#cressida i love your writing

[midnightcoffes]

first book doodles bc i laughed at these moments

"DEATH OR GLORY!" yelled Gobber.

"DEATH OR GLORY!" yelled eight boys back at him fanatically.

Death, thought Hiccup and Fishlegs, sadly.

"HEROES OR EXILE!" yelled Gobber the Belch.

"HEROES OR EXILE!" yelled eight boys fanatically back at him.

Exile, thought Hiccup and Fishlegs sadly.

[normcore-tertiary-character]

Every time I rewatch Bridgerton I hate Marina a little more

[derekhighwaytf]

Witches and Twinks

MONDAY

The small London restaurant’s dim light flickered against the wine glasses, casting soft Merlot shadows onto George and Adam’s lips, noses, the entirety of their smug, helpless faces. This should have been the perfect pairing.  They were both intellects, with high senses of self and a love for information (ie. control), and though they’d talked for nearly an hour at this point, the conversation felt more like a fencing match than the start of a beautiful new friendship—each word a parry, each retort a thrust. Adam, dressed in his sweater and khakis, leaned back in his chair with a faint smile, his tone sharp but measured for every measure George tried to fling upon him.

“As much as people romanticize magic or ‘karma,’ it’s all just bullish storytelling,” Adam said, swirling the last of his drink. “Yes, Shakespeare and Marlowe write about it, but even they understood that human intellect, not divine intervention, drives our fate. Julius Caesar—perfect example. ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’ The real power lies in reason and intellect.”

George, dressed more casually in his loose-fitting green shirt, met Adam’s judgey gaze with a bewitchingly bemused smile. “Shakespeare also believed in the supernatural,” he countered. “The witches in Macbeth didn’t rely on logic to mess with the characters. Magic, fate, karma—call it what you may, but it holds an inexplicable force over more than just imagination. You’d be surprised how much control you don’t have.”

Adam chuckled, leaning forward slightly, his confidence more than bordering on just arrogance. “Macbeth? The witches merely represent internal fears and ambition every man or woman has in themselves. You can interpret them as mystical, inexplicable forces if you must, but at the end of the day, it’s Lady Macbeth’s persuasion and greed that destroy her husband. Shakespeare knew that intellect was the ultimate weapon. Magic? That’s just an excuse for weak minds like yourself who can’t handle the complexity of the human condition.”

George’s smile twitched as if he found the power not to turn Adam into the jackass he’d been acting like right then and there. “You academics, always trying to boil everything down to logic. I think you’re missing the point of the supernatural entirely. It’s not always about intellect. There are forces beyond understanding, beyond your understanding,—forces that aren’t impressed by your degrees or how many times you’ve read Troilus and Cressida.”

“An underrated work, if I say so myself.”  Adam’s smirk deepened. “And yes, the mysterious ‘forces beyond understanding.’ Tell me, how do they rank next to a Ph.D. in Shakespeare? I’d be curious to know.”

George tilted his head and took a swig of his drink, his gaze softening in a way that made Adam’s need to seek scholarly validation seem hollow. “You think Shakespeare would’ve agreed with you?”

“I know he would’ve,” Adam replied, superiority painting his tone. “The entire premise of his greatest works is that humanity’s biggest downfall is ignorance, not the supernatural. He’d side with intellect.”

“Or maybe he’d side with me.” George leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “You don’t think Shakespeare had a little magic in him? Maybe even enough to change a man forever?”

Adam’s smile faltered slightly, a small crack in his polished confidence. “What are you getting at?”

George’s just giggled, something dark and knowing flashing behind them. “I’m saying that not everything in this world is logical, Adam. You’re sitting here, lecturing me about Shakespeare, as if your intellect puts you above magic or fate. But I could change your entire world with just a flick of my hand, and all that book knowledge would evaporate into thin air.”

Adam’s gulped, unsure whether to get up and run or call the waiter. “Magic doesn’t exist,” he scoffed. “This isn’t some fantasy. It’s reality. You want to impress me? Show me something real.”

Without hesitation, George raised his hand, a scarred palm outstretched, and without breaking eye contact, he waved it through the suddenly thickened air with an inexplicable grace. The motion was so sudden, almost imperceptible, but Adam’s reaction was immediate. His breath hitched, his confident posture writhing and wilting as his widened eyes fluttered in confusion. The polished veneer of intellectual superiority melted away as something unfamiliar and overpowering gripped him.

Suddenly, Adam found himself folded over the table, unable to look away from George. The irritation he’d felt moments before evaporated, replaced by a deep, floundering passion—something that made his heart race and his chest tighten. His thoughts scrambled, no longer sharp and clear but clouded, fogged by an overwhelming sense of need.

“I…” Adam stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t understand… what were we—?”

George shushed him, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “You’re not supposed to understand, love. That’s the point.”

Adam’s breath grew shallow, his pulse quickening as his gaze locked onto George, unable to break away. His mind, usually so sharp and critical, was a jumbled mess of scrambled eggs. Everything he knew, everything he prided himself on, suddenly felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered now was George—his voice, his presence, his timeless beauty.  George was Adam’s everything now.

“You’re…” Adam’s words trailed off as his hand reached across the table, trembling. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”  He swallowed his own tongue, choking on his own breath.  “Will you marry me?”

George’s smile widened, a quiet, knowing victory in his eyes. He leaned back, looking under the table, watching as Adam’s brain couldn’t catch up to his…heart.

“And just like that,” George whispered, “all your intellect can’t stop what you feel now, can it?”

Adam blinked, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and something else, something deeper. “No… I… I can’t stop it.” He swallowed hard, his voice small, vulnerable. “I don’t want to.” 

George’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “Now, why don’t we talk about something that really matters back at your place?”

Every part of his intellectual, collected self knew better than to let this menace into his home, but all Adam could do was nod at his newfound love’s commands. And how bad could it be?  All’s well that ends well, right?

Adam fumbled with the keys to his flat, his hands trembling with an erotic urgency he’d never known before. A man of his knowledge and tact would never sleep with a man so quickly, but alas, his once methodical mind, the same one that could cite King Lear on a whim, now reeled only with thoughts of George on his bed—George's lustful eyes, George’s sweet cock, George's very presence seemed to fill every emotional crevice of his being. His usual restraint, his prudent superiority, was gone, replaced by a consuming need to be filled by this cunning, enchanting strange.

They stumbled inside, the door locking shut behind them. “I’ve never…” Adam’s voice cracked, and he shook his head, words failing him. “I don’t know why, but I want you, I need you. Now.”

George’s lips curled into a soft smile, almost pitying. “Not yet, love. You’re tired.”

“No, I—” Adam’s horny existence began to protest, but before he could finish, George raised his hand and with a single flick of the wrist, Adam’s body crashed into a wave of heavy and irresistible drowsiness. His knees buckled slightly, and he stumbled backward onto his bed, the fatigue wrapping itself around him like a thick, suffocating blanket. His eyelids fluttered as the last bit of resistance left him, and in moments, he was fast asleep, still in the preppy clothes that once defined him.

George stepped forward, his eyes brooding as he stood over Adam's sleeping form. His fingers trailed lightly over Adam’s temple, tracing the outline of his brow. “You’ll thank me for this one day,” George murmured, though he knew Adam couldn’t hear. 

With that, George’s expression shifted from amusement to something far more dangerous. He moved to the center of the room, kneeling over, and began reciting words in Old English, his voice low and rhythmic, like a conjurer summoning something deep and ancient.

“This man doth dress in shorts of scanty seam,  

But two inches, nay more, could his cloth bear.  

All trousers, all pants, dare try to redeem,  

Will twist and turn, yet still they'll shorten there.”

As the words slipped out from George’s lips, the change began. Adam’s legs, still clad in his conservative khakis, twitched. The fabric shimmered like glitter, rippling unnaturally, as though it had come alive beneath him. Slowly, the pant legs began to pull and pull, retracting themselves upward inch by inch. The sturdy material warped and shrank, tightening suddenly as it rose. In moments, the khakis had transformed entirely into a pair of short, nay, outrageously short gym shorts—barely two inches of inseam, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

The fabric clung to Adam’s shivering thighs, exposing pale skin that had seemingly never seen the light of day. His knees, his nonexistent calves, everything that had been carefully covered up was now on display, with the hem of the shorts barely reaching the tops of his legs. He lay there, still sleeping, completely oblivious to the transformation.

George’s eyes gleamed as he watched his imagination solidify into reality, their bright, synthetic fabric snug against Adam’s skin. “Much better,” he whispered, stepping closer. But alas, he wasn’t done just yet.

“In tanks of muscled shape, his chest laid bare,  

Neckline to navel, each nipple shall show.  

Armholes so deep, their movement none can spare,  

In every stride, his shirt reveals more woe.”

Another shift rippled through Adam’s sleeping body, this time around his torso. The sweater he’d been wearing—the very picture of propriety—began to distort itself, the fibers unraveling at his collar. The neckline dipped lower, and lower, and lower still, until it stopped just above his flat belly button. The sleeves, too, warped, pulling up and away from his twig-like arms until they were nothing but gaping holes that left his ribcage completely exposed. The fabric thinned as the sleeves disappeared, leaving him in a muscle tank so revealing that his nipples couldn’t help but to peek through with every slight motion.

The soft knit of his sweater had become a thin, athletic material, stretched across his chest and shoulders, barely covering anything. His once modest outfit was now reduced to something shamelessly provocative, his entire upper body on display, his pasty white skin brushing against the air with every breath.

George admired his work, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh as he took in Adam’s new look. “Perfect,” he murmured. And yet, there was still more to be done.

“In high shoe laced, his socks pulled crisp and white,  

A chain of gold doth glisten 'round his neck,  

Beneath it all, a jock to fit him tight,  

No other cloth for him shall fate select.”

Once again, for the final time tonight, the changes swept through Adam’s cold, lifeless body, this time starting at his feet. His Sperry boat shoes dissolved, giving way to a pair of bright white Nike hi-tops, their thick laces tied into the most perfect bows for the treadmill. The socks that appeared around his ankles pulled up snugly, reaching mid-calf, their crisp whiteness almost blending to the cream of his skin.

Next, the thinnest, most douchiest gold chain materialized itself around his bony neck, resting just above his exposed collarbone. The delicate glint of the necklace caught the light, its subtle flash at odds with the rest of his now athletic ensemble. Finally, the transformation moved beneath his shorts. His boxers melted away, replaced by a tight-fitting jockstrap that cupped him in place, offering minimal coverage and the most maximum exposure, almost as if he were a twink stripper on the Miami shore instead of the next youngest professor at Yale.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Adam, once a picture of scholarly decorum, now lay before him clad in nothing but slutty gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed far more than Adam would ever desire, hi-top sneakers, a thin gold chain, and the most illuminating jockstrap. It was absurd, provocative—and exactly as George had imagined.

For the final touch, George recited the couplet, his voice soft but firm:

“Forever cursed, his garments shall remain,  

In shorts, in tanks, he'll live his life in vain.”

With those words, the spell was sealed. No matter what Adam touched, no matter how hard he tried, every article of clothing would morph into this same, revealing outfit. George smiled, satisfied, and took a seat in the armchair across from Adam. He watched him for a moment, sleeping so peacefully despite the irreversible change that had just taken place.

But as the night crept on, George allowed himself to sleep too, a smirk still resting on his lips as he lied next to his creation. Tomorrow, when Adam awoke and his spell of infatuation wore off, George knew that’s when the real fun would begin.

TUESDAY

“AHHHH!”  Adam woke up, his heart racing as the morning light shone onto his hungover face. His body felt strange, but his mind was far more disturbed. The events of the previous night seemed fragmented, cloudy—George, the strange pull, the overwhelming desire, none of it made sense. He sat up in his sheets, his eyes darting around the room, his chest heaving.

He looked beside himself and dear God, there he was. George was still asleep, draped casually across the sheets, his face peaceful in the way that seemed entirely at odds with the havoc he’d wreaked. Adam’s stomach turned. I slept with him, Adam thought, his mind spinning like a top. He clenched his fists in the sheets, his face flushed with shame. How had he let this happen? His mind, so methodical and proud, had completely failed him and allowed him to degrade himself for some vampiric twink.

Panic gripped him as he stood from the bed, only to stop mid-step when he realized a breeze he’d never felt before. His legs were bare, his thighs on full display. It was then that he noticed his reflection in the mirror across the room. His mouth fell open in shock. Gone were his conservative khakis and sweater. In their place, he wore nothing but a pair of impossibly short gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed his chest and nipples, white socks pulled up to his calves, and, what on earth, a jockstrap?  He looked at himself again and thought he looked like a child dressing up in his musclehead uncle’s clothes.

He quickly shuffled to his dresser, desperate to change out of this ridiculous, humiliating outfit before George woke up. He rifled through his drawers and pulled out a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, but as soon as his fingers touched them, they shimmered and twisted, morphing into the same slutty gym shorts and revealing muscle tank that now clung to his body. Adam's eyes widened in horror. He threw the clothes aside and reached for another pair, only for the same thing to happen. Every single item he touched—his jeans, his sweaters, even a pair of pajamas—all transformed into the same jock-bro ensemble.

“What the fuck?” Adam muttered under his breath, the frustration building. His heart pounded as he rifled through his now everchanging closet, grabbing hangers and tossing clothes aside in a frantic attempt to find something—anything—that wouldn’t transform. But everything he touched met the same fate, shrinking and twisting into the cursed, douchebag outfit.

Behind him, he heard a soft laugh.

George finally awoke, sitting up in bed, arms crossed, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. “Having trouble love?”

Adam spun around, his face flushed with fury. “What the hell is this?” He gestured to his outfit, his voice rising. “What did you do to me?”

George laughed again, softer this time, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “What’s wrong? What happened to the complexity of the human consciousness or whatever bullshit you were spewing last night?”

“Magic?!” Adam’s voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Is that what you’re blaming this on?  You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am, love.”  George stood, casually pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “Oh, come on. Don’t you like your new look? I think it suits you.” He took a step closer, his smirk growing wider. “And honestly, after all that big talk, I would’ve thought you’d handle a little transformation with more grace.”

Adam clenched his fists, his voice shaking with rage. “This isn’t funny, George! Somehow you’ve made me look like some jock-bro idiot. What the hell am I supposed to do like this? Just tell me what you did!”

But George’s expression darkened. “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice dropped, the playful tone gone. “You can’t just insult me, mock what I believe, and expect no consequences.” He took another step forward, his brooding eyes locking with Adam’s. “You wanted to prove your intellect was above everything—above magic, above fate. But you’ve proven nothing except how small your mind really is.”

“Small?!” Adam barked. “The only thing small here is you, you psychopathic, egotistical—”

But before Adam could finish, George’s pupils flashed with anger. He raised his hand, the air around him seeming to hum with energy. “Careful what you say next,” George warned. “Or you might not like what comes next.”

Adam’s lips parted, the insult on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated. His pride warred with his common sense, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re nothing but a dumb fucking slut."

Suddenly, quiet filled the room as the words escaped Adam’s quivering lip, but once he got himself collected, George’s voice rang out in outrage, calm, yet oh-so commanding.

“This man shall bear a curse of feet most foul,  

With stench of sweat, his socks shall rot and tear.  

His pits shall reek, his skin a pungent scowl,  

Athlete’s rot shall mar each inch laid bare.”

Adam barely had time to register what George had said before a horrifying sensation crept up from his feet. He looked down, his newly acquired hi-tops feeling unnaturally damp. His socks, once crisp and white, were now soaked with sweat and dirt, clinging to his wretched skin. He wrinkled his nose at the sudden, overwhelming odor that wafted up from his shoes. It was rancid—like rotting toe cheese mixed with mildew and and an ocean’s worth of sweat. His feet itched uncontrollably, the skin burning as if something was crawling beneath it.

At the same time, his armpits began to burn and sting. He reached up instinctively, only to pull his hand back in disgust. His armpits were slick with a salty wetness, and the stench hit him like a punch to the gut—thick, sour, and overwhelming. It was as if he hadn’t showered in weeks, months even. His face flushed with embarrassment as the realization set in: his body reeked. His feet, his armpits—every part of him was drenched in sweat and stench, a walking cloud of filth.

“What the—?” Adam staggered back, staring at George in disbelief. “What did you—?”

But George wasn’t finished. He raised his hand again, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

“This man shall itch where modesty once laid,  

His bush shall grow, his groin a scratching hell.  

He’ll fight in vain to stop his hands’ parade,  

As arse and crotch demand his touch as well.”

And just like that, a sharp itch exploded itself across Adam’s groin, so intense that he doubled over in shock. His fingers flew to his waistband, instinctively trying to scratch the burning sensation beneath his jockstrap. The itch was so unbearable, spreading across his groin and into his backside, radiating like fire near his hole. No matter how hard he tried to resist, his hands were drawn to the sensation, scratching furiously, desperate for relief.

But there was none. The more he scratched, the worse it got. His fingers dug into the fabric of his shorts, and soon, he was practically clawing at himself, unable to stop. His face flushed red with embarrassment. The itch was maddening, and it didn’t care about decorum or propriety. Weak, he was scratching himself in front of George, his hands running over his crotch and ass, completely helpless against the overwhelming need for relief.

“Stop this,” Adam gasped, his voice shaking as he continued to scratch. “Please, stop.”

But George only smirked, his voice calm as he began the next quatrain.

“Each hour, his body shall release its gas,  

With burps and farts to shake the very air.  

No matter where he goes, no lad or lass  

Will dare endure the odors he’ll declare.”

Before Adam could breath in, his stomach rumbled violently. His eyes widened in horror as his body took over, an enormous belch ripping from his throat, so loud it echoed through the tiny studio. A second later, a foul-smelling fart exploded from him like a cloud, the stink so pungent it nearly knocked him back. 

“No—” Adam gasped, but his body betrayed him again. Another belch, followed by another fart and another burp, and yet another fart. The stench filled the room, thick and nauseating. His face turned crimson as he stumbled back, his hands flying to his mouth as if he could stop the sounds from escaping, but it was no use. Every few seconds, another belch, another fart, the air around him quickly becoming unbreathable.

George watched, amused, as Adam staggered, his eyes wide with humiliation. He raised his hand one last time, his voice soft and final.

“This man of filth, of shame, of rank decay,  

Shall live apart from grace, in filth to stay.”

With that, George turned toward the door, leaving Adam in the haze of his own stench, his body a twisted caricature of everything he once prided himself on. The smell of his own filth lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, but it was the itching, the relentless belching, and the horrible farts that kept him anchored to the spot. His whole body was a battlefield of sensations he couldn’t control. His intellect, once his greatest weapon, felt utterly useless now.

He staggered toward the bathroom, desperate to scrub away the grime of his new persona. He turned on the shower, hoping the water would wash away the stench and the shame. But as soon as the water hit his body, it did nothing. The sweat, the reek from his armpits and feet, even the itch in his groin—it was all still there, clinging to him like a second skin.

After multiple futile attempts, he stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed from scratching and embarrassment. His once carefully maintained hair was now matted with sweat, and his body, encased in the ridiculous bro-ey outfit, made him look more like a lazy frat boy than a Ph.D. candidate.

Adam threw on a hoodie, hoping it might cover up some of the smell, and pulled the hood over his head, trying to obscure himself. He couldn’t just stay home. He had a meeting with his professor that afternoon—he had to go. He had to maintain some semblance of normalcy, even though nothing about this felt normal.

As he left the apartment, he became acutely aware of the looks he was getting from people on the street. Some wrinkled their noses, others shot him a glance before quickly looking away. His footsteps echoed in his ears, punctuated by the sound of another loud fart escaping him, followed by a huge, gut-shaking belch. The smell followed him like a shadow, and the itch in his groin was impossible to ignore. He scratched absentmindedly, wincing as he did, but the relief only lasted a second before the itch came back with renewed intensity.

The closer he got to campus, the more nervous he became. His body wouldn’t stop betraying him—every few steps, another belch, another fart, another desperate scratch of his groin and butt. He could feel the sweat pooling beneath his shirt, the odor rising with it. He pulled his hood tighter over his head, hoping to disappear into himself, but nothing could hide what was happening to him.

By the time he reached his professor’s office, he was a mess of nerves. He stood outside the door, trying to compose himself. You can do this, he thought, even as his body itched and groaned in protest. But the second he stepped inside, the look on his professor’s face told him everything.

“Adam,” Professor Wilson said, his voice hesitant as he looked up from his desk. His nose wrinkled almost immediately, and Adam saw him discreetly glance toward the window as if considering opening it for fresh air. “Are… are you feeling alright?”

Adam swallowed hard. “I—I’m fine,” he lied, but even as the words left his mouth, another loud belch erupted from his throat, followed by the unmistakable sound of another fart. The air around him was thick with the stench, and he could see the professor’s face go pale with disgust.

Professor Wilson stood abruptly. “Perhaps we should reschedule,” he said, clearly trying to hold back his revulsion. “It seems like you’re not… in the best condition today.”

“I can explain—” Adam started, but even as he spoke, his hands betrayed him again, scratching furiously at his groin and rear, the itch unbearable. He tried to stop, tried to keep himself composed, but his body had other ideas. Another belch, another fart, each more embarrassing than the last. The smell in the room was unbearable, and Professor Wilson’s eyes were wide with a mix of pity and horror.

“Adam, I think it’s best if you go home and take care of… whatever this is,” Professor Wilson said, his voice tight with discomfort. “We’ll discuss your dissertation another time.”

Adam’s face burned with shame as he nodded stiffly, his throat too tight to speak. He turned and left the office, another loud fart escaping him as he hurried down the hallway. The students he passed gave him wide-eyed stares, some covering their noses, others whispering and laughing as he stumbled past them. Each new step felt heavier, the weight of the day pressing down on him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the nightmare his life had become.

By the time he could finally make it back to his apartment, he was utterly defeated. His body reeked, the itch in his groin had only gotten worse, and his belly was constantly churning with the pressure of more belches and farts waiting to erupt. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. The day had been a disaster—there was no way he could continue like this.

As the evening settled in, Adam lay there, his mind racing even as his body continued to betray him. He had to find George. He had to fix this. There was no other option.

He couldn’t live like this—he couldn’t endure the stares, the laughter, the humiliation. His career, his entire life, was at stake. With each itch, each stench, each belch and fart, he felt his old self slipping further away, and he was terrified of what he would become if this continued.

With a heavy sigh, Adam closed his eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would find George and demand that he fix what he’d done. Tomorrow, he would get his life back.

WEDNESDAY

Adam sat desperate against his pillow and his headboard, his phone clutched in his hand, staring down at the screen with a sense of failure. The stench from his armpits, the itching in his groin, the endless belches and farts—everything had become so utterly unbearable. The reflection he caught in the mirror was still that of the cursed gym rat, his outfit vulgar and ridiculous against his scrawny body, the stink so thick it began to cling to the walls of his flat.

He began typing. His fingers trembled slightly as they tapped against the glass, carefully crafting the text to George. His pride screamed against it, but he was out of options. He couldn’t live like this, not anymore.

"Hey George,  

I’ve been thinking a lot…and I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I was so out of line, and I didn’t mean to insult you or dismiss what you believe. I get it now—there are things beyond intellect, beyond control, and…beyond me.  I was wrong, and you were right. There.  I should’ve believed in magic instead of trying to mock it. Please, is there anything I can do to fix this? I don’t want to keep living like this, I just can’t."

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, his stomach twisting into a knot of hope and dread. Adam tossed the phone onto his bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling as the minutes stretched into hours. Every itch, every foul-smelling fart reminded him of his new reality. He tried to distract himself—cleaning the apartment, watching plays on Youtube, attempting to focus on some new Shakespearean analysis—but nothing worked. The stench hung in the air like a punishment, stuck to him no matter what.

By midday, Adam’s hope had started to wither into nothingness. George wasn’t going to respond. He probably didn’t even care. Maybe this was it—maybe this revolting, humiliating state was his life now. He sighed, dragging his hands through his sweaty hair, glancing toward his phone again. Still nothing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and paced around room, fidgeting with his bro clothes that clung to his now lean body like a cruel joke. 

Bzzzz.

Adam rushed to his phone, his heart thudding against his chest as he unlocked the screen. A message from George appeared, and his breath caught.

“Curses can’t be undone, love.”

Adam’s face flushed with frustration. His jaw clenched as he stared at the words. All of that groveling, all of that begging, and this was the response? He typed furiously, his anger bubbling to the surface, but before he could send anything back, another message appeared.

“But I must admit.  I didn’t think you would actually say that.  Honestly, I really appreciate the apology. Why don’t call it even, huh?  Why don’t I give you a gift?”

Adam blinked at the screen, his anger slowly dissipating into confusion. A gift? What kind of twisted gift could George possibly mean? If it was anything like the last, then he could keep it. But before he could protest, another message filled the screen.

“His arms, like oaks, doth stretch from end to end,  

With strength to lift the world or crush its weight.  

Their power matched with beauty none can fend,  

Two mounds so vast as sunset’s final state.”

As Adam read the words, he felt a sudden warmth spread through his arms. Not again, he thought, but then his eyes darted down in alarm as his previously thin, lanky arms twitched, then bulged. He watched, wide-eyed, as his biceps began to swell, the muscles rippling and bubbling beneath his skin. The skin of his arms grew tight, barely able to contain the massive growth. His once scrawny arms were transforming into huge, muscular limbs—so strong, they looked like they could crush stone with a single flick.

He flexed experimentally, his new muscles hardening themselves like marble. His biceps were enormous, so large they cast a shadow on his bony torso. He stared in disbelief at his own body, feeling an unfamiliar surge of power rush through him.

His phone buzzed again, another text:

“His chest, like breasts of Venus round and great,  

Two orbs of strength that push against the day.  

Each pect’ral it’s own ball upon a beach,  

So full, so firm, none dare to turn away.”

Adam’s gaze shifted down towards his chest, and once again, he felt the same warm, tingling sensation spread across his torso as he began to feel an unnerving top heaviness. His pecs swelled, pushing against the straps of his tank top until the neckline stretched even lower than before. His chest ballooned outward, each pec growing into a massive, rounded mound of muscle, firm and solid beneath his skin. His nipples presented so visibly, his chest now so large it jutted forward, casting a shadow over his barren stomach.

The weight of his new pecs made him feel even more powerful, even more in control. He couldn’t stop staring, watching the way his body filled out, how his once-flat chest had been replaced by two enormous mounds of muscle that jiggled involuntary with every breath. They were so big, so round, they almost looked unnatural—but Adam loved it nonetheless.

Another text…

“His stomach, carved like canyons deep and wide,  

Each groove a trench, each line a valley low.  

His legs, like trunks of ancient oaks abide,  

With strength to stand through storm and sun and snow.”

Adam’s abdomen contracted, the sensation rippling through his core. He watched as the muscles on his stomach began to etch themselves into deep, chiseled grooves. His once-flat belly was now an eight-pack, every ridge and line so pronounced it looked like his abs had been carved out of granite. His waist boxed in, accentuating the sheer mass of his chest above and the powerful definition below.

His legs were next. His thighs bulged beneath his gym shorts, the muscles expanding rapidly, filling out with every second. His calves thickened into pillars of strength, his quads growing into enormous slabs of meat that made his legs look like logs. He was massive now, his entire body transformed into something that looked like it had been sculpted by the god Zeus himself.

The final couplet arrived, and as Adam read the words, he felt the last part of the transformation taking hold:

A man’s man, dominant, in every stride,  

With looks that none, not man nor beast, can hide.”

As Adam gazed into the mirror, his eyes widened in awe. His reflection had changed entirely. He stood there, towering, his body brimming with strength and raw masculinity, as if he’d eaten raw eggs every day of his life since he was ten. His jawline was sharper, his posture more commanding, and the way he looked—it was undeniable. He was an alpha now.  He demanded attention, respect, and desire. The smell, the stink that had once plagued him—it didn’t matter. His overwhelming physicality eclipsed all of it.

Adam grinned, a wave of confidence crashing over him. This was power. This was control. He grabbed a jacket, still feeling the massive stretch of his biceps as he slipped it over his shoulders, and headed out.

At the nearest gay bar, the moment Adam walked in, all eyes were on him. His broad shoulders and massive arms filled out his jacket in ways that left little to the imagination. He could see heads turning, guys sneaking glances at his hulking frame, his thick pecs nearly busting through his shirt. He walked up to the bar, and within seconds, a couple of older men sidled up to him, their eyes wide with interest.

One of them, a trucker looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and the crustiest mustache, leaned in, his voice low. “You’re looking good, boy. Smell like man too.  Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

Adam wrinkled his nose slightly. The man was old, rotund, and ugly.  He could do better, much better. “No thanks, ..sir,” Adam replied coldly, his voice deeper and more commanding than he remembered. The man’s face fell slightly, but Adam didn’t care. He was too busy reveling in the attention, in the way every guy in the bar seemed to be watching him, wanting his body.

As the night wore on, more and more guys approached, trying their luck with him. But none of them were good enough for Adam. He was an alpha now—he could have anyone he wanted, and the more he held out, the more they wanted.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, he would go see George again.  If George can do this for him.  There’s no telling what else he could get out of the witchy twink.

THURSDAY

Adam took the tube immediately once he awoke and stood in front of George’s door, the weight of his muscular new form making him feel absolutely invincible. His inflated biceps and thick chest on the reflective glass of the door fed his ever growing ego, but deep down, he couldn’t help but shake this nagging doubt. George had done this to him—made him into a walking Marvel superhero, sculpted from stone, pure lust, and raw, unadulterated power. But was it enough? No, Adam wanted more. Needed more.

He knocked, his hairy knuckles bristling past the door handle. The first time he’d sought George, he’d dismissed the supernatural as nonsense. Now, with the power of George’s magic coursing through his sculpted body, Adam was ready to claim yet another piece of it. But this time, he knew he had to play his cards just a tad bit differently.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, his face shifting from surprise to a soft, almost suspicious smile. “Adam,” George purred. “Back so soon?”

Adam leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms bulging as he flexed them just enough to show off the strength George had given him. “Missed me?”

George raised an eyebrow, but his gaze lingered on Adam’s tits, those enormous pecs straining against the thin straps of his bro-ish muscle tank. There was a flicker of something in George’s eyes—desire, interest, maybe even a sliver of actual emotion, something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Adam noticed, and he played into it, taking a step closer, his voice low and smooth.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Adam said, his hand grazing George’s arm. “About I’ve been thinking about just how much I owe you for this body, for… everything.”

George tilted his head, still guarded. “And what exactly do you want this time, Adam?”

“I don’t want anything,” Adam replied, his lips curling into a seductive smile. “Just you.”

He moved closer, his muscular frame dwarfing George’s, his presence overwhelming in the cramped air of the doorway. George hesitated for a moment, but Adam’s hand slipped to the nape of George’s neck, pulling him in with surprising gentleness. Their lips met, slowly melding together, turning into something hotter, far more dangerous. Adam’s thinly veiled cock rubbed against George’s abs as his walls came crumbling down, and for the first time, Adam felt the subtle shift in power—he had George, really had him.

The day blurred into heated moments, their bodies tangled in sheets and sweat. Adam was relentless, his new body a weapon of seduction, and George, for all his magic, succumbed to the raw physicality of it. They moved together with an intensity that neither had expected, sucking, fucking, and by the time they lay spent, George was quiet, staring at Adam with something akin to affection.

Adam, however, was already thinking ahead. He turned to George, still catching his breath. “You’ve got power, George. Magic.”

George giggled with a flush.  “You’re just saying that.”

But Adam turned cold.  “I want more of it.”

George’s face darkened. “What exactly are you asking for, Adam?”

Adam grinned, his arrogance returning now that the heat of the moment had passed. “Whatever gift you think I deserve. You’ve given me all this, how can I doubt your judgment, my sweet baby.  My love.  I’ll leave it up to you. Surprise me.”

George’s expression shifted from curiosity to something more guarded, his eyes narrowing as he watched Adam’s smug face. “Anything I want, huh?”

Adam shrugged, confidence oozing from every pore. “I trust you.”

George sat up, his fingers trailing along Adam’s broad chest as if considering his next move. For a long moment, he said nothing, then with a quiet, deceptive murmur, he recited:

"A man so well endowed, his length shall grow,  

Eight inches, thick as snake in fabric’s cage,  

His buttocks firm, a perch for all to show,  

A bubble round to seat him firm with age."

Adam’s goosebumped body tingled immediately, the familiar warmth of transformation spreading through his lower regions. He let out a low, grunty moan as the sensation deepened, his cock thickening and lengthening under his teeny tiny shorts. Diameter growing as his ass tightened, the muscles swelling into perfect, round bubbles that pushed him slightly upward in the bed. He grinned, looking down at himself, clearly satisfied with George’s work.

“That’s more like it,” Adam murmured, his hands roaming over his newly enhanced assets. The heft of his cock felt incredible, and his ass, firm and plump, made him sit taller, more confidently. “I can’t wait to use this out in SoHo.”  He turned to George, expecting more praise, more lust, but George’s face remained unreadable.

Then, George’s voice darkened, and he continued the sonnet.

"But this thick snake shall rise and never fall,  

In constant stand, no peace, no quiet still.  

His rounded arse shall breathe and stretch at call,  

Each muscle loose, no seat can meet its will."

Adam’s smile faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. The change happened so quickly—his cock, now a monstrous length, hardened immediately, pushing insistently against the fabric of his gym shorts. It throbbed, always erect, always at attention, with no sense of relief. He shifted uncomfortably as his ass, once firm and perfect, started to feel strangely loose towards the center. It twitched and clenched on its own, the muscles stretching and relaxing without his control, as if it was becoming an underground tunnel.

“Wait, what the—?” Adam stammered, sitting up, his hand moving to adjust his cock, but it wouldn’t soften. His asshole kept opening with a subtle, almost breathing sensation that made him feel unstable, as if he could fit a tube station in there.

George smirked, watching the realization dawn on Adam’s face. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

Adam’s panic grew as he tried to stand, but the constant, unrelenting erection made every step uncomfortable. His ass moved with a will of its own, making it impossible for him to walk without awkwardly adjusting himself.

“Stop this,” Adam demanded, his voice sharp with fear. “Fix it!”

But George continued, his voice soft, but with a cutting edge:

"For every man he sees and thinks of thus,  

A need shall spark, his body shall obey.  

Two seconds more, his lips will ask with trust,  

And if they say ‘yes,’ he cannot turn away."

Adam’s eyes widened in horror as the words sank in. The change was immediate. His mind, sharp and calculating, suddenly snapped. The second he looked at George, an overwhelming desire flooded him. He took a step forward, his voice trembling.

“George, I—” He swallowed, trying to fight the words that wanted to spill out, but they escaped anyway. “I want you… I need you. Please, let’s do it again.”

George’s smirk faded into something almost pitying as he stepped back, shaking his head. “No.”

Adam blinked, the refusal shocking him, but the need remained. His body trembled with desire, the thought of George sending his blood rushing. He reached out, desperate. “Please, I can’t—”

But George stood firm. “This is what you wanted, Adam. You wanted the magic. Now you’ve got it.”

Adam’s desperation turned into panic, the uncontrollable lust gnawing at him as he realized what had happened. “Please, you have to stop this! I can’t live like this!”

George’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “If you never see me again, I can never curse you again. Plain and simple.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the curse pressing down on him. He had no choice. He nodded stiffly, his voice shaking. “Fine.”

Without another word, he fled the apartment, the constant throbbing in his pants making every step unbearable, as if he were walking with a third leg. His ass twitched, loose and awkward, making him shift with every movement. He tried to keep his eyes down, avoid seeing anyone, avoid thinking about anyone. But as he neared his flat, he saw him—the old, fat man from the bar, the one with the crusty mustache he’d brushed off so easily the night before.

Adam’s eyes locked onto him, and the thought, just two seconds, crossed his mind. The change was instant.

“Hey,” Adam called out, already relieving his itchy erection, his voice unabashed from shame. “You wanna fuck me?”

The man’s eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I do.  Let’s go boy”

Before Adam could stop himself, he moved closer, his body betraying him. They ended up in Adam’s flat, the humiliation sinking deeper as he stripped down, his body moving on its own, giving in to the fat man’s cock. Every moment was pleasure, the curse forcing him to enjoy it all. As the man’s fingers roamed into his hole, Adam’s cock stood painfully erect, his ass twitching and clenching, unable to resist the pleasure.

By the time it was over, Adam lay in bed, the old man’s snores filling the room. He stared at the ceiling, the weight of his actions crushing him. He hated it. He hated the curse, hated George, hated himself. But as he thought back to the encounter, a sickening sense of satisfaction settled in his chest.

Maybe this was who he was now. He’d become the horny, bro-ish slut he’d always railed against.

But hey, at least he still had his wits about him.

“You wanna go again,” he asked the sleeping bear.

He awoke.  “Fuck yeah I do.”

FRIDAY

Adam groaned, his body still humming from the night before, shifting slightly in his bed, the weight of his smelly, bulging muscles pressing against the mattress in ways that felt less and less alien. The stench of sweat and sex clung to the sheets like a cruel reminder, but what gave him the most relief was that the old mustached bear, the fat man who had taken him, or he’d taken in, last night, was gone, leaving Adam with what few shreds of dignity he had left. For but a brief moment, Adam felt a glimmer of his old smart self, something buried deep beneath the layers of this cursed, grotesque transformation.

He brought himself up slowly, running a hand through his cum-soaked, dampened hair, trying to ignore the disgusting aire of musk that followed him everywhere. The night’s events replayed slowly in his mind, and each moment sent waves of heat rolling through him. He was disgusted with himself, yet somehow also satisfied. As much as he wanted to shake off the craziness of last night, something darker tugged within him—or instead, someone.  Someone he couldn't control.

George.

The mere thought of him, that witchy smile, made Adam's heart pump and race. He tried to resist it, clenching his fists as he paced around his tiny studio. No. He wouldn’t give in. Not again. But the more he fought it, the stronger the curse became. His cock twitched in his shorts, eternally hardening more and more, his mind clouded with an overwhelming desire as he let out a massive burp. It was George. He needed George. He needed to see him, fuck him, even if it meant more and more of these horrible, disfiguring changes.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Adam was out the door, heading toward George’s place. His brain screamed at him to turn back, to stop this madness, but his feet kept moving, each step heavier with the weight of inevitability. He arrived at George’s door, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. Before he could second-guess himself, he knocked.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, the same knowing smile curling on his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Back so soon?” George asked, voice dripping with mockery.

Adam swallowed, his throat tight. His body screamed with need, the throbbing in his pants unbearable. “I… I need to fuck you,” he stammered, the words barely making it out. His muscles tensed, his breath shallow. “Please, George. I just want to stick my-”

“No.” George’s tone was sharp, cold. “I warned you, Adam.”

Adam froze, his heart sinking. Panic flooded his chest. “No, wait, I… I—” He turned to flee, the humiliation too much to bear, but George’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere,” George said softly, a cruel edge to his voice. With a flick of his hand, Adam’s body locked in place, muscles freezing as though they were held by invisible chains. Adam’s eyes widened in fear as George circled him like a predator, his gaze sweeping up and down Adam’s massive form.

“You could’ve been so wonderful, Adam,” George whispered, his fingers trailing across Adam’s rigid biceps. “If only you weren’t so obsessed with being better than everyone else.” George stopped in front of him, his eyes gleaming. “But don’t worry. I’m going to fix that.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, his giant mind racing with panic. He tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. He was trapped, helpless, his body at George’s mercy. And then, George began to recite.

“This man, with wit so sharp, shall find it dull,

His tongue to fail at words with length and grace.

In single beats, his speech doth make him full,

No thought can break the barrier of his face.”

Adam’s head buzzed as George’s words sank into his soul. He tried to protest, to say something, anything, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out were simple, one-syllable words, clumsy and slow like the dumbass he used to make fun of, the one he was about to become. “Wh-what… you… do…?” he stammered, struggling through each word. His brain felt like it was being squeezed, cell by cell, every attempt to say something even somewhat intelligent or complex was met with a foggy, impenetrable wall.

“No… more…” he managed, but even that felt like a battle. His tongue stumbled within his mouth, his speech slurring as the magic took further hold. Adam’s face twisted in frustration, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even think of a word longer than one syllable. His mind was trapped in this humiliating simplicity, a far cry from the sharp intellect he once wielded.

George smiled, watching the struggle unfold with sadistic delight. “You’re already looking more like yourself, love.” He continued, his voice low and melodic.

“A jaw so slack, it barely knows its place,

His mouth hangs wide, flies wander through the door.

With 'duh' his mind reflects upon his face,

A smile so dumb, he trusts each word, what's more.”

As the next words spread themselves throughout the air and landed onto Adam’s face, he felt his jaw slacken into a relaxed position, the muscles in his face going completely limp. His mouth hung open, agape, his lips parting into a dumb, vacant expression. He could feel the cold air tickling his teeth as a small, stupid smile crept onto his face. He tried to close his mouth, to tighten his jaw, but it wouldn’t obey him. No matter how hard he tried, it remained slack, open, like a door left ajar.

Flies buzzed around, and before he knew it, one flitted into his mouth. He barely registered it, too dazed, too numb to even care. His face felt frozen in that idiotic grin, his eyes glazed over. Worse yet, every word George said sounded so… true. Every part of him wanted to believe whatever George told him, his gullibility sinking deep into his bones.

Adam’s mind screamed at him to resist, to hold onto what was left of his pride, but that part of him was fading fast. His lips, still curled in a stupid smile, parted again. “Uh… yeah, right…” he muttered, barely able to form coherent thoughts. His voice sounded thick and dopey, like it belonged to someone else, someone who couldn’t even spell Shakespear.

George’s voice softened, almost tender. “See, isn’t that easier? No more thinking, no more overcomplicating things. Just smile, and trust whatever I, or anyone tells you.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, but his mind couldn’t focus. His thoughts were slipping away, replaced by something far simpler, far more primal.

“His thoughts now cloud with only two desires,

To lift, to bed, these things alone will stay.

His mind a fog, of neither will it tire,

And all else fades, in gym and bed to play.”

With those words, haze descended over Adam’s mind. Thoughts, once sharp and filled with wit, were now muddled, clouded with only two overpowering urges. He wanted to work out. He wanted to fuck. Everything else—his career, his pride, his intellect—faded into the background, meaningless, never to be seen again.

Images of bench presses flashed into his shrinking mind, the sensation of cold iron in his sweaty hands, the strain of his muscles as they bulged and flexed. And then there was sex—hot, mindless sex. His cock throbbed in his shorts, and the desire, the absolute need for physical release overwhelmed him, drowning out any other thought. Working out, fucking, working out, fucking, again and again and again. That was all that mattered now. Nothing else made sense, not like he could comprehend it anyways.

Adam tried to resist, to push through the fog, but alas, it was no use. His mind was too far gone, too consumed by primal urges. He let out a resonant, needy groan, his thoughts too disorganized to form any coherent plan of escape.

George watched with satisfaction as Adam’s transformation neared its end. With a triumphant smile, he delivered the final couplet.

“And now this man goes by initials who,

With knowledge slight, no higher than eight-two.”

As George’s last words took their hold, Adam felt the last remnants of his old self slip away, the final pieces of his mind shattering like glass into a distant oblivion. He wasn’t Adam anymore. He was… AJ. His name was AJ, always had been. That dumb, jockish grin became permanent across his face as his old life rewrote itself. His memories, once filled with scholarships, academic debates, tragedies and comedies, were now replaced by scenes of the gym, of flexing in front of the mirror, of fucking nameless faces in dark, sweaty backrooms.

His chest swelled with pride at the thought of lifting those heavy weights, of feeling the burn in his muscles as he pushed himself harder and harder. His thoughts were no longer burdened by complicated ideas or big words. They were simple, direct. Lift. Fuck. Repeat. That was it.

AJ blinked, his slack jaw hanging open as he stood there in front of George, his once bright mind now dim, sluggish, and focused only on the most basic of desires. His body reeked of fart and musk, his mind a tangled mess of lust and primal urges. His life as Adam, the intellectual, was gone. All that remained was AJ, a dumb, slutty, smelly jock.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork as AJ smiled dumbly at him, his eyes empty, his brain no longer capable of critical thought. “You look perfect, AJ,” George said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

AJ’s grin widened, his thick tongue lolling slightly as he scratched at his crotch. “Th-thanks… bro,” he slurred, his voice deep and stupid.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” George murmured, tilting AJ’s chin up so their eyes met.

AJ’s smile grew even wider, his lips twitching as he struggled to form words. “Yeah, bro,” he said, his voice slow and thick. “I’m… real good.”

George couldn’t help but laugh. AJ was exactly what he had imagined—empty-headed, obedient, and driven by nothing more than his primal instincts. “You won’t be needing any of those big words anymore, will you, AJ?” George asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

AJ shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly as if even that small movement required a great deal of effort. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled. “Big words are… uh… too hard.”

“Exactly,” George said, patting AJ’s cheek lightly. “And from now on, you’re going to live a very simple life. No more worrying about being better than anyone else. No more trying to prove how smart you are. You’ll be much happier this way. Just working out, fucking, and doing whatever you’re told.”

AJ nodded slowly, his thick muscles pulling and rippling beneath his skin as he flexed unconsciously. “Yeah, bro,” he agreed, his voice, like his mind, slow. “I like… liftin’... an’ fuckin’...”

“Now, AJ,” George said with command, “I think it’s time you head to the gym. You wouldn’t want to miss leg day, would you?”

AJ’s eyes widened slightly, the thought of working out sending a thrill of excitement through his body. “Leg day,” he repeated. “Yeah, bro. I gotta… lift.”

George smirked, watching diligently at his Frankenstein creation as AJ’s single-minded focus shifted completely to the gym. “That’s right, big guy. Go on, hit the weights, and make sure everyone sees how big and strong you are.”

AJ beamed, his dim-witted grin stretching even wider. “Gotta pump some iron.”  And as AJ disappeared into the distance, George sighed, knowing the man who’d once scoffed at him, at the very idea of magic and fate was now living proof of it’s power, his entire existence rewritten by just a few simple words. George smirked, satisfied once again, and waited for the next asshole to match with him on Hinge.

AJ, meanwhile, wandered toward the gym, his thoughts a jumbled mess of anticipation and primal urges. He could feel the weight of his bulging muscles with every step, the tightness of his tank top stretching across his massive chest. The constant itch in his groin had him adjusting his shorts every few seconds, a fart always ready in the chamber, and his cock already hard at the thought of the next guy he’d meet, or the next weight he’d lift.  He grinned stupidly, flexing his biceps as he prepared for the first set. “Let’s go, bro,” he muttered to himself, his voice thick with excitement. “Time to get swole.”

And with that, AJ’s transformation was complete. The man he had once been—Adam, the intellectual, the scholar—was gone, replaced by a farting, burping, simple-minded, horny, muscle-obsessed jock who lived only for the gym, for sex, and for any task any man asked for.

“Life’s good, bruh.”

[myfairstarlight]

I need to ramble about the wedding breakfast dance.

That is Colin and Penelope's "Stare into my eyes. (s1) / Just keep looking at me, no one else matters. (s2) / Keep your eyes on me. There is no one here but us (QC)" iconic couple dance scene except no word is exchanged the whole time.

Instead, we get a visual representation of that feeling as the room empties, and only them remain. Albeit the editing did not let us savour that long enough, where's the full footage in HD Netflix???

And I think it's a core aspect of a friends to lovers story and Polin's that is so under-appreciated, this silent understanding between the characters. They've known each other for years, they've always been comfortable when together, so in that moment, no word of reassurance is needed because they already know! They have always been each other's safe space, even before friendship turned into romantic love. After all, they just need one look and a nod, just like at their wedding, to be secure in the other's love. No one else matters indeed.

Furthermore, unlike the other couples who were scrutinised by the Ton at some point or another because of their match, with the unfortunate pressure that comes with it, Penelope and Colin were always more of the outcasts, gossiping on the side of balls and no one truly paid them any attention until very recently as they both forced themselves to take part in society (Penelope to seek a husband, Colin to be taken seriously). Their season is the first time the Queen (or Lady Danbury) does not meddle with the main couple! (I would add Violet to the list who was more withdrawn than in previous seasons and mostly focused on Francesca this season, but she did nudge Colin a little.)

As soon as they get together, they stopped caring about others' judgement, because why should they? The Ton did not care before, after all. Colin and Penelope dancing in broad daylight at their wedding breakfast was breaking some unspoken society rule, but even before that, dancing at the church (also in broad daylight), at the Mondrich ball as they break the dance routine to add a twirl. They simply do not care. In fact, they never truly respected propriety rules, have they? Calling each other by their given names (even a nickname on Colin's part), the letters, the many unchaperoned encounters (one of which they got caught by Portia and Jack and yet nothing happened), Colin refusing a dance with Cressida to dance with Penelope instead... it just never brought a scandal because, well, the Ton constantly overlooked them, so now Penelope and Colin return the favour by overlooking the Ton.

And it is so significant that despite the Whistledown issue still hanging over their head, it does not change the fact they have chosen each other, that they will keep being their most authentic selves with each other and act like the whole world around them does not exist because they have each other, and as long as they do, everything will be alright.

After all, it is Colin loving and supporting Penelope that will give her the courage to step into the light and face the Queen as Whistledown, and it is Penelope loving and supporting Colin that will inspire him to write and publish, and make him feel like he finally belongs.

Oh also shout out to Albion Finch, best brother-in-law, always delighted to see Penelope thriving <3

And credit to this post I saw on twitter that prompted me to write this.

[interstellarflare]

A Cinderella Story || Anthony Bridgerton

-PART FIVE-

Summary: Have courage, and be kind. Words that you tried to live by ever since the passing of your parents. Though your step-mother and step-sisters did everything in their power to hide you and your status away from the rest of the Ton, you never expected to catch the eye of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton himself.

Authors Note: This is my first Bridgerton series! I had an absolute ball writing this, and I hope you enjoy it! There is a tag list open if anyone wishes to be kept updated for future parts. Gif by @venusianbabie

|PART ONE| |PART TWO| |PART THREE| |PART FOUR|

With the house descending into silence, you allowed yourself a moment to collapse onto the lounge in the living room with a loud sigh. With tired eyes your gaze focused on the ceiling, staring at the crystal chandelier as it glittered brightly.

A small smile crossed your lips, grateful for the peace and quiet. Lady Worthington, Mary and Elizabeth had left for the ball mere minutes ago, all of them excited and nervous about their prospects for the night. You hoped that Elizabeth and Lord Burton would get a chance to speak tonight, she had been so beside herself before she entered the carriage to depart. They had travelled with the Cowper family, who had sneered at your person when you had helped the Worthington’s to the carriage.

The train attached to Lady Worthington’s dress was a nightmare to manage, all bundled up in your arms so as to not drop it in the mud at your feet. You were covered in it now, thanks to a harsh push from Cressida who sent you sprawling onto the ground. Luckily however, you managed to save the train though.

You felt the sting of tears prick your eyes, a sense of sadness overwhelming you. How had you become so unfortunate? To be stuck with a wicked witch for a stepmother, and two stepsisters that laughed at you upon your little trip in the dirt. Elizabeth hadn’t said anything, nor looked your way when Mary and Elizabeth started to cackle loudly. She merely turned away; her eyes downcast as she carried herself into the awaiting carriage.

You missed your father, you missed your mother. Their love and kindness was completely gone from this home, the home you had grown up in as a child. You cried into the cushions, sobbing loudly and desperately. You had never felt so alone, so vulnerable…so lost. You knew that they would want you to be brave, to stay strong, and to have hope that everything will work out in the end. Your mind flickered back to the book you were reading earlier that morning, of the fabled prince charming sweeping the princess off her feet, and living happily ever after.

Perhaps your prince charming was around the corner, perhaps he was waiting for you somewhere to take you away from this now horrid home, filled with heartache and distant memories-

There was a loud knock at the door, so loud that it echoed throughout the foyer and into the living room. You jumped with a small squeak, bolting upright in your position on the lounge. You wiped your eyes, drying your hands on your muddy dress and wiping your nose with your apron. It was unladylike surely, but you were not a Lady anymore. After trying and failing to make yourself look presentable, you hurried towards the door as the knocking sounded again. It sounded desperate, frantic even, your face contorting into a confused expression as you tried to think of who it could be.

It couldn’t be a visitor for Lady Worthington or her daughters, the rest of high society was at Lady Danbury’s ball, and it was way too late in the night for anyone to be here in the first place. So, who could it be? As you opened the door your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat as you recognised the man that stood before you.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton smiled, staring down at you with kind and soft expression. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, seemingly examining every inch of your face as he bowed politely.

“Miss Y/n, I apologise for calling so late, would I perhaps be able to come in-“

“Why are you here!?” You found yourself exclaiming, your eyes wide in shock as you felt your heart began to beat wildly. Anthony Bridgerton, one of the most distinguished men on all of the ton was standing on your doorstep. Why?

Anthony chuckled, his charming smile widening as he shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he replied lightly, finding amusement in your expression as it changed from shock to pure bewilderment.

“If you are here to see Lady Worthington or her daughters, they are gone” You replied shortly, your gaze falling nervously to the floor as you suddenly became very aware of your current state. You were completely covered in slowly drying mud, bloodshot eyes from crying, you no doubt looked like a complete wreck…wonderful.

Anthony hummed “I’m not here to see then, thank god. They arrived at the ball shortly after I left-“

“Why did you leave? Surely someone will notice your absence, and what will the ton think if you are found here, alone…with me-“

“My brother is good at coming up with excuses, I’m sure he’ll spin some wide tale about my whereabouts”.

“And is that something you wish to deal with?”

“Benedict can be a bit excentric at times, but I trust him wholeheartedly…” Anthony finished, clasping his hands behind his back and standing tall, “..now Miss Y/n, may I come inside? Or are you to leave your visitor out in the cold?”.

It hadn’t occurred to you until now, but as Anthony stood before you, you couldn’t help but notice how tall he truly was. You hadn’t noticed it this morning, but he towered over you, the top of your head just barely reaching his chin. You stared up into his eyes, searching for any sign of jest, that this was all some sort of joke, and a complete figment of your imagination conjured up by your saddened state.

But he was real, and he was here.

You released a short breath, a soft smile crossing your lips as you stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

Tag List:

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@f0x33 @123iloveyou456 @kaygilles @spilled-coffee-cup @maddielovesurmom321

[dollypopup]

I've been seeing so many bad faith takes from people who just. . .don't understand these characters or their love story, so here I am, taking them 1 by 1 lol

Let's start with potentially the lowest bar for Penelope

"I was rooting for Debling for Penelope!" aka: I didn't want Colin and Penelope to have their love story

Most of the justifications of this perspective come from the idea that an absent husband who leaves you lots of money and space for your hobbies is an ideal prospect. And you know what? You're right! For MOST women of the ton, this is an incredibly appealing proposition! That's why Cressida finds it so enticing. She wants what he can offer, a life away from her family (this is something she and Penelope have in common), a comfortable life in which she is alright with a lack of affection. I would argue most women on the marriage market during this time would agree. Marriage is a business transaction more than a fairy tale for them, for most women of this time, of the ton.

But Penelope is not most women of the ton. This perspective comes from a fundamental misunderstanding of her character. Her seeing marriage as a business transaction is her giving up on her dreams of being loved. People just assume that Penelope's greatest desire in life is to write Lady Whistledown, when this is absolutely not true. I even saw someone say that 'Penelope found her purpose'. But we know this is false

Because she says it herself. In Season 2, right after Colin talks to Marina and she calls him a boy caught up in his fantasies, the conversation is contrasted with Penelope, who tells him it's important to have dreams and fantasies, to be fanciful. And this *connects them*. It is the first truly open conversation we see between the two of them, and when he asks if she's found her purpose, she explicitly informs us what it is: Something that encourages her to be brave, and witty. Something that takes her far away from the watchful eyes of her Mama. Something that fulfills her.

Lady Whistledown is not any of those things. Lady Whistledown, sure, encourages her to be witty, but also encourages her to be cruel, to make painful decisions. Lady Whistledown does not encourage her to be brave, in fact, it only exists through her hiding and secrecy. And it keeps her beneath her Mama's thumb, as she is literally tied to the ton and it's going ons by writing it. No, Lady Whistledown is not her purpose. Writing is her passion, and I do argue that writing is ONE part of her purpose, absolutely!

But. . .what else?

Well. . . .love. Love and connection. *Love* is what inspires Penelope to be brave, Love and comfort with Colin encourages her wittiness, and Love is what will provide her an avenue for leaving her mum. Love is Penelope's greatest dream and desire. And I am NOT just talking romantic love here, but love of all sorts. Philautia (self love), Pragma (love of duty), Ludus (playful love), Agape (universal love), Storge (familial love), Philia (friendship), and, of course, Eros (romantic and sexual). Love with Eloise, Love in her family, Love and Respect in her community, and Love that is romantic and sexual in nature. Love with Colin.

But what Debling offers her is only one of those. He can only offer her a love of duty, respect in her community with a title, a pragmatic marriage with no passion, one in which she is expected to wait for him with fidelity as he lives his own passions, and she occupies herself with her own interests (so long as, very importantly, those interests do not make a fool of him, since he did, after all, dump her when he assumed she'd cheat on him when he was away) (cue me: 'is this your king????'-ing @ you all). I am flabbergasted that people would think Penelope would find happiness being alone and writing Whistledown as a married woman. . .when she did not find happiness being alone and writing Whistledown as a single woman. All that would change is her title, and that's not enough. She deserves better. She deserves more. She wants more.

When she asks him 'Could you ever love me?' he responds with several long excuses that amount to: No. No, he could never love her. He is too tied to his work, he does not know her. He has been talking to her for a week and had maybe what? 5 conversations with her about it? 1 of which was comparing her to a dead deer mounted on a wall (and I'll try not to read too much into the metaphor of Women shedding their names, a death of their old selves in their society, to become a literal trophy holed up in a rich man's house) and another was in which she insisted she. . .loved grass? Come on, people. Have a higher bar for this character you claim to like so much.

Another conversation they share is very telling, in which he asks about her hobbies. She informs she enjoys reading, and he finds it quaint, charming that she enjoys romances. But he does not find that in any way comparable to his own work. Debling respects Penelope as most men in his society respect women: as a pretty bauble with which to decorate his life. Not an equal. He is glad she has a quiet interest that will keep her where he feels she belongs: in his home, tending to his fortune and assets. He explicitly states he doesn't want a partner who shares his passions, who enjoys the outdoors, but simply an honest woman who will tend to his lair estate.

What Debling offers her is a life of pragmatism and expectancy, and in many ways, loneliness. Penelope would surely cultivate friendships in this time, but in accepting his offer, she even says she has 'come to terms' with what he can provide for her. Not that she is happy, not that it is what she *wants*, but that she has come to terms with it. That she will be content. She will fill her days with love stories she will never live, and write about the day to day of a ton that does not accept her. Maybe, just maybe, she can even have a family, and she, like her mother, like Marina, like other tragic women in her society, will find happiness in her children, and not in her own life.

But why should she? Penelope? Penelope wants love. Penelope wants acceptance and tenderness and passion, and that's why I am confident in saying that Penelope has not, in fact, given up on Colin. Not her love for him, at least. Her love for him has not faded, remains evergreen: we see it when she reads his journal, when she stands in the sun after their reconciliation and feels at peace for the first time in the season, when she laughs at his jokes, when she asks him to kiss her. She has given up on one thing only: her expectation of him fulfilling that love. And that's what makes it so heartbreaking that they're both pining for each other, thinking the other does not feel the same. Because Penelope knows (and she is RIGHT) that her and Colin have something special.

This is heart vs. head, and honestly, not even Penelope's head wants Debling.

The people who say they were hoping he and Penelope would end up together, y'all are Portia. Your expectations for Penelope are that she should be happy with money and a title and an absent partner. And then, the quiet part is 'She shouldn't be holding out for love'. She shouldn't be holding out for dreams.

But. . .why not? Colin is in every single way an amazing person for her. And he's proof that she should have held out, that waiting was worth it. That it had always been worth it.

Because it is *Colin* who is the gateway to all those forms of love.

Pragmatically, Colin has money a-plenty. He's in good standing in his society, he's rich, he's attractive, and he comes from a wonderful family. Furthermore, even from season ONE Daphne said that Colin can make an interaction interesting. He makes Penelope laugh, he's a good dancer, he's adventurous and loves to travel. And most importantly, he'd love to travel WITH her. Whilst Debling is attempting to narrow her world, Colin, in contrast, wants to open it to her.

Since her and Colin met as children, much of the start of their love story for him was first universal, and then familial in nature. When first her bonnet flew into his face and he fell, he had no reason to be kind about it, but he was. He has a kind nature. But then as they became acquainted, and she had a connection to Eloise, it morphed from his universal love and good will towards strangers, to that of a family friend. The comment that he sees her as one of his sisters was harsh, but it's also not BAD that this is a kernel of their love story. It bred familiarity with them, and lead into a genuine friendship. And my god, I could talk about their friendship for days.

Colin has been an amazing friend to Penelope. He checks in on her, he writers her letters, he asks how she's doing, he offers her his hand to lift her up, he refuses to let her speak badly of herself, he's protective of her, he finds her funny, he seeks her out because he values her perspective. Colin adores Penelope, and the last two seasons have proven it in so many ways. Even in his pursuit to help her find a husband, this is a selflessness he offers because he cares for her. His goal is not to curry favor with her, his goal is only to uplift her. He only wants to see her happy. He holds her in the highest esteem and sees her in such a beautiful light. And that leads into her self love, because what Colin said to Penelope in Season 2 Surely if Penelope can see me this way, surely I can as well-- that rings true for Penelope, as well. Colin loves her so dearly and sees her with such grace, that she is then inspired to bring that inwardly.

Debling is the death of her dreams, and Colin is her dream in fruition.

But it is also risky, and it is also, in some ways, foolish. He's not a sure choice for her, but he's the BEST choice. He represents passion and tenderness, he is the love story of all her books and fantasies. Because what Marina said to Colin, that he is caught up in his fantasies: Penelope is, too. That's what makes them such a good match. And so with him, she blooms. With him, she feels brave, and is witty, and will come out from her Mama's thumb and her expectations. And what's left after Pragma and Agape and Ludus and Storge and Philia?

Well. . .. It's Psyche and Eros, isn't it?

So, at the end of it, at the 11th hour, when Colin comes to her and he is honest, and he is vulnerable, and he doesn't know she feels this love for him and has for so long, and he spills open for her, Penelope knows she doesn't have to simply be content.

She knows she can be happy. Fuck your low expectations, she *can* and *should* have a love story.

And the one she lives with Colin is such damn good one.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

Penelope and her robe of power

Shoutout to @whistledownbad for invoking and taking this out of my subconscious. I didn't even realise I was thinking about this deeply (I shouldn't be surprised anymore since S3 has burrowed deep in my brain).

A short discussion on the Polisanity discord (a very very lovely, creative, and hilarious discord community of the residents of the Polin brainrot) showed me how this robe represents Pen's power-- not just in sexuality but in her character.

And it is shown on moments where she loses something, where her power was seemingly taken from her.

S3Ep3 - Forces of Nature

The first time we see this robe, Pen has just lost a flirting battle against Cressida for Debling's attention while pretending to be someone she is not. She looks defeated and annoyed which contrasts a similar scene on Ep 2 (after the fan encounter) where she looks more embarrassed and slightly amused at the situation.

S3Ep4 - Old Friends

The second time we see it is at the beginning of Ep 4. Pen is losing her battle from her resolve to follow the familiar tide of the marriage mart (I elaborate more on this scene here because it's not just Pen who is losing their resolve) on the day that Debling asks for Portia's permission to propose to Pen (where we get this poignant statement from Portia about security being romantic. Which I actually agree on coming from a poor family/country. Also, can I just say Nicola looks absolutely stunning in this scene).

She is distraught and seem to be in the middle of convincing herself that she is doing the right thing.

S3Ep5 - Tik Tok

In the middle of the chaotic 24hrs of Penelope's life (where she gets proposed to by the love of her life and experiences her first sexual encounter), she is seen crying and having to write about herself on Whistledown for the 2nd time for the current season (she probably writes about herself regularly in the column so as not to arouse suspicion but she would have most likely focused on mundane things) when we see this robe for the third time.

She loses the chance to feel completely and irrevocably happy about her engagement when Eloise points out that she is harboring a heavy secret from the man who just lovingly confessed that he would rather feel tortured with love for her than to carry on living.

S3Ep6 - Romancing Mr. Bridgerton

Ahhh...Pen and this robe. I'm so curious now what actually is the design on the robe and the decision behind using it for these scenes.

The fourth time we see this robe, Pen seemingly decides to lose Whistledown forever, hiding a part of herself in the "name of love". A crossroad that she never thought she'd have to go through when she began that season, Pen gives up all power and decides (tentatively) to follow her mother's advise. It's admirable on one part as real life will tell you that sometimes, there are sacrifices you need to make for your partner. But this really is sometimes up for debate whether that action is made in love, out of love, or for love (or not at all). I've always thought that Pen also suffers the same hero complex that Colin has albeit more subtle than his. I think this was part saving Colin (from whatever trouble Whistledown brings) and also part penance for what her writing and decisions have put him through regarding Marina.

AND THEN-- the last last time on this season that we see her in it is so viscerally powerful that it probably made everyone forget that:

This wasn't the same wedding night robe (where Colin openly lusted on Pen and stubbornly wasted his opportunity).

That whenever we saw Pen on this robe in the earlier episodes, she seemed to be unhappy and devoid of power and agency within herself.

S3Ep8 - Into the Light

This wonderfully and deliciously short scene encapsulates Pen's embracing of her power-- the parts that she has been losing and letting go whenever she wears this robe. I also love that it's with Colin that she finally embodies the full strength of this power.

Come S4, I need this robe to be slowly taken off by Mr. Bridgerton off of Mrs. Bridgerton please.

[waitingtobreatheagain]

You know what I hate real real bad?

How people mischaracterize Colin (they do the same to Pen but I am going to make that a separate post for her) when we have proof that directly goes against their claims.

"Colin did not see Pen as worthy"

"Colin did not have love for/care for Pen/or pay attention to her until season 3"

"Colin does not truly love her it's only lust"

I understand having your own opinion but there are times when the opinion is OBJECTIVELY WRONG. I also don't like how folks have chosen to do this to likely the kindest male lead we'll have who expressed his love for his partner CONSTANTLY and CONSISTENTLY.

Those aren't the only things I've heard or seen but they are among the biggest misconceptions. Outside of not realizing the extent of his feelings for Pen until a catalyst (the first kiss, while we also see in the first two episodes moments that are also leading up to the realization), it is and has never been that he sees Pen as unworthy he sees HIMSELF as unworthy. WE see this even after he knows that she returns his feelings which he did not even know until the carriage. After the carriage and even while he is working through the LW reveal, he still does not feel worthy of her which is a big part of Pen reminding him in words and actions that being him makes him more than worthy. We see how worthy he sees her when he tells her to never forget that SHE is Penelope Featherington. We also see it when he is absolutely puzzled during the first kiss scene at the fact that Pen sees herself in such a self-deprecating way. He can not even imagine a life for her that is not reflecting the very best.

Next, Colin is arguably the main person we see show a genuine interest in Pen as well as truly treasuring her in his life. From dancing with her in a protective fashion after Cressida through a drink at her, having conversation together where they are the only people who get what they are saying and what it means, getting involved with Jack's plot in order to protect Pen and by extension the Featheringtons because that is Pen's family, writing to her and seeing her correspondence as his most treasured, laughing with each other on multiple occasions, seeking her out for either conversation or a dance no matter what whenever they come across each other at a social gathering. I could go on and that's just in the first two seasons. Not showing romantic interest does not mean that he did not deeply love and care for her. Colin and Pen mutually made each other feel seen and understood in a way in no one else did...is that not an expression of love? If Colin had not already treated Pen in the way he had she likely would not have fallen so deeply in love with him. Colin being so loving, caring, kind, understanding, interested in Pen and what she had going on, and much more also plays a role in why she is able to forgive him for his thoughtless comment last season. He reflects the character we have known him to be towards the end of S3 E1 when we see a genuine apology where he takes accountability tells Pen how much she means to him and seeks out how he can make up for his mistake.

Lastly, the Colin does not love her and only lusts for her is just not even kind of true. We are talking about the same man who has expressed his love (whether via 'i love yous', in his words, actions, looks, closeness, etc.) for his partner so so so often and in such a way we likely will never see with another pairing. This the man who would prefer sleep than to be awake because in his dreams they were in love and together. The same man where his whole world was topsy turvy following his realization of those same feelings. The same man whose dream about Pen that STARTED with Pen returning his feelings of love for her then led to a hot makeout. The same man who put it all on the floor and said societal rules be damned (as he always did with her) because even if it was unrequited he was going to let Pen know just how much he loved her and wanted to be with her...to show her that one person in her life would be willing to fight her no matter the opponent or cost because she would always be worth it. The same man who stood up to her mother to show that she would no longer be allowed to treat the love of his life in such an ugly way. The same man who expresses his love for Pen without ceasing and even when we did not hear the expressions as much (while working through the LW reveal and his own insecurities). The same man who turned his fianceé around so that she could only day see and believe everything he loved about her for herself. The same man who put so much intention into their first time so that it reflected something they were doing together. The same man who was so in love enamored and joyful to be with the love of his life that it felt like his first time. The same man who even when never considered not marrying Pen even at his most heartbroken and angriest DUE to how much he loved her and knowing and believing that she felt the same. The same man who when he sees her come down the aisle he forgets everything else and only thinks about how lucky he is to marry his favorite person, his best friend, and the love of his life. The same man who has given us arguably the most touching love confession that will be so hard to beat because he expresses not only how much loves and admires Pen; he expresses what he was struggling with (how he overcame it and reframed it) and how he realized that his ultimate joy and privilege in this one life he gets to live is to be able to love and be loved by her. The love is on display in countless ways. While we also know that they match each other's freak real bad and have palpable passion and desire for each other...the love is and has always been the center even before they knew the love was requited.

I don't know which Colin Bridgerton alot of folks saw but it was not the one we have seen from season 1, 2, or 3. Do you have to love Colin/Pen/Polin/or their story with your whole heart like me? Of course not. I can't allow the blatant and incorrect character assassination though. Turn your brains on, I beg.

[grace-williams-xo]

RAMBLING THOUGHTS AFTER FINISHING PART TWO. GONNA ADDRESS MY P1 THOUGHTS FIRST. SPOILER WARNING.

1 & 2: I think Debling could’ve worked in the second half, and I’m kinda sad Cressida didn’t get a happy ending. The Creloise fell of a CLIFF after ep 5 but I think it could still be saved

5: no cishet man has ever loved his wife more than Anthony Bridgerton I’m gonna be ill

6 & 12: kanthony’s absence was felt BAD in the finale, I think their reactions to LW were sorely needed. Also Jonny and Simone have both said they’ll be at every sibling’s wedding and stick around for years but they missed Francesca’s??? Also felt their absence too much then. They’re both booked and busy I think we’ll continue to only get a couple episodes a season from them

8: Francesca did get to thrive happy in pt 2 my baby I love her

9: I think they managed to disconnect the mondrich plot even further like 😭 once again, I don’t mind them their plot just feels very empty

10: Pen and Delacroix CONTINUE to be my fave duo I love them so freaking much and they can never get rid of it

13: Portia’s growth this season continued to be 10/10 I loved her and Penelope’s relationship it really showed what it’s like to be closely related to people you oppose and the process of needing to forgive and understand them for your own peace of mind

14: that was not how I was expecting Colin to find out about Whistledown

15: Marcus felt a little rushed in part two but I think I need to watch the whole season together to fully decide

17: this was indeed the longest 27 days of my life I got Covid day after it dropped lmfao

MY ~NEW~ THOUGHTS:

We finally got character development from Cressida and if they write her out I’ll be inconsolable (as will Jessica Madsen)

I hope they paid Golda Rosheuvel good for her feet exposure. Worth more than titties in this economy

I feel the need to tell everyone that £5000 in 1815 is in the realm of £500,000 today and we cannot brush over the fact Penelope has made herself the equivalent of a literal millionaire

Anthony has two moods ‘I’m obsessed with my wife’ ‘I want to win this game’ like it is comical how drastically different his facial expression is in the game of charades compared to pretty much every other scene

Anthony saying the marriage is perfect and not hard work and Kate being like BOY I will humble you,,,, doing the lord’s work I love her so much

At some points I felt like Francesca was fighting Anthony for ‘Violet’s least favourite child’ award lmao

John saying he’s off to look at the wainscotting was unfairly funny

Cressida in the red dress is even better than I imagined fuck even if she’s not gay then I am

Peneloise back together the universe is healing I love my babies all we need now is creloise lovers and peneloise friendship simultaneously I don’t like it being one or the other sue me

However much Brimsley is getting paid isn’t enough,,,, Hugh Sachs the man that you are

I adored Penelope’s wedding dress so much and as bitter as I am still about no kanthony wedding in s2, it felt kind of right somehow for Polin to be the first wedding we properly see in this show

Most of the costumes and makeup feel like they got worse,,,,, big ‘I hired a 14 year old’ energy. I don’t need historical accuracy but I would like a modicum of care and the costume/hair/makeup dept looking at a single historical reference from before 1850,,,, please

We all got the bi Benedict we’ve been asking for and I appreciate it, and recognise that he needed Tilley to explore that, but I still would’ve preferred if they first main queer experience was not a threesome

If they go straight into benophie in s4 (which idk, I’m so torn bc I feel like F, E and B all could work well next season) then I also feel like bi Benedict was just them throwing a bone for 5 mins but meant nothing

The CONTENTIOUS Michaela Stirling,,,,, I was undecided until I saw it but that was the definition of gay panic from Francesca and it worked so well I am so excited.

As your resident peerage expert, it is much easier for women to inherit titles in Scotland than England so I wonder (not that anyone on this show knows anything) if that was a reason they chose Francesca to be sapphic [general peerage info and female inheritance info if you care]

On the above, if they can canonically end racism with one marriage then they can end homophobia with one marriage as well

We all know Eloise was the easy and obvious choice to be the queer love story but part of me does kind of like them not taking the easy route, and them going something more unexpected, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want Creloise/Sapphic El like they had eight children let’s be honest

Finch’s sneeze and Phillips’s “now Varely! The bugs!” were unfairly funny

Everything Lady Danbury said to Penelope about suspecting her and what not felt very in character and you can fight with the wall idc

Did they tell us the name of Polin’s baby boy???

Hyacinth saying she thinks of Gregory as the family pet,,,,, girl you an icon walking amongst mere mortals

Predictions I got right:

Anthony didn’t kill Colin, but “are you gonna duel your own brother” lmao I was on the right track

I knew Polin would win the Featherington baby race and I love that for them (but why were Prudence and Phillipa pregnant most of the season, barely showing, Kate was showing almost immediately, and then in the epilogue the sisters all had baby’s similar-ish ages???? Give the writers room a calendar please)

I SAID FROM DAY DOT THAT THE FURNITURE THEY BROKE FROM SEX WAS A CHAISE I CANT FIND THE POST BUT I KNEW IT I FUCKING KNEW IT WHERE DO I COLLECT MY PRIZE SOME OF YOUR GUESSES WERE TRULY FUCKING COOKED

Okay that was too long if you made it this far I’ll make you cookie ily

[austenhowe]

when do you think cressida realizes that eloise has completely forsaken her?

because before she found out penelope was lady whistledown she still thought she was the one to completely break their friendship by allowing her mother to write disparagingly about the bridgertons.

she did not know that eloise already knew who lady whistledown was when she asked for her help to write the column. she probably thought that eloise cut their friendship because her assuming the mantle of lady whistledown implies that she was the one who wrote ruinous things about her last season.

do you think she realizes that this was the reason for the fallout of eloise and penelope's friendship once she found out who the real lady whistledown was? do you think she realizes that eloise knew and that she was content to let her take the fall for perez hilton featherington? that she refused to help her knowing that she wasn't the real lady whistledown and knowing that she was desperate to escape her circumstances? and that she could not even spare her a sympathetic ear even if she didn't want to help and instead doubled down in drawing the line in the sand by cutting their friendship?

how would she feel about that when she finally works it out? when she realizes that eloise did not value their friendship as much as she did? that she probably never even valued her as a person capable of deep thoughts, of feelings, of dreams? (please don't get me started with the whole, "I did enjoy her at the start" line they gave eloise, my god that was cold)

do you think the show will even give the space for cressida to have these realizations in the next season or am I out of my mind to expect them to actually do cressida's character justice? (the show did love to laugh at her misfortune)

even if they never acknowledge this aspect of their break-up, cressida has a long carriage ride to wales to reflect on this betrayal (yes I will call it a betrayal, of their friendship and of eloise's character development in part 1) and god only knows what kind of mindset she'll end up having after realizing that she is truly alone, unwanted, unloved, and unworthy of help.

I hope at the very least that this informs her character in the next season and that we see her finding her purpose, her strength, and her place in or out of polite society. I don't ask for much. I just want her to have a good, loving, and happy life, with or without eloise.

I'll take creloise endgame if they actually manage to fix what they broke when they wrote eloise as OOC as possible so that they could have their penelope and eloise friendship as quickly as they could. I don't know about other people, but I do have standards and that includes EARNED reconciliations. I find it so cheap and lazy when writers just skip to the good part, like have some respect for your viewing audience.

I don't know why I'm still mad about this but you really shouldn't put a character that's doomed by the narrative in front of me and expect me to just leave it to die in a ditch.

I'll always root for the underdog, especially one that's been beaten down and publicly dragged through the mud for daring to escape their doomed fate.

[extremely-judgemental]

Welcome to another one of my long rants!

Media has been violence porn for men since forever with female characters reduced to no more than an object to project their fantasies onto. So, when I read a book written by a so-called feminist woman who writes about badass female leads and feminist characters, and uses major societal issues to push her narratives, I’m expecting her to treat them for what they are and not brownie points for her creativity and aesthetics for her characters.

I'm glossing over every abuse mentioned in the ACOTAR books. I won't be taking responsibility for your reactions if you choose to read.

SJM loves trauma dumping, especially on her female characters. Whether a lead or a supporting role, every one of them undergoes a form of abuse.

Feyre is sexually assaulted by Rhysand for two months on top of being starved, imprisoned and forced to participate in life-threatening games. After this, she becomes a victim of domestic violence at Tamlin’s mansion. But in her apparent safer life with Rhysand, she’s thrown into the house of the Weaver—a death god whom even the ‘most powerful HL’ himself is afraid of. From there, the amount of physical violence she suffers is lessened though she becomes a perpetrator herself. And then, there is the impossible pregnancy (because even in a book about her sister, Feyre can’t take a fucking backseat) that even the best minds in the Prythian can’t save her from (since apparently these two bigger-than-thou are the only ones to ever mate or crossbreed).

Nesta is abused at the hands of her mother and grandmother, and she’s neglected by her father. She’s sexually assaulted by the man she intended to marry. She’s thrown into the Cauldron against her will and killed—which is equivalent to SA. She’s exploited in a war when she has no experience or training. She’s verbally abused by her sister’s family and disrespected. She’s imprisoned, tortured and tamed like an animal by the man she’s meant to end up with. She’s emotionally manipulated and psychologically abused by Cassian in the entirety of SF. She’s sexually abused by a Kelpie and to some extent by Lanthys. She’s kidnapped again and thrown into a game where she’s hunted and expected to kill.

Elain suffers the same fate as Nesta during the transformation. She’s later kidnapped by Hybern and the Cauldron during the war. (And in her book, I will bet anything that either some heinous abuse she suffered in the past from Graysen/his father or before her rescue from Hybern’s camp will come up, or she will be abused somehow by at least one man. Given how Rhysand abused Feyre and Cassian abused Nesta, I won’t be surprised if SJM drags Lucien down the same path as well because that woman’s idea of romance is hurting someone and apologising which is the equivalence of vulnerability in her stories. She would even use the ‘fire in his veins’ to push this, something he couldn’t control or whatever.)

Morrigan is brutalised by her father and dumped naked in unknown lands. Her abuse is so grotesquely described and too twisted for her crime of sleeping with a man out of wedlock.

Emerie loses her wings to wing-clipping, an improper method no less. Later on, she is abused by her father after he killed his wife in the same way. She even digs her own mother’s grave on his orders. She’s kidnapped and forced into Blood Rite for being a woman and wanting to never be abused by men again.

Gwyneth is r*ped by Hybern men. And she suffers the same as Nesta and Emerie for wanting to grow stronger and defend herself in the future.

Lady Autumn is abused by her husband.

Cressida suffers under Amarantha’s rule. (I don’t remember how exactly but I know it was mentioned somewhere. Remind me if you know.)

Clotho, other priestesses—all of them end up in the library after they suffered at the hands of men. They are too afraid of the world and broken by their trauma that they are content to spend the rest of their years never once leaving the library even for daily lives.

Almost every woman in SJM’s books is tormented in so many ways and it’s always the men who perpetuate it. And this is a theme that spans over all of her books, not just this series. Micah abuses Bryce. Pollux SA’s Lydia. I haven’t read TOG nor am I planning to, but I know there’s something in there to pick about.

I don’t mind a little violence and I don’t mind representation of such issues in a female oriented books. What I can’t tolerate is the idea is that a woman has to endure such things and rise above it all and only then she can be labelled ‘strong’.

Elain is the only soft character so far as SJM wants to keep that ‘inclusive writer’ status, and this pattern is also seen in the CC series where June is the only soft-spoken female and every other woman is either rageful or a fighter.

These characters are introduced with violence, their whole identity revolves around this. Their emotional intelligence, capacity and growth all stem from violence and how they heal from it. Feyre’s MO is her hunting and her trauma. But there’s no self-reflection to drive her growth. It’s her relationship with Rhysand that takes precedence and even then the SA is swept under the rug. Same with Nesta—her trauma is on the forefront while her healing is so vague and none of her real issues are ever addressed. In fact, violence is a core part of her healing. During majority of her screen time, Elain cries, suffers and gets rescued. Morrigan is all hatred and trauma and wine. Emerie and Gwyneth have depth but the first thing anyone recognises in either of them is their trauma—Emerie’s wings and Gwyneth’s indefinite abode in the library.

Clotho’s past alone is enough to prove SJM’s obsession with women’s pain. Clotho is not a major character and she has little screen time and yet her abuse is described in such detail for pages and often. Even a fleeting character like Lady of Autumn suffers the same fate. SJM’s idea of cruelty in men is perpetuating physical violence against women.

Moreover, all of these characters have the sense of justice and power which are strongly rooted in these abuses. None of them see the cruelty in the world and choose to stand up to it or fight it unless they have suffered too. As if one can have strength and courage only if they have been broken down by a man first. Like their fight can’t be driven by kindness and compassion for the people around them.

See, my female hero doesn’t have to be abused by every man as a trial for her to overcome. She doesn’t have to be a siren 24x7 seducing men left and right. She doesn’t have to sleep around with different men every night to let me know she’s likeable. She doesn’t have to kill in every chapter to be strong or brave. She doesn’t have to be sex on stick to be beautiful. She doesn’t have to have big boobs or ass in leathers to be beautiful. She doesn’t have to be thin and fair to desirably moderately tanned or dressed in skimpy dresses to nothing at all times. And she doesn’t have to have miracle sex with her abuser partner to heal every one of her traumas.

It’s infuriating how criticising these books calls for such hatred when these topics are exposed to young audience without proper warnings or sensitive measures. These are defended as written for and marketed to NA as if the brains of the 17 year olds level up to the full functioning adult brain overnight when they turn 18. The first book is still sold as YA and there is no warning in it either for the amount of violence, gore, SA in it. Even if the latter books are NA, someone who reads the first one in a series is bound to pick up the sequels.

SJM hides behind these technicalities and refuses to educate herself or take accountability for all these toxic narratives she’s passing off as feminism and ideal romantic relationships. She shouldn’t be writing about these topics as she herself has a warped concept of violence and she can’t recognise the different kinds of SA and uses it freely to pass them as sexual tension like in case of Feyre and Nesta.

She’s not the best fantasy writer out there. She’s not a progressive, feminist writer. She doesn’t even respect her own female characters for more than playing out her fantasies with these ‘ideal’ men she created in her head. If anything, SJM writes like a man who hates women.

[hufflegruff]

girl the way i RAN when i saw you asking for requests as a break from a knowing look!!! if youre down to maybe do something like hurt comfort vibes? with sebastian x MC? like mayhaps they’re fighting and MC gets hurt and protective Sebastian comes out? literally in love with everything you’ve written!!! you’re amazing! <3

I was meant to write a drabble but somehow this became a NOVEL?! Good lord. I really wanted to do it justice!!! I hope you guys still enjoy it!!!

It takes a disaster

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader Word Count: 5k Contains: Fluff, angst, making out!!! Requested: The lovely @ithinkweallsing and @musicbecky had similar requests about protective Seb x hurt MC so I combined both :)

Summary:

“And why didn’t you think to tell me that you were struck by a bloody unforgivable curse before you fell lifelessly onto the fucking floor!” He yelled. She winced at the loudness of his voice.  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch the love of your life almost die in your fucking arms?” His deafening voice echoed through the chambers of the hospital wing.  She stared at him, mouth agape.  Sorry, was she dreaming? What was that he just said? 

It takes a disaster

When she first resigned to the pitiful fact that she was very likely in love with Sebastian Sallow, she accepted her fate. Doomed to suffer in an unrequited love she held for her best friend. 

Merlin, it was such a cliché. 

Honestly, she would have laughed at herself if it didn’t also feel so pathetically miserable.

Somewhere along the way, amid catacombs and restricted sections and ancient relics, she found herself becoming dissatisfied with just friendship. And before she could even catch herself, she had already fallen. Buried ten feet underground by the weight of her own despicable, cavernous feelings. 

Because they’d been best friends for long enough for her to know that Sebastian Sallow flirted like his livelihood depended on it. If courting witches was a sport, he’d be a professional. It came to him as naturally as breathing. 

That was why Cressida Blume battered her eyelashes so feverishly everytime he was near. And why Samantha Dale had been so Goddamn adamant on being her potions partner, so she could siphon hints on how best to charm the Slytherin for herself.

And why she would never entertain the idea that any of Sebastian’s pretty words could be anything more than lip service. 

So she went out of her way to find reasons to keep herself busy. Taking jobs and doing favours for townsfolk in the vicinity, so that she wouldn’t have to sit with her own feelings. Or Sebastian himself. Hoping that by the time it came for them to leave Hogwarts, that she would find peace and leave her feelings for him in the deepest depths of the castle. 

The distance would help. It just had to. 

Unfortunately for her, when she had said that she was heading to the poacher camp up in the Poidsear coast by her lonesome, Sebastian insisted that he absolutely had to come along.

“Don’t be daft. Of course I have to come with you. Who else is going to swoop in when your sorry arse needs saving?” He teased.

She was almost offended, “I don’t need a babysitter, Sebastian.”

“Not a babysitter,” he clarified, “A knight in shining armor,” with a dashingly flirtatious smile.

She felt her heart flutter, and cursed his annoyingly perfect fluffy hair for it. What business did it have looking so attractive? Honestly, the cheek of these Slytherin boys to say such rousing things.

Ominis, Sebastian and herself had been lazing in the grass in front of the main school grounds. But with a deft wave of his hand Seastian beckoned over his broom, and it zipped obediently over. 

“Come on. Let’s go.” Sebastian said easily.

“What? Right now?” She replied in disbelief.

“Well, I don’t see anything better to do. Do you?”

From beside him, Ominis piped up annoyed, “Um, excuse me. Did we not agree that we needed to finish our group project today so as to not suffer the wrath of Sharp’s horrid temper?”

Silently, she thanked Ominis for the diversion and prayed Sebastian would take it.

“Like I said. Nothing better to do.” Sebastian reiterated shamelessly. 

Ominis rolled his eyes, “Absolute moron you are. Whatever. Take him off my hands for all I care.”

Well that didn’t go at all the way she hoped.

“But I’ve… not even stocked up on my potions.” She said weakly.

Sebastian wasn’t having it.

“Come on, it’s just a routine poacher clear out! I’ve got a couple of Wiggenwelds on me. You know it’s going to be a cakewalk for the both of us.” 

She could never say no to him. Not when he looked at her like that. She imagined that most girls couldn’t either. An ugly, decrepit feeling bubbled up in the pit of her stomach. But she willed herself to push the unhelpful thought down and out of sight. 

“Fine.” She caved with a haughty flip of her hair, “But try to keep up. I don’t want to have to take care of you out there.”

In a ridiculously exaggerated display of chivalry, he offered her his hand and led her onto the broom with a coy smile.

“Ladies first.”

This boy was going to be the death of her. The ride to Poidsear would all but confirm that. 

Sebastian had insisted that she sit in front of him to steer — and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand how she had willingly agreed to put herself in this position. His breath was right in the crook of her neck, and his warm hands were wrapped all too tightly around her waist. Did he really think that she could steer like this? She was appalled at how totally inconsiderate he was by being so oblivious to her feelings. 

She could hardly hear her own thoughts — not even the intrusive ones — let alone focus on the fly.

Was he doing this on purpose? Because it was annoying.

The singularly, most vexing thing he could do in fact. She had a mission to concentrate on. She didn’t need to be sidetracked. She hadn’t even wanted him and his distracting face to come along in the first place.

“Merlin. Hold me any tighter and I might burst, Sebastian.” She tried her best to make it sound casual. With the light cadence of a joke, and not the high stakes affair it felt like.

“Well, I can’t risk having you falling to an untimely death under my watch. I’d never hear the end of it from Ominis. Or Samantha. For killing her potions partner at such a crucial time in the academic year,” He joked. 

His tone was teasing, but she hated that his words sounded so… carefree. Completely unbothered. It bruised her heart more than she liked to admit, but it hurt her to know that he probably thought that this was the same as being in close proximity to Anne. 

And why the bloody hell did he have to mention Samantha Dale at a time like this? Unprompted and all. Teenage boys really had no tact. If that had been a glimpse into Sebastian’s mind, she didn’t want to see it. Lock it up and throw away the keys and unleash it into the depths of the black sea to never be found. 

If she just ignored it, and never faced it head on, maybe her heart would break a little bit softer. 

“Right.” She replied curtly, willing the dejection she felt to go away.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” 

“No.” 

He paused in contemplation, before declaring, “You’re upset.”

He had said it so matter of factly she almost couldn’t disagree with him. Almost. She cursed herself for not being able to hide the bitterness in her voice better. She cursed him for noticing this of all things.

“Don’t be silly. I’m not.” She retorted harshly.

When the words left her mouth, she quickly regretted them. She felt guilty for how unnecessarily rude it sounded. But she couldn’t talk about this. There was objectively no good way to explain why she seemed so irrationally bothered without emotionally vomiting her feelings onto him.  

But before she could apologise, he chose to let it go. 

And she didn’t know if she felt relieved or even more devastated.

The rest of their journey to Poidsear was endured in silence. When they finally arrived, they landed just at the precipice of the poacher camp. It was time to get serious, she mentally chided herself. There was simply no time to torment herself with such frivolous nonsense.

They kept out of sight behind a mountain of crates next to a tent. Making sure to stay hidden, she briskly surveyed the scene. She could see from the corner of her eye, a family of hippogriffs chained in cages by the Eastern front. But getting to them would be no easy feat; the area was littered with Ashwinders at every corner. 

“God. There’s more of them than I thought.” She whispered to herself.

“Worried? How very unlike you.” Sebastian raised a brow in response.

“Not at all. It’s just you would think that these degenerates would have more productive things to do with themselves than taking magical creatures as prisoners.” She whispered with a scoff.

She had not even one ounce of respect for the Ashwinders, especially those of the poaching variety. Those who made a nefarious career out of hunting innocent, majestic creatures for blood sport were the worst of them.

To her surprise, when she turned to look at Sebastian, he was looking straight at her with an enigmatic smile.

And then suddenly, she felt self-conscious.

“What?” She whispered nervously.

Sebastian murmured warmly, “This is a little nostalgic is it not?”

“How so?”

“You. Me. The exhilarating thrill of getting caught at any moment. Feels like fifth year doesn’t it?” His voice was lower than usual, quieter, with a hint of something dastardly alluring. 

It made her heart skip an alarming amount of beats and her skin shiver at the sound of it. She felt an outrageously girlish impulse to snog him and hex him and run far, far away from him all at once. What she would give for him to have a taste of his own medicine. Even if he wasn’t in love with her, maybe she still could grab him by the collar and kiss him silly until his lips were bruised. 

Maybe that would finally fluster him. 

Because by God, he deserved to be put in his place for all the bloody grief he unknowingly gave her.

He was looking at her so affectionately, and that was just so uncalled for. Honestly, she didn’t know how he managed to flirt so skilfully even in the face of imminent danger. In the near vicinity of bloodthirsty dark wizards. If she wasn’t so conflicted by it all she would be impressed. She imagined that Sebastian Sallow could probably flirt with Death himself and get away with it. 

Perhaps that would be a rather useful quality in an Auror. Perhaps, when they were back in the safety of the castle, she would suggest it as a fitting career path for him—

“Look what we have here. A little far from Hogwarts aren’t we?”

She felt her blood freeze over at the sound of the new voice. Sebastian stiffened. A sinister chill ran up her spine.

When she turned, she was greeted by the menacing smile of an Ashwinder, cloaked in shadows. And almost as if the Hermes had struck her himself, the girl wonder retaliated at reckless speeds and pointed her wand with venomous hostility at the dark wizard in front of them.

Fuck. She cursed internally. Her guard had been irresponsibly down. She hadn’t even heard him approach them.

Sebastian probably sensed her panic, and squeezed her hand twice.

Once to comfort her, the second to ask her to follow his lead.

Raising his hands up in mock surrender, Sebastian said sardonically with a wry smile “Sir, we were just passing by the area. We didn’t know that this was private property. Terribly sorry for the intrusion. If you allow us, we’ll be on our way now.” 

The Ashwinder scoffed, “Save it kid, I know exactly who you two meddlesome brats are.”

“Oh well that’s unfortunate.” Sebastian said patronisingly.

Her grip on her wand tightened. She wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but she knew that she had to be ready. 

“Why’s that?” The Ashwinder asked with a laugh.

“Because that means I have to do this.” 

And suddenly, with a swift motion, Sebastian lunged forward with his wand. And almost as if by blind, brazen instinct, her own hands followed suit. 

“Confringo!”

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!”

Red, green, and blue. The colours of their spells cackled at lightning speeds against the howling wind. 

But soon enough their commotion caused a ruckus, and it became an army against two measly bodies.

“Shit!” Sebastian cursed under his breath.

And frankly, she had to give it to them to their credit, these Ashwinders proved to be pretty formidable adversaries. They moved faster than the others did. And their spells missed her more narrowly than they normally did. But still, actually hitting her was the aim. Close enough wasn’t good enough, and she was determined to make sure that they would never achieve it. 

She’d make sure of it — they didn’t call her the girl wonder for nothing. 

Spells collided and echoed around her, the acrid scent of fire filling her nostrils. If peril were a smell, this is what she imagined that it would smell like.

And in the midst of the chaos, without a surge of power erupted from one of the Ashwinders. Like a strike straight out of God’s hand — with a single, severe flash of light — a calamitous spell was unleashed, enveloping the camp grounds in a sheathe of blinding white. 

And when the light became less blinding, she found herself separated from Sebastian. 

Panic welled up within her as she searched the battlefield, her heart pounding in her chest. 

"Sebastian!" She called out.

Where was Sebastian?

Fuck. That wasn’t good. She needed to find Sebastian. 

Like insidious tendril vines, fear crept into her veins. Yet she willed the anxiousness in her brain to focus; willed it to calm down. Sebastian was a capable wizard. He could handle a few pesky Ashwinders. 

Just as capable as she was. 

Because with a flick of her wrist, shields shattered and hexes were deflected. With every spell she cast, the wind sang as her curses hit bodies, like a force of nature answering her call. One by one Ashwinders fell under the weight of her unyielding assault. 

But then a piercing hex sliced right through her defences. 

Her protego shattered, and she was thrown backward into a mess of limbs onto the ground. 

“Crucio!”

The sound of the spell sent chills down her spine. It brought her back to the scriptorium. It brought her back to a shadow of Sebastian that she had been trying to forget. 

But before she could run, scream, dive or react — it reached her. 

And just as torturously as it had the very first time she endured it, pain erupted through her body as she was thrown backward, limbs contorting as she crumbled in agony onto gritty soil. Back then, it had felt as if lightning had struck every single nerve ending in her body. This time it felt like she was burning under a flame that was twice as brutal.

The pain was relentless. Her mind screamed for respite, for any brief release from this torture. She clawed at the ground, gripping her nails deep into the dirt, as if seeking solace in the earth itself. But there was no escape. No reprieve.

Through the haze of pain, she caught glimpses of the Ashwinder that had casted the curse. Even through her blurry vision, she could see that they were gloating. Content at how they had reduced her to nothing more than a writhing, broken vessel.

And God, that pissed her off immensely.

If they could sense the literal thunder in her veins, she wondered if they would be so cavalier?

She didn’t think so.

Through gritted teeth; through sheer determination, she struggled onto her feet with her body shaking in defiance. Summoned the last remnants of her ancient magic, her wand trembling in her shaky hand. A surge of energy flowed through her veins. The air above the tips of her fingers crackled with raw power as she channeled her magic, focusing it into a singularly devastating spell.

And when it hit the Ashwinder, it eviscerated them in waves.

In between all the fighting and screaming and surviving, she didn’t remember much of the details.

But all of a sudden, it was silent. 

And all of the sudden, it was just her standing alone in plumes of dust.

When the air finally settled down, she felt herself start to cave. The adrenaline had done its job and was quickly leaking out of her blood stream. As if she had exerted and drained every last ounce of her spirit and was on the verge of collapse.

Was it just her, or were the skies starting to fade?

The pain in her chest was still excruciating. This cruciatus curse felt different from the one that Sebastian had casted on her before. 

This one was lingering. 

Like it was clawing onto her heart and gripping onto it in a chokehold with a resentful vengeance. Despite having just won, she didn’t have a spare moment to feel relieved. The pain was quickly growing and air couldn’t seem to reach her lungs fast enough.       

But Sebastian… Where was Sebastian? The panic began to rumble within her. She had foolishly let her own guard down, and let him out of her sight. She mustered what little energy she had left and moved her head frantically in search of him. 

How could she ever forgive herself if she let him die? 

But when she saw a figure barreling head first towards her, even through blurry eyes and the crackle in the depths of her tired limbs, she knew that it was him. And like an oasis in the blistering desert, the comfort she felt from seeing his face was a brief solace to the pain. 

If this was where she was destined to meet her end, she hazily deliberated, at least she could draw her last breath in peace knowing that he was safe. 

(Not to be dramatic or anything.)

When Sebastian finally caught up to her, he laughed and bursted out breathily, “Merlin… Whatever you and your ancient magic did back there was insane.”

He was safe, and that was all that mattered. She didn’t have the energy anymore. Not for a conversation, let alone banter. She needed to preserve her last scraps of her battered stamina to make it back to the castle and patch herself up in solitude.

And one thing was for certain: Sebastian could not know.

“I think we managed pretty well.” He said with a tired smile.

“Yeah,” she replied breathily, “W-we did good.”

She sounded a mess. She hoped that he wouldn’t notice.

To her dismay, the look on his face immediately switched into that of deep concern. 

He interrogated hurriedly, “What wrong? You sound a little off. Are you hurt?”

Everything was wrong. The discomfort that gripped her chest was getting worse with every passing second. Standing was starting to become too taxing of an undertaking for her. 

But needless to say, she didn’t want another thing to worry about, and Sebastian would always make an unnecessarily big fuss anytime she was hurt. Even if it was just a minuscule scratch. He was always too distraught; too tender. It was one of the things she adored most about him. 

And she absolutely loathed him for it.

So her stubbornness was persuaded that suffering in silence was the easier of two fates. 

Indignantly, she retorted, “How rude. I’ll have you k-know I’m perfectly f-fine.”

Her words were starting to slur, not that she noticed. But Sebastian clearly had. Assertively, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her towards him.

“You’re not fine.” He declared demandingly.

As he frantically searched her eyes, arms, back, legs for signs of what was wrong, she found herself nuzzled in the nook of his chest. She felt her willpower wither slightly in his flustered hands. 

In the shallow breaths that she took, she could smell him. The musk of pinewood and sputtering fireplaces and late nights drifting in the restricted section. An aromatic cocktail that was overwhelmingly intoxicating. 

Now she was getting angry. And drowsy. And dizzy. Why couldn’t Sebastian tell that he was being so selfish by being so considerate? He needed to stop touching her so carelessly. She was lightheaded enough as it is, she didn’t need his excessive gentleness to add fuel to the flames of her absurd delusions. 

But maybe if she just closed her eyes and rested for this brief moment. Sebastian would take the hint and just leave her be. Maybe all she needed was a quick lie down and he would see that she was perfectly fine. 

“Oh fuck, there’s so much blood— hey, hey!”

She could see Sebastian calling out her name, but she couldn't hear it. And soon enough she realised, she wasn’t fighting it anymore. And soon enough, Sebastian was no longer in sight. Soon enough, she found herself alone in a quiet, soothing darkness. 

Something was twisting at her to give into slumber. Into solitude. Into emptiness. She vaguely remembered from one of Sharp’s more riveting lectures that when poisoned - one should always fight the urge.

But she could still feel the warmth of Sebastian’s hands on the small of her back, and the comfort of it lulled her to relinquish control. After a few ambivalent moments, drifting in and out of awareness, she surrendered to sleep.

When she woke, she was greeted by a horrendously pounding headache. She had no sense of place, but a low groaning ache in her bones. Her eyes struggled to open, but she could feel the warm sun on the tip of her nose, and the tips of her cheeks. The softness of the sun quelled a little bit of the soreness in her body. 

She deduced that wherever she was, it was warm and safe. Despite the ache in her bones, there was also a weightlessness to her body. Therefore, she somehow rationalised with herself that this was very likely heaven. 

Or any other religious equivalent afterlife. 

She wasn’t picky. Any one would do, really.

When her bleary eyes finally pulled themselves open, the fragmented parts of her vision pieced together a faint picture. Of pristine white linen and crisply casted grey brick. A peculiar blend of sickly artificial peonies and concentrated chemicals flooded her nostrils. 

Which was odd. Because she hadn’t imagined that the afterlife would feel quite so sterile.

“Fucking hell,” spoke a voice she could never not recognise, and she was shocked. 

Did heaven include conjuring up a phantom Sebastian from the figment of her deepest imaginations to keep her company for the rest of eternity?

“Sebastian?”

“You’re awake.” His voice was hoarse.

When her eyes finally focused, she saw him properly. It was definitely Sebastian Sallow, the boy that had her heart leaping acres across the Hebridean seas. But in all her years of knowing and pining for him, she’d never seen him look so terrible. His hair was disheveled as if it had endured a torrid storm. His eyes were heavy and solemn, as if they had tolerated an eternity of grief.

This seemed all too real. Too visceral. 

Maybe this wasn’t heaven.

“Am I dead?” She thought to confirm.

He laughed a humourless laugh.

“No. You’re in the hospital wing.”

So this was real. She was in pain because her body had been bruised like a peach. 

When she finally looked around, she found herself neatly tucked into the covers of an infirmary bed. She couldn’t recall how she got here, and only remembered a few little scraps of the event that led up to Poidsear. But if she had to be certain of anything, Sebastian must’ve brought her back to the castle.

“I guess that makes sense,” She said with as much mirth as she could muster, “Heaven couldn’t be this quaint.”

Clearly Sebastian hadn’t found it funny at all, which is why she was met with silence. 

As she cleared her throat, she asked, “What happened?”

For some reason, Sebastian was doing everything in his power to avoid her eye. 

“An Ashwinder hit you with a modified version of the cruciatus curse. She tampered the spell and combined it with a blood poisoning hex. You… could’ve died.” He said through gritted teeth. It seemed as if he struggled to even get the words out. 

In an attempt to diffuse the graveness of his tone, she made a joke.

“Unlucky. Maybe next time they try to kill me they’ll actually get it right.”

But once again, Sebastian didn’t laugh. If anything, he only got more aggrieved. She felt his grip on the edge of her bed frame tighten so fiercely, she could see his veins pop and his knuckles turn red. He was being so serious — and she was not at all used to serious Sebastian. She had only seen this side of him once or twice, and only ever because of Anne. 

“Are you … upset?” She asked cautiously.

“I’m fucking furious.” He said. 

She was gobsmacked.

“Why?”

Finally, he looked at her straight on and her stomach flipped at the sight of it. He looked absolutely distraught. Like the splintered shell of a boy who had been cracked open and drained dry of his will to live. Behind the hard look in his eyes, radiated something cloudy, tempestuous and devastating. 

“It was my fault that we were even there.” He said

She hadn’t known that a voice could carry such grief and anger simultaneously. But Sebastian’s voice was laced with insurmountable despair. And it broke her heart irrevocably to think that she could’ve caused him so much pain.

Did he think that he was to blame?

That was ridiculous.

“I thought-” he started to say again, but his voice cracked. 

I thought I lost you? I thought I’d left you for dead? She wondered if that was what he was going to say.

“Sebastian…” She finally began “It’s not-”

“And why didn’t you think to tell me that you were struck by a bloody unforgivable curse before you fell lifelessly onto the fucking floor!” He yelled.

She winced at the loudness of his voice. 

“I didn’t think-”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch the love of your life almost die in your fucking arms?”

His deafening voice echoed through the chambers of the hospital wing. 

She stared at him, mouth agape. 

Sebastian himself looked shocked by the words out of his own mouth. 

Sorry, what was that he just said? 

Was she dreaming? Was she hallucinating? Had Sebastian Sallow really said that he loved her? Her? Complicated, chaotic, haphazard her? Even if her brain couldn’t quite process what she was saying, her heart had certainly understood. It was battering against her ribcage so firmly that she swore it would no sooner burst out of her chest.

“You… love me?” Even as the words sat in her mouth, even as she tasted it meticulously on the edge of her tongue — she still couldn’t believe them. 

With his head buried in his hands, Sebastian groaned. 

Obviously that wasn’t what he had wanted to say, and that terrified the living shit out of her. He looked as if he considered going back on it. Saying that it had just been an emotional slip of the tongue. 

But to her surprise, he stood firm. 

“Fuck.” He cursed, “Isn’t it fucking obvious?”

His words still weren’t fully sinking in. Her brain was running so fast that it was on the verge of failing her entirely. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. Was it obvious? To who exactly? By what egregious definition? And did he expect her to just take his word and say that this little detail was always hidden in plain sight for her to find? 

Then there were other more intrusive thoughts she couldn’t shake. Like what about all the girls that fawned over his every word. What about all the other girls that were softer, prettier, more endearing than her? She just hoped that whatever she chose to say, that she wouldn’t let out the intrusive ones first.

“...What about Samantha?” She blurted practically incoherently.

Oh Merlin. Why did she say that? Why was that the first thing she said to him after she had just been on the verge of death? After he had just confessed his love for her.

Never had she felt so exasperated with herself for being so dumb.

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian looked at her as if she’d just grown three heads. She also considered that maybe she had enunciated so poorly that he hadn’t understood a single thing she said. Either way, just as she was about to laugh it away - change the subject - he responded.

“... What about Samantha?”

Suddenly, she felt too shy to ask. But she knew she had to follow through.

“... You’re not in love with Samantha?” She asked meekly.

Sebastian stared at her in absolute disbelief. 

“Are you crazy?” he began incredulously, “You think I fancy Samantha Dale?”

It wasn’t that crazy of a thought, she wanted to retort. 

But before she could even get a word in, Sebastian bulldozed on.

“Fucking hell. I think I’ve mentioned her name all but three times in the last six years I’ve been in this castle. All I talk about is you all day everyday, which makes Ominis go absolutely livid! All you have to do is say my name and I’d stop everything at the drop of a fucking hat to do literally anything you ask for me—” 

Did he know what he was saying? She wanted to scream. The feelings in her chest were so intense she feared that she might just throw up. 

Could he hear the absolutely ludicrous and inconceivable things coming out of his silly mouth? Did he know what in Salazar’s name he was saying to her? 

And he wasn’t even done yet.

“—I look for you in every hallway, every classroom, every corner in this bloody castle! For Merlin’s sake, I can’t even begin to fathom how you could not know that I’m stupidly love with you—”

Despite herself. Despite the stabbing pain in her chest. Despite the stitches in her lungs. She lunged her body forward and pushed her own chapped, split and desperate lips onto his.

And when their lips met — good God. 

She had no idea how she had waited so long to do this.

And she hoped for his sake that Sebastian hadn’t said any of that lightly, because now that she had finally had him, she was never ever letting him out of her shaky, unpracticed hands. 

At first, Sebastian had been taken aback. His mouth unmoving, eyes open in disbelief. It was as if he was observing the scene from outside of himself.

But then soon enough — he was all in, and he had his hands cupping the curve of her cheek to pull her closer to him. Soon enough, Sebastian was kissing her like he was looking for something. Pushing, pulling, scouring the shape of her mouth like she was a puzzle to be deciphered. Gripping tightly onto the sides of her waist and the small of her back like she was a prized to be possessed.

And she obliged. 

Whatever he wanted to know she’d tell him. If she were a prize, she'd use every cheat every ruse in her arsenal to make sure he'd win.

She just hoped that her needy moans conveyed her willingness to be compliant in his competent hands.

Her limbs ached, her bones groaned. This kiss was too wild, too strenuous, too demanding for her worn out body. But she didn’t care. The floodgates had opened now, whether either of them knew it, and this feeling was unquenchable. 

He tasted like home and aftershave and salt and all those silly peppermint candies he ate all the time. If she could fasten herself to him with an irreversible stitch, she would. If she could seal herself into a perfect mould of his arms, she would. If the shivers that raced down her spine could etch themselves permanently into her nerve endings in her skin, she’d gladly bear the mark.

In between peppered, sloppy kisses, she managed to gasp, "I'm in love with you too."

There was no time for pauses. She had no use for breathing; no use for air. She had no use for anything that didn’t include his lips. 

His laugh was gravelly and tired and breathy. But it was filled with relief and tenderness all the same.

“Thank fucking god,” Sebastian murmured.

Her hands instinctively found their way to his hair, fingers tangling into the strands of his. She revelled in the texture of him. In her daydreams and her undisclosed fantasies, she had always wondered what it would feel like. Would he be as gentle as his charms implied? Or was he as abrasive as his words could be?

But despite his devouring intensity, despite how ardently he consumed her — everything about Sebastian was soft. His lips were soft. His body was soft. His hands were soft.

She leaned in to kiss him again, but he pulled back. Which immensely disappointed her. And she wasn’t shy to let it show on her face.

"Be careful. You're still recovering." He managed to get out, but it was weak.

Yes, that was true. It was very lovely and sensible of him to say.

But frankly, she couldn't give two fucks.

"I wouldn't mind dying today," she replied breathlessly, her voice laced heavily with longing.

He groaned into the edge of her mouth, "Way too soon."

She smiled wryly. Was it wicked of her to take delight in how protective he was being?

Silence hung in the air. 

"Please just... just be careful next time?" he said, his voice wavering slightly.

She looked into his eyes, "I will."

With a gentle squeeze of his hand, she hoped that he knew that she truly meant it. That by definition, her feelings for him meant that her assurance was very much real. Because if not with words, she needed him to know through this gesture that she too looked for him in every inch of this castle. That she too would drop everything at his beck and call.  

He squeezed her hand back in return.

Message understood?

“And as much as I’d love to keep kissing you," he whispered with a playful glint in his eye, "I would hate for Nurse Blainey to shun me from the infirmary for so shamelessly accosting one of her patients."

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, the tension easing between them. "You're right. We wouldn't want that," she replied, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

—

A/N: This is deffo a little different from the normal soft/simpy Seb that I write. I tried to go for overly flirtatious and wildly charming Seb and a pining MC this time to shake things up!! I still think they're cuties.

Gosh, I hope you guys liked it!! I'M STILL WORKING ON OTHER REQUESTS and of course my bb A Knowing Look! They will be taking a while but I promise I will be putting my heart and soul into them.

xoxo gruff

[maximoffwitch]

a johanna mason x oblivious!reader, where j always calms down around r and has a soft spot for her, then someone points it out to r and then r realizes that j is only soft for her and when she asks her, j confesses her feelings please? if that made sense 😅, thank you for ur time! i love ur writing :D

If I Know What Love Is, It Is Because of You

pairing: johanan mason x reader

warnings: canon typical violence, alcohol, blood

word count: 2.4k

summary: Everyone can see that Johanna loves you. Well, everybody but you.

a/n: thank you sm for requesting this! i had the best time writing this 🥹 and note: the scenes in italics are flashbacks!

Your head was pounding. The last place you wanted to be right now was this meeting. Yet here you were, sitting at the table, listening to Coin drone on about something as you all waited for everyone to show up – everyone being Johanna. 

“Where is Johanna?” Plutarch asked and nodded to the vacant seat the District 7 girl usually occupied. Everyone’s heads turned towards you, causing you to frown at the sudden attention.

“What?”

“Where is she?” The head gamemaker looked at you expectantly.

“Why would I know?” you asked exasperatedly, your irritation and fatigue becoming more and more evident.

Before Plutarch could respond with some quip, Finnick put his hand up and interjected. “She had a therapy session earlier,” he explained, knowing Johanna was likely hiding out in her room after her time with the head doctor.

“Let’s just start without her,” Cressida suggested impatiently, and you rolled your eyes, not even trying to hide your annoyance.

“No,” Coin shook her head. She knew the importance Johanna’s victor status held in this rebellion.  

“Well, someone needs to go get her,” Haymitch said before taking a swig of his drink. “(Y/N)?”

Again, everyone looked at you. 

“Why me?” you whined. You liked Johanna – more than you cared to admit – but right now, you were too drained to remedy her bad mood. 

“You’re the only one she tolerates,” Katniss explained.

You frowned and scrunched your brows. “What about Finnick?”

“She has a soft spot for you.” He shrugged at your perplexed look. 

“What?” You tilted your head, becoming increasingly confused. “No she doesn’t.”

“Oh really?” Finnick smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What about that time with Enobaria and the glass table?”

“What did you just say to me?” Johanna seethed as she slowly put her drink down on the glass table before standing up to confront the other woman.

“You heard me.” Enobaria grinned, baring her sharp teeth. “Pawn.”

Johanna flipped the glass table, shattering it completely, causing glass to go flying. “I will kill you, Two,” she screamed, lunging at Enobaria and grabbing at her throat. 

“Hey, hey!” Finnick yelled and ran across the room to pull Johanna away.

“Speak to me again and I’ll be the one ripping your throat out.” She pointed at a leering Enobaria while struggling in Finnick’s hold.

“What the hell is going on in here?” you frowned, concern written across your face as you see Johanna, close to tears, being held back. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Johanna huffed, shrugging Finnick’s hands off her.

“Jo.” You hook your finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Your frown deepened as you saw her forehead was bleeding; a stray piece of glass must have caught her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Johanna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, immediately calming under your touch. Searching her eyes, you didn’t believe her but you didn’t say anything.

“Come on.” You took her hand and squeezed it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“That was just because I came after the fight,” you protested weakly, your argument making little sense even to you.

Finnick rolled his eyes but said nothing. 

“Sweetheart,” Haymitch interjected, “that girl could not be more in love with you if she tried.”

He just sighed as you gave him a blank stare, your thoughts racing all over the place. 

“The whiskey incident?” Haymitch grinned smugly, tilting his glass to you before taking a sip.

This year’s Games were rough, even more than usual. Your tributes had a brutal day in the arena, and you were emotionally drained just from watching. 

Entering the common kitchen, you were in desperate need for a drink. You grabbed a glass and the bottle of District 7 whiskey Johanna brought from home.

As you gulped down your decent size pour, already refilling your glass, Haymitch swayed into the room, perking up when he saw the freshly opened bottle.

“What’s that?”

“District 7 whiskey,” you replied, before reading the label. “Hints of smoky pine.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He chugged down whatever was remaining in his own cup before pouring himself some whiskey.

“I don’t think–” You tried to stop him, knowing Johanna would not be too pleased about Haymitch stealing her alcohol. 

“Hmm.” He let out a satisfied sigh as he inhaled the whiskey scent. 

But before he could take a test sip, a voice interrupted him.

“What do you think you’re doing? That’s mine,” Johanna walked in, visibly annoyed, and snatched the glass out of his hand. 

“(Y/N) is drinking some,” Haymitch argued childishly with an incredulous look. 

For a moment, you though you saw a sense of hesitancy flash in Johanna’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“That’s because (Y/N) has some self-restraint while you drink by the bottle,” Johanna snarked, downing the glass Haymitch had poured himself.

“Hey, (Y/N/N),” Finnick poked his head in the room, briefly greeting the other two. “Cecelia was looking for you.”

You internally groaned and finished off your drink. “She probably wants to go over what happened today and strategize.”

Both Haymitch and Johanna sobered, knowing the District 8 tributes were likely not going to last much longer.

“Thanks, Jo.” You got up and pecked Johanna’s cheek, patting her shoulder. “I really needed that drink.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she responded under her breath. You gave her a small smile and slid past her out of the room. 

“You got something –“ Hamyitch motioned to the blush tinting Johanna’s cheek and gave her a knowing smirk.

Johanna snapped out of her brief daze and glared at him. “Oh, shut up, old man.”

“I would hardly call that an ‘incident,’” you objected, rolling your eyes. “I mean what did you expect, drinking what isn’t yours?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Haymitch waved you off. “My point still stands.”

All you could do was nod distractedly, as you were trying to process what Finnick and Haymitch were telling you. You and Johanna had been friends for several years, having met at Johanna’s Victory Tour banquet in the Capitol. Over the years, you knew you were falling for her but not wanting to ruin one of the only friendships you had left, you kept your feelings to yourself.

You would never expect Johanna to ever reciprocate your feelings. I mean why would she? She could be with anybody she wanted. Plus, the baggage that came with being a victor made being in any relationship difficult – for the both of you. 

But now you were starting to wonder if there was even a slight chance she felt the same.

“There was also the aftermath of the blood rain,” Katniss added, causing you to wince at the memory.

As you saw Wiress stumble out onto the beach, you recognized Johanna.

“Johanna!” You ran across the beach, Finnick closely behind you. 

“(Y/N)! Finnick!” She yelled back as the two older victors sunk into the water. 

As you got closer, you could see she was covered in blood and your chest tightened. “Johanna,” you whispered, furrowing your brows. 

“What happened? What is that?” Finnick caught his breath and assessed Johanna’s distressed state.

“It’s blood!” She laughed sardonically. “Just my luck. I’m covered in blood!”

By now, Peeta and Katniss had caught up as Johanna continued to tell what happened.

“Well, I got ‘em out. We were all the way deep into the jungle where I thought it was gonna be safe. That’s when the rain started. I thought it was water. Turned out to be blood,” Johanna explained, Wiress approaching behind her, muttering ‘tick tock’ repeatedly. “Hot, thick blood was coming down. It was choking us. We were stumbling around, gagging on it, blind.”

You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relieved that at least it wasn’t her own blood.

“That’s when Blight hit the forcefield.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Whether she was mourning her fellow District 7 victor or trying to keep herself from shutting Wiress up, or both, you couldn’t tell. “He wasn’t much but he was from home.”

As Katniss asked about Wiress, to which Beetee responded with something about freshwater, you could only focus on Johanna. You knew her like the back of your hand, and you knew Wiress was getting on her last nerve. Johanna was already not too happy about having to stick with the District 3 victors and being separated from you. 

“Tick tock,” Wiress pleaded, grabbing Johanna’s shoulders. 

“Just stop,” Johanna screamed and pushed the older woman into the sand. “Just sit down!”

“Hey!” Katniss yelled, quickly advancing towards Johanna, going straight for her throat. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Johanna immediately retaliated, shoving right back.

“Hey, hey, hey.” You instinctively grabbed Johanna and pulled her away, Peeta doing the same with Katniss, albeit less aggressively.

“I got them out for you,” she continued to shout. As you pulled her further away, you could feel her body start to calm. 

“Jo, you’re okay,” you assure calmly, loosening your grasp on her. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said sharply and pulled her arm away from you, but you weren’t phased by her anger.

“Johanna, hey, look at me,” you coaxed her into meeting your eyes, cupping her face. “You’re okay.”

Johanna stared into your eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” she breathed, leaning her forehead against yours. 

“We’re okay,” you assured, leaning into her touch. “Now, let me clean you off.”

“She has a soft spot for you, (Y/N/N),” Finnick said, snapping you out of the memory. 

Your mind was reeling. As you thought back to the years of friendship with Johanna, you realized that they’re right, that she’s never been mad at you, that she is only soft for you.

“I gotta go,” you mumble, getting up and quickly scurrying out of the room.

“We still need to have this meeting,” Plutarch called after you, but you paid him no mind. You needed to get to Johanna.

Weaving through the underground halls towards the dormitory area, you could feel your heart pounding against your chest.

As you arrived at Johanna’s room, you took a deep breath and knocked. “Johanna?”

“It’s open,” she responded.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the sight of Johanna sitting on floor, leaning against her bed, as she fiddled with something between her fingers.

“You know–“ You hovered over her, shoving your hands in your pocket. “You missed the meeting. Coin’s pretty peeved.”

“Yeah, well she can just fuck off,” Johanna cursed, still focused on the piece of fabric in her hands, which you recognized as the scrap of embroidery you’d given her before the Quell. 

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, a heavy silence still hanging in the air, as Johanna still had yet to really acknowledge you.

“Are you upset with me, Johanna?” you asked, selfishly wanting to confirm your suspicions.

“What? No.” Her head immediately snapped up as she finally looked at you. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, shrugging. 

“Well, I’m not.” She went back to playing with a stray thread on the scrap of cloth.

You nodded and another brief moment of silence passed between you before you asked, “Johanna, do you have feelings for me?”

Her eyes widened, clearly taken by surprise. “What?”

“Well, it’s just that everyone was talking about how you have a soft spot for me and that I’m the only one you never get angry with. So, I started thinking and it’s true. You’re always kind to me, even if you’re upset. 

“You’ve been there for me all these years, through everything Snow and the Games have thrown at us, and I know I can always count on you. I’ve always cherished our friendship, which is why I never said anything, but I do love you. I’m in love with you,” you confessed, ending your long-winded ramble.

Johanna remained quiet, still staring at the embroidered scrap. Pushing herself off the ground, she joined you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Remember the day you gave me this?”

You nodded with a small hum. It was the last day you could see her before entering the arena where you would be separated. You wanted her to have a piece of you in case the worst were to happen.

“I was so angry that day,” Johanna revealed, finally looking up and meeting your eyes. “I thought this was your way of saying goodbye, that you were admitting defeat.”

“Johanna,” you trailed off, a crestfallen look on your face. 

“Let me finish,” she softly insisted. “It was the first night in the arena when I realized that that anger was actually fear. I remember watching the fallen tributes in the sky and holding my breath, praying you wouldn’t show up. I was so scared, scared I was going to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” You took her hand in yours, squeezing it lightly. “I’m right here.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath and gave you a small smile. “Mostly, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to tell you how I really felt about you.”

Your lips parted, hope flooding your body.

“I love you, (Y/N),” Johanna whispered so quietly that you wouldn’t have heard her if you weren’t inches away. 

Tucking a loose hair out of your face, she glanced down at your lips. 

“Can I–“

Before she could finish her sentence, you leaned forward and kissed her. There were no sparks or fireworks like everyone says a first kiss should have. Rather, there was a sense of familiarity and comfort, as if you were all each other knew. And in a way, you were. 

Johanna was the only constant thing in your life, the only person who truly knew you as you and not some violent victor or Capitol show pony. 

Breaking apart, Johanna leaned her forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed as you savored the feeling of her lips on your skin.

“Hey.” She caressed your cheek with the pad of her thumb, and you opened your eyes with a content sigh. 

“Hi.” 

“You know,” Johanna started, her fingers running through your hair as you dropped your head against her shoulder. “They’re right.”

“About what?” you mumbled into her shirt.

“I do have a soft spot for you,” she kissed the side of your head.

“Good.” You lifted your head, a small smile dancing on your face. “Because I have one for you too.”

[mrscolinbridgerton96]

“I Do Not Love You Any Less” | a POLIN fic

Plot: It is Penelope and Colin’s wedding night.. and it is anything but newlywed bliss. However, it is on this night that they have a long overdue conversation.

~

After longing looking at the man she loves, Penelope watched as Colin grabbed a pillow for the settee and walk out of the room. She felt another piece of her heart break as he closed the door.

She could’ve just left it at that- that any attempt at a conversation could wait until morning.. but she took a deep breath and walked out to talk to him as he took off his boots and threw the pillow and blanket on the settee.

Penelope: “Colin. Please talk to me. I deserve to be heard given the way you are treating me.”

Colin: “The way I am treating you? Penelope, you lied to me and at our wedding breakfast.. you made it very clear that you will never give up Whistledown.”

Penelope: “I understand your anger towards me- in fact, it is justifiable. However, I cannot go another day or night without trying to fix this situation between us. Colin, please.”

Colin: “You want to talk? Very well. Let us talk. Perhaps you can help me understand. Maybe you can attempt to justify all of the damage that you have done with your pen.”

Penelope walks away from the bedroom doors and sits on the settee next to Colin. A part of him wants to move an inch away from her or even to stand up, but he stays where he is.. and even lets Penelope move closer to him. She grabs his hand, takes a deep breath and tells him things she had never thought she’d ever say to him. She opens up- all honesty and completely vulnerable.

Penelope: “I first start writing as Whistledown because I was powerless in my own home and I was forced to debut and enter the marriage mart a year earlier than I was meant to. I intended to give a voice to those felt powerless- the other voiceless. Instead, it became.. something else entirely. When I wrote what I did about Marina, I felt it was the only way I could prevent you from an even deeper form of heartache- I thought I could prevent that.. betrayal. Yes, I knew that Marina was with child when she arrived to the Ton.. but I was forced to remain silent on the issue and was frowned upon for trying to befriend her. I tried so hard to tell you about it. I told you that she was in love with another man.. and you did not believe me. Had Marina not interrupted us, I would have told you everything. I had every intention on telling you, but I feared that you still would have married her anyways- even if it meant being in a one sided relationship; a loveless marriage.. which is something I do not wish on anyone- not even the likes of Cressida Cowper.”

With a blank expression, he looked at her for a split second then looked back down again.

Colin: “And Eloise?”

Penelope: “Eloise came to me explaining how the Queen was convinced that she was Lady Whistledown- and threatened to ruin her, you and the rest of your family if she did not confess. I was misguided because, I- I saw no other way to protect her. So, I.. I wrote what I did and after that, I.. I intended to never write again.”

Colin: “But you did begin writing again.. with what you said about me. When I first read it, it did not affect me- but as soon as I discovered that you are Lady Whistledown.. only then did your words cut me. It made me feel as if the one person outside my family that I care deeply about and have for years thinks so little of me.”

Penelope: “I was angry. Your words last year hurt me more than anything my mother.. my sisters.. or anyone else had ever spoken about me. I wanted the man I loved for years back; I hated when you pretended to be someone you were not. You were wearing a mask, yet even now.. I realize that it may not have been entirely your choice. I love you truly and madly and deeply- I will shout it at the top of my lungs for all of Mayfair to hear if you truly doubt that. Despite all of your imperfections, I do not love you any less.. and I pray that we will soon have better days ahead of us. Goodnight, Colin.”

Penelope kissed Colin on the cheek then went into the bedroom. He could hear her crying after she had closed the door behind her. Despite his anger, it broke his heart to hear her cry. It hurt him knowing that his anger was hurting her.. and Penelope has always been someone he never in any way wanted to hurt.

~

After thirty minutes, there was a deafening silence lingering over Colin. There was pure silence in the bedroom as well. He got up and walked to the door. He quietly opened the door and saw that Penelope had fallen asleep. He took a deep breath in and out as he approached the bed and looked at her sleeping peacefully. His heart slightly sank when he realized that she had actually cried herself to sleep.

He kneeled down and kissed her on the forehead and whispered Penelope’s words back to her.

Colin: “I do not love you any less.. Penelope Bridgerton.”

He slowly covered her arms with the blanket so that he wouldn’t wake her.. and he took one more look at his wife before closing the door once more for the night.

For ten minutes, he sat up on the settee.. thinking about Penelope. Despite his feelings about her being Lady Whistledown, he still loves her. A tear falls down his left cheek when he begins to think about his fear of losing her. He doesn’t want to lose her.. and the thought of losing her terrified him.

Pure exhaustion quickly took over and he took a deep breath.. laid down.. and finally closed his eyes.

__________________________________________

author’s note: this is the kind of conversation i wish would’ve happened in part 2 of season 3, but it didn’t- so i decided to write this. this is my first Bridgerton AU fic- hope you like it!!

[honeybeefae]

Coronation Day (Eris Vanserra x Reader)

Eris Week Day Two: High Lord

Summary// The day of Eris's coronation is finally here and while everyone is getting ready you realize your mate is nowhere to be found. After searching everywhere you finally find him in the gardens and you see a side of him that he rarely ever shows.

(I’m sorry that these are so short but I hope you guys are still liking them! This fic was one of my favorites to write and I think it’s just the detail and imagery that really ties it in. I also love writing about vulnerable Eris so it has definitely been fun for me! <3 Thank you guys for reading!)

(I also had pictured what the dress, crown, and shoes looked like so here are the references but of course I want you all to picture what you like! It is you, after all :))

Your Dress / Crown / Shoes / Eris's Outfit (but gold instead of silver) / Garden Gates

(Also I listened to Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift while writing!)

@erisweek2023

WARNINGS: None

You look up at the grand clock as the seamstress puts the final touches on your gown, your stomach in knots as you look over yourself in the mirror. It was Eris’s coronation day and everything had to be perfect, including you. The gown was exquisite, the exact dress you would expect from a High Lord’s mate, and your hair and makeup enhanced your entire aura into royalty.

The gown was the color of golden leaves with large sleeves and beaded foliage around the top to pay homage to your court. It swept the floor and had a grand trail, almost like a wedding dress, while the crown that was atop your head matched perfectly to Eris’s. 

“There, my lady, you are perfect.” The seamstress beamed in the mirror as she stepped back, taking in the entire outfit as you matched her smile with your own. “I have never seen a more beautiful and deserving woman to be our Lady of Autumn than you.”

“You are too kind, Cressida.” You blush, stepping off the pedestal and testing out your specially made-heels. “All this beauty is truly owed to you. I was but a blank canvas to your brilliant mind.”

“Now it is you who is being too kind, my lady.” She bows while she gathers her things and walks towards the door. “I will see you at the coronation!”

“I’ll be the one on the throne!” You laugh, waving to her before turning to your handmaidens with a nervous sigh. They all gush over your outfit, their voices intermingling into a crescendo before you shush them. “Have you heard from Eris?”

“Well…about that…” Luci begins, her mouth twisting down as she looks to the others who immediately look to the ground.

“What? What is wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong, my lady, it’s just-” Luci tries to explain before Nikolet steps forward, finally caving. 

“No one has seen him since this morning!” She confessed, her hands wringing together in front of her. “He was getting ready and when the seamstress came to check on everything he had vanished. They didn’t want to tell you since you were also in the middle of-”

“They didn’t want to tell me that my mate was missing…on his coronation day?!” You raise an eyebrow, trying to control your anger as the girls sheepishly nod. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath, shaking your head. “I will go find him, just finish getting ready.”

“But my lady-” Luci tries to interject but you hold out a hand, silencing her. 

“He is my mate. Wherever he has run off to and why he has run off is nobody’s business but our own. Now please, get ready. I will see you all there.” You urge, shooing them, before picking up your skirts and walking out the door.

The castle is bustling with activity while you try to find him. People were running around making sure everything was in its place, that the flowers were set and the food was prepared. You try to look neutral as you pass everyone, barely acknowledging their bows and awes of beauty as you search everywhere. You weaved and waded through the crowds of fellow court members, peeking through the doors of rooms and studies until you stopped at the grand entrance doors.

Where on Earth could he be?

You bite your lip, looking side to side, before you catch a glimpse of sunlight coming in from the window above. As you turn to see its path, noting how it hits the painting of the garden so beautifully, you get an idea.

The pace of your steps picks up as you hold your skirts tightly and all but run through the kitchen, apologizing to the staff as you almost run into the cake. They shout out, wondering where you are off to in such a hurry, but you ignore them as you push through the back doors and glide down the outdoor steps.

Leaves rustle above you as the autumn air greets you like a lover, wrapping around your bare shoulders in a soft caress while your heels click against the cobblestone walkway. The trees grow thicker as you make your way to the very back of the estate, to your and Eris’s small garden of Eden.

Tall stone walls and oak trees guard it from prying eyes, secluding it for everyone except the two of you as you slow your pace and walk through the iron gate. Autumn leaves cover most of the pathway leading to the small bench at the back of the garden where you spot Eris with his head in his hands, the tree above rustling and whispering things you think only he can hear.

“Eris?” You say softly, smiling softly when he raises his head to look at you. He looks beautiful in his dark red suit, golden embellishments lining the wrists and collar, with a white shirt and dark pants to match. His hair was styled neatly, as always, but what stood out to you the most was his pained, troubled eyes. “Oh, Eris.”

“You look beautiful, Y/N,” He says, watching as you walk over to him and crouch in front of him. Your dress rustles against the ground but you don’t pay any attention, all of your focus is on him. “A true Lady of Autumn.”

“What’s wrong, love?” You ask, grasping his hands in yours. “Cold feet already?”

He gives you a small smile and your heart flips. “You could say that…though it is very hard for me to get cold.” Eris chuckles though his voice falls flat at the end as he looks down, frowning. “What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t lead an entire court?”

“You can do this. If anyone can, you can, Eris.” You squeeze his hands tightly, bending down until you catch his gaze. “I have never had as much confidence in anyone leading as I do with you. This court has been through so much and you are going to bring it back to life.”

“This court has been through so much because of my father,” He scowled, standing abruptly while you sighed and stood with him. He began to pace back and forth as he continued his rant. “My father almost ruined this court and I know what the people think of him…what they probably think of me. I am my father’s son and what if, what if I become him? What if that is my destiny?”

The air stood still as he stopped in his tracks, looking at you with fear and sadness and doubt and vulnerability. You had only seen him like this once before when your mating bond had snapped. He hated to show weakness, especially when it came to his family, and your heart broke at his confession.

“What if I am no better than my father? A monster’s prodigy?”

You walk to him slowly and cup his face, caressing his cheek with your thumb as you pull him towards you and wrap your arms around his neck. Eris immediately crumbles at your touch and pulls you as close as he can, burying his face in your neck as your hands run down his back soothingly. 

Something wet falls against your shoulder but you don’t draw attention to it nor to the shuddering of his shoulders. You just hold him as tight as you can while you whisper your truth into his ear.

“Eris Vanserra, I want you to listen to me.” You begin gently. “You are more than your father’s legacy. You are the creator of your own story, the holder of the pen, and right now is the first chapter of it. You have more kindness, bravery, and leadership in your pinky finger than your father ever had.”

His shoulder slowly came to a stop as you continued, pulling back so that you could press your forehead against his and look into his eyes. “My love, I wish you could see yourself as I see you. Because do you know what I see?” You ask, placing a finger under his chin when he tries to look away. “I see a man who is brilliant. A man who is loyal to his court and saved them from war. A man who may hide behind a mask but cares more than he cares to admit.”

“I see my mate, my handsome soon-to-be High Lord.” You smile, kissing his cheek. “The mere fact that you are afraid tells me, tells everyone, just how worthy you will be for this crown. You will do amazing things for this court, for all of Pyrthian. I have never had more confidence in anything in my life.”

“Y/N…” Eris trails off, lost for words, but you shush him with a finger to his lips. 

“And if you happen to falter just remember I will be right by your side ready to set you straight.” You grin, giggling when he nods in agreement. “But seriously, you are going to be a wonderful High Lord.”

Eris takes a deep breath and whispers, “Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have been given you?”

“You could do to remind me more often…” You trail off teasingly. “Perhaps tonight after your coronation?”

He smirked and tried to give you a kiss but you cheekily turn at the last second, letting his lips land on your cheek and smiling when he let out a huff of frustration. You grab his hand and begin to walk out of the garden, turning back to him and saying, “Now, now, High Lord, we mustn’t keep everyone waiting. Come, let’s start this journey together.”

The two of you walk back into the Forest House, smiling and laughing, while everyone looks on in confusion. You arrive quickly at the doors of the grand hall where you can hear everyone talking, wondering what was taking so long. The advisors look worn out as they get in their places, just glad that Eris has been found, while you turn to look at him adoringly. 

“Ready?” You ask.

Rays of sun shone through the windows again, catching him in just the right light to give him an ethereal glow that highlighted his amber eyes and cheekbones. “As long as you are by my side.”

“Always.” You promise, kissing him tenderly before pulling away as the doors open. “Let’s go get your crown.”

As the doors open the applause nearly deafens you, everyone cheering and smiling as the two of you walk into the room and down the aisle. At the end sits two thrones of equal size, both of your crowns sitting on the cushions as you walk hand in hand towards your destiny. 

[devastatinglygreen]

Why do you think they're waiting for the Lady Whistledown reveal?

aside from drama? and i mean that seriously. i know everyone had headcanons and wants for years here but they're building tension. there was no real tension in part one outside of sexual and the stakes need to be higher for the penultimate episode.

the next bit is spoilers we know have been pretty much seen by too many people for ep 5 at least so wander under the cut at your own risk:

i think, and i know a lot of people aren't going to be thrilled about colin not knowing before some things happen, that they need to do two things: solidify their relationship a bit and basically send penelope into a spiral to take the stakes higher.

they have plot armor, they're not going to behead penelope right there in the queen's garden with the peacocks once she gets caught. the only thing truly up for grabs is polin. and not even that, not really, but it's the thing the audience is going to care about.

the spoilers have penelope trying to tell him but failing because she keeps getting interrupted. every time she fails, the clock ticks further. it's a pressure build. eloise is on her back. colin is just wandering along, deliriously happy and penelope knows she's carrying this bomb she's gonna blow up in his face.

she lost eloise to it. colin is the love of her life. i think we can all do that math. she's so stressed out by eloise's timeline she can barely breathe and then comes cressida.

you've got cressida taking credit for LW, colin's happiness sitting on her shoulders (tho i do think it's also so smart of them to have him defend penelope to portia before he finds out, it might give him some insight to how penelope is treated and feels when the right time comes), eloise is assuming things and giving her hell.

i mean, wouldn't you be a mess too? like, give the girl some grace her entire life is imploding right after getting what she's always wanted and never thought she'd get and losing the two most important people in the world to her only a few months before. would you want to blow that up again? yes, yes, i'm sure everyone who says "but she has to!" is very morally outraged and perfectly righteous in their own lives scoffs at the idea that penelope might struggle with a secret she doesn't know what to do with.

it's not like we've never seen how that eats her up before, right? oh. we totally have. nvm.

anyways. cressida. i kind of hope it's the turning point for peneloise because i think even eloise knows she's not a good person to have in a position of power like that. say what you want but penelope doesn't lie in LW.

add in they seem to be bringing in book scenes and i'm going to guess colin catches her after she takes off to print something saying cressida is a whole ass lie. fight ensues. angst! stakes are ridiculously high. the wedding is planned. the pedestals are knocked over and now colin will know everything. does he love her after that? can he? does he trust her ever again? (clearly yes or they're gonna need to change up that family tree thing they released lol).

this will give way to colin having to come to terms with penelope's legacy and how it affects his own estimation of himself and his writing. jealousy like the book. it's a colin issue and he knows it but he still has to deal with it.

colin very much thinks penelope is his purpose, right? the book says it. LN said it about show colin. he's gotta reconcile that LW and penelope are two halves of the same person. he can't put them both in boxes.

anyways what i mean is that the stakes need to be high and her blurting it out then having 2.5 episodes of them moping around about their LW fight isn't really the thing that gets your heart racing when you've got 8 episodes to tell the whole story.

(also as an aside, i think it's going to lead to us getting second "firsts" in a way. it's not going to be a first kiss or anything but i feel like the energy of it all will be different and i, personally, think that could be very fun)