain. Men of his world are not often held to the same scrutiny as women of ours.”

“True,” Charles admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But Anthony Bridgerton isn’t one to speak highly of a man without reason. If his brother is half as principled, I’d consider him worth the risk.”

Y/N’s lips twitched at his words. “Risk, indeed. But enough about Mr. Bridgerton. We’ve our own affairs to manage, and I’m certain our tenants won’t care for my musings about art or charm.”

Charles nodded, though he noted the faint pink flush that crept up her neck as she turned toward the window.

As the Whitestone carriage disappeared into the darkness, Benedict stood at the edge of the Danbury estate, his gaze lingering on the path where Y/N had vanished. The warmth of the evening had cooled, but he hardly noticed the chill. His mind replayed their conversation—the sharp wit in her words, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of art, and the measured grace with which she had danced around his charm.

“Y/N,” he murmured softly, as if testing the sound of her name. It felt as striking as the woman herself, an enigma he couldn’t easily solve.

Lady Danbury’s sharp voice startled him from his reverie. “Well, Mr. Bridgerton, if you plan to stand out there all night, you might as well help me escort the remaining stragglers to their carriages.”

Benedict turned, an easy smile masking his contemplative mood. “I was merely enjoying the view, Lady Danbury. Your soiree is, as always, a triumph.”

Her keen eyes narrowed with amusement. “And yet your gaze was fixed on the road, not my ballroom. That young lady certainly left an impression.”

Benedict didn’t deny it. “She’s remarkable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Lady Danbury.

“Be careful with that one,” the older woman warned, though her tone was fond. “She has depth. And depth demands substance in return.”

Benedict inclined his head, her words sinking in. As much as he relished the challenge, he realized he wanted more than a fleeting encounter.

The ride home was a quiet one. Benedict sat in the carriage, the sounds of horses’ hooves a steady rhythm that gave his thoughts space to wander.

He’d encountered many women in his time—clever debutantes, bold widows, and those who wore charm like armor. But Y/N was different. There was a quiet power in her deflections, a vulnerability hidden behind her sharp observations.

His mind lingered on her smile, fleeting yet warm, and the way her brother, Charles, had watched over her like a hawk. Benedict respected that protectiveness—it spoke of loyalty, of family bonds he deeply valued.

When he finally reached the familiar halls of his family home, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside. He retired to his room, but sleep eluded him.

Instead, he sketched—rough outlines of Y/N’s features, her poised stance, the energy in her eyes as she critiqued the painting at Lady Danbury’s. Each stroke of charcoal carried with it an urgency, an attempt to capture the essence of someone who refused to be defined.

By the time dawn’s light began to filter through his window, Benedict set the sketch aside, his resolve clear.

“I’ll see her again,” he murmured, more determined than he’d been in years.

The following morning, the Bridgerton family gathered around the long dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Despite the sumptuous spread of fruit, fresh-baked pastries, and piping hot tea, all eyes were on Benedict.

“Who was she?” Eloise asked bluntly, buttering her toast with unnecessary vigor. “Lady Whistledown was positively tantalized.”

Benedict sighed, taking a deliberate sip of tea. “Good morning to you too, Eloise.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daphne chimed in with a knowing smile. “It’s not every day Lady Whistledown dedicates an entire paragraph to your exploits.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised. “Y/N Y/L/N, wasn’t it? I believe her brother, Charles, is the new Earl of Whitestone. Solid reputation, though he keeps to himself since inheriting the title.”

Benedict nodded, setting down his cup. “The very same. I had the pleasure of speaking with her—she’s sharp, insightful, and refreshingly candid.”

“And beautiful?” Colin teased, his grin wide.

“Extremely,” Benedict replied without hesitation, earning a round of laughter.

Anthony’s amusement faded slightly as he regarded his brother with a calculating look. “Charles is an old acquaintance of mine. We crossed paths during the early years of our titles. A good man, but fiercely protective of his family. Tread carefully, Benedict.”

“Always,” Benedict said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass of Whitestone’s modest garden, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. The cool breeze carried with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby hedgerows, mingling with the crisp aroma of her graphite pencils. The gardens were her sanctuary—a reprieve from society’s endless noise and expectations. Today, her focus was on a half-finished drawing of a willow tree bending gracefully over the garden pond. Yet, as much as she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted back to Benedict Bridgerton.

She had replayed their exchanges from Lady Danbury’s soiree countless times in her mind. His words had been genuine, his curiosity sincere. Yet it was his gaze that lingered in her memory—the way his eyes softened when he listened to her critiques of the art, as though he truly saw her and not just another face in the crowd. Y/N frowned slightly, annoyed at her own vulnerability. He’s intriguing, certainly, but so are countless men who wander into my path. Why should this one matter more?

Her pencil faltered as the sharp rap of a knock echoed from the front of the house. She stilled, curiosity piqued. Guests were rare at Whitestone, and Charles had already mentioned he expected no visitors today. She heard the muffled creak of the door opening and the low rumble of her brother’s voice, but the words were indistinct. Setting her sketchpad aside, Y/N rose and dusted her hands off on her skirts, wandering closer to the house with light steps.

Inside the parlor, Charles extended a firm handshake to Anthony Bridgerton. The Earl of Whitestone and the Viscount Bridgerton cut striking figures in the modest room, both exuding a commanding presence, though Anthony’s was tempered by a composed air of diplomacy.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” Charles greeted, stepping back to motion him inside. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“I thought it past time we caught up,” Anthony replied with a faint smile, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before settling back on Charles. “Though I must confess, my errand isn’t entirely social.”

Charles raised an eyebrow as he led Anthony toward the parlor’s armchairs. “I assume this has something to do with your family’s estates bordering mine?”

“In part.” Anthony seated himself with practiced ease, but there was a guardedness to his tone that Charles didn’t miss. “The other part involves my brother, Benedict.”

Charles stilled briefly, his expression giving nothing away. “Ah, your brother,” he said smoothly, taking his own seat. “I must admit, he did make an impression at Lady Danbury’s soiree.”

Anthony’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust my brother behaved himself?”

Charles smirked faintly, folding his hands over his knee. “Mr. Bridgerton was... eager to engage my sister in conversation. Though I’m not sure she was as willing to reciprocate.”

Anthony chuckled, but his tone shifted, his words laced with sincerity. “Benedict speaks highly of your sister. It’s rare for him to show such genuine interest, Charles. He’s not one to court frivolities.”

Charles leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You understand, Anthony, that Y/N has had her fair share of shallow suitors. She’s cautious, and rightly so. My priority is ensuring her happiness and protecting her from anyone who sees her as a fleeting amusement.”

“Benedict doesn’t play such games,” Anthony replied, meeting Charles’s gaze head-on. “In truth, I’ve never seen him take such an interest in anyone. Your sister seems to have stirred something in him—though, knowing Y/N from your stories, I suspect she hasn’t made it easy for him.”

Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle. “No, she certainly hasn’t. Y/N is not one to be charmed easily. But it’s clear your brother is determined, which could either work in his favor or cause him considerable frustration.”

Anthony inclined his head, his expression softening. “Benedict values substance, as I’m sure Y/N does. They may both surprise you.”

Charles studied him in silence for a moment before offering a measured nod. “We’ll see. For now, I’ll judge him by his actions, not his words.”

Y/N lingered just beyond the doorway, her heart racing at the snippets of conversation she managed to overhear. Charles’s voice, steady and firm, carried faintly through the air. He’s defending me, she realized, a pang of gratitude swelling in her chest. Her brother’s protectiveness had always been her shield against the pressures of society. Yet, there was another voice—smooth and commanding.

The Viscount Bridgerton.

She had never met Anthony before, but his reputation preceded him. To hear him speak so highly of his brother was... surprising. Benedict’s charm had seemed effortless, but perhaps it ran deeper than she had assumed.

Careful not to draw attention, Y/N eased closer to the edge of the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her.

Anthony’s final remark, “They may both surprise you,” was met with a soft clearing of a throat. Both men turned to see Y/N stepping into the room, her expression poised but her gaze quietly assessing.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said with a faint smile, addressing Anthony. “You must be Viscount Bridgerton. I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”

Anthony rose immediately, his movements fluid and respectful. “Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm. “The pleasure is mine. I was just remarking to your brother on your keen sense of discernment. It seems Benedict wasn’t exaggerating.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “He spoke of me?”

Anthony’s smile mirrored hers, though he chose his words carefully. “Indeed. Rarely have I seen my brother so animated in recounting a conversation.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Charles, whose stern expression had softened, before settling back on Anthony. “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be flattered—or cautious.”

Anthony chuckled, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “Flattery or caution—either is warranted. But if I may, Miss Y/N, Benedict is many things, but insincere is not one of them.”

Y/N seated herself gracefully, her expression thoughtful. “Then it would seem your brother and I have much in common,” she replied smoothly, though her mind raced. What exactly has Benedict told him?

As Anthony and Y/N exchanged polite conversation, Charles observed his sister closely. Her tone was cordial, her posture poised, but he knew her well enough to detect the subtle sharpness in her gaze—a warning to anyone attempting to pry too deeply. She wasn’t rattled by Anthony’s words, but she was undoubtedly calculating her next move.

Anthony, for his part, seemed at ease. His diplomacy was well-honed, his remarks layered with subtle reassurances. Yet Charles couldn’t help but feel the quiet tension in the room. Anthony was here not simply to visit a friend, but to ensure Benedict’s intentions were made clear—or perhaps to defend them.

“I find it intriguing,” Y/N said, interrupting Charles’s thoughts, “that you’ve taken the trouble to visit us, my lord, when your brother has already made his interest known. Surely, you trust his judgment?”

Anthony’s brow arched slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do, Miss Y/N, though it would be remiss of me not to learn more about the woman who has managed to hold my brother’s attention.”

“And have you drawn your conclusions already?” she asked, tilting her head.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Not entirely. But I do know this: my brother is a man of passions—art, creation, and the search for something meaningful. He finds those qualities rare. I suspect he believes he’s found them in you.”

Y/N’s composure didn’t falter, though her chest tightened slightly at his words. Her response was deliberate, each word measured. “An interesting theory, my lord. I wonder what he might say if he were here to speak for himself.”

As the conversation unfolded at Whitestone, Benedict Bridgerton was oblivious to his brother’s bold intervention. He sat alone in the Bridgerton family’s drawing room, a half-finished sketch resting on the desk before him. It was an abstract piece—a hazy rendition of the way the light had played across Y/N’s face as she’d described the painting at Lady Danbury’s soiree.

Frustrated, he set the pencil down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t seen her since the garden farewell days ago, and the memory of her enigmatic smile lingered like a half-finished melody. Every word she had spoken felt deliberate, each glance calculated. Yet, for all her guardedness, he had glimpsed something more—an intensity that matched his own.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sketch with a mix of irritation and admiration. What is it about her that has me so utterly undone?

The door creaked open, and Colin poked his head inside, his ever-mischievous grin firmly in place. “Still brooding over Lady Y/N?”

Benedict scowled, though there was no real malice behind it. “I’m not brooding.”

Colin stepped inside, uninvited, and plucked the sketch off the desk. “Is that so? Because this,” he said, waving the paper, “tells a rather different story. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over one of Anthony’s sermons.”

Benedict frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Colin flopped onto the settee, clearly enjoying himself. “Anthony’s gone to Whitestone, hasn’t he? To visit Y/N and her brother. He practically ordered Newton to saddle the horse this morning.”

Benedict shot to his feet, his voice incredulous. “Anthony went to Whitestone?”

Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I’d wager he’s there now, making some long-winded speech about Bridgerton honor and the seriousness of your intentions.”

Benedict’s fists clenched, though it was more out of frustration than anger. “Of course he would meddle,” he muttered, pacing the room. “I don’t need him playing matchmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” Colin replied, his tone light. “But I suspect you’ll thank him in the end. Anthony may be insufferable, but he has a way of clearing obstacles—even those you’re too stubborn to see.”

Benedict ignored him, walking around in the room furiously waiting for his brother to come home. He did not need Anthony meddling with his business when even he didn't have the chance to visit you or buy you flowers. He prayed that his brother didn't scare or intimidate Y/N in any shape or form.

Back at Whitestone, Y/N’s mind churned as Anthony’s words settled. The sincerity behind them was disarming, but it also raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She glanced at Charles, who was watching the exchange with his usual stoicism. Her brother was protective, and she valued his judgment, but she also resented feeling like a piece on a chessboard. Why should my life’s direction hinge on the machinations of two Bridgertons?

Y/N straightened, her voice breaking the charged silence. “You speak highly of your brother, my lord. But I can’t help but wonder if his interest is shared equally by the rest of your family. Surely a marriage, that you keep mentioning I might add, between a Bridgerton and an earl’s sister comes with certain expectations.”

Anthony’s expression didn’t falter, though his gaze turned contemplative. “You’re right, Miss Y/N. Family expectations can be... formidable. But we Bridgertons tend to weigh them against the matters of the heart. My brother is pursuing you not for duty, but for something far greater. That is why I came—to assure you that his pursuit is no fleeting fancy.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment before she composed herself. “And yet you speak for him instead of letting him speak for himself. Tell me, viscount Bridgerton, is it a tradition of your family that the elder brother visit first before the man himself came here to court me or are you just more excited than Benedict?"

Anthony’s smile turned faintly amused. “Perhaps. But as the head of the family, it is not a tradition, but my duty to do so."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the Bridgerton drawing room, where Violet sipped her tea, listening to Eloise debate some pamphlet on societal reform. Colin, seated nearby, was making a show of writing letters while sneakily trying to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a sharp creak, followed by the heavy sound of deliberate footfalls. The atmosphere in the house shifted.

“Anthony,” Violet remarked, looking up from her teacup as her eldest son entered. His expression was stony, his movements clipped.

“Anthony, you look—”

Anthony!" Benedict’s voice roared through the house, heavy with fury.

"Benedict," Anthony greeted cautiously, straightening. "What’s the meaning of this outburst?"

"The meaning?" Benedict spat, his voice echoing through the room. "You went to the Whitestone estate without even telling me. You had no right!"

Violet, startled by the commotion, stood. "What’s going on here?"

"Ask your eldest son," Benedict said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to play matchmaker or, worse, guardian of my personal affairs."

Anthony’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly calm. "Benedict, I was only acting in your best—"

"No!" Benedict interrupted, his voice rising. "You were acting in your best interest, Anthony. Or, at the very least, what you think is best. You didn’t consult me, didn’t even think to ask what I wanted!"

By now, the household was gathering in the hallway, drawn by the shouting. Eloise whispered to Colin, "This is far better than the last novel I read."

Anthony’s patience began to fray as he stood taller, his tone hardening. "I went because I thought you might care for her, Benedict! And if you do, it’s only natural to ensure the family is suitable."

"How dare you presume to know what I care for!" Benedict snapped. "And what of her? Did you think she’d appreciate you barging in, uninvited, to assess her worth like livestock? I don’t even know if I care for her, but now I may never have the chance to decide for myself because of you!"

Anthony’s face fell briefly into guilt before he rallied. "I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from what, Anthony? From a young woman with a talent for art and a brother navigating his new title? Or perhaps from the whispers you always seem so terrified of?"

"You don’t understand," Anthony said sharply. "These things matter. Reputation matters. If you pursue her—"

"Stop!" Benedict’s voice was loud enough to make the rest of the family wince. "You don’t get to make this about reputation or family honor. You didn’t even think to come to me first, and for that alone, you’ve overstepped!"

Violet interjected, her voice firm. "Both of you, enough. This shouting is unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" Benedict scoffed, his anger undiminished. "What’s truly unbecoming is my brother meddling in affairs that are none of his business!"

Anthony took a deep breath, his voice dropping but still heated. "I went because I thought it was for the best, Benedict. If I was wrong, then I apologize. But don’t act as if I’ve committed some great crime for trying to protect my family."

Benedict shook his head, his jaw tightening. "If you wanted to protect me, Anthony, you should have come to me first. You should have trusted me to handle my own life."

Without waiting for a response, Benedict turned and stormed out of the room, the sound of the door slamming behind him reverberating through the house.

Benedict rode hard, the crisp autumn air stinging his face as he left Mayfair behind. The rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves against the packed dirt offered little solace, the anger from his fight with Anthony still churning in his chest. The thought of his brother making decisions about his life—his relationships—without so much as a conversation left him fuming.

The horse slowed as they approached Hyde Park. Benedict hadn’t meant to end up here, but the vastness of the greenery and the relative quiet of the park seemed preferable to the confinement of Bridgerton House. He dismounted near a cluster of trees, tying his horse to a low branch.

Wandering through the park, Benedict eventually spotted a familiar figure seated beneath a sprawling oak tree. Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass, a sketchbook balanced on her knee, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand moved deftly across the page. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice his approach.

For a moment, Benedict simply observed her. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her face. There was a peacefulness about her that pulled at something deep within him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

He cleared his throat softly.

Y/N jumped, her pencil jerking across the page. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide before recognition dawned. “Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, stepping closer. “Startling you was not my intention. I... Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, let alone you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, though there was a trace of humor in her gaze. “Hyde Park isn’t precisely secluded, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Touché,” Benedict conceded with a small smile. “Still, I seem to have a habit of interrupting you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in her lap. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. Then, with a resigned sigh, she handed it over. “It’s not finished,” she said quickly.

Benedict took the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page. It was a study of a fountain in the park, the water captured mid-flow, the surrounding trees sketched with delicate precision. “This is remarkable,” he said sincerely. “The way you’ve captured the movement of the water—it feels alive.”

Y/N flushed at the compliment, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing special. Just practice.”

“Your modesty does you no justice,” Benedict said, handing the sketchbook back to her. “This is more than practice. It’s art.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but she said nothing, her eyes dropping to the sketch.

They sat in silence for a moment before Benedict spoke again. “I owe you an apology, Miss Y/N.”

“For startling me?” she teased, though her tone was light.

“For that and...for my brother’s intrusion at your home earlier today,” he said, his voice more serious now.

Y/N looked up sharply, her expression unreadable. “You knew?”

“I only found out after the fact,” Benedict admitted, frustration seeping into his tone. “Believe me, if I had known what Anthony was planning, I would have stopped him.”

Y/N studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling to have the Viscount Bridgerton show up unannounced, but your brother was respectful.”

“That doesn’t excuse him,” Benedict said firmly. “He had no right to involve himself. Whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “it’s our business, not his.”

A flicker of something passed through Y/N’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even approval—but it was gone before Benedict could decipher it.

“Your brother’s actions are understandable, though,” she said finally. “Family often feels entitled to protect us, even when we don’t need their protection.”

“‘Entitled’ is the word,” Benedict muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Y/N tilted her head, a trace of amusement creeping into her expression. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” Benedict admitted, though his voice softened as he continued. “Not just because Anthony went behind my back, but because I... I don’t want anyone to think I need someone else to make my decisions for me. Least of all you.”

Her brows lifted at his candor, and a small smile played on her lips. “I think I can decide what to think of you, Mr. Bridgerton, regardless of your brother’s interference.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them. There was an openness in Y/N’s gaze that felt like an invitation, though to what, Benedict wasn’t entirely sure.

“May I sit?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “Be my guest.”

Benedict settled himself beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. The tension that had coiled in his chest all day seemed to ease in her presence.

“Do you often come here to draw?” he asked after a moment.

“Whenever I can,” Y/N said, glancing at the fountain in the distance. “It’s one of the few places in London that feels...free.”

“I can see the appeal,” Benedict said. “There’s a tranquility here. A sense of space.”

“And yet you seem restless,” Y/N observed, her eyes studying him intently.

Benedict chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose I am. My family has a way of...complicating things.”

“Families tend to do that,” Y/N said lightly.

He turned to look at her, a question forming on his lips, but he hesitated. “Do you...” he began, then stopped.

“Do I what?” she prompted.

“Do you find it hard?” he asked finally. “Being the person others look to? Shouldering the weight of their expectations?”

Y/N’s gaze grew distant, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sketchbook. “I think we all bear expectations, whether we like it or not. The trick is deciding which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Benedict nodded, her words striking a chord. “And have you decided?”

Her lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “I’m still working on it.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the faint splash of the fountain. For the first time that day, Benedict felt a sense of calm.

Perhaps, he thought, this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

( part 2 anyone?)

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

I’m a transfem Christian, and sometimes I worry that I’m twisting Christianity to suit my politics and views rather than the reverse. I was raised as a Southern Baptist and left for the Episcopal Church, with the conservatism of the former church being a large reason for my departure. I really don’t want to have to chose between either being able to transition and being a good Christian, but I’m so worried that I’ll have to make that choice.

Hey there, I am so sorry for the delay in responding to this. I don't for a second believe you are "twisting" Christianity to suit your views by living into your true self:

Jesus tells us that we can know a thing by its fruit — if the fruit is good, the tree is good; if the fruit is bad, the tree is bad (Luke 6:43-45; Matthew 7:15-20).

What are the fruits of transition? Joy, community, reconnection with your own body? Life?

What are the fruits of the things preached by ultra conservative churches? Hatred, fear of difference, violence? Deportation instead of love of stranger, judgment instead of mercy, control via terror instead of liberation through God's love?

Near the end of this webpage of mine about a liberatory framework for reading scripture, I address the accusation that queer Christians are just "reading into" the Bible what we want to see. To sum it up, I agree that all people bring our biases to the text — heck, the biblical authors brought their own biases to the text!

“The truth is, you can bend Scripture to say just about anything you want it to say. You can bend it until it breaks. For those who count the Bible as sacred, interpretation is not a matter of whether to pick and choose, but how to pick and choose. We’re all selective. We all wrestle with how to interpret and apply the Bible in our lives. We all go to the text looking for something, and we all have a tendency to find it." - Rachel Held Evans

Many theologians say that when we accept both our own biases and the biases of the people who wrote, edited, and compiled the books of the Bible, the best way to determine what is Divine in scripture is to follow The Rule of Love:

"Any interpretation of scripture is wrong that shows indifference or contempt for any individual or group inside or outside the church. All right interpretations reflect the love of God...for all kinds of people everywhere, everyone included and no one excluded.”

- Shirley Guthrie

The webpage offers more details about this way of reading the Bible, if you are interested. But at the end of the day, the main thing I hope you can come to believe not only in your head but in your heart and your body is that you are beloved. That God created you exactly as you are with purpose and delight. That you have vital gifts to share with the world that the Body of Christ is not whole without.

If you need further assurance through theology, I invite you to check out Austen Hartke's Transgender and Christian YouTube series.

You may also find Rev. Nicole Garcia's story encouraging; she's a trans pastor who once said that she has experienced two vocations in life: one to ordained ministry, and one to being a woman.

God is calling you, too. I pray that you can feel Their presence and love in your life -- even when it's hard to believe in it yourself. <3

(For more, I have a trans tag and an affirmation tag and trans women tag and also an FAQ you might like to peruse through)

[tr4sh-hive-3]

i need HELP pLEASE (& thank you)

fuck fuck fuck fuCK fUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

i need help.

I am simply in shambles.

hi! my name’s pan, I’m 13, and I’m failing all my classes. Fuck! I’m so lonely. Everyone’s disappointed in me. I can’t do anything. I can’t do anything. Please help me.

I want to do something. I need to do something, anything. I can write. I can go full fucking Hamilton on this bitch. Like tomorrow won’t arrive, like I’m running out of time, like it’s going out of style, all that jazz. that’s my only skill, but fuck it’s pretty goddamn useful. I can do five (5) things; read, write, think, talk, and love. last one probably wouldn’t be super useful for college.

okay, I think I’ve calmed down a bit. hear me out. I will post something on tumblr everyday. everyday. cause if I can’t do something regularly that actually takes consistent memory and planning and commitment and all that fucking jazz I’m gonna start having suicidal daydreams again. even if it’s a stupid shitpost, I need————fucking something. This post has been in my drafts for, probably, some amount of weeks. I didn’t even finish that last sentence, “I need-“. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Yeah, writing is not useful. Theoretically, it should be, right? I should be seducing teachers and colleges and all sorts of academics with essays, but I’m not. I’m not even that good at writing. Mama says I am but she’s fucking lying. She also says I’m beautiful and smart and hardworking. The only reason I don’t have suicidal fantasies is cause of my mama. I love my mama very much. But she’s a fucking liar.

I can’t write. (4).

The only thing I read is fanfiction. I’m just gonna be honest ‘bout that. I’ve read the first 5 chapters of Divergent and Jesus fucking Christ it’s boring as fuck. Hold on: reading test scores. I’m usually in the 99th percentile for reading comprehension/proficiency. And lemme tell you, every time I take one of those silly little tests, it does WONDERS for my ego. But I am unable to read regularly.

I can’t read. (3).

Pretty sure I have severe social anxiety. I’ve always thought I would be able to talk to and entertain and charm people easily. Because I can talk to myself. I’m always talking to myself in made-up scenarios. And I’m always charming and entertaining. It’s so annoying when I’m trying to socialize with actual humans and I keep stuttering and going quiet and covering my face in embarrassment. And at first I thought it wasn’t that bad. That I could make those annoying-ass mannerisms kinda cute, right? And I could lean into it and make “cute’n’shy” the selling point of my personality. I know that sounds super cringey. This whole post sounds super cringey. And my last post too. I’m so scared that everyone else thinks I’m cringey and annoying and obnoxious and too loud or too quiet and not worth talking to. Anyway, that selling point does not work. It just gives me more anxiety. And fuck if I know the impression it makes on anyone else.

I can’t talk (to other people). (2).

I think I might be cupioromantic. I’ve read about romance. I’ve heard it described as butterflies and ecstasy pills. Romantic, sexual attractions are supposed to be strong feelings. Or at least enjoyable ones. And heartbreak is supposed to feel physically painful. I’ve never felt any of those. I thought I was touch-starved, but there’s this guy that I don’t particularly like who says he has a crush on me and we cuddle at the bus stop and sure the cuddles are fine and I don’t mind his company but I am not attracted to him at all. For some reason, I thought cuddling with a tolerable person would be super nice? But it’s not. So now I’m kinda just doing it so he doesn’t feel rejected. Not that I’m leading him on! I’ve been very clear that I am very much not attracted to him. I guess we’re friends. He refers to me as his crush. I don’t like that. This love rant has gotten kind of off topic. Back on track; I keep having these fantasies with a nameless person in which I hold their hand, kiss their forehead, make them pancakes, sing them love songs, write them love letters, give them little romantic gifts, pet their hair till they fall asleep, etc. I’ve never actually felt that way about a real person. I might not ever feel that way about a real person. All this romance stuff is really confusing and annoying. I’ll just stick to platonic relationships for now. But I don’t have any friends. I really hope everyone’s indifferent towards me. It’s so much easier to be unknown than it is to be disliked. I’m not sure which one I am.

I can’t love. (1).

My grandfather patented a medical imaging thingamajig. He was pretty smart. He’s dead now. I’m actually typing this from one of his three phones that I inherited cause my old one got stolen. I always liked the bastard. My dad yelled at him a lot but he didn’t give a shit. He never got upset or offended or quiet or loud back when my dad was an ass to him. Maybe he wasn’t the best parent. His kids (my dad and tia) turned out to be some nasty pieces of work. Actually, just my dad. Tia’s fine—just kinda loopy and alcoholic. She’s really nice. Her husband’s an ass, though. And her son. I can’t really blame the son. His parents are a little subpar. I got off topic again. Sorry. It’s kinda late and I’ve been dreadfully sick these last few days. You’ve got an attention span of steel if you’ve made it this far. Sorry again, back on track:

Following the pattern of this text post, I am now going to prove my state of <no thoughts head empty>.

I overthink things. A lot. I think there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe my thoughts are completely normal. Maybe this is what it’s like inside everyone’s head. But if I’m the same as everyone else, why is it that the average “everyone else” can function as a human being? I can’t function. I can barely brush my teeth everyday. Let alone exist bearably in a school setting. Grades are the only things that matter right now. And mine are shit. So I don’t matter. I can’t even force myself to try. All of it is so fucking boring. AND I’M OFF TOPIC. AGAIN. FUCKING CHRIST. MY GRADES? SHIT. GRADES DIRECTLY CORRELATE TO? INTELLIGENCE AND MANAGEMENT SKILLS. INTELLIGENCE AND MANAGEMENT SKILLS DIRECTLY CORRELATE TO? THINKING. ABILITY TO THINK. ABILITY TO BRAIN PROPERLY. BRAINING. BRAINING WELL. ZAPPING THE FUCKING BRAIN CELLS IN PROPER FUCKING ORDER. ALL THE BRAIN CELLS. FUCKING. BRAIN CELL ORGY. HOTEL? MOTHERFUCKING TRIVAGO.

Think? I cannot. Can’t think. I cannot think. (0).

Okay! That’s all five! I have zero (0) skills! Yay! Shit! I have provided evidence and reasoning. I’m so proud of myself. I’ve finally gotten to the end of this godforsaken text post. This bitch has been in the drafts for weeks. What was even the point of this? Is this what is feels like to finish something? To accomplish a task?

If you’re actually reading this, congratulations. You’re ready to kill god. If you haven’t already. You have the focus of a goddamn hawk.

I. Am. Going. To. Stop. Rambling

I. Am. Going. To. Post. Everyday.

(insert clever sign-off here)

[vic-does-battlecats]

Minor spoilers for the already revealed chapters of the next A Starless Clan book Wind

[cutearose]

going to my first meetup with a new book club tonight and I am NERVOUS!!! I want to make new local friends and be part of the community but its so scary 😳

[mushed-kid]

gonna sound dumb for a minute.

actually,,,, i dont think i want to do biology💀😭

[imaginarypasta]

i want to write this fairy-medieval romance au but my medieval romance knowledge extends to necrophilia and gay werewolves and just does not fit with the fairy aspect

[malachitezmeyka]

I always forget just how many love songs I have in my playlist until I’m having an ultra-love-repulsed day and have to try my best to contain my breakdown until I get home

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Why do I never understand what is normal? What media is popular? what hobbies are considered weird? what normal people are interested in?

[risubisu]

i’ve not read a single book written by sylvia plath or jane austen and it is due time for that to change

[chibelial]

.

[moophinz]

While it’s understandable when people are against a live action adaptation of a source media- and I’ve had many such thoughts and opinions on that topic myself- there’s a certain extent that starts to bother me. There’s been an enormous amount of adaptations that completely fail to understand the source material and were clearly made with the hopes of a quick cash in on something without a doubt, but there’s some other stuff to be talked about…

1) It’s another no brainer that things would change from one medium to another. Yet, the things that would need to change, and the things that were changed gratuitously are not the same despite some viewers trying to say otherwise. I often see people shrugging the most unnecessary differences in characterization as an “obvious” thing because it’s in live action. There are certain things that can easily remain intact if the people behind it put forth more effort.

2) Not having played/read/seen the original it’s based off before taking on a role is another big one. This is up in the air depending on how things go with the adaptation. Sometimes, there’s a very reasonable explanation behind why the actors involved didn’t, or they were told not to by the show runners/movie people because of [insert reason here that makes sense]. Regardless, there’s no reason for the very gatekeepy attitude taken by fans when they get offended by “filthy casuals and locals” *looking at you gamers*. And I don’t think it’s completely fair to expect every single last person involved to have encyclopedic knowledge on something. All I ask is that it be respectful to the original. Which can be a tall order depending on who’s involved. I know this type of behavior stems from people believing fans will be nicer and more accurate about the original, though.

3) Adaptations that are 1:1 with the source material feel useless, admittedly. I don’t want them to veer off track heavily to the point it becomes unrecognizable, but I also don’t want a clone of what it’s coming from. I like a nice middle ground where that adaptation is able to stand on its own.

[scionshtola]

i have probably 50 unread books on my shelves and yet. nothing to read