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pencil-n-pen · 17 days ago

Text

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. ��Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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profoundbondfanfic · 6 months ago

Note

Hello there! Your blog has become a daily addition to my life. I look forward to your recommendations everyday. Thank you for the work that you do.

I was wondering if you could recommend some Historical AUs. If there's pining an it's slow burn then great!

Thank you so much!

Hey! That means a lot, thank you for the kind words💜

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A Novel Affair by EllenOfOz, MalMuses (Explicit, 77k words)

Castiel Novak is the new proprietor of a tea room in Cheltenham—a business he inherited from his Great-Uncle Balthazar. His uncle expressly wished for the tea room to continue to offer a modest reading room to its customers, complete with a shelf of popular novels that people often mark with their favourite passages, or tuck notes between the pages for others to find. But there are some in the town who do not approve of the corrupting influence of novels. Dean Winchester, newly arrived in the country for the summer, is not about to let the handsome gentleman with the pretty blue eyes lose his business—especially not now that he's corresponding with a charming, well-read stranger through the pages of one of the novels on his shelves.

All Things In Succession by everandanon (Explicit, 331k words)

When thirteen-year-old Castiel unexpectedly presents as an omega, everything changes. Worst of all, his older brother is sending him away — to be married. Still, though everyone insists Cas can’t be a knight anymore, maybe his new husband will feel differently. As for Dean, the last thing he’s expecting his mysterious husband-to-be is a child. Though he’s furious with his dad and Cas’s older brother, Dean goes through with the marriage, anyway. If he doesn’t, they’ll give the poor kid to someone else, and who knows what will happen to him? Nah, Dean’ll just stash the kid in the barracks to train to his heart’s content, and life will go on. Of course, Cas can’t stay a kid forever, but as the years pass, Dean seems more and more determined to pretend otherwise . . .

Angel in the Iron Mask by MalicMalic (Explicit, 58k words)

Finally free of his actual shackles, Castiel finds himself in a situation a lot worse than being locked in the dungeon with an iron mask to conceal his face. The intrigues of the court will make his head ache, but it would all be worth it if he could just find a way to save the omega that had been enslaved to him.

Captive of the Viking by jhoom (Mature, 19k words)

Dean the Ruthless is consumed by his need for vengeance. He takes his enemy’s widowed nephew, Castiel, as his slave… His captive might fight him at first, but Dean knows he’ll soon tempt Castiel into his bed. Castiel’s marriage only ever bought him fear and pain, but powerful Viking Dean is nothing like his cruel wife. And the longer he stays with his captor, the more he wants to give in to the new sensations the ferocious warrior evokes in him. Will he give in to this ferocious warrior’s seduction?

Dear Father by Salamitsunami1 (Explicit, 68k words)

It’s 1973, and it’s the middle of spring, and each passing day is warmer than the one before it. The troops are returning from Vietnam in droves, and the American shores they stumble upon are just a little more accepting of homosexuality than the ones they left all those years ago. But Father Castiel Novak has never even stepped foot out of Salvation, let alone out of the Midwest, and as the only priest in this very small town, he’s determined to remain in the closet until his very last breath. Things take a turn when Salvation’s newest resident confesses to having urges for other men. Dean Winchester wastes no time in asserting himself as both intolerably arrogant and an ungodly temptation, and Castiel’s only defense is to keep his distance. Despite his best efforts, a friendship still ensues, and it’s a very slippery slope then, with things going from bad to worse when Dean offers his self-proclaimed good hands to help bring Castiel’s family home back to life.

His Imperial Guardian by Briston (Explicit, 41k words)

Mr. Dean Winchester would do anything so that his brother might become a successful barrister. After years of personal compromise threatens to bring them both to ruin, Dean is left with but one option to save his brother. His Serenity the Count Castiel Novak is the recently installed Russian Ambassador to St. James’s Court in London. The cold brutality the English display toward those who share his preferences leaves him incensed and wanting to lash out. Looking for a wrong to set right, he ventures into a dangerous part of London to find a way to dispense with some of his anger and frustration. What he finds instead, is a man close to death and in need of his protection. A man he very much suspects shares his natural proclivities. How will Castiel convince the mysterious man that he is safe under his protection?

Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits (Explicit, 401k words)

In the spring of 1944, the 104th Medical Battalion of the United States Army is disbanded, and its men reassigned to various infantry companies in preparation for their invasion of occupied France. For First Lieutenant Novak, this is less than helpful, as he has so far met his platoon’s designated medic a grand total of twice, and has both times found Sergeant Winchester to be the optimum combination of reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable so as to make cohesive platoon function near impossible. When the time comes to move out, however, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that men are going to go down and trust that Dean Winchester may well be the only person who can put them back together again. WW2 ETO infantry AU.

o weary traveler by dothraki_shieldmaiden (Explicit, 107k words)

Still reeling from the death of his father, Dean Winchester has one goal: make it home to Lawrence, where his kingdom and the rest of his life are waiting for him. His task is made infinitely more difficult when he shipwrecks on a mysterious island. When his crew and then his brother disappears, Dean enters into a deal with the island's mysterious inhabitant, Castiel, to keep them safe. The catch? He can never leave. Bound by his deal, Dean has no choice but to get to know Castiel, and what he finds is surprising. Castiel is kinder than he originally thought, even though he's harboring his own secrets and guilt. Dean needs to return to Lawrence, but he finds himself reluctant to leave Castiel behind. Meanwhile, Castiel knows that the kindest thing to do for Dean is to let him go, regardless of his own feelings towards him. As their relationship deepens into friendship and then something more, Dean and Castiel face both outside dangers as well as their own doubts. Can Castiel find it within himself to let Dean leave? Can Dean find it within himself to go? Or can these two create their own destiny?

Rapscallions by the_scrubjay (Explicit, 106k words)

Castiel was expected to be the Omega heir to his father’s kingdom. Upon presentation as an Alpha, he was stripped of his title and privileges, now a pawn to be used as his father saw fit. Dean, as his father’s eldest son, was expected to present as an Alpha and eventually assume the throne. When he presented as an Omega, he became just another bargaining chip at his father’s disposal. When the Kings strike a deal for an alliance, Dean and Castiel are expected to mate to join the two nations together. On the night, the two find themselves unable to follow through and instead agree to play along to avoid the wrath of their fathers. Once settled in the joint territory they’re intended to oversee, they find that the world is much different than it is at home. And maybe back home wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Rescue Me Tonight by superhoney (Explicit, 40k words)

In order to secure his chance at a better life, he’ll have to ruin the best man he’s ever known. When Dean first hears the proposal, he fears it’s a joke: he’ll be paid to seduce one of the most well-respected bachelors in London, Lord Castiel Milton, and then break his heart. But Lord Castiel’s enemies are ruthless men, and they’ll stop at nothing to see him humbled, including hiring Dean to play the role of a lifetime. Transforming himself from a lowly prostitute to a well-bred country lord won’t be easy, but if all goes according to plan, Dean will finally be free from the life he despises. He never expected to fall in love along the way.

The Leap by FriendofCarlotta (Explicit 82k words)

1961: Sixteen years after the end of World War II, Berlin remains occupied by the Allied Forces — America, Britain, France and the Soviet Union. Castiel Krushnic is a police officer in Soviet-occupied East Berlin. He is also gay, in a city where that’s a dangerous thing to be. One night, he meets Dean Winchester, a mechanic from the American sector. Their mutual attraction is instant, and a convenient hookup quickly turns into a passionate love affair that defies all rules and expectations. But Cold War Berlin is a troubled place, and as more and more residents flee Soviet-occupied territory for the West, Castiel’s superiors begin to make plans to build a wall. The wall would cut off East Berlin from the rest of the city — and leave Dean and Castiel on opposite sides.

The Omega Classifieds by ValandraWrites (Explicit, 73k words)

Life isn’t easy for a single Omega. Without an Alpha on record, Dean can’t work, can’t mate, and by law, should have been turned over to The Omega Center to be trained and auctioned off for mating. To avoid that fate, Dean resorts to the Omega Classifieds to try and find a mate. The enigmatic and charming Castiel Krushnic catches his eye and maybe his heart, but will he make his claim official before Dean’s luck runs out?

The Sun of Huntra by Inkblooded_Witch, PetraAmia (Explicit, 162k words)

Castiel, firstborn prince to the Enochian crown, has lived his life largely out of public view. His father is a staunch supporter of tradition, and to have an Omega as your firstborn is shameful. Castiel didn’t even inherit the king’s Shifter breed. The first time he’s truly useful in over thirty years is when a strong treaty must be made with their northern neighbors, and to secure it Enochia needs an Omega to mate off to Huntra’s crown prince.

You can check our historical tag if you're interested in more. Also, there's the Noir Bang coming in late fall with excellent 1940s fics.

#asks #group rec #historical

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uwmspeccoll · 9 months ago

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Whitewashing Lascaux, 2008. Leake Street Tunnel, Waterloo Station, London. Created for the Cans Festival, a 3-day street art street festival hosted and organized by Banksy in a tunnel under Waterloo Station.

Happy Choppers, 2002. Hoxton, London. Produced during the "Operation Enduring Freedom" campaign in Afghanistan.

Kissing Coppers, 2004. Originally in Trafalgar Street, Brighton, UK. In 2011, it was cut out and shipped to New York to be sold by art dealer Stephan Keszler at a 2014 auction in Miami for $575,000. A replica has replaced the original.

Sweeping it Under the Carpet, 2006. Hoxton, London where it appeared on the side of the White Cube Gallery, but has since been buffed.

Girl Searching Soldier, 2007. Bethlehem, West Bank, Palestine. "Whilst the image is delightfully absurd, there is also a warning for Israeli occupying forces. One day, Banksy seems to be saying, our children will be investigating you for what you have done."

Police Sniper with Boy, 2007. Bristol, UK, but in 2012 was painted over with black paint and replaced by another work, the Queen as David Bowie, by a different street artist.

ATM Girl, 2007. Exmouth Market, Finsbury, London. Created a few months before the biggest financial crash since the 1930s.

Eavesdropping, 2014. Cheltenham, UK, a sleepy, conservative, quintessentially English market town in Gloucestershire, but just three miles away from the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ).

Park, 2010. Downtown Los Angeles on the side of designer Tarina Tarantino's showroom a few blocks from the Los Angeles Theatre, painted just days before the premiere of Exit Through the Gift Shop at the Theatre.

Photographer Rat, 2005. Islington, London. "Rats are a good role model . . . they have no respect for the hierarchy of society and the have sex 50 times a day." -- Banksy.

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Decorative Sunday: BANKSY

Decorative art, street art, fine art, political cartoon, all four? Where's B**ksy?, an unauthorized selection of works by the infamous street artist by street art specialist Xavier Tapies published by Gingko Press in Berkeley, California in 2016, is the first survey of Banksy's art career from 2002 to 2016. Arranged chronologically, every period has a double-spread world map showing where each of the stencils was painted, what happened to the work (destroyed/sold/auctioned/still there) as well as a summary of the direction Banksy’s art took in that period.

There is Always Hope, 2002. East staircase leading up to Waterloo Bridge, Southbank, London.

View more posts featuring Decorative Plates.

#Decorative Sunday #Banksy #street art #graffiti #Where's B**ksy?#Where's Banksy?#Xavier Tapies #Gingko Press #decorative arts #decorative plates #photographs

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ultra-francesca-mercury · 27 days ago

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march 14

1974

Queen live at Cheltenham Town Hall,

#almanaccomercury #queen #queen band #freddie mercury

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skxllz · 1 year ago

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(shhhhh I'm testing out a new fandom. this is just experimental. PS- let me know what I can do to better improve my writing for him.)

john shelby x fem! american! reader: to touch you, is to feel gold amongst my finger tips

“ shh- keep yer’ fuckin’ mouth shut, would’ya? ”

you giggled in a hushed manner while stumbling down the cobblestone path to the shelby manner. it was late- around one in the morning when you two set out of the car and down the road to the house, freshly smelling of alcohol and john's cigars from celebrating all night. it was your birthday, just having turned twenty three. given it was six months down the line that you and the shelby man had been eloped in an arrangement of sorts... john figured it'd be a good idea to wed you into his ideal web of fun. drinking, dancing the night away, possibly snorting some forbidden snow and better yet- causing a wee bit of trouble.

see, you were only eight months into pearling around birmingham. when you first arrived, you were seen as nothing more than an innocent, bobolyne (1) of a gal. wearing long, flowy skirts and cute tops sewn with what seemed to be faux pearls and jewels; smiling so kindly to whoever passed by you; having the jolliest of pep in your step over the smallest things. It was sickening to a lot of the folks, given their little quarry of a town was so used to being dreary and filled with... well, people who weren't like you.

that seemed to be a temporary stain on your name for a month – before polly gray, the shelby brothers’ aunt, caught site of you at the cheltenham races speaking brashly to an older man who just wouldn't keep his mits off of you. you backhanded him and kneed him in a very particular area, earning not only interest from the woman, but the utmost respect for not letting yourself to be whored out.

she unintentionally met your father, who spoke rather highly of you. the two mingled, she found out you were in need of a suitor, and the rest is history up until this point.

because of being wedged into the shelby family and in the protection of them, the town's people no longer looked at you funny. If they did, john would have his way them – as would his brother, arthur, since he took a liking to you.

“ m’not doing anything! ” you lightly hissed, trying to keep yourself upright in the green wedges you wore. there was barely any height given to you, yet the heal was just not agreeing with your drunken state, leaving you to almost fall more than once.

john made a face of agitation, clicking his tongue. “ y/n; you're ready to fall on your bloody face, for fuck's sake. ” he yet again tried to take ahold of your wobbly body, going in for your arm which had stretched out so you could balance yourself, but you once again shooed him away. even though it's been a short amount of time, john's come to realize you were not like any woman he's met; you were a stubborn broad. he admired that, though. surprisingly..

“ you know what? ” john muttered to himself, before he spat the toothpick he had between his lips to the ground- only to bend at the knees to scoop you into his arms. the sudden weight of his bicep under the backs of your knees ripped a gasp from you, making you react on instinct to wrap your arms around his neck.

“ john! ” you looked at him with half lidded, sleepy eyes and whined. “ put me down! I can walk on my own. ”

he paid no attention to you, choosing to look ahead with his lips drawn together in a flat line. he scoffed once he heard what you said, trying not to roll his eyes. “ right- ‘cause you could certainly make it up the walk way without runnin’ into the wall and bustin’ yer’ arse. I believe you, sweetheart. ”

you were too out of it to notice his attitude, but you did pick up on the slight sarcasm. “ shut up... ” you huffed, glaring at him; arm lifting to lazily smack him. he immediately looked down at you after that. “ you're just mea- ”

“ say I'm mean, love, and I'll show ya’ how actually mean a shelby can be. ” john interrupted before you could even finish your thought. “ if anythin’, I believe I've treated you quite fairly. had it been anyone else, you'd be kickin’ an’ screamin’ right now. ”

turning his attention forwards again, he took your silence as a good thing - for now, anyway. “ now – be a good girl and hush yer’ mouth, yeah? don't need t’be wakin’ the whole house with yer’ loud gob. ”

It wasn't until john heard a rather small sniffle, barely audible, moments later did he stop in his tracks. he looked down, only to see you looking away from him with teary eyes and a quivering lip. you were not an emotional person, but getting drunk always toyed with your brain to where you'd get easily offended. so in a way, you were an emotional drunk. It could be quite annoying on your end, because even though you got upset over little things, you didnt want to - which only made you more upset. and being more upset, made you even more upset. the cycle just kept going which would eventually lead you to balling your eyes out.

fortunately for john, he wasn't oblivious to this act within a drunken state. when ada was younger and first started her fair share of booze, she'd get emotional as well, leaving her brothers to coddle her in someway because any chap that even tried to sweep her away, arthur and thomas would see to it.

with a sigh, john pondered in his head on how to approach this situation with ease without accidentally hurting you more. he could have quite the temper at times - as well as say things a bit harsher than meaning to, and it could break the dam that was barely holding your tears upright. that is something he didn't need nor want to happen. everyone in the house would awake from the fuss, and he'd be left to feeling like an asshole for making his future bride, cry.

“ sweetheart... ” carefully, he set you down - but immediately you stumbled from not being fast enough to catch the door. due to this, john quickly fastened an arm around her waist as he stood - thankfully, it cracked a small smile from him. “ careful. don't need you breakin’ somethin’. ”

you had looked at him, chin downcasted just a bit, making your eyes seem larger and doe-eyed. lip stuck in a jutted pout with the tiniest line of mascara running down your cheek, you appeared to look like a little kid planning on getting payback; just, with the way you looked, so devilish yet cute.

it pulled on John's heart strings.

“ don't look at me like that... ” he mumbled, lifting his free hand to caress your cheek into a gentle cradle of his palm. “ ya’ know I fuckin’ hate it when you give me those eyes. I can't resist ‘em. ”

(I'm stopping here. this was only an experimental piece. I did plan on finishing it, but for now I'd just like opinions on this.)

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #john shelby x reader #john shelby #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader

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