#esteemed patroness

[lonelylittledot]

rip Mr Collins, you would have loved Patreon

[mr-collins-2005]

Sorry for disappearing guys, I've had some very intense lessons from my esteemed patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh to keep up with

[avashades-purpleorange]

new drinking game: every time mr collins mentions his esteemed patroness lady catherine de bourgh, take a shot.

[magsinhiding]

Every time I rewatch Pride and Prejudice I have more and more empathy for Mrs. Bennett. She probably had some kind of anxiety disorder on top of dealing with an ungrateful family that had about ten percent of the necessary panic about marrying her daughters to wealthy men. Often she’s viewed as some silly woman with vapors when she has all this responsibility and zero power to literally keep her family from becoming homeless when her husband dies.

Panic attacks under such conditions are rather an expectation.

[an-extraordinary-fate]

Well that feels painfully true!

The fact that I talk about Jane Austen the way Mr. Collins talks about Lady Catherine 😭

[basset-babe]

five times: the third.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: cursing, drinking, anger, disgust, hurtful words, self-doubt / sabotage

word count: 5.1k+

a/n: honestly felt like i bit more off than i can chew but i do relish a challenge! also, my apologies for the prolonged delay of my postings, dearests. life has been life-ing recently lol anywho, here is the ever-challenging third! opening with a whistledown aND y'all know what we do when gossip arrives, we gossip! ciao amo! (dates included do not mean anything nor is accurate to any timeline)

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

trees and skies banner from @cottage-writings, pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

March 25, 18XX

Dearest readers,

The season is in full swing, and the social whirl is abuzz with the latest happenings. None have captured our collective curiosity quite like the endless stream of callers at the Y/L/N residence, all vying for the favor of the season's paragon, Miss Y/N Y/L/N. With suitors from the finest families presenting gifts and performances, it is no surprise that Miss Y/L/N has been the object of much admiration.

However, keen observers might have noted a particular favorite among the throng. Yes, dear readers, the second Bridgerton son, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, has made a notable impression on the lovely Miss Y/N. Their promenades and conversations have not gone unnoticed, with many speculating that he holds a special place in her affections. However, as ever in the delicate dance of courtship, it is not without its complications.

Whispers have reached this author's ears that Mr. Bridgerton has been seen in the company of Lady Tilley Arnold—a widow of the late Lord Arnold and esteemed patroness of the sciences. Their encounters, whispered about in the most fashionable circles, suggest more than mere friendship.

Do hold your gasps, for the intrigue does not end there. No, for as Lady Arnold bid adieu to the shadows and prepared to depart, a most shocking revelation transpired. Witnesses, whose lips dare not speak aloud but whose eyes betray their secrets, observed a clandestine exchange between the widow and Mr. Bridgerton— a kiss, dear readers, of the most scandalous variety! The timing, dear readers, is most curious as Lady Arnold was on the verge of departing London, which only adds to the enigma of this nocturnal visit.

What, pray tell, does this clandestine encounter signify, one might wonder? Is there more to the attention of Mr. Bridgerton, that his affections may be wavering, or has Lady Arnold, with her enigmatic charm, ensnared him in her web of intrigue? Such a late-night rendezvous, particularly with a lady of Lady Arnold's standing, is certain to raise eyebrows and incite much speculation.

The ton will surely surmise whether this encounter was a fleeting indiscretion or the beginning of a more complicated entanglement. What could this mean for Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Y/N? Will their courtship withstand the weight of this scandal, or will it crumble under the pressure of whispered gossip and innuendo? Can Miss Y/N overlook this transgression and hold fast to her affection for Mr. Bridgerton, or will she be swayed by the lure of a less tarnished suitor?

One thing is certain, dear reader: the social season has become infinitely more intriguing with this latest development. Rest assured, I will be watching with keen interest as the drama unfolds.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

third time.

"Good afternoon, sister," Benedict greeted Eloise, who was standing in the middle of the house's foyer with her hands conspicuously behind her back.

"Ah! Brother, afternoon," Eloise replied cautiously, attempting to hide the gossip sheet behind her gown skirts. "Where were you?" she asked, her tone tinged with curiosity.

"Nowhere of particular interest. What are you reading?" Benedict inquired, his eyes narrowing as he pointed to her hidden arm.

"Nothing," Eloise replied hastily, but Benedict knew better. He raised an eyebrow and extended his hand, motioning for her to hand over whatever she was concealing.

Eloise hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly produced the crumpled gossip sheet from behind her back, placing it in Benedict's outstretched hand. "Whistledown," she muttered, avoiding his gaze. "You are mentioned."

Benedict unfolded the paper and began to read. His typically affable expression turning stoic as he saw his own name linked with both Miss Y/N and Lady Tilley Arnold. His jaw tightened, and he placed the scandal sheet on the table. Eloise cleared her throat and asked. "How are you?"

"Quite the scandal, it seems," he remarked, his tone betraying a hint of indifference. "And here I thought I could keep my affairs private. What truly vexes me is not the content concerning myself, it's how she drags in the names of Miss Y/N and Lady Arnold, implying something as if curious but ruinous as she almost did you last season. Heavens be damned, if I ever discover her true identity, I will ensure it is her life that is ruined."

"The lady has declined visits... for today, Sir. I ask... kindly, that you leave the premises," the lady's maid informed as Benedict sat astride his horse, a sketchpad clutched tightly in his hand.

His heart sank at the lady's maid's words, a heavy weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He had ridden with fervent determination, his thoughts consumed by the desire to see Y/N, to seek solace in her presence after the scandalous sheet had been released. But now, faced with the reality of her refusal, he felt an overwhelming sense of restlessness wash over him.

He had hoped to find refuge in her company this late afternoon, to find comfort in the warmth of her smile and the gentleness of her touch. Yet, it seemed that even she was now beyond his reach, her doors closed to him in the wake of the damning gossip that had tainted his name.

"Could you try again, please?" Benedict implored, desperation lacing his words. "I just need to speak to her, to explain myself."

But the maid remained resolute, her expression unyielding, her features softened by a touch of sympathy for Benedict's plight. "I'm sorry, Sir," she repeated, her voice a gentle murmur, "but the lady's wishes are clear. I cannot go against her instructions."

Feeling the weight of disappointment settle upon him like a heavy cloak, Benedict offered a resigned nod to the maid, acknowledging her adherence to propriety even as his heart ached with longing. With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the imposing facade of Y/N's residence, his footsteps heavy with the burden of unspoken words and unresolved emotions.

As he urged the horse forward, the rhythmic beat of hoofbeats echoed through the quiet streets of London, a steady cadence that mirrored the tumultuous thoughts racing through Benedict's mind. With each passing moment, he felt the weight of the recent scandal pressing down upon him, its suffocating grip tightening with each breath he took. People who walked the pathways murmuring as he passed them. Almost as if they'd point and had been meaning to ask of the truth in the latest Whistledown.

But Benedict was not one to be deterred by adversity, nor to allow his spirits to be dampened by the trials of the heart. With a determined set to his jaw and a fire burning in his eyes, he urged his horse onward, his destination clear in his mind.

Arriving at the gentlemen's club, Benedict dismounted his horse with practiced grace, the cool night air stirring the tendrils of his hair as he strode purposefully towards the grand entrance. The club stood as a bastion of camaraderie and respite amidst the chaos of London society, its hallowed halls a sanctuary for men of wit and refinement.

He'd rode to the club where his brothers were spending the early evening. The ambiance was one of refined indulgence, with the soft glow of candlelight casting a warm hue over the rich mahogany furnishings and plush velvet upholstery. He found Anthony and Colin lounging in a corner, their laughter echoing through the room like the lively notes of a well-played sonata.

"Well, if it isn't our solemn Benedict," Anthony teased, clapping him on the back as he approached. His voice carried the joviality of a man accustomed to commanding attention, resonating amidst the club's genteel chatter.

Benedict managed a half-hearted chuckle, sinking into a nearby chair. His usually composed demeanor was tinged with a hint of melancholy, though he tried to play off his turmoil with a forced smile that did little to mask the weight of his troubles.

Colin, with his mischievous blue eyes and rakish grin, raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Drama? Pray, do tell. Have you found yourself embroiled in a scandalous Whistledown-written affair, dear brother?" His tone was light, yet there lingered a genuine curiosity, as if he relished the prospect of a juicy tale.

Benedict rolled his eyes, though a flicker of amusement danced in their depths. "Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you," he quipped, his voice a melodious baritone that resonated with the refined elegance befitting a man of his stature. "Just a bit of trouble with a certain someone who shall remain nameless."

Anthony leaned forward, his interest piqued like a hound on the scent of a tantalizing mystery. "Ah, a mystery woman! Do tell us more. Is she a diamond of the first water? A rose amongst thorns? A season's paragon?" His knowing words were infused with a playful charm, his aristocratic features softened by the warmth of his smile.

Benedict couldn't help but laugh at his brother's theatrics, the sound echoing through the room like the pealing of church bells on a crisp autumn morning. "More like a thorn stuck on my rose, if you ask me," he replied wryly, his lips quirking into a rueful smile. "But alas, the sheet seems to have taken interest in me. Thus, I've offended the lady at my latest misstep."

Colin exchanged a knowing glance with Anthony, their eyes sparkling with mischief like stars in the night sky. "Ah, love can be a treacherous game, my dear brother," he remarked with a wistful sigh, his voice tinged with the bittersweet nostalgia of past dalliances.

With a resigned sigh, Benedict brough out the paper, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he unfolded it to reveal the damning headlines. His eyes scanned the page again, each word striking like a blow to his already wounded pride.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Anthony quipped, leaning in to peer over Benedict's shoulder with a devilish grin. "It seems our dear Benedict has captured the attention of Lady Whistledown herself. Tell me, is there any truth to this gossip?"

Benedict felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck as he struggled to find the words to explain himself, "There is a sliver of truth. Lady Arnold did visit, and yes, there was a kiss. But it was far from the scandalous affair Whistledown implies. We aren't anything but naught, I tell you." He answered at almost a whisper. Benedict knew that the contents of the scandal sheet would be the subject of much speculation and gossip, his reputation hanging precariously in the balance.

"And what of Miss Y/L/N, whom you are so ardently courting? How does she figure into this little drama?" Anthony asked, concerned of his brother's standing.

Benedict sighed, his concern evident as he expressed his worries to his brothers. "That is precisely my concern. I have been nothing but sincerity in my courtship of Miss Y/L/N. She deserves better than to be dragged into this mess."

Colin leaned forward, sensing the gravity of the situation. "So, what will you do? Surely you cannot let Whistledown's prattle jeopardize your relationship with Miss Y/N."

Benedict's expression phased into determination. "I intend to speak with Miss Y/N directly. She deserves to hear the truth from me, not the twisted version Whistledown has concocted. That if she allows an audience with me. And as for Lady Arnold, I shall ensure our interactions are far more circumspect if not, naught in all aspects she may bring up on me, when she does return and does whatever near."

Anthony nodded in agreement, his gaze softening with genuine affection as he clapped Benedict on the back. "Let us not dwell on the past now, brother, but instead focus on the future—on what you can do. Whatever Lady Whistledown may have to say, we shall weather the storm together, as we always have."

Colin, then, raised his glass, a gleam of mischief in his eyes as he played along with his brother's jest. "To no longer saving face, my dear Colin! For love, for honor, and for the sake of our brother's bruised ego!" His words were punctuated by a hearty laugh that resonated through the room like the rumble of thunder on a stormy night. This is going to be quite the arduous courtship.

The grand lobby of the Londinium Opera House was a scene of opulence and refinement, an exquisite embodiment of sophistication. As the setting sun cast a warm, golden glow through the tall, arched windows, the room seemed to shimmer with the promise of an enchanting evening ahead. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, polished to such perfection that they reflected the twinkling crystal chandeliers overhead. These chandeliers, with their countless prisms, scattered light like a thousand tiny stars, illuminating the elegant assembly below.

The air was a heady blend of perfumes and colognes, mingling with the faint, tantalizing scent of fresh flowers arranged in lavish bouquets atop mahogany tables. The flowers, a riot of colors and species, were chosen to reflect the season, adding a touch of nature’s beauty to the man-made splendor of the opera house.

"This is definitely too stuffy for my nose." Eloise brushed her finger by her nose as she and Benedict passed through a sea of dressed up ton amidst tonight's opera.

As the two navigated through the ton at the opera's lobby, their steps softened by the plush carpeting beneath them, Eloise couldn't help but wrinkle her nose discreetly once more. "I agree," Benedict murmured to Eloise, his voice barely audible over the gentle murmur of conversations and the distant strains of prelude music.

"It's like drowning in a sea of perfume and pomposity. How long will the show take?" Eloise asks.

Benedict chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the crowd with a bemused expression. "Indeed, it seems we've stumbled into a gathering of the city's most refined noses and airs. But I fear, it'd be almost four more hours but there must be a few souls yearning for a breath of fresh air."

Eloise grinned, her spirits lifting at Benedict's playful remark. "That'd probably be us, brother," she replied, her gaze sweeping the room in search of kindred spirits amidst the sea of finery. "But until then, I'd die of ennui from this whole bonanza of a show."

"Not if I escape it," Benedict remarked in jest as he wiggled his eyebrows at Eloise. "But, of course, I'm taking you with me."

"You are absolutely my favorite brother." And the two, laughing at their antics, sneaked out of the opera house where their carriage is waiting to flee the night.

The carriage ride through the moonlit streets of London was a serene affair, with only the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the soft creaking of the carriage wheels breaking the stillness of the night. Benedict sat in quiet contemplation, his gaze occasionally drifting to the window where the city's twinkling lights danced like distant stars against the dark canvas of the night sky. He had set upon to spend the night on the invite of a fellow painter, Lord Granville. The address card nestled in his pockets.

He knocked on the carriage roof and said, "We are to drop off Eloise at home first." Eloise shot her brother with a knowing look, "So, you do have plans for the night, Ben. Interesting." She nodded teasingly.

"What? Can't I spend my night on my own concurs?" He said, feigning defense on whatever his sister may be implying. The carriage stops and the footman opens the door. Eloise turns to her brother as she went down the carriage steps and says, "Amidst your Whistledown scrape, you seem to be taking this very light. Oh, to be a man this easy!"

Benedict shakes his head as he laughs at his sister's comment. He has been taking this all seriously, has he? It's not like he hasn't been doing amends. The gossip sheet only had been spread this morning. Surely, damages are still reversible? As the carriage turned out their street, Benedict's thoughts turned to the ramble of his mind. All his thoughts are loud of Y/N, her voice ringing in his head. He'd imagined their time in her garden. How she simply tells stories and facts of botany; or the time she'd nestled by the tree, her cheeks flushed with the lingering laughs they'd shared moments ago, and he couldn't help but smile at the thought of her. And as quickly as the smile drew on, it dissipated recalling that she had not allowed him audience this morning.

The carriage came to a gentle halt in front of a townhouse's doorstep, and Benedict stepped out onto the cobblestone path of 5th avenue, the cool night air washing over him like a soothing balm. He turned to the carriage driver, a silent acknowledgment passing between them before the driver urged the horses forward once more, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Benedict delicately clutched the card bearing Lord Granville's prestigious name, ensuring he stood before the correct abode. With an air of refined assurance, he gently rapped the door knocker twice, whereupon Lord Granville himself promptly emerged to greet him.

Lord Granville, sporting a relaxed ensemble, greeted Benedict with a gracious nod, his demeanor exuding an aura of aristocratic charm. "Ah, Mr. Bridgerton, how delightful of you to join us," he intoned, his voice carrying a hint of cultured refinement. "Please, do come in. The evening promises to be most engaging."

With a gracious gesture, Lord Granville ushered Benedict into the dimly lit foyer, where the scent of beeswax candles mingled with the earthy aroma of oil paints. The sound of lively conversation and the occasional strumming of a lute drifted through the air, creating an atmosphere of artistic fervor.

As Benedict crossed the threshold, he felt a sense of excitement building within him, eager to immerse himself in the vibrant energy of the bohemian salon and the company of fellow artists and free spirits. Tonight promised to be a celebration of creativity and expression, a refuge from the stifling conventions of society, and Benedict couldn't wait to grasp his wash in of it.

The house was a riot of color and creativity, with tapestries adorned with vibrant hues lining the walls and eclectic artwork displayed on every available surface. Easels dotted the room, each showcasing works in progress, while clusters of artists and poets engaged in spirited discussions about philosophy, politics, and the latest artistic movements.

Benedict found himself swept up in the lively atmosphere, drawn to a group of painters huddled on their own canvases, their brushes dancing across the surface with frenetic energy. Where in the middle, nude women posed as muses and artist drew of their perspectives. Nearby, a poet recited verses of love and longing, his words weaving a tapestry of emotion that hung heavy in the air. Lord Granville now swept in his own circle.

In a secluded corner of the salon, hidden away from the prying eyes of the crowd, Benedict stumbled upon a private room adorned with tapestries of rich, jewel-toned hues and plush velvet cushions strewn about in haphazard arrangements. The flickering glow of candlelight cast dancing shadows across the walls, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and secrecy.

There, amidst the opulent surroundings, Benedict spotted Y/N, her laughter ringing out like a melody amidst the soft hum of conversation. She sat perched on a velvet chaise, a paintbrush in hand, her eyes alight with passion as she leaned over a canvas, her movements fluid and graceful.

Surrounded by fellow artists, including Lady Granville and Genevieve Delacroix, the ton's most favored seamstress, Y/N appeared completely at ease, her quick wit and sharp intellect evident as she engaged in spirited conversation, her laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and the rustle of paintbrushes.

As Benedict watched from the doorway, a pang of longing pierced his heart, the sight of Y/N's radiant smile and infectious energy stirring emotions he had long tried to suppress. He yearned to join her, to bask in her warmth and revel in the shared joy of creation, but the weight of their unresolved conflict hung heavy between them like a barrier, casting a shadow over their once vibrant connection.

Summoning his courage, Benedict stepped forward, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floorboards. "Y/N," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, but before he could say another word, Lady Granville intercepted him, her gaze cold and calculating.

"Mr. Bridgerton," Madame Delacroix greeted with a disdainful tilt of her chin, her French slurred tone laced with thinly veiled contempt. "What brings you to our little gathering? Surely you don't expect to find yourself welcome here after what Whistledown's latest sheet has revealed."

Benedict's heart sank at the mention of Lady Whistledown's scandalous gossip, the weight of the accusations pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. "Y/N, please," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation, but Lady Granville merely raised an imperious eyebrow, her disdain palpable.

"Ladies, could you please give us the room," Y/N interjected firmly, her voice carrying a steely edge that brooked no argument. Madame Delacroix shot her a questioning look, to which the lady nodded reluctantly. With a series of subtle glances directed at Benedict, the women filed out of the room, their gazes lingering on him with thinly veiled curiosity.

As the door closed behind them, a heavy silence settled over the room, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. Y/N turned to face Benedict, her features hardened with a mixture of anger and hurt.

As Benedict and Y/N unexpectedly found themselves face to face amidst the opulent surroundings of the Granville party, the atmosphere seemed to crackle with tension, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Y/N's eyes, usually warm and inviting, now bore a glint of guarded skepticism as she regarded Benedict, her gaze piercing through the facade of polite decorum.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the murmurs of conversation fading into a distant hum as they stood locked in a silent standoff, each grappling with their own tumultuous thoughts and feelings. The flickering glow of candlelight cast eerie shadows across their features, adding to the sense of unease that hung between them like a tangible force.

"Benedict," Y/N's voice broke through the suffocating silence, her tone edged with a hint of surprise and resentment, "What brings you here? I didn't expect to see you at this gathering."

Benedict's features tightened with unease, his eyes darting nervously as he struggled to find the right words. The grandeur of the room seemed to mock his discomfort, its lavish decor serving as a stark reminder of the gaping divide that had grown between them.

"I...I could ask you the same," Benedict replied tentatively, his voice betraying his inner turmoil. The weight of Y/N's gaze bore down on him like a heavy burden, and he shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

Y/N's lips formed a thin line, a flicker of frustration flashing in her eyes as she absorbed Benedict's response. The tension between them crackled in the air, suffusing the room with an almost palpable energy as they stood locked in a silent standoff.

"I am here with friends," Y/N explained tersely, her tone tinged with defensiveness. "I didn't anticipate running into...you."

Benedict felt a pang of remorse at the coldness in her tone, the realization of the pain he had caused her weighing heavily on his conscience. The warmth of the room seemed to dissipate, leaving behind a chilling emptiness that mirrored the growing distance between them.

"Y/N," he implored, his tone tinged with worry. "There's something I need to ask you. Why did you deny me an audience earlier this morning? I sought you out, but I was turned away without explanation. Please, Y/N, I need to understand."

Y/N paused in her tracks, her hand hovering over the couch arm as she hesitated. The weight of Benedict's words hung heavy in the air between them, the tension palpable as they stood on the precipice of an unspoken truth.

Slowly, Y/N turned to face him, her expression guarded as she met his gaze with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. "I couldn't face anyone— even you, Benedict," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not after... Whistledown that's happened. I needed time to gather my thoughts, to come to terms with the depth of my pain and my reputation."

Benedict's heart sank at her words, the realization of the pain he had caused her weighing heavily on his conscience. "Y/N, I had no idea," he murmured, his voice laced with regret. "If I had known, I would have respected your wishes. I never meant to add to your suffering."

"I know, Benedict," she firmly said, but her voice betraying her, tinged with sadness. "But some wounds run deeper than others, and time alone cannot heal them. I need space, time to find my own path forward."

"Y/N, please," Benedict pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation, "Let me explain. I never meant to—"

Y/N's eyes flashed with anger, her frustration boiling over as she confronted him with the pain he had caused. "Explain what, Benedict?" she demanded, her voice rising with each word. "Your absence? Your silence? Or perhaps the fact that I'm possibly nothing more than mere amusement to you, a prim and proper distraction from your rakish pursuits?"

Benedict recoiled at her words, the sting of her accusations piercing through his defenses like a dagger to his heart. "No, Y/N, you know that's not true," he protested, but she cut him off with a bitter laugh.

"Do I?" she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "How can I be sure of anything when you've left me to face the whispers and the gossip alone? When you've abandoned me to doubt and humiliation?" Tears welled in Y/N's eyes as she spoke, the pain of betrayal etched deeply into her features.

Benedict felt the weight of her accusations like a sword to his heart, his chest tightening with the agony of her words. "Y/N, please, you must understand," he implored, his voice trembling with emotion. "I never intended for any of this to happen. My absence, my silence—it was never a reflection of how I feel about you. I've been grappling with my own inner turmoil, responsibilities and fears that have nothing to do with you."

Benedict's admission hung heavy in the air between them, his confession like a dagger to Y/N's heart. Her anger, fueled by betrayal and hurt, threatened to consume her as she struggled to process his words.

Y/N's eyes blazed with fury, her anger fueling her resolve as she confronted him head-on. "And what of the whispers about you and Lady Arnold?" she challenged, her voice dripping with scorn. "Are you telling me you had no part in fueling those rumors? That you never kissed her?"

Benedict recoiled at the accusation, the shame of his actions burning like a branding iron against his conscience. "No, Y/N, I swear it wasn't like that," he admitted, his voice laced with desperation. "There was a moment…" He paused, contemplating confession and it's consequences. He closed his eyes wincing at what he's about to say, "We did kiss, but it meant nothing. It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment that I deeply regret."

"A mistake?" she repeated incredulously, her voice tinged with disbelief. "A lapse in judgment? Do you expect me to believe that, Benedict? Do you expect me to simply forgive and forget?"

Benedict's eyes pleaded with her, his desperation palpable as he reached out to grasp her hand. "Y/N, please, I know I've made a terrible mistake," he implored, his voice trembling with remorse. "But I swear to you, it meant nothing. I assure you, it was inconsequential. You are the one I am committed to, the one I wish to be with. Lady Arnold made advances, and I rejected them. It was a momentary lapse in which I failed to uphold my commitment to you."

Y/N's shoulders slumped with the weight of Benedict's words, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of his confession. She sank down onto a nearby chair, her breath hitching as tears welled in her eyes, cascading down her cheeks in silent rivulets. With trembling hands, she buried her face in her palms, the anguish of betrayal and heartache washing over her in relentless waves.

The room seemed to blur around her, the vibrant colors of the decor fading into a haze as she struggled to come to terms with the devastation of Benedict's admission. His words echoed in her mind, each syllable a painful reminder of the trust that had been shattered beyond repair.

How could she believe him? How could she trust that his words held any semblance of truth when his actions had spoken so loudly against him? The image of Benedict with Lady Arnold haunted her, a specter of doubt and uncertainty that threatened to consume her from within.

But amidst the turmoil of her emotions, a glimmer of resolve flickered deep within Y/N's heart. She may have been broken, battered by the storm of betrayal, but she refused to let Benedict's actions define her worth. With a steadying breath, she lifted her head, her tear-stained cheeks glistening in the soft glow of candlelight.

"I thought you were different, Benedict," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper, "But I... I don't know if I can forgive you. The pain you've caused runs deep, and I fear that trust may never be fully restored."

Benedict's heart shattered at the sight of Y/N's tears, his own anguish mirrored in her sorrowful expression. Without hesitation, he sank to his knees beside her, his hand reaching out tentatively to brush against her trembling shoulder.

"Y/N, please," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. "I understand if you can't forgive me, if you can't find it in your heart to trust me again. But I swear to you, with every fiber of my being, I love you. I would give anything to make things right between us, to earn back your trust and your love."

His words hung in the air, a fragile plea borne of remorse and desperation. He longed to take her in his arms, to hold her close and shield her from the pain he had caused. But he knew that he had to respect her boundaries, to give her the space she needed to process her emotions and come to her own decision.

Y/N's shoulders trembled beneath his touch, her tears flowing unabated as she struggled to find the strength to meet his gaze. The weight of his words pressed down upon her, a bittersweet reminder of the love they had shared and the trust that had been so brutally betrayed.

For a moment, it seemed as though Y/N might succumb to Benedict's heartfelt plea. Her eyes softened, her resolve wavering in the face of his earnest confession. But then, with a trembling breath, she pulled away from his touch, her tears still glistening in the dim light of the room.

"I... I need some air," she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. Without another word, she stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor in a jarring echo of their fractured connection.

With a determined tilt of her chin, Y/N lifted the glass to her lips, downing the remaining contents in one swift motion. The bitter taste of the alcohol burned her throat, a sharp contrast to the ache in her heart as she turned away from Benedict, her steps heavy with the weight of her decision.

Benedict watched helplessly as she made her way to the door, his heart breaking with each retreating footfall. He longed to call out to her, to beg her to stay, but he knew that it was futile. The damage had been done, the rift between them too deep to bridge in a single moment of remorse.

As Y/N disappeared through the doorway, leaving him alone amidst the wreckage of their shattered relationship, Benedict felt a hollow emptiness settle in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he had lost her, perhaps forever, condemned to a lifetime of regret for the pain he had inflicted upon the woman he loved. And as he sank to the chair, his heart heavy with sorrow, he prayed for a chance at redemption, a glimmer of hope amidst the ruins of their once bright future.

taglist: @novausstuff // @pussyslayerhd // @amoosarte // @jupitervenusearthmars // @shonteriasunshine // @melsunshine // @bollzinurmouth // @kneelforloki

again, please do send me a message or comment down if you would like to be added on the succeeding taglists for the five times series! thanks loves <3!

[bethanydelleman]

New Year's Resolutions for Jane Austen Characters (mid-novel) Part 2

George Wickham: Marry a heiress. Stop gambling lol, as if, that's what marrying the heiress is for.

Lady Catherine: Convince Darcy to follow through with his duty and honour of marrying my daughter Anne. Learn pianoforte

William Collins: Continue in the esteem of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh in order to secure additional livings. My wonderful partner in life joins me in this goal.

Charlotte Collins: Convince husband to spend as much time in the garden as possible. Secure extra livings in order to gain more Mr. Collins-free time.

Georgiana Darcy: Practice harp at 10am sharp every day until fingering improves

Mrs. Jennings: Marry off every eligible girl within sight, beginning with the Miss Dashwoods.

Fanny Dashwood: 1. Suck up to mom to secure inheritance 2. Keep Edward & Elinor apart at all costs, 3. Hang out with this Steele girl to make Elinor jealous

John Willoughby: 1. Marry an heiress before my entire life explodes 2. Worm my way back into Mrs. Smith's good graces. 3. Marianne???

Sir John Middleton: 1. Go hunting 2. Host parties and balls 3. Make sure my tenants in Barton cottage are happy (Not actually goals, just what he does anyway)

Lady Middleton: Maintain the propriety of my great house and title while spoiling my children

John Thorpe: 1. Marry that rich heiress I so cleverly secured 2. Buy and sell horses for extravagant prices 3. Attend Belle & James's wedding (If I have time)

Isabella Thorpe: ❤️❤️❤️ Marry Captain Frederick Tilney ❤️❤️❤️

Jane Fairfax: *hands back the paper blank and blushes*

Frank Churchill: MARRY THE LOVE OF MY LIFE JANE FAIRFAX um, some girl I know. Don't tell my aunt, please

Mr. Elton & Mrs. Elton: keep being the hottest couple in Highbury *high five*

Dr. Grant: Eat a lot of yummy dinners (same goal since he was born)

Julia Bertram: Catch a better husband than Maria Keep partying with Maria

Mrs. Price: hire better servants, have Rebecca fix that carpet... I really have the worst servants in Portsmouth, it's a tragedy... (we cut off her complaints here)

William Price: MAKE LIEUTENANT

Sir Thomas: Finally figure out how to make Tom stay at home and do his duty as the eldest son. All the other kids are doing very well so I have nothing to improve there.

Sir Walter: There is nothing I would ever change about the amazing person that is myself.

Elizabeth Elliot: Marry Mr. Elliot and reestablish myself as the mistress of Kellynch

Lady Russell: encourage Anne to marry Mr. Elliot, read all new poetry publications

Mr. Elliot: Keep Sir Walter from marrying that vile seductress so I stay in the line of succession

Mrs. Clay: Marry Sir Walter, at all costs

Part 1

[tomorrowillbeyou]

i imagine many of my haters would be singing a different tune if they met my esteemed patroness lady catherine de bourgh

[taradactyls]

Dear Lady Catherine

Submission for @janeuary-month 2025 Day 16: Gossip

Following the Netherfield Ball, Mr Collins happily gossips in a letter to Lady Catherine that her that her nephew may be on the verge of matrimony… to Miss Bingley. He overheard his cousins talking of the lady’s attentions and quite misconstrued everything. Lady Catherine, as incensed as she could ever be, goes to confront her nephew in London… and arrives in the middle of the ‘Why You Should Not Marry Jane Bennet’ intervention.

Yelling ensues. And maybe more than one instance of self-reflection.

OR

In which Mr Collins has the sacred duty of sharing gossip he wasn’t supposed to know; Lady Catherine is of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use; Miss Bingley learns what all her attempts to secure Mr Darcy’s affections have amounted to; and Mr Darcy himself is full of pride and confronted with his hypocrisy.

Rated G, 4.2k words, Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley

Tags: Canon divergence, Lady Catherine is in peak form, and facing someone who's allowed to argue back, Character development, Speedrunning Darcy's realisations, Arguing, Self-reflection

Read a preview below or the entire work on Ao3

Dear Lady Catherine

“Netherfield Park, Nov. 27.

“Lady Catherine,

“This letter is to inform you that I am departing Netherfield unexpectedly, and to address all correspondence henceforward to –– Berkley Square. I shall be in residence there before this message reaches your hands. Have no fear over my hasty departure: it is merely to follow Mr Bingley, whose name you may recall as the friend whom I have been staying with in Hertfordshire, to town. I travel with his sisters and the husband of the elder. We expect no issues on the road. You shall hear from me again at my regular writing time.

“With affectionate respect, your nephew,

“FITZWILLIAM DARCY”

----------------

“Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire, 27th November.

“Dear Lady Catherine,

“The most esteemed and venerated patroness,

“Before beginning, I must reiterate my thanks again for your most benevolent actions in condescending to allow me to be from my parish for duration of this journey to visit my family. They are all so grateful to you for granting me this liberty, and awed by your magnanimity. I could not have wished for a happier welcome! Though I must suppose I should not be surprised, seeing as I come bearing the honour of your good regard, and shall, in all likelihood, one day be the master of this fine estate. I hope Mr Bennet might look on me as something akin to a son, which, as you well know, is a desire I intended to make true and I am more convinced of the merit of than ever, as I found his elder daughters as pretty and charming as reported. I am sure the economy and amiable qualities of one in particular will make me happy man indeed, and she is a true gentlewoman, just as you requested.

“But I find I am not the only gentleman whom I hazard to say might soon find matrimonial bliss! I was fortunate enough to meet your nephew, Mr Darcy, only last night. He is staying at Netherfield, very close to Meryton, which is the house his friend, Mr Bingley, has taken. Though unknown to either, my relation to the young ladies (whom they are intimate with, as my cousins are one of the few distinguished families in the vicinity) and residence at Longbourn was enough to secure my invitation to a ball hosted by Mr Bingley! It was a most splendid affair, and the lady of the house, Miss Bingley, was an elegant hostess. I accidentally overheard from some of my cousins (I would never intentionally eavesdrop, naturally) that Miss Bingley must be dreaming of hosting at Pemberley – your nephew’s very own seat!

“I understand from the young ladies that Miss Bingley’s attentions to your nephew have been very marked, and from my own notice, he appears to receive them with dignity. A man in his position must never allow his composure to lapse, but as he danced (most skilfully, a compliment I am sure you will appreciate hearing) with the lady, she is the sister of his dearest friend, and I understand they have spent many weeks under the same roof and were in company very often before that, we may imagine where his preference lies. Moreover, she is a very rich and fine young lady, well-educated and accomplished in all the necessary skills a husband must find desirable in an elegant female of her position.

“I imagine your nephew shall divulge all to you, and seek your blessing, and I hope he does not begrudge me the honour of hinting at the match to you if I have beaten him to the post. I know little else of the lady, other than that she is a close friend of Miss Bennet, and cared for her most dutifully when my cousin fell sick at her house. Such evidence of a kind heart is indeed to be cherished in a prospective niece! Her family is from the north of England, and I believe highly respectable. Her father was in trade but parted with his business so his son and two daughters (who are all very excellent models of good breeding and gentility) might be raised as true gentlemen and ladies. You shall particularly appreciate how skilled Miss Bingley – though she may no longer bear that name when you meet – is upon the pianoforte; I am not sure I have ever heard playing so fine!

“I shall be certain to announce to you any further developments my cousins learn. They were anxious that I do not spread their words further, but of course an exception must be made for yourself. I remain your humble and gracious pastor,

“William Collins”

----------------

Unaware of the storm approaching in an ornate carriage, a crumpled letter in the occupant’s hand, Mr Darcy felt his present situation could not grow any more unfortunate. Detaching Mr Bingley from Miss Bennet was the purpose which had driven the Netherfield set to join their host directly in London, and saving his friend from the certain evils of such a choice was an office Mr Darcy readily engaged in. But that could not make his friend’s emotions any easier to bear. He was relieved Georgiana was out with Mrs Annesley. He would not have her overhear anything passing in the drawing room.

Despite Mr Darcy, Miss Bingley, and Mrs Hurst describing and enforcing the dangers of the match earnestly, Mr Bingley was not receptive. “I cannot believe you all!” exclaimed he. “To think, those closest to me comprehend me so little as to feel Miss Bennet’s wealth or connections would erase all my affection for her!”

“Charles, an uncle who is a country attorney is bad enough, but her other uncle is in trade and lives by cheapside!” cried Mrs Hurst. “Our father did not rise us so high only so that you might sink yourself again!”

Mr Bingley looked at his sister incredulously. “Miss Bennet’s connections might emphasise our family’s origins, but it shall not harm me in any material way. I would not lose anyone’s good opinion which was worth having. I shall still possess the education and wealth of a gentleman, and have the means to purchase an estate should I desire to.” He made the effort to release any annoyance from his expression. “And I shall be more likely to purchase if I have a wife,” said he. If he hoped to mollify his sisters’ by dangling the fulfilment of their great hope before them, he was mistaken.

“But you need not suffer any degradation with the right marriage,” said Miss Bingley. “If you marry someone of fortune you and your children shall be richer, and not tainted by such low connections. Think if you should have a large family! How dearly you shall then wish your wife had brought twenty thousand pounds, or more, into the marriage. Dear Jane is sweet, yes, but she will drag you down in the eyes of society and has so little fortune that she will cost you money to maintain.”

Anticipating his friend’s response, Mr Darcy said “I know remonstrances on the matters of wealth and the situation of her connections alone will not sway you. But there are other causes of repugnance: think of the embarrassment of being so closely connected to Miss Bennet’s nearest relations. The situation of her mother’s family is nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by Mrs Bennet, the three younger sisters, and occasionally even by Mr Bennet.”

Mr Bingley turned his face away; he could not argue against that.

“Your sisters are not wrong to remind you that your reputation and standing in society is tenuous as the first gentleman of your family,” continued Mr Darcy. “On matters of wealth and standing, you might indeed feel you suffer little. But to have the largest share of your wife’s family be embarrassing and vulgar to anyone of sense can only harm you and any children you might have.” With careful emphasis, he said, “You should ensure that you marry a woman whose connections always act with gentility, with becoming manners and no hint of rudeness or impropriety –”

He got no further before a disturbance in the entry hall drew all their attention and a footman burst through the door. The evident shock of that servant at this turn of events, as he managed to make a hasty bow and quickly announce Lady Catherine barely half a second before she entered the room, was no less than that of the room’s occupants.

“Nephew, I must speak with you,” said Lady Catherine without preamble. Upon noticing the others she scowled, dwelling most intently on the ladies.

Shocked at her abruptness, and attempting to soften it before his friends, Mr Darcy bowed. “Lady Catherine, I was not expecting –”

“Is that,” interrupted Lady Catherine, looking at Miss Bingley, after discerning the wedding ring and cap Mrs Hurst wore, “the upstart young woman with pretensions towards yourself? Who desires you to sully your reputation through forming an alliance with herself?”

 “I know not what you speak of,” Mr Darcy sharply replied, as Miss Bingley blanched.

That did not hinder Lady Catherine’s ire. “Do not imagine me ignorant to the report of a most alarming nature that this woman intends to be your wife. It is my duty to intervene, in the place of your late mother.”

“Madam,” Mr Darcy said firmly, “let us discuss any concerns of yours in the library.”

“Dismiss them from your presence immediately.”

“I cannot countenance behaving that way towards my guests.” Saying so, Mr Darcy moved to stand between his friends and his aunt, in hopes of steering her out the door.

Lady Catherine sucked in a shocked breath and looked to Mr Darcy. “It is her, is it not? This Miss Bingley mine own rector spoke of as your future wife. How can you defend her so over my superior right to be in this house? Only look at her – nothing in her features to mark distinction. Who are her family? No one. You see in her face the descent of shepherds.”

“Outside, madam,” repeated Mr Darcy.

Continue reading here

[emmalostinwonderland]

okay emma luv here's my request for the wip ask game

❤️ Butterflies and Tummy Aches (FirstPrince sense-share AU, chap 8)

Hello, darling!! I know you’re a Pip redemption arc fan (hard same) so I’m sorry to saddle you with him pre-redemption but wrapping up this scene at Kensington was next on my docket. Enjoy!

Henry pours hot water into his mug and carries it over to the seat next to his brother. Stirring in a spoonful of sugar, he glances over at Philip’s half-empty cup. He remembers a day when they both drank their tea unsweetened, back when he still believed his brother was his hero, and his chest aches a little. It feels like the divide between them grows wider by the hour. “How are things?” Philip doesn’t look up from whatever he’s typing away at on his phone. Probably another ridiculously stuffy email — some kind of most unfortunately your email has not found me well as it happens that my pillow was warm on both sides last night which greatly upset my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh nonsense. Henry barely stifles a laugh as Philip answers. “Things are… fine. All’s well. The renovations should be done shortly, which will be right about time for Martha and I to begin trying for children.” “Kids?” Henry sets his mug down. “So soon? You’ve hardly been married a year…” “Long enough for Gran. We need heirs, in case you’ve forgotten.” Henry hums noncommittally. He thinks about his grandmother, about his own rapidly approaching future… about the boy in his bed.

WIP Game Post Here // Send Me an Ask!

[the-trans-folk-witch]

Hi, I wanted to say that your post on the fetch/shade was absolutely, to a T, so very the same as my experience with it. What you wrote resonated deeply, I have lived with what you've described, worked with it, learned about it, become synonymous with it and yet spoken with it, your post is not just similar to my experience but identical and I am very ecstatic to see it. I also wanted to tell you something you might find interesting. In your post you mentioned "Unlike the Christians", so I offer another perspective, as a Kemetic. This shade is something I have asked my patron about. It is my core, selfish, aggressive, callous, vicious and full of teeth, pure red. This differs from my 'mundane' outermost expression which is generally overly compassionate. My goddess said this redness, this beast and voraciousness is my Heart and source, and "not to be disgraced". It is held in esteem as part of me. She basically conveyed that it is to embraced and that it is this very heat that allows me to express passionate kindness and justice, that it enables me to Do any good thing I do, in addition to existing as the primal force within me and all its other activities you spoke about in your post. A direct flow from a vicious center, to an output of my choosing. (This is all very 'good morals' talk but that was simply our specific topic at the time for personal reasons, neither she nor me are opposed to shredding things). I find it very fascinating that both the traditional current and the goddess Bast have encouraged this feral source despite having such different backgrounds!

I’m super glad you mentioned this because I wanted to let you know, Trad craft and kemetic soul beliefs DO have similar backgrounds. Egypt as well as Sumer were very influential on European folk beliefs and greco-Roman religion. The idea of multiple soul parts including a more maligned spirit part is found in so many cultures that had relations with kemetic religious practices. So yes! Bast as well as my own local witch patroness are teaching us things cut from the same ancient cloth. Soul parts are universal. Sumer had 3, Greece has 6, kemetic beliefs had up to 8… it’s all related and shared!

[alwaysspeakshermind]

bots in the pride & prejudice tag? really?

is it not enough that I must already dodge posts from every fandom that thinks its ship parallels Lizzy/Darcy? now I also have to wade through posts promising scantily clad ladies/nights of passion in the most common language?

my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would disapprove most strongly of this.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Pleione (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- Patroness of Sailors, Titaness of stars by the people of Olympius

Mother by her daughters

Ms. Grandmother by Hermes

Age- 60 (immortal)

Location- Arcadia, Olympius

Personality- No-nonsense & unapologetically blunt, she can be rigid and unforgiving at times when making her opinions and critiques known. She's fiercely determined, enigmatic, mysterious, & analytical. She's single.

She has the standard abilities of a goddess. As the Titaness of sailing & stars her other powers/abilities include astronkinesis (stardust manipulation as well as other remnants of cosmic substances), asterokinesis (the ability to manipulate stars), watercraft manipulation, boat/ship physiology, cosmic fire generation/manipulation, and limited hydrokinesis (being able to generate tidal waves).

Pleione lives atop Mt. Cyllene, the tallest mountain in the state of Arcadia. The mansion is an otherwordly beauty. It's spacious & streamlined with a minimalist aesthetic. All the doors are made out of Astraen Silver while the walls are made out of shimmering moonrock. Instead of windows there are skylights. The furniture includes comfy couches & chairs covered in satin of rich silvers and dark blues. Her most prized possession (the first star ever created) is kept in an enchanted glass case. Her place is always spotless and organized. For traveling great distances, Pleione flies on her pet pegasus Alyndra. In Arcadia she gets around in her sleek silver sports car. She also owns a sailboat named The Contessa.

She goes sailing every weekend!

Pleione has an intensive exercise routine that she follows on a daily basis. It includes a six mile walk in the mornings as well as two hours of cardio.

A go-to drink for her is Strengthify bottled ionized akaline water. She always buys the 24 pack from the supermarket. Other go-to drinks include freshly brewed ylang ylang tea, aloe vera juice, white wine, champagne, & classic martinis. She also likes the taro root milkshakes from By The Scoop, an ice cream truck business owned Matton (god of meals).

Treats that she's well known for making are moon cakes and spicy maple candied bacon!

A steaming bowl of congee is a usual breakfast for her (in addition to sliced grapefruit and oolong tea).

Pleione is one of the most respected deities amongst the public & pantheon- even having a cult following of maritime people on Fatestagram. She's known for being the mother to one of the most esteemed groups in the pantheon, The Pleiades (Maia, Electra, Celeano, Taygete, Alcyone, Asterope, and Merope). There's no question to the strong bond and devotion they all have for one another, but their relationship has always been contentious- more so recently. Pleione is definitely closer to her eldest daughter Maia.

She's currently not on speaking terms with her youngest daugter Merope after the fall out surrounding her former son-in-law Sisyphus, who was a mortal. Pleione from the start did not approve of the relationship & even refused to go to the wedding. She remembered doing tons of damage control when the controversy happened, feeling intense shame and humiliation. The situation has been a major source of strife between the sisters. Pleione hasn't even met Merope's children.

A guilty pleasure for her are the ultra soft & buttery brioche buns from The Bread Box.

In the pantheon Pleione's best friend is Phoebe (Titaness of the moon, prophecy, radiant intellect, & mystery). She visits her in Delphi almost every week and the two often keep in contact. Pleione has every book her bestie has published and gave her great birthday gifts like a pair of Luxuria heels & a sapphire studded collar for Phoebe's pet cat Cress! She's also friends with Coeus (Titan god of foresight, intellect, & knowledge), Tethys (Titaness of freshwater & clouds), Oceanus (Titan god of the sea), Chrysanta (goddess of metal), Astrape (goddess of lightning), and Bronte (goddess of thunder). Pleione used to be close to Eurybia (goddess of the sea's mastery) before she fell off the grid. She surprisingly was a mentor to Aegaeon (god of sea storms).

Pleione was also one of the first donors for Atlas' space aero-engineering school.

The deity she dislikes the most is Pheme (goddess of fame), especially after her production company released the docufilm covering Sisyphus' controversy. Pleione stayed in her mansion for a few months during that time.

She loves her grandson Hermes, but wishes he behaved more mature. She has a good relationship with her other grandson Deucalion. She allowed him to stay with her for a few weeks when his mother had to travel for work.

She loves snacking on blueberries!

As a mother's day gift many years ago, all the daughters chipped in and gifted their mom with a ring- an exquisite emerald cut blue topaz ring surrounded by smaller flower shaped diamonds. Pleione hasn't worn it in a while.

Even though she's financially set through her position & the family business (the sisters owning a wilderness park), Pleione gets extra income endorsing/modeling for Euryphaessa, Platinum Luminescence, and Megaleio.

She was gifted her a pair of crystal embellished heels from Diamond Ave. from Phoebe. It was quite pricey costing almost 5,000 drachmas!

She hosts an annual oyster roast at her estate. It takes place a couple of weeks before the Summer Solstice holiday.

After every emotional blowout or argument cooking was one of the ways Pleione and her daughters would come together. It's been a while since they all cooked. Some of her favorite dishes include mapo tofu, hot and sour soup, cong you bing (scallion pancakes), vegetable pastitsio, luo bo gao, & papoutsakia.

Pleione is quite content in her singledom valuing her independence. She indulges in certain pleasures from time to time thanks to rechargeable & battery powered "devices."

In her free time she loves staying actve through mountain climbing, tai chi, martial arts, boxing, swimming, hiking, fencing, surfing, and football (soccer). She also enjoys acupuncture, starwatching, charting constellations, reading, writing, & going to the spa.

"Everyone's time will come. Even the stars wait for the night to shine."

[mr-collins-2005]

My Esteemed Patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh deserves the recognition 🙄🤚

[circassianhatko]

Circassian Ху/Хужь/фыжьы (hu/hw/hužʹ/fyžʹy; "white"), Gothic 🇩🇪 𐍈𐌴𐌹𐍄𐍃 (ƕeits), Old Gutnish Huit, OE Hwīt, Scots 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇬🇧 Fyte, Wymysorys Wȧjs, OHG Wīz.

Circassian блэн (to shine, blaze, knit, braid). Russian блеск (shine, blaze), белый/бледный (white). Braid (from *bʰrēǵ- "to shine") 🎆👱‍♀️🔀💡

Circassian зылэн (zəlăn; to paint, colour, makeup, beautify, красить) and Proto-Slavic *zelenъ (green, зелёный).

From Circassian лъэ (leg), пэ (nose, tip), лъапэ (foot), дэн (to sew), лъэпэд (socks). See also Circassian цу (c°; ox), цуакъэ (c°āqă; shoes), цокъэжъ (coqăẑ; old shoes) → SOCK, Russian чувяк (chuvyak), Greek σύκχος (súkkhos; a kind of shoe), τσάγγα (tságga, a soft shoe) 🐂 👞

Circassian Лъэ (Lʺe; Leg), Лъэгу (Lʺegu; Sole, Level, Valley), Лъапэ (Lʺape; Foot, Paw), Пэ (Nose, Ledge), Ӏэ (Hand, Arm), Ӏэпэ (Finger) ✋👃🚶

Circassian Лъэ ("Leg") + Пэ ("Nose, Ledge") = Лъапэ (Łāpă), Russian Лапа (Lapa), Irish Lapa, Norwegian Labb, Hungarian Láb, Romanian Labă 🐾👣

Circassian Ныбэ (nəbă; belly, stomach); Veps, Old High German, Latvian, Estonian Naba (belly button, navel); German Nabe (hub). 🤰

NOTE: However, that Naba and Napa in several Finnic languages are borrowings from a Germanic language.

Circassian шъуапэ (šʺuape; "cockroach") → German Schabe → Czech šváb ("cockroach") ≠ Šváb ("Swabian, Schwabe") 🧐🐜

Circassian Лъэпэд (Łăpăd; "Socks") → Russian Лапоть (Lapotʹ; "Bast shoe, lapti, traditional footwear of Northeastern Europe") 🧦 ⪑⪒|⪑⪒

Circassian пэрыт (peryt; advanced, ahead, in front, foremost, counselor, a given name), Russian передовой (pered-ovoj; advanced, foremost) 🔝

Russian перёд (peryod; front), пре (pre; over, most, very), Polish prze (pron. PSHEH; over, great, super), Latin pretiō (I value, esteem) 🔝

Some other native Circassian words: пщы (pščy; prince), пашэ (paše; top, leader, advanced), пащхьэ/пашъхьэ (paščhʹe/pašʺhʹe; in front of) 🔝

See also Polish przed (pron. PSHED; in front of), prze (PSHEH; over, great, super, IFO), przod-owy (advanced), przód (fore) etc. (rz=sh/š) 🔝

🐛 Circassian маркуэ / марко (mārk°ă / mārko; "worm"). cf. Norwegian mark ("worm") 🐛

Greek τσαγκάρης (tsagkáris; shoemaker) < τσάγγα (tságga; a kind of soft shoe) + -άρης (-áris; -er, denotes profession) ← Circassian цуакъэ (c°āqă; shoes) < цу (c°; ox, bull), cf. укъын (wqən; to open wide, bare, uncover, flay, remove the covering).

Ukrainian жар (žar; heat, fever), вар (var; suffocating heat, boiling) Circassian жъон (ẑon), вэн (văn; to boil, plow) цуабзэ (c°ābză), вабдзэ (vābʒă; plowshare) < бзын (bzən; to cut) цу (c°), вы (və; bull, ox), pron. чъу (čw) in some other dialects 🥵 🐃≈#wagon 🚜 #parallels

Oxen were used in farms for plowing as well. 🐂 Circassian цуакъэ (c°āqă), вакъэ (vāqă; shoes), also pron. чъуакъэ (čwāqă), вакъэжь (vāqăẑ), цокъэжъ (coqăẑ; old shoes) < -жь/ъ (old). Thanks to Circassian, it's safer to say French and Middle Irish soc (plowshare) is related to🧦

а-цәаҟа (ā-c°q̇ā) (not an independent word) would be the Abkhaz spelling of this word. Abkhaz а-цә (ā-c°; ox, bull), а-ҳәа (ā-x°ā; hog, saber), а-ҳәара (ā-x°ārā; to ask, beg), а-цәара (ā-c°ārā; to suck, sleep), а-цәгьа (ā-c°g̍ā; arduous, despiteful, aggressive, bad) 💢🐃

Abkhaz а-цәа (ā-c°ā; skin, leather, cover, shell, suck, nurse, plural forming suffix as in Ан-цәа, the creator of all things, parents, progenitors, mothers, patronesses who bore the great matriarchal Apsua people) .

NOTE: Mar gheall ar an chéad dá litir. Sock (item of clothing) is related to Circassian c°āqă. Sock (plowshare) is derived from a PIE word which is also related to c°. Both come from the same root word indicating a cattle. Is é sin mo thuairim faoi. Ó, is ☘️ liom🇮🇪

In English Death is a “He,” right? In Russian it’s a “She” - Smert’.

In Circassian Death does not have any gender (no he or she) It’s called Pseheh [Psew-heh] - literally translates “The Soul Extractor.”

In English & Russian Death “comes”

In Circassian Death “visits”

Circassian жъун/вын(to melt,žw=v)💥жъуэ(~heat,shine,žw)🎇гъо/гъуэ(ġo;l-yellow,dry,hole,time)🌾👑жъуагъо/вагъуэ(star,žwago/vague)💫жъуагъэ/вагъэ(arable land, boiled)⏳Latin vagus(wandering,strolling)☄️M French vague (empty,vacant,uncultivated)👩‍🌾Lithuanian žarijà(heat)žvaigždė̃(🌠)

🌾 Norwegian varme (heat), gul (yellow), gull (gold), Ukrainian zorja (star, dawn) 🌆 zoloto (gold), žovtyj (yellow), Chechen or (hole), French or (gold), Circassian aka Promethean ġo/ġ°ă (light-yellow, dry, time, hole, burrow...)⌛️ ẑ°ā/vā (🔥), ẑ°āġo/vāġ°ă (🌟) To be cont'd💤

Compare South Slavic examples чир (čir; to boil), цирей (cirej; boil) as well as Icelandic bulla (to boil) and Abkhaz а-былра (ā-bəlrā; to burn). 🔥🐃

"Тхьэ/Тхьа" (Tkh'è, Tkh'a, Tha, Thar) means God in Circassian and predates Christianity. cf. Greek "θεός" (Theós) or Old Norse "Þórr" (Thor).

Circassian дахэ (dāxă; "beautiful"), дэгъу[э] (dăġ°[ă]; "good, excellent, fig. fresh, brave"), гуапэ (g°āpă; 😻 "good, pleasant, hot, cordial, guapo") ⋰Ẍ⋱ Old Irish deg, dag ("good, excellent") → The Dagda (🌄 "Good God").

Circassian дэи, дэй, дэйы (dăi, dăj, dăjə; "bad"), дагъуэ (dāġ°ă; "defect") 🧙‍♀️

Goedendag! Circassian дыгъэ, тыгъэ (dəġă, təġă; "the Sun, gift"), гъэ (ġă; "year"), гъуэ (ġ°ă; "time, light red") 🐷 Old English ġēr ("year"), Swedish ge ("to give"), Lithuanian dagà ("heat of the Sun, harvest"), Old Prussian dagis ("summer") 🖐️☀️

Circassian гуапэ (g°āpă; 😻 "good, pleasant, hot, cordial, guapo"), Abkhaz агәаҧхара (āg°āpxārā, "to like, wish, love") → Greek αγαπάω (agapáo; "love").

Circassian гу (g°), Abkhaz агәы (ā-g°ə́; heart), агәара (ā-g°ār-ā; fence, safe place for goods, mountainous KARTli→Georgia), Greek καρδιά (kardiá;💟), αγορά (agorá; CENTRE of public life, marketplace), Russian гора (gorа; mountain), Mingrel გური (guri;💟, stuffing). CORE, PILE🗻

Circassian уэс/ос/осы (wăs/ves/ues/os/osy; "snow, снег"). cf. Finnish vesi, Irish uisce, German Wasser, Wymysorys woser ("water, вода"). ❄️💦

Circassian уэшх/ощхы (wăšh/oš̍hy; "rain"). cf. English wash, German waschen etc. 🌧️🚿

Circassian уэрэд/орэд (wărăd/wrd/orăd/ord; song), English word, Old Norse orð, Latvian vārds (name, word), Hittite weriya- (to call, name)🗣️

Circassian псалъэ (psāłă; "word"), псэлъэн (psăłăn; "to talk"). Compare Greek ψάλλω (psállo; "to sing, make a sound by vibrating") etc. 🔊

Greek ψάλλω (psállo; to sing) → ψαλμός (psalmós; psalm, sacred song), Russian псалом (psalom). See also Kashub Psôle/Psalmë, Polish Psale.

Circassian мыл/мылы (məl; ice, лёд). 🥶 cf. English melt (таять) from *(s)mel- (молоть, to crush, grind, dwindle > малый/small etc.), *mel- (delicate, weak, brittle), mellow, mill… More than "M"ostratic. ⚗️

Circassian джэгу and гьэгу (ǯ̍ăg°, ɡ’ăg°; play, game, Jegu 🕺🃏), English joke, Spanish jugar (to play), Latin iocus (pastime, amusement) GAG 😜

Circassian Псэун (pseun; "to live"), Псэу (pseu; "alive"), Псэ (pse; "soul, psyche"), Псэущхьэ/-шъхь (pseuščhʹe/-šhʹ; "animal"). cf. Ψυχή...

Circassian Псэрыдж (pseryj; "study of the soul, psychology"), Псэущхьэ (pseuščhʹeʹ; "animal"). See also Ancient Greek Ψυχή (psukhḗ; "soul").

Circassian щӀэн/шӀэн/щкъэн (ščen/š[kʺ]en; to know, make), хьын (hʹyn; to carry, take), щхьэ/шъхьэ (ščhʹe/šʺhʹe; head, lit. take knowledge) 🧠

Circassian щӀэн/шӀэн etc. (ščen/š[kʺ]en; to know, make), щӀэныгъэ/шӀэныгъ (š[č]enygʺ[e]; knowledge, SCIENCE!), Latin sciō (I know, make) 👨‍🔬

Circassian Лъагагъ (Lʺagagʺ; "height"), Лъагэ (Lʺage; "high"). Gothic 𐌻𐌰𐌲𐌲𐌴𐌹 (Laggei; "length"), German Lang ("long, high, lofty, tall"). 🦒

Circassian Лъапӏэ (dear, sweet, beloved, valuable, expensive, high, holy, honorary), Lithuanian Liaupsė (praise), MHG Liep (dear) etc. 💎🙏💛

Circassian Лъэтэн (Lʺeten; to fly, jump up). cf. Russian Летать (Letatʹ; to fly), Lithuanian Lė̃kti (to fly), Latvian Lèkt (to jump) etc.

Migratory [bird]: Circassian Лъэтэж (Lʺetež), Russian Перелётный (Perelëtnyj). 🐦💨 + Circassian Лъэтэныгъэ etc. (Lʺetenygʺe; "flight") 🛫

Circassian Лъ(а/э)гъун (Łāġ°n; to see), Germanic *lōgijaną (to see), mid-English Loken (to look), Scots Leuk (to look), Breton Lagad (eye) 👀

Circassian бдзы/пцы (bdzy/ptsy; bit🔩), дзэ/цэ (dze/tse; tooth😬), Old High German biz (bite), Ger. Beize (morDant), Zahn (😬), Danish bid (😬).

🏡 хадэ/хатэ (hade/hate; garden/Garten, Ha[u]ge), хадзэ (hadze; entrance, introductory, inset, hedge), хасэ (hase; assembly, meeting, Haus).

Circassian бдзэ/пцэ (bdze[žʹej]/ptse[žʺyj]; fish), Latin piscis, Italian pesce, Greek ψάρι (psári), Welsh pysgod (🐠), pryd/bwyd (food) etc.

Circassian Гуапэ (Guape; "good, pleasent, affectionate, hot, warm, cordial"). False cognate with Spanish Guapo ("good-looking, handsome")? 🤵

Circassian сэ (se; I, self, knife), шъэжъый etc. (šʺežʺyj; 🔪). cf. English sew, NFris sei, Swedish sy, Polish szyć, Bulgarian шия (šija) etc

Circassian сэ (se; I, self, knife), ежь/езы (ežʹ/ezy; self, alone). cf. Slavic *sę, *samъ, *(j)azъ, Balto-Slavic *eź etc.

Self: Latin se, sese, ipse, Estonian ise, Finnish itse, Bulgarian се, Circassian сэ etc. See also só, solo, seul, suis, soi...

Circassian хэт, сыт, сыд, шъыд (het, syt, syd, šʺyd), Bel/Rus хто, кто, что, што (hto, kto, čto, što), OFris hwet etc.

Дыгъэ (Dygʺe; "sun, light, heat"), Тыгъэ (Tygʺe; "gift, sun"), Гъэ (Gʺe; "year, annual, summer"). cf. Old English Ġēr (“year”) etc.

Ġēr is also the Anglo-Saxon name of the Runic letter "ᛄ", which is associated with the year or the harvest. 🌞

Moreover, according to Kroonen 2013, *r is not part of Ġēr/Ġēar's root. *yeh₁- rather than *yeh₁r-.

Circassian Дыгъэ/Тыгъэ ("sun") is probably not related to English Day, Kartvelian *deɣ-, German Tag, Gothic 𐌳𐌰𐌲𐍃 (dags) etc.

Day is related to Old Irish Daig (gen. Dage; "fire, pain"), Lithuanian Dagà ("heat of the sun, harvest"), Old Prussian Dagis ("summer") etc.

Surely, Circassian: Мазэ 🌕 (maze; moon, month), Псы (psy; water), Уашъо/Уафэ (uašʺo/uafe; sky), Дыгъэ/Тыгъэ (dygʺe/tygʺe; sun), Гъэ (gʺe; year).

Circassian Шъ/Щхьэ (šʺ/ŝhʹe; "top, roof, cephalic, head"), ПаIо/ПыIэ (pao/pye; "hat, cap, covering, pile"). 💂‍♀️🧢 #Caput #Chapeau (sha-poh).

Circassian Тет (chief, head), Те- (on), Тесын (tesyn; to sit on sth), ТӀысын (tysyn; to sit down). French Tête (head, leader), Italian Testa.

Circassian: Хуэхуэлей (Huehuelej; Ukraine), Урысей (Urysej; Russia), Урысыху (Urysyhu; Belarus), Лахь жылэ/Полшэ (Lahʹ žyle/Polše; Poland).

In the Circassian language, Moscow is called "Мэзкуу" (tr. mezkuu; "deep woods, deep forest"). Мэзкуу = мэз ("forest, wood") + куу ("deep").

The Kuban River is called Псыжь (psyžʹ; "old river") in Circassian. Псы ("water, river"). cf. Psizha River (Река Псижа) in Novgorod Oblast. 🐟

Circassian Псы (psy; river), Псыжь (psyžʹ; old river). cf. Psizha River in Novgorod, Pissa River in Kaliningrad, Pisa River in Poland etc. 💧

Circassian Дэлъху (delʺhu; "brother"), Дэлъхьэн (delʺhʹen, "to put in"). cf. Greek Αδελφός (adelfós; "brother"), Δελφύς (delphús; "womb"). 🐬

+ Psël River in Ukraine and Russia.

Pskov, by the river of the same name, is a city and an oblast in Russia:

https://ru.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%A2%D0%BE%D0%BF%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%BC%D0%B8%D1%8F_%D0%9F%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B2%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B9_%D0%BE%D0%B1%D0%BB%D0%B0%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B8

It has been suggested that ++

++ Pskov is likely to be derived from the Circassian word псыкуу. Псыкуу (psək°w; "deep river") = псы ("water, river") + куу ("deep"). 🏞️

It may be naïve to associate the female name Tatiana with Titus Tatius. At least for the Slavic and Circassian versions of that...

Mother rather than aunt... Similar to the Circassian female name Тэтянэ/Татьянэ: т-/ти-/ди/тэ-/тэтый (our) + ӏанэ/анэ (mother, table, soil).

Speaking of Earth Mother, compare Circassian Ӏанэ/Анэ with Latin Anus (old woman), Turkic *ana (mother), Old Prussian Ane (grandmother) etc.

Linguist Huratov argues large numbers of Circassian words have been borrowed into other languages of Europe where Circassians are indigenous:

https://adigea.aif.ru/culture/details/49045

(1) Circassian Къуапэ (angle, extremity, end...), English Cape, Norwegian Kapp, Dutch Kaap... cf. Dutch and German Kappen (to cut down)...

(2) Circassian Яжьэ (ash). cf. Middle English and German Asche, West Frisian Jiske, Luxembourgish Äsch, Gothic 𐌰𐌶𐌲𐍉 (azgō) etc.

Фэ (fe) means skin in Circassian. cf. Germanic *fellam, *fellą, Latin Pellis, French Peau, Spanish Piel, cognate with English Pelt, Film etc...

Circassian Зао/Зауэ (war), Зауэ-банэ (warfare, fight). cf. Proto-Slavic *zъlъ, Serbo-Croatian Зао/Zao (bad, evil, malevolent, wicked). ☠️

Еуэн means to hit, yes, and to fight with each other is зэзэуэн. The first зэ- is the verbal prefix. ++

SBC Zao (ill-disposed) is from PIE *ǵʰwel- (to deceive, bend, persecute), also related to *weyh₁- (to chase, hunt) and *bʰey- (to hit, bane).

*weyh₁- > *woyh₁ (to hit, hunt) > Proto-Slavic *vojь (warrior) > Russian война (war) etc

Circassian 🍀 Банэ/Панэ means both thorn/spine/prickle and fight (Зауэ-банэ). Old English 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 Bān (bone of a limb), cognate with Bane (destruction). ☠️

90 (20 × 4 + 10) in Circassian: ТокӀиплӀырэ пшӀырэ (Tokiplyrè pšyrè), ТӀощӀиплӀыэ пщӀырэ (Toščiplyè pščyrè, old system), or бгъущӀ (bgʺušč).

90 (20 × 4 + 10) in Scottish 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Gaelic: Ceithir fichead 's a deich, Deich is ceithir fichead, Naochad, Naogad, or Naoidhead (new system).

Basque: Laurogeita hamar, Breton: Dek ha pevar-ugent, French: Quatre-vingt-dix, Welsh: Deg ar pedwar ugain (or "Naw deg") – 90 (20 × 4 + 10).

Native name of Sukhumi or Dioscurias (capital of Apsny) is Аҟәа (ɑqʼʷɑ), an old word for water in Abkhaz. cf. Gothic 🇩🇪 𐌰𐍈𐌰 (aƕa), Latin Aqua..

BRIDE: Circassian Нысэ (Nysè), Albanian Nusja, Basque Neska (GIRL), Greek Νύφη (Nyphē), Russian Невеста (Nevesta), Scots Gælic Nighean-cèile.

Again about moon. Circassian Мазэ (mazè), English Moon/Month, Ibero-R Mes, Italian Mese, Polish Miesiąc, Russian Месяц (mesyats), Slovenian Mesec, Welsh Mis..

Circassian Къэщэн (Kʺèščèn, qăš̍ăn, kashchan) (to marry a woman, lover), cf. Polish Kochane (lovely), Kochany (dear), Kochanieńki (sweat). 👻

Circassian Пый/Бый (enemy, foe), cf. Proto-IE *peik/k̑- (to be hostile, hate), Latin Piget (annoying), Lithuanian Pìktas (evil), etc...

Circassian ХьэщӀэ/ХьакӀэ (guest), ГъэщӀэгъуэн/Гъэшӏэгъоны (strange); Old English Ġiest (g., stranger, host), Geelþéodgian (to make strange)...

WELL, YES: Ну ды (Belarusian), Ну да (Russian, Ukrainian), НытӀэ (Circassian), No tak (Polish), Na taip (Lithuanian), Nu jā (Latvian), Nå ja.

YES in Circassian НытӀэ (Da/Nta/Nytè/Noda/Nyda), Welsh Yn dda (well), Slavic Да (Da) No Так (Tak) Ну (Ni), Greek Ναι (Ne), Finnish No (well).

Ары = yes| хьау = no

Not КӀах Адыгэбзэ (KӀakh-Adygèbzè; Lowland Circassian). "НытӀэ" is Къэбэрдей Адыгэбзэ (Kʺèbèrdèj Adygèbzè; Highland Circassian).

Макъ(э)+Ӏей/Ӏай (makʺʔèj) means bad voice in Circassian. cf. English Mock, M. Dutch Mocken (to mumble), Proto-Germanic Mukkijaną (to bellow).

Again, "Тхьэ/Тхьа" (Tkh'è, Tkh'a, Tha, Thar) means God in Circassian and predates Christianity. cf. Greek "θεός" (Theós) or Old Norse "Þórr" (Thor).

Circassian дахэ (dāxă; "beautiful"), дэгъу[э] (dăġ°[ă]; "good, excellent, fig. fresh, brave"), гуапэ (g°āpă; 😻 "good, pleasant, hot, cordial, guapo") ⋰Ẍ⋱ Old Irish deg, dag ("good, excellent") → The Dagda (🌄 "Good God").

Circassian дэи, дэй, дэйы (dăi, dăj, dăjə; "bad"), дагъуэ (dāġ°ă; "defect") 🧙‍♀️

Circassian гуапэ (g°āpă; 😻 "good, pleasant, hot, cordial, guapo"), Abkhaz агәаҧхара (āg°āpxārā, "to like, wish, love") → Greek αγαπάω (agapáo; "love").

Circassian гу (g°), Abkhaz агәы (ā-g°ə́; heart), агәара (ā-g°ār-ā; fence, safe place for goods, mountainous KARTli→Georgia), Greek καρδιά (kardiá;💟), αγορά (agorá; CENTRE of public life, marketplace), Russian гора (gorа; mountain), Mingrel გური (guri;💟, stuffing). CORE, PILE. 🗻

Goedendag! Circassian дыгъэ, тыгъэ (dəġă, təġă; "the Sun, gift"), гъэ (ġă; "year"), гъуэ (ġ°ă; "time, light red") 🐷 Old English ġēr ("year"), Swedish ge ("to give"), Lithuanian dagà ("heat of the Sun, harvest"), Old Prussian dagis ("summer"). 🖐️☀️

In Circassian, "Хасэ" (Khasè) means assembly, council, and parliament. Compare it with the words "House", "Haus" (proto-Germanic *hūsą), etc...

Related Links:

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/15VYToqmLY/

https://www.tumblr.com/circassianhatko/768735349160771584/log-into-facebook

#Адыгэбзэ

#CircassianLanguage 🍀

#NorthCaucasus 🍀

#Circassia 🍀

#АдыгэХэку 🍀

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Announcing the Majestic Writing Personalities of The Pen's Triumph Writing Challenge 2024 by JJ Crowns

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