#person: eloise smith

[oneaugustevent]

I remember the many husbands that turned their backs as the small boat was lowered, the women blissfully innocent of their husbands' peril, and said goodbye with the expectation of seeing them within the next hour or two.

testimony of first-class passenger Eloise Smith, US Senate Inquiry

[ithebookhoarder]

your Eloise fics have me in a chokehold! If you would I need an eloise and fem reader first kiss moment! friends to lovers type best

First Kiss (Eloise Bridgerton x F!Reader) 

A/N: Well, I love me a good ol' 'friends to lovers' trope, so thank you for sending this in! I am in full S3 mode. 💕Also, side note, but I see this request existing in the same universe/as a prequel to my other piece 'This Love' - which you don't have to read to understand this but if you want to, then check it out.

Warnings: Beginnings of smut, implied homophobia, era-appropriate sexism (let me know if I missed any)

Masterlist

"What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy? If long-suffering propriety is what they want from me, They don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly, I choose you and me religiously..."

('Guilty as Sin' - Taylor Swift)

“I simply don’t see the appeal of such things.” 

“You don’t?” 

“No. What could be so appealing about kissing?” Eloise muttered, staring down at the couple on the other side of the library in which you had both hidden. 

Fed up with ducking dance partners for one evening, you and the Bridgerton girl (who had been your closest friend since infancy) had escaped the ballroom of the Smith-Smyth family town house and the festivities being held there. Of course, like most nights spent trying to hide from the Ton and its never ending scrutiny of young females, the pair of you had sought refuge in the library of the home. After all, it was typically the room least likely to be occupied, and had more than enough dark, quiet corners for you two to hide in, curled up with a good book until it was time to go home. 

It was far superior to being passed from one suitor to the next like some curiosity to be examined, admired, and appraised. 

Tonight had been no different so far, with the pair of you taking the first opportunity to bolt and conceal yourselves on the upper gallery of the impressive library. However, you had only been alone maybe a handful of minutes when the door had burst open and a rather amorous young couple had staggered through, a tangle of limbs and lips. 

Both you and Eloise had barely had time to even realise what had happened, let alone plan any kind of escape. Unfortunately, the upper level - whilst more private and out of sight - was only accessible via a spiral staircase. There was no way on earth either of you could make it down said staircase or all the way to the door without being seen.

You didn’t know who would be most embarrassed in that instance - you or the couple caught in a compromising position. That, and you’d also made the fundamental error of waiting too long to make such a decision and announce yourselves. 

As such, you’d had no choice but to scamper back into the darkness and pray the couple either didn’t hear the hushed shuffling above them, or that they simply left … and soon. However, given the groans and moans coming from the pair as they pawed at one another, you didn’t think they were in any rush to return to the ballroom anytime soon. 

 “I mean… mama says it depends on the person you’re kissing,” Eloise continued, eyebrow raised quizzically as she leaned closer to the railings as if trying to get a better look. “That if you’re with the right one then it all just feels ...” 

“Natural?” 

The word fell from your lips easily without a second thought. 

“Perhaps,” Eloise continued, tilting her head as the couple’s kisses began to move from their lips to other parts of their bodies. 

The sight was enough to make you blush, a sudden ache awakening inside you. It was an ache that had become strangely familiar to you in the past months, even if you would never confess such a thing aloud. You were a woman after all. You weren’t supposed to feel such things, let alone share that fact with other people. Maybe your future husbands, but that was ‘simply not done’ as your mother had cautioned you, whilst giving a rather harrowing talk about ‘the facts of life’. Demure, reserved, and dignified - that was what husbands wanted. 

Needless to say, none of those words could be used to describe you at present, nor your best friend. It was what had drawn you two together in the first place - a recognition of a kindred spirit, desperate to survive in a world that was clearly not designed for your kind. 

For the first time in whole your life, you hadn’t felt so alone. She too loathed everything society said you were supposed to enjoy - sewing, the latest fashions, making oneself appealing to the other sex. Instead, she encouraged you and your passions, sending you new books she thought you’d like about topics that interested you. She also spoke to you like an equal and wasn’t afraid to debate current issues like politics, female rights, and science. Hell, she hadn’t laughed when you had confessed that you’d be perfectly content living a life that didn’t involve a man at all (let alone as a husband). If anything, she had encouraged it. 

So, years later here you were, thick as thieves with Eloise Bridgerton and not the least bit interested in any kind of future that didn’t have her in it. 

“I just can’t ever picture me being like that with another person,” she continued, staring at the couple with seeming disbelief. “Especially not one of these boys that peacock themselves about the place, acting like they’re anything other than children showing off for the air-headed debutantes. It’s embarrassing honestly.” 

You tried not to laugh at your friend’s visible repulsion at the sight. She had never been one to hide her feelings and her expressive face gave their true nature away every time.

“Agreed,” you murmured, eyes still focused on the display despite vocalising your disapproval. “Oh. I… That hardly looks comfortable. In fact, she rather looks like she’s in pain.”

“Well, considering the fact that he looks like he’s trying to eat her, I’m not surprised.”

“El!” 

“What?” she scoffed, sitting up and finally crawling back from the edge of the railings. You followed, shuffling backwards further into the shadows and safely out of sight. Anyone who dared look up would be unable to see you from this angle. “It’s the truth. I’m merely surprised he hasn’t dislocated his jaw yet like some python and simply swallowed her, and her fortune, whole. I merely wish I could understand what drives a person to do such a thing. It isn’t exactly like one can simply look it up in a book. They all simply say that a kiss has some divine power that makes a person lose all sense. That can’t be possible.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is.”

“Oh, really? What could possibly make you think that?”

You froze. 

How could you tell her the truth? That you knew it to be possible because every time you looked at her, what you wanted most in the world was to be able to pull her into your arms and kiss her like it was the last thing you would ever do in this lifetime? That, you had long known that your feelings towards her were well passed the point of friendly? 

Even now, your heart raced in your chest in a way it only ever did when she was near. The faint traces of her orange blossom perfume made your head spin and you knew you'd be smelling it hours after she had gone as you always did.

“I don’t know.” You gulped, trying not to let your warming cheeks give away your sudden train of thought. However, your mouth and your brain had never been the most co-operative of organs. They often had a way of defying one another, just like now in fact, as you opened your mouth and the words simply came tumbling out. “Maybe that’s the problem… maybe we don’t know because we have no experience. Nothing to base it on. Maybe, it’s one of those things you have to try and see for yourself… ‘find out’ as it were.”

Eloise’s eyes looked like dinner plates, they became so wide. 

“What? That’s… that’s a ridiculous proposition,” she choked, her voice raising dangerously loud. However, a well-timed moan from below brought her back to her senses as she remembered just where you were and what had brought you two into this situation in the first place. 

Switching back to a frantic whisper, she continued. “I … I mean - who - what… no one would agree to such a foolish idea, not when they’d think I was trying to entrap them into a marriage-“ 

“El-” 

“-and we all know they’d be desperate to brag about it to everyone. I would be dragged down the aisle by the end of the night, if my brothers didn’t drag them outside and shoot them first-“

“El!” You reached over and took her face in your hands. Holding her still seemed to do the trick as she instantly fell silent. “Breathe. Ok? I didn’t mean with a boy, or some stranger… I … I meant…” 

The words died in your throat as your mind raced to maintain in control. There were a million reasons why this was a bad idea, the first and biggest being that your friendship was the most precious and treasured thing in your life. Risking it was beyond idiotic. 

You knew that that was precisely what Eloise would tell you too, if she knew what you were about to say. However, you said it anyway. 

“I meant someone you trusted. Someone you knew. Someone who cared about you.” 

Eloise snorted. “And who would that be then? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I hardly have a line of suitors waiting for me, let alone any that suit those criteria-“ 

That was it. You couldn’t wait any longer. You kissed her. 

The kiss was everything you’d been brought up to fear and avoid, but you knew that nothing in your life had ever felt so right. You hadn’t been made to want anyone other than Eloise, and you’d spent too many years trying to force yourself to believe otherwise. To believe that your mother was right, that you’d find a suitable man and feelings would grow in time. To believe that you were wrong to imagine kissing a girl rather than a boy… 

Well, it was happening. It was no longer just a fantasy and… in a word? It was thrilling. The entire world stopped. The moment was breathtaking… and then it was over. 

You paused, waiting with bated breath for her to react. However, moments passed by and Eloise failed to say anything - which in itself was a signal something was wrong. It took a whole minute for her to even open her eyes, let alone look at you. 

Ice cold fear spread through your veins and you felt the world crumbling around you.

“I- I'm so sorry,” you choked, hastily pulling away. “I’m so sorry, I … just … I shouldn't have done that, El. Please, if you don’t say a word about this then I’ll stay away from you and you’ll never have to see me again. I promise-"

“W- what?”

Eloise blinked, suddenly waking from her stupor as you began to scramble to your feet, desperate to make your escape - amorous couple, or no. However, her grip was tight as she grabbed your hand, refusing to let you go. She was surprisingly strong.

“No, wait,” she begged, her desperation clear by the way her voice broke. “Please, just - just wait. I … I just was surprised. That’s all, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting it or to… like it. Or at least, not that much.” 

“You ... liked it?” 

"Yes."

You could have been knocked over with a feather at that point. Instead of rejecting you, or rebuking you, or even feeling repulsed by what you had just done, Eloise seemed almost excited as the shock wore off.

She began to smile, making the tension simply evaporate between you two. Instead, she looked almost liberated, her cheeks flushed and her lips were plumped from where you had just pressed them against your own. Several strands of her hair had also come free from their perfect coiffeur throughout the evening and yet, Eloise had never looked more perfect in your eyes.

You’d have done anything to frame that moment to preserve it forever.

“I did," she murmured. "It seems you were right after all. Perhaps it was a matter of finding the right person to kiss.” 

“I was?”

“Indeed,” Eloise purred, a newfound eagerness surging within her as she reached out and pulled you back into her arms. “But, maybe we should test it one more time? Just to be sure. Any sound scientific theory must be based on evidence, after all.” 

Well, who were you to argue with that?

[browneyesandhair]

The Bridgerton Syndicate

Okay so what if the Bridgerton family business was Assassination?

Daphne v. Simon in a Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Anthony v. Kate in the sense of the person behind the curtain who keeps their families together and organizes the allocation of personnel and matches them to relevant missions.

Benedict runs into Sophie on two missions five years apart but the first time she honeypots him and the second time he refuses to let her get away without him. So he retires.

Penelope was Eloise’s informant. She didn’t know about the rest of the siblings until the time Colin has to step in for Eloise once. He promptly steals Penelope to become his informant.

Eloise ran away from the life and found Phillip in a cozy life she decides to join. But she covered her track so well her siblings launch a rescue mission and Phillip is overwhelmed like I’m just an urban farmer why do you have a gun pointed at me?

Francesca tried to give it up and live a quiet life with John. But then she gets pulled into one last mission that follows her home and leads to John’s death. Michael comes to avenge him and falls for Francesca and they have an avengance road trip angst-filled mission together.

(Open options for Hyacinth and Gareth + Gregory and Lucy since I haven’t read their books.)

[karikarasuno]

sonder ch. iii

Pairing: Erwin Smith x Fem!Reader x Levi Smith

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Smut (18+ Only), Oral Sex (m!receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Regret after Sex, Alcohol Consumption, Awkward Tension, Arguing, References to COVID Lockdown

Word Count: 10k

song(s) for the chapter: pretend by eloise, jaded by miley cyrus, breaking point by leon thomas

a/n: this chapter took me what feels like forever to write. i had writers block almost 100% of this chapter lol but it’s done at last. it’s pretty angsty though so strap in.

chapter ii | chapter iii | chapter iv

“What are you doing here?” You were positive you were having some kind of hallucination. A delusion brought upon by your temporary forgotten loneliness. To remind you of the guilty conscience that was never far away from you. But he was here, you knew in the crease between his eyebrows that manifested after years of concentration. And in the hopeful laced defeat in his dark eyes. It was real and you couldn’t wrap your head around it because it seemed unfathomable. Because, “how did you find me?”

The only person who knew where you were was, “your mom gave me your address.” He tightened his grip on the strap of his duffel bag as you didn’t make any move to let him in. Still confused. Still partially convinced he was conjured up by your deluded imagination. 

“Why?” was all you could manage. You were still tipsy from the wine tasting. Your heels still strapped around your ankles and the balls of your feet ached as you applied all your weight to them. You were woefully unprepared for this. Slightly terrified of the universe’s ability to shock and punish you as soon as you felt some semblance of contentment. 

“Not too sure why she gave it to me. Probably because she wanted us to talk as much as I do.” He shifted uncomfortably. And while there was a pleasant breeze this evening, it was still warm. Too warm to be out in his hoodie and jeans. 

“No,” you said, before you could think of saying anything else. “I meant why are you here?” 

There was judgment in your tone that you hadn’t meant to apply. And he flinched which caused your body to soften with sympathy. “Can I come in?”

Your hand tightened around the doorknob, but you moved to the side. And now he had a clear shot into your home. It was in slight disarray. Your work bag was thrown on your sofa and a blanket was bunched up in the corner. You left your coffee mug from this morning on the table and mail that remained unopened littered your island. 

He took it all in. Remnants of only you to be found. Which left a pitiful feeling in your stomach at the realization that your house together back home was probably littered with reminders of you. You left almost everything behind. Including him. And a shattering that you had poorly taped together beneath your sternum was beginning to unravel. 

He dropped his bag on the floor by the dining table. You bought it from a thrift store a few weeks back. It was small and round, worn with age but charming with the designs etched into the wood around it. You centered it in front of your bay window, perfectly snug by your bookcase. 

He glanced over half filled shelves, new books and old ones were placed haphazardly there until you decided how you would organize them. So far that was left on the back burner. He grabbed a novel you recently published. A mystery novel by a young author who you spent weeks trying to convince to take your publishing deal. Annie Leonhart was talented and you knew if you didn’t nab her someone else would, but she was particular about many things. She made Nile’s life hell for months, but it was worth it seeing the rave reviews as she slid onto the bestselling list with ease. 

“I read this on the plane,” he said, thumbing through the paperback. “Really good. I didn’t see the ending coming, even though all the signs were there.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, locking the door behind you but not moving towards him. Distance was your only safety net at the moment. “I was a little mad that I didn't put it together sooner.”

“So was I,” he said, finally looking at you. And you sensed something deeper. His roundabout way of saying he was angry with you too. Which you couldn’t blame him for. You didn’t exactly leave with a warning after your fight about your job. 

“I miss you,” he added, tossing the book onto the dining table. Two steps towards you. You locked your knees though, blocking your ability to meet him halfway. Tired of always having to meet him halfway. But you didn’t have to this time. Because his hand was on your cheek soon enough. Warmth radiated from his palm. Your heart skipped and then slowed, a familiar sense of relaxation numbing your limbs because you missed him too. You thoughtlessly pressed your cheek into his hand, eyes fluttering closed and you were smacked with a wave of emotion. Tears built in your throat, but you swallowed around them, blinking them away from your lash line when they stung there for a brief moment. 

“Onyank–”

“No,” he placed his other hand on your other cheek and forced you to look at him, “I miss you. Just say you miss me too.”

Your lips parted but nothing came out, your mind awfully blank and you couldn’t bring yourself to say it back. Your throat was closing around nothing and his eyes pleaded with you. But you couldn’t do it.

“Please.” You’ve never heard him sound so small, like a child. Suddenly the six years you had together were lost and the only version of him was when you first met. Youthful, hopeful, and tired. Your hands rose to grab his wrists, securing him against your skin and squeezing. “I missed you too.”

There was a long moment of just the two of you staring at one another, neither of you knowing what to do or where to go. For so long, things between the two of you were natural and seamless. You never had to worry about overstepping or crossing boundaries. But with the familiarity running so deeply between the two of you, it felt strange to be so hesitant in a moment like this. To be afraid of how the other might react.

“Why did you leave?” His hands moved down to cradle your neck, his fingers sifting through the hair at your nape. 

“Not right now.” You closed your eyes again, incapable of gathering the words to even explain to him the emotional turmoil you’ve been going through for the last two years. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said, grip tightening as if he were trying to make sure you were real. That he actually found you after you virtually ghosted him for months. You never answered his calls or texts. Just cut him off completely as if you never existed to each other. “Fine, we won’t. Not right now.”

You could only nod, stepping towards him, suddenly needing to feel him against your body. He was always so warm. You never understood how someone could run so hot, but he was perfect since you always seemed to be nothing short of freezing. He pulled you against him at the same time as you shifted into his arms. He tilted your face upwards, thumb pressing beneath your chin. You knew what he wanted. What he was silently asking for. And the alcohol that riddled your body stopped you from thinking rationally. That paired with your heightening emotions had you leaning upwards, so that your noses brushed one another. This wasn’t a good choice, a sane one, given everything that has happened. But you needed him in that moment. Needed to remember one of the reasons you fell so deeply in love with him in the first place. 

The distance closed between the two of you, but it felt like time was halting as soon as your lips barely touched his. They were just as full and soft as you remembered. He always kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing and how to have your knees faltering and your lungs devoid of your own air. And suddenly, everything was rushed and hurried. You clung to him with desperation, your hands twisted in the thick fabric of his hoodie and you glued yourself to him. He wasn’t expecting your sudden need, so he stumbled and caught himself on the wall behind you with a hand as your back fell against it. 

“Wait,” he breathed, breaking the kiss before you could deepen it. Just breathing against your lips in gentle puffs of air. Your head rested against the wall, his hand slipping from where it was tangling in your hair to rest at the base of your throat as he tried to keep you at a somewhat safe distance. “We shouldn’t.”

“No,” you agreed, regaining some of your breath, “but I want to. I want you.”

Your hands drifted down his abdomen, bunching up his hoodie where it stopped above his waistband. There was a peek of his underwear. Calvin Klein. After he started making more money, it was all he bought for ages. You traced the elastic with a fingertip, outlining each letter until you stopped at the button of his jeans. 

“Tell me to stop,” you said, pinching the denim and waiting for him to stop you. But he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder instead, using his lips to guide his way up the curve of your neck to your ear. 

“I won’t.” He kissed the space below your ear, his hand finding your waist and tugging the fabric of your dress into his fist. You took that green light without hesitation. You fumbled with it at first, hands suddenly shaking with anticipation. But he kept leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulder as you unzipped his jeans. He was hard, his erection pressed into your palm as you slid your hand beneath his boxer briefs. He groaned against your skin, the sound so guttural and deep that it made your knees weak. 

You dropped to them as soon as you felt your weight give. The wood dug into your skin sharply, but you didn’t seem to care or notice. Not when you tugged down his clothes and exposed him. He was thick and long, and it was always difficult for you to take all of him into your mouth. But your mouth immediately watered with the memory of him. It’s been a while since you’ve been touched, even by yourself, and so your thighs clenched at the idea of being full again. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm. Your lips wrapped around his head, using the spit that gathered beneath your tongue to make the glide easier. His breath was falling from his lips in stuttered gasps, and when you glanced up at him he held his hoodie beneath his chest. Allowing you the perfect view of the flex of his abs whenever his breath got caught in his lungs. 

You hollowed out your cheeks, eyes closing again to focus on not choking when you fit more of him into your mouth. There was a gentle guiding hand on the back of your head resting there but heavy. When he pinched at the base of your neck you knew he was close, and he wanted you to pause. To give him a second. But you ignored it, pressing down further until your nose hit the base of his cock and he made a choking sound in the back of his throat when you swallowed around him. 

Instead of giving you another warning, he just pulled you off of him, using his grip on your neck to tug you backwards and you breathed out a relieved sigh you hadn’t realized was stuck in your chest. 

“Where’s your room?” It was a weird question to ask. Because you forgot he had never been here before. Momentarily forgotten that this wasn’t like any other night between the two of you. And that he was a visitor in your home and not a permanent resident. Where he shared a bed with you and half of a closet. You didn’t have his toothbrush in your medicine cabinet, or the wave brush he used every morning beside your perfume. It felt strange, this gap in time that you couldn’t account for accurately. 

But still, you rose to your feet, hand finding his wrist and telling him, “it’s this way.”

Your bed was unmade with your pajamas thrown at the end when you got dressed this morning. That seemed like years ago when you were debating between one shoe and another. When you paused at the side of your mattress, Onyankopon was behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His lips found your ear, his voice nothing but a rasp when he said, “sit down.”

He helped you turn around to face him, fingers at the hem of your dress and dragging the fabric up your body and over your head. He threw the dress to the floor, splaying a big hand across your abdomen as he pushed you onto the bed. You bounced carefully from the impact, your hands keeping you from falling straight onto your back. He placed a knee between your open legs forcing you to scoot backwards. And he started at your feet. His fingers skillfully unclasped your heels from each ankle, letting them drop to the floor with dull thuds against the fluffy rug you had there. 

His fingers danced up your thighs, massaging the fat of your hips in his hands before discarding your underwear easily. He took little time undressing himself. Eyes trained on the contours of your body the entire time which had your skin heating up under his scrutiny. When you moved up the bed to allow him more room he followed after you, crawling between your spread legs and grabbing your ankle to drag you towards him. Your head fell flat against the mattress, eyes focusing on your fan overhead before he used two fingers to press at your slit and dragged them upwards until he found your clit. 

“Shit,” you hissed between your teeth when he rubbed gentle circles against you. You felt yourself dripping and he played you effortlessly until you were writhing and pleading for more. 

“You always got so wet for me,” he groaned as he inserted one finger and you clenched around it. “God, I missed this.”

He pumped his finger in and out, taking his time before he inserted a second. He directed his focus to your g spot, using the angle to bully the sensitive tissue there until your heartbeat was in your throat. You immediately reached between your thighs and gripped his forearm. You pushed at him, but he was stronger than you and he wanted you to come on his fingers. You could tell he was determined to make you finish like this first. “Just fuck me, please.” There were tears springing from your tear ducts and you whined when he pressed his thumb to your clit. 

“Just gimme one, baby, and I’ll fuck you just how you like it.” The thought was dizzying, and the pressure from his fingers toying with you had your legs shaking. Over and over and over until you were drooling into his hand and the sloppy sounds of your pussy were the only thing accompanying your increased pitch in moans. 

“Fuck yes, that’s it. So pretty,” he groaned when you finally came with a gasp. Your hands scrambled to fist the comforter. You were drifting, his rambling was distant as you attempted to control the rush of endorphins flooding your system. He worked you through it, slowing down his motions until you melted into the bed and you could only blink up at him tearfully. 

He licked his fingers clean after he retracted them from your spasming cunt. Your sweat was cooling on your skin and the fan circling above your head sent goosebumps down your body. But you didn’t have much longer to regain your senses. Not when he took both of your thighs in his hands and folded you easily. His face was right above you, gorgeous as ever with his pupils dilated and his bottom lip secured between his teeth. It was always so insane to you how stunning he was. How effortless his beauty always seemed to be. And he somehow chose you. Until he didn’t.

You were sore as hell when you awoke the next morning. Your thighs tightened whenever you turned and your muscles screamed every time you tried to stretch beneath your covers. The sun slipped between your blinds, which only reminded you of how you needed to invest in blackout curtains. Your internal clock always woke you up with the sunrise, regardless of how much – or how little – you slept the night before. 

Last night felt like some vivid dream. You would’ve sworn that it didn’t happen and it was just a product of all the wine and exhaustion you were experiencing if it weren’t for the arm draped over your waist and the soft snores filling up your usually silent bedroom. You froze, suddenly wide awake. 

That was a mistake. A really big one. And he warned you too. To stop before you got too ahead of yourselves, but you had so little self control. You just wanted him so badly, your brain clouded with yearning and lust. It was hard to say no, not when he looked at you the way he did. Or touched you so tenderly. It brought back all the things you used to feel when you were with him. Before he proposed, and before he started to choose his career over you. 

He was a heavy sleeper. So slipping from out of his grasp was easy enough. Your thighs burned when you stepped into the shower. Muscles so tight and achy. But it was a good ache, the satisfying kind that if you weren’t so caught up in the implications of it all, you would be basking in it. But instead you were all too aware of the questions he would have when he officially woke up. 

Why did you leave? Why haven’t you answered any of my calls or texts? Where do we go from here?

You didn’t know. But that wasn’t a sufficient enough answer, especially given the circumstances of everything. You didn’t know how to tell him that you drifted apart. That your dreams were no longer in line with his and that the paths that life was stitching out for the two of you were just heading in vastly different directions. It seemed like not enough reason to get up and leave from one day to the next. And that you would sound crazy for it. You already felt crazy enough on the inside, but voicing that out loud would make you feel certifiable. You weren’t sure he would even understand. Because he seemed so happy with the little life you created so far. Without even realizing that he was the one leaving you behind. 

The water was lukewarm by the time you stepped onto your bath mat. There was movement from the other side of the door that you could hear now that the water was no longer running. You were very much aware of the predicament you made for yourself. But you wondered, if under a different set of circumstances, you wouldn’t have let him stay. Or slept with him again. You believe it would’ve turned out this way anyway. Because as much as you tried to avoid it, you still loved him. And you missed him so desperately, that even if you hadn’t drank for most of the day before you would have still let him in and led him to your bed. 

You slipped into something casual. Fitting over your head an oversized t-shirt and some slightly ripped jeans. He wasn’t in bed by the time you came out. Instead, you found him in the living room looking through the duffel bag he left there the night before. There was palpable tension circulating the two of you. Neither of you knew where to start or what to say. You knew that he wanted to talk about it. And all that it encompassed, but that’s not how you wanted to start off your morning. 

“Breakfast?” You asked, stuffing your hands into your front pockets and waiting.

“Hm?” He was still groggy with sleep, eyes blinking at you almost confused and a little glazed over from having just woken up.

“Do you wanna go out for breakfast? There’s this little diner not too far from here. They serve chilaquiles,” you said hopefully. You dangled the idea of his favorite breakfast right below his nose. He hardly ever passed up the opportunity for it whenever you suggested going to the Mexican restaurant back home, especially after a late night. And you were also hoping he didn’t see completely through your attempt at steering the day away from why he actually came here. Away from feelings and questions and difficult conversations. So you were grateful when he said, “yeah, that sounds good. Let me go get ready.”

You waited curled up and tense on a corner of your couch. You couldn’t stop fidgeting with your hand, primarily with your empty ring finger – massaging the knuckle right below it. There were texts on your phone. One from Moblit, a link to an article this author you and him particularly enjoyed shitting on. You weren’t surprised that some old tweets of her were dug up that only confirmed your previous suspicions of her being controversial.

You sent a quick: I knew I hated her for a reason, just didn’t think it would be this bad

And he quickly responded: Can’t say that I’m surprised though

You left it at that, hearing Onyankopon turn off the shower and move around the bathroom. You opened the groupchat with Erwin and Levi next. There was a singular text from Erwin about twenty-five minutes ago asking if you were up to get breakfast. A part of you wanted to ignore the text and pretend you were still asleep. Using sleeping in as an excuse to avoid them. Another part of you despised the fact that you even wanted to lie in the first place. They didn’t really deserve that when they have been nothing but friendly and honest with you. 

You settled on: Something came up, rain check?

Before you could wait for a response to come through, Onyankopon stepped into the living room smelling just like he always has. For some reason, you would’ve expected that part of him to change. The part that always wore that rich, musky cologne. With a hint of vanilla. 

“Ready?” You asked, legs still folded beneath your body, hesitant to move.  

“Mhmm,” he hummed. You slipped on your sneakers where they had been left by the door from the other day and grabbed your tote bag from where it was laying on the opposite end of the sofa. 

The morning walk to the diner was done in silence. It didn’t take torturously long to get there but with the tension as thick as it was it felt like a millennia before the green door of the restaurant came into view. It wasn’t as full as you expected it to be and you were seated as soon as you greeted the hostess. A little table for two right by the window. The sun was on the opposite side of the restaurant so it wasn’t unbearably warm where the two of you were sitting. You ordered a cappuccino when your waiter came around. And Onyankopon ordered a regular coffee. Black with two sugars. 

“How’s your new job been going?” He asked it through a tight jaw and he wasn’t looking at you. Just at the way his spoon spun in his mug after he mixed in some half n half from the container by the ketchup. 

“Good,” you said, shifting in your seat and fidgeting with your hands in your lap. “Really good, actually.”

“You like it so far?”

You nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek and saying, “It’s exactly what I wanted. It’s been…satisfying.”

“That’s good to hear.” 

The waiter took your orders. He ordered the chilaquiles like you knew he would’ve and you got the smoked salmon omelet. Afterwards, sticky silence was what you were left in. The two of you were being cordial. Very much unlike who you were as a couple. The genuine fluidity between you was gone. 

“I’ve been writing a lot since you left,” he said, staring out the window. “A few things here and there, but nothing complete.”

“You writing for anyone in particular?” He usually wrote for artists, and helped produce a lot of music in general. He was seemingly a genius when it came down to it. 

“No,” he shrugged, finishing off his coffee and sliding it towards the center of the table. You shifted awkwardly in your seat, nerves sliding up into your chest and filling you with discomfort. Words were trudging like mud up your throat. Thick and difficult to wade through. He seemed to be just as uncomfortable, with both of you knowing what you should be talking about but neither wanting to be the one to broach the topic first. 

Last time you were together you threw your engagement ring at him. The tinkly clattering of it still resonated around your skull when you thought back to it. He was just about to leave for another business trip. The argument started when you made an offhand comment about how he was never home because he must have a secret family on the other coast. His reaction was unexpected, the sudden outburst accusing you of being inconsiderate of his job and all the time and energy it takes to be successful. That one in particular stung because it felt like he was insinuating you weren’t successful. But it didn’t hurt as much as when he said, “the reason we have this house is because of me. Your ring, that you love so much, is because of my work and what I do. So maybe don’t throw around shitty accusations like that when you know better.” 

You could reason that he was having a particularly bad day that day. Long hours spent in the studio because one of the artists he worked with was known to be quite difficult. And maybe you weren’t enthusiastic at the idea of spending another week alone. Because what good was a house when you were the only one in it. Not when it was meant to be shared. 

So when he boarded his plane the next day– after you told him he could keep the ring– you boarded yours two days later. The entire time he was away neither of you reached out to the other. It was radio silence on both ends, so you could only imagine his surprise when he returned and you were gone. Besides the ring. That sat on the dresser in your bedroom with a note tucked beneath it. 

The server slid the food in front of you, warning you that “the plate is hot, so be careful.”

Conversation was stiff and uncoordinated the entire time you ate. You danced between topics, and stumbled into abrupt lulls when you weren’t sure how to respond. But at least the meal was good, delicious even. You cleaned off your plates, sliding them to the side of the table and stacking them to indicate you were finished. When the server came back with the check, neither of you having asked him to split it, you both reached for it. Just three hands extended towards each other in a very awkward moment. But you dropped yours first, if only to stop the moment from continuing. 

Onyankopon paid. Much like he always did. You didn’t argue it either, fearing that if you mentioned anything remotely close to the fragility of your relationship that it would devolve into a depressing confession of feelings– the ugly ones. And you would rather not begin to cry in a restaurant or in the middle of the sidewalk surrounded by way too many people. That was too mortifying to even think about. 

The afternoon had warmed considerably by the time you walked out, but there was still enough wind cutting around the corners of the buildings for it to be bearable. You were reluctant to go back home, though. Despite the creeping heat, you wanted to stay as far away from home as possible. Because you knew what would happen as soon as the two of you were alone behind closed doors. And you weren’t ready to ‘talk things out.’ 

“The pier isn’t too far from here,” you offered, tugging your bag further up your shoulder. “We can hop on the train or even walk if you want.”

His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, muscles tense and flexing in his arms which gave away his discomfort– even though his expression remained neutral. You stood beside one another in stiff silence as he contemplated your suggestion. He knew you better than anyone else, so he could tell all you were doing was deflecting and avoiding. It was your default when it came to situations that were tricky or overwhelming. But instead of confronting it, like he usually did, he just said, “that works.”

Work was at the forefront of your mind as you fell into step with each other, and whether it was worth it. This torturous process of falling out of love with someone and choosing to leave rather than fighting to stay. You loved your job. There was a purpose in it that sparked an ambition in you that you lost a while ago. But it was still there; the flame that you thought was blown out only dimmed in comparison to what it used to be. 

“How long is this walk?” He grunted as he stepped around a stroller that’s wheel nearly sent him to his knees. The mother pushing it sent an apology over her shoulder, but it was caught in the wind. You assumed she was in a hurry, as was almost everyone in the city. 

You scoffed out a small laugh. It was humorless when you added, “about 40 minutes.”

“You’re kidding?” He caught your elbow and stopped you in the middle of the sidewalk, earning a disgruntled swear from the person walking behind the two of you briskly. His eyes were wide when you met them and there was genuine surprise written blatantly across his features. Shock looked funny on him. And when you smiled in response it was sincere. 

“I’m not.” You shook your head, stepping towards him to allow a person walking their dog to get around you. “The pier is like 40 minutes walking and maybe a little less than 20 by train.”

“Why would you think I’d want to walk? It's hot as hell today.” There was a small smile tugging at his lips, probably in response to the one you were wearing. And it was strange, the warmth that skidded down your spine, centralizing right where he held onto your bare elbow. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you teased, turning on your heels to the direction of your desired location. “It’s not that bad. We can take the train back to the house if you’re so against it later.”

He seemed to internalize your teasing tone as a challenge, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. “Fine,” punctuated with a dazzling grin. 

Sometimes it was hard to even look at him. A flickering of last night danced across your mind and the warmth returned, but you ignored it. Instead nodding before guiding him once again to your destination. 

You couldn’t describe what being with Onyankopon felt like. There was really no way to explain how or why he made you feel the way he did. Other than that it always felt like summer. You appreciated when the winter started to melt away, the chill being cut to nothing by the endless beams of sunshine. But there was always the rain that accompanied it. And somehow, even when you saw it in the forecast, you never brought an umbrella. With him the unexpected storms never seemed to bother you, the fat drops of water sometimes were enough to blind you but as long as you had him there was nothing to worry about. 

In the beginning you were grateful for the heat. For the opportunity to pull out your shorts and summer dresses. For the ability to shed all of your layers in favor of a select few. It was freeing, like taking off your bra after an exceptionally long day. But sooner rather than later the heat began to become nauseating. And every time you planned on leaving the house felt like a chore. A groan about it being too hot or too humid. And you found yourself wishing for autumn and on some days even the snow. You craved the layers you once longed to shed, so summer became something you despised. When at the start it was all you ever wanted. 

You wondered when Onyankopon became the person you wanted to the person you resented. When being with him began to feel like more of a chore rather than a breath of relief or a presence of comfort. It was painful, trying to walk backwards in the dark to figure out where everything went wrong. But it was unavoidable. There were roots lifting from beneath the ground that were ready for you to trip over along the way. But it needed to be done. 

For now though, the earthy smell of the lake was seeping into the air. The skyscrapers were getting more sparse, and the ferris wheel was peeking through the skyline. Forty minutes, while seeming excruciatingly long, passed by relatively quickly. Only accompanied with small talk here and there, mainly initiated by you when the silence began to feel like too much. 

When you arrived at the enormous wheel, you paid $20 each to ride it. Which you felt immediate regret about. The enclosed pods were smaller than you imagined them to be. And with the two of you sitting on opposite sides, his knees bracketed yours and every small swing had them tightening around your thighs. You were starting to believe that you were claustrophobic. The air that surrounded the two of you was thin and not enough. Because every time you breathed in, it was shallow and left your lungs more deflated with each exhale. 

“The city is nice,” Onyankopon said, eyes locked on the skyline. The sun was at its peak at the moment, the star burning its way down to earth and reflecting off of the water’s surface. There were people out on their boats and many more hanging around the shore to enjoy the weather while it lasted. Especially with autumn so near and the weather dipping into cooler temperatures in the late evening. 

“It’s been good to me,” you said, eyes still stuck on the water even when you could feel his gaze on you as the wheel descended the opposite side. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, knee shifting to intentionally press into your thigh. It forced you to look at him, his eyes boring into you with unidentified emotion. “It looks good on you.” 

By the time you left the pier, the tension between you had reduced itself from being awkward and off-putting to strangely calm. You took the train back home, sitting side by side in familiar comfortable silence. He offered you an earbud and the song that played was unfamiliar to you. You wondered if it was one of his. The lyrics were vaguely ringing a bell in your head. Maybe the one he was tinkering with all day the week before you parted. 

You tried to maintain some distance, but every time the train lurched to a stop or rounded a corner your bodies would press together – knees to shoulders. Neither of you made a move or even an effort to add a few inches between you. It was as if that distance would leave enough room for reality to come crashing in and that you wouldn’t allow. Not when reality would burn through the little progress you had made. At least what you had convinced yourself you had made. 

When you stood up for your stop he reached his hand behind his back in search of you. And, initially, you were going to pretend you didn’t see him because that would be weird. Too much like a past version of yourselves that has been too edited and revised to go back to. But those around you had other plans. An elderly man shouldered into your back unexpectedly, his cane caught between your ankles forcing you forward and grabbing Onyankopon’s hand in order to stabilize yourself. 

Instinctively, he squeezed. His hand was warm and sent a jolt of yearning up your arm that sparked and fizzled around your heart. Awakening a slumbering beast that only visited you on your loneliest nights. You swallowed around nothing and allowed him to guide you off the train and onto the platform. There was an almost numbness settling in your chest as you walked hand in hand back to your house. The awkwardness was starting to trickle in again. But you were probably the only one noticing it. Especially with the way his hand remained steady against your palm.

The garden outside of Levi and Erwin’s home came into view first. The flowers were still as stunning and vividly colorful as they were at the beginning of spring all those months ago. When you asked how Levi kept the garden so healthy, he managed a half-attentioned shrug. Which irked you to no end, except the next day on your way home you found him outside of your residence pulling out weeds and digging into the dirt. That was when you knew he hadn’t told you because he was keeping some well kept secret, but because he was going to do it himself. Much like he always did. 

You led Onyankopon up your steps, but paused at your door when you heard the familiar living sounds of your neighbors. Guilt tugged at you at the realization that you had been ignoring them. For people you have only known a few months, you spoke with them every day and falling out of sync with your routine was doing a number on you. When you unlocked the door and set your things aside you checked the notifications on your phone first. There were two texts. Both from Erwin. 

The first one read as: what came up? 

Quickly followed by: Just let us know if you need anything

Before you could think of a response though, you were reminded of the company you had. Onyankopon had stepped around you to the bathroom, forcing your eyes away from the screen in your hand and following his back until it was hidden behind a closed door. Your palms were beginning to clam up, an antsy energy trailing up your spine. You grabbed two glasses from the wine cart that were hanging from the hooks. With your hands busy it was easier to ignore the sounds of the toilet flushing and the sink’s water running. You over-poured one glass, almost over three-quarters of the way. So you claimed that one, offering the half-full glass to Onyankopon when he exited the bathroom and met you on the other side of the island.

“What’s this?” He spun the red wine around the glass by its stem, bringing the lip to his nose to smell it.

“Cabernet,” you said with your lips around the rim and taking a rather large sip. “Your favorite.”

He hummed in agreement after he tasted it. Actually savoring the flavor while you just chugged down another unattractive gulp. The alcohol was working quickly though with the lack of food you’d eaten today. Aside from your practically digested breakfast the only thing left in your stomach was an unsettling queasiness.

“What year?” He asked after another sip.

“2020,” you responded.

“Our best year to date.” Which made you laugh into your drink. It was peak lockdown and most couples despised spending every second of every day together. But not you two. It somehow brought you closer with every hour spent writing, reading, catching up on tv shows, or fucking. 

“We were stuck inside our house for a year,” you countered, leaning your elbows against the marble. 

“And I loved every second of it.” He smiled, even though there was a sadness lingering in his eyes. One that you could hardly swallow and thudded into your stomach, uncomfortable and heavy. 

“Oh is that right?” You took another sip. 

“Mm, wouldn’t have proposed if I didn’t.” His glass was nearly finished, so you offered him the bottle. 

“Of course,” you muttered, staring at him over your glass without knowing much else to say. 

“You know Munchies misses you,” he said over the glug of wine falling from the bottle. 

Munchies was your shared cat. You’d found him four years ago as a kitten. He was so tiny he fit in the palm of your hand. Just a tiny ball of orange fluff that wouldn’t stop screaming. Only issue was when you found him the both of you were high off your asses and on your way back from ordering way too much food. Onyankopon ended up carrying him back to your home in his jacket pocket while you lugged around bags and drink containers. 

“I miss him too,” you said sadly, head falling into your palm as you gazed at the red liquid moving languidly around your glass. 

“He ruined the puzzle you finished before you left,” he shrugged, smiling a little at the memory. “I think he was pissed at you for leaving, and probably pissed at me for ignoring him.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your heart aching even though he said it as if it didn’t affect him. You know the truth though, you could see the cracks in his resolve so vividly. Because they mirrored yours. 

“It’s whatever.” He gave you another shrug, offering nothing but a blank stare. 

“But it's not.”

He managed a hum under his breath in response, leaning over and filling your glass for you. Words were hard and neither of you knew what to say. It was a very strange push and pull, ebb and flow. Nostalgia and suffering. Years of history, but it only took a few months to become strangers. Written out of each other’s lives just as quickly and sincerely as you drunkenly stumbled into them. Just years of growth and development, all for a flight to rip it out right at its root. 

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” You asked while grabbing the wine by its neck and heading over to the couch. He followed, taking your movements as an answer enough. Not that he had much of a choice because you were running out of things to say that steered you clear of talking about you leaving. 

There was a cushion of space between you. But the distance could’ve been filled with a mountain range. The both of you ignored it, though. And you scrolled through Netflix until you picked some tacky romcom that was just released. 

You had zero clue what the movie was even about thirty minutes in. Onyankopon kept shifting his weight beside you—legs extending and spreading while his hand moved from his thigh to rest on the cushion between you. 

The wall of the living room was shared with Levi and Erwin’s bedroom, so you could hear that they were home. And usually at this time you’d be prepping for dinner either taking up residence in their kitchen or them in yours. You fear that you’ve used them to replace the void and emptiness in your chest that Onyankopon left. Now that he was back though, you expected some of that painful yearning to subside. Especially now that you could actually get some sort of closure. But now the pain only deepened, so much so it felt like your bones were breaking or your organs were beginning to fail. All you wanted was for him to leave so you could slip back into the routine you’ve become so accustomed to. But that would be impossible if all you did was avoid your past instead of confronting it. 

When the credits rolled and the entire bottle had been drained, instead of feeling comfortably tipsy there was a curdling sensation like spoiled milk rolling around your stomach. Steady breaths were hard to come by, especially since the silence was no longer filled with a poorly written script and subpar acting. 

“That movie was fucking awful,” he exhaled, stretching his long legs out in front of him and groaning when his knees popped. 

“But you love rom coms,” you said sarcastically, humor seeping into your tone despite the emotional turmoil settling somewhere between your heart and stomach. 

“Yeah, pre-2010,” he said with a roll of his eyes and a tiny smile. “And only because they remind me of you.”

“Onyankopon,” you sighed, wanting to desperately curl into yourself. There was a hopefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t return. Six years of loving him and it should be easy to fall again. Even for the sake of familiarity, but you didn’t have it in you. Not after falling so gracelessly out of love with him.

“We should get something to eat,” you deflected. And it was scary how easy it was becoming for you. “Do you have any cravings?”

“Not really,” he said, but you knew it was only for your sake. Everything he wanted to say was so visible on the tip of his tongue. 

“There’s a bunch of good places around here.” You stood to take the bottle to the kitchen along with the red stained glasses. “Italian, Chinese, Indian…”

“What would you want?” He followed.

“Any one of those work,” you shrugged. 

“But what do you want?” You hesitated for a moment. Unsure. “You’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?” Your tone was defensive as you filled the empty glasses with water in the sink. Your fight instinct triggered after years of the same argument.

“Indecisive,” he stated coldly, clearly agitated. 

“Right because you’re known for always choosing what we have for dinner. If you even bothered showing up,” you said bitterly, irrational anger building in your gut. 

“Don’t do that.” His jaw tightened when you faced him, your palms bracing you against the edge of the sink. 

“Do what exactly?” You were baiting him, immaturity in your response was evident, but it always seemed to be your default in moments like these. 

“The thing where you make it all out to be my fault.” His nose scrunched with frustration. “I’m never home. I work too much. I never spend time with you…” 

He rattled off months worth of your constant complaints, making them seem like you were delusional for feeling that way. 

“And none of that was true? I’m just crazy for feeling that way because I’m the one who canceled our vacation last minute because I got called into work.”

That memory in particular stung. It had been months since the two of you had a moment alone and you went out of your way to plan the perfect weekend trip to the mountains. You hated hiking, but he loved it. And you’d do anything to keep him happy and to get him to stay. He didn’t have to lift a finger for it, just agree. Which he did. You rented the car and the cabin. Even going as far as buying him new hiking books since the pair he had were from college. But a week before he had to fly out to the studio’s headquarters and wouldn’t be back in time. There were adjustments that needed to be made to one of the artists’ albums. And you tried so hard to be understanding and accommodating. But sickening resentment started to make its home in your chest.

“I had to work.” He was exasperated. This conversation was old and tired and played out. 

“Exactly. You had to work. But you never had to spend time with me.” The words were accompanied with the souring taste of alcohol on your tongue.

“That’s not fair,” he said through gritted teeth, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You’re right. It’s not fair that I waited around for you all those nights you said you’d be home for dinner. It’s not fair that my presence became so low on your list of priorities, I was just an afterthought to you.”

“That’s never what you were and you know that!” He shook his head and shut his eyes. Tension pulsed in his neck and shoulders and the haphazard bandages you stuck over your broken heart were peeling away agonizingly slow. 

“Then what was I?”

“I love you,” he pleaded. Pain etched into his facial expressions and it hurt to look at him. Maybe it was a last ditch effort for him, but you couldn’t keep doing this. 

“Love isn’t everything when it feels like you stopped caring.” Your voice cracked, a sudden wave of exhaustion weighing down your body. 

“I stopped caring but you’re the one who left? Without so much as a warning or goodbye. I deserved more than that.”

“You did and that’s on me, but you never tried to understand what I was going through. For fucks sake you laughed when I told you about this job,” you shouted, and your heart started beating rapidly against your chest. 

“No.” It came out more as a question than anything. His brows pinched in confusion and nausea settled in your stomach when you recognized that he really didn’t see the signs at all. He didn’t even remember. 

“You were on your way to the airport,” you started, head hanging a little lower at the memory. “I called you when I found it because I got excited. For a while I felt like everything was stagnant in my career, especially after watching yours be so great. So when I told you I was hoping to apply, all you did was chuckle and say ‘go ahead, but it's not like we’ll relocate.’

Like it wasn’t even up for discussion. Like my dreams weren’t even worth a conversation. So, no I didn’t tell you when I applied or left for the interview. I planned on it after they offered me the job but after that argument on our last night together, I made my decision. I felt like it wasn’t up for debate at that point.”

His hands gripped your marble counter. The tension in his shoulders remained and you could see the gears turning in his head. The rewind of events until he reached that moment. And the sudden realization. 

“Why didn’t you just talk to me? Why did you have to do something so drastic to get my attention?”

“I wasn’t looking for your attention! All I ever wanted was for you to listen and every time I tried, I was brushed off and the conversation was tabled for later and later and later. I wasn’t going to wait around forever for you!”

He walked around the island in three easy strides, anger bubbling behind his gaze as he seemed to corner you. “If you had told me I would’ve tried. I would’ve changed something to make it work.”

“Would you have put your career on hold for me? Would you have moved with me? Would you have even tried to split your time?” 

Tears of frustration were building behind your eyes and they burned so badly it was as if a fire was lit behind them. Your throat threatened to shut with how violently you were swallowing away the tears. Because you didn’t want to cry. You were over crying. 

“I…” he stopped himself, considering all of your questions, but his silence was your answer. His hesitation said it all. He wouldn’t do that for you and you knew and accepted that. But seeing it was different. Knowing that your assumption was true tore you apart in a way you didn’t fully understand. Like a knife digging deep into your chest and puncturing your heart. 

“I was tired of making sacrifices for you that went unnoticed. You just started to expect me to be there even when I was losing myself.”

“But what you did wasn’t something you’d do to someone you love,” his voice broke with sadness and anger. Bitterness coated each word and he could hardly even look at you. 

“This was never about loving you. I never stopped loving you. And yes, maybe what I did was selfish and cruel, but I was unhappy and you didn’t even care to ask. It was like I wasn’t even there. Did you really expect me to live the rest of our lives like that?”

“No, but I expected more from you. More from the woman I asked to be my wife.” He stressed the word, making it sound more like an insult that cut you straight open rather than a promise of being together forever. 

“We both know I’m not the one for you,” you shook your head to force the tears away. “Regardless of everything that we’ve been through, you have to admit that I was never the one. No matter how hard I tried to be, no matter how much I wished to be that for you. I'm not.” 

It took months for you to come to terms with that. And it was even harder to admit out loud, evidenced by the betrayal of water gathering at your lash line. If life were easy, simple, you could’ve been the wife he wanted. The person he craved and desired. But that fizzled out quicker than either of you craved to admit. It was just the truth. As ugly as it was. 

He stepped away from you, reaching a hand into his pocket until he pulled something out that you didn’t see. Not until he grabbed your wrist and held your palm up for him. He closed your engagement ring in your own hand. Stepping away from you completely, while taking whatever oxygen was left for you to breathe. 

“I do-,” you choked around the words because of the thickness gathering in your throat. “I don’t want this.”

You tried to hand it back, but he stepped further away from you until his back met the edge of your island. “Sell it, pawn it, give it away. I don’t care,” he threw his hands up in defeat. 

“But I can’t keep looking at it everyday. You left everything behind, and that I can deal with. But not the ring.” 

There was a desperation in his voice that clawed at you. One that you couldn’t argue because he was right. You left it all for him to clean up and dispose of. Especially the ring. You opened your fist to look at it, a fresh wave of agony resonated through you. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, this time looking at him. Watching his face fall and his emotions displayed plainly for you to witness. 

“I want to forgive you,” he said, his shoulders dropping and his eyes watering. “I really do. But I can’t. Not right now.” 

“And I can’t ask that of you,” your lips trembled, chest full of regret and guilt and pity. For him and for you. Because it shouldn’t have ended this way. “I know what I did and we both have to live with that.”

A stray tear fell down your cheek. It left a hot, wet track behind as it slid down your face and dropped off of your chin. This was the closure you wanted. The one you needed. But it didn’t make anything easier. Instead it carved open a fresh wound that was deeper than the last one. And for a second you wish you could take it all back. Just told him that you were sorry and that you would marry him. But that was just the regret talking. It should pass eventually. Hopefully.

“I should probably go.” He was retreating slowly, his eyes downcast, but you didn’t miss the tear that stained his own face. It was a direct reflection of your own. A cracked mirror with a distorted image of yourself. One you didn’t recognize. Not anymore. 

You stood in the kitchen as you heard him gather his things. Your back stuck against the sink’s edge as your palm grew sweaty where it was tightly secured around your ring. You were afraid to move. Afraid that it would make the situation real and honest. And then you’d have to deal with the consequences of that. The consequences of loving and losing. 

He refused to look your way as he exited your bedroom and headed towards the front door with his duffel secured over his chest. You tracked his every movement. From the squaring of his shoulders to the hollow breathing of his chest. 

“I hope she’s out there,” you called out to him and he stiffened. His back still to you, but you continued, “the love of your life. I hope you find her someday.” 

He turned to look at you over his shoulder, eyes taking you in for seemingly the last time. For what very well might be the most tragic you’ve ever looked in your years together. 

“I hope you do too,” he said solemnly, “find whatever happiness you’re looking for.” 

Another wave of tears threatened to spill over. His dejected voice was devastating enough to haunt you even in your dreams. You swallowed and looked away, breaking eye contact and concentrating on a spot on your counter. You heard the door click shut after a few seconds of strained silence. The ring, now slick from your sweat, was dropped onto the counter as your vision blurred and your mind clouded over. 

You should clean up. Your legs moving before you could stop them. You turned and washed the glasses in the sink and hung them upside down to dry. You folded the blanket on your couch next. And then put the book Onyankopon left on your dining table back on your bookshelf. A pang of something familiar and painful made its way through you and you nearly dropped the book. Your fingers trembled and shook. 

You walked back to the kitchen, shaky fingers wrapping around the wine bottle left on the island. They traced over the label, over the tiny clean numbers of 2020.

Our best year to date. 

Your hand tightened around the thick glass, and you were so angry. So pissed at where life has led you. And all you wanted was to lash out, to blame the universe or God or some other being that you couldn’t see for the mess you brought upon yourself. When the image of him walking away from you slammed back into your mind, the bottle that was secured in your grasp was flung against the wall. Remnants of red liquid splattered against the white paint, staining it so aggressively but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when your heart dropped into your stomach, the shards of broken glass scattered across your floor irreparably. 

You knelt as tears fell from your eyes— inevitable as they dripped down your neck and into your shirt. You were blind with them. Sobs wracked through your body as you tried to control your breathing but couldn’t. You gasped for air like each breath would be your last. All sense of control gone and lost, and you didn’t know when you’d ever get it back. 

You gathered the huge chunks of glass into shaking hands, attempting to clean up whatever you could, even while it felt like everything else was slipping through your fingers. You tossed whatever you could pick up into the trash, and as a jagged piece slipped from your grasp, it sliced open your fingertip. You hissed from the sudden pain, but you only stared as blood began to pool at the opening and drip down your finger. That was the least of your worries though. The stinging pain was nothing in comparison to the gaping hole residing where your heart used to be. 

And you weren’t sure when or if you would ever recover. 

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Through the Storm

Benedict Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton Ficlet <1k words Rated: G

Summary: Benedict's POV as Anthony rescues Kate.

Author's Notes: I played prompt roulette and got 'sad, Benedict, adrenaline'. This little canon idea popped into my head. The name and backstory of the valet Mr. Smith are the creation of @fayes-fics Enjoy 💙

Benedict lauded Mr. Smith’s efforts to keep him safely covered with an umbrella but he wasn’t going to wait for the poor doddering man to keep up. He needed to reach Danbury House as quickly as his feet would carry him there. He didn’t know what on earth was going on, but the details were unimportant when he was certain that his brother needed him. Even his hangover was already forgotten, the one born from the prior night’s pity drinking after his family’s embarrassing non-event of a ball followed by Eloise’s public shaming which had left her crying in her bedchamber and unwilling to speak to anyone, even him. He had stationed himself outside her locked door to ward off any reprimands from Anthony or their mother, but drank enough from his prized flask that he hadn’t realized he had drifted off until Smith was half-carrying him into his own room. As he attempted a meager breakfast the next morning, looking out at the dreary downpour with his head in a vice, his valet had skidded into the house to inform him that Anthony was seen carrying Miss Sharma unconscious into Danbury House. Somehow just when his family had thought they were rounding the corner out of scandal and back into happiness, everything seemed to be falling apart.

He was dripping by the time he barreled into Lady Danbury’s foyer, Smith scuttling in behind him. He turned to interrogate a footman but then heard Anthony’s voice barking upstairs.

“She’s still shivering!” 

That fearful timbre shot a jolt of adrenaline right down Benedict’s spine. It was the same voice that had cried for help from the lawn at Aubrey Hall, the one that had made him go numb with dread as he shepherded his siblings outside to witness a scene he somehow already knew would play out. Anthony never let his steely command slip unless something was terribly, terribly wrong. Blind to the footmen and maids who tried to guide or stop him, he bolted up the stairs toward the voice, toward the source of all commotion in the house.

Happily, the first person he saw as he entered the bedroom was Anthony, upright and seemingly unharmed. It was reassurance enough that he started to breathe again.

“What happened?” He turned to see Kate, soaked through and lying on the bed in a riding cloak, head lolling as a surgeon worked over her. “My valet saw you carry Miss Sharma inside. Is she alright?” As much as he hoped to blame a broken ankle or fainting spell for the state she was in, he knew in his gut something much more sinister had happened.

Anthony, haggard with no jacket and looking as if he had swum to the house, barely registered his appearance. 

“I do not know,” his brother’s voice was hollow as he shook his head. His eyes never left Kate, filled with a rare desperation and fear. That was when Benedict knew that Anthony must be his focus. The surgeons would tend to Miss Sharma but his brother was his responsibility. There was a reason Smith had called for him when he saw the Viscount in distress. The man had worked for each of them in turn and knew how the younger could calm the moods of the elder. 

Benedict clapped a steadying hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Still his brother wouldn’t look at him. He looked instead at Kate’s mother and sister weeping in the corner of the room, at the surgeon’s bloodied fingers as he examined the back of her head. His jaw clenched in that way that signified he was barely maintaining composure.

“It’s my fault,” he rasped. “It is all my fault.” His voice wavered as his eyes continued to dart, taking in the scene of anguish, of mortal fear, one that they had both been a party to before. When his breath started to heave, Benedict knew his brother might slip beyond recall, might fall prey to one of his spells where he trembled and gasped like a man drowning on dry land.

“Anthony?” He tried to lock eyes with his brother, wrapping his arm tighter around his back so that he might guide his attention. “Anthony.” He felt his own desperation begin to swell as his calls fell on deaf ears. The Viscount’s chin quivered, his brows knitting as he surveyed the room one last time and then slipped out of his grasp and tore out the door with a grimace.

“Anthony!” Benedict moved after him but halted in the doorway, watching helplessly as his brother stalked down the hall. It was clear he didn’t want to be followed, clear he didn’t want help. As he had so many times before, he made the choice to contend with his demons in solitude, something Benedict would never deny him but something he feared Anthony was not as skilled at as he believed. Tight-lipped as Anthony was about the whole situation, it had become obvious to Benedict that he loved Kate, and the terror of seeing one you loved with their fate hanging in the balance was a burden he wanted to help shoulder. But he had been shut out. Ignored. His assistance rejected as it had been so many countless times that season. He had known it would be an eventful year when his brother committed to finding a wife but he had never expected the tempest of moods he had witnessed in Anthony, ones which Benedict was not permitted to navigate no matter how many times he tried. Nevertheless, he would stay. He would follow, steps behind his brother as he had always found himself in life, waiting. Waiting for the moment when Anthony needed him. Because while the Viscount watched over the rest of their family, he deserved someone to watch over him in return.

No tags for prompt roulette

[pottersolos]

what i write for and some things to know about my account.

shows and randoms.

1.harry potter series

mattheo riddle

draco malfoy

hermione granger (wlw)

Fred Weasley

sirius black

theodore nott.

2. the walking dead

rosita espinosa (wlw)

rick grimes

carl grimes

daryl dixon

lydia smith (wlw)

3. NFL-NBA-College sports.

joe burrow.

nick bosa.

Sam Hubbard.

jamarr chase.

tee higgins.

Hailey can lith. (wlw)

paige bueckers. (wlw)

4. others

finnick odair.

Francesca Bridgerton. (wlw)

Eloise Bridgerton. (wlw).

Anthony Bridgerton.

Emmett Cullen.

Derek Morgan.

Spencer Reid.

Tristin Dugray.

harry hook.

JJ Parker.

things -

my old account got deleted so i had to make a new one, and here we are.

i’m a very slow writer so if i haven’t updated in a while my account is still active i’m just trying to make idea’s.

i also get obsessed with a person one day then another a different day so 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️.

and i also use the name artemiz, it’s just a name i like it’s not mine, instead of the yn thing. and all of these are kinda like a story thats isn’t chapter after chapter it’s just a bunch of stuff that happens. you are welcome to use whatever name you please, there nothing i can do about it but i don’t like using the yn so i just don’t.

[sidicecheilibri]

I libri nominati da Rory Gilmore

1 – 1984, George Orwell

2 – Le Avventure di Huckelberry Finn, Mark Twain

3 – Alice nel Paese delle Meraviglie, Lewis Carrol

4 – Le Fantastiche Avventure di Kavalier e Clay, Michael Chabon

5 – Una Tragedia Americana, Theodore Dreiser

6 – Le Ceneri di Angela, Frank McCourt

7 – Anna Karenina, Lev Tolstoj

8 – Il Diario di Anna Frank

9 – La Guerra Archidamica, Donald Kagan

10 – L’Arte del Romanzo, Henry James

11 – L’Arte della Guerra, Sun Tzu

12 – Mentre Morivo, William Faulkner

13 – Espiazione, Ian McEvan

14 – Autobiografia di un Volto, Lucy Grealy

15 – Il Risveglio, Kate Chopin

16 – Babe, Dick King-Smith

17 – Contrattacco. La Guerra non Dichiarata Contro le Donne, Susan Faludi

18 – Balzac e la Piccola Sarta Cinese, Dai Sijie

19 – Bel Canto, Anne Pachett

20 – La Campana di Vetro, Sylvia Plath

21 – Amatissima, Toni Morrison

22 – Beowulf: una Nuova Traduzione, Seamus Heaney

23 – La Bhagavad Gita

24 – Il Piccolo Villaggio dei Sopravvissuti, Peter Duffy

25 – Bitch Rules. Consigli di Comune Buonsenso per donne Fuori dal Comune, Elizabeth Wurtzel

26 – Un Fulmine a Ciel Sereno ed altri Saggi, Mary McCarthy

27 – Il Mondo Nuovo, Adolf Huxley

28 – Brick Lane, Monica Ali

29 – Brigadoon, Alan Jay Lerner

30 – Candido, Voltaire

31 – I Racconti di Canterbury, Geoffrey Chaucer

32 – Carrie, Stephen King

33 – Catch-22, Joseph Heller

34 – Il Giovane Holden, J.D.Salinger

35 – La Tela di Carlotta, E.B.White

36 – Quelle Due, Lillian Hellman

37 – Christine, Stephen King

38 – Il Canto di Natale, Charles Dickens

39 – Arancia Meccanica, Anthony Burgess

40 – Il Codice dei Wooster, P.G.Wodehouse

41 – The Collected Stories, Eudora Welty

42 – La Commedia degli Errori, William Shakespeare

43 – Novelle, Dawn Powell

44 – Tutte le Poesie, Anne Sexton

45 – Racconti, Dorothy Parker

46 – Una Banda di Idioti, John Kennedy Toole

47 – Il03 al 09/03 Conte di Montecristo, Alexandre Dumas

48 – La Cugina Bette, Honore de Balzac

49 – Delitto e Castigo, Fedor Dostoevskij

50 – Il Petalo Cremisi e il Bianco, Michel Faber

51 – Il Crogiuolo, Arthur Miller

52 – Cujo, Stephen King

53 – Il Curioso Caso del Cane Ucciso a Mezzanotte, Mark Haddon

54 – La Figlia della Fortuna, Isabel Allende

55 – David e Lisa, Dr.Theodore Issac Rubin M.D

56 – David Copperfield, Charles Dickens

57 – Il Codice Da Vinci, Dan Brown

58 – Le Anime Morte, Nikolaj Gogol

59 – I Demoni, Fedor Dostoevskij

60 – Morte di un Commesso Viaggiatore, Arthur Miller

61 – Deenie, Judy Blume

62 – La Città Bianca e il Diavolo, Erik Larson

63 – The Dirt. Confessioni della Band più Oltraggiosa del Rock, Tommy Lee – Vince Neil – Mick Mars – Nikki Sixx

64 – La Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri

65 – I Sublimi Segreti delle Ya-Ya Sisters, Rebecca Wells

66 – Don Chischiotte, Miguel de Cervantes

67 – A Spasso con Daisy, Alfred Uhvr

68 – Dr. Jeckill e Mr.Hide, Robert Louis Stevenson

69 – Tutti i Racconti e le Poesie, Edgar Allan Poe

70 – Eleanor Roosevelt, Blanche Wiesen Cook

71 – Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe

72 – Lettere, Mark Dunn

73 – Eloise, Kay Thompson

74 – Emily The Strange, Roger Reger

75 – Emma, Jane Austen

76 – Il Declino dell’Impero Whiting, Richard Russo

77 – Encyclopedia Brown: Boy Detective, Donald J.Sobol

78 – Ethan Frome, Edith Wharton

79 – Etica, Spinoza

80 – Europe Through the back door, 2003, Rick Steves

81 – Eva Luna, Isabel Allende

82 – Ogni cosa è Illuminata, Jonathan Safran Foer

83 – Stravaganza, Gary Krist

84 – Farhenheit 451, Ray Bradbury

85 – Farhenheit 9/11, Michael Moore

86 – La Caduta dell’Impero di Atene, Donald Kagan

87 – Fat Land, il Paese dei Ciccioni, Greg Critser

88 – Paura e Delirio a Las Vegas, Hunter S.Thompson

89 – La Compagnia dell’Anello, J.R.R.Tolkien

90 – Il Violinista sul Tetto, Joseph Stein

91 – Le Cinque Persone che Incontri in Cielo, Mitch Albom

92 – Finnegan’s Wake, James Joyce

93 – Fletch, Gregory McDonald

94 – Fiori per Algernon, Daniel Keyes

95 – La Fortezza della Solitudine, Jonathan Lethem

96 – La Fonte Meravigliosa, Ayn Rand

97 – Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

98 – Franny e Zooeey, J.D.Salinger

99 – Quel Pazzo Venerdì, Mary Rodgers

100 – Galapagos, Kurt Vonnegut

101 – Questioni di Genere, Judith Butler

102 – George W.Bushism: The Slate Book of Accidental Wit and Wisdom of our 43rd President, Jacob Weisberg

103 – Gidget, Fredrick Kohner

104 – Ragazze Interrotte, Susanna Kaysen

105 – The Gnostic Gospels, Elaine Pagels

106 – Il Padrino, Parte I, Mario Puzo

107 – Il Dio delle Piccole Cose, Arundhati Roy

108 – La Storia dei Tre Orsi, Alvin Granowsky

109 – Via Col Vento, Margaret Mitchell

110 – Il Buon Soldato, Ford Maddox Ford

111 – Il Gospel secondo Judy Bloom

112 – Il Laureato, Charles Webb

113 – Furore, John Steinbeck

114 – Il Grande Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald

115 – Grandi Speranze, Charles Dickens

116 – Il Gruppo, Mary McCarthy

117 – Amleto, William Shakespeare

118 – Harry Potter e il Calice di Fuoco, J.K.Rowling

119 – Harry Potter e la Pietra Filosofale, J.K.Rowling

120 – L’Opera Struggente di un Formidabile Genio, Dave Eggers

121 – Cuore di Tenebra, Joseph Conrad

122 – Helter Skelter: La vera storia del Caso Charles Manson, Vincent Bugliosi e Curt Gentry

123 – Enrico IV, Parte Prima, William Shakespeare

124 – Enrico IV, Parte Seconda, William Shakespeare

125 – Enrico V, William Shakespeare

126 – Alta Fedeltà, Nick Hornby

127 – La Storia del Declino e della Caduta dell’Impero Romano, Edward Gibbon

128 – Holidays on Ice: Storie, David Sedaris

129 – The Holy Barbarians, Lawrence Lipton

130 – La Casa di Sabbia e Nebbia, Andre Dubus III

131 – La Casa degli Spiriti, Isabel Allende

132 – Come Respirare Sott’acqua, Julie Orringer

133 – Come il Grinch Rubò il Natale, Dr.Seuss

134 – How the Light Gets In, M.J.Hyland

135 – Urlo, Allen Ginsberg

136 – Il Gobbo di Notre Dame, Victor Hugo

137 – Iliade, Omero

138 – Sono con la Band, Pamela des Barres

139 – A Sangue Freddo, Truman Capote

140 – Inferno, Dante

141 – …e l’Uomo Creò Satana, Jerome Lawrence e Robert E.Lee

142 – Ironweed, William J.Kennedy

143 – It takes a Village, Hilary Clinton

144 – Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

145 – Il Circolo della Fortuna e della Felicità, Amy tan

146 – Giulio Cesare, William Shakespeare

147 – Il Celebre Ranocchio Saltatore della Contea di Calaveras, Mark Twain

148 – La Giungla, Upton Sinclair

149 – Just a Couple of Days, Tony Vigorito

150 – The Kitchen Boy, Robert Alexander

151 – Kitchen Confidential: Avventure Gastronomiche a New York, Anthony Bourdain

152 – Il Cacciatore di Aquiloni, Khaled Hosseini

153 – L’amante di Lady Chatterley, D.H.Lawrence

154 – L’Ultimo Impero: Saggi 1992-2000, Gore Vidal

155 – Foglie d’Erba, Walt Whitman

156 – La Leggenda di Bagger Vance, Steven Pressfield

157 – Meno di Zero, Bret Easton Ellis

158 – Lettere a un Giovane Poeta, Rainer Maria Rilke

159 – Balle! E tutti i Ballisti che Ce Le Stanno Raccontando, Al Franken

160 – Vita di Pi, Yann Martell

161 – La piccola Dorrit, Charles Dickens

162 – The little Locksmith, Katharine Butler Hathaway

163 – La piccola fiammiferaia, Hans Christian Andersen

164 – Piccole Donne, Louisa May Alcott

165 – Living History, Hilary Clinton

166 – Il signore delle Mosche, William Golding

167 – La Lotteria, ed altre storie, Shirley Jackson

168 – Amabili Resti, Alice Sebold

169 – Love Story, Eric Segal

170 – Macbeth, William Shakespeare

171 – Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

172 – The Manticore, Robertson Davies

173 – Marathon Man, William Goldman

174 – Il Maestro e Margherita, Michail Bulgakov

175 – Memorie di una figlia per bene, Simone de Beauvoir

176 – Memorie del Generale W.T. Sherman, William Tecumseh Sherman

177 – L’uomo più divertente del mondo, David Sedaris

178 – The meaning of Consuelo, Judith Ortiz Cofer

179 – Mencken’s Chrestomathy, H.R. Mencken

180 – Le Allegre Comari di Windsor, William Shakespeare

181 – La Metamorfosi, Franz Kafka

182 – Middlesex, Jeoffrey Eugenides

183 – Anna dei Miracoli, William Gibson

184 – Moby Dick, Hermann Melville

185 – The Mojo Collection: The Ultimate Music Companion, Jim Irvin

186 – Moliere: la biografia, Hobart Chatfield Taylor

187 – A monetary history of the United States, Milton Friedman

188 – Monsieur Proust, Celeste Albaret

189 – A Month of Sundays: searching for the spirit and my sister, Julie Mars

190 – Festa Mobile, Ernest Hemingway

191 – Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

192 – Gli ammutinati del Bounty, Charles Nordhoff e James Norman Hall

193 – My Lai 4: A Report on the Massacre and Its Aftermath, Seymour M.Hersh

194 – My Life as Author and Editor, H.R.Mencken

195 – My life in orange: growing up with the guru, Tim Guest

196 – Myra Waldo’s Travel and Motoring Guide to Europe, 1978, Myra Waldo

197 – La custode di mia sorella, Jodi Picoult

198 – Il Nudo e il Morto, Norman Mailer

199 – Il Nome della Rosa, Umberto Eco

200 – The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri

201 – Il Diario di una Tata, Emma McLaughlin

202 – Nervous System: Or, Losing my Mind in Literature, Jan Lars Jensen

203 – Nuove Poesie, Emily Dickinson

204 – The New Way Things Work, David Macaulay

205 – Nickel and Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich

206 – Notte, Elie Wiesel

207 – Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen

208 – The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, William E.Cain, Laurie A.Finke, Barbara E.Johnson, John P.McGowan

209 – Racconti 1930-1942, Dawn Powell

210 – Taccuino di un Vecchio Porco, Charles Bukowski

211 – Uomini e Topi, John Steinbeck

212 – Old School, Tobias Wolff

213 – Sulla Strada, Jack Kerouac

214 – Qualcuno Volò sul Nido del Cuculo, Ken Kesey

215 – Cent’Anni di Solitudine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

216 – The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life, Amy Tan

217 – La Notte dell’Oracolo, Paul Auster

218 – L’Ultimo degli Uomini, Margaret Atwood

219 – Otello, William Shakespeare

220 – Il Nostro Comune Amico, Charles Dickens

221 – The Outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, Donald Kagan

222 – La Mia Africa, Karen Blixen

223 – The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton

224 – Passaggio in India, E.M.Forster

225 – The Peace of Nicias and the Sicilian Expedition, Donald Kagan

226 – Noi Siamo Infinito, Stephen Chbosky

227 – Peyton Place, Grace Metalious

228 – Il Ritratto di Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

229 – Pigs at the Trough, Arianna Huffington

230 – Le Avventure di Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi

231 – Please Kill Me: Il Punk nelle Parole dei Suoi Protagonisti, Legs McNeil e Gillian McCain

232 – Una Vita da Lettore, Nick Hornby

233 – The Portable Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker

234 – The Portable Nietzche, Fredrich Nietzche

235 – The Price of Loyalty: George W.Bush, the White House, and the Education on Paul O’Neil, Ron Suskind

236 – Orgoglio e Pregiudizio, Jane Austen

237 – Property, Valerie Martin

238 – Pushkin, La Biografia, T.J.Binyon

239 – Pigmallione, G.B.Shaw

240 – Quattrocento, James Mckean

241 – A Quiet Storm, Rachel Howzell Hall

242 – Rapunzel, I Fratelli Grimm

243 – Il Corvo ed Altre Poesie, Edgar Allan Poe

244 – Il Filo del Rasoio, W.Somerset Maugham

245 – Leggere Lolita a Teheran, Azar Nafisi

246 – Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

247 – Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Kate Douglas Wiggin

248 – The Red Tent, Anita Diamant

[missielynne]

Hi! Challenging you to name your truly unpopular Bridgerton opinions :) A few of mine: 1. On the Way to the Wedding is my special favorite of the books (it's funny, it doesn't attempt to tackle the kind of more serious issues like depression that JQ tends to do really badly---see Marina---, it has something resembling an actual plot, I think Lucy and Gregory are examples of opposites who complement each other perfectly, Gregory is actually the sweetest and least problematic Bridgerton male imo and I love that he's a funloving romantic instead of a brooding jerk or a sexist rake, and it's just fluffy and mood lifting and fun!) 2. Anthony is fine as a character, but he would be absolute hell to live with/be married to in real life 3. Netflix series Kate was way too elegant, polished, poised and perfect---Book Kate, based loosely on the Taming of the Shrew, was more interesting 4. The show did Simon and Daphne such a disservice---Simon is not some smooth charming rake, the entire point of his character is that his stutter and the emotional neglect/abuse from his father prevented him from even talking to people, so he's actually a very introverted loner and his connection with Daphne is meaningful because she's the only person he can speak and open up to! And Daphne isn't the diamond of the first whatever, she's actually feared to be "on the shelf", an average girl who everyone likes well enough but guys see as just a buddy and no one views as special--until Simon! Instead, the show has them like the bitchy, cool popular kids at school lol. 5. Other than Eloise and Gregory, I always like the significant others much more than I like the Bridgertons themselves. 6. Hyanincth comes off like a borderline sociopath to me and is so insufferably arrogant---I liked Gareth well enough and the dash of mystery in their story but can't stand her! 7. Overall, I like JQ's Smythe-Smith series better than Bridgerton 8. Benedict is so gross and terrible in his book and not even a remotely interesting or compelling character. Sophie is generic too in a kind but flatly flawless way these romance heroines sometimes are, but I wish she would have told him to get lost. 9. I just will never believe that Colin loves Penelope as much as he loves him, and I think Show Colin is really poorly cast and written so far--he's so supposed to be so charismatic and naturally charming but comes off as so stiff and flat! Okay, thanks for listening to me, and I can't wait to read yours!

I did not like on the way to the wedding and wasn't able to finish it. I don't know if it's that I don't connect to Gregory and Lucy as characters or what, but they just came off really bland to me.

I think Simon and Daphne are the worst regardless of version

My favorite couple and book are Philoise and To Sir Philip With Love because every other couple is some level of stereotypical romance to me, and I don't really connect emotionally with any of them. (Along with Michael and Francesca who are my second favorites. I basically like the least known/least popular couples in Bridgerton the most.)

I don't like or need Marina in any Bridgerton medium. She just basically makes the books much sadder than they need to be with the poorly handled details of the character (agree with you on that) and in the show, I don't think increasing her presence (whether it's because a WOC was cast to play her or whatever reason) justifies how much she's in the story, especially if they have to stick to a Philoise endgame for contractual reasons. (aside from all the misery her character brings to TSPWL, if you took her out and just did a throwaway line that she died with no more detail and just let Philip, Eloise, and the twins have the story, it would be a hilarious thing cause it is.)

I am a fan of An Offer From a Gentleman (although I totally see what you mean about how Sophie can be flat as an example of a very generic, well-worn trope, and sometimes her stubbornness when we know that she and Benedict are gonna end up together anyway can be a bit annoying.) If she's gonna be independent and against marriage, etc to the point where she brings it up every five minutes, yeah...she should have been allowed to be alone a la Genevieve

Lots of people won't like me for this but...I find Colin and Penelope (as a couple) to be underwhelming in any universe, which is why, even though it made sense when they explained why the third Bridgerton show season had been switched to Colin and Pen, I was frustrated. I totally think that the show should have let Pen Ladywhistledown herself into an awesome businesswoman life and just let Colin do something else. (especially after all the time the show wasting shoving the stuff with Penelope's family in to fill time, thus taking attention away from Anthony and Kate when it's their fricking story. Season two had me drowning in Featheringtons and now with Colin and Pen's story next, I don't let a reprieve when I sorely need one.)

I am so happy that I am not the only one who didn't like Netflix Series Kate. Although Simone played her well and I've got nothing against her as an actress, I felt like her casting turned the character (and the ship as a whole) into a half-hearted Bollywood P&P not the story I was promised, which was really irritating). Book Kate is one of my loves and I just...what they did to the character in the show was just underwhelming, although people who enjoyed it for the representation it provided, more power to you.

In general, I think the Netflix versions write their original characters better than when they're trying to adapt what JQ wrote (especially since their attempts to address stuff like racism and feminism come off heavy-handed and clumsy to the point where it feels like the writers either don't realize they're writing something that isn't new and just sticking whatever they want in the story to appeal to social justice or whatever doesn't work, or they're scared of the stories themselves and should have just left them alone if they feel they can't put them out there without completely rebuilding them first.

Based on the amount of filler season two had to have so that everyone cast could have a role (see my complaint about the Featheringtons above) I feel like the it would have been better to adapt each book into like, a mini series or eight movies so they wouldn't HAVE to worry about having to account for so many people and every story could tell the story it's suppose to tell without getting distracted cause people need paychecks.

[ogcreamteam69]

What do you guys think Remus Lupin actually looks like? Do you think he looks exactly like Andrew Garfield or maybe something like this?

Please tell me I want to know how you guys view different characters!

ALSO WHAT SONGS DOES HE REMIND U OF???? personally most songs from the smiths for me or this one

[nycitymumu]

Characters Currently

Amelia:

Carmen Michaels - 34 years old - Personal Assistant - Ana De Armas

Eloise Bishop - 33 years old - Photographer - Nina Dobrev

Anton Davies - 40 years old - Laywer - Chad Michael Murray

Danielle Jenson - 36 years old - Drama Teacher - Lea Michele

Arabella Carter - 28 Years Old - Manager at shoe shop - Lili Reinheart

Maci:

Brady Bishop - 29 years old - Talent Manager - Leo Woodall

Olivia Smith - 34 years old - Digital Marketer - Dakota Johnson

Declan Denvers - 40 Yeards Old - Gym Instructor - Sebastian Stan

Leslie Carter - 37 Years Old - Journalist - Becca Tobin

Jeremy Simmons - 36 Years Old - Accountant - Sam Claflin

Tasha

Brianna Kingsworthy - 33 Years Old - Fashion Designer - Candice Accola

Dylan Bishop - 37 Years Old - CEO - Jonathan Bailey

Tiana Pearce - 34 Years Old - Youtuber - Zoe Sugg

Dahlia Johnson - 28 Years Old - Model - Camila Morrone

Diego Carpenter - 42 Years Old - Financial Advisor - Paul Wesley

Peyton

Harlow Clearwater - 32 years Old - Hairdresser - Lucy Hale

Drake Carter - 35 years old - Music Teacher - Skylar Astin

Daniel Simmons - 39 years old - Estate Agent - Michael Trevino

[blinkaholik1]

Reliquary Continued

Recent Acquisition As the foremost Italian cabinetmaker of the 18th century, Pietro Piffeti was in the service of the royal House of Savory for over 40 years. Piffetti’s works are remarkable for their technical skill; the intricate marquetry decoration on this prie-dieu is all the more impressive when one considers the difficulty of veneering curved surfaces. Thes prie-dieu-a kneeling bench used at home for personal devotion - was most likely made for the youngest son of Carl Emmanuel III, King of Sardinia, for use in the Palace of Venaria, the family’s hunting lodge outside Turin. A door in the center of the prie-dieu conceals a small cabinet for a rosary and prayer books, and the drawer at the base would have held a padded kneeler. The interiors of the cabinet retains its original pink paint; popular in the mid-18th century, the color pink did not yet have the feminine associations it does today. Door About 1750 Design attributed to Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo (Italian, 1727-1804) Venice Wood, gessoed and lacquered with polychrome decoration and gilding Bessie Bennett Endowment, 1953.461 Side Chair About 1740 Giles Grendey (English, 1693-1780) London Walnut and 18th-century, replaced upholstery Gift of the Antiquarian Society, through the Mrs. Edgar J. Uihlein Fund, 1983.718 Desk and Bookcase 1732 John Kirkhoffer (Irish, born Germany, active 1730s) Dublin Walnut, holly, mirror glaze, and brass Gift of Robert Allerton, 1957.200 When this walnut desk and bookcase was purchased by the Art Institute of Chicago in 1957, it was described by the dealer as “English, about 1710.” Only recently have the name of the maker and date, “John Kirkhoffer Facit [sic] 1732,” been found inscribed in pencil on the bottom of the lower right drawer. As the oldest known piece of signed and dated Irish furniture, it has become a Rosetta Stone for attributing other closely related examples of Dublin cabinetary, especially those notable for their use of similar marquetry inlay. Candelabra, 1700/20 England Glass Gift of Mr. and Mrs. John H. Bryan, 2012.866 Seated Buddist Cult Figure and Potpourri Vase, c. 1740 France Chantilly Porcelain Factory (founded c. 1725) Soft-paste porcelain Gift of Mrs. Hareold C. Smith and the Antiuarian Society, 1969.225 The Louis Smith Bross Gallery (206-234B) Coffer 1700/20 Attributed to Andres-Charles Boulle (French, 1642-1732) Paris Oak, tortoiseshell, brass, gilt copper, pewter, ebony, and gilt-bronze mounts Michael A. Bradshaw and Kenneth S. Harris, Eloise W. Martin, Richard T. Crane. Jr., Memorial, and European Decorative Arts Purchase funds; through prior acquisitions of Mrs. C. H. Boissevain in memory of Henry C. Dangler, Kate S. Buckingham Endowment, David Dangler, Harold T. Martin, and Katherine Field-Rodman, 2001.54 Looking Glass About 1700 Probably London Gessoedand gilt pine, verre eglomise (reverse-pained glass), gilding, and mirror glass Gift of Mr. and Mrs. L. W. Colburn, 1968.424

[sachafaible]

Hidden Letters

A Polin fanfic made using this week's Faible prompt!

His heart raced like never before. Could it be true? How had he not seen it? Penelope, quiet and unassuming, hid behind the guise of one of the most influential figures in London. And now, this fold of parchment quivering in his shaky hands felt heavier than the future of England itself.

A knock interrupted his tumultuous thoughts.

“Colin?” His younger sister, Eloise, peeked her head in. Her curiosity was perpetually piqued when it came to matters involving secrets and intrigue, which only increased Colin’s urgency to hide the letter from view.

“Yes, Eloise?” he responded, slipping the letter beneath a stack of travel journals.

“Mother’s calling you. It’s time for the Smythe-Smith musicale,” she said, her tone hinting at a shared disdain for the evening’s prospects. “You know how dreadful these events can be.”

“Indeed,” Colin replied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Eloise lingered for just a moment, her eyes with a glint of suspicion. As Eloise reluctantly left, Colin’s gaze returned to the concealed letter. The Smythe-Smith musicale could wait. He needed answers, and only one person could provide them—the keeper of Lady Whistledown’s quill.

But how could he approach Penelope without arousing suspicion? A myriad of thoughts churned within him. The realization that the girl he'd known for years possessed such power was both exhilarating and daunting. He could either confront her directly, seek council from someone close, or observe her from a distance to gauge her next move.

The evening's performance droned in the background, becoming mere white noise to the turmoil within him. He caught sight of Penelope across the room. She looked as demure as ever, her modest gown blending seamlessly into the sea of vibrant colors around her. It was strange how her presence, once comforting and familiar, now seemed to possess an enigmatic allure.

During a lull in the performance, Colin found himself standing beside Penelope in the refreshment room. She was alone, perusing the dessert table with characteristic restraint. His breath hitched as a flood of conflicting feelings coursed through him—loyalty, suspicion, admiration, and burgeoning affection all at once.

"Penelope," he began, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath his calm exterior. She turned, her face lighting up with a genuine smile.

"Colin! How wonderful to see you. Are you enjoying the musicale?" Colin's eyes searched hers. If she sensed anything amiss, she hid it well.

"It's... as delightful as ever," he replied, the irony lost amidst her pleased expression. They fell into step, leaving the crowded room for a quieter corner of the garden. The once innocent banter they shared seemed tinged with new significance. He marveled at her composure, even as he struggled to match it. "Penelope, have you ever considered travel?" he asked suddenly, steering the conversation onto safer ground.

"Travel? Not as extensively as you, Colin. But I do love the notion of seeing the world," she answered wistfully. Her reply only deepened his admiration. Here stood a woman who had the audacity to shape society's discourse yet yearned for adventures beyond the walls of the Ton. Her dual identity made her even more compelling—a woman who could blend seamlessly into the shadows while wielding immense power.

"Perhaps one day," Colin said softly, "we’ll embark on an adventure together." Penelope's eyes widened, then softened.

"That would be lovely," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. For now, Colin decided, he would keep her secret safe. His feelings for Penelope had taken a new turn, growing stronger with each passing glance. The world of grand balls and whispered secrets felt all the more intricate and perilous, but perhaps, also more rewarding.

Colin sat at his desk, the flickering candle casting dancing shadows on the freshly pressed parchment before him. His hand trembled slightly as he dipped the quill into the inkwell. This letter had to be perfect—delicate yet clear, revealing his knowledge of her secret while ensuring her trust remained intact.

"Dear Penelope," he began, his mind racing with the right blend of words, "I am writing to you not as a mere acquaintance, but as a dear friend who holds your secrets in the highest regard. It has recently come to my attention that you possess a remarkably dexterous hand not only in matters of ink and quill but also in the shaping of societal discourse." Pausing, Colin considered how to phrase his next thoughts. How could he convey his admiration without scaring her off?

"The revelations tied to your identity could have overwhelmed me, yet I find myself in awe of your tenacity and sharp wit. Your ability to navigate the intricate dance of prose and privacy speaks of a strength that few can comprehend. Even now, as I pen these words, I am mindful of the courage it took for you to maintain such a dual existence." Colin's heart pounded as he wrote the next lines.

"I wish to assure you that your secret is safe with me. This newfound knowledge only serves to deepen my respect and admiration for you. Please understand that my intentions are solely to offer my trust, my support, and perhaps, if you would allow it, my companionship in these turbulent times." With a sigh, he signed the letter, "Yours, in confidence and admiration, Colin." Folding the letter carefully, he sealed it with a small wax impression of his family's crest.

This token, while seemingly inconsequential, held significant meaning between them. With the letter ready, Colin felt a semblance of relief tempered by nervous anticipation. Finding a discreet way to deliver it proved challenging, but Colin knew the footmen at the Bridgerton residence—grease-palmed and eager to assist—would ensure its safe passage. Slipping it into the hands of his trusted valet, he watched as his confidant hurried away into the night. Hours felt like days as Colin awaited a response. Nights were spent restless, contemplating every possible outcome. Would Penelope be furious or flattered? Would this newfound understanding pull them closer or push them apart forever?

It was then, during a crisp morning walk in Hyde Park, that he saw her. Penelope, clutching a letter in her gloved hands, approached him with a mixture of trepidation and resolve in her eyes. The time had come to face her response.

"Colin," she greeted, her voice brisk and devoid of its usual warmth.

"Penelope," he replied, his voice soft yet steady. "I see you received my letter." Penelope's eyes flashed momentarily.

"What were you thinking?!" she whispered fiercely, glancing around to ensure no one else could overhear their conversation. "To put it in writing, Colin? Do you realize how dangerous that is?" Colin took a deep breath, maintaining his calm.

"I understand, Penelope, and I apologize if it came off imprudent. My intent was to assure you that your secret is safe with me. I couldn't keep it bottled up any longer, not knowing how it weighed on you." She stared at him, her anger slowly giving way to the realization of his genuine concern. The tension in her shoulders eased, replaced by a weary resignation.

"Why? Why did you have to know?" Her voice was softer now, almost pleading. Colin reached out but stopped short of touching her arm.

"Because I care about you, Penelope. More than you realize, perhaps more than I realized myself until recently." Penelope sighed, her defenses crumbling bit by bit.

"I became Lady Whistledown because I needed a voice, Colin. In this society, women like me are overlooked, dismissed. I wanted to be more than just Penelope Featherington, the wallflower. Lady Whistledown gave me that power." Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. Colin saw the pain and determination in her gaze, a strength he hadn't fully appreciated before.

"I had no idea…" he began. "Of course, you didn't," she interrupted gently.

"Because you see the world so differently. But that's why I needed to do this. To challenge the very norms that confine us." Colin nodded, admiration swelling within him.

"You've done more than challenge them, Penelope. You've changed them. And for that, I'm… proud to call you my... friend." Penelope's eyes softened, and she took a step closer.

"Thank you, Colin. It means more than you know." The tension between them eased, replaced by a fragile yet undeniable bond. Penelope now knew she wasn't alone in her secret. She had someone she could trust implicitly.

"And please, Colin," she added with a faint smile, "no more letters. At least, not about this."

"I promise, Pen."

Daily Faible prompt!

Who else binged Bridgerton season 3?

[a-lady-of-pseudony]

So I have re read RMB and I realized that its not Colin who first learned about Penelope being Lady whistledown but it is instead Lady Danbury in the smythe- smithe musicale where Penelope, Eloise, Felicity, and Lady Danbury discuss the reason on why penny continuously attend the musicale despite it being unpleasant to the ears which lead the topic of lady whistledown being a soft hearted and kind person and Lady Danbury told Penelope "I think you could be lady whistledown" and then felicity and eloise shock as hell while penny though shocked managed to give a sly smile and turns the table to lady danbury once again accusing lady danbury of being lady whistledown.

I believe in that moment that Lady Danbury knows that it's Penelope who writes the whistledown columns, and she refuses to believe otherwise, which would justify the reaction she gave at the end of the book when colin introduced penelope as lady whistledown (aside ofc from the fact that she loathes cressida twombley nee cowper)

[1016anon]

Title: White Collar Wonder Woman Author: 55anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma Summary: Sharma didn't hate him; she didn't despise him. She was a consummate professional who simply handed the attorney taking his deposition every email of his nightmares.

Note: I've decided to make this tumblr a repository of fic ideas that spill out and I have no idea if they will ever be continued or completed. If you want resolution, this is not for you. Read at your own risk.

Also, I really don't know what this is, other than me venting through fic about some things that really bother me about any modern AU of Bridgerton.

"Somebody help! Please!"

His father's face was turning blue; Eloise was sobbing into her phone. They were in the middle of a park; emergency services wouldn't get to them in time.

Then, she appeared.

"Here," she jabbed his father's thigh with an EpiPen, held it in place, then kneaded the injection site.

The reaction to the epinephrine was instantaneous-- Father gasped and the woman helped him roll onto his hands and knees as he coughed violently.

"You'll still need to take him to the hospital to ensure the reaction doesn't recur. Is your car close?"

"No, we parked on the other side."

"All right. Hold onto your sister."

"What?"

"Hold onto your sister."

"Wh--" Anthony screamed.

Because they were flying. He'd heard rumors that some kind of superhero was now in residence but had scoffed at the notion. Now he was hanging onto Eloise for dear life as they descended, landing in front of the hospital.

"Can you take it from here?"

"What?" He was in a state of shock. He thought he could be excused mild hysteria and total incoherence.

The hospital staff, however, seemed to recognize the woman and calmly listened as they helped his father into a wheelchair and immediately began taking his vitals. Someone soon appeared with a mask and tank of oxygen.

"And I think you might need to give a juicebox to Junior. It was their first time flying."

Said juicebox appeared at his elbow. There was a straw. Without another word, the woman flew away.

Anthony had a very strong urge to knock the juice out of the person's hand; he didn't need to be coddled. He wanted to protest that he was eighteen years old, damn it! He would be starting university in a few weeks! Then he ran that sentence over in his head again and the indignation popped like a week old balloon already in its death throes. The nurse only smiled at him gently, patting his back in sympathy.

This was how: 1. His father's life was saved; 2. Anthony developed A Complex about Mott's Very Fine Apple Juice and always bought Capri Sun for Hyacinth and Gregory; 3. Met Miss Sharma. Though he didn't know that last part yet.

Metropolis gave her the helpful moniker Supermedic because that's what she did: appear during medical emergencies in remote places to deliver lifesaving first aid. Everyone loved her (except people trying to sue her, as she was firmly protected by Good Samaritan laws).

By the time Anthony graduated, however, she had somewhat expanded her repertoire to (of all things) white collar crime. Metropolis was much less pleased with this development. She was given many, many other-- sometimes unflattering-- names and the number of lawsuits filed against her was staggering. (The filings were quite amusing: John Smith v. Jane Doe, a.k.a. Supermedic, a.k.a. Lady Whistleblower, a.k.a. Maid Marian, a.k.a. Mallet of Justice, a.k.a. Ethics Enforcer, a.k.a. The Menace, a.k.a. High Flyer, a.k.a. Has No Jurisdiction)

Everyone had an opinion on her; Anthony's opinion was rather mixed. On the one hand, she saved his father's life. On the other hand, she discovered and very publicly disseminated that Fife was running a side Ponzi scheme through Bridgerton Capital Management. Since Fife was a member of Bridgerton Corporation's board of directors, the company was naturally dragged into the investigation, as well as Bridgerton Holdings, LLC, Bridgerton Group Ltd., and Bridgerton GmbH.

The deposition was almost enough for Anthony to consider banning electronic communications for everyone in every single Bridgerton company; by the end of the two eight-hour sessions of intense questioning examining emails which admittedly looked very bad in the context of Fife's actions, he was certain a colonoscopy without anesthesia would have been more comfortable and less probing.

It did not help at all that one of the lawyers assigned to the investigation was Katharine Sharma. She was not one of the lead attorneys but was very clearly an instrumental member of the team. She was also the older sister of Edwina, with whom Anthony had gone on one disastrous blind date.

Sharma didn't hate him; she didn't despise him. She was a consummate professional who simply handed the attorney taking his deposition every email of his nightmares; fourth drafts of powerpoints attached to emails he had been cc'ed on but for the life of him could not remember; spreadsheets with twenty hidden tabs that had at one point popped up in Anthony's inbox but had only reviewed the visible worksheets.

So yes, Anthony had mixed feelings about the superhero who had saved his father's life, but also brought into Anthony's life the beautiful, intelligent, aggravating Katharine Sharma, whose first impression of him was bad (really, the less said about his date with Edwina, the better) and second impression even worse.

When Anthony found out that Sharma and The Mallet of Political, Financial, and Corporate Death were one and the same-- let's just say it was the closest he got to a crisis in faith as an agnostic Anglican.

But first, the story of how Mr. Bridgerton discovered the secret identity of The Bane of His Existence (and Object of All His Desires):

--

To be fair (whatever that meant in this context), he did not discover her identity until after they began dating. She wouldn't have allowed herself to date him anyway because she was very strict about conflict of interest; her work and investigations took precedence over everything. He later found out that when he asked if she'd like to get coffee, she actually went to consult her boss, who in turn consulted their ethics expert, as to whether it would cause any issues.

For a coffee. During which she spent almost the entire time responding to an urgent email.

Additionally, the irony (hypocrisy?) of Kate being concerned about ethics when she regularly collaborated with Lady Whistleblower (they were not, as it turned out, the same person) was astounding. Granted, Lady Whistleblower never used or had access to confidential information; everything she used was technically publicly available. If she did release information which had originally been designated confidential, it was all done properly through FOIA requests.

However, it simply... stretched the bounds of credulity that a person would-- and could-- go through thousands of pages of SEC 10-K filings every week to uncover corporate malfeasance. Someone had to be pointing her the right direction; that someone was Kate. It was always a question of the chicken or the egg: did the government begin investigating because of a Whistleblower story, or did Whistleblower get a tip from someone within the government working on the early stages of the investigation?

Investigations were discontinued all the time simply because government regulatory bodies did not have infinite time or staff; some investigations were also dropped on the order of political appointees. Did Kate send information to Whistleblower because the media attention would force the government to continue the investigation? There was also the fact that Whistleblower's blog was so popular, it got inside information from employees of companies all the time.

There was an Instagram. And a TikTok. Anthony had to admit to being impressed that Whistleblower managed to gain a following so large that teenagers knew what front running was. Statements of commitment by the C-Suite promising to create, audit, and uphold robust ethical standards of corporate practice were at an all time high. Transparency was a political buzzword.

In any case, Kate only began dating him after Anthony had thoroughly cleaned house; which was well after Fife and his associates had been found guilty of embezzlement, insider trading, stock manipulation, mail fraud, wire fraud, money laundering, perjury, and a bunch of other crimes. (Bridgerton Capital Management was obviously ruined; Anthony founded Viscount Investment Advisors; they needed to move from London to Metropolis after Brexit anyway.)

To get back to the point:

--

Anthony wished very much that he could have been Lois Lane to Kate's Wonder Woman. He was, however, more like one of those petty street thugs that Wonder Woman soundly defeated before moving on to battle greater enemies.

The enemy in this case was... an entire system. If there ever was a modern David and Goliath story, this was it.

Other cities had superheroes who went after murderers, drug cartels, and terrorists; visible targets who were clearly Bad People Intent On Doing Evil.

Metropolis, however, had High Flyer, so named because she did, indeed, fly high up in the sky but also because her targets were literally the highfliers of society: individuals who amassed billions of dollars in wealth while evading taxes, jet setting around the world living in obscene extravagance and wielding a disproportionate amount of political influence without ever being held accountable by the public.

Anthony was one of those individuals.

In truth, it was a miracle she agreed to give him a chance at all. They were from completely different worlds, lived completely different lifestyles, had no mutual friends, were raised with completely different values. Much of his (childhood) social circle was comprised of people who ran companies she regularly investigated. They were, she liked to say, fiscally conservative, socially liberal, genteelly racist, entitled mediocrities.

Somewhere along the way, she fell in love with him. He fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her in her suit, three binders laid out before her-- the contents of which were thoroughly marked with highlights-- two phones, three laptops, a banker's box of documents, looking at him calmly as though she was going to eviscerate him (which she did). Anthony had always been attracted to women who were capable of dismantling his life. Usually this ended up being for the worse, but in the case of Kate Sharma, it ended up being for the better.

Such are the very strange, mysterious, and humbling ways of love.

But he struggled; he didn't fall neatly into her narrative. Usually women accommodated his schedule, in exchange for the lavish lifestyle and social status.

When they began dating, Kate stated very clearly that she was making time for him, something she rarely did. This made sense after her extracurricular activities were revealed; at the time, it made him puff up in self-righteous self-importance. Which only made her look at him, supremely unimpressed.

The thing is-- it is very easy to seduce someone by offering them a lifestyle of wealth. Wealth is glamour, glamour is very pretty, and the poor console themselves by saying they have principles; given the choice, they would give up those principles in a heartbeat to become a member of the one percent. Wealth justifies itself by performing charity; some of it is good; other 501(c)(3) entities become another tool to try to game the system.

Kate saw the system the wealth was built on. That was her principle. That was her fight.

So she did what many superheroes seem to do: she fell in love with one of the bad guys.

What does the bad guy do when he discovers she saved the life of his father?

He lost his shit, of course.

The story keeps getting ahead of itself:

--

[thekatebridgerton]

Sarah and Hugh’s dynamic feels a lot like Eloise and Phillip’s: strong-willed, outspoken, emotional woman and serious, introspective, rational man have preconceived notions of each other, but learn that they’re a perfect match even if their personalities are extremely distinct. Hugh also has a lot of trauma caused by his father and a talent with numbers that makes me think of Phillip’s botanical knowledge. And Sarah is a lot like Eloise with her extrovert nature, tendency to always speak her mind and being rather stubborn. But she also reminds me of Hyacinth in the way she’s very spoiled, but also very lovable. And in the way she's initially uneasy with Hugh because he's a worthy adversary and doesn’t bow to her every whim. Just like Hyacinth with Gareth. 

And right after the post about my least favorite Smythe Smith book. Comes a post about my actual favorite Smythe Smith book: The sum of all kisses!

So yeah maybe I love this book so much exactly for the reasons you pointed out, Sarah and Hugh are very similar to Eloise and Phillip with a dash of Anthony and Kate's barely concealed hostility that simply makes me love them. It also add to the absurdity of some of the situations they find themselves in.

I think that if the philoise and Kanthony ships had a child it would be Sara x Hugh. They're so adorable and dramatic which is what makes you want to keep reading because you can tell Hugh wants to be the bigger person and Sarah just won't let him so he gives up and just falls inlove with her

If the show can't give me all the Smythe Smiths can I at least get Sarah/ Hugh and Honoria/Marcus ? Please I don't ask for much

And that's the tea

[writeroutoftime]

fools together

pairing: eloise bridgerton x fem!reader (requested by: anon) 

summary: after a chance meeting between you and eloise, the two of you find yourselves entranced by one another and explore what your feelings (and a relationship) could be like 

warnings: none 

words: 3.5k (oops)

a/n: once I sat down to start writing this, it just kinda flew out of me! this was such a fun story to write, and eloise is absoutley amazing!!! please let me know what you think of story, and have a fabulous day! (also, if anyone wants to request anything else for eloise, let me know!)

oOoOo

Eloise Bridgerton had not been looking for love, instead it rather happened upon her one breezy afternoon as she and Penelope walked through the market. Their time together was a welcomed reprise from the pressures and expectations of the ton now that a new season was in full swing. The girls passed from stall to stall with no real purpose other than to forget their worries and enjoy one another’s company. 

“Just imagine,” Eloise began, swinging her arms with Penelope. “if neither of us ever had to think on the subject of love or marriage again. We could attend university and do things that mattered with our lives instead of waiting for men to complement us on our hair or whatever it is debutantes are supposed to care about.” she said, wistfully . 

“I don’t think the idea of love itself is horrid.” Penelope offered. “But if we are to be subjected to another Smythe-Smith musicale this season, I would much sooner run away.” she finished, ready to move on to the next stall but found herself stuck seeing that Eloise had frozen in her spot and fixated her eyes on a particular thing, or person.

Following Eloise’s line of sight, Penelope watched as her best friend admired you from afar, with a dreamy look in her eye, as you stood with your mother at the flower stall. After a brief interaction with a customer, you sat back on the stool you had brought and opened your book back to the page you had left off at and become reabsorbed within the pages. 

“Eloise?” Penelope asked, giggling when she received no response. 

Taking matters into her own hands, the Penelope dragged Eloise towards the flower stall, and it was only when they were mere meters from the stall that Eloise snapped back into reality and tried to drag Penelope in another direction. The two had a silent argument with their eyes until they found themselves directly in front of you, meaning there were no means of escape. 

It took a moment for you to notice the two girls of your age in front of you, but once you did, you sheepishly put your book aside and stood up, instantly noting the beauty of the girl with the chestnut hair. “My apologizes. How may I help you today?” you asked politely. 

Eloise continued to stare at you after you asked your question, but with a nudge of the ribs from Penelope, she found the words to speak. “You like to read?” she asked, completely ignoring your own question. 

“I do.” you answered with a smile. “I’ve fallen in love with Ms. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Have either of you found your way to the story?” 

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance yet.” Eloise admitted, while Penelope simply shook her head, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. 

Glancing down at your book for a moment, you took a deep breath before you looked back up at the girl. “Perhaps, you could borrow it once I’ve finished, Miss...” you offered sheepishly, trailing off at the end once you realized you did not know her name. 

“Eloise.” she stated rather suddenly, then cleared her throat. “Uh, my name is Eloise Bridgerton, but please call me Eloise.” she clarified, offering her hand out to shake, which you accepted. “Oh, and this is Penelope Featherington.” Eloise added once she remembered her best friend was still there. 

“y/n y/l/n.” you introduced, looking for something else to say without making an utter fool of yourself. Suddenly, you glanced to make sure you mother was otherwise occupied before you grabbed two flowers from your cart and turned back to Eloise and Penelope. “Flower?” you asked, your eyes on Eloise as you watched her accept both flowers and hand one off to Penelope. 

Eloise looked at the flower than back up at you, almost in awe. “Thank you, y/n.” she said breathlessly before she felt a small tug on her arm from Penelope. “We must be off, but I hope to see you again soon.” 

“I would very much enjoy that.” you told her and waved goodbye as the two girls walked off back towards Greenwich Park. 

All the way home, Penelope squealed to Penelope about the interaction that had just occurred, though for once Eloise found herself speechless as she gazed at the flower and thought only of you and your enchanting y/e/c eyes. 

oOoOo

True to her word, Eloise found herself back at the market, two days later, and made a beeline towards your stall as soon as she saw it was free from costumers. Trying to hold back her enthusiasm, she waved at your form and offered a smile, shaking away any butterflies that fluttered in her stomach. 

“Eloise, hello!” you greeted warmly, excited to have a friendly face to converse with. “I’m glad you’ve come back, I have something for you.” you told her before turning towards you bag and producing your copy of Pride and Prejudice. 

Eloise grinned as she reached for the book and felt of spark when your hands brushed against each other. “Thank you, y/n. I’ll make haste to read it and let you know my thoughts.” she promised. 

With permission from your mother, you took a short break so that you and Eloise could take a small walk around the square to get to know each other better. Of course, you had heard of the Bridgerton name, but not being directly connected within London’s high society, it was thrilling to learn more about her and her rather large family and the hijinks they had gotten themselves into. In turn, you shared more about your life and your job to run the flower stall and shop with your family, along with your passions for reading, art, and further your education if that were ever possible. 

Eventually, you had to part ways, but promised to keep in correspondence, and Eloise vowed to come down to the market as often as she could. 

As the weeks passed, you and Eloise only grew closer and you found yourself wishing to be near her as often as possible. Even at home, the rest of the Bridgertons noticed a change in their Eloise who seemed even more secretive with her writing, and had an airy deposition about her. 

“And who might you be writing to in secret?” Benedict asked as he sat next to his sister one afternoon when all the Bridgerton children and Violet were gathered for tea. 

Defensively, Eloise shielded the papers close to her chest and glared at her brother. “That would be none of your business, thank you very much.” she commented hurriedly. 

“That’s all she does these days.” Hyacinth butted in from her own chair. 

“Nosy busybody.” Eloise muttered under her breath, ignoring Violet’s pointed look at her words. 

Thinking she was in the clear, Eloise relaxed back against the couch until Colin came out of nowhere and ripped the paper out her hands. Immediately, Eloise jumped to her feet and glared at her brother. “Give that back to me, Colin!” Eloise demanded. 

“Who’s y/n?” Colin teased as he stared at the page that, luckily, only had a greeting directed towards you written upon it. 

With a sigh, Anthony grabbed the paper from Colin’s hands and walked over to Eloise to return the letter who offered a weak smile to her eldest brother. She knew she liked him for a reason. However, before Eloise could grab the paper, Anthony pulled it just a few inches out of her grasp with a devilish grin. “Yes, Eloise, who is y/n?” 

Damn it. Eloise thought before she let out of dramatic huff. “If you must know,” she paused to finally retrieve her paper. “she is a friend of mine.” 

“y/n?” Violet mused. “What’s her last name, dear?” 

“y/l/n.” Eloise responded hesitantly, not sure in what direction the conversation would take a turn. 

The rest of her family pondered the name until Daphne finally spoke up. “I don’t recognize that name. Is she from London, Eloise?” 

“Yes, she is. And of course you would not recognize that name, oh Duchess of Hastings.” Eloise good-naturedly mocked. “Penelope and I met her a few weeks back when we strolled about the market. Her family owns the flower stall in town.” she explained. 

“Well I’m glad to see that you’ve made a new friend.” Violet said warmly and turned back to her tea just in time to watch Gregory fling a biscuit at Hyacinth. 

With the conversation laid to rest, the Bridgerton family turned back to their previous activities, leaving Eloise to her own devices. She mulled over the word friend in her mind and your relationship, feeling that it was the wrong word to describe you. Penelope was her friend, but with you, Eloise felt at home, almost as much as she did surrounded by her family. Not only that, but she wanted to be around every second possible and hang onto to every word that you spoke. Around you, Eloise felt as though she didn’t have to fake a smile or dumb herself down to be accepted. 

With slight hesitation, but a renowned sense of determination, Eloise sat up and restarted the conversation once more. “Mother,” she called, waiting until she had Violet’s full attention. “would it be alright if we invited y/n to our dinner on Friday?” she inquired. 

The Bridgertons were to host a dinner party for the ton that coming Friday, and though invitations had already been sent, Eloise wanted you to be there with her because not only would it make the night more manageable, it make her truly happy to spend the evening with you by her side. 

Violet watched her daughter’s hopeful face and felt her heart warm at the look she recognized as the same one she shared when she spoke of her beloved Edmund. “Of course, dear. I’ll make a note of it. I’m very excited to meet this young lady.” she commented, amending her previous statement. 

“Oh, mother!” Eloise gasped as she jumped from the couch. “Thank you so much, you are the best mother anyone could ask for!” she gushed, giving Violet a kiss on the cheek before running off to her room.

oOoOo

“A dinner party...at your house?” you spoke slowly, trying to comprehend Eloise’s invitation as the two girls walked through the market on your break.  

Eloise grinned. “Yes! And now you can meet my family, and perhaps, for once, I won’t get dragged into a conversation with any dull gentlemen. And for dinner we’re having...” she began to explain than trailed off once she noticed that you had fallen behind. “What’s wrong, y/n?” Eloise asked, briskly walking back to link arms with you. 

“It’s just, I’d love to come, Eloise,” you began and took a deep breath as you tried to say that one part of your ‘relationship’ with Eloise that had nagged at the back of your mind from the day you met her. “I don’t really belong, do I? I’m not part of the ton.” you whispered, looking down at your shoes. 

Stopping in her tracks, Eloise stared at you. “Of course you belong, y/n!” she reassured. “I promise that we’ll have a splendid time.” she told you, hands squeezing yours as she gave you that charming, Bridgerton smile. 

“Well,” you started hesitantly. “then I cannot wait for Friday to come.” offering Eloise a gracious hug as acceptance. 

Once Friday came around, you were able to leave your stall at the market early so that you would have enough time to prepare for the dinner party. Donning your nicest gown that was reserved for special occasions, you fixed your hair accordingly and made sure to grab the bouquet of flowers you had arranged specifically as a gift for Lady Bridgerton. 

One of your neighbors had been kind enough to lend you their carriage for the evening, and once it pulled in front of the grand, Bridgerton estate, you felt your palms begin to sweat through your gloves. Before you could give yourself a chance to escape, you exited the carriage with your head held high and made your way inside where, almost instantly, you heard your name be called by a familiar voice. 

“y/n!” Eloise shouted, moving through the crowd in a rather unladylike fashion - pushing through the throng of people -  to get to you. “I’m so glad that you’ve arrived.” she told you as she pulled you in for a hug. Stepping back she noticed the flowers you held in your hand. 

“For your mother, as a thank you.” you explained, rather embarrassed because it seemed as though no one else had brought a housewarming gift. 

Instead of a response, Eloise simply smiled and began to drag you off, something you had gotten quite used to in the few weeks you had known each other. It wasn’t long before a clan of similarly looking, chestnut haired group of people came into view, whom you assumed to be her family. Yes, Eloise had shared so much about them through your walks and letters, but meeting them was a completely different thing. However, before you could worry about it one second longer, Eloise had already begun introductions. 

“Everyone, this is Miss. y/n y/l/n.” she introduced, to which you smiled and awkwardly curtsied, not completely certain what the proper response was when one was in such elegant company. 

“These are for you, Lady Bridgerton.” you said, offering her the bouquet of flowers. “And it is lovely to meet you all. Eloise has spoken so much about all of you.” you told them, taking the time to look at each Bridgerton. 

The tallest, who you knew to be Benedict, nearly snorted. “All horrible things, I suppose.” he commented, followed by a swift swat on the shoulders from his mother. 

Before any of her other children could comment, Violet spoke up, looking at you warmly, nearly melting all your worries. “The flowers are lovely, Miss. y/l/n, and I do hope you’ll feel comfortable calling me Violet. Any friend of Eloise is a friend of us all.” she told you before looking behind her with a troubled expression. “I am terribly sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” Violet explained before hurrying off to deal with some hostess problem or another. 

For the next half hour, you, Eloise, and her siblings had a grand time talking and getting to know each other a bit better. Even Penelope made her way over to the group, which helped you to relax even more. Eventually the group dispersed, leaving just you, Eloise, and Penelope. That was, at least, until Eloise was called away, leaving you and Penelope to battle the rest of the ton.

“I didn’t know that Bridgerton let just any street rat walk in from off the street.” a shrill voice came from behind you, and you noticed how Penelope immediately tensed up. “Oh, and look at that, she’s become friends with the ‘overripe lemon.’ 

“Good evening, Cressida.” Penelope murmured, voice rather clipped. 

It seemed rather obvious that this girl was trouble and you felt your body freeze as she glanced over you, a look of disgust not hidden from her features. “You must be our guest for the evening.” she infered with a faux smile. “I can see the Bridgerton’s pity couldn’t be extended to a proper outfit.” she said which elicited venomous giggles from the girls that surrounded her. 

Not trying to dignify her taunts with a response, you sent Penelope a silent plea to remove yourselves from the situation as quickly as possible. However, before that could happen, you felt a cold, wet substance splash across the front of your dress. Horrified, you looked down to see the front of you dress completely stained while Cressida feigned innocence despite her, now, empty cup. 

“Oops, my hand must have slipped.” she whispered before stepping back. “I didn’t know this was a costume party” she said, circling back to your slightly dated, and now stained dress, this time louder for the rest of the ton to hear. “Who are you trying to be? Let me guess. A poor little servant girl trying to play dress up for the night?” 

In response, a large majority of the people around you looked in your direction, and, to your horror, began to snicker along with Cressida. Although you knew that high society was not the easiest to navigate, you didn’t expect such cruelty. Even if they were not laughing at you, you knew that you had caught their attention and they were silently judging your every move and knew that you did not belong. 

Without another thought, and despite Penelope’s protests, you pushed your way through the crowd and ran outside, not knowing, nor caring where you would end up. The rest of the Bridgerton’s, lead by Eloise, caught the end of the scene and rushed to Penelope with looks of concern written across their features. 

“Where did y/n go, Pen?” Eloise asked urgently, eyes wide and filled with worry. 

“She didn’t say.” Penelope rushed out. “I just watched as she pushed through the crowd and ran outside. I didn’t see which way she went.” 

Pushing her own way through the crowd, Eloise shouted back to her family. “I must go after her.” before they could get a word in otherwise. 

The cool, summer night air hit Eloise’s bare arms, but she could only worry about where you had run off to. Outside her house, she looked left and right for any clue as to where you might have gone. It was than that she remembered how much you loved the parks when the two of you were able to escape for a longer walk, and so she began to run in that direction, not caring that she should have been accompanied by a chaperone. 

Once at the park, Eloise stopped to catch her breath, then suddenly heard the soft sniffles and whimpers you made. Spinning around to catch sight of you, she felt her heart ache as she watched you sit on a nearby bench, dress effectively ruined and hair a disastrous mess. Despite all that, Eloise still thought you looked beautiful, and she marched in your direction and took the open seat next to you. 

“y/n, are you alright?” she first asked, then scolded herself. “Of course you’re not alright, but I am so sorry you had to experience that.” she said trying to find the words to make the situation better. 

With your back slightly turned to Eloise in embarrassment, you listened to her speak, but the only thing your mind truly comprehended were the harsh words that Cressida had thrown your way. And for what? Not being of the same social class as herself? 

“It’s not your fault.” you finally muttered, defeated. “I should not have fooled myself to believe that this could have worked.” 

At your words, Eloise placed a hand upon your back and gently urged you to turn around. “What do you mean, y/n?” 

“Look at me, Eloise. My family’s life is selling flowers to the ton. Flowers that callers buy to send to people like you and your sisters. I don’t belong with you, and we were both fools to think that the rest of the ton would accept me.” you began to explain, tears trickling down your cheeks. “I-I care for you Eloise,” you admitted. “but I don’t think it is wise for us to continue down this path.” you finished with one final sniff before you stood, ready to make your leave. 

“You’re wrong.” Eloise boldly stated, effectively stopping you in your tracks. “You do belong with us - with me - and if those in the ton cannot see that, then they are the fools. y/n, you have captivated me before we even officially met, and I don’t want to let you go. I care for you as well, more than I have for anyone. Even if we are the fools, I’d rather be a fool with you than a sensible lady of the ton with the rest of them.” she explained, taking small steps closer to you with every sentence until you found yourselves only inches away from one another. 

Hesitantly, you reached out to grab her hand. Every part of you wanted to make this work, and even if only half of what Eloise said was true, than you knew it was worth it. “Well, it appears as though we are to be fools together, Miss. Bridgerton.” you informed her, rather smugly. 

“Perfectly fine by me, Miss. y/l/n.” she replied with a smirk, flicking her eyes between you and your lips. 

In that instant, you felt you body pulled to Eloise’s, as if she were a magnet, and your lips found hers. Wrapping your arms around her neck, you felt as one of her hands found your waist while the other found your hair. Her soft lips molded with yours and it felt as though time stopped for just the two of you, the rest of the world melting away. Pulling each other as close as possible, you felt the warmth Eloise’s body radiated, and you never wanted to let go. 

Though the kiss was neither incredibly long nor experienced, when the two of you pulled away, you couldn’t stop the massive grin that forced its way onto your face. Wordlessly, Eloise interlocked your hands and began the walk back towards the party, and you were ready to face the ton with Eloise by your side. 

oOoOo

tagging: @dreaming-about-fanfictions​