#odious woman

[notasapleasure]

She said she was unable to stop the Pride flag being flown in her department against her wishes. “What the Progress flag says to me is one monstrous thing: that I was a member of a government that presided over the mutilation of children in our hospitals and from our schools,” she said.

THEY ARE NOT 'ALL THE SAME'.

Thank FUCK we voted these ghouls out.

[eyra]

when are we getting a spin-off about the gay teachers x

Heartstopper s3 let’s gooo

[cockringvarric]

the fact that the apparently the “best” way to pick someone up in person these days is activities like pickle ball and chess….. watch me get bitches playing stick and hoop

[mkstrigidae]

What the actual fuck is wrong with MyKayla Skinner

[marmorada]

I open tumblr to the Day of the Dead tag.

I see people shipping Rickles and Steele.

I close tumblr.

[gaywithflowers]

My father: I'm going to your place (and I'm not asking for your opinion)

Me:...yey...sigh...

Me: okay it took me days to work through this, I'm more or less emotionally prepared

My father, two minutes ago: I'm going with my wife

Me:

Me:

Me:

Me: INHALE

[ithebookhoarder]

Truth or Dare (Anthony Bridgerton x Wife!Reader)

Summary: Married only a few months, you are very much one of the Bridgerton brood - something that often drives your poor husband mad, especially when you happen to be every bit as chaotic and unruly as his siblings... Also known as, you, Benedict and Eloise take a game of ‘truth or dare’ a bit too far. 

A/N: What can I say? It’s well and truly fluff-tober over here on my blog 😅

Warnings: Alcohol, mild smut, swearing, Anthony losing his mind, typical Bridgerton sibling shenanigans 

Masterlist

There weren’t many nights Anthony spent away from your side.

They were few and far between, but that didn’t lessen how irksome you found them when the odd occasion called for him to leave you over night. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but you never truly slept well without your husband there to hold you.

Of course, it had to be one of those nights that you truly found yourself in a spot of mischief. Though, in fairness, it had all started rather innocently.

Un-beknowst to you at the time, it was Benedict that had been first outside on the garden swing, sipping from a stolen bottle of whiskey he’d pilfered from the kitchens. He’d been sat there perhaps ten minutes by himself, staring at the stars and lamenting about some problem or other.

Then Eloise had come along.

As was her habit - you later discovered - she had been swift to follow her brother’s example, sneaking out of the house in her nightgown for a reprieve in the night air… and a cigarette or two. Apparently her second-eldest brother was something of a soft touch when it came to her, not that you could blame him for it. You doted on Eloise too.

Then, finally, completing the eclectic cast of characters, there had been you.

Now, in your defence, you hadn’t intended on going out into the garden that night, but had found no other alternative suitable given the blasted summer heat. It was worse tonight that it had been all week, and without Anthony in bed beside you, you saw little point in enduring with the effort of trying to get any rest.

So, you’d decided to make your way quietly through the house and sit outside a while, and pray for a breeze. You hadn’t, however, expected to find both Bridgerton siblings already sat there, having had a similar idea.

“My, what do we have here? Another night owl?”

It was Benedict who spoke first, smiling warmly at the sight of you appearing out of the darkness. He was quick to rise, offering you his swing as a perch to rest upon, beside Eloise.

You were about to protest that it wasn’t necessary and that you could find somewhere else to sit, but a warning glare from Eloise was enough to silence you.

She was all too eager to pat the seat next to her in invitation, looking remarkably pleased to have another addition to their little party.

“Come. Sit,” she ordered. “We were simply discussing how tedious Lady Tremaine’s luncheon will be tomorrow and how we could possibly avoid the whole thing. Now that you’re here, you can help us plot our escape. Benedict’s only suggestion thus far has been some kind of contagious summer cold.”

“I think I actually said that I would use such an excuse, sister,” Benedict corrected with a teasing grin. “Not that we would share it.”

“Traitor.”

“Hardly. It is every man - or woman - for themselves. Right, Y/N?”

“Alas, I think your mother would be rather suspicious at all three of us suddenly being absent,” you sighed by way of explanation as both their eyes turned to you. “Besides, I only came outside because of this heat, not to join some conspiracy.”

“Hardly,” Eloise chuckled. “We simply had the same idea, but I am rather glad you came to join us. Perhaps we should form some secret kind of club - Bridgertons against boredom?”

“And do what? Constantly find excuses not to attend social events we deem too tedious or odious to be dragged along to?”

“Sounds like a marvellous idea to me.”

“It would, sister dear,” Benedict teased. “You always have a talent for causing chaos and anarchy. You’d suit the cause perfectly, even if we both know our mother would never stand for it. She somehow sees through even our best efforts.”

“In which case, it’s time I take a leaf out of your book, Benedict. After all, you always say social events become far more bearable after a good drink or two,” Eloise smirked, gesturing towards the bottle of whiskey Benedict had been steadily nursing. “Perhaps I should follow my brothers  example and learn to hold a drink, maybe then things will be more fun.”

“Oh no.” Benedict was quick to shut down that idea, holding the bottle possessively to his chest and shaking his head. “No. I am not allowing you to start drinking. Mother would have my head if she caught you, not to mention Anthony would have all ours heads on a platter in no time.”

The thought of it made you laugh. Your husband was hardly a tyrant, even if he’d been known to have a temper but he was easy enough to handle. A few soft words in his ear or a kiss on the cheek and he was putty in your hands, helplessly and completely in love with you. Just as you were in love with him.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of Anthony, Benedict?” you giggled, causing Eloise to join you. “I assure you, he’s more a kitten than a lion and he’d probably prefer you to allow Eloise to sample alcohol here, under your supervision, than when she inevitably decides to rebel and has her first drink later on, in the middle of some public ball…”

The warning was clear and you all knew very likely true. Still, Eloise was beaming in victory as Benedict cursed to himself, muttering about Bridgerton women and the likely death he’d receive should Anthony ever find out he had allowed Eloise to sample whiskey. “Just a few sips, El. I mean it.”

“Oh hush,” she snorted, taking the bottle before he could change his mind. She was quick to throw back her head and down a rather brave mouthful, causing you to laugh even harder as she scrunched her face up in disgust. “Oh! That is revolting.”

“I told you.”

“Now you, Y/N,” Eloise grinned, turning and offering the offending item towards you. “Go on. Join us trouble makers - I won’t say a word about it if you don’t.”

“Oh, for goodness sake… Give me that then,” you sighed, earning a cheer from them both, knowing it was better to simply surrender rather than try and fight their mischievous whims. It only increased as you took an ambitious swig from the bottle, wincing at the acrid burning sensation it left in your throat.

If only Anthony could have seen you. He’d have probably had some kind of seizure - especially as you took another quick swig before handing the bottle back.

“There. Your turn again, brother dearest.”

“My my. You really are quite surprising,” Benedict sniggered, before winking up at you in admiration. “Who knew it? You can hold your drink better than Colin. He seems cursed to choke any time he drinks anything stronger than a brandy.”

“Well, it is your sex that falsely deemed us the weaker,” Eloise quipped. “It’s not our fault you were ignorant.”

“I’d like to remind you I wasn’t part of that decision and you also looked ready to choke a moment ago, El.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re still one of the enemy,” she giggled, earning another raucous laugh from you. Oh, you loved her. If you’d ever been so blessed to have had a sister, you hoped she’d have been just like her. “Now, it is your turn again, brother.”

“Oh … joy.”

“Else we shall have to have some kind of forfeit.”

“A forfeit?” you scoffed, finding the idea absurd. “Like what?”

“How about… truth or dare?”

Benedict froze. “Oh no. Not again. Pall Mall is one thing but we swore we would never play that game in this family again-“

“But Benedict-“

“What’s truth or dare?”

Your innocent question ceased their bickering instantly. Their eyes widened as they turned to you, a knowing and nervous look passing between them. Somehow, you knew this evening was about to get wildly out of hand.

Sometime later, you’d been fully apprised of the rules of ‘truth or dare’. In fact, you’d been something of a natural at it, even if you knew the copious amounts of whiskey you’d all consumed was more than likely the responsible culprit. Else, you’d probably have known better and snuck back off inside before you could make a fool of yourself.

By the end of the night, Benedict had climbed a tree, confessed to being oddly scared of spiders, and been forced to sing the national anthem in French.

Eloise had also made an admirable effort, despite her obviously lower tolerance for drink. She still permitted Benedict to try and arrange her hair, before daring to steal a sock from Colin’s room whilst he’d slept. Then she’d loosened a leg on a dining chair. (Alas, none of you could remember which one but that somehow made it even funnier - even if it would not be come morning when you were forced to sit at the table for breakfast in some kind of roulette.)

You could only pray you didn’t choose said seat.

You could also only pray neither of your conspirators shared your contributions with your husband. You weren’t exactly sure how Anthony would feel at the fact you gone for a midnight paddle in the pond, nor that you’d mixed up the papers on his desk, all before finishing the night with a final dare that involved stealing several cakes from the kitchens… you still swore Mrs Reynolds would notice, come morning, that there were no longer twelve perfect cakes.

That, and Benedict had somehow knocked flour all over the counter, causing you all to erupt in drunken laughter as you’d bolted back outside.  

Needless to say, you all looked a sorry sight as you lay in the grass together, staring at the approaching dawn. Had you not been so tired, or drunk, you may have suggested retiring back to your rooms before the house awoke shortly.

“Now that… was fun.”

“Fun? That was more than fun. I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”

“Told you it was a good idea.”

You hummed in agreement with your sister in law.

“I can see why you all favoured this game so much,” you sniggered, winking at Eloise as she sat in the grass beside you. “I can also see why you all agreed to stop playing it… I don’t know what Anthony would say if he saw what we’d been up to.”

“Something sensible and disapproving most likely,” Benedict sniggered. “Our brother, and your husband, can be a right prig, no offence.”

“Oh hush. At least I didn’t let my sister dress me up in her petticoat when she was five.”

Benedict’s jaw dropped.

“Who told you about that?” he demanded indignantly.

“I have my sources.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head to glare at his younger sister. “Well, you can tell your source that she’s going to have to find someone else to fetch her lemonade at the Cowper’s ball tomorrow night unless she apologises. You can also tell her that I’ll accept either a verbal or a written apology as long as it’s suitably abject. And that means very, very abject,” he added darkly.

“Tell me, Benedict, was it a lacy petticoat?”

With a wordless grunt of annoyance, Benedict groaned, but it was hard to hear over the laughter echoing from you and Eloise. You resembled more a pack of hyenas than two noble ladies - you probably looked just as feral after your night of mischief.

And of course, as was always your luck, that was exactly how your husband found you mere seconds later.

How Anthony had arrived without any of you hearing a carriage pulling up to the house at this time of the night - morning? You couldn’t be sure - was a mystery. Yet, there he was, hands on hips and looking thunderous as he stormed towards the three of you with all the fury of an exasperated headmaster.  

“What in God’s name are you all playing at?”

You all froze.

It was as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over you as your eyes widened, and you all turned to stare sheepishly at him.

“Oh, darling. You’re home?”

“Don’t ‘oh darling’ me,” Anthony sighed, attempting to scold you but without much success. His attempt at seriousness was somewhat undermined by his brother’s heckling, singing ‘here comes mother’ and that ‘someone’s in trouble’. That, and with the way you were lying, he was upside down. “What are you doing up at this god forsaken hour? And why are you … is that flour? And why are you soaking wet?”

“I went for a swim.”

“A - you went for a -“

“And Benedict did my hair,” Eloise interjected suddenly, waving her arms about as she gestured to the tangle of hair upon her head. “Isn’t it marvellous?”

Anthony’s expression very much said that he did not think it was marvellous. Nor did he find any of this vaguely amusing.

In fact, by the way he took a long deep breath, you knew he was doing his best not to lose his temper and wake the entirety of the household. His brow always creased like that when he was faced with dealing with his family, but the expression only made him seem more adorable and handsome to you, rather than authoritative. However, you’d never told him so, knowing it would hardly be deemed a compliment in his eyes.

You also doubted he’d appreciate your usual response right now, which was normally to kiss said brow until it eased back into its relaxed form.

“We were just playing a game to escape the heat, darling,” you soothed. “We couldn’t sleep and all had the same idea to seek refuge outdoors… we simply got carried away passing the time.”

“What game?”

“Pardon?”

“I said, what was the game you were all playing?” Anthony suddenly quipped, the warning clear in his tone. That, and his eyes landed squarely on his two siblings, who at least had the decency to look sheepish… and afraid. “Because there is but one game I can think of that would result in a mess like this one, and I’m confused, because I know for a fact that we banned that game under this roof, and any other roof that houses the Bridgertons.”

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

It was as if you were all too scared to risk answering Anthony, even if the empty bottle of whiskey did most of the talking by itself.

“I don’t recall the name,” you blinked. “Right, Benedict?”

“Oh, uh… we… we were just- Eloise?”

Eloise froze, the guilt written all too clearly on her face for her to even try and salvage the situation - though that could also be down to the whisky she had consumed… it was honestly hard to be sure at this point.

“Well, dear brother,” she began, only to trail off as Anthony lifted his hand.

The silence was instantaneous. 

No one dared to say another word, let alone move. 

You’d never seen Eloise or Benedict so still in your entire life. Hell, you weren’t even sure they were breathing - probably out of fear Anthony would decide to inform their mother about their mischievous exploits. 

If Anthony Bridgerton was scary when vexed, then Violet Bridgerton was a nightmare brought to life in human form. After all, as the matriarch of a family of eight children, she had learned a long time ago how to keep her unruly children in line - a harrowing experience you had only had occasion to witness once or twice since your marriage into the Bridgerton family. Once had been when Colin and Gregory had broken a priceless vase when racing around the house, despite being explicitly banned from doing so. The other had been when she had caught Eloise and Benedict smoking outside on the terrace one night. 

It was easy to say where your husband had inherited it from. 

“Not. Another. Word,” your husband growled, bending down and sweeping you up into his arms in a move that made you squeal in surprise. “Right now, I am taking my wife to bed and I suggest you two do the same - after you clean up your mess. I’ll deal with the lot of you in the morning.” 

A laugh escaped you as you tried not to look like you were enjoying the sudden turn of events too much. After all, you doubted he’d be too happy once you were more sober and he discovered the true extent of your nightly activities. 

It was why you were only too happy to let him put you to bed, grumbling all the while about letting his siblings run wild. He really was most handsome when he was flushed - a fact you were reminded of as he hastily changed for bed, flashing you a tempting glimpse of his bare torso in the process. 

You could tell without asking he was tired from his journey home, as well as fighting the urge to rip his hair out over the chaos he had found upon his return. 

Thankfully, his need to be in your arms outweighed the need to scold you over letting yourself be drawn into his siblings’ schemes. All it took was you pulling him down onto the mattress, and climbing into his lap to turn him into a needy, lovestruck puddle. 

You’d equally missed having him in your arms, but you’d be lying if you said that your sudden forwardness wasn't also due to a mixture of the whiskey you’d drunk, and the residual giddiness from a night of mischief. A confidence radiated from you as you began to run your hands over his bare chest, taking care to graze the areas you knew made him groan. 

“You’re lucky I love you so much,” he teased breathlessly, visibly unable to refuse your advances. 

“Is that so?”

Anthony chuckled, nodding as he surged his lips towards yours. “Yes, so come here, my delinquent drunken wife, and let me kiss you before you and those doe-eyes of yours drive me insane. Now.”

Your laughter and surrender was immediate. “As you wish.” 

Alas, for poor Anthony, that was not the end of the ordeal. 

In fact, it was the next morning as you made your way into breakfast that you faced the final consequences of your delinquency. 

Despite wishing to remain abed for the entire day, you’d been granted no such reprieve as your maid had entered your room at the usual appointed time and proceeded to open the curtains with no regard for the fact that you had slept a mere handful of hours. Whereas you would normally greet the day with a reluctant smile, you were in no state to manage much more than a groan as you were harshly ripped from your slumber.

If you had somehow not yet come to the conclusion that last night had been a bad idea, then the sudden flare of pain in your head at the bright intrusion was all the proof you needed. That, and the sudden churning in your stomach. 

You would never let Benedict or Eloise coax you into drinking with them again. 

You had not realised, despite how the idiom went, that what went up was sure to come down again - and you had come crashing down. 

Hard.

“If you’re ready to dress, my lady, then breakfast will be served shortly,” your maid chirped, a dress already picked out for you to wear. She either couldn't detect your fragile state, or didn't seem to care as she continued speaking at a painfully loud volume. “My Lord sent me to wake you as he is finishing business in the study. He was up frightfully early, I could scarce believe it went the housemaids told me they’d already found him awake when they went to start the fires this morning. Gave young Samantha a right fright he did, scribbling away at his desk.” 

“Oh?” you croaked. 

You hadn’t even noticed the empty space in the bed bedside you until then. 

Clearly Anthony had risen early, if he’d even gone to sleep at all. Why were you not surprised? Your husband was perpetually in motion, always claiming there was something or someone that needed his urgent attention as the head of the Bridgerton clan. It was just one of the things that made you love him so much.

“Is he still there?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the young girl continued, breezing about your room. “And that’s not the only strange incident this morning. It will tickle you rotten when I tell you the latest drama, but you see, Mrs Reynolds was ranting and raving about how she swore she had made three trays of fruit tarts last night, yet this morning, there were only two. The youngest kitchen maid, Betsy, is convinced it must be a ghost but my money is on Carter - the groom’s boy - he’s always snooping about the kitchen...” 

You winced. Ah. Maybe you hadn't been as stealthy last night as you’d hoped after all...

With as much enthusiasm as you could muster, you began to peel yourself from the mattress, trying to appear as if you were listening to your maid’s theories as she dressed you for the day. It then took all your resolve to make it downstairs and to the breakfast table without tripping over your own feet, or emptying the non-existent contents of your stomach. 

To your relief, only Eloise and Benedict had so far taken a seat at the breakfast table - and both looked about as miserable as you felt.  

“Good morning,” you mumbled, taking your usual chair next to the head of the table. You were quick to accept the steaming cup of coffee Benedict handed you, shooting him a thankful look. “Dare I ask how we feel?” 

“I think better than you and my dear sister here,” Benedict chirped, gesturing at a miserable looking Eloise. She had her head in her hands and was desperately trying to look at the plate of food in front of her with something other than repulsion. “Then again, I must admit I am somewhat more experienced in the art of late-night mischief than you both. I also did not have to deal with my brother before going to bed - thank you, again, for that noble sacrifice.”

“Your welcome,” you chuckled, a faint heat rising in your cheeks as you remembered the exact events after you and Anthony had gone to bed. “I just feel bad that you both got left to clean up the mess.” 

“Don’t be. I think we got it all.”

“You say that but I can’t remember anything after you started singing in French,” Eloise groaned, massaging her forehead once more. “I have the oddest feeling we may have forgotten something.”

You paused. You could only hope for your sake she was wrong. 

However, you were saved from such discussion by the arrival of the rest of the Bridgerton bunch. All conversation about your night-time escapades were quickly forgotten as Colin, Hyacinth and Gregory entered the room, bickering about something you couldn’t quite make out. They were swiftly followed by Violet and Francesca, who both looked unfairly cheerful for so early in the morning. 

You could only wish to look so fresh and composed before your first cup of whatever caffeinated beverage you could get your hands on. 

Then, finally, came your husband. Entering the room last, he turned and shot you a warm smile. Clearly, your shenanigans had been forgotten - for now - replaced instead by the memory of your other activities, much to the relief of you and your co-conspirators. 

In fact, you swore you saw Eloise exhale a breath of relief when Anthony didn't immediately launch into one of his lectures. Instead, he chose to join the rest of his family in helping himself to the awaiting breakfast spread, laid out on the sideboard for them, listening to some ongoing debate between his mother and youngest brother. 

“-but you said we could visit the park this afternoon.”

“I know, sweetheart, but I have to take Francesca and Eloise for their final fittings at the modiste. We shouldn’t be too long, and we can go after? Unless, perhaps your brothers will take you. Colin? Benedict? Anthony?”

Benedict looked physically pained at the idea of an afternoon at the park, what with his current delicate constitution and all. You honestly couldn't blame him. “Well, I uh - have a drawing class, this afternoon. Very last minute. Sorry.” 

“And I... um, have a meeting at the club?” Colin stammered hastily. “Anthony?” 

“Please, Anthony?” Gregory begged, all but pouting at his older brother as the pair made their way to the table. “I promise I’ll do all my lessons this week without complaining if you say yes. I’ll even let you have my pudding tonight.”

“As you asked so nicely, brother, I don’t see how an hour or so at the park could do any harm -” Anthony began, pulling out the chair next to you and lowering himself onto the seat in a moment that felt like it lasted forever as a horrifying sensation swept over you. 

You remembered what you’d forgotten. 

The chair.

“Anthony, wait-!”

The sudden crash was startling, as was the sight of your husband being sent flying backwards as the chair collapsed beneath him. 

No one moved. 

No one said a word. 

Benedict looked across at you and Eloise, the horror clear in his eyes as he choked the word you felt on the tip of your tongue: “Run!”

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 6

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: none (just a brief mention of arousal... things are heating up between Daphne and Geta!)

Chapter word count: 3.6k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 6

It was almost the ides of June. The weather grew unbearably hot. Geta had toured extensively in the Eastern provinces, but it had always been in the comfort of an imperial convoy, with litters and tents for stops along the way and marble palaces to rest in once he reached his destination. Even when marching with the army, he'd never had to deal with such blistering heat. The elevation of the hill did little to help. The sun beat down so relentlessly that the rocky ground became quite literally baked and remained warm even long after the sun had set.

Due to the heat, Daphne now did all her work at dawn and in the evening, when the heat was more tolerable. During the day, she retreated inside the hut, where the mud-brick walls provided some relief. This meant she was a constant presence around Geta these days, and he was rather uneasy about it. Why he should feel uneasy about her, he didn't know. He no longer suspected her of duplicity and betrayal. If anything, he'd grown to trust her. Yet her presence put him on edge, and he found himself watching her while she moved about the hut, working on her potions and poultices or practicing her lettering. She had made some labels for the garden by scratching plant names on thin, flat pieces of pine board, and was now working on the labels for her medicine by stitching letters onto long ribbons to be wrapped around the jars.

When he offered to teach her to read and write, he'd only wanted something to occupy his mind, something to divert him from the tiring thought of retribution and punishment. To his surprise, he had rather enjoyed it, perhaps because it was the only time he could tell her what to do. He had enjoyed teaching her to play draughts as well, even though she was annoyingly good at it. In the army, the soldiers would sometimes challenge each other or place bets on games of draughts, to make them more exciting. Daphne could've cleaned out any of them.

He told himself he enjoyed her company simply because it was the only company to be had for miles around, other than the goats and the donkey. It was true that she was nothing special. She was only a peasant woman, with simple thoughts and simple feelings. And she wasn't even attractive. Her chin was too pointy, her nose too long, her mouth too large. Her figure—what he could see of it, swathed in layers of voluminous linen to combat against the sun—was too thin, all sharp bones and hard muscles developed from her trek up and down the hill, with none of the soft curves Roman women often boasted about. Only those green eyes promised some beauty, but they were so frank, so displeasing in their open stare that Geta sometimes had to turn away from them, afraid they could see to his very core and lay bare all the lies and the guilt, wriggling there like maggots.

The only time her eyes had looked at him with some softness was after the encounter with that odious father of hers, and even then it had only been briefly.

Perhaps that was why he enjoyed teaching her. She wasn't looking at him then. Instead, he could watch her frowning in concentration under the lamplight, her long lashes lowering as she bent over the wax tablet. He didn't have to worry about catching her eyes.

Damnation. For someone who didn't like her eyes, he certainly spent a lot of time thinking about them.

But what else was there to think about? Thinking about his would-be assassin and the conspirators got him nowhere, and thinking about Rome and the constant grumbling of the Senate only exhausted him. Even the possibility of conquering Parthia no longer held much appeal. He might have managed to sack Arbela, but the Parthians had proved to be formidable adversaries, and in his current state, he could never face them. He'd never realized before how tiring and tired it all was, this constant warring and conquest and ruling. So he turned away from them and thought of something else, something more pleasant.

One morning, he was up before his usual time. He went outside, intending to make the best of the cooler air by putting in some hours of sparring at the pine grove, when he spied movements in the garden. It was very early—only a border of pale pink snaked along the horizon, while the sky and the rest of the world were still covered in a bluish-gray veil, and some remnant of the night air was still lingering amongst the stones, not yet melted away under the sun—too early for anyone else to be about. His hand immediately went to the hilt of the dagger that had never left his side, a reminder of how close he'd come to death. He crept around the side of the hut to come up to the garden from the back, so whoever was there would not see him.

It was a woman, dressed in a short saffron tunic. She was moving between the garden rows, shaking the branches of the olive trees above them. Dewdrops fell from the branches, glittering around her like diamonds, splashing on the plants below. At the end of a row, she turned around and saw him.

"Kalimera," she said, using the usual Greek morning greeting. "You're up early."'

It was Daphne. She must have gotten up before him, and he hadn't noticed her empty cot in the front room when he went out.

For a moment, he stood transfixed. It was Daphne and yet not Daphne. Without her usual stole and mantle, she was no longer the dour woman always hurrying from one place to another, worry permanently etched on her brow. Standing before him was a fresh-faced girl, skin rosy and eyes sparkling in the light of the breaking dawn, disarmingly, magically smiling.

"So are you," he said, once he'd found his voice again. "What are you doing?"

"Watering the garden. Out here we have to make use of every bit of moisture we can get." She shook another olive tree as she spoke, and ducked away from the ensuing sprinkle.

"Why don't you just let the dew fall on its own?"

"No, it'll disappear when the sun rises. You must catch it at the right time, when the air is warm enough for the dewdrops to form, but not too warm that they melt away." She glanced at him. "Want to help?"

Geta was no gardener, but he had to admit this was rather sensible. He shrugged, put the dagger back into its sheath, and joined Daphne. Grabbing hold of one of the olive trees, he gave it a vigorous shake, bringing down a shower of not just dewdrops but old leaves and dead branches as well. Daphne laughed.

"Not so hard," she admonished. "Stay away from the branch, or all of the dew will fall on you and none on the garden. And shake it gently, like shaking ripe fruits from a tree." She gave the tree a firm but quick shake. Geta, who had never shaken ripe fruits from any tree, followed suit. "That's the way."

Nodding in approval, Daphne plucked the leaves out of his curls and brushed the dew from his forehead, her gesture natural as if she wasn't even thinking about it. Only when her fingers grazed his skin and their eyes met that she seemed to realize what she was doing. She dropped her hand and turned away, coloring slightly.

As they went down the garden path side by side, working together in silence, Geta kept glancing at Daphne. Something about her was different. It wasn't just because she had left off her usual covering and was showing a body that was unexpectedly lithe and elegant, with long, slender limbs and rounded shoulders. It wasn't just because her hair had caught on a branch and come loose from its usual tight knot, and was now framing her face like a soft cloud. It wasn't just because she, too, was stealing glances at him, her eyes no longer staring and critical, but with a curiosity that matched his own, and a gentleness that made him think of peaceful green hills and calming rivers again. It wasn't just because the rising sun was making her skin glow, reminding him of the rosy-fingered Aurora in her robe of saffron, hastening from the streams of Okeanos to bring light to mortals and immortals, just like Homer had written.

Confound the woman. Why did she always turn him into a bloody poet?

It wasn't because of any of those things, or perhaps it was because of all of them. He'd thought her just a simple peasant woman, but perhaps there was something confounding in her after all. She was like these rocky hills where she grew up, harsh and forbidding at first glance, but soft and nurturing to those who knew what to search for and where to look.

He didn't get any sparring done that morning, but he didn't mind.

The heat continued relentlessly and showed no sign of letting up. One evening, Geta could take it no more and went into the garden, intending to have a swim in the cistern.

"Where are you going?" Daphne asked, looking up from the wax tablet.

He told her. She looked appalled.

"You can't!" she exclaimed. "We must save the water for cooking and drinking. Not to mention that your lungs cannot stand being in such cold, they may get inflamed again—"

"Fine, fine," he said impatiently. He'd learned that when Daphne put her healer's voice on, it was best not to argue with her. "I only want a bath, is that too much to ask?" Daphne had never given him more than a basin of water, which sufficed for washing but not enough to cool him down in this infernal heat. He didn't know how Daphne could stand it. Even in her layers and layers of linen, she always appeared cool and fresh.

Now she got to her feet. "All right, I suppose you can have a bath. But inside, mind."

She dragged into the hut a wooden washtub, just large enough for a grown man to sit in, and set it by the fire, where the embers were still glowing weakly after cooking their supper. Geta expected her to fill the tub and was greatly disappointed when she only set down two buckets.

"That's all?" he said glumly.

"You have to get used to it. We're on the edge of a desert, you know," said Daphne sternly, as she set a pot of water on the fire and added a handful of dried herb to it. The water boiled, and the herb gave off a pleasant scent, so clean and fresh that it seemed to chase the heat away despite the boiling pot. With a start, Geta recognized it as the scent he'd always smelled on Daphne.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Soapwort," said Daphne, pouring the fragrant concoction into one of the buckets, and the water immediately started to froth. "We have no bath oils here, so this is what we use for washing." She put down a washcloth and a towel on a stool next to the tub. "Right. That's everything you need. I'll just be outside if you want anything." She picked up her wax tablet and a lamp and went out, tactfully closing the door behind her.

Geta had bathed this way while on active campaign with the army, so despite his grumbling, he managed to acquit himself quite well. Sitting in the tub, he used a dipper to pour the soapwort water over his body then scrubbed himself with the washcloth as best he could. There wasn't nearly as much water as he'd like, but it felt good to get thoroughly clean for the first time in months. As he lifted his arm to reach behind his back, however, a groan escaped him. The wound on his shoulder was still sore, the skin and muscles stiffened despite his exercising, and he couldn't reach far enough behind him to scrub his own back.

After a few tries and grumbles of frustration, he gave up and called out for Daphne.

She came in at once. "What do you need?"

"My back—I can't reach—" he mumbled, awkwardly covering himself with the towel. It was ridiculous. He'd never had any qualms about appearing naked in front of others—indeed, in his youth in Rome, he had attended many feasts and orgies where nudity was the accepted uniform—so why was he suddenly uncomfortable about being unclothed in front of this woman?

Daphne seemed to have noticed his discomfort. "Don't worry," she said, chuckling. "It's nothing that I haven't seen. Who do you think washed you while you were delirious with fever?" Her lighthearted tone did nothing to set him at ease.

She took the washcloth he put on the edge of the tub and started scrubbing his back in vigorous, practiced movements. No maidenly blushing, no modest lowering of the eye. At such a complete lack of bashfulness, Geta's own embarrassment subsided.

"You're probably used to a more civilized form of bathing than this, I imagine," she said.

Geta thought of the bathhouses of Rome with their many rooms and pools of various temperatures, with their masseuses and strigil-wielding slaves. One of those had been built in his name just shortly before he left for the East. They had their uses, but like most things in Rome, they were also temples to hedonism and excesses, where people came to do much more than just bathing. He wouldn't exactly call them civilized.

"I'm in the army," now he said with a shrug. "We're lucky if we get to bathe at all."

"Where were you before Parthia?" Daphne asked. Then she quickly added, "I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to tell me."

"It's all right." He was sick of keeping secrets. "I was in Germania. And Caledonia before that."

The washcloth stopped moving on his back. "You were in Caledonia?" Daphne asked, her voice hushed.

 He cursed under his breath. She probably had an acquaintance in the army. A brother, a sweetheart, or a husband? But if she did, it would have been—what, eight, ten years ago? Her acquaintance would likely have been in the auxiliaries, one of the troops offered up by King Abgar VIII to prove his loyalty to Rome, back when Osroene still had some form of independence and was not yet a province.

To confirm his suspicion, Daphne continued, "Do you know anyone from the auxiliary forces there at all?"

"No, not really," replied Geta. It was the truth. His father had dragged him and his brother to Caledonia to take them away from the decadence of Rome, in the hope of mending their dissolute ways and teaching them how to rule. It hadn't worked. Even when Geta became sole Emperor, though he tried to mingle with the troops and marched and ate and fought with them, he could never be one of them. The soldiers always viewed him with a certain suspicion, more fear than respect. He didn't mind, as long as they didn't question his authority. And that was with the legions. The provincial auxiliaries were essentially strangers to him.

"Why do you ask?" now he said to Daphne.

"My husband," she replied in an expressionless voice.

Her husband? Geta thought of the tunics he'd been wearing, of her strange behavior the day he first got out of bed. That explained it. He found himself wondering what the man had been like. Must have been a good one, since Daphne obviously still mourned him.

The thought of mourning reminded Geta of his predicament. Who would mourn him? Had they given him up for dead and mourned already? Had he been replaced? No, he couldn't believe that. At least his mother would never, not until she saw his body with her own eyes. Unless the army informed her of his disappearance, she may believe that he was still Edessa. He hoped it was true. Knowing his mother, she would've torn the Earth apart searching for him if she'd known. Macrinus must be keeping the truth from her. He felt the old anger flaring up again. What in Hades was Macrinus doing, sitting about twiddling his thumbs? Why hadn't they found him by now?

"He was killed in Caledonia, eight years ago," Daphne continued in that same flat tone, though he thought he could detect a trembling touch in it, like she was trying not to cry. "Or so I was told."

"We lost a lot of men in Caledonia," he said, as if that could be any comfort. The Caledonian campaign had been a success at first, but then the barbarian tribes, with their primitive but devastating tactics, had driven the Roman force behind Hadrian's Walls. Then his father had died in Eboracum, and Geta had no longer seen a point in pursuing the tribes. He'd had more pressing matters, such as his brother's presence and growing ambition like a thorn in his side. He'd hurried back to Rome to secure his power, leaving the Caledonians to their cold and misty land, thinking nothing about the lives that had been wasted in a campaign that led nowhere.

"I never find out what happened to him," Daphne said. She began scrubbing again, so hard it almost hurt him, but he made no sound. "Just a message saying he was killed. I don't even know when he was killed, or how long that message took to reach me. That's why I asked. I was hoping you could tell me something. Anything."

He didn't turn around, but he could hear the grief, despair, and resignation in her voice, and feel a strange little twinge in his heart. When his father decided to lift the ban on marriage for soldiers, Geta had gone along with it, believing it would raise morale and make them more popular with the army. But now, listening to Daphne, he was no longer so certain. Let the men have their fun with the camp followers and the local women of the garrison towns, but allow them to marry and leave behind wives to grieve and wonder for the rest of their lives like this? It was cruel.

Daphne dropped her hand on the edge of the tub. It looked small, vulnerable, like the wing of a wounded bird, so unlike the strong, capable hands he was used to. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on top, his fingers fitting perfectly in the dips between hers.

She took in a small, sharp breath. Her hand flexed gently under his, as if she was trying to feel its grasp more thoroughly. Before he could stop himself, he was caressing her hand, running his fingertips over her knuckles. Something smooth—her forehead, or perhaps her cheek—came to rest on his bare back, and a slow, shuddering breath, like a quiet, choked-back sob, escaped her lips, blowing hot against his skin.

His heart thumped. She had never sat so close to him, had never touched him in any way other than medically; yet here she was, practically embracing him, her hand in his, her face pressed into his back, her hair tickling his shoulder blades, and that earthy, enchanting fragrant was everywhere, until he didn't know if it was coming from him or her or the very air around them.

One thing he did know: he was becoming aroused. And it wasn't the purely physical type of arousal he usually got upon waking up in the morning. He was aroused by her.

Even though she was behind and could not see him, he froze, not daring to move a muscle lest the traitorous towel chose that moment to shift and reveal his condition to her.

Hades. What was the matter with him? He, who used to think nothing about pulling a serving girl out of a banquet and having his way with her in the anteroom before sauntering back in time for the second course, he who had had camp followers fighting for a place in his tent at night while on campaign, was now blushing and squirming in the presence of a woman, like a boy still wearing a bulla around his neck!

Daphne seemed to have noticed his tension, for she lifted her head from his back—much to his regret—and leaned down. "Is everything all right?" she asked with professional concern. "The water's not too cold for you, is it?"

Her mouth was right by his ear, close enough to touch. Hades. This was more than a man could endure.

"Everything's fine," he said, snatching the washcloth from her. "I can manage now."

She sat back, clearly put out by his brusque tone, but when he started scrubbing his chest with rather too much force than necessary, she only said, "Careful, or you may tear your wounds open again," in the same wry tone she often used with him, and went out again, taking along the pot of leftover soapwort.

Chapter 7

A bulla is an amulet worn by Ancient Roman boys before they came of age.

Soldiers in Ancient Rome were forbidden to marry while on active duty (though this didn't apply to centurions and higher-ups), but Severus Septimius did lift that ban in 197.

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs (if you want to be tagged or removed, let me know!)

[maureen-corpse]

I love having opinions about things I’m never going to be a part of. The lady who made Spanx is inventing putting high heels on sneakers. They’re hideous. I will never buy such a shoe. I can’t claim to have great taste in shoes (or great taste in what I am willing to buy and use when pressed) but I can tell you right now the high-heeled tennis shoes are odious. This woman is out of control

[incorrectmahabharatquotes]

This is not as coherent as my usual posts and I'm sorry about that in advance. This is tangentially related to our last post about women in Mahabharat. I saw this post by @nushkiespeaks. I have a lot of thoughts about it but what matters the most in the context of our previous post is that I do not like the use of the phrase "her dharma saves her" in this scenario. I will explain.

TW: violence against women, sexual assault. Please proceed with caution.

(I want to clarify that this is not meant as a call out post or anything. These are just my thoughts about what some feminist analysis of the epic lack sometimes. You can feel free to agree or disagree with me but please be kind and respectful about it and not call people names or harass anyone.)

I love Draupadi as a character so I say the following with all the love in my heart for her:

People usually either praise Draupadi for being a perfect victim. Or denigrate her for not being one. To them, she's either the pure hearted goddess who believed in her personal god and fulfilled her dharma of being a perfect wife. Or she's the cunning woman who didn't perform her dharma properly and deserved what she got.

What gets left behind is that the fact no one should have to go through any of that regardless of whether you believe they performed their dharma correctly. What also gets left behind are: all the other women mentioned in the scene, if only in passing. The slaves.

If you're strictly talking about the BORI CE version of the story(as the post clearly is), while reading it, it's almost impossible to miss the repeated mentions of the normalised and legally sanctioned sexual abuse/harrassment and rape of slaves. (Side note: Yes, slavery was a thing back then. It's horrible. People just don't like to acknowledge the instances in the Mahabharat where slavery is mentioned because it's just not a good look for sacred books to be chill with and actively encouraging buying and selling of actual people like objects. Trust me, if you have a favourite character in the epic, they were probably involved in the practice of slavery somehow, even Krishna, I'm very sorry to tell you this.)

To me, it's odious to mention dharma whenever we talk about Draupadi's vastraharan because it leads the obvious conclusion that those other women mentioned in text suffer at the hands of their "masters", in part because maybe they weren't performing their dharma correctly.

Maybe that's not what people mean when they praise Draupadi for her dharmic perfection. But every time those people, I cannot help but think of those women. The ones that are forgotten.

The ones who were not allowed to save themselves.

I guess, I'm ultimately just trying to say that this post is just my humble request to people to not talk about topics such as sexual assault in terms of the moral character of the victim. The people may mean well, but it does unfortunately perpetuate the idea of a perfect victim.

-Mod S

[sweetmariihs2]

So no one in the fandom is going to point this out?

(except for the fact that Malthus is a good person and has a somewhat healthy relationship with Hilda, differently from Frollo...)

Despite being religious figures (AND involved in politics), I have a list of comparisions of them at the end of the post. For now, let me mention the most important points

They tried to "cleanse the sins" of the girls they have romantic interests in (and the reason for this purification of sins would be because they considered these girls are "sinful and promiscuous")

These girls hate them and publicly defy their behavior (Esmeralda spits in Frollo's face while Hilda gets closer to Malthus' face)

They're both feeling this desire for the girls they deem as sinful, and this feeling (and the religious guilt) is eating them from inside

These girls can easily make them vulnerable, which is a unnusual feeling for both

They are jealous of the girls being exposed to other man (Esmeralda dancing, Hilda in the zone), and try to convince them to stop it

(This scene is not included in the disney movie, but it is in the 1939 movie and in the book - The people were waiting for Esmeralda to get on the stage and start dancing, and Frollo appears, hiding in the shadows, telling her he's madly in love with her and can't stand the sight of her dancing in front of other man. She ends up not obeying him, though! Went to dance anyway)

In the book and also in the musical of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, there is a scene where Frollo is just wandering through the streets of Paris, trying to deal with his conflicting feelings towards Esmeralda, and he hears the sound of music and dancing from the inside of a tavern.

"Frollo began to walk the streets night after night, unable to bring himself to return alone to his cold, dark chambers. He thought he saw her everywhere. Until one night, walking down an unknown alley... he heard the sound of distant music and laughter... coming from within a tavern called... La Pomme d'Eve!" (lyrics from the musical)

When he looks into the window he sees Esmeralda dancing, drinking and having fun, then he says "Brazen, lewd, and odious, this vile, depraved display... I cannot bear to watch and yet I cannot turn away..." (lyrics from the musical), which reminds me of Malthus always ending up in the bohemian zone and "accidentally" watching Hilda from afar, while he's against everything that is in that place. An angel on earth actually made an edit with this musical song making it seem like it was included in the movie, and it looks great! I just wanted to add this here because this edit deserves more recognition.

In the book, Frollo is a priest. He grew up in the church and never felt tempted by any woman... except for Esmeralda, what brings him to madness and eventually death. Got what he deserved tbh

Frollo sees himself as better than the others, just like the first lyrics of his song "Hellfire" say, "Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man, of my virtue I am justly proud... Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd...", which reminds me of the talk that Hilda has with Malthus, claiming that loving humanity is not the same as loving people, with real scent, color and sins. Of course, Malthus' pride is not as bad as Frollo's, but it is still a similarity

Both Hilda and Esmeralda are 100% publicly against Malthus and Frollo. They despise them, Hilda because Malthus wants to exorcise her and he is part of that political organization "of good manners" (or something like that), which goes against the bohemian area and disturbs the residents there using their faith. Esmeralda, however, hates Frollo because of the genocide he had been commiting against her people for decades, and she sees him as depraved and disgusting, especially after knowing that he is lusting after her. Both of the girls aren't afraid of speaking up about what they believe, making a fool out of both of Frollo's and Malthus' faces, which is something that the other people don't do. Both of them have a sense of speaking up for minorities and mistreated people.

And also while Esmeralda is kind to Quasimodo, the mistreated hunchback character, Hilda says that "ugly people have hearts too", willingly letting ugly guys have a chance with her.

Frollo keeps Esmeralda's shiny scarf while Malthus keeps Hilda's shoe. Both of the objects remind them of the girls they're "in love", make them feel religious guilt for feeling lust, and both of the objects are considered sinful (Hilda's shoe is considered too vulgar and Esmeralda's scarf was used during her sexy dance at the festival, and she teases Frollo with it in front of everyone)

Frollo burns Esmeralda's scarf (out of anger of her) and Malthus tries to burn Hilda's shoe, but ended up returning it to her.

They both refuse to call the girls by their names, calling them by pejorative nicknames instead, in Malthus case he calls Hilda "camellia, Magdalene (prostitute of the Bible), sinner" while Frollo calls Esmeralda "witch, the girl, gypsy girl"

This is not really about Malthus and Frollo, but when Hilda goes to the church, the priest tells her she shouldn't be there because she commited too many sins and she's in debt with God. In the Hunchback Of Notre Dame 1939 movie, Frollo finds Esmeralda praying and tells her that that church is not a place for her, aggressively shouts that she should leave and grabs her arm.

And what can I say about this song?

Notice how he ends up passing out because of his inner turmoil, which also happens to Malthus, when he's punishing himself and was found by the priest

As you guys probably know, Frollo and Esmeralda's character relationship and interactions are extremely unhealthy and toxic, while Malthus and Hilda are cute together and they're a recognized couple in the show. Frollo's feelings towards Esmeralda are just pure lust and hypocrisy, and he tries to burn her at the stake at the end, believing that her death will bring him some peace. They're not the same.

[clearwingedmaven]

Alright since Ao3 and FFN are both acting bizarre... here's my analysis on The Solitary Cyclist!

I'd like to say, I don't see it as highly rated as I do some other Sherlock Holmes stories, and I have a massive soft spot for this story, as well. And I'd like to tell you why, through analyzing it from Violet Smith's perspective.

Picture this. It's 1895. You're a young music teacher who's just gone and gotten a job with a pretty well to do man, if he's able to afford your rates and go into town quite a bit.

It's a fine job, at first, but there's quite odious people hanging around. You think... maybe I could stick around, maybe for the sake of my new student, who's developing quite nicely as a pianist. But this... man, this Woodley, makes you uncomfortable, but you're not sure why.

Then he tells you that he wants to marry you, someone he's hardly met! He offers you diamonds, anything your heart desires, but you don't want any of it. He tries to force a kiss, but your boss comes in and fights him off.

Which should be a good thing, right? But there's something odd about the way he looks at you, the way you can't put your finger on it. But you can almost think, that maybe your boss fancies you as well.

But why? You are aware you're a rather young woman, and you've heard family say that you're one to draw followed and attention but...

Not like this. So, you go about your business, and bike. You love biking, and are talented enough to travel most everywhere across England without much trouble.

But then, you chance to look back, one day while on your ride. It's a perfect spring day, so why wouldn't you?

And there's someone following you. Just you. On this lonely road. On this one stretch of road.

Where did he come from? There's two stretches of road beside this one. One's flat and bleak, one's heavily wooded. Surely you would have seen him...

Right?

Maybe its a trick of your imagination. But then... he keeps following you. Day after day. You keep returning to this stretch of road, and he's still there. Following you.

This isn't normal. But you don't have many people you can go to. Your father died, and your mother is poor off. Do you worry her?

What about Scotland Yard? It's 1895. A man on a bicycle following you down a lonely road should seem normal. You're a beautiful woman in a time where such things are trivial and would get you laughed out of office.

So you go to the only person you can think of... an eccentric detective named Sherlock Holmes, and you're not sure he'll believe you, either.

But he does. And maybe... you can finally breathe again. But you don't know what these men are willing to do to get to you.

The reason why I did that perspective is due to the fact that, with the introduction of the Solitary Cyclist, it seems to uniquely capture the horror that women might face in the Victorian era.

Would I call it feminine horror? Perhaps. Not intentionally, though. I would call it the horror of stalking, though.

Uniquely, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was, largely a sympathetic party, and as such, so were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Where many people don't belive women, don't take them seriously, they do. It may not be obvious, or waved off at first, but they will take it seriously.

But then the ending of the Solitary Cyclist is also what gives me such a massive soft spot for this. Bride kidnapping *was* a thing back then. If Violet Smith had gone to anyone else, it might have been treated as normal. Commonplace.

For someone like Sherlock Holmes, a man of "perfect" logic and a "reasoning machine" to treat it as seriously, it's quite brilliant.

And that is why I adore this story. It's a gem of a story that captures a unique horror with a sympathetic take, that doesn't treat it as normal.

And it works.

[leslie-lyman]

Election Night

A Euclidean Geometry drabble

Summary: Election night 2024 does not go as they’d hoped.

Pairing: modern!Pero Tovar x Frankie x Jack x nameless!OFC/f!reader (written in third person, reader is only referred to as she/her/their girl, with no physical descriptors)

Word count: 1.1k

Rating: G, just some election-related angst/hurt/comfort

a/n: Trying to work through my feelings about the 2024 election results. Would like to have three large Pedro boys comfort me. Had a breakdown. Wrote this.

Masterlist.

———

She hadn’t wanted to stop watching the results come in.

Not even after the swing states had started to fall, one by one, like red dominoes. But at some point the hands she’d pressed tightly over her mouth had begun to shake, tears spilling down her face, breath catching in her throat with each shallow inhale.

Frankie had finally turned off the tv, slipped her phone into his pocket, and carried her to bed. They’d pressed in tight against her as she sobbed, soaking the front of Jack’s tshirt as he held her against his chest, crying so hard she nearly made herself sick.

I don’t understand, she’d said, over and over. I don’t understand. This can’t be happening again. I can’t do it, I can’t face another four years of this…

In that moment the worst thing is how helpless they feel. The three of them are smart, strong, capable men, men who are trained to protect, to figure out how to get out of impossible situations. And if they could they’d burn the world down if anyone or anything caused their girl to hurt like this. But there’s nothing they can do to fix it.

She’s scared for herself, yes, but they know she’s far more worried about the three of them. The horizon of possibility stretches terrifyingly wide before them.

Pero has his green card, but will that matter? How careless and indiscriminate will the promised deportations be? At the end of the day, being a tan-skinned, Spanish-speaking immigrant may be more than enough to put a target on his back. Frankie and Jack are citizens, but neither has to branch out terribly far in their respective family trees to find relatives who are undocumented.

To say nothing of the fact that the four of them live together in a queer, polyamorous relationship. Where even now they have to be vigilant in public, wary of how obvious they are, always aware that simply being who they are out loud could result in unexpected attack. How much worse will it get? How much harm will be caused?

And as they do their best to soothe the woman they love, they know this reaction isn’t just about fear, or frustration, or anger.

It’s grief.

It feels like suffering through a death because that’s what it is. The death of a hope, of a dream, of what could have been and what should be if there was any justice or common sense or decency in the world. And even though this grief inwardly pummels them black and blue too, they know they will never truly feel it the way their girl does. The unique pain of women, who hope so much for so little, for even just the opportunity to be equal, and to be denied so resoundingly. To have gotten so close to a woman president and to have that chance ripped away by a man as odious as he is dangerous not once, but twice? It’s just cruel.

They do what they can for her, holding her close, letting her cry it out, murmuring soft words of reassurance.

It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Just let it out.

We’re here. We’ve got you. We’ve always got you.

I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m so sorry.

Tears roll down their cheeks and they try to muffle their sniffles for her sake, but the looks they share with each other are pained and haunted.

At last their girl quiets, having cried herself into a fitful doze. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:37am.

Jack, Pero, and Frankie all lie awake, ingrained military instincts refusing to let them sleep when they have something precious to keep watch over.

Jack breaks the silence.

I’ll call our lawyer later today, he half-whispers. Make sure we have all our paperwork in order. Wills, power of attorney, that sort of thing. So we’re as protected as possible, legally speakin’, should anything happen to one of us.

Frankie and Pero nod in silent agreement.

We should sit down with Robert soon, Frankie adds, mentioning their financial advisor. Reassess where we’re at, have a contingency plan in case we decide we need to move.

She’ll want to increase where and how much we donate, Jack adds, looking down at their girl with her head on his chest, one first curled into his shirt.

This is good. This is a plan. This is what they need.

We should go away for a bit. Pero’s voice is low and deep in the dark. Take some time somewhere remote, just the four of us.

I can think of a long weekend in January when I wouldn’t mind be disconnected from the rest of the world, Frankie quips humorlessly.

There’s an old Daniels family cabin in the U.P., near Mackinac, Jack says. Snow-covered trees, big roaring fireplace, little to no cell service…

Their girl shifts to blink sleepily up at him, just awake enough now to interject.

What about someplace warm, Jack?

Oh you’d be kept plenty warm, sugar. Don’t you worry about that.

He softly brushes her hair back from her tear-stained face, placing a delicate kiss to her forehead.

How are you feeling, querida?

She reaches for Pero’s hand to anchor herself before she answers him.

Sad. Scared. Angry.

That is how you should feel, Frankie murmurs, and the validation is strangely reassuring.

And tired, she says, tears starting to clog up her throat again. Fuck, I’m so damn tired. Tired of fighting, of resisting, of feeling like I’m screaming at the top of my lungs to have my and others’ basic humanity recognized by people too devoid of empathy to care. I’m so, so tired.

I know, querida, I know you are. And it seems overwhelming right now. But the alternative is giving up. And that is the only thing that truly feels impossible to do, no?

Her hand squeezes Pero’s as she nods, reluctantly conceding that he’s right.

But not at this moment, Frankie says. We should rest. There’s nothing else we can do at this moment.

Their girl turns to face him, making sure she’s still touching all three of them before closing her eyes and snuffling down into the pillow.

Should call our lawyer, she mumbles, starting to slip away into sleep again. And Robert…make sure we protect ourselves…as much as possible…

The three men share an amused look.

Those are great ideas, baby, Frankie praises her quietly, pulling a blanket up to her chin. We’ll do that.

And maybe…find a place to go…a beach somewhere?

Muffled chuckles break out around her.

Whatever you want, darlin’, says Jack.

It doesn’t matter where they go. And whatever happens next, they can face it, as long as they’re together.

[absurdthirst]

Edible Flowers {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Mentions of brothels and sex work, use of the word 'whore', general bad attitude, threats of violence, voyeurism, mentions of masturbation, SEX POLLEN, uncontrollable lust, rough sex, unprotected sex, dub-con due to sex pollen.

Comments: After losing his coins and unable to join the others in your party at the brothel, Pero decides to bathe with you in the local river. Both of you unaware that the flowers that line the banks of the river will make your blood sing with lust.

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @storiesofthefandomlovers!!!!! I don't know where I would be without your friendship, Charlie. I love our conversations and our crazy thots. I hope you have the BEST day! 🎁🎊💝 I think it a tradition at this point that your birthday fic be sex pollen 😂

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You ignore the grumbled curses from the foul smelling man next to you. Angrily searching bags and shoving them off to the side. Rolling your eyes at his odious manner, his stench and his overall unpleasant demeanor. It wasn’t your fault that you two were the only ones left at camp. He had no coins to spend, having squandered them on the last village by getting drunk and misplacing them. You were still here with the horses because you had no interest in visiting the brothel.

“You should just go.” You huff, smirking in amusement at the thought. “Perhaps they will tumble you just because of your charming demeanor.” 

“Quit talking before I decide to test how sharp my blade is.” Pero Tovar hisses angrily, his dark eyes narrowed in frustration and unhappiness at being left behind. No one, not even that bastard William, would lend him the coin to get his dick wet. After nearly two weeks of hard riding and no privacy to pleasure himself, he wants a release that is in a tight, warm cunt. Not the palm of his axe calloused hand. 

“I’d remove your balls before you ever touched my tongue.” You snort, reminding him of your own quick use of a blade. The last man who had tested you had his body stripped and left for the buzzards when he had thought to try to force his will on you. You like to think the other men you rode with walked a little more carefully around you after that. 

He grunts, unwilling or unable to come back with another retort and starts to dig through his bags once again. Searching in vain for the pouch of coins that would apparently get him away from you. 

Your own search of your bags is much more organized, searching for the precious sliver of soap you still had and a clean set of clothes. The river is just past the little copse of trees and you have plans for a long soak and a good scrub in the cool, clean waters. It’s been a dusty, dirty road and you want to feel clean again. Or at least, not as filthy. 

Finding the soap, you take it out and sigh softly, inhaling the scene of the flowers that had been pressed into it. It’s your last little cake that you had made, representing the last piece of yourself that you had left behind when you had started on this journey. Leaving home and traveling with this brash, rough, uncouth bunch of mercenaries. 

They had decided that having a woman among them was a good thing. You were better for distractions, getting tavern owners to allow you to bunk under their roofs, sometimes using your ‘feminine wiles’ to get jobs when necessary. Tovar had been the only one to keep his distance and his surly attitude around you. 

“Fuck.” The curse is accompanied by the saddle bag being thrown across the camp clearing, making you bite back a grin at the Spaniard’s ire. Pissed that he should have to stay back and not partake in the drinking and whoring. 

“There it is.” You snatch your clean bandage out of the bag and tie it closed. “Perhaps you can mend your armor.” You offer, standing with your change of clothes and your soap. Your money pouch is with you, not trusting him to keep his fingers out of your coins to go off and have his pleasure. “I would not even suggest a bath. I know you have no use for such a thing.” You smirk, enjoying the darkness of his scowl and the muttered curses under his breath as he glares at you. 

“Where are you going?” He demands, motioning towards the camp. “We need to start a fire.” 

“I am going to bathe, you can start the fire.” You tell him, watching him shake his head. “No. You stay and help.” He spits. “I am not sitting by and doing all the chores.” 

You snort, rolling your eyes. “I have made the fire every night for nearly two weeks.” You remind him. “I am not the camp whore. You want a fire? Start it.” 

“Puta.” You glare at him when he calls you a bitch, but you don’t say anything, knowing it won’t do any good. Pero is not a man who claims to have manners. You’ve seen him fight with the locals over perceived insults or slights. Manners is not something that would ever cross his mind when it comes to his own actions. 

Instead of spending time arguing with him, you simply walk out of the clearing with your things and make your way through the trees down to the edge of the river. 

Pero growls again, glaring at your back as you walk away from him. Unsure why the fuck he lets you talk to him like that. Irritated that he had been left back, that his money was gone and he was unable to go find release in a hot cunt for a few coins. 

Letting out a sigh, he rolls his head back, rubbing his shoulder and catching a whiff of himself. The acrid, sweaty scent of unwashed man makes him grimace and he hates to admit that you are right. He could do with a bath himself and cleaning his leathers. Sighing when he realizes that despite his best efforts, he would be doing what you wanted him to do. 

It takes him a few moments before he smirks. You are down at the river. Naked. Washing. He grunts and despite himself, his cock twitches at the thought of seeing your body and stroking himself from the safety of the trees. Or perhaps he will outrage you by just diving into the water himself. He huffs a chuckle, imagining your glare and curses as you try to keep your eyes off him. You grumble and curse when any of the men pull their dick out to take a piss, you would hate it if he stripped down to the bare skin of his ass. 

He lingers another moment, weighing his choices and blows out a huffed breath. Ambling slowly over to the bag he had thrown across the clearing towards the horses when he had been cursing his luck. Groaning slightly as he bends down to pick it up, he can’t help but think that a bath and a solid night of sleep might be better than a rowdy night in a brothel, drinking and whoring. 

The waters are slow in this bend of the river, making it a good place to swim and wash. Maybe even catch some fresh fish if there is any. The village is nearly a quarter of a league away, the men preferring to keep their horses and belongings well away from the towns until they are ready to leave. Too many places would seek to steal from the mercenaries, as foolish as that might be.

It’s isolated here, no sign that anyone from the village ventures this way. Lucky for you, because the flowers blooming on the bank are sweet smelling and look edible, although you haven’t seen that variety before. There had been some rabbits eating them before you had scared them off. If you had your bow, you might have been having rabbit for dinner. 

Now, you slowly peel off the clothes that are caked in dirt, sweat and blood. Groaning slightly when you start feeling light begins to give your muscles relief. Your breast band digs into your skin and you eagerly begin to unknot it so you can unwind it from your chest. 

When it’s completely unwound, you groan again, reaching up and massaging your sore tits. Nipples aching as you slowly palm them. The feeling is incredible and it makes you close your eyes, missing the slight movement in the treeline to your left. 

Pero’s eyes widen when he sees your tits. You’ve never even taken a piss in front of the men, preferring to go off behind a rock or some trees when the group has stopped. Now he’s unsure if the dark thatch of hair that covers your cunt is what is drawing his eyes or your hands roaming over your breasts like you are pleasuring yourself. The way you are groaning has his cock hardening like he is watching a show that some of the whores would use to make men pay more coin in the brothels. His mouth waters and he reaches for the laces of his breeches, eager to pull his cock out and stroke it until he spills on the ground. 

Until he sees you turn around and carefully make your way into the water. Your ass swaying invitingly as you wade into the water and he watches you dunk your head under the water. It looks too refreshing to pass up and he wants to join you. He does need to wash. 

The water is perfect, cool and clean, making your nipples harden even more and you lean back to float on the water for a moment. Relaxing and sighing at the way you already feel better, feel cleaner just by dunking yourself in the river. Once you scrub your clothes and body with the soap, you will feel positively luxurious. The only thing that could possibly feel even better would be to sink into a feather mattress to sleep. 

The water surrounding you muffles the sounds from on shore. Your eyes closed keeping you from seeing the other mercenary strip down to his skin and start to wade into the water. His eyes on you as he manages to cover his already hard cock with water to his chest before you notice the movement beside you. 

When your eyes open, they are wide, wrenched open from the slight shift of the water around you. Finding the dark eyes of the Spaniard fixed on you, making you shoot up, your feet slipping for a moment before finding your footing on the rocks and burying your body up to your neck in the water. 

“What the hell are you doing!?” You shout, thankful that his own body is halfway underwater. You don’t know if you wanted to see how well endowed the man is. It wouldn’t help things and you are already trying to tear your gaze away from the muscle and scars that adorn his chest. Evidence from previous battles that show how he has survived. Your hands cover your breasts under the water and you quickly move away from him. 

“Bathing.” Pero hisses back, rolling his eyes at you and smirking. Your mouth had dropped open like a fish and he enjoys the shock. Even if he had wanted to cum before he entered the water, he likes that you are surprised by his presence. “What are you doing?”

The fact that he plucks your soap off the nearby rock and starts to lather up his hands with it should make you take it back, but you find yourself just staring. Watching as he doesn’t move towards you, just sets the soap down and does exactly what he said he was doing. Bathing. His hands sliding over his skin and soaping himself up generously. Scrubbing the soap into his shorn off beard and into his hair. He had apparently hacked it off before coming into the water. 

“I didn’t mean bathe with me.” You hiss, still submerged in the water. “How long have you been watching me?” 

Pero smirks and arches his eyebrow at you. “You mean did I see where you like touching your tits?” He asks. “I did. You should unbind them more.”

Cursing under your breath, you huff and shoot him a killing glare. “Keep your eyes off my tits.” You mutter, but that only makes the Spaniard chuckle as he continues to scrub his body clean. 

“Every woman has tits, yours aren’t special.” He lies knowing that he had been hard as a rock as he looked at them. Thought about sucking on them. You don’t know that, and his hard cock is under the water, out of sight. 

Snorting angrily at his insult, you snatch the soap off the rock where he had returned it so you can bathe. Your relaxation is ruined by his presence and the last thing you want is to give him any more of an eyeful. He can stay here and you will leave. 

Washing quickly, you scrub your clothes, painfully aware of his presence as he splashes and curses behind you. Trying to ignore him while you wring your clothes out and lay them on the stones to dry. Hating that you would have to expose yourself again to get out of the river and dress. 

“I’m not looking.” Pero taunts, fully aware that he is watching you struggle to make a decision. The glimpses of your breasts and ass as you work have kept him hard and his hand squeezes his cock under the water. 

Not looking back at him, you roll your eyes and stand up, walking out of the water to your pile of clean clothes. Rushing to put on your shirt, you don’t bother with a breast band, happy that the longer, larger shirt covers your ass as you wiggle into your breeches. “You may want to wash again.” You snort, turning to look at him still in the water. “I can still smell you.” 

His eyes narrow and his mouth spits out another curse, but when you disappear into the trees to go back to the horses, Pero lifts his arm and sniffs. Wondering if you can smell him still, although all he can smell is the pretty soap you had. He grumbles to himself and starts to wash his own clothes. 

****

By the time Pero returns, clothes damp and squeaky clean, you’ve started the fire and have cleaned out your bag that you use to gather berries. “The flowers next to the river are edible.” You tell him. “I’m going to get some. If you want to eat, come with me.” Already annoyed he hadn’t started a fire before bothering you, the last thing you are going to do is feed him. 

You don’t want to see what he will say, just turning and stomping back to the water’s edge. In hindsight, perhaps you should have given him the coin to go with the other men. If only to keep him from annoying you. Finding his presence far more distracting than normal, when William is around to keep him occupied. 

You ignore his grumbled curses as he follows you. Your stomach starts to growl and you know that there are plenty of the tender flowers to eat now and then save for later if you can gather enough. You’ve learned that despite the number of men in your party, foraging for food was often more successful for hunting. A few of the men were incapable of hunting silently without scaring off all the small game. 

The small, pink flowers are pretty. The red pollen in the middle is eye-catching and you find yourself wondering why there are so many of them blooming at once despite watching numerous creatures feast on the tender buds. Reaching out, you pluck one flower from the stem and pop it into your mouth. Groaning quietly at the almost honey-like taste of it. Immediately picking another one to eat. 

There are hundreds of them. Quickly starting to pick them in earnest. One for the bag, one for you to eat. Groaning everytime you let the flavor of the flower burst on your tongue. The taller Spaniard moves to the bush next to you and does the same, his own mouth shoved full of the edible flowers. Eating them as fast as he can. They are almost addictive. 

It’s gradual. The way your body warms up and starts to tingle. Your skin is suddenly more sensitive than it normally is by the breeze coming off the water. Making gooseflesh rise and you shiver slightly. 

Tovar grunts beside you, shifting and clearing his throat. Making you think that he had just swallowed wrong since he eats like an animal. Continuing to pick and eat the flowers until you feel like your stomach is going to burst from the local vegetation. 

It’s only then that you realize how warm you are. Pulling your shirt away from your neck and humming quietly. Needing to almost take off your shirt as your nipples harden underneath the fabric. “Ohhhh.” You bite your lip and turn away from the bushes as you realize that you are feeling a certain kind of way. 

You’re turned on. Stumbling back towards camp, you can feel the arousal starting pool between your thighs and you feel your cunt bottom out at the grunts of the man following you. “What the fuck is going on?” You choke out, dropping the bag onto the ground as you wrap your hands around your stomach. 

Tovar nearly stumbles to his knees behind you, his cock harder than it has ever been in his life and he swears he need to pull his cock out and fuck his fist. “I- it burns.” He rasps, squeezing his eyes closed and ignores the soft whimpering sounds that are coming from you. Trying to suck in enough air to calm his racing blood. 

“I don’t-” You moan again, making the mercenary to your left growl as you rush over to your saddle bags. “It- what is happening?” All you know is that you need to touch yourself. The need to find release building up like an infection under your skin. Your clit throbbing with every pounding beat of your heart. “I don’t fucking know.” Pero spits, dropping to his knees and his palm presses against his cock with a moan. “I need to cum.” He growls. 

The raspy, rough sound of his voice sends a shiver down your spine and you feel your entire body light up at the thought of a thick, hard cock inside your aching cunt. Your broken whimper nearly a gasp. So close to giving in and begging Pero Tovar to touch you. 

“Give me your coins.” Your eyes fly open at his demand, finding him dragging himself to his feet and lurching towards you like a drunkard. Eyes pitch black with need and lust as he comes closer. 

“What?” You shake your head. “No. You are- you aren’t fucking a whore with my coins.” You hiss, making the man moan when you curse. 

You don’t understand how desperate he is. Fumbling with his belt he tosses it away and reaches for the laces of his breeches. “I am begging you, hermosa.” He groans. “I need- fuck, I need to bury myself in a cunt.” 

It’s your turn to moan, watching in surprise as the grumpy, harsh, uncouth man in front of you starts to unlace his breeches to pull his cock out. “This is- this is madness.” You whine, your own fingers starting to unlace your own pants. The thought of him fucking you is now buried in your head and it’s all you can think of. Him fucking you until the pain and need fade. 

“Give me-” Pero chokes out another moan when his fingers wrap around his cock to pull it free. Unable to stop from stroking it aggressively, even though his palm is dry. “Please.” He begs, knowing that the need is overriding his good sense. 

You never thought you would ever hear Pero Tovar beg for anything. Not even death when he was staring it down. Now he is begging for release and your own body reacts visceral to that plea. Your own breeches unlaced when you look up to see his cock in his hand as he pumps it furiously. Eyes closed and mouth opened on a moan as he tries to slack his lust. Your cunt gushes, bottoming out at the sight and you are pushing your breeches down in a rush as you try to kick off your boots at the same time. “Fuck me.” You demand, voice breaking as you stand on bedroll. 

He’s dreaming. He’s in the middle of a fantasy because he swears he hears you beg him to fuck you. Knowing that would never happen, he opens his eyes and chokes out a sound when he sees you pulling your shirt over your head and standing naked in front of him. “Her-”

“Fuck me.” You beg again, dropping down to the blankets and spreading your legs. “I need it. I feel like I’m going to burn alive if you don’t fuck me.” Your arousal is coating your thighs and dripping down onto the rough blankets. Fingers already between your thighs to start rubbing your clit. Giving into your own body’s desires. 

“Mother of God.” Pero curses, rushing forward and dropping to his knees between your thighs. Hand still wrapped around his cock and pumping it as he notches himself at your cunt. There’s no time to be gentle. Merely snapping his hips forward and burying his cock into with hot walls of your cunt with the loudest groan he’s ever made. 

Air is pushed from your lung, giving you no time to think, to scream, as his thick length breaks you apart as he pushes inside you. Splitting you in two is an almost painful pleasure that has your nails digging into his arms and your body bucking under his. Needing more, you sob in relief when he feels the same way and starts to move immediately. 

Your cunt is hot, tight around his cock. Making him grit his teeth together and bunch the blankets in his fists so he doesn’t leave bruises under your skin as he holds onto you. His hips slam forward, a rough little growl tearing out of his throat every time he reburies his length inside you. 

Moaning, your nails start to rake down his back. At first it’s over the shirt he is still wearing as he fucks into you. His pants at his knees, still dressed while you are completely naked underneath him. Then your hands slide under his shirt, needing to feel his hot skin as you moan again. His cock hits deep, every thrust filling you perfectly. 

Hissing, Pero grunts out a curse. “Shit.” He bites his lip and his next thrust is even rougher, pushing you up the blanket slightly. Your legs squeeze around his hips and you lift your body up to let him pound you back into the ground. 

It’s overwhelming and still not enough. Every time his cock scrapes against your walls, it makes your body light up in pleasure, the pain and heat subsiding for a brief moment. Making you crave more every time the sensation comes back. 

Your nails dig into his back but he doesn’t even pay attention. Too focused on the hot clutch of your cunt and how every time he rocks into you, those walls squeeze him like a vice. Groaning out curses in every language he knows, Pero feels like his entire body is being heated from the inside. “I- I’m gonna cum.” He chokes out, knowing that he won’t last more than a few thrusts. 

You are right there with him, your body bowing and arching with every stroke of his cock deep within you. Pushing you closer to the edge and your eyes squeeze shut. “P-Pero-ooooo” Your back arches up, cunt locking down on his cock as your scream of pleasure rings out in the trees, making the horses startle and stamp. 

Once you tighten around him, Pero is gone. Groaning out your name as he rocks forward one more time, staying just as deep as he can possibly get, relief and pleasure mixing together as he paints your walls with his seed. 

You pant, trying to catch your breath even though the pain is still there, just beneath the surface. Able to relax for just a moment as your eyes close. Listening to Pero grunt as he works himself through his own pleasure and collapses on top of you. 

“I-” he groans as he twitches. “Let me get my breath and I will fuck you again.” He promises, knowing that if he is still hard, you must also be feeling the effects of whatever has possessed the two of you. 

“You better, Tovar.” You moan, squeezing him again as you bear down on him. Grinning when he curses again. “Mierda.” 

“What the fuck is causing this?” He asks breathlessly. 

“I don’t know.” You admit. “Maybe it’s- maybe it’s the flowers.” 

He snorts, doubting that but he doesn’t argue with you. Knowing that whatever it is, it will have to work itself out of your system. At least this is more pleasurable than bad stew. 

“More Pero.” You beg softly, starting to move under him again as the heat begins to build again in your core. His cock is still hard and you need that feeling again. 

“Greedy.” He chuckles, looking down at you with dark eyes and for the first time he leans in to press his lips to yours, kissing you as he slowly starts to rock into you again. 

Gasping in surprise, you cling to him, kissing him back as you stare up at him as you kiss. Wondering why his lips are so much softer than they had looked and his kiss is much gentler than you had expected. Not that you had expected him to kiss you at all. 

Now that the first, brightest pain has passed, he can afford to be tender. To take a moment to make sure that there is more than just raw power in his thrusts. “I’ll give you more.” He promises. “I’ll give you everything you need, hermosa.” 

****

The fire burns low, feet shuffling in the grass as men crowd around the sleeping pair on the ground. None of them believe that the Spaniard is wrapped around you, both of you obviously naked under the blankets. Your clothes are scattered on the ground around you. 

“Do you think he fucked her?” The whispered question reaches William as he smirks down at his friend. Resisting the urge to poke him with his boot and wake the man from the obviously deep sleep. 

“What do you think?” William turns his head and looks back at the other men. 

“I think if you wake her, I will cut your tongues out.” Pero doesn’t even open his eyes as he growls his threat to the other men. Tugging you closer when you shift in your sleep until you relax against him. Your breathing evening out and slowing down again as you settle back into your dreamless sleep. Worn out from the multiple rounds you and Pero had the night before while the pollen from those flowers worked out of your bodies. 

William grins, motioning for the others to quietly back away. “We’ll let them sleep a little longer.” He hums quietly. “Let's go down to the river and wash up.” 

Pero grunts, knowing that he should warn them, but he’s not going to. The bastards left him here and he had to find out the hard way to stay away from the flowers. They could learn their own lessons. Smirking to himself as he presses his face into the back of your neck and inhales the scent of you. Maybe losing his coins wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he would warn William.

“Amigo…..”  

[fantasyescapes17]

Scandal (Part 2)

The Viscount's sister with an enormous dowry, beauty and unmistakable talent- you began the London season as the most desired woman in any room. But Jeon Wonwoo (a man who would rather hide in the library than dance at a ball) is beyond your comprehension. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it embroiled you into a scandal with a man you could never love.

Genre: Wonwoo x Female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are Joshua's sibling so your maiden name is Hong but the reader has no other physical characteristics.

Word Count: 3.5k

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Series Masterlist [Reading Candle and Manners, the earlier installments in this series first is strongly recommended as main character dynamics are introduced there.]

Your entire body felt numb. 

"It's all over," you whispered. "I'm ruined, I'm ruined, I'm ruined…."

Your sister-in-law held you tightly in her arms as you trembled like a leaf. You had been shaking uncontrollably all evening; ever since you had been discovered by Baron Wright in the library of the Graham's manor, alone with Mr. Jeon Wonwoo. 

There was no doubt in your mind of your situation. You had just become the main character of this season's juiciest scandal. 

"You are not ruined," the Viscountess tried to reassure you as she rubbed your back comfortingly. "It will be resolved. Joshua will take care of things. Come my dear, come closer to the fire, you're shivering…"

"I am not cold," you protested but the Viscountess would have none of it. She gently guided you to an armchair in front of the fire and wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders. 

"It will be fine," your sister-in-law continued to reassure you. Her words were kind but hollow. You knew that it would not be fine. To have been caught alone with a man in a distant corner of a manor and in a compromising position….

You felt faint. 

I'm ruined. 

The door to the drawing room opened and you sat up abruptly as your brother entered swiftly and tossed his coat onto the armchair. His expression made your heart sink. 

The Viscountess ran to greet her husband. "Joshua, what has happened-"

"I am so sorry, sister," Joshua said to you gently. Your heart sank painfully into your stomach as Joshua paced up and down the drawing room.  He pressed his fingers to his temples. "I tried; I begged Baron Wright to be reasonable but he would not listen to me. He feels jilted, since he was planning to propose to you. I even offered him money but… he-he has already told too many people. The rumour has spread beyond control."

Your chest felt tight. 

"Don't say that, don't…"

"I'm sorry."

The blanket around your shoulders suddenly felt hot and constricting, as though it was suffocating you. You threw it off and onto the floor roughly before standing up. 

"I will speak to Baron Wright myself-"

The Viscountess stopped you by gently taking your arms. "My dear, no. You will only make it worse-"

You looked at her in despair. "Then what am I to do? Am I to sit here quietly while that-that odious Baron defames me before the entire ton? Should I watch patiently while he ruins my reputation?" you spat, trembling. 

Joshua sighed. "Sister, please think for a moment. It will only escalate the situation further and confirm the rumours if we act in haste. I… I think we should try to handle this calmly and rationally."

"How?" you demanded. You did not see any calm or rational way of dealing with the waking nightmare that you had been plunged into.  

"Mr. Jeon has returned to his home to speak to his family, but he will come here in some time," Joshua told you. He gave you a wary look. "He has assured me that he will marry you."

You felt like you had been slapped. 

"Marry Mr. Jeon?" you whispered in horror. "Marry him?"

"I know you are not fond of each other, sister, but I know Mr. Jeon well. He is a gentleman and will do whatever is necessary to protect your honour. Perhaps, if we can persuade the ton that you were already engaged to him before tonight…"

You could not accept this. Your mind could not even begin to fathom the idea of being married to Mr. Jeon. You recoiled at the thought. 

"I will not marry him," you hissed, trembling. "I have done nothing wrong. I will not, I will not, I will not-"

Your sister-in-law embraced you tightly and you began shaking uncontrollably once more. She gently sat you back down in the armchair and then turned to her husband with a sigh. 

"I think your sister has had too much for one evening," she told the Viscount. "Let us give her some time before we speak of marriage. Surely Mr. Jeon will not withdraw his offer if she does not accept it tonight. And… we shall have to inform your mother."

Joshua ran his fingers through his hair and nodded.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, you are right. I will send word to Mr. Jeon to hold off for the moment. Perhaps we had all better go to bed for now." 

You felt sick. 

"I can't go to bed, how am I supposed to go to bed-" you mumbled. 

Your sister-in-law sighed. Her tone suddenly became firm; it was no surprise that she had raised her younger siblings by herself. 

"You will go to bed because that is the only thing that can be done now. I will not hear of anything else. Come with me now."

—---------------------------------------------------

Ella Williams was sobbing so hard that you could barely understand a word she said. 

Your cousin had come running to see you the next day, as soon as word of the scandal reached her ears. Her explanations and apologies were incomprehensible in a garbled mix of sobs and wails.

Your head ached. You had not slept. 

"Ella," you interrupted her quietly. "I don't blame you-"

She was not listening. Through her choked explanations you were able to piece together a picture of the events of the previous evening- Ella had been asked to dance the third dance by Mr. Xu Minghao, a gentleman that she had been pursuing for many months. Her promise to you was forgotten; and when Baron Wright approached her after the third dance asking if she had seen you, she informed him that you were looking at the piano upstairs and would be down shortly. 

“Never-never thought he would-sob-follow you-hic- my cousin, I am devastated-” Ella sobbed. 

You could not listen to her any longer. 

The Viscountess was much more intuitive- she noticed that despite your lack of tears and stiff expression, your composure was on the verge of cracking. She hurried to comfort Ella and took your sobbing cousin out of the room to have her sent home in the family carriage.

You sat silently in the drawing room. Your fists were clenched so tightly that your nails were digging painfully into your palms. 

Once Ella was gone, your mother came and sat beside you. 

“My dear,” your mother told you gently. “I know this is difficult for you. But time is of the essence. We must announce your engagement to Mr. Jeon.” 

You flinched. "I cannot. Not when I have not even done anything to deserve… I mean, we did not…” you turned and looked at your mother desperately. “There was nothing between myself and Mr. Jeon. You do believe me, mother?” 

Your mother sighed. “It does not matter what I believe. The ton will assume-” 

“But the ton is wrong. I have never even danced with that man, much less touched him. It is all a misunderstanding and in time I am certain that everything will be forgotten and brushed under the rug-” 

Your mother looked at you pitifully. “My dear.” 

You felt a burst of anger. Why would none of them understand? There was no need for you to marry Mr. Jeon because your virtue had not been compromised. It was simply a matter of clarifying that you had done nothing more than speak to the man, and it would be resolved. Well; perhaps Baron Wright would not court you but there were plenty of other young men, and in a short time it would all be forgotten. 

“I need to correct this misunderstanding,” you decided firmly. You stood up and gathered your skirts. You could not hide indoors in this manner. You had to seek out the gossip and crush it yourself. “I must go immediately to the assembly rooms.” 

Your mother looked horrified. “My dear, no-” 

“I must.” 

You ignored your mother’s desperate cries and hurried outside, ordering the butler to send for your carriage immediately. The butler was startled but did not have the courage to protest. It was not his place to tell you that you looked too wild to be in company; your eyes were red and had bags underneath them from lack of sleep. 

You were the sister of a Viscount. You were rich and beautiful and intelligent. 

You did not fear the ton. 

You walked up to the assembly rooms and took a deep breath before entering them with the same confidence you always had. The entrance hall where the card tables were set up was crowded; it took a few moments for your arrival to be noticed but slowly, gradually, the noise of conversation and the shuffling of cards died down. 

In less than a minute, the room was plunged into complete silence. 

Every single pair of eyes in the room was on you. 

It struck you: suddenly, and violently, what a terrible mistake you had made. You had gone through most of your life in the public eye and being the centre of attention was not new to you. Being a Viscount’s sister, you had been the subject of society's admiration, scrutiny and envy for as long as you could remember. It had left you numb to the general and uninformed opinion of others. You believed yourself unaffected by what others thought of you. 

But this was new. You had never experienced anything quite like this before. 

You were now the subject of ridicule and pity. 

Your stomach lurched and you wanted to die of shame, wanted nothing more than to run all the way home and wash yourself of the dirty gaze of the ton and hide underneath the blankets so that nobody could ever look at you this way again. You felt small and pathetic and weak. 

You turned and ran; out onto the street where your carriage was still waiting at the corner. You climbed inside and made sure to slam the door and close the curtain behind you before you allowed yourself to collapse, for the first time since this nightmare had begun, into tears. 

The sobs originated deep in your throat and were beyond your control. You had been holding yourself together at the seams for too long and all the built-up emotions exploded like a dam bursting. 

You barely heard the knock on the carriage door. There was a brief pause, and then the door opened a crack. Mr. Jeon Wonwoo was standing before it- dressed handsomely in a dark riding coat with his lips pressed together tightly in a straight line as he took in the sight of you having an emotional breakdown in the carriage. 

“Miss Hong,” he greeted quietly. “May I…?” 

You could not have answered him if you tried. Your throat was raw and you were still incapacitated from the involuntary sobs. Mr. Jeon seemed to realise that a response would not come. In one swift and graceful moment, he entered the carriage and closed the door sharply behind him.

Then he sat across from you and said nothing. 

He sat in silence for a long time. Your sobs gradually died down until eventually you were too tired, too exhausted to cry any more. Mr. Jeon waited patiently. He had the decency not to stare at you; his eyes were politely averted to the side and fixed on a random engraving on the carriage wall. Now and then his dark gaze would flicker towards you and then back to the engraving. 

Mr. Jeon finally broke the silence by offering you his handkerchief. 

You stared down at it for a long moment. It was merely a simple white handkerchief- one that any gentleman would offer a lady shedding tears in his presence. But you saw the calm, patient gaze in his eyes. 

The gesture was, for lack of a better word, a truce. 

You accepted the handkerchief and wiped your eyes and nose silently. 

Mr. Jeon finally cleared his throat. “Are you feeling better, Miss Hong?” he asked. “I apologise for entering the carriage but, well…” he trailed off and sighed. “I thought it would be better than to be seen standing outside, and at this point I suppose propriety is not the foremost concern on your mind.” 

You swallowed. “I am fine.” 

“We should discuss our situation.”

“Yes, well,” you mumbled as you crumpled his handkerchief in your fist. “In case it was not already evident, this ‘situation’ is only now beginning to sink in for me. Although it must please you to see me brought to the mercy of my own vanity; you have often delighted in pointing it out.” 

Mr. Jeon bit his lip. “Nothing about this situation pleases me. I am sorry.”

You frowned at him. Mr. Jeon could be difficult to read, but for once you understood him with perfect clarity. I’m sorry was not an expression of apology or regret. It was sympathy. He was offering his condolences for the brutal end of the life you knew, that you had hoped to lead. 

“Don’t pity me,” you snapped. 

“I was not-” 

“You were. I don’t want your pity. I can take responsibility for my own actions and I am prepared to suffer their consequences. I am a grown woman and you will treat me like one.” 

He folded his arms across his chest and nodded. 

“If you wish. But you are not making the situation any easier for yourself. Your brother informed me that you have refused my offer of marriage,” Mr. Jeon noted quietly. “Naturally, that is entirely your choice. Our acquaintance has not been a smooth one, I know. It is for you to decide whether marrying me is a worse punishment than being rejected and ridiculed by the ton.” 

You looked up at him. “That is a valiant attempt to simplify a complicated decision. Which is the lesser punishment in your view?”

Mr. Jeon blinked. He took a deep breath- his tense jaw relaxed slightly and you could almost see him visibly letting down his guard. 

“Being a man, I have less to fear from the ridicule of the ton than you. But my conscience remains equally troubled in both circumstances. So, I will leave it to you, Miss Hong, since you evidently have far more at stake. My offer to marry you remains open,” he replied diplomatically.  

“You will not resent me?” you asked. “For forcing you into a marriage without love?” 

“I can assure you that any resentment between us would only be from your end; I never had much interest or inclination to marry. I am well aware, however, that you were being courted by multiple eligible gentlemen and were probably intending to marry for love.” 

“I am certain none of those eligible gentlemen will have me now,” you scoffed.  

Mr. Jeon did not reply. 

“I am not sure that- even if we were to marry…” you trailed off and hesitated. “Joshua was right, if we had announced an engagement immediately it might have been brushed under the rug but I am afraid that it is too late now to cover up even with a marriage.” 

“Perhaps not immediately. It might be best to avoid London society for some time. My family’s estate in the countryside is far enough removed from London. If you were to accept my offer, we could live there for some time and return to London after enough time has passed for the worst of it to end.” 

You paused. It was not the life you had ever pictured living. You loved London, loved the society and the balls and the glamour of the ton. You loved being the centre of attention and having a bustling life. 

Or at least you had. 

Considering your current position, moving to a remote countryside estate where you would not have to face any members of the ton almost sounded like a blessing in disguise. You could feel the scales slowly starting to shift. Perhaps Mr. Jeon was right. If enough time passed, you could return to London as a married woman and society’s attention would be far too occupied by the latest bachelors to remember exactly how your marriage began. 

Mr. Jeon raised an eyebrow as he watched you struggle with yourself. 

“Or…” he suggested. “You could try to go back to the assembly rooms now.” 

You felt it creeping up on you… a mild, unpleasant, sickening feeling. The walls of denial and desperation and pride were crumbling. They could not last long in the face of Mr. Jeon’s calm and logical words. 

You were slowly beginning to feel resigned to your fate. 

“No,” you mumbled. “I cannot go back there. Let us marry.” 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You married Mr. Jeon Wonwoo in a quiet ceremony on a Monday morning. 

It was so methodical and mundane that you barely felt as though you had attended a wedding at all, much less your own.

Weddings were meant to be spectacular displays of love and adoration where two hopeful young people promised their lives to each other. You remembered your brother's wedding just last season: the flowers, and the blushing bride, and the gorgeous wedding dress, and the music as the happy couple left the church. 

There were no flowers at your wedding. There was no gorgeous wedding dress. There was no music. 

There was certainly no happy couple.  

It was a simple ceremony attended by none other than your mother, brother, and sister-in-law from your end, and Mr. Jeon’s parents, sister and brother-in-law. Once you had both made your vows briefly in front of the priest, you went home to ensure that all your things were packed. 

“I have packed seven evening dresses, ten daytime gowns and six nightgowns, miss,” Minnie told you hurriedly as she flew around the room in a frenzy. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched her quietly. “You must give this letter to your new ladies’ maid once you arrive. I have written out washing instructions for each of the gowns.”

She thrust a letter into your hands and then seemed to decide better of herself; she took it back and placed it neatly in the trunk. 

“There. Your new ladies’ maid should find it when she unpacks your things. Now- there is not enough space in the trunk so I will have the rest of your things sent via a later carriage. There are so many other things to take care of- oh! What about your pianoforte? It will not fit in the carriage now but perhaps I can have it dismantled and-” 

You frowned. “Leave the pianoforte here.” 

“Of course! My apologies, miss, what was I thinking? It is far too valuable to be placed on a carriage. I will think of some way to have it sent to you-” 

The door opened and your maid’s rambling was cut short by your mother- the Dowager Viscountess- entering the room. Her eyes were red and you had the feeling that she had been crying. She gave you a small smile. 

“It is time, my dear. Mr. Jeon is waiting downstairs,” your mother told you gently.  

You embraced her. She took a shuddering breath and forced a smile as she patted you on the back. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into her shoulder. 

“Of course not, child. You have nothing to be sorry for. Sometimes things happen to us that we do not expect. But I am confident that I raised a strong young woman who can handle anything that comes her way. I love you always.” 

You thanked her and went downstairs. The Jeons’ carriage was waiting in front of your house. Your brother stood near the door to the carriage and he gave you a soft smile. He leaned down to pat your head gently. 

“Well,” the Viscount said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Look who is a married woman now.” 

You frowned at him. “Joshua.” 

His eyes softened and he smiled at you kindly. “I will miss you, sister.” 

“I will miss you, too.” 

There was a small yip at your feet; your maid had brought Snowball out on his leash and Joshua lifted the little white dog into the carriage before helping you inside. 

Mr. Jeon- your husband- was already seated inside. He placed Snowball on the seat beside him before closing the door behind you and helping you settle in. The carriage slowly began to rattle forward on the cobblestone street towards your new home. 

“We have a long journey ahead of us,” Wonwoo told you quietly. 

You had a long journey ahead of you, indeed- and it began here, and now as you left behind your entire life, identity, dreams and hopes. You would begin this long journey as a new person. 

As Mrs. Jeon. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[missmagooglie]

So I just reblogged a very thoughtful Hen and Karen character meta. And it got me thinking about Hen's arc this season. And the teasers have all kind of stressed Gerrard as being a central plot focus for Buck, stressing that Hen has bigger concerns at home and she has to toe the line with Gerrard so she doesn't lose Mara for good, but here's the thing. Here's the thing. I think THAT is the point of Gerrard. Hen has to find a way to serve under this odious man in a way that will prove she can handle the political pressures of leadership after failing to do so during her last stint as interim captain of the 118.

This got long, so under a cut it goes.

If you look at Hen across the past few seasons, and in particular if you look at last season, one of Hen's character traits that tends to cause her the most friction is that she does not compromise when she thinks (or knows) she's right. And this has historically been a huge source of strength for her. It's what allowed her to withstand Gerrard's captaincy the first time around. It's a huge part of what makes her an exemplary firefighter and paramedic.

It has also, in season 7 especially, been a huge hurdle for her when it comes to leadership. Hen is smart, she is driven, she is confident in herself and her decisions, and she absolutely does not know how to take "no" for an answer. And not once but TWICE in season 7, we saw Hen's conviction in her own assessment get her into trouble. The first was with Councilwoman Ortiz' son. As a paramedic, she absolutely made the right call. She correctly identified his inebriated state, and reallocated on site resources when he was belligerent toward Chimney and offered clear refusal of care. What Hen didn't do was think beyond the immediate facts of the scene and consider ways to limit liability if her assessment was wrong or there were facts she was unaware of (which, spoiler alert, there were. Of both the medical and political variety).

When Hen was being investigated, she did not respond the way an LAFD captain should have. She reacted personally, defensively. She correctly identified that the source of her trouble was political rather than personal, but she still defended herself on a personal basis rather than working with Chief Simpson to find a way to appease the grieving Councilwoman. She reacted as an individual facing a personal attack rather than a leader navigating a sticky political situation, and in the process made the investigation about her (lack of) wrongdoing. She thought that being vindicated would mark the end of her troubles, but instead she ended up making herself a target for a woman looking to blame someone for her grief. A savvy captain would have found a way to deflect attention and smooth things over with the Councilwoman to avoid long term repercussions with a powerful member of the city government, even if that meant accepting a carefully calculated token acknowledgement of blame (perhaps a vague and unspecified blame of the department overall rather than a specific individual, to reduce opportunities for reprisal) to appease the Councilwoman's pride.

Then, even after she was cleared of wrongdoing and reinstated within the span of a single shift, Hen was motivated BOTH by her love and loyalty to Bobby and Athena, but ALSO her own need to prove herself and her own instincts correct when she decides that instead of reporting back to the station to resume her post she was instead going to go against orders to comandeer a helicopter and fly into a hurricane well out of LAFD jurisdiction to try and rescue a cruise ship of unconfirmed status. And she did this with three of her direct reports in tow. Did she ask them to be there? Did she order them to follow her into that helicopter? No. But given that she was technically their commanding officer at the time, their actions were technically her responsibility.

Now again, Hen felt vindicated by the fact that she was RIGHT, the Uno was in dire distress, her blatant insubordination did save lives. But while her actions showed extraordinary individual heroism, they did NOT show the sort of steady, level-headed leadership Hen would need to earn a permanent promotion to Captain. She showed a willingness to do whatever needed to be done to solve the problem in front of her, but not an ability to think beyond the current problem and consider how to best serve the LAFD beyond the current emergency.

So how does all that relate to Gerrard? Well, first of all Hen made herself all but unpromotable in the eyes of Chief Simpson and undoubtedly the rest of the LADF brass, creating a leadership vacuum when Bobby retired unexpectedly. That gives the OPPORTUNITY for Gerrard to step in. But why Gerrard, specifically? Why not some new jackass to terrorize the 118?

Because everything Hen did to survive the first time she served under Gerrard leaned on her value as an individual. In order to grow into the leader the 118 needs, she'll have to survive Gerrard this go-round using completely different methods. And to make absolutely sure she experiences that growth, the show has conveniently given Hen PERSONAL STAKES that render her old methods of survival unusable. Everything Hen did to prove herself in the past involved bucking Gerrard's leadership, showing how capable she was even if it meant undermining him. Now, with Mara on the line, Hen has no choice but to toe the line and keep her nose clean. So how is she going to change tactics and work WITHIN the system? How is she going to show that she can follow regulations and orders she disagrees with, without sacrificing her dedication to doing her job to the utmost of her ability? How is Hen going to prove that she can make decisions that benefit the station and the department long-term while still giving the problem in front of her everything she's got? How can she balance the right thing to do RIGHT NOW with doing what's needed to serve the bigger picture?

If Hen meets Gerrard head-on with defiance and disdain, it will be proof that she has not grown in the intervening years any more than he has. Instead, Gerrard is going to be a test of Hen's ability to show genuine and meaningful leadership without recklessly flouting orders she may not agree with in favor of her own priorities.

Or at least, that's my hope.