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lusmeitli · 2 months ago

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Where light in darkness lies

Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.

A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.

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The kettle seemed to take forever. Wasn’t there a saying… a watched pot never boils? Apparently, it applied to kettles, too. As the appliance imitated sounds of an imminent blast off, you poked the tea bag at the bottom of the mug with the spoon from one side to another, then clockwi–

Suddenly, everything was plunged into darkness.

“Curses.”

You stretched your hand out to hold onto the kitchen counter for something… tactile. Grounding. Darkness was your foe.

The familiar fireball under your skin licked up your back and across your chest. Its heat seemed to suffocate you. Breaths came out faster, shallower, harsher. Fumbling to try and find your phone on the counter your hands knocked something over. It shattered on the floor. The mug.

Not enough air. You just couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. The only sounds you heard was the pounding beat of your heart and the ringing in your ears. The panic rose up like a monster looming in front of you, a cruel smirk on its face, before it would open its horrifying hellmouth and swallow you whole.

And then you felt hands on you, whirling you around. Soft lips firmly pressed onto yours, moving with purpose and absolutely no hesitation. Its spark set a fuse alight, burning through your body until it reached your brain, sending a shockwave through you. It took your body a long moment to snap out of your onsetting panic attack and to respond to the kiss. You nearly sobbed into the lips, at the distraction and relief they provided, your hands fisting in a shirt, warm skin and contracting muscles under your fingers.

The heat you had felt moments before was gone. In its stead grew an all consuming need. A soft moan escaped somewhere from the back of your throat. It broke the spell. You heard the person kissing you take in a shaky breath, before their lips left yours and it was over. Several moments later the lights flickered back on. You stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space in front of you and the broken mug on the floor.

Your fingertips ghosted over the spot where lips had touched yours and a blush crept over your cheeks. In the corner the kettle clicked, the water now boiled.

*****

“Loki?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure it was him? I mean how can you tell?”

You brought a hand over the receiver, trying to shield the words so only your friend could hear.

“I, um, hacked into the security camera footage from just before the power cut. He had walked into the kitchen literally a second before it happened.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a heavy breath. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. Ain’t that something.”

“You’re right,” you huffed out, ��I mean, this is me we’re talking about, right?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“But it is though, isn’t it,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes. “It’s just little old me. Even if it really was him, it probably just was some silly prank or a dare.”

*****

The Quinjet in the hangar was your favourite place to work. Even though today you were in the tail of the jet downloading the aircraft log from the Flight Data Recorder, which involved squeezing into a rather tight space. All that to plug in the USB cable and to then balance the laptop on the palm of your right hand, whilst operating it with the left. You had tried to talk to Tony about moving the access point, seeing as it was a weekly task, but Pepper had walked past and diverted his attention. Judging by the way he immediately stalked after her, he hadn’t heard a word you said.

Thirty-seven percent through the download, the power in the jet cut out and you cursed. Setting the laptop down, you fumbled for your phone, turned on the torch and made your way through the jet to inspect the fuse box you knew was located just outside the cockpit. No light came in from the hangar, which seemed odd. Maybe it was another power outage that affected the whole tower. You tripped and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing somewhere face up.

“Not again…”

The panic started to rise in you once more. You felt too hot, the air seemed stuffy and heavy. Your breath came out fast and ragged. Hands outstretched, you bumped into something hard. Something that shouldn’t be there. You gulped as hot dread shot through your veins and took a step back. With lightning speed slender fingers wrapped around your wrists, tugging you forward to bring you flush against the hard body. Instead of consuming you, the panic ebbed off. Your body knew this touch. Though firm, it meant no harm.

You felt their chest rise and fall, a lot slower than yours. Slender fingers trailed up your arm, over your shoulder and neck. His fingertips skirted over the skin of your throat, goosebumps erupted all over your body. Someone released a slow breath - presumably you.

The fingers moved into your hair and curled around the base of your head, tilting it up. And then those wonderful lips were on yours again. This time, he angled your head to deepen the kiss. The taste and feel of his tongue moving against yours robbed you of your bones and you faltered, glad that his hands held you pressed so tightly up against him. He seemed hungry, needy. His lips left yours, trailing a few kisses over your jaw, before he rested his forehead against yours, noses touching for a wonderful moment, your short breaths mixing.

And then he was gone again. Your hands fell to your side and you blinked against the bright light in the jet that hummed over your head. Yet again you were left wondering what had just happened and, more importantly, why.

*****

“It only affected the hangar this time.” You pulled a book off the shelf in the shop.

“More hacking?” your best friend asked, finger searchingly running over the spines.

Shaking your head, you thumbed through the pages. “My coworkers told me.”

“So you’re saying he did it on purpose?”

Shrugging, you put the book back. “He knows magic, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Honey, I love you, but before you go down that obsession-rabbit hole, it’s my duty as your bestie to warn you. Just please be careful. This is Loki after all. Hm, where is it?”

“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

The pitying look in your friend’s eyes was almost too much. “Oh where to start… He’s a god, immortal and several centuries older than you,” she counted off on her fingers.

“Actually,” you mumbled, “he is mortal. Asgardians just have a longer life span of about 5,000 years.”

Your friend blinked, surprised. “Who told you that? Dr Google?”

“Thor, actually. He had to fill in a form for the Quinjet learner’s licence and we joked about his age.”

“I love you, but you’re weird. Happy rabbit hunting then.” A victory cry fell from your friend’s lips as she pulled out what she was looking for and pushed it into your hands. “You want spicy? Here you go.”

“‘Three Swedish Mountain Men’?” you read.

She wiggled her brows. “They’re hot and they like sharing…”

You rolled your eyes, but put it on the pile of books you were getting anyway.

*****

Late shifts were your favourite, because it allowed you to actually get work done, without the phone going off every other minute. The only thing you didn’t like about them was walking back to your room afterwards.

It was 3am when the lift doors slid open and your shoes softly squeaked on the dimly lit corridor. Nightlighting mode, as Tony called it. You hated it and walked faster. Rubbing your stiff neck and rolling your shoulders, you rounded the corner. Just a few more metres to your door. But someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the refuse room, which was pitch black.

Cool fingers were placed on your lips signalling you not to make a sound.

You nodded your head and the fingers moved from your lips, slowly, tracing. Then both hands were in your hair. His fingers cupped your head and you felt his breath against your lips. Your hands were on his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt. Soft cotton. You closed your eyes.

“Please,” you said so quietly you thought he didn’t hear.

But he had and his lips brushed against yours, light as a feather. Your head was swimming, your heart aching. His touch was soft and gentle. He had kissed you before, but it was as if he was now seeing you, in the darkness of the refuse room, for the first time. Taking you in, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed. His lips grazed the knuckles on your hand and a lump formed in your throat.

His hands cupped your head and you felt his fingers fiddle with your hair bobble, before the restraint was gone and your hair hung loose. His hands combed through the strands. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that.

Your hands ran over his biceps, his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. You wished you could say something, anything, but you feared you’d spoil the moment, that he’d pull away. His lips found yours again and he angled his head, his tongue slowly dancing with yours. It was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

He changed his footing to come at you from a different angle, pressing his body flush against yours. He peppered small kisses on the corner of your mouth and down your throat. He seemed to have found a spot he liked, because he sucked on it, his teeth grazing, lips easing the light bite. Before he pulled away, he inhaled deeply at the crown of your head, and placed a gentle kiss on your hair. You felt safe, basking in his warmth. And like the times before, he was gone.

By the time your legs felt stable enough to support you again, you opened the door and walked back to your room.

A smile crossed your lips as you realised that this was the first time you hadn’t panicked in the dark.

*****

“Maybe he’s shy?” your bestie suggested as you sat on her couch, both spooning ice cream out of the same tub.

Loki and shy were not words you would have put in a sentence together. But then, sometimes you were wondering if his aloof stance was just for show.

“Have you tried talking to him?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I could never work up the nerve. He seems… so unapproachable in the light of day. Maybe it all really is an elaborate prank.”

“Or,” your friend leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “or he has the hots for you and just can’t find any other way to show it.”

You mulled this over for a while. “But why in the dark? Why isn’t he saying anything ever?”

“When do you see him?”

“At extended team briefings, but the Avengers come in last and sit at the front. Rogers requested it.”

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Any other time?”

“Well, in the hallways, but either he’s with someone or I am.”

“Meh. Where else?”

You leaned back, thinking. “In the canteen?”

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

“But, again, he’s always with someone.”

“Well… looks like you’re screwed.” She made a show of licking her spoon. “Or about to be screwed.”

She laughed as you threw a pillow in her face.

*****

It was just an autumn storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for that it was five in the morning and had been going all night. You were standing by the window, looking out onto the soft glow of the city that never slept. Angry gusts of wind whipped big raindrops against the windowpane. Your breath misted against the cool glass. Normally, you slept through storms, but not this one.

The team had yet to return from a mission and you were worried sick. The mission was particularly perilous. You knew this because Tony had called you into his office, shut the door (something he never had done before) and told you that he couldn’t give you any information, but that ‘some serious shit is going to go down tonight’ and to trust - dramatic pause - him. It all was accompanied by a stare with which Tony seemed to try to convey a secret message. You guessed he didn’t mean himself, but Loki. Hence, you had chewed off all your nails for the last few hours.

When the door to your room opened, closed and footsteps approached, relief flooded through you. Not a moment later his hands were on your waist, pulling you back into his chest, his presence seeping through your pores. His arms curled around you, the slightly damp leather of his suit softly creaking, and your hands flew up to grip his forearms tightly. His head nestled in the crook of your neck, his lips soft against your skin.

“Thank heavens,” you whispered.

You couldn’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your ass. Your legs wrapped around his hips that pushed into you; his mouth felt hot on yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Desperation mixed with relief. A moan rang through the room - definitely yours - as you offered yourself up to him. And he took, greedily. His hands were everywhere on your body, pulling you close, pushing more into you, closer still. A disgruntled huff made it clear it wasn’t enough. And then his hands were under your hoodie, bare skin touching bare skin. A tug, a pull and the fabric was up and over your head, landing somewhere on the floor. His lips closed around your lace covered breast until he found your nipple and sucked on it.

Your hands weaved through his damp hair - if you had any fingernails left, they’d be scraping his scalp. Instead you tugged gently on the soft strands, eliciting a strangled moan from him. His hips rolled into yours, his desire evident and yours dampening your knickers. His hand slipped into your leggins, his fingers moving over the globe of your ass, slowly, squeezing, as his mouth was plundering yours.

The moment his fingers found your soaking centre, you both groaned. He slid two digits inside you, making you gasp. His hips rocked into you, the leather seams on his crotch providing friction for your clit. Your hands tried to fist in the leather, to get to feel his skin.

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, taking you by surprise, propelling you into oblivion. Loki grunted, his movements became jerky, before he stilled and rested his damp forehead against the crook of your neck. His hot breath puffed against your skin, and he just stayed like that, letting you run your fingers through his hair in a comforting rhythm. Then he slid his fingers out of you and gently placed your feet back on the ground. His forearm leaned against the wall behind you as he kissed you thoroughly, with a gentleness that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Your thoughts were going a mile a minute and you were thinking of what to do or say now. Would he stay the night or would he vanish again, like always? You heard the soft creaking of his boots as he moved through the dark room and then back to you, handing you your hoodie. You took it, fingers brushing his. The moment you pulled it over your head, your bedside light was on and you found yourself alone.

Again.

*****

The APU of the Quinjet was situated - as in most aeroplanes - in the tail. One of the reasons you were in charge of the upgrade of the jet’s internal bleed ducting was that you were small and slim. None of your co-workers could squeeze in there (thank you, Tony, for prioritising sleekness over practicality). Ironically, there was no air conditioning in this part of the jet. Droplets of sweat gathered on your forehead as you lay under the engine with your torch and toolkit, religiously running through the protocols.

“Five more checks, Y/N,” you heard your colleague, peering down at you from the moveable steps he was standing on, holding up the upper engine encasing with another work mate. A whistling noise became louder. “Then we can test– what the hell?!”

You lifted your head just as a massive explosion tore through the hangar. The space where your co-workers had been a second ago was swallowed up by a fireball. It felt as if the jet was airborne, tossed to the side, then came to a sudden stop. Metal screeched and groaned.

Your head hurt. A lot. There was a ringing in your ears and you just couldn’t see anything. It was dark, so dark. You wriggled backwards but to your horror realised that you were stuck, trapped between the engine and the jet wall. It felt like you were burning up and you tried to shout, scream for help, but you couldn’t get air in your lungs, no matter how hard you tried. Then, mercifully, you fainted.

When you came to, you were in the medical bay. It looked like a war zone, people lying or sitting on the floor, waiting to be seen. Some of them with burns and cuts, others in the bays next to you with drips and field surgeons around them. You spotted your two work mates, both with minor burns and a few bruises, but thankfully alive.

A few stitches on your forehead, one arm plaster casted and in a sling, and a packet of painkillers thrust in your good hand by a disgruntled, stressed out medic later, you limped your way out of there. Anything was better than sitting around in the sick bay, where there were people who were much more in need of a bed than you were. It also helped with getting away from the sight of the body bags that were quietly carried past you. Six, you had counted. The biggest attack on the Avengers Tower so far, people murmured. And the deadliest one.

In front of the debriefing room, you were handed a tablet and sat down. It was standard protocol after an incident like this: you filled in your report and then talked it through with your supervisor. End of. So you filled in the boxes and waited outside Tony’s office for your turn. As you walked in and sat down, he looked at you.

“You okay, Y/N?”

You gave a brief nod. He blinked and then tapped a few keys on his phone, before taking the tablet you held out to him.

“Let’s get this over with.”

In the middle of your interview, the door suddenly burst open. A very out of breath Asgardian god almost stumbled over the threshold, a stony expression on his face. He was like a vision from your dreams, donning his leather suit, covered in dust and blood - not his.

His eyes roamed over you as he stood in the doorway, lingering on your arm in the sling and the stitches on your face for a moment. Then his eyes met yours. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t looked into one another’s eyes before, but this felt different. Intimate.

In four strides he was next to your chair. He stretched out his hand and you placed yours in his, as if it was a practised gesture between you two. A gentle tug had you standing up.

“Loki…,” you started.

“I thought you were dead, love,” he murmured, voice rough, lifting your good hand to his lips to ghost a kiss onto your scratched knuckles. Your insides melted at the endearment and his gesture.

“I give you a thousand thanks, Stark,” he addressed the other man, eyes never leaving yours, “for alerting me that my beloved is okay and with you. However, Agent Y/L/N will have to finish the incident debrief at a later point. I require her presence for an extremely urgent personal matter.”

“Get outta here already, Shakespeare,” Tony grumbled, trying to hide a smirk. “Who’s next?”

But Loki didn’t pay him any heed. He gently cradled your face, his thumbs caressing your skin.

And there, right in front of Tony, with the door wide open for everyone in the very busy hallway to see, right there was the very first time that Loki kissed you in the daylight.

~fin~

#loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki x reader #loki x female reader #avengers loki #loki fanfiction #fluff #angst

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kathaynesart · 4 months ago

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Okay, so I was absolutely giddy reading the newest post when I thought about something.

I remember in a previous explanation that each brother has their way of communication with Leo. Ninja mind meld with Raph, Donnies big book of codes, and pretty much just wingin' it with Mikey.

With that being said, it makes sense why Mikey was confused here, since Donnie was using, what could be considered complicated codes.

Anyways, I loved it, can't wait for more, and tysm for this amazing series!!!

Hahaha! This is very true in some regards and I'm glad you picked up on it! There will always be a bit of a communication barrier between Donnie and his other brothers when he's not taking the time to give proper context.

I'm sure though Donnie would argue that "Mach Stem Barrier" is not code at all and if his brother knew ANYTHING about bombs then there would have been no confusion.

In which case *puts on nerd glasses* I think a little lesson on bombs is in order (because if I had to study all this stuff for this comic then you get to suffer along with me).

BOMB LESSON

A Mach Stem is basically the huge shockwave of pressure that comes from the blast of a bomb when it merges with its own blast being reflected back up by the ground. It's basically the thing that causes that huge slice of pressure which levels everything around ground zero. This strength of this wave is normally about twice the pressure of the actual blast itself, doubling its destructive power.

It's so powerful you can actually see it with the naked eye: VIDEO

To counteract this and reduce collateral damage Donnie created the shield we see which he calls the "Mach Stem Barrier." It acts as a giant cylinder that contains all that pressure and heat and then releases it high up into the stratosphere, protecting the surrounding area from harm. Luckily the blast is radiation free so no fear of fallout. The attacks works more like a pressure oven, the heat inside reaching up to temperatures of 200 million degrees Fahrenheit (about 100 million degrees Celsius), or about four to five times the temperature at the center of the sun, incinerating anything within its confines, even Krang tech. Crazy stuff and all backed by actual science, just as Donnie would have it! ...Now if Mikey would just get with the program!

#bombs #atomic bombs #cw bombs #atomic blast #mach stem #rottmnt replica #replica #q&a #rottmnt #kathaynesart #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #kat talk #ted talk #hydrogen bombs #fallout

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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The Last Flight

- Summary: You go to Dorne instead of your sister Rhaenys. And you never come back.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This short story covers one of possible endings of The Broken Crown series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: You want another scenario? Let me know.

The scorching heat of Dorne clings to your skin, the sun a burning coin suspended high in the azure sky. The wind carries with it the dry, acrid scent of sand, yet beneath you, there is power—an unrelenting force. Tesaerix, your magnificent golden and cream dragon, moves effortlessly through the air, her deep red eyes scanning the terrain below. You feel her muscles ripple beneath your thighs as she soars above the arid wasteland, the pride of your House and the symbol of your strength. Her scales shimmer in the sun, the blood-red undertones flashing like molten fire beneath her brilliant hide.

Your thoughts are consumed by Aegon. You can feel the weight of his presence, even when he is miles away. His absence is a shadow in your heart, a constant reminder of your duty you accepted with time, not only as his wife, his queen, but as his sister. You are bound to him in ways no one else will ever understand. And now, as you carry his second child within you, the bond feels even deeper, even more unbreakable.

The Dornish, however, are not so easily subdued. Even now, beneath the beauty of the clouds and sky, you know they scheme. They have always been the most defiant, and as much as you admire their resolve, you cannot allow it to stand. Your mind drifts to the days of battle yet to come, to the throne you and Aegon are building together, stone by stone, blood by blood.

But then—suddenly—Tesaerix stiffens beneath you, her wings faltering for just a fraction of a second. You feel the tremor run through her powerful frame, an emotion you had never associated with her before: fear. Your hand grips the reins tighter, your body leaning forward instinctively. Something is wrong.

And then you hear it.

The sharp, mechanical twang of a scorpion ballista firing, followed by the deafening roar that reverberates from Tesaerix’s throat, echoing through the sky like the crack of thunder. A bolt of dark metal tears through the air, faster than you can blink. It pierces Tesaerix’s left eye, burrowing deep into the vibrant red that once glowed with ferocity. Her scream of agony is a sound that will haunt you forever in the afterlife, shaking your very soul. You can feel the shockwave of her pain radiate through your bond, filling your mind with white-hot anguish.

“Tesaerix!” you scream, your voice lost in the howling wind. She convulses beneath you, her massive wings faltering, her graceful flight collapsing into chaos. She spirals downward, her roars now guttural, filled with unending torment. The wind tears at your hair and clothing as the ground rushes toward you both. You grasp desperately at the reins, but it is useless. The beast that was once the queen of the skies, unstoppable and unbowed, is now at the mercy of gravity and death.

You feel her strength waning, her fire dimming. She struggles to keep you aloft, her wings beating sluggishly, a far cry from the power they once held. She has always protected you, shielded you, but now... she is dying, and there is nothing you can do to save her. Your heart shatters, not only for her but for the life inside you, for the child that will never know the world you fought to create.

The last thing you see before the ground rises to meet you is the faint glimmer of Tesaerix’s blood-red scales flashing in the sun, her body contorting as she crashes into the earth. And then, everything is fire and darkness.

Pain explodes through your body as you hit the ground with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The impact shatters your bones, but it is the silence that follows that is the most terrifying. The bond you shared with Tesaerix, the link that had always thrummed with life, is severed. There is no heartbeat in your mind, no flicker of her presence. She is gone, and with her, your world unravels.

You try to move, try to reach out, but your body betrays you. Blood fills your mouth, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue. You can feel the life slipping away, faster than you ever imagined it would. Your hand instinctively moves to your belly, to the child within, but even that small motion is agony. Tears sting your eyes as you realize there will be no future for them. Aegon’s son or daughter will never be born.

Your thoughts drift to him, to your king, your husband, your brother. You wonder if he will feel it, the moment your life leaves your body, if he will know that his child is lost. You can see his face in your mind, the steely resolve that always made you feel safe. You want to tell him you love him, that you fought until the very end, that you died with your dragon by your side. But the words are lost in the blood that bubbles in your throat.

The sky above you dims as the world around you fades. You are alone now, alone with the silence of the dead, and the heat of Dorne’s relentless sun beating down on you.

With a final, shuddering breath, you close your eyes and surrender to the darkness.

The sun had begun its slow descent when Aegon received the news. He stood at the edge of the war table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Blackfyre, his ever-present symbol of command and power. But in that moment, the weight of the blade seemed insignificant, a mere tool in a world that had suddenly lost all sense.

A raven had come from Dorne, its message blunt and brutal, stripped of all the delicate lies courtiers usually crafted to soften blows. Tesaerix had fallen. She had fallen.

Your name was written on that small, crumpled piece of parchment, but it was as if he couldn’t comprehend it, as if it were not real. His mind swam, drowning in confusion, in denial. You—his sister, his queen, his love—were gone. The child you carried, his unborn son or daughter, gone with you.

For a moment, the world fell silent, save for the relentless beating of his heart, pounding in his chest like a war drum, louder and louder until it consumed everything else. His grip tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles turning white as the world blurred before his eyes.

Visenya and Rhaenys were there, though he barely noticed them at first. Visenya stood stoic, her sharp, regal face as unreadable as ever, though her eyes betrayed her. There was a glint there, something unspoken. She felt the loss too, he knew, but she didn’t speak. Visenya rarely needed words to convey the force of her presence. Rhaenys, on the other hand, had tears in her eyes, her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, anything, that would take away his pain. But nothing came.

He slammed his fist down on the table, sending maps and markers scattering to the floor. The room seemed to close in around him, suffocating. His vision darkened at the edges, a storm brewing in his chest, too fierce to be contained. Aegon, the Conqueror, the man who had never faltered, had never broken—was crumbling.

"How?" he finally rasped, his voice cracking in a way it never had before. He demanded answers from the silence, but there was no one left to give them.

Rhaenys stepped forward, her soft hand reaching for his, but he pulled away sharply, the touch unbearable. It was as if his very skin recoiled from the comfort, the warmth he could no longer feel. He didn’t want her pity, her gentle reassurances. They meant nothing. How could they, when you were gone?

"She... she died bravely, brother," Rhaenys said, her voice thick with sorrow. "She fell with her dragon—"

"Do not speak of her bravery to me!" Aegon roared, his voice filled with a fury that silenced even the birds outside. "She was my wife, my queen. I should have been there. I should have protected her!"

Visenya’s calm mask finally cracked. "Aegon, there was nothing you could have—"

"Enough!" he shouted, his chest heaving with each breath. The words felt hollow, empty. No matter what his sisters said, the guilt gnawed at him, tearing him apart from within. He should have known the dangers. He should have been with you, should have flown by your side. The image of you—falling, lost, dying with Tesaerix—flashed before his eyes. It was unbearable.

He turned his back to them both, his hands trembling as they hovered over the hilt of Blackfyre once more. It would be so easy to lash out, to let the sword take away this unrelenting agony. To cut down those who had taken you from him.

"I will burn them," he whispered, his voice cold, deadly. "All of them."

Visenya and Rhaenys exchanged a glance, but neither dared to argue. They had seen this side of him before—the part of him that was not just king, not just conqueror, but something darker, something ancient. The dragon that slept within him had awoken, and it hungered for vengeance.

Aegon turned, his eyes burning with unshed tears, yet blazing with the intensity of dragonfire. "Dorne will pay," he said, the words venomous. "I will rain fire upon them until their deserts turn to glass. Every man, woman, and child who had a hand in this... they will know my wrath. No one will escape it. I swear it."

Rhaenys, always the one to temper his fire, reached for him again. "Aegon, vengeance will not—"

"Do not speak of mercy to me, Rhaenys," he snapped, his gaze cold, distant. "I will hear no more of it. They took her. They took my child." His voice cracked again, and this time, it broke something in him. He sank to his knees, the weight of it all too much to bear.

For the first time in his life, Aegon Targaryen, the dragonlord, the Conqueror, wept. His shoulders shook, his hands gripping the cold stone of the floor as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Visenya knelt beside him, her hand on his shoulder, but even her presence could not reach him now.

He had lost you, and in losing you, he had lost a part of himself. His sisters could not comfort him, for there was no comfort to be had. There was only the aching void where you had once been.

And in that void, only one truth remained. The fire of vengeance would consume him, just as it would consume Dorne. He would not rest, not until the ones responsible had been reduced to nothing but ashes and bone.

The dragons would fly, and the world would burn for what they had done to you.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #fire and blood #aegon x reader #aegon i targaryen #aegon the conqueror #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon i x y/n #aegon i x you #aegon i x reader

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cuprohastes · 1 month ago

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Ludicrous speed.

Let me tell you about humans. They’re shit. No exoskeleton, they need to pour water into their face all the time, no plumage, they can’t even sense magnetism.

They’re wobbly squishy things who walk around looking at the world with jelly blobs, leaking their most important resource out of their skin.

And you hear that they’re the Galaxy’s most dangerous species.

And they’re not, they really aren’t.

The Ixnar are. The Ixnar will get halfway through a genocide before they start to wonder why they’re doing it. The Ixnar will fire relativistic weapons and not give a solitary nnuniq what they’ll hit later on down the line.

Humans? They start by coming up with a reason to be terrifying, and then they refine it as they go. See? They give you fair warning. They think about stuff. They’ll talk to you first, then do something horrifying.

But if you don’t give them that chance, then… well, that’s on you.

And I never believed that reputation. I’d worked with humans for years, and I’ve never seen them do anything more than carry stuff, sing songs, eat barbaric food and sleep. About what you’d expect from a pack animal - Useful, affable, but…. dangerous?

It is to laugh.

Anyway.

The Ixnar.

They sent a raiding party to my homeworld. I couldn’t believe it, I was in shock when their ships entered atmosphere and started firing on our cities.

I was ready to go down and help the survivors - Of course I was!

The Humans?

Well they got angry. Like angrier than they had a right to be. And they’re humans, right? They get angry, they do something with it.

They didn’t want to go down and help the survivors, they wanted to go down and murder the raiders.

You know… they actually hailed the Ixnar and asked them, begged them, even tried to trade with them to stop their attack.

The Ixnar hung up and… the Humans dropped hell on them.

In a cargo freighter. A human cargo freighter.

They love their aerobraking. So they have these huge shields and magnetic fields to manage plasma: They come in, and they trade speed for heat and then coast and shed the heat.

Not this time. I thought we were going to die - They pointed the ship at the planet, and they came down so hard I could hear the air through the hull.

We didn’t even need cabin lights.

And then… they lit the main drives. A thing no sentient would ever do in atmosphere. Because it’s suicide. Absolutely: We were already moving at fifty times faster than the speed of sound, and then they decided they needed to be faster.

And they got it. Because they were angry on behalf of people they never met. They just decided that physics didn’t matter. The hull wasn’t important. Fuel? Engines? Ha! Who cares, right? They’ll just get out and flap their arms if they need to, with a kitchen knife between their teeth.

You know what happens if a fighter skiff gets hit with a shockwave like that? They go away. They stop being anything you could call a thing.

And you know, Humans don’t send out Cargo ships without protection. I mean, their hulls alone are insane. But they also like to carry a little punitive hardware.

About as much as most species warships.

Beam weapons, ballistic slugs, missiles, Field spinners, and those fucking Polaron cannons.

Yeah, nobody has worked out how that works. They’re Polarons. And the humans figured out how to make them hurt.

And they were firing on these little warships from inside a cloud of plasma. And really that shouldn’t work at all, And they just did it anyway. It was terrifying, and I was on the inside, looking out and I was scared.

Then the humans aimed the nose at the mothership. The captain said… And I won’t stop hearing those words ever: “If the Polaron cannons won’t do it, let’s see if ramming speed will do the trick.”

And the crew cheered. They cheered!

I can only imagine the Ixnar command looking down and seeing a hole ripped in the atmosphere, seeing their skiffs flash into non existence and then a boiling finger of cloud just reaching up to point at them.

Did they even remember the human cargo ship that reached out to them? Did they even recognise the glowing white-hot dot of pure fury coming for them?

And when the Polaron cannon lit up, did they even recognise what was happening before their bridge melted?

I hope so. I hope that for a moment they realised they’d fucked up so badly that they got everyone killed and the humans were Big Mad at them.

Me? I was trying not to scream. I was pretty sure that I was going to die, but also? Die like a human. You really understand what blaze of glory means when you’re actually on fire and it doesn’t matter.

Anyway we didn’t have to kill the Ixnar by slamming into them, but the Captain had to eject the engines, and most of the hull because uh, well it was kind of on fire.

Two days later the rescue and relief team picked us up and let me tell you, we were all really drunk at that point.

But yeah.

Humans aren’t dangerous. And yes I would very much like another drink, most kind of you to offer.

#Haso #humans being weird little guys

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thecrayonindisguise · 14 days ago

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Chapter 7 A Heart’s Retreat|| Bonds and Barrier

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Original Female Character

Masterpost || << prev || next >>

Word Count: 10.6k

Warnings: no particular warnings, just a mean Caterina and a heartbroken Benedict

Authors Note: I know… I’m a bad person just for making Benedict suffer like that but things will change I promise

The weight of what they had been doing, what they had almost let happen, hung between them like a heavy fog.

They both knew it was only a matter of time.

As the sound of Teresa’s panicked calls for Caterina pierces through the air, a wave of reality crashes into her.

Her body tenses in Benedict’s arms, and for a fleeting second, their world stops.

All the warmth, the heat that had consumed them, dissipates in an instant, replaced by the harsh reality of where they are and what they’ve done.

Caterina’s breath hitches, panic seeping into her thoughts.

Her heart races as she pulls back from Benedict, her hands slipping from his hair, a shaky breath escaping her lips.

“my sister…we… we need to go,” she finally stammers, her voice trembling, barely a whisper.

Her wide eyes dart toward the door, where her sister’s voice is growing louder with each desperate call.

Teresa is too close now, her words almost echoing inside the room that had shielded them.

Benedict, though reluctant to let her go, realizes the urgency of the moment.

His chest heaves as he tries to steady himself, but he quickly nods in agreement.

“Come with me,” he whispers, grabbing her hand with a sense of quiet determination.

The contact sends a jolt through her, though this time it’s not desire but desperation that drives them forward.

Caterina hesitates for a heartbeat, her body still vibrating with the memory of his touch, the heat of his lips on her skin.

She glances toward the door again, her pulse thudding in her ears, and for a brief, foolish moment, she considers staying, letting Teresa find them, letting the world see them.

But reality crashes down again, and she knows they can’t.

Her fingers tighten around Benedict’s, and together, they move quickly, slipping out of the room through a very small secluded side exit, the noise of the party covering their hasty retreat.

Together, they move silently, quickly slipping out of the small room where they had been hidden.

Benedict keeps her close, his hand never leaving hers, guiding her through the exit with quiet determination.

Every touch, every brush of his fingers against her skin, sends shockwaves through her, reigniting the passion they had been forced to abandon.

But there’s no time for that now.

No time to think, no time to feel.

Just escape.

As they step out into the cool night air, the relief of escaping the intensity inside is palpable, but neither dares to speak.

The sudden change in temperature is a shock to Caterina’s system, the crisp breeze biting at her flushed cheeks and exposed skin.

She breathes deeply, trying to steady herself, but her heart is still pounding, and her legs feel like they might give way beneath her.

The sounds of the ball, though muffled by the walls, could still be heard faintly behind them, laughter, music, the clinking of glasses.

Yet it all felt so distant as if it belonged to another world entirely.

Benedict’s grip on Caterina’s hand was still firm, almost possessive, as though afraid she might slip away if he let go.

They moved quickly, their footsteps silent on the gravel path, the intensity of their retreat binding them together in a shared urgency.

Caterina’s heart raced, but this time it wasn’t from the passion of their stolen moment; it was from the growing sense of dread clawing at her insides.

Teresa was still looking for her, still calling out her name.

The thought of being caught, of her sister, seeing her like this, with him, sent a wave of panic through her.

They reached the shadowed corner of the garden, a secluded spot away from the prying eyes of the ballroom, and only then did Benedict stop.

His chest heaved with exertion, his breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts, and for a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both.

Caterina, too, was breathless, but it wasn’t just from the hurried escape.

Her mind was racing, her heart pounding in her chest, her skin still tingling from the memory of his touch.

She felt unsteady as if the ground beneath her had shifted, and she could barely keep her thoughts together.

The heat of their encounter still lingered between them, simmering just beneath the surface, but the reality of what they’d just done, of how close they’d come to being caught, was sinking in fast.

Benedict, still holding her hand, stepped closer, his eyes searching hers in the dim light.

“Caterina” he breathed, his voice low and urgent.

His free hand reached for her, his fingers brushing against her arm, as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from her just yet.

“We need to talk.”

But the sound of her sister’s voice, faint but unmistakable, pierced through the night once again.

Teresa.

Caterina’s heart lurched, and the anxiety that had been bubbling beneath the surface suddenly threatened to overwhelm her.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the fact that they were seconds away from being discovered.

The garden was dimly lit by the moon, casting soft shadows across the manicured hedges and stone pathways.

“No,” she whispered sharply, shaking her head as she pulled her hand free from Benedict’s grasp.

Her eyes darted towards the house, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“No, we can’t,”

Benedict reached out again, his hand against her arm, but she stepped back, her movements quick and jittery.

“Please, just listen to me—” he tried again, his voice insistent, but she cut him off.

“This never happened,” she said, her voice trembling as she stared up at him, her eyes wide with panic.

“No one can know. No one. We can’t let them find out.”

Her words hit him like a blow, and for a moment, Benedict froze, his expression tightening.

“Caterina…” he began, his voice tinged with frustration, but she shook her head, her eyes pleading.

“No Benedict,” she repeated, more firmly this time “You need to understand. It never happened.”

The weight of her words hung heavy between them, and for a brief, agonizing moment, Benedict said nothing.

His jaw clenched, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite place, anger, perhaps, or hurt.

But he knew there was no arguing with her now, not at this moment.

Her chest felt tight, her breathing shallow, and all she could think about was her sister, how close she was, how she couldn’t be seen like this.

“I have to go Benedict. My sister is looking for me.”

She trailed off, shaking her head.

The panic in her voice rose as her gaze darted around the darkened garden.

Benedict’s brow furrowed in concern, his frustration palpable.

He stepped toward her again, his hands reaching out to catch her, to stop her from slipping away.

“Caterina, please.”

“I can’t!” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, her nerves frayed to the breaking point.

She took a step back, her movements quick and jittery, like a bird ready to take flight.

Benedict’s face softened, though the frustration in his eyes was unmistakable.

He wanted to keep her there, to continue what they had started, to talk through whatever it was that had ignited between them in the room.

But he could see the panic in her eyes, the way her chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths.

He knew this wasn’t the time.

He took another step forward, but she was already moving away, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her eyes flickering with a mix of regret and panic. “I have to go.”

Without waiting for a response, Caterina turned and hurried away, her footsteps barely making a sound as she moved quickly back toward the house, her heart pounding in her chest.

She could still hear Teresa’s voice, now closer, and she knew she didn’t have much time before her sister found her.

She needed to regain control, to compose herself before anyone realized what had happened.

Benedict stood frozen for a moment, watching her retreating figure as she disappeared into the shadows of the garden, his jaw clenched with frustration.

His hands fell to his sides, his chest still heaving with the remnants of their encounter.

He wanted to chase after her, to pull her back to him, to tell her that he wasn’t willing to let her go.

But the sound of approaching voices, the soft hum of the partygoers inside, held him back.

He couldn’t risk it.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away, slipping into the shadows himself, the weight of their unfinished conversation hanging over him like a dark cloud.

─────────

Caterina moved swiftly through the garden, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind racing.

She had to calm down, she had to pull herself together.

The last thing she needed was for Teresa to see her like this.

As she neared the entrance to the house, she paused, taking a deep breath, forcing herself to steady her trembling hands.

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, her body still humming with the aftershocks of what had transpired between her and Benedict.

But the urgency of her situation drowned out the lingering sensations.

As she reached the side entrance of the house, she paused for a moment, pressing her back against the cool stone wall, trying to gather herself.

Her heart was still racing, her pulse thrumming in her ears, but she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.

She had to calm down.

A few moments passed, and the sound of footsteps approached.

She straightened, wiping her hands on her gown, smoothing the fabric in an effort to regain her composure.

Teresa’s voice was near now, her familiar tone filled with concern as she called out.

Caterina took one final deep breath, squared her shoulders, and lit a cigarette, her face carefully composed.

“Tess, I am here” she called, her voice steady, though her heart still pounded in her chest.

When she stepped into the moonlit clearing, she saw Teresa standing by the garden wall, a frown creasing her face.

“Kitty!” Teresa called out, her tone tinged with relief as she spotted her sister.

Caterina approached, her hands tucked behind her back, the cigarette dangling between her fingers.

She took a long, steady drag, letting the smoke curl around her like a protective shield.

It helped calm her nerves.

“Where have you been?” Teresa asked, her eyes scanning Caterina’s face for any sign of distress, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I needed some air,” Caterina replied, her voice carefully neutral.

She took another drag from her cigarette, blowing out the smoke in a slow exhale. “It was too crowded inside.”

Teresa’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her features. “Are you all sure? You look… flustered”

Caterina forced a smile, shaking her head.

“I’m fine, really.”

She took one last drag from her cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath her heel. “Let’s go back inside. I don’t want anyone to start asking questions.”

Teresa hesitated for a moment, still frowning, but eventually nodded.

“All right,” she said quietly, linking arms with Caterina. “But we’ll talk later, yes?”

Caterina’s smile faltered slightly, but she nodded in agreement.

“Later,” she murmured, though her mind was already elsewhere, the memory of Benedict’s touch still burning against her skin.

─────────

As Caterina and Teresa made their way back towards the ballroom, the silence between them felt heavy, weighted with unspoken words.

Teresa’s arm was still looped through Caterina’s, but there was a stiffness to her grip, a tension that hadn’t been there before.

Caterina could feel her sister’s eyes on her, watching, waiting for her to say something.

But Caterina kept her gaze fixed ahead her mind racing with how to divert Teresa’s inevitable questions.

While they reached the big ball’s door, Teresa slowed her pace and tugged at Caterina’s arm, forcing her to stop.

“Kitty,” she began, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “Please tell me the truth, what happened before?”

Caterina turned to face her sister, her expression carefully neutral.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone light as if Teresa’s concern were misplaced.

Teresa crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in the way it always did when she was worried.

“Don’t play coy with me, Kitty. I saw Mr. Bridgerton follow you out of the ballroom. I thought it was strange, this is the reason why I came looking for you, and you were nowhere to be found. What were you two?”

For a moment, Caterina’s heart skipped a beat, her mind scrambling to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t raise more suspicion.

Teresa had seen Benedict follow her?

How much had she noticed?

But Caterina couldn’t let the panic show.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to keep her composure.

“Oh, Tess,” Caterina said with a small, dismissive laugh, waving her hand as if it were all a silly misunderstanding.

“Mr. Bridgerton was just being polite, nothing more. He saw me heading outside and thought to check if I was all right. That’s all.”

Teresa’s frown deepened.

“Really? Because it didn’t look like that from where I was standing. It seemed like there was something… more.” Her eyes searched Caterina’s face, her suspicion growing. “You were gone for quite a while.”

Caterina felt the pressure building, the heat of her sister’s scrutiny making it harder to keep up the act.

But she knew she had to divert Teresa’s attention, to steer the conversation away from Benedict before her sister started piecing things together.

She took another step back, putting a little more distance between them, and plastered a casual smile on her face.

“Tess, honestly, you’re reading too much into this,” Caterina said smoothly, her tone light but firm.

“You know how stuffy it gets in those ballrooms. I just needed some air, and Mr. Bridgerton happened to see me. That’s it.” She shrugged as if it were the most innocent thing in the world.

“I was out here smoking to clear my head. It’s not like he stayed with me the whole time.”

Teresa tilted her head, clearly not entirely convinced.

“Then why didn’t you come back inside sooner?” she asked, her voice still laced with suspicion. “You know how worried I get when you disappear like that.”

Caterina’s heart raced, but she kept her expression calm, her smile never faltering.

“I lost track of time,” she said, her voice smooth.

“I didn’t realize I’d been out here for that long. I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said mocking her.

For a moment, Teresa studied her sister’s face, as if trying to see past the mask Caterina was wearing, to find the truth hidden beneath it.

But Caterina was skilled at keeping her emotions in check, and she knew how to deflect when necessary.

Teresa’s suspicion remained, but she didn’t press further.

Instead, she sighed, her expression softening slightly.

“All right,” she said quietly, though her tone still held a note of doubt. “Just… be careful, Kitty.”

Caterina’s smile tightened. “I can handle myself,” she replied quickly, trying to end the conversation.

She linked her arm with Teresa’s again, leading them both back towards the house.

“Now, come on. Let’s not give anyone else a reason to start gossiping, shall we?”

But Teresa wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.

“You know,” she said after a brief silence, her voice lower now, more pointed, “people are already starting to talk. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr. Bridgerton.”

Caterina felt a flicker of unease but kept her expression neutral.

“Isn’t that what people do at these events? Spend time with one another? It’s all part of the social whirl.”

“Yes, but…” Teresa hesitated, biting her lip as if she wasn’t sure how far to push. “But it’s different with him, isn’t it? I see the way he looks at you, Kitty.”

Caterina’s chest tightened.

“Tess,” she said softly, her voice holding a note of finality “Whatever you think you saw, it doesn’t matter. nothing happened. Do you understand?”

Her sister’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by the firmness in Caterina’s tone.

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the unspoken weight of the situation hanging between them.

Finally, Teresa nodded, though it was clear she was still uneasy.

“Fine,” she murmured, “if that’s what you say.”

Caterina forced a smile. “It is. Now, let’s go inside before anyone notices we’re missing.”

As they entered the ballroom together, Teresa glanced sideways at her sister, her suspicions still lingering, but for now, she let them rest.

Caterina, on the other hand, felt her stomach churn.

The relief of having avoided her sister’s probing questions was fleeting because deep down, she knew this wasn’t over.

─────────

The rest of the ball passed in a blur for Caterina.

The music, the laughter, and the swirling of skirts faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the relentless pounding of her heart.

She and Teresa had returned to the ballroom, blending seamlessly back into the festivities as though nothing had happened.

But Caterina’s mind was elsewhere, haunted by the feel of Benedict’s touch, the warmth of his lips still lingering on her skin.

As the evening finally drew to a close, the Medici sisters returned to their shared room, and their unspoken tension hung heavy in the air.

Caterina could feel it, the weight of her sister’s suspicions pressing down on her, but she had no energy left to confront it.

Once inside their room, Caterina quickly changed into her nightdress, the simple motions of removing her gown and unpinning her hair offering a small distraction from the chaos swirling in her mind.

She moved mechanically, avoiding Teresa’s eyes as she climbed into bed.

Teresa, still watching her sister with a mixture of concern and curiosity, hesitated before speaking.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Kitty?” she asked quietly, her voice soft in the dim light of their room.

Caterina pulled the covers up to her chest, her back to Teresa as she stared blankly at the wall.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

But she wasn’t fine. Not at all.

Teresa didn’t push further, though Caterina could sense the doubt still lingering in her sister’s thoughts.

She blew out the candle beside her bed and climbed in, the rustling of the sheets the only sound that filled the silence between them.

As the room descended into darkness, Caterina lay still, her mind refusing to quiet.

The events of the night played over and over in her head, each memory more vivid than the last.

The feel of Benedict’s lips on her neck, the heat of his body pressed against hers, it all came rushing back with an intensity that made her stomach twist in knots.

She had told herself it was a mistake, something that should never have happened.

But the truth was, at that moment, she had wanted it more than anything.

Caterina turned onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.

She could hear Teresa’s steady breathing beside her, and her mind raced, torn between the overwhelming desire she had felt with Benedict and the crushing weight of what that desire could mean.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly, the minutes crawling by in agonizing silence.

The night felt suffocating, the air in the room thick with unspoken words and unshed tears.

Caterina turned onto her side again, facing away from Teresa, but she couldn’t escape her own thoughts.

Her heart raced, her pulse drumming loudly in her ears as she clutched the edge of the blanket, twisting it between her fingers.

Anxiety surged within her, threatening to drown her in an overwhelming tide of confusion and guilt.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but it was useless.

Her mind was too loud, her thoughts too chaotic.

She wished she could tell Teresa everything.

She wished she could confide in her, to share the truth of what had happened with Benedict and how conflicted she felt about it.

But how could she?

How could she explain something she barely understood herself?

So instead, Caterina lay in the dark, trapped in the prison of her own thoughts, while the world outside slept peacefully.

But there would be no peace for her tonight.

Only the unrelenting ache of her heart, and the growing fear that, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t forget Benedict Bridgerton.

─────────

Dearest readers,

last night’s grand ball was nothing short of the dazzling affair we’ve all come to expect from the ton.

The glittering chandeliers, the elegant gowns, and the endless stream of whispered secrets in the air, oh, how I do love a good ball.

But amid the perfectly executed dances and seemingly flawless decorum, there was one incident that caught this author’s ever-watchful eye.

For those who were not fortunate enough to attend, allow me to paint the scene: Aubrey Hall’s ballroom was filled to the brim with London’s finest.

The season’s most sought-after ladies twirled in the arms of dashing gentlemen while matchmaking mamas surveyed potential suitors with hawk-like precision.

Everything was in its proper place, or so it seemed.

Yet as the night wore on, one particular young lady caused quite the stir, though I doubt she intended to. Miss Caterina Medici, one of the diamonds of this season, was seen making an unexpectedly hasty departure from the ballroom.

Eyes wide, face flushed, she slipped out as if in a state of distress.

And let me assure you, dear readers, she was not alone in her escape.

Now, I wouldn’t be Whistledown if I did not report that it was none other than Mr. Benedict Bridgerton who followed closely behind her.

Yes, you read that correctly, the second son of the illustrious Bridgerton family, well-known for his devilish good looks and artistic inclinations, appeared to be in quite the pursuit.

The question on everyone’s lips is, of course, why?

What exactly drove Miss Medici to flee such a grand event, and more importantly, what role did Mr. Bridgerton play in her sudden departure?

Did they, perhaps, share an intimate conversation that sent her spiraling?

Or could it be something more?

After all, we all know how emotions can run high during the season, particularly between two such intriguing individuals.

But here’s where the plot thickens: Miss Medici returned shortly thereafter, composed as ever, while Mr. Bridgerton was nowhere to be found.

How strange, indeed.

What could it be the secret that was exchanged in the shadows of the night? One wonders, dear readers, what secrets lie beneath the elegant exterior of the Medici family. With their recent arrival in London and the whispers that surround them, one cannot help but speculate about what we do not yet know.

But fear not, I, Lady Whistledown, shall make it my mission to uncover the truth behind this curious encounter.

For now, we can only watch and wait, eager to see what the next ball, or perhaps the next scandal, may reveal.

Until next time,

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

─────────

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows of the Langstone Villa’s breakfast room was in stark contrast to the heavy mood that hung in the air.

It was meant to be a peaceful morning, but peace was the furthest thing from the minds of the Medici and Langstone sisters as they gathered around the table, their plates of untouched food serving as mere props.

All eyes were fixed on Lady Whistledown’s Paper .

Lady Medici had just finished reading aloud the damning passage, her voice tense and her gaze shifting anxiously between her daughter and the scandalous paper.

“What exactly drove Miss Medici to flee such a grand event, and more importantly, what role did Mr. Bridgerton play in her sudden departure? Did they, perhaps, share an intimate conversation that sent her spiraling? Or could it be something more? After all, we all know how emotions can run high during the season, particularly between two such intriguing individuals. But here’s where the plot thickens: Miss Medici returned shortly thereafter, composed as ever, while Mr. Bridgerton was nowhere to be found.”

Lady Medici lowered the paper, her knuckles white as she clenched the edges. “Care to explain, Caterina?”

Caterina, seated directly across from her mother, felt the weight of the room pressing down on her.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mind raced, trying to formulate an explanation that wouldn’t set off even more alarms.

“I… It’s nothing, mama, I have already told you” Caterina stammered, her voice betraying her nerves. “Whistledown always exaggerates. You know how she is.”

Lady Medici’s eyes narrowed. “It didn’t sound like nothing. You disappeared during the ball, and now this? People will start to talk, and not just in whispers.”

Cynthia, ever the gossip enthusiast, leaned forward with wide eyes and a gleam of curiosity in her voice. “Did you really sneak out with Mr.Bridgerton, Caterina? I mean, if Whistledown wrote it, there has to be some truth to it, right?”

Olympia, who had been quietly observing, added, “I did see him leave the ballroom right after you, Caterina. It didn’t seem like a coincidence.”

The room was suffocating.

Caterina could feel her pulse pounding in her temples as the questions mounted.

The events of last night, the stolen moments with Benedict, the kiss, and the way his touch had ignited something deep inside her, were now being dragged into the harsh light of day.

And worse, Whistledown had taken those moments and woven them into a scandal.

Lady Medici let out a deep sigh and set her teacup down with a soft clink.

Her expression was unreadable, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her worry. “Caterina, cara mia , we cannot afford any more attention. We are already the subjects of gossip, being new to the ton. Do you realize what this could mean for your reputation?”

Caterina met her mother’s gaze, a surge of guilt twisting in her stomach.

She knew.

Oh, she knew.

She had been foolish, reckless even, to indulge in her feelings for Mr. Bridgerton in such a public setting.

But how could she explain the pull she felt toward him?

The way her body had responded to his touch as if it had been craving him all this time?

“Nothing inappropriate happened,” Caterina lied, her voice firmer this time, “We spoke for a moment outside. I needed some air. That’s all.”

Teresa, however, was not convinced.

Her sharp gaze pinned Caterina to the spot. “Just spoke? You were gone for a long time, and when I found you, you looked flustered. Benedict wasn’t with you when I caught up, but now Whistledown is implying that something happened…”

Caterina’s heart stammered in her chest.

Teresa wasn’t just suspicious; she was hurt, and worried for her sister’s future in a world that thrived on reputation.

Caterina needed to tread carefully, or the situation could spiral out of control.

“I swear, nothing untoward happened,” Caterina insisted, “Whistledown is making something out of nothing. You know how she operates, turning whispers into grand stories. we knew something like that would happen, I am one of the diamonds of the season, I am in the eyes of all!”

Lady Medici exhaled sharply, cutting off Caterina with a stern glance. “Enough of this gossip, We must focus on what’s important, your reputation.”

Olympia, sensing the rising tension, tried to offer some comfort. “Perhaps Whistledown is just being dramatic like she usually is. The ton will forget about it soon enough if nothing more comes of it.”

But Lady Langstone, who had been silent until now, interjected with a concerned frown.

“This won’t go away that easily, Olympia. We all know how the ton thrives on scandal, especially when a Bridgerton is involved. Caterina, you must be more careful, for your own good”

The words struck like a blow, and Caterina flinched inwardly.

“Nothing will come of it,” Caterina said, more for her own reassurance than anyone else’s.“We were in public; we didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lady Medici exchanged a glance with Lady Langstone, both women clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press further.

Teresa, however, wasn’t letting go that easily.

Olympia and Cynthia began to chatter about the next ball, their voices light and gossipy, while Lady Medici and Lady Langstone whispered to each other.

Teresa, though silent, kept her eyes on Caterina, still unconvinced.

Caterina stared down at her plate, her appetite long gone.

The weight of the morning pressed heavily on her chest, and despite her outward calm, she felt the anxiety creeping up her spine.

Her future, her reputation, it all seemed to hinge on a single night and a scandalous rumor.

Oh, how she hates these British foolish gossip and all those people who enjoy it.

And worst of all, the memory of Benedict’s lips on hers, his hands on her skin, made her heart race.

B ut now, it was not just desire she felt, it was fear.

Fear that she was falling into something she couldn’t control.

Something that could ruin everything.

─────────

At the same time, the Bridgerton house was quiet, the stillness of the early morning only disturbed by the faint rustling of papers in the drawing room and the occasional footsteps of a maid setting up the last things from Aubrey Hall.

Benedict, however, was anything but still.

His heart was thumping in his chest, his mind racing, even as he made his way to the family’s study.

As he walked down the corridor, the weight of the decision he had made the night before settled deeper into his bones.

The memory of Caterina’s lips on his, the feel of her skin under his fingers, it had solidified something in him.

He loved her.

There was no doubt in his mind.

He had never felt like this before, not with any woman.

But it was also exhilarating.

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

Inside, Anthony, Colin, and Edward were seated in various states of comfort around the polished mahogany table.

The room, normally a space of serious Bridgerton affairs, was filled with the smell of coffee and the faint hint of cigar smoke, though none of them appeared to be smoking at the moment.

The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting an amber glow on the dark wood paneling, but despite the calm atmosphere, Benedict felt the tension thickening the air as soon as he stepped inside.

Colin, lounging lazily in a leather armchair, looked up first, his trademark smirk already in place.

“Ah, here he is, the man of the hour. How are you feeling this fine morning, Benedict? Not too tired from all that… mingling of the other night, I hope?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of curiosity there too.

Anthony, the eldest Bridgerton, sat with his back straight, his brow furrowed in concern.

He looked at Benedict in that older-brother way, half-guarded, half-expectant, as if waiting for a problem to solve.

His cousin, Lord Edward Ducker, observed quietly from his seat by the window, arms crossed over his chest, though his eyes followed Benedict’s every movement.

Benedict, ignoring Colin’s jibes, moved to stand in front of them, his hands resting on the back of one of the chairs.

His heart raced, but his voice was steady as he spoke.

“I’ve made a decision,” he began, his eyes flicking from Anthony to Colin and finally to Edward. “I’m going to propose to Miss Caterina Medici.”

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket.

Colin’s grin froze in place, turning into something resembling disbelief.

Anthony’s expression darkened slightly, while Edward raised an eyebrow, his lips tightening in a mixture of surprise and skepticism.

Colin was the first to recover, his mouth twitching with amusement as he sat up in his chair.

“Propose? You ?” he asked, his voice tinged with incredulity.

“Benedict Bridgerton, who has sworn off marriage time and time again, is now talking about proposing? To the diamond of the season, no less?”

Benedict’s jaw clenched.

He had expected this reaction, but it still stung. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I love her.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and the effect was immediate.

Colin’s amusement faded, replaced by genuine surprise, while Anthony and Edward exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.

Anthony, ever the voice of caution, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Benedict,” he began slowly, his tone careful, “you’ve barely known her. Are you sure you’re thinking this through? Love is one thing, but marriage is a lifelong commitment. And Miss Medici is…well… you know.”

Benedict frowned, his grip tightening on the chair. “I know exactly what it means,” he replied, his voice low but firm. “But she’s not like people think. She’s different.”

Edward, who had remained silent so far, spoke up then, his deep voice calm but direct.

“Benedict, you need to understand what you’re getting into. Are you sure she feels the same way about you? Are you sure she’s not just… entertaining herself?”

Benedict’s chest tightened at the implication, but he forced himself to stay calm.

“I know her,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

“She’s not like that. We’ve spent time together. She’s opened up to me in ways I don’t think she has with anyone else here. She’s afraid, yes, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel something for me.”

Colin scoffed, though not unkindly, as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“And what if you’re wrong, brother? What if she’s just toying with you? You’re a second son, Benedict. You don’t have a title, and you certainly don’t have the kind of wealth a woman like her would expect. Why would she settle for you when she could have a duke or an earl wrapped around her finger?”

Benedict’s eyes flashed with anger, but he bit back a sharp retort.

“It’s not about that,” he said tightly.

“Caterina isn’t like other women here. She doesn’t care about titles or money. She wants something real. And I’m going to give that to her.”

Anthony sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Benedict, I’m not questioning your feelings for her. But you have to understand. She’s lived a life of privilege and expectations. What happens when her family pressures her to marry someone with more status?”

Edward nodded in agreement, his tone measured.

“They’ll want her to marry someone who can offer her a future in high society, someone who can elevate her position even more. You’re a Bridgerton, yes, but that might not be enough for them. And if she turns you down…”

Benedict’s heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to back down.

“I’m willing to take that risk,” he said quietly but firmly. “Because I know she feels the same I saw it in her eyes the other night. She’s just scared, that’s all.”

Colin shook his head, a mixture of amusement and concern in his expression.

“You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak, brother. I’ve seen the way she is at these events. She’s distant, guarded. She knows how to play the game, Benedict. And what if you’re just another piece on her chessboard?”

Benedict straightened, his voice firm and resolute. “She’s not playing with me. You don’t know her like I do.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he studied his younger brother. “And you’re willing to throw everything on the line for her?”

Benedict’s eyes blazed with determination.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I love her, and I’m going to ask her to marry me. Whether she says yes or no, I need her to know that I’m serious about her.”

Edward sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just… be prepared, Benedict. This might not go the way you want it to.”

Anthony nodded, though his expression was grim. “We’ll support you, no matter what. But just… don’t be blind to the realities of her world.”

Colin, still skeptical, added, “And if she turns you down, you better believe we’ll be here with a bottle of whiskey to drown your sorrows.”

Benedict’s lips twitched in a small smile, but his resolve remained unshaken.

“I won’t need it,” he said quietly. “Because I’m going to marry her.”

─────────

The stately Langstone villa stood bathed in the twilight, its towering columns and grand fa��ade casting shadows across the manicured lawns.

Inside, the air was rich with the lingering scent of the evening’s supper, but for Benedict Bridgerton, everything beyond the walls of this moment felt distant, irrelevant.

His heart pounded, every beat a resounding reminder of what he was about to do.

Benedict’s footsteps echoed faintly as he was led through the grand corridors of the house, the grandeur of the villa contrasting with the storm of emotions that swirled inside him.

The ornate decorations, the fine oil paintings, and the gilded mirrors lining the walls felt almost suffocating in their perfection.

His throat tightened with anticipation.

How had he let it come to this?

How had a woman, a woman like her, come to mean so much to him?

As the servant gestured toward a smaller, private room, a parlor on the far side of the house, Benedict steeled himself.

This was it.

He’d come with a single purpose tonight: to ask for her hand.

The notion of his proposal had been dismissed by his brothers and cousin, but what did they know?

His heart, filled with a profound certainty, told him that Caterina was the woman he was meant to be with.

The moment they’d shared at Aubrey Hall had only deepened his resolve.

He had barely taken his seat when the door opened with a soft creak, and there she was.

Caterina Medici stood in the doorway, every inch the poised and elegant lady she was bred to be.

Her gown was deep sapphire, cinched tightly at her waist, its fabric shimmering faintly in the dim candlelight.

Her hair was swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, but it was her eyes, those deep, impenetrable eyes, that arrested him.

They seemed colder tonight, sharper, as if the weight of their last encounter had left her guarded.

Yet despite her cool demeanor, Benedict could see traces of something simmering beneath the surface.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she greeted, her voice smooth as silk, though touched with the faintest edge of tension. “I was surprised by your call. To speak with me privately, at this hour.”

He rose from his chair, his heart a riot of emotion as he struggled to find the right words.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Medici. I… I have something important to say.”

Her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “So I gathered. Speak then.”

Benedict’s breath hitched, his throat tightening.

She was right in front of him, so close, and yet she felt a world away.

He had never known someone who could make him feel so alive and yet so uncertain at the same time.

“Miss Medici” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I know things have been… complicated between us. But what I feel for you is not something I can ignore any longer... I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He could see her stiffen, her eyes narrowing just slightly, but she said nothing.

He pressed on, his words tumbling out now, desperate to reach her.

“I love you, and I want to marry you. After what we shared at Aubrey Hall, I knew, no, I f elt , that you cared for me too.”

Her reaction was subtle at first, a slight tightening of her jaw, a flicker in her eyes.

Then, after a long pause, she let out a small, disbelieving laugh, a sound that felt as though it sliced through the very air between them.

“You love me?” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “You wish to marry me ?”

Benedict’s heart lurched at the coldness in her tone.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I want you to be my wife, Caterina. I know that I may not have—”

“You don’t have anything,” she interrupted sharply, her eyes glinting like shards of glass.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you’re nothing more than the second son of a viscount. You have no title, no wealth, no status beyond what your family name provides.”

He flinched at the harshness of her words but remained standing firm, his resolve unshaken. “I may not have a title,” he replied softly, “but I have you.”

For the briefest of moments, her expression wavered, just the tiniest crack in her otherwise perfect mask, but she quickly smothered it.

Her arms folded across her chest as she let out a sigh of exaggerated exasperation.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she began, her voice dangerously calm, “you were nothing more than entertainment. A fleeting distraction. I am here to find a husband who can secure a future, a man with wealth and a title. I thought you knew”

Each word landed like a blow to Benedict’s chest.

His mind raced to reconcile the woman standing before him with the one he had shared that passionate night with.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You can’t. Caterina, I know what we shared -”

“What we shared?” she repeated with a biting laugh, turning to face him again.

“Do you honestly believe that our… indiscretion meant anything to me? It never happened. Nothing happened.”

His breath caught in his throat. “How can you say that? How can you stand there and deny what we felt?”

She took another step closer, her eyes flashing with something dangerous. “Because there is nothing to feel. I could never have an interest in marrying someone who cannot offer me the future I deserve.”

His heart shattered with every cruel word she spoke.

He had come here, full of hope, convinced that love could conquer all, convinced that she would choose him.

But now, standing in front of her, he felt like a naive child who had been lured into a game he could never win.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you pushing me away?”

Caterina’s gaze flickered again, but her face remained hard, cold.

Deep inside, she could feel the faintest stirrings of something, Guilt? Regret? She wasn’t sure.

But she shoved it down, buried it deep within herself, where it couldn’t touch her.

Where it couldn’t make her weak.

Because she knew weakness had no place in her life.

“You are nothing more than a means to an end, Mr Bridgerton,” she said, her tone like ice. “ You’re a man with no title, no fortune, and no real prospects. What could you possibly offer me that would compare to what I could have?”

Benedict clenched his fists at his sides, fighting back the wave of pain and anger that surged through him.

His chest felt tight, his throat constricting with the weight of her words.

But despite it all, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her.

He still loved her, even now, standing before her cold rejection.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “You’re wrong about us, and you’re wrong about yourself.”

Caterina’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, she said nothing.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel the weight of his words sinking into her.

But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself feel.

Not after what happened.

With one last, cold look, she turned and walked toward the door.

“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said without looking back. “I suggest you leave now, and forget this ever happened.”

Benedict stood there, rooted to the spot, his heart in tatters as the door clicked shut behind her.

The room was now empty, but it felt suffocating, the silence unbearable.

He had offered her everything, and she had thrown it all away.

─────────

After the harsh sting of Caterina’s rejection, Benedict returned to his home, feeling as though the weight of the world had settled upon his shoulders.

The halls of the Bridgerton residence were filled with the familiar sounds of family life, laughter, and chatter echoing from the drawing room, but all he could hear was the dull thrum of disappointment in his chest.

He moved aimlessly through the corridors, seeking solace, yet the warmth of the home felt distant and cold.

Eventually, he found his way to the garden, a sanctuary where he often escaped to reflect and breathe.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, yet the beauty of the evening was lost on him.

He approached the swing set nestled under a sprawling oak, its ropes slightly swaying in the gentle breeze, and lowered himself onto one of the swings.

Benedict pushed off the ground slightly, the creaking of the swing mirroring the ache in his heart.

He stared at the flowers in bloom around him, their vibrant colors stark against his gloom.

Caterina had taken him by surprise, he had believed they shared something meaningful, a connection that transcended the expectations of their society.

Yet she had rejected him.

What had he expected?

Caterina was seeking someone with a title, a man who could offer her a future of security and status.

He was just a Bridgerton, an artist with no lofty prospects to present.

As he pondered these thoughts, he heard footsteps approaching.

He glanced up to see his sister, Eloise, striding toward him with her usual confidence.

Spotting him in his melancholic state, she paused at the entrance to the garden, her hands on her hips, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Goodness, Benedict! You look positively miserable,” she called out, a teasing lilt to her voice as she settled onto the swing opposite him, “I thought the great Benedict Bridgerton was above such sulking.”

He managed a weak smile, grateful for her presence.

“Ah, dear sister, you have me at a disadvantage. I had hoped to wallow in my melancholy without your sharp tongue piercing through it.”

Eloise swung her legs back and forth, a playful rhythm setting the tempo of their conversation.

“Wallowing? I must say, you’re not doing a very good job of it. If you’re going to be dramatic, at least commit to the performance.”

Benedict let out a soft chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“I suppose you’re right. It’s just… it didn’t go as I had hoped. I proposed, I proposed to Miss Caterina Medici and she, well, she turned me down.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from playful to genuinely concerned.

“Miss Medici? I thought you had something special!”

“Apparently not special enough,” he replied, his voice laced with bitterness. “She wants someone with prospects. I’m just a man with dreams of paint and canvas.”

Eloise regarded him for a moment, her eyes softening.

“Ben, listen to me. Marriage and love are not the be-all and end-all of life. Sure, they can be wonderful, but they are not essential. You have your art. Why should you pin your happiness on the whims of a woman who doesn’t see your worth?”

“It’s not that simple,” he countered, his frustration creeping back. “I thought, after everything, she understood me. But I guess I was wrong.”

Eloise pushed herself off the ground, swinging higher, the momentum lifting her spirits.

“You were not wrong to feel what you felt, but you can’t let it define you. Look at me, I’m quite the catch and yet, I refuse to be tied down by the ridiculous notions of society.”

She smirked. “Besides, who needs a husband when I have the honor of being my own person?”

Benedict couldn’t help but grin at her defiance.

“Perhaps you’re right. I should focus on what I can create instead.”

“Exactly!” Eloise exclaimed, swinging higher.

“Pour your heart into your art. Let it be your refuge. And who knows? Perhaps you’ll find someone who appreciates you for who you are, not for what you can offer. And if not, well, at least you’ll have created something beautiful.”

For a moment, silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the gentle creaking of the swings.

Benedict felt the weight on his heart begin to lift, replaced by a flicker of hope.

Eloise was right, there was so much more to life than the confines of society’s expectations.

“Thank you, Eloise,” he finally said, his voice steadier. “You always know how to put things into perspective.”

“Of course! That’s what sisters are for,” she replied, her sharp humor shining through once more.

“Now, stop sulking. Let’s go find something to eat. I hear there’s a cake in the kitchen, and I refuse to let my brother wallow on an empty stomach.”

With that, they both rose from their swings, laughter echoing through the garden, the evening sun casting a warm glow around them.

─────────

In the Langstone garden, beneath a canopy of stars, Caterina sat on a secluded bench, her thoughts as restless as the night around her.

Clad in her nightgown, she gazed up at the sky, seeking solace in its vastness.

The soft rustling of leaves announced her sister’s arrival, and soon Teresa’s familiar form appeared beside her.

“I knew I would find you here,” Teresa said gently, settling next to her. “You always look at the sky when something troubles you.”

Her voice was a balm, warm and comforting in the cool night air.

Caterina turned to her, offering a small, grateful smile.

She appreciated the simple gesture, yet it did little to ease the storm brewing within her.

“It’s just a beautiful night,” she replied, her tone light but her heart heavy.

“Do you want to talk?” Teresa nudged her arm lightly, the familiarity of their bond evident in the gesture.

Caterina shook her head, her smile fading into a more introspective expression.

Teresa made a soft sound of disapproval, leaning her head against Caterina’s shoulder.

“Oh, Kitty,” she murmured as if that simple truth could coax out all the secrets Caterina held close, “Do you remember when Papa would catch us sneaking sweets from the kitchen, and then Mama would pretend to scold us, but we knew she was secretly amused? We were like little genies, always getting into mischief.”

Caterina laughed softly at the memory, the sound tinged with bittersweet nostalgia.

“I can almost taste the chocolate now,” she mused, her mind drifting to the simplicity of those carefree days.

Teresa seized on that moment of lightness. “I think I know why you’re so unsettled tonight.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Caterina asked, a hint of challenge in her voice as she raised an eyebrow.

Teresa didn’t miss a beat. “Something happened, didn’t it? And maybe, just maybe, it involves a certain Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Caterina snorted dismissively, but Teresa wasn’t fooled.

She lifted her head, her eyes soft but searching as they met Caterina’s.

“You have feelings for him, Kitty… it’s as clear as day. You cannot deny it.”

Caterina’s laugh was bitter, laced with sarcasm. “Feelings? What a notion… You’re just exaggerating.”

But Teresa remained steadfast, her gaze unwavering. “You know I’m not. There is nothing wrong with loving someone. Why are you so strict with yourself?”

Caterina’s voice grew colder, more defensive.

“Falling in love is something I can’t afford, Tess. It’s a luxury for fools and those who still believe in fairy tales.”

“So, I’m a fool, then? Just because I love Lord Ducker?” Teresa asked, her tone gentle but firm.

Caterina sighed, her resolve faltering. “You know that’s not what I meant. He’s a good man, with good intentions.”

Teresa’s voice grew softer, more tender. “Kitty, you’re still holding onto the past… It’s been so long. It’s time to move on.”

“I have moved on, haven’t I? We’re here, aren’t we? Searching for a husband. Isn’t that enough?”

Caterina’s words were sharp, but there was an undercurrent of vulnerability in them that Teresa didn’t miss.

Teresa sighed again, taking her sister’s hand in hers. “What happened, Kitty? What did Mr. Bridgerton do?”

Caterina’s face tensed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He proposed… and I refused him.”

Teresa’s expression shifted to one of surprise and concern.

“He proposed? Oh, Kitty… what did you say? Why would you refuse him?”

Caterina turned her gaze to the ground, shame creeping into her heart.

“I told him he was just a man without a title, with no prospect. I made it clear that I would never marry him. But…”

“And do you regret it?” Teresa asked, her brow furrowing. “You don’t truly mean that, do you? He’s such a good man, and you two seem to have a genuine connection.”

Caterina felt the heat rising to her cheeks. “I thought I could play my part, Tess. I can’t let my feelings, my desires -”

She looked away, her heart heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. “There are expectations… you know this. I must secure a future.”

Teresa’s eyes softened with understanding. “But what if that future comes at the cost of your happiness? You should not deny yourself something that could bring you joy.” She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

Teresa’s eyes softened with understanding. “Mr. Bridgerton is a good man, Kitty. Look at his family, and how they care for one another. Why do you deprive yourself of being happy? You always put others’ happiness above your own, and never yours.”

Caterina’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she whispered, “Because when I did, I brought us here, away from our home. I don’t want to cause any more displeasure for our family.”

She had come to England hoping to start anew, but those shadows were long and unforgiving.

“That’s not true, Kitty,” Teresa insisted, squeezing her sister’s hand. “You did not cause any displeasure. It’s not your fault we are here. Mama and I have told you that over and over.”

Caterina looked away, the familiar pang of guilt resurfacing.

Teresa smiled softly, brushing a tear from Caterina’s cheek. “You should listen to me more. You always act like the older sister, but in truth, we came into this world at the same time. We’re twins.”

“Twins,” Caterina repeated, her voice tinged with a mix of affection and frustration. “Sometimes, I wish you could see the world through my eyes.”

“I think I do, in some ways,” Teresa replied gently. “I see you, Kitty. I see your heart, and I believe you can find a way to navigate this. You can’t do that if you keep running from the truth of who you are and what you feel.”

Caterina remained silent, her gaze fixed on the stars, as she struggled with the truth in her sister’s words.

Teresa squeezed her sister’s hand reassuringly. “Remember that. You’ve always been the strong one, Kitty,” Teresa added softly. “And no matter what happens, you’ll find your way.”

Though the conversation had eased some of her fears, the path forward was still shrouded in uncertainty.

A part of her craved the freedom to love and be loved, yet the other part was shackled by the chains of her past and the weight of her family’s expectations.

Caterina’s heart fluttered at her sister’s unwavering faith in her.

Yet, the uncertainty lingered, whispering doubts and fears in her ear as she stared into the depths of the night sky.

The stars shimmered back at her, each one a flicker of hope, urging her to embrace the possibilities that lay ahead.

And when Teresa returned to bed Caterina remained sat in the Langstone garden.

The cold night air seeped through the thin fabric of her nightgown, but she barely felt it.

She still was too lost in her thoughts, tangled in the web of emotions that had been brewing ever since Benedict had proposed.

The conversation with Teresa had stirred something deep within her, but the calmness of her sister’s words hadn’t fully extinguished the storm raging inside.

Instead, it had merely pulled back the veil she had kept so tightly wrapped around her heart.

As she stared up at the sky, the stars blurred before her eyes.

She wasn’t sure if it was the darkness or the upcoming tears, but either way, the night offered no comfort.

The expanse above seemed endless, much like the uncertainty gnawing at her chest.

Her mind kept drifting back to that moment, Benedict’s face, the way his eyes had softened when he spoke, his voice steady yet vulnerable as he asked her to be his wife.

It had caught her off guard, even though, deep down, she had sensed that it was coming.

And what had she done?

She had thrown his words back at him, cold and cutting.

“A man without a title, no wealth, no status” she had called him. “you were nothing more than entertainment. A fleeting distraction”

The memory of those words burned inside her now, laced with the bitterness of regret.

How could she have said something so cruel?

But she knew why.

It wasn’t because she didn’t care for him.

Quite the opposite.

Her feelings for him had grown in ways she hadn’t expected, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

He was different from the other men who had courted her.

They had come with titles, with estates, with the proper airs and expectations of society.

But Benedict had none of that.

And yet, he had something far more dangerous, he had the power to make her feel.

That was what scared her the most.

She had spent years mastering the art of detachment.

Love, she had always believed, was a frivolous thing, a distraction that only led to heartbreak.

She had found out for yourself and witnessed the destruction that love could cause when it wasn’t reciprocated or when it was taken for granted.

And she had vowed never to let herself fall into that trap again.

But now, here she was, caught in the very snare she had so carefully avoided.

And the worst part was, that she had pushed away the one man who might have been worth the risk.

“You have feelings for him, Kitty,” Teresa had said, her voice soft yet insistent.

At the time, Caterina had scoffed and dismissed it as nonsense.

But now, in the silence of the garden, those words echoed in her mind with undeniable truth.

Did she have feelings for him?

Could she?

The very thought unsettled her and made her heart race with a mixture of fear and longing.

Benedict Bridgerton was not just a man she could admire from afar.

He was someone who had seen her, truly seen her, not as a prize to be won or a means to elevate his social standing, but as a woman with thoughts, desires, and flaws.

And she had lashed out at him for it, terrified of what it meant to be seen so clearly.

She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her hands clutching the fabric of her nightgown as if it could ground her.

“We came here to find a husband,” she thought, her mind circling back to the very reason they had left Italy.

That had been the plan, hadn’t it? To secure a future, to marry well, to restore the family’s fortune and reputation.

But now, the idea seemed hollow, almost laughable.

“And I received a proposal from a man for whom I could feel something…,” she mused, the irony not lost on her.

She had come to England with a clear purpose, yet the one proposal that had come her way was from a man who defied every expectation she had set for herself.

Benedict was not like the suitors she had imagined.

He was not a lord with vast estates or a baron with endless wealth.

He was an artist, someone who saw the world through a different lens, someone who valued creativity and passion over status.

And in him, she had seen a glimpse of a life that was different from the one she had been raised to pursue.

Could she have that life?

Could she allow herself to embrace something so uncertain, so far removed from the path she had always believed she should follow?

Her mind flashed back to Teresa’s words. “You deserve to be happy.”

The statement had been so simple, so earnest, and yet it had struck a chord deep within her.

Caterina had never truly considered her own happiness.

She had always placed duty above desire, obligation above emotion.

But now, in the stillness of the night, she allowed herself to wonder…

was that all she was meant for?

A life of doing what was expected of her, at the cost of her own heart?

She thought about Benedict again, about the way he had looked at her as if she were more than just a Medici, more than just a pawn in the game of marriage and social advancement.

He had seen her as a woman, someone with her own thoughts, her own dreams.

And for a brief moment, she had felt seen.

Truly seen.

But that feeling had scared her.

It had made her want to retreat, to hide behind the walls she had built so carefully over the years.

And that was why she had rejected him.

Not because he wasn’t worthy, but because she was afraid.

Afraid of what it meant to open herself up to the possibility of love.

Love.

The word felt foreign on her tongue, yet it lingered in her thoughts.

Could she love Benedict?

Could she allow herself to feel something so deep, so consuming?

Her heart ached with the weight of the question.

She had spent so long denying herself the possibility of happiness, convinced that it was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

But now, she was beginning to see that perhaps she had been wrong.

Perhaps happiness wasn’t something to be earned or deserved, it was something to be embraced.

And Benedict had offered her that chance.

A chance to be loved, to be happy.

Tears welled in her eyes as the realization settled over her.

She had been running from the very thing she had secretly longed for.

She had pushed him away, not because he wasn’t enough, but because she had believed she wasn’t enough.

“I deserve to be happy,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

It felt strange to say it aloud, to acknowledge that she, too, was worthy of love and joy.

But now that the words were out, she couldn’t take them back.

They hung in the air, mingling with the night breeze, and for the first time in a long time, Caterina felt a flicker of hope.

It wasn’t too late.

She could still make things right.

She could still choose to follow her heart, to take the risk that she had been so afraid of.

With a deep breath, she rose from the bench, her legs shaky but her resolve stronger than it had been earlier.

Tomorrow, she would find Benedict.

Tomorrow, she would face the truth, her truth.

And no matter how terrifying it might be, she would no longer hide from it.

“I deserve to be happy,” she repeated, more firmly this time, as if saying the words again would make them real.

And maybe, just maybe, she would find the courage to believe them.

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton angst #bridgerton fandom #bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton x oc #benedict bridgerton imagine

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unfortunately-obsessed · 6 months ago

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Remember this post I talked about eletromagnetism?

I did talk how the universe is permeated in eletromagnetism and yet Magneto wouldn't be able to stop bullets through the lead as it is not ferromagnetic (most bullets nowadays are made of lead)

I don't thinking I said it clearly enough, but he could still use paramagnetism to stop them, cuz as I said everything is affected by diamagnetism

And this got me thinking

...Oxygen is diamagnetic

So... He could deflect any projectile through controlling the air around him

And now I'm thinking about force fields that he used multiple times in the series. He can simply use manipulate magnetic fields into working as shields

But theorically, by using eletromagnetism and radiation, he can heat up air creating a field of ionised superheated air-plasma around him that could lessen shockwaves/blows too

Isn't that cool?

#magneto #erik lensherr #xmen 97 #x men 97 #me!xmen #me!theories #i love fictional science

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papakhan · 6 months ago

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Episode 1

Fuck it, I'm gonna do it anyway. Here's all the notes I took when watching episode 1 of the godawful fallout tv show. enjoy. I'm gonna run through this with notes I made while I watched the show so formatting might be kinda weird, I haven't done anything like this before so bare with me. I will try to explain things as if you the reader have not seen the show. This is gonna be very long and heavy on the hate and the spoilers.

Content warnings:

rape

incest

gif of the fight scene violence

self harming

Things I liked:

Vault Dwellers reusing the same wedding dress and everyone who'd worn it writing their names on the inside. that's sweet

"don't lose your head" vault poster during a firefight

Johnny Cash

I like Brotherhood Clerics but they totally fucked up the ranking system

The vault dwellers just painting over the blood on the walls

Horses are canon now

Goofy wasteland urban legends like "a feral ghoul does not abide a chicken"

That's literally it. Now it's time for everything else. I'll break it down into character bits since that's what the show does

Cooper

So Cooper Cowboy ghoul man is divorced and he's at this birthday party in I'm guessing Hollywood overlooking LA. It's a beautiful sunny day :) Bare in mind that in this scene the nukes drop so Bethesda has already fucked their own lore of the nukes dropping at 9:40am in Boston would mean that it should be 6:40am in California. Sunrise in California in October is 7am, btw. So already we're fucked. Real "design documents are a waste of time" behaviour on display here.

Anyway, nuke goes off. Now let me ask you something. What's one of the most infamous things about nuclear bombs? The flash, right? A nuclear explosion is bright enough to blind a person. Fallout 4 understood this, at least a little, where the flash of light from the bomb would fill your screen even if you weren't facing it, which is how nukes work. Closing your eyes in the face of a nuke would be pointless because the light would pass through your eyelids. There's even reports of people who held up their hands to shield the light and could see THEIR BONES THROUGH THEIR HANDS. That's how bright they are. They are horrifying weapons of mass destruction.

The nuke that hits LA is not a nuke, the flash of light on Janey's face (cooper's kid and the ONE SINGLE PERSON who notices a NUCLEAR FUCKING BOMB) is more akin to a camera flash. again. she is the only fucking person who notices a nuclear bomb go off, everyone else at the party is distracted by a TV of all things.

In the time between the ""flash"" of the bomb here's everything that happens before Cooper and co feel the shockwave

Janey notices the pathetic flash and looks up.

She holds up her thumb in the "vault boy" way

Cooper comes out of the house and walks over to Janey

He crouches down beside her and says some bullshit along the lines of "i got some cake for my favourite cowgirl"

Janey says "was it your thumb or my thumb?"

Cooper looks towards the source of the nuke and slowly stands up, watching it for a moment

He says "that's just a fire janey" as the smoke unfurls into a very obvious mushroom cloud

He realises that it was not. just a fire

then they get hit by a shockwave

This takes almost a full minute and none of the segments is supposed to be slow motion. Listen I know that light moves faster than sound and heat but come on. It's way too slow and also. dead fucking silent. also the shockwave comes before the mushroom cloud but who cares.

Anyway cooper gets on a horse with the girl and rides off down the road in the direction of LA. good job dude.

I've already read up about yknow who it was who wanted the nukes fired and I know that it was Barb who wanted the nukes dropped on America for?? vault tec profit??? so uh. why did she let Janey go to a birthday party with Cooper?

Lucy

x3 Incest jokes may not seem like a lot but it was 3 too many for me. I hate the "good karma" noise that played when Lucy got arranged married. I said I liked the vault poster of "don't lose your head" but I hate the way Lucy keeps getting her inspiration from Vault Boy I'm sorry but its annoying and dumb to me. Interconnected vaults in LA is also. dumb. you're telling me The Master didn't notice these fucking things? you're kidding. Look at it, it's not even hidden in a cave or anything its just out in the open.

Way to retroactively make the Master look like a moron, though I know they do this to Mr House later on. ugh.

Her intro makes it sound like she's supposed to have Tagged Skills in repair, speech and science but she displays none of this in the later episodes I have seen, in fact her speech seems like utter dogshit so what was the point in introducing her in a "game protag" way if none of that was gonna get used later?

Anyway, lets get onto the raiders. If you know me, you know I love raiders. They're a cool and interesting critique of individualism and "might makes right" and also aesthetically just kind of fuck.

Now, knowing what I know about Moldaver and her being the current ?leader of the NCR remnants, that implies that the people she has led into Vault 33 are former NCR citizens or soldiers, right? right?

So the ""fall of shady sands"" according to the show is 2277 and yeah sure okay that's during new vegas' time and sure okay right todd howard promised that this didn't de-canonise fallout new vegas. however. it's 2296 meaning it's been 19 years since Shady Sand's.......decline. and 15 years since New Vegas where we last saw the NCR. And i know that the NCR aren't exactly the good guys To suggest that in less than 20 years the citizens of shady sands have been reduced to Bethesda-style raiders who:

Are unable to use utensils such as knives and forks

Can't grow crops

Don't know how to use cups

Will rape a woman, wipe his dick on a curtain, and then try to murder said woman

Shoveling fistfuls of cake into their mouth during a firefight

Threatening a pregnant woman

In another episode one of these guys is interrogated/interviews and shows their asshole to the guy talking to him.

is fucking ludicrous

Anyway Monty looks like Jerma

RIP

Anywayyyy how come only Lucy's pipboy picked up on the radiation from these outsiders huh? everyone else was wearing a pipboy during the wedding, they sat next to each other, those geigar counters would have been going off. what? they had them on silent out of respect of a good Christian wedding? if you try to convince me that's the explanation I will eat your liver. Bethesda raider style

anyway no.2 girlypop (lucy) straight up pulls a knife out of her wound which is medical petpeeve no.9394328 for me but then its immediately resolved by a stimpak. I hate how stimpaks in the show are used exactly how they are in the game. I was under the impression that it was a video game mechanic and not how it actually worked in the narrative. What's next? Jet gives me extra action points or some shit? I'm so tired

the fight scene sucked. the choreography of the raider guy shooting a vault dweller through the head of another vault dweller just kind of looked like shit and seemed impractical, clearly just there to be like WOAH THATS COOL it wasn't cool it looked clunky and weird. do not fucking tell me that fallout is supposed to be clunky and weird I will kill you.

the doors cutting the raider in half was also dumb since its been routinely established that the dull and ominous "thunk. thunk. thunk" heard deep in the bowels of a vault is a door that's trying to close but there's something stuck under it, if they could just slice a whole man in half then they could cut through a table or skeleton in game. Also irl I'm a health and safety officer and that moment made my toes curl. lol

It jumps from Lucy to Max and then back to lucy but I'm just gonna continue talking about her shit here. quick fire round because I've been yapping too long already

Her little brother looks way too old to be acting like a teenager this much.

Chet (Lucy's cousin and ex boyfriend. gross) wants to come with her thank god he doesn't

why doesn't she give a shit about the sky

Why doesn't she give a shit about the ocean

Maximus

"stupid blimp is back" is at the very top of my notes, lol. anyway I still don't understand where they got this thing from

Latrines made out of stacks of tires is so dumb. like I cant even explain how dumb that is. surely rubber has better use for that. surely. just shit in a hole in the ground like everyone else please for the love of god

I know the twist with Daine and let it be said, having your first on screen transgender character cut themselves with razors to get out of the military is not, in fact, Bethesda trying to be on the side of transgender people, it is in fact them making fun of us, okay? do we understand?

hiding baby max is a fridge made me so angry I blacked out. do not remind me of "kid in a fridge" ever again.

Anyway Bethesda finds it so difficult to keep the BOS consistent to the point that they are all so different from each other with little to no explanation as to why they've changed so much. In fact it feels like to me that at some point between fallout 3 and fallout 4 Bethesda has totally mixed up the BOS and the Enclave, since now the BOS hate ghouls for no reason and want to colonise the wasteland. This is just that again. Once more, no design doc behaviour.

Quotes from the BOS i think suck ass

"Duty of the Brotherhood of Steel is to secure the wasteland"

"Flesh is weak by steel endures"

"Violence is a tool we use it to bring order to the wasteland"

When Max is getting interrogated for being a suspect for cutting Daine with razors, mentions "send me to Eden or wherever" and it confused me so much. The only Eden I knew about was John Henry Eden from Fallout 3. Turns out I think what they're trying to reference is New Eden a BOS base from. Fallout Brotherhood of Steel 2?? of all fucking things?? really strange I can't imagine what else he could possibly be referencing though. This is literally just thrown in for the loreheads and I hate it.

Anyway after being a suspect for cutting Daine with razors and also failing his classes Max gets a promotion! this is not explained. They also brand him which people a lot smarter than me have discussed at length about why branding a black guy on screen in your fallout show is a bad idea. Read it here.

I don't really understand why the BOS all do shit in latin now, I know some of them had latin names in fo1 but IIRC Frank Horrigan of the Enclave was the only person in the og games who spoke latin. it feels like Bethesda wanting to capture the interest of people who liked the Legion. maybe that's a reach but given how much right wing propaganda is in the coming episodes I wouldn't put it past them.

Cooper again

I am not calling this idiot The Ghoul that's fucking dumb. what like he's the only one? ever? dumb. whats up with him being buried huh? did Todd not want to tell Nolan that ghouls arent actually zombies and arent actually undead? that just wanted him to jump out a coffin because oooh spooky zombie. honestly just kill me.

My notes: "Don't tell me the ghoul is in that grave I can't take it"

this guy gets dug up once a year and gets pieces of him cut off and put back?? why? for what purpose? how is he down there without eating or drinking? is it a kid in a fridge moment where ghouls don't need to eat or drink, well he drinks a whole lot of water in episode 3 so that's afucking lie. get real. the glowing IV? what is that??

the yodelling is really gonna piss me off, isn't it.

Not him ending the episode on the same quote he said to his daughter. whatever.

Rating: 3/10

#txt #ask to tag #i wont dare to tag this the show fans will have me crucified #took a break from drawing for this shit. hell on earth #i should probably make a tag for this #long post

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blubushie · 2 years ago

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i love your bullet/casing post so much i jumped up and down and squealed upon reading through it do you have any more cool gun facts that people often get wrong

So I wrote a long spiel and accidentally closed my tab so now I'm pissed. Let's do this over lmao

FOR ANIMATORS/AUTHORS/ARTISTS

While the sound of a pump-action shotgun being cycled is really cool and very intimidating, YOU'RE WASTING YOUR AMMO WHEN YOU DO IT. Every time you pump a shotgun, you're ejecting a spent shell. If there's no spent shells, you're ejecting perfectly good ammo.

You rack a slide. You rack a pump-action shotgun. YOU DON'T RACK A BOLT ON A BOLT-ACTION RIFLE. You CYCLE a bolt. If I see one more person say they're racking the bolt of a bolt-action I'm gonna shove my boot so far up their--

Recoil is a bitch. You can always tell who has never fired a firearm in their life because of how they write/animate recoil. Do you know what makes fully automatic weapons dangerous to the user? The bloody recoil. It's hard to control. Your aim will move up, and especially in fully-automatic handguns or SMGs like Tommy guns which are smaller weapons, there's not much gun to brace against your body to steady it. That means it's harder to control. That makes it dangerous and puts you at risk.

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A SILENCER. They're called suppressors, and they don't make the gun silent. They only bring the volume down by a few decibels so (usually) you won't have to wear ear protection when firing. This is especially useful in combat scenarios like what military and police experience when you're firing in an enclosed space like a building where sound reverberates, or just firing in an indoor firing range. If you have a larger calibre firearm, bring your suppressor because the bloke in the booth next to you will thank you for it.

Handguns usually aren't very accurate, and perfecting your accuracy with them takes a LOT of time that most people don't have to put in. I guarantee you that unless your character is a notoriously skilled marksman and has trained extensively with handguns, they're not shooting that guy in the forehead on the first try.

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS BULLETPROOF, ONLY BULLET-RESISTANT. Even the USA's ACH (Advanced Combat Helmet) is NOT DESIGNED to stop bullets. You know what kills people most in war, more than bullets? Shockwaves from blasts. That's what helmets are designed to protect against: shockwaves from explosions (which causes brain trauma) and shrapnel. The ACH can protect against handgun-calibre rounds, but don't rely on it to protect you against rifle-calibre rounds. Bullets will penetrate basically everything and half the time what characters use as shields (couches, tables, furniture, metal plates) are things bullets will penetrate with ease. VESTS WILL NOT PROTECT AGAINST HIGH-CALIBRE ROUNDS. Hell, vests often don't even protect against handgun-calibre rounds. The reasons one of the rules of firearm safety is identifying your target is because bullets will penetrate people and strike whatever is behind them. Sometimes that's another person. Also, bullet-resistant vests don't protect against knives.

People don't shrug off bullet wounds unless it's something like a graze, and even then you have burning to the skin. Rounds are fucking hot when they're fired---both as a result of air friction while travelling through the air, and as a result of being propelled from the barrel by hot gunpowder.

YOU CAN MOST DEFINITELY DIE FROM A BULLET TO THE SHOULDER. In your shoulder is an artery---worst case scenario, if it hits above your collar bone it ruptures the subclavian artery. Second worst case scenario, if it hits where your arm meets your shoulder it ruptures the axillary artery. You're going to lose an extensive amount of blood, probably go into shock, and the wound will be singed from the heat of the bullet. The impact alone can break bones without even touching them. When I hunt deer and I get a neck shot (not what I aim for, but mistakes happen) I don't usually hit the vertebrae. The vertebrae is severed simply by the shockwave of the impact.

Guns don't click when they're empty. That click you hear is the firing pin moving forward to strike the primer of the cartridge. In handguns, the slide will move backwards and lock when the magazine is empty. It will not click. The only firearms that "click" when empty are double-action revolvers, as pulling the trigger of a double-action will pull the hammer back. A complete pull makes the hammer strike the back of the firing pin, which then strikes nothing because there isn't a round in the chamber of the cylinder. Unless you're pulling the hammer of a handgun back yourself and pulling the trigger, you will not hear a click. It just won't fire. This is why you keep track of how much ammo you're using, folks.

Most modern firearms don't have a muzzle flash. It's something you see more in things like a muskets. Handguns, military-style rifles, and machine guns don't usually have muzzle flashes, and military and police specifically use low-flash gunpowder so that their position isn't given away by the muzzle flash. For firearms that do have muzzle flashes (for example, some bolt-action rifles) that's what a flash suppressor is for!

MODERN FIREARMS WILL NOT FIRE WHEN THEY'RE DROPPED. Firearm manufacturers go through EXTENSIVE testing to ensure that this doesn't happen because it's a safety risk. In Ye Olde Days (1800s) companies would go bankrupt for putting firearms on the market that are susceptible to accidental discharges. Nowadays, THEY GET SHUT DOWN. The only firearms that CAN fire when dropped are VERY OLD revolvers without a safety mechanism that modern revolvers have, and even then that's only if they fall at the perfect angle directly onto the hammer. Just to be safe, that's why you keep your revolvers half-cocked! (There's some exceptions to this rule with older firearms but it's a general rule of thumb.)

SNIPERS WORK IN TWO-MAN TEAMS. If you're shooting over a thousand yards, most snipers will have a spotter who does his calculating for him. ALL MILITARY SNIPERS WORK IN TWO-MAN TEAMS REGARDLESS OF RANGE. I can do my own spotting up to 1100yd, but anything beyond that requires the assistance of a spotter. There's a lot of maths that goes into sniping. Wind direction, wind speed (what we call windage), bullet drop, trajectory of the Earth, and the Coriolis effect when shooting due north or due south. If you're in the northern hemisphere, the bullet will shift right. If you're in the southern hemisphere, the bullet will shift left. I have no idea how it works at the equator.

When fired at night (and ESPECIALLY in snow) rifles don't make a "BANG" sound. They crack. Sound carries differently at night, which changes the distinctive "bang" of a rifle to a cracking sound, like what you'd hear when ice is breaking on a lake. The best example of this DONE RIGHT is when Sniper fires his rifle in the SFM Art of Justice. You can hear that sound at 3:05.

If I think of any more later I'll add some.

As always, if you have any questions feel free to send me an ask!

#blu whos #bushman #firearms #art tips #writing tips #blu pew

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geekywritings · 2 years ago

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“I can’t lose you.”

You and Cal have been working for Saw Guerrera for a while now, even if you don’t always agree with the man’s methods. When a mission ends horribly, will Cal change his mind about his allegiance?

_____

At what point had the mission started to go wrong? Probably right from the start, you thought now. As it turned out, the intel you had received regarding the base deep in the words of Kasshyk had been wrong or outdated. It wasn’t supposed to be fully operational yet or packed with Stormtroopers. And there certainly shouldn’t have been any Inquisitors there.

It had probably been a trap.

And you had walked right into it.

The task had seemed so easy: Go in, place the detonators, leave and blow the entire thing up. You had managed part one easy enough, infiltrating the base through a ventilation shaft with a small team. One part of the group was supposed to go left and the other right. You chose to make your way to the engine room and came face to face with the 11th sister.

At the sight of an Inquisitor, your teammates had made a run for it, leaving you to deal with it. Lightsaber in hand, you prepared for battle. Inquisitors were never easy opponents and although the 11th sister wasn’t the strongest you had faced, she was good at parrying your strikes and blows, favouring a defensive technique against your offensive one.

The outcome of the battle would remain a mystery, however, because the entire building was soon rocked with explosions. The squad had placed the detonators and carried out the mission… regardless of your presence still within the base! You knew that Saw’s methods were extreme and that he was willing to accept collateral damage. You just never expected to become part of the sacrifices he was willing to make for a small victory.

Shielding yourself with the Force as much as possible, the next explosion’s shock wave sent you flying right out of the window of the base, head knocking unceremoniously on the ground, almost knocking you out. Another explosion followed, and you could feel the heat of the fire. You needed to leave before the next explosion followed.

Groaning, you turned, feeling your head pounding in pain. Dammit, you needed to get up, but your body was so slow to obey, preferring to succumb to darkness instead. Your sheer willpower kept you awake and moving. But far too slow. Another explosion and the shockwave sent you flying into the nearby trees, followed by a rain of debris. Broken ribs and cuts couldn’t kill you and neither could the concussion you suffered, but a surviving Inquisitor or Stormtrooper finding you in such a state certainly could.

Pain, so much pain, but you crawled forward, away from the base, trying to find a safe spot to rest. Perhaps someone would come looking for you… Cal would come, you were certain of it. He had gone on a different mission with Tarfful, but upon noticing your absence after his return, he would surely come for you. He promised to always do so. You just needed to hang in there.

Hidden beneath some gigantic leaves, you finally gave into fatigue, allowing your senses to slip into unconsciousness. You were woken by the sound of footsteps, though you didn’t know how much time had passed.

“Look, someone’s there.” The distorted voice suggested it was a Stormtrooper speaking through his helmet.

“Looks dead to me.”, another said, the voice almost identical.

“A Jedi…” Dammit, they had seen your lightsaber.

“What should we do?”, one of the men asked. “Bring her to the base?”

“What if she’s not dead? She could suddenly kill us.”

“Then maybe we should shoot just in case.”

You wanted to will your hand to reach for your weapon, but it refused to move. Your body felt so weak, so light… So this is how it would end…

“Don’t you dare.” Another voice, followed by a beep and the sound of an igniting lightsaber. The Stormtroopers turned and began to fire. Unsuccessfully, as all blasts were deflected and soon they lay dead before you. Instead, your saviour came into view.

“Cal…”, you managed to whisper, as he dropped to his knees beside you, taking in the damage.

“You are alive…”, he breathed out, relief thick in his voice.

“Told you, I am hard to kill.”, you replied, attempting a smile, but failing miserably.

Slowly, he took you in his arms, instantly loosening his hold at your wince of pain. “You are bleeding.”, he noticed, inspecting your head. Ah, that would explain why your body wouldn’t obey you. Too much bloodloss.

“I feel half-dead.”

“At least it’s just half.”, Cal himself failed to smile.

There was no making light of this situation. You had really come close to dying this time and you both knew it. The two of you had been in many a dangerous situation, cutting it close, but never like this.

Cal let out a slow breath, trying to find a position to pick you up in without causing you unnecessary discomfort.

“We won’t work with Saw anymore.”, he announced, causing your eyes to widen. You had suggested it a few times in the past, but the red-haired Jedi hadn’t been ready, too intent on his warpath against the Empire.

“Why the change of heart?”, you asked, as Cal began the track back to the Wookie village your base was located at.

“Because I cannot lose you, Starlight.”, he answered honestly. “I just can’t.” There was even a note of desperation in his voice that made you want to hug him tight. All you managed was a tighter grip on his vest, however.

This time your smile was genuine. “Thank you, Cal…”, you whispered, closing your eyes again to rest some more. You were safe now. You would always be safe with him.

#cal kestis #cal kestis x yn #cal kestis x you #cal kestis x reader #jedi survivor

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shockwaveheatshield · 1 month ago

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What are the advantages of installing Shockwave heat shields?

In the case that a person owns a Mossberg Shockwave shotgun, installing an aftermarket heat shield is an effective method of improving the weapon. Armor plates in the form of heat shields used as an add-on component are becoming more prominent for such unconventional long guns that are hybrid between shotguns and firearms. In this article, I will discuss some of the advantages of a heat shield and the best Mossberg Shockwave heat shields out there.

The primary benefit that comes with adding a Shockwave heat shield to your Shockwave is that it makes the device more comfortable to shoot. The barrels of these guns are quite short, and they heat up rather quickly when several shots are fired in quick succession. This means that the weapon becomes hot to handle especially during long shooting sessions and it becomes tough to handle. A good heat shield acts as an insulating layer between your hands and the hot barrel so you can have more fun on the shooting range without getting scorched.

Shockwave Heat Shield

Heat shields also enhance your level of protection on the barrel venting especially on your hands and the forearms. The ported barrels on Shockwaves allow hot gases to go upward during firing and this may lead to a burning sensation on the skin if one is not protected. This venting is blocked by a heat shield while the barrel does its part of minimizing recoil and muzzle climb.

At the crest of the mossberg shockwave heat shield is the Shockwave Heat Shield manufactured by ArmStar USA. This lightweight aluminum shield measures over 12 inches of barrel and comes with an integrated Picatinny rail on top for mounting optics. Another good one is the Mossberg Shockwave Heat Shield from Defender Tactical Solutions which comes with a slim 12-inch aluminum shield with multiple points for accessories. Regardless of the model you use on your Mossberg Shockwave, it is highly recommended to get a quality heat shield to enhance your shooting experience.

#Shockwave heat shield #Black Aces Heat Shield #Tac-14 Heat Shield

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mads-nixon · 1 year ago

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Epiphany Pt. 12: You're On Your Own, Kid

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Title inspo - you're on your own, kid: taylor swift

A/N: this is my first post on my hbo war side-blog! yay! this chapter is the calm before the storm, y'all. this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: Ill-equipped and poorly supplied, (y/n) and the rest of Easy do their best to survive in the frozen Ardennes Forest of Bastogne.

Warnings: description of injury, very soft lew

December 20, 1944: Ardennes Forest, Belgium

The forest lay under a heavy blanket of snow, the silence only broken by the occasional gust of icy wind, quiet conversations, and the all-to-familiar whistling of incoming shells. (Y/n) sat on the edge of her foxhole, her breath visible in the cold air as she gazed out at the German line. Through the veil of swirling snow, she couldn’t make out their silhouettes, but she knew they were there. It was a landscape of paradoxes: serene yet charged, beautiful yet deadly.

With her gaze still fixed in the white haze, she felt a surge of frustration and anger rise in her. It was fueled by the knowledge that the Krauts had the supplies that they desperately needed. It was a cruel twist of fate that Easy was hungry, cold, and struggling, while the enemy, albeit just across the way, had the sustenance and warmth they lacked. They had a few missed supply drops to thank for that.

The air was frigid, cutting through layers of clothing and seeping into her very bones. (Y/n) hugged herself, arms wrapping tightly around her body in a futile attempt to capture a semblance of warmth. Her gloved fingers, numbed by the cold, clutched at the fabric of her uniform, seeking refuge in the familiar touch.

“(Y/n), remind me to never complain about the heat again,” Skip jested through chattering teeth, a weak smile attempting to mask his discomfort.

“Yeah, this makes those Georgia summers seem downright pleasant,” Don added with a forced chuckle, the words barely leaving his blue-tinted lips.

Skip waved a hand in front of (y/n)’s distant gaze, breaking her trance and pulling her back to reality. “Earth to (y/n). You with us?”

Shaking from her thoughts, she turned towards the group, forcing a chapped smile. “Yeah,” she muttered, pushing herself up from where she sat in the foxhole, trying to get blood circulating in her numbed limbs. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t get lost out there,” Malarkey called out, his voice tinged with concern as she swung her rifle onto her shoulder.

“A walk in a winter wonderland,” Skip chimed in, his grin mischievous as he wiggled his eyebrows. “Is that code for, ‘going to see your favorite captain’ by any chance?”

A playful scoff escaped her lips in a huff. “Shut up, Muck. I can’t feel my toes, so I’m going for a walk to fix that.”

Malarkey shrugged, feigning innocence. “Yeah, sure. Have fun on your walk.”

The woman shook her head fondly at her friends as she slowly walked away from the foxhole. Her limbs didn’t want to work correctly, so she found herself doing a pitiful half-limp around the forest as she attempted to get some blood flowing to her feet.

Despite her and Nix’s efforts to be discreet, the Toccoa men who had watched them from the beginning couldn’t be fooled. While nothing was openly acknowledged, there was a shared understanding that something was going on between the couple. Only Harry and Dick knew for certain, and only because they grilled Lew when he returned from Paris.

Maybe she would pay her favorite Captain a visit.

“Hey, Cripple!” someone called out. Groaning, (y/n) turned to face the voice, ready to retort when the very ground beneath her seemed to tremble and shudder violently. An explosion erupted from behind her, a deafening roar as the shockwave threw her off balance, sending her to the ground in a heap.

She curled into a protective ball, her hands instinctively shielding her head as the world was swallowed by chaos. The relentless barrage of mortars painted the sky, their descent announced by menacing whistles. The once serene forest became a frenzied battleground, trees splintering and snow erupting into wild flurries.

Amidst the disarray, a call pierced through the mayhem. “(Y/l/n)! Over here!”

Scrambling to her feet, her heart raced with adrenaline and drowned out the pounding explosions. She didn’t spare a moment to see who called, her focus solely on getting to cover. (Y/n) snatched up her rifle from the snow-covered ground and sprinted towards the direction of the voice, her heavy breaths misting in the frigid air.

As she ran, her foot caught a fallen tree branch and she was sent tumbling into the freezing embrace of the forest floor, awkwardly landing on her arm. Pain flared in her wrist as she fought to get to her feet, panicking at being exposed without cover. Then, like a savior, a hand extended towards her and hauled her into a nearby foxhole.

Joe Liebgott’s face appeared in front of her, and his eyes reflected the same fear and helplessness that she felt. She let go of her rifle, allowing it to rest in the snow as she clamped her hands over her ears, desperate to drown out the deafening noise that assaulted her senses. (Y/n) clenched her eyes closed, seeing refuge in the darkness as Joe pulled her tightly into his body, shielding her from the relentless barrage. The concussive blasts continued, each one sending shockwaves through the ground and dirt, snow, and ice raining down on them. She held on, feeling the frantic rise and fall of Joe’s chest against her, praying that it would all stop soon.

Seconds, minutes, hours, (y/n) didn’t know how much time had passed when the earth-shattering blasts ceased. A few gentle pats on her helmet were the only indication it was over. Slowly, she released her grip on her ears, the painful ringing subsiding to the backdrop of her ragged breaths as she looked up at him with wide eyes.

“You alright?” Joe asked, his concerned gaze scanning her for injuries.

(Y/n) nodded, wincing as she flexed her wrist, attempting to brush off the debris clinging to her skin. “I’m okay.”

His eyes narrowed, shifting from her face to her arm and then back again. “You sure?”

“I just landed on it weird,” she replied, clenching her teeth against the searing pain that radiated up her arm with every movement.

“Let me get Doc, (y/n),” he offered, about to get up, but her good arm shot up and pulled him back down.

Sitting up, she carefully retrieved her rifle and climbed out of the foxhole, cradling her aching wrist to her chest. “I’m fine, Joe. Thank you, but I need to check on my foxhole.”

“Alright, be careful,” he called after her as she made her way back toward her foxhole, her chest tight with anxiety. As the shock and adrenaline from the bombardment began to fade, the reality of (y/n)’s situation settled in: her wrist was not just a minor discomfort. What had initially felt like a sharp jab upon impact turned into a persistent, gnawing pain radiating from her wrist and traveling up her arm like tendrils of fire.

Each movement she made, whether to clutch her rifle or steady herself against the uneven ground, sent surges of pain shooting through her hand and forearm. With each passing second, the pain seemed to intensify, becoming an unrelenting companion in the desolate frozen landscape. Her fingers, once nimble and deft in handling her rifle, now felt like lead, unresponsive and clumsy. The smallest tasks, like brushing off the clinging snow or gripping her canteen, became monumental efforts, each movement a harsh reminder of the shelling. A simple flex of her wrist, something that she took for granted in the past, was now an act that set off sharp jolts of pain. (Y/n) found herself trying to ignore the pain, focusing on the task at hand, but the throbbing in her arm seemed to pulse in sync with her heartbeat, making it impossible to overlook. She knew she should probably see Roe about it, but she heard he didn’t have much to work with. So, she made the choice not to burden their already diminished supplies on what was likely just a sprain.

After a while, she found herself approaching the spot she’d left Malarkey and Skip, scanning the area for signs of life. The once-snow-draped ground was now a maze of impact craters and debris. As she reached the foxhole, her heart swelled with relief seeing Skip and Don huddled inside, still in one piece.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice cutting through the eerie calm. Relief washed over her as they looked up, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

“(Y/n/n)!” Don exclaimed, a hand clutching his chest dramatically. “We were worried!”

Muck tossed his helmet towards her, a hint of concern on his face. The helmet collided with her wrist, causing her to stifle a cry. “Take a look at this crap, (y/n). They peppered my helmet!”

Gently cradling her wrist, she examined the shot-up helmet in her lap, a half smile playing on her lips. “Good thing you weren’t wearing it, Skip. Was everyone okay over here? I ended up in Lieb’s foxhole.”

“Wasted my dagum coffee,” Smokey lamented from the foxhole ahead of theirs. “It was a whole helmet-full, too.”

A chuckle bubbled from her lips as she watched him setting his contraption back up. “I’m sorry, Smoke. Next time, you should tell the krauts to wait until you’ve had your coffee to shell the crap out of us.”

“You know, I might just do that,” Smokey mused, staring out at the German line with a faraway look. “We need a break.”

“Oh, (y/n),” Don interjected, fishing for something in his pockets. “Do you have any morphine in your aid kit from Holland? Doc’s looking for some.”

“Mine got used up when I got hit,” she replied, her mind drifting back to that night outside Arnhem. “That feels like so long ago now.”

Skip, ever the calculating one, counted on his fingers thoughtfully. “It’s only been what, three months?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, staring into the forest as she contemplated the whirlwind of events since that time. Between getting shot, going to the hospital, then Paris with Lew, and now Bastogne, a lot happened in those three months.

Their conversation carried on, but (y/n) was lost in her thoughts. Her life had changed drastically in this span of time, the most significant development being her newfound relationship with Lewis. A mere week and a half had passed since Paris, yet it felt like a lifetime. Memories of the quaint cafes and charming streets danced in her mind, a reminder of what they were fighting for…a return to a life untouched by the horrors of war.

A crunch of snow behind her snapped her back to the present. She grabbed her rifle, swiftly turning, a surge of pain shooting up her arm. A grimace contorted her face as she eased the strain, her aim dropping as she recognized Lip.

“(Y/n), Winters wants to see you,” he relayed, crouching beside her.

“We’ll catch up later, alright?” Don patted her shoulder gently, a worried look in his gaze as he looked down at her wrist.

“Duty calls, boys. See ya later.”

She pushed herself off the snow with her good hand and started following Lip toward Captain Winter’s tent. As they walked, she saw the destruction the various shellings had left in their wake. Trees were downed everywhere, feet-long splinters littered the snow, and there was the occasional red stain of blood on the white ground.

“Can you believe it’s just a few days till Christmas?” Lip’s voice broke the silence, filled with nostalgia and yearning.

She nodded, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I remember my last Christmas home so vividly…and now, here we are two years later.”

He glanced at her, a fond smile on his face, despite the flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “My wife, JoAnne, makes the best gingerbread cookies on the planet, and I can just see her in the kitchen, working her tail off to make them for our family Christmas party.”

(Y/n)’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “What I wouldn’t give for some gingerbread cookies,” she sighed. “It’s just…well, being away from family at this time, it’s tough. But at least we have each other, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding ahead of him. “Here we are.”

“Thanks for walking with me, Lip,” (y/n) grinned, approaching the foxhole.

“You’re welcome,” Carwood grinned. “And (y/n), get that wrist checked out.”

Her mouth slightly agape, she looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

“I’m not as clueless as the others. Get it looked at.” His eyes held a genuine concern.

Nodding at him, she walked up to the hole where Dick was crouched, writing a letter. “Captain Winters, sir?”

He looked up from his letter, and an uncharacteristic smirk formed on his face when he recognized her. “(Y/n). Nix wanted to speak with you.”

A flush colored her cheeks as she stood there. “Oh, alright. Where is he?”

Winters nodded to the hole ahead of him. “I’m right here, so please don't try any-”

A blanket was thrown off the adjacent foxhole and Nixon popped out, his dark hair a mess atop his head. “Gosh, Dick, we’re not gonna do anything,” he hissed, rolling his eyes.

Embarrassment coursed through (y/n) at the implication, and she brought a hand to her face, wishing she could disappear. “Yes sir,” she stammered, her voice slightly uneasy as she walked over to Lewis.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, casting anxious glances around the forest.

Nix shrugged and pointed to Winters. “We’re fine. Dick’s gonna keep a lookout…right Dick?”

“I’m going to be writing my letter,” Winters replied, not looking up. “And I’m not seeing this.”

“Thanks, pal,” Lew called, extending a hand to help (y/n) into the hole.

“Alright,” she muttered, unable to keep a nervous smile from playing on her lips a the thought of some time with him. She started to take his hand with her hurt one, but quickly switched hands, letting the other painfully dangle at her side. He gave her a questioning look as she took his hand, but (y/n) just shook her head, dismissing his concern. To her surprise, he seemed to let it go.

Nix’s foxhole was a decent size, and (y/n) carefully tried to settle against his side without showing her injury. He pulled the blanket over the top of the hole, insulating the space and giving them a sliver of privacy. Looking around, she spotted an empty pack of Lucky Strikes and his silver flask in the dirt beside her.

“I really like what you did with the place,” she grinned, kicking the empty box with her foot.

Lew chuckled, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her close, placing a soft kiss in her hair. “Yeah. Interior decorating was always Blanche’s thing.”

His warmth seeped through her frozen uniform, and she sighed contentedly, resting her head on her shoulder as she closed her eyes. The throbbing pain in her hand seemed to slightly fade in his comforting presence.

“How are things on the line? We still get artillery back here, but it’s not as bad as up there,” he asked quietly, leaning his head atop hers.

“It’s not good, Lew,” she mumbled into his neck. “We’re running low on everything, and the krauts seem to have an endless stream of artillery. It’s like they’re not even affected by the cold or anything. We’re just holding our ground and doing what we can.”

He tightened his grip around her, attempting to offer some comfort. “But you’re holding up okay?”

A half-hearted smile tugged at her lips, tinged with sadness. “We’re surviving, but it’s getting harder every day. The men are tired, Lew. We’re all tired. We’re all hungry. We’re all cold.”

“I know, doll,” he sighed. “Sink and General McAuliffe stopped by earlier, and they didn’t have any good news. Last night, I took a walk on the line at about 0300 and I couldn’t find the 501st on our right flank. I had to pull in 2nd platoon to fill the gap, but the General seemed like he couldn't care less.”

(Y/n) groaned. “His relentless optimism kills me. At least Sink is realistic.”

“‘Hold the line and close the gaps’, was all he said. And that 1st battalion just pulled out of Foy with krauts on their tail…so there’s a bunch of crap coming our way.”

“Of course there is,” she grumbled, bringing her knees up to her chest.

Lew’s thoughts became consumed by worry for (y/n) and what was going to be thrown her way. He gently traced circles on her back, trying to find the right words. “I can’t help but be worried about you, (y/n/n). Knowing you’re out there every time I hear a shelling, it’s…it’s tough.”

She sat up and turned to face him, her eyes reflecting the same fear. “I know, Lew. I’m scared, too. But I’m doing what I can to take care of myself and the guys. We watch out for each other.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his voice. “It’s just hard being here, not able to do much, not even being able to be with you when you’re out there facing the worst of it.”

“You’re doing more than you think,” she said, gently touching his arm. “This helps me so much.”

Lew brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, his cold fingers gentle on her warm cheek. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t take any extra risks…please.”

(Y/n) looked into his eyes, finding a sea of emotion. “I promise,” she replied, her voice equally soft.

Nix leaned in, slowly closing the distance between them, his eyes flickering to her lips before meeting her gaze once more. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss as Lew cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow down as they kissed, a sense of calm washing over them. As they pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the chilly air.

“Have you been able to keep warm at all?” Lew asked softly, his fingers tracing over her gloved hand gently.

(Y/n) nodded, trying to keep her discomfort at bay. “As warm as one can be out here.”

Lew noticed her wincing slightly and, concerned, his hand unintentionally brushed against her injured wrist. She gasped, tears brimming her eyes as pain shot through her arm.

His eyes widened, fear coursing through him as he quickly retracted his hand “(Y/n)? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

(Y/n) leaned her head back against the hard wall of dirt behind her with a thud. “I tripped during the shelling earlier and landed on it wrong,” she whispered, voice trembling as she cradled her wrist.

“(Y/n),” Lew sighed, his heart aching at her pain. “Have you seen Doc?”

She shook her head, tears welling up. “No, not yet.”

He reached for her hand slowly. “Let me see it, sweetheart. I’ll be careful.”

She hesitantly extended her gloved hand to him, a single tear leaking down her rosy cheek. “You’re okay,” he cooed, holding her forearm with one hand while the other carefully slid the glove off.

“Shit,” Lew muttered, his brows furrowing at the sight of her wrist. “This is bad, (y/n).”

His concern deepened as he saw the extent of the injury. He had expected it to be sore, maybe a minor sprain, but what he saw made his heart clench with worry and anger. Her once delicate wrist was now swollen to nearly twice its usual size, the skin on her palm and wrist discolored in ominous hues of deep purple and angry black.

“(Y/n/n),” he said gently, his voice soothing to her distress. “We need to get you to Doc. This could be broken.”

The tears finally fell from her eyes in a mixture of pain and frustration. “I know,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “But the medics are already low on supplies, and they need that for others that are worse off.”

Lew cupped her cheek tenderly, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Just because someone may be worse, doesn’t mean you can’t be looked after, too. Let me take care of you, please.”

(Y/n)’s expression softened, touched by his sincerity. “Okay,” she nodded. “Thank you.”

He held her wrist gently, a tenderness in his eyes that melted her worries, even if just for a moment. He brushed a feather-light kiss on her injured wrist, a silent promise that he’d take care of her. Nix helped her slide the glove back on, ensuring it offered some support for her wrist. He then threw off the blanket and helped her to her feet, his arm securely around her for support. She wasn’t going to let her injury hold her back, but she knew she needed to get it checked before it got any worse.

Winter’s eyes widened at the pair’s dramatic exit from the foxhole. “You alright, (y/l/n)?” he asked, eyes furrowed in confusion.

“She hurt her wrist,” Lew replied, glancing at Dick who nodded in response. “We’re finding Roe.”

They found Gene in his foxhole, staring off into the forest, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Hey Gene,” Nix called, catching the man off guard. He jumped slightly, turning around like a deer in headlights.

He sighed seeing who it was. “Captain Nixon, what can I do for ya, sir?”

“(Y/n) here took a tumble during the shelling. Her wrist is pretty banged up.”

Roe nodded, motioning for her to sit down on the edge of the foxhole. “Let’s have a look, chérie.

She did as told, taking a deep breath to brace herself for any pain. The cajun carefully peeled off the glove from her injured hand, revealing the purple and black bruises. The medic furrowed his brows at the sight, his experienced eyes evaluating the damage. He lightly prodded along the wrist, feeling for any unusual shifts in the bones beneath.

“I’m worried there might be a hairline fracture here,” he explained, his voice carrying a tinge of concern. “But I can’t confirm it without a proper x-ray, and we don’t have any equipment like that back in Bastogne.”

(Y/n) nodded, bracing herself for what she knew was coming. “So, what can we do?”

Roe began to secure her wrist carefully with a makeshift splint, wrapping it snugly to provide some stability and reduce the risk of further damage. “Right now, we’ll immobilize it as best as we can. I’ll wrap it up, and you need to keep it still as much as possible. Ice will help with the swelling.”

Smirking at the situation, (y/n) couldn’t resist a touch of humor. “Well, at least we’ve got an abundance of ice around,” she quipped, waving her good hand at the frozen forest surrounding them. “Nature’s icebox, right?”

Lew chuckled at her attempt to lighten the mood. “The best ice supply in Bastogne,” he replied, playing along.

As Gene finished the wrapping, she flexed her fingers slightly, testing the newfound stability. The pain had dulled a bit, and it was a relief, albeit a temporary one. They thanked Roe and went on their way.

“I’ve got to go back to the boys,” she said, peering up at him as they walked.

Lew nodded. “Take it easy, alright? Your arm can’t heal if you keep using it.”

“Yes, sir, Doctor Nixon,” she grinned, fake saluting him with a playful twinkle in her eyes.

They made their way to her foxhole, and Lew resisted the urge to give her a kiss, aware of the many eyes watching. Instead, he gently patted her helmet, a gesture that he’d decided was his new favorite because it sent the front of it down past her eyes.

“Malarkey,” Nix called out, waving his over. “Don’t let this one overdo it. Roe said she needs to take it easy.”

Though he was confused, Don nodded. “Yes, sir.”

With a subtle wink, Lew turned and left for his own foxhole.

“What happened to you?” Skip asked, eyeing her wrapped wrist as he appeared next to Don. “Did the Captain take care of you?”

(Y/n) laughed under her breath, watching Lew’s figure disappear into the white haze of the forest. “I’m alright.”

Malarkey’s eyes widened as he turned to Muck. “She’s not denying it, Skip!”

“I knew it!” Skip exclaimed triumphantly, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin. She began to walk away when Don gasped suddenly.

“We have to tell you about Hinkle!”

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