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fayes-fics · 2 months ago

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The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition.

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later.

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games.

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears.

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by.

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister, arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…” You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests.

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens.

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden. “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air.

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’.

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.”

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud.

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own.

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned.

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms…. Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?”

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing.

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow.

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss.

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase.

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece.

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...”

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.”

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?”

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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kirain · 10 months ago

Note

Wall of the faithless isn't canon in bg3. They changed alot of things actually. So no Gale isn't "scared" he's just an obsessed asshole who doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Oof...

There's really nothing I can say except: you're wrong. The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless are canon to BG3. If you don't like Gale, that's fine, but you don't have to make things up or completely disregard the lore to do it. Larian Studios literally hired people from Wizards of the Coast—the company responsible for all the canon lore, characters, and campaigns in D&D—to help them with the story. It took them five years, I believe, to fully study and understand the lore. They constantly conferred with the team to double, triple, and quadruple check every slice of content they added to the game, and parts of the game are now considered canon to D&D 5E.

As for Gale "not learning" from his mistakes ... when you first meet him, he literally admits he made a mistake with Mystra. Though personally I don't see it as the "power-hungry" move people seem to think it is. Gale simply wanted to be considered an equal to his partner (really his groomer), which is a perfectly healthy and normal desire for anyone in a relationship. Your partner should treat you like an equal, but Mystra very clearly saw Gale as a pet. A trophy. A worshipper. Subservient. Beneath her. A silly mortal with delusions of grandeur (which she cultivated), which is really rich when you learn she was once mortal herself. Mystra is a hypocrite.

Gale tried to prove himself worthy of equality by trying to bring Mystra what he thought was a piece of her missing Weave. For anyone who doesn't know, the current Mystra was torn to pieces by Cyric and Shar, then put back together by her Chosen. Though back to full power by the events of BG3, she's still technically missing pieces of herself, and Gale mistook the Karsite Weave for one of those pieces. Instead of simply telling Gale it was corrupted Weave, she let him go on believing it was hers. Personally I think that's because she was tired of him (maybe he got too old for her 😒) and was hoping he would do something that, in her mind, would justify abandoning him—but I admit that's full conjecture on my part. What is true is that she knew the orb wasn't hers, but for some reason she let Gale think it was. Even after she abandoned him and left him to die, she never told him. Not until she realised she could use him.

In Act 3, while the argument can certainty be made that he's thirsty for power, Gale ultimately becomes fed up with the gods because, as he knows better than anyone, they treat people like commodities. While I have no intention of ever ascending him myself, it looks like he actually makes good on his word. He doesn't threaten or toy with his followers, he inspires people to walk their own path, he only asks for prayers as payment (as without some form of devotion, gods in D&D cease to be), and if you romance him ... he ascends you into godhood as his equal. Mystra could have done this for him, she just didn't want to. And if you don't want him to ascend, it's genuinely so easy. I don't understand what people are complaining about. It takes one conversation with zero checks to convince him to completely abandon his ambitions. One. If he was truly "power hungry", it wouldn't be that easy.

Again, I would argue that Gale's true goal isn't really power, it's freedom, and divinity gives him that freedom. He has many conversations where he makes it clear he doesn't want to live under the gods' thumbs anymore; which, in a world like Faerûn, is extremely understandable. As I said in my Wall of the Faithless post, he's scared. Eternal torment for a simple mistake, one of which could've been avoided if Mystra told him the truth or treated him like an equal? When your partner is a goddess, how can you not feel inadequate? And if you convince him to give up the crown, he's perfectly content with Mystra's forgiveness. Even in the Early Access, that's all he really wanted.

Gale's far from perfect. He's arrogant and overconfident and insecure and he can be prone to emotional outbursts (most of which he apologises for, however), but he's nowhere near the heartless, power-hungry monster the haters seem to think he is. He is, in fact, one of the most compassionate companions in the entire camp, to the point that he accepts everyone, including Minthara. He votes for Astarion to stay when you find out he's a vampire. He gets mad at you if you surrender him to the Gur. He's one of the only companions who will openly marry/stay with you if you become a mindflayer. He's willing to sacrifice himself to save the world, and willing to damn himself to be with you. He loves every act of kindness, while hating every act of cruelty. I understand that the bugs from launch ruined a lot of people's perception of him ... and unfortunately some of those glitches are still present even now, but he is a good man.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #karlach #karlach cliffgate #wall of the faithless #city of Judgement #wizards of the coast #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #astarion #minthara

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coriphallus · 1 year ago

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The Dark Urge thoughts (and prayers)

anyone whos been following me knows im absolutely not normal about durge and i wanna share some tidbits that are implied, but not necessarily canonised, from their story;

I already made a post about it but it seems like bhaal has a degree of control over whether they live or die. he can deny them death, if they fail the duel with orin.

bhaal can command the slayer. he forces orin to transform if you talk to her about sarevok and the scene makes it clear that its against her will.

bhaal manipulates his kin in a subtler way. in the colony you can find a letter from old durge thats apologising to his father for 'liking' gortash. you can interpret their relationship as something deeper but even if it wasnt, this reads to me as terrified and desperate.

the reason being, if you have a LI in act 2 you get the famous bondage scene. coupled up with the letter above makes me think this is a pattern. bhaal can use their feelings against them. he did it with sarevok and orin's mother, orin's mother and orin, etc... it's not as straightforward as 'if you disobey ill kill the one you love'. you will. durge will.

bhaal is testing them in act 2, he revels in chaos, sure, but in the grand scheme of things he doesn't care about isobel. even if you tell scel that you'll kill her you're told that youre too late, you ignored your urges. from durge, bhaal doesn't expect calm calculated murder, he expects blind obedience. failing to receive that his first punishment is to take away something they cherish. there are no half measures, theres no bargaining with a god.

we get so many snippets of information that this has happened before, their foster family being their first victims. theyre made to kill their support system with their own hands, with no one to blame but themselves. they are actually apologising to their father for being fond of gortash because (in my humble opinion) theyre genuinely afraid.

how many times could this have happened, how many nights durge couldve woken up covered in the blood of someone they love until they gave in, became daddys obedient puppet?

durge is groomed for murder. scel says 'you always failed to conduct yourself without me' and given who he is i dont think hes talking about table manners when he says 'conduct'. durge needs 24/7 oversight to set themselves right lest they get tempted by softer things. lest they dare to step away from bhaals grand plan.

durge do have a choice. just as shadowheart had a choice, just as wyll or astarion had a choice. its a choice only in name.

theres no ending besides refusing bhaal that their friends and LI wont die by their hands. the entire lore of bhaalspawn is that theyre meant to conquer the world in his name and slit their own throat a top the mountain of corpses. as cazador aptly put, 'theyre made to be consumed.'

you can pray to bhaal and the narrator says he won't accept [any offering] but the entire world.

durge (and bhaalspawn) do get some sort of euphoria from murder. they crave it like an addict, but bhaalspawn (on prev games) don't constantly have to grapple with these urges as durge does.

now durge is a slightly special case but not in a good way. its implied that theyre not like a regular bhaalspawn, that theyre made by bhaal directly -so to speak-. which is to say, if youre playing a drow, they are bhaals closest approximation of a drow rather than a drow flesh and blood.

thats why theyre fighting tooth and nail against these urges every step of the way, they are literally bhaal himself(in essence). the personality they develop, the person who calls themselves 'tainted' and 'wretched', the character thats making choices throughout the game, theyre the tumour.

theirs is the story of cycle of abuse cranked up to 1000 and it is in parallel to all other origin companions.

#bg3 #durge #the dark urge #dark urge #DU #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #personal

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sizzleissues · 7 months ago

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Its May.

Okay so this is in the same AU I had last year its just changed and evolved while also being the exact same. Except now I have 15,000 words of it written, like 7,000 words of planning and lore and hours upon hours of research that I will be pointedly ignoring. Will be posting more stuff this month about the AU and my hopes and dreams for it

Also slight art improvement check? I’ll put their original mermaid designs below the cut.

It’s Marinette as a mermaid and … its not Adrien or Chat Noir but a third worse thing (Catwalker but in the purest manifestation of it being a curse and not who he wants to be) I will be making designs for mer!Ladybug, and mer!Adrien as its own thing later on.

Okay if you want to indulge me look below the cut

Old mermaid designs first. I am going to be talking about my design thoughts, thoughts and ramblings about this AU and what I’ve been up to. You have been warned

As you can see, some things have changed but neither design I hated, I just wanted to go further with it.

My brain is quite specific about mermaids and how I want them to generally look. I wanted to distinguish biological merfolk from transformed humans by having them being anatomically different. So Adrien has a vertical tail instead which is also way faster underwater. His transformation is quite distressing for him and very chaotic. Of course when he accepts it he’s not so raggedy.

Marinette similarly avoids her life as a mermaid by becoming human and I wanted her mermaid design to hint toward her fascination with humans. She wears a top she fashioned from human fabric she found in a sunken merchant vessel. In general all other merfolk either forgo clothes or wear things fashioned from materials available to them. There’s deep fear of humans and human things so even though human clothes are available to them (off dead bodies but…. Whatever) they choose to difference themselves as much as possible. The same taboos don’t exist for them and their bodies are already adapted from the temperature of their environment. Adrien has stray bits of netting and seaweed on him because he’s not exactly the best at controlling his speed and often crash’s through fishing nets and patches of seaweed resulting in stuff being caught on him.

A lot of their designs are still being worked but I’ve definitely pushed them the right direction!

On to the AU. You might have seem me cryptically talk about something I’m writing the past few weeks. This is because it’s been in my brain since last May and been on and off writing it since then. I decided I’d talk about it once May came back around but and then when I finished writing it, start posting sneak peaks and more spoilery art until it was fully edited and I felt confident in it to post with an aim for it to finish posting once May rolled around again. Oh god.

It’s set in the late 1700s in a fictional version of France that’s actually fragmented over a bunch of islands. I have done more fashion research than I ever thought I’d do and in the end we will still be taking creative license but know I do know what they actually wore! I ALSO did a butt tonne of research about sailing ships and turns out they are super complicated and now I know too much and yet too little still about them. It should be super fun and action packed if I can manage. Have some really good scenes already in my head I know you’ll love. We’re already three ships battle deep and I’ve only written four chapters. (It chills out for a bit after that)

This is entirely self-indulgent by the way. I’m writing this for me, you guys are just a bonus. I literally don’t care as long as it satiates my rabid need for the fic that only lives in my brain at the moment. Saying that, I do want to put my best foot forward.

The next thing I will be posting for this is their human forms and more blabblerings about that. For I am insane and all.

#miraculous ladybug #sizzle sketches #miraculous #miraculous fanart #ml fanart #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #mermay #mermaid au #Ml art

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dear-ao3 · 9 months ago

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well good day to all of you. i have a tale. a classified, certified absolute god tier disaster of a tale.

at the ripe hour of 6:45 am i was awoken from my slumber by a Noise. what sort of noise? you might be asking.

the sort of noise that usually accompanies my father getting up at the ass crack of dawn and trying not to turn on the tap loudly so that he doesnt wake us up.

for one blissful moment i thought that i was at home, in my bed, and all was right with the world.

and then i remembered that i live approximately four hours away from my parents and all is not right with the world.

so i did what any person would do. waited for the noise to go away.

but it did not.

so i investigated. in all my bleary eyed glory.

and found that my bathroom ceiling light was pissing.

not just a little either.

a severe, unauthorized amount of water was streaming out of my bathroom light fixture.

so after banging on katyas door and finding a bucket and throwing on a sweatshirt i dragged my tired ass down to the front desk and reported the tea as it were.

now one thing you need to know about our building is that it is old. the second thing you need to know about our building is that the maitenance guys (we call them the boys) are absolutely incredible, like tumblr funny guy posts but irl, however they take for fucking ever to respond to any situation.

this time though, nothing was in clear danger of exploding or lighting on fire. so we made some breakfast. drank some coffee. watched the bucket that we had put in the bathroom fill up with water. and we waited.

and waited.

and waited some more.

then i noticed that if you stepped on some of our kitchen floor tiles they started squelching.

so back downstairs i went and explained the tea as it were once again.

and let it be known, that i worked for two very solid and very miserable years as a resident assistant in college. i know all about the woes of people complaining to you to fix things that you cannot fix and you cannot tell them when it will be fixed because the person who needs to do the fixing is otherwise indisposed. so my general attitude towards this whole situation was "hey man you can't make this better for me and im really not pressed about it as long as someone eventually comes and sorts out my pissing ceiling." which is a great attitude to have in this general situation. and especially so because it was about to get even more strange.

at approximately 9:30am our apartment was graced by the presence of one of the boys. the maintenance man. we will call him james.

we have encountered james before. he delt with our fuse box nearly exploding. that situation was not nearly as chill as this one was.

hes also incredible.

so he comes in and he goes "hey how's it going" and i say "well you know things are just leaking!"

he proceeds to tell us that the fridge in the apartment above us had a connection pipe that froze and exploded some how and that managed to leak all into our apartment. not nearly what i was expecting but hey! at least they know what's going on!

we tell him about the squelching tiles and he says that he will bring us a dehumidifier after he turns off the water and deals with the mess of the fridge above us. we say ok great! this is wonderful!

and he goes to leave the apartment. out of habit i had locked the door when he entered. he goes "aw man did you lock me in?"

and i say

"oh sorry!"

and he pauses.

and he looks at our door in disbelief. perhaps even utter horror.

and this, my lovely audience, is what he was looking at:

surprisingly. he was not staring at the entertainment for man and horse plaque that katya and i found while thrifting. nay. he was staring at the unfortunate combination of the printed photo of lando norris and max verstappens face.

now why are lando norris and ax verstappen on the back of my door? you might be asking. you might even be asking who they are.

and if youve been following the lore of this blog, you might recognize them as formula 1 drivers. lando norris of course being a mclaren driver and max verstappen being the reigning world champion of team red bull.

and how did they wind up on my door? well at christmas katya thought it would be funny to put a picture of lando norris on top of our christmas tree and so we got one printed at cvs but when you get wallet sized photos printed they print you four of them so we ended up with four of the same photo of lando. one went on the tree, one went to my sister, one is in our bathroom and now one is on the back of our door.

as for max. well. katyas partner drinks red bull and he was on the red bull box so we cut him out and stuck him there. neither of us are particularly big max fans, it was just funny.

but anyway. i digress.

james is standing there staring at this array of perplexing stuff and goes.

"really? him??"

and i go

"yeah..." not knowing what else to say.

and james turns. and he looks at us. and he goes. and i shit you the absolute fuck not.

"now what's wrong with lewis hamilton???"

(sir lewis hamilton being the mercedes f1 driver, 7 time world champion and absolute icon)

and katya and i go

"oh no no! we love lewis hamilton! we just respect him too much to put him on the door!"

which is true

and james goes "now what did you think of him going to ferrari?"

and i say "i thought it was an interesting choice"

and katya says "i was surprised."

and james says "you and me both" and then he shuts the door behind him.

katya and i look at eachother. and we both fall to the floor in fits of laughter.

let it be known that james has come face to face with a giant tapestry of mr worldwide mr 305 pitbull himself that is in our bathroom, on several occasions, and yet, he chooses to comment on our choice of formula 1 driver that is taped to the back of our door.

im still in a state of disbelief. my ceiling is still pissing. my floor is still squelching. and my maintenance man felt the need to call our my choice of formula 1 driver at 9:30 on a saturday morning.

#not a tag #from saph #help #what #f1 #lando norris #sir lewis hamilton

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bumblingbabooshka · 3 months ago

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I know the most common fanon for Tuvok post Voyager is that he's mostly fine and one of more stable ones but I personally think it'd be funny if he cracked like a goddamn egg and went off the deep end for a few years before finding his way back to semi-normalcy. Janeway's like "Where's Tuvok?" and the answer is that he quit Starfleet, joined a temple, left the temple in the middle of the night to go wander around the desert, almost died but was taken in by a kindly old woman, lived with her for two months before she died, left the desert hut to alert her family and upon completing that task hopped on the first freighter off Vulcan, got stranded on a deserted asteroid after being the sole survivor of the crash, was rescued, mind melded with an alien who can see the future but died in the process and can't remember anything about it except for the vague feeling that he spoke with Kes, was brought back to life by Chakotay who told him that Janeway was looking for him [at which point he pointed out that Chakotay is also not in contact with Janeway and then ran away again], returned to Vulcan but only to find and climb to the top of a holy mountain which took several months and upon reaching the top he feels a sense of enlightenment which permeates his familial bonds as the first sign in almost a year that he's alive at all. Upon finishing his climb down the mountain he stays in a nearby village and serves in their temple for several more months until it's attacked by aliens because of some artifact hidden deep within the temple walls and he puts his tactical strategy to good use, fending off the attack. Harry Kim [with Starfleet] appears and is like "You need to go home, man. People think you're dead." Then he goes home and joins Starfleet again and he's literally only allowed back in because of Janeway and Janeway accepts him out of her love for her crew and also because she's kind of worried that he'll join an ice fishing expedition or cult if she doesn't. This only adds to the lore of Voyager as a cursed ship and her Crew as all-in-the-family maniacs.

#and the entire time Tuvok's like 'this is so logical I am not having a breakdown'#star trek voyager #st voyager #the important thing is that none of this entire odyssey really helps him address the root causes at all <3 #The VOY crew will do ANYTHING except address their issues #Tuvok #Kathryn Janeway

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thesmollestsnek · 1 year ago

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Death echoes

So a while ago, i found this dp x dc post that had a really interesting lore headcanon for Danny’s ghostly wail. Idk if I’ll be able to find it again, I’ll link it here if I do, but essentially it posited that every ghost has something called a “death echo”, which is an ability unique to them based heavily on their deaths. These echoes are the most powerful move in a ghost’s moveset, but they’re also extremely volatile and draining, typically damaging the ghost in some way when used, with Danny’s being his Wail because he died screaming. The original post then went on to some really cool halfa!Jason ideas based on these death echoes, but for this lil snippet with an extremely long intro I’d like to focus on Danny a bit more.

Edit: Apparently I may have extrapolated a lot of the actual lore behind these death echos myself? The inspiration post was a lot longer in my memories. Or I might've mushed multiple posts into one mental box and then forgot lol. So a lot of the actual detail from this point on is seemingly mostly original material? I think? Idk man, sometimes my brain spits out information without giving me any clues as to where it got that information. Anyway, this post got kinda long and since I'm... decently sure this is where I shifted from summarizing @ailithnight's post to writing all my own thoughts I figured here would be a good place to throw the cut lol.

So! with all of the context-for-the-context out of the way, let’s move on to the actual context for what I’m writing cause I can’t be bothered with writing an intro XD

Essentially, this is an au where Danny is an established member of the Justice League, or maybe one of the teen hero teams? I’m a slut for eternal teenager Danny, but maybe he’s enough of a powerhouse to be on the main team despite him both looking and acting like the dumbass fourteen year old he died as. Either way, he’s on a League/League-sanctioned mission and things go bad. Like, everyone-almost-dies bad. And so as a final desperation attack, Danny uses his Wail, a power he’s never told anyone on the league he even has. And it works, and they make it out, but after the fact everyone has. Questions. And because in this au death echoes are deeply personal, Danny dodges those questions, but the league coughbatmancough isn’t satisfied with that. So they push for answers. Answers Danny’s not willing to give, because. In my mind death echoes aren’t just based on how a person died, but also their experience of that death. What their last thoughts were. When Danny died the only thing that he could process beyond just an all-encompassing painpainpainpainpain was the sound of someone screaming. His screaming. And so his death echo is the sound of a fourteen year old child screaming in deathly pain and terror weaponized, which definitely gave the league Even More Questions than they would’ve had already. Which finally brings us to the actual snippet, which is a conversation between John Constantine, who was brought in for his experience with the supernatural once it became clear Danny wasn’t going to talk, and Danny himself.

~~~~~~~

“So, kid. Batsy tells me you’ve been hiding some of your abilities, wanna tell me what's up with that? Call it an occultist's intuition, but somethin’ tells me you’re not just being stubborn for the hell of it.”

“It’s... complicated. And not anyone’s business, either!”

“Kid...”

“Why does it even matter?! It’s not something I want to or am even able to do on a regular basis! I saved the mission, can’t they just accept that and move on???”

Sighing, Constantine reached up to start massaging his brow. “Kid, you and I both know that ain’t gonna be enough. Now I know that some things are better left alone, but the rest of these idiots? They can’t accept that, Batsy especially. That man’s never left bloody well enough alone in his life”

He looked up just in time to see the otherworldly teen shrink into himself, looking every bit the child he was. “I know but... why? Why do they need to keep asking questions? And why do they only ask the ones that hurt to answer?”

A sharp glance. “The fuck kinda questions are they asking? Batman was speaking in more grunt than word, so I didn’t really catch all the details of what this power you’re supposedly hiding even is.”

Phantom shrinks even more into himself at that, and responds in a voice so small it’s more sigh than speech. “I... I can scream. And it breaks things and pushes people back. But it, it sounds. Bad. And it brings up bad memories and I don’t like to do it or listentoitoreventhinkaboutitandtheywon’tletmeforgetand-”

“Breathe kid. I know you don’t need to but just take a deep breath with me. Don’t you go getting lost in your own head on me now., Constantine reassured the kid automatically, the sheer hopelessness prompting action long before the words themselves could be understood. Then the rest of him caught up, and he had to pause. Looked up at the kid, saw just how distressed he was. A picture was starting to form in the back of his head, and Constantine didn’t like what he saw one bit. A last-resort power that the normally open Phantom was strangely reticent about. A scream so horrible sounding the rest of the league would not to stop asking questions about it. Terrible memories to match said scream. And one truly miserable child who couldn’t bear to even think about any of it.

“Phantom... is that your Echo? Screaming?”

A miserable nod is his only response, the tears that had been welling up in the kid’s eyes finally starting to fall. Cursing softly to himself, Constantine stood to leave, bracing himself for the Bat’s inevitable questioning. “Well then you just take all the time you need love, and leave the rest to me. I’ll make sure the rest of those idiots know not to ask you about this ever again.” And with that Constantine turned and strode towards the door, leaving the quietly sobbing child to collect himself in privacy.

~~~~~

I had a whole-ass lore dump conversation between Constantine and Batman planned here, explaining how death echoes are deeply personal, and asking about one is a taboo on par with, potentially even worse than, asking a ghost about their death outright. Because they are formed from an amalgamation of how a ghost died, their last thoughts, and their final emotions, in some ways asking a ghost about their Echo is like asking them to describe their death in painstaking detail. But uhhh... inspiration bug left. So yea. Side note, I’d like to apologize if my depiction of Constantine’s accent was Bad, I’m but a lowly USAmerican whose only exposure to British accents is through tv ^-^’

#did some minor edits to fix typos and make things flow better when i went back in to add the hyperlink #that being said dont expect too much i wrote this in a bit of an inspiration frenzy lol #and barely edited it after the fact #the snek rambles #the snek writes #snippit #dp x dc #danny phantom #john constantine #idk wtf else to tag this #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #crossover

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sl-ut · 4 days ago

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all is fair

pairing: pope heyward x fem!reader, unrequited!jj maybank x fem!reader, slightly homoerotic bff!sarah cameron x reader LOLLLL

description: jj is not jealous of pope. definitely not. okay, maybe just a little.

warnings: swearing, underage drinking/drug usage, jealousy, slight angst, jj being a little butthurt, pope and jj are beefing, weird au where the plot of the show never happens lol but sarah and jb are still dating, reader has a shitty past and a bit of lore but we’ll get into it but don’t worry it doesnt rlly affect what the reader looks like or ethnic/cultural background (but i wrote it with arabic-canadian!reader in mind but thats just self indulgent lol), once again was high when starting this and writing this rn so sorry if it makes like no sense whatsoever but i think the story will be good), the grandparents are the sweetest human beings ever sorry

words: 2.7K

date posted: 08/11/25

JJ swore he wasn’t jealous. No way.

JJ, despite his unfortunate past, he had grown to be pretty damn confident in himself over the years; He was one of the best surfers in Kildare, he had a great group of friends, and he was fairly popular among the ladies in the Outer Banks. Sure, there were parts of him that he wasn’t so proud of or tried to keep hidden as much as possible, but at a time like this, he shouldn’t be feeling anything but on top of the world, but he couldn’t quite fight off the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes followed the movements of the two girls on the opposite side of the bonfire.

Sarah threw her head back, laughing joyfully as she and Y/n took turns twirling each other around to some song that was far too fast for their dancing, but neither seemed to care. They’d been at it for a few songs now, Sarah always waiting in the wings to snatch the newest member of the Pogues away to have all to herself, knowing fully well that there were at least two other members of the group who were eager to do the same. John B didn’t seem alarmed at his girlfriend’s obsession with their new friend, though it was probably too demanding to ask a teenage boy to be upset about his girlfriend rubbing up on another girl.

To be totally fair, Sarah did technically have first dibs, having been the first to meet the girl after she’d moved in with her grandparents in Figure Eight while volunteering at the local animal shelter. Her grandparents were pretty well known in Kildare, two former snowbirds who finally decided to settle in North Carolina, both having recently retired, though her grandfather did own and partially run the shelter. They were a sweet old couple, the type that you might see on a Christmas card or a cookie box, and lived quite modestly despite the fact that they were living amongst the wealthier community on the island. With their granddaughter in town and staying with them indefinitely, they were eager to introduce her to Sarah in hopes of easily transitioning her into the social scene. It was Sarah who had invited her to the kegger the following weekend, so it made sense that they had quickly become two peas in a pod, so long as JJ was next in the pecking order.

Except, he couldn’t technically claim that spot on his own. He had actually met Y/n prior to the bonfire while delivering groceries with Pope, both of them spotting her at the exact same time as she answered the door, charming each of them with a sweet smile and a generous tip, completely unaware of the lingering gaze of each boy as she bid them each a polite goodbye before closing the door. Neither of them said anything the entire walk back to the truck, both sitting quietly in the front seat for a moment before JJ finally let his thoughts take over.

“She was like, crazy hot, right?”

Pope was silent for another beat before he sighed out his response, “Yeah she was.”

Neither of them brought her up again, figuring it wasn’t really worth their time to pursue anything with a girl who would only be there for a week. However, when she showed up with Sarah to the kegger that Friday, all bets were off.

JJ was the first to actually get to talk to her, stepping in with a greeting while Sarah became occupied with her boyfriend, nearly wasting away after being apart for two hours. He offered her a drink, chuckling to himself at the cringing expression on her face at the taste of the warm beer. She shook her head, handing the red cup back to him with a slightly embarrassed look on her face. This caught Sarah’s attention, winking at JJ as she encouraged him to show Y/n the cooler of quote-on-quote “girly drinks” in the back of the twinkie.

He could read that she was nervous, especially now that she was alone with him. Normally, he would do his best to calm her nerves just enough that he could persuade her to climb into the back of the van with him, but something about this girl made him feel different, almost obliged to treat her with more respect than he did most girls. She wasn’t just another girl, he could tell simply by the way she carried herself, almost like she understood him on a deeper level before she even knew anything about him. He was drawn to her, and an unfamiliar feeling of nerves ate away at his tummy as he showed her the selection of Sarah’s cans and gave her a lopsided grin as she took the can from him.

He lost sight of her for a while, returning to manning the keg while John B and Sarah rushed down the beach hand in hand, but his eyes were in a constant motion of scanning the crowd, eagerly searching for even a glimpse of the girl who’d had his head spinning for the last hour.

Unbeknownst to him, she had found herself sitting next to Kie at the bonfire, falling easily into the conversation with her and the few others. She took note of the boy sitting across from her, making an effort to ask him questions or include him in the conversations. He seemed to be a bit socially awkward, but there was something about him that had caught her eye straight away, even from the first moment they locked eyes while he was delivering her grandparents’ groceries.

He was dorky and awkward in the most endearing way possible, unlike guys she had historically been attracted to, but she was certain that that was exactly why she liked him so much; she was in the market for a fresh start, and that couldn’t happen if she put herself in the position to treated like shit all over again.

Six weeks later and Y/n found herself becoming a regular at the Chateau, constantly being dragged there on her days off from the shelter by Sarah or being picked up by one of the others on their way home from whatever odd job they’d picked up on Figure Eight for the day. Every day out on the boat, every kegger, every bonfire on the beach, she was there.

They had all even begun hanging out at her place, all quickly becoming acquainted with her grandparents, both of whom were more than happy to host the teens, keeping them comfortable and fed all day as they used their in-ground pool or lounged in the A/C. Her grandmother thought they were all the sweetest kids who’d ever lived, having a special place in her heart for the boys, while her grandfather was just glad to have a group to cook for, gladly donning his fancy apron and manning his grill for them all and enjoyed having extra help around the house. Her grandma especially loves when Sarah comes for sleepovers because she loves joining in on your gossip sessions and joining you both to go get mani-pedis in the morning.

Their closeness to her family also meant that they were quickly discovering very personal things about Y/n’s life prior to moving to the Outer Banks. Y/n was very hyper aware of this for the first few weeks, almost vulnerable now that her past was now out in the open, but she quickly came to realise that her secrets were safe with the pogues, and that they only made them love her even more.

Initially, it hadn’t been the intent of either Y/n or Pope to begin hanging out on their own in secret. Well, they had both wanted to hang out on their own, but the secrecy stemmed from the fact that JJ had made his intentions and feelings for Y/n very clear, and that he was very hard-pressed about the “no pogue-on-pogue macking,” rule for everyone except for himself for some reason. They also liked the quietness of secrecy, neither of them worried about their friends trying to butt in on their movie nights or walks on the beach, even though they were most definitely not trying to get each other alone on purpose… Until after she kissed him for the first time, that is.

Pope had been shocked when it happened, his brain barely even registering the second-long peck after he’d walked her home from the Chateau one evening, but he was sure to put his all into the second and third ones that quickly followed. He had expected some time to figure things out before anything was made official, but he of course had chosen a girl who was prepared to take what she wanted without fear of repercussions, and so, shortly after she had been picked up at the end of her grandparent’s dock, she curled into his side and announced that they were now together. Pope was taken aback, but was somewhat relieved that he no longer had to go through with his long-winded but very sweet gesture that he had planned in order to make things official. That relief, however, disappeared very quickly as he met JJ’s heated gaze.

“What ever happened to bro code?” He’d whined once they had gotten back to the chateau after dropping her back off that evening. “I mean, seriously man, I called dibs and you just swoop in before I even get to make a move.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Kie raised a hand to cut him off before he could spout any more nonsense, “You called dibs? Are you aware that we are talking about a real human girl here?”

“Not the point,” JJ ignored her, “You knew I liked her!”

“And you knew I did too!” Pope countered, “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about this beforehand but I never expected her to drop that on you guys like that.”

JJ shook his head, finishing the last of his beer and tossing the can to the side as he stormed towards the front door of the Chateau, “You just couldn’t let me have one thing now, could you Pope?”

Pope jumped to his own feet, brows furrowing as a look of disbelief crossed his face, “One thing? Do you even hear yourself? JJ, you can and have screwed around with every girl on this island; you always get first pick, and even the ones you leave for me are usually waiting for their chance to talk to you! God forbid the one girl I really like actually likes me back and isn’t just using me to get to you, but I guess that would be too hard for you to believe, huh?”

JJ frowned, opening his mouth to counter that argument when Sarah finally stepped in.

“Why are you even fighting over this?” She scoffed, “JJ, you have been here the entire time. If you were going to make a move you could have, but I really don’t think it would have made much of a difference. Like I said, you were here, you were an option, and she still chose Pope. Don’t throw your friendship with both of them away over her feelings, which none of you could have controlled even if you tried.”

JJ felt his breathing grow heavier, his emotions mixing with Sarah’s words of reason and sending him into a frenzy. He needed to be alone before he had the chance to blow up again, he needed time to think, so he stormed out of the Chateau without another word.

Two more weeks had passed, and all of them had gone back to normal. JJ was still a bit butthurt over it all, but made an effort to be his usual self. There was still a bit of tension between him and Pope, and the Heyward boy had even made an effort to plan more time away from the group with his new girlfriend, both out of respect for JJ’s feelings and out of a slight tinge of greed knowing that other eyes were looking at her in the same way he did. He had made an effort to not divulge any of what had happened to her, but he was sure that Sarah would have let at least some of it slip at some point.

The bonfire had been planned in honour of Kie’s birthday, though she had fled the party rather early, hand-in-hand with some dark-haired touron while her friends whooped and cheered. Most of the others had left by that point, leaving JJ, John B, Sarah, Pope, and Y/n alone to enjoy the slowly dying fire, the quickly dwindling alcohol supply, and the free-flowing music that played through John B’s beat up bluetooth speaker.

JJ sat on his folding chair, nursing his fourth beer of the night as he watched the girl twirl around and around with Sarah until they both stopped, alcohol-inspired giggles leaving their lips as they leaned against each other to regain their balance. They grinned at each other for a moment before Sarah leaned forward, pressing a gleeful kiss to her friend’s lips before pulling herself away.

“Heyward,” She called in a demanding voice, catching the attention of Pope, who’d already been watching his girlfriend with a lovesick stare, “Come get your lady, I need a break.”

Y/n grinned at him, eyes filling with love hearts at the sight of her boyfriend as she held out her grabby hands to him, beckoning him to join her, “Dance with me, Popey.”

Pope visibly cringed at the nickname, something she had never even once called him while sober, but still pushed himself off of his log and moved to meet her on the other side of the fire.

JJ reached a hand out, stopping him from moving any further as Pope stared down at him with a challenging look. They stared for a quick beat before JJ moved his hand up into an all-too-familiar position. A small smile appeared on Pope’s lips as he clapped his own hand into his best friend’s, dapping him up for the first time in weeks.

“I love you, man,” JJ slurred.

“Love you too, JJ.”

“Pope!” Y/n placed her hands on her hips, impatiently waiting for him as Sarah collapsed into John B’s lap.

“Go get her, tiger,” JJ let go of his hand, making sure to pat his ass sharply as he walked past with a laugh, watching as he took the girl into his arms and began to slowly sway her back and forth to the beat of the song.

Y/n leaned her head against his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck as the drinks she’d had began to transcend from energetic to sleepy in just moments. JJ watched on, a small frown appearing on his lips before it quickly switched to a soft smile.

Alright, maybe he was jealous, but he’d never seen Pope look so happy, so maybe it was all worth it.

okay why did i actually eat this up

fr tho i love this pairing and little plot i have going so im def down to make this a mini series or do like hcs for this if ppl are interested if not just go ahead and tell me to stfu already

#x reader #reader insert #imagines #outer banks #outer banks x reader #i love pope so much #pope heyward x y/n #pope heyward x you #pope heyward imagine #pope heyward x reader #pope heyward #pope obx #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine

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pix-writes · 2 months ago

Text

Catalogues

Stanley Pines x F!Reader (one shot)

AO3

Tags: mild mentions of sex work, homelessness and implied sexual trauma, angst with comfort, fluff, smutty themes (stan gets a little of the TLC he deserves), newly established relationship, implied age gap (not specified but are both adults)

Rating: Mature | 18+ MDNI

Summary: based on the prompt on this post from lore on thisisnotawebsitedotcom by @razziematazz

Words: <1.6k

Shrugging with the heavy box in your arms to adjust your grip, you called out into the shack. “Hey! Stan! I’ve got a surprise!”

You couldn’t believe your luck when you had found this stack of old-looking comics at the big yard sale, Stan was going to be thrilled.

Now here you were, spreading the contents onto the living room floor.

“So, did I do good or what?!”

“You did great, toots! How much did this cost?”

“Pff! That’s not important!” You grinned, watching as Stan flicked through one of the comics. “How old do you think they are, anyway?”

“Definitely vintage, some of ‘em are probably older than you!” He said with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Shut up!” You laughed, throwing a mock punch. “I’m not that young, you know.”

Stan caught up your wrist easily, motioning like he was about to bite off your fingers he chuckled at your squeal, before placing a kiss to your palm. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say sweetheart.”

“Don’t know what’s gotten into you.” You muttered reaching into the box to pull out another pile, some of the glossy paper slipped through your hands, landing with a slap on the floor.

Stan snatched up a few just as you registered what you were looking at.

“Oh.” The heat rose to your face.

“"Now this is interesting! Who knew you were the type to buy a load of dirty ol’ mags, huh?”

“I didn’t know they were in there, the guy selling them likely didn’t either.” He was trying to be sly, but you could see he pocketed one of them and you reached to snatch one up. He stretched his arm up, so it was out of your grasp. “Hey! Stan! C’mon, that’s a double standard.”

“Hmm… I’m just gonna take a peek, maybe it’ll give me a few ideas.” He wiggled his eyebrows salaciously.

You both burst into laughter.

“I’m glad the kids aren’t here!”

You dove to reach the ones in your partner’s hand and this time he let you take it.

Sitting on the couch you both glanced at the forbidden material and giggled.

“Oh man, some of this stuff is older than me! And terribly niche!” You were so absorbed in looking at the men in the catalogue, hair and clothing looking so dated now, that you didn’t notice how quiet Stan had gotten. “I mean, hunky drifters, who even buys this stu-”

You had turned the page to an image that was familiar from photos you had seen before, though admittedly, he had more clothes on in those. Swallowing thickly as you realised that the eyes staring back out of the page at you were definitely those of your partner’s.

Stan remembers it clearly, though some of the details are hazy, he remembers the ad, the amount of short-change in his pocket and the duffel bag with the broken strap he kept over his shoulder. The nice lady at the desk had the gift of the gab and reeled off what they wanted, how he fit into it, how much money he could get. The place didn't look too classy, but it was warmer than it was outside.

"That's all part of it, darlin', it's supposed to be real, that's what our customers want!" She'd said with a wink and a squeeze of his arm, after he'd voiced some misgivings about taking off too much. He remembered the beady eyed photographer and his small crew directing him…

The place was a total meat market too, as he glanced around, he’d seen other people there to model all under dismissive eyes or hungry ones. The comments he’d gotten had made him shiver and he’d tried ever since to block them out of his mind.

He'd only left with a fraction of what they'd promised, but it was better than nothing, even if his ears were burning.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away for a few long moments. Stan was lying, no leaning, against the hood of a beaten-up looking car, rough jeans unzipped, cock in his grip red at the tip and dribbling precum. His face held a crooked, almost nonchalant smile - if that was a thing. Like he knew he looked good and he didn’t care who was watching. And yet… the camera had managed to pick up the faint blush over his cheeks. It sent a spark of heat straight down to your groin.

You practically dropped the magazine when you saw the second photo, the younger Stan was in the backseat of the car, legs spread, the camera took the shot from a low angle which meant there was little left to the imagination, since the only thing he was wearing was a loose, open hoodie…

“Oh my, Mr Mystery! I never knew you did this, how scandalous!” You said, trying to laugh to break the tension, though your mouth felt dry.

But Stan didn’t say anything, your smile dropped as he turned away.

"Stanley.” That gave him pause. You only said his full first name when you were being serious or affectionate. "Tell me what’s wrong…. Are you embarrassed?”

“No!”

“Then tell me. I’m sorry, I was just joking around, I didn’t mean to poke fun.”

Stan sighed, turning to look at you once again. “It’s not to do with you, baby. I… you know about my driftin’ days?” You nodded. “I needed some quick cash, I saw this ad, talked to a couple people who told me it was some modelling photoshoot. Hah, well, naively it sounded kind of classy to me then, but it turned out to be… not. But it was okay, I guess. Just didn’t think any of it would still be lying around.”

"What did you, um... Think about, when you...?" You couldn’t help but let the words tumble out of your mouth.

"I don't remember thinking much of anything… 'cept wanting money for a warm bed."

You looked as the man shrugged like it was nothing whilst you felt like your heart, once again, shattered into a million pieces for him. "Oh, honey..."

He cringed at your tone. You couldn't have that.

You took his hands into your warm ones, stroking your thumbs over them. "Stanley. Look at me... Do you honestly think I'd judge you for this?"

He squirmed at your directness. “I... You... I dunno, you're so..."

"So?"

"So... Uhm... Fine! I thought you might, okay?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly a pinnacle of virtue, baby.”

“Yeah, but, you deserve better than me, ya know?” He smiled weakly.

“I don’t pity you and I’m certainly not going to judge you for surviving. Hell, I wouldn’t judge you if you’d done it for fun, either…In fact, I, uh…”

Stan registered the way you ducked your head, hands clasped together, like you had done on your first date. “You what?”

“Never mind.” You said, getting up to gather some of the magazines together. “L-let’s just-”

"-Hey! Hands off the merchandise, toots." He swiped the damn magazine still open to the pages he featured in from underneath you.

“I’ve told you, now you’ve gotta tell me.” He crooked a finger underneath your chin, so you had to look up at him.

You bit your lip. "I found it, um, attractive."

"Oh yeah?” He leaned in close, that same crooked smile forming, though you could see that the light of it reached his eyes this time. “How attractive?”

“Very.” Stan hummed in response waiting for you to continue. “I-I liked the way you looked, confident and also flustered. You looked good.”

“And what about now, does the real thing live up to it?”

Your hands had started to roam his body, pulling at his shirt, grabbing at his stomach, knowing he was self-conscious about it, despite your insistence that you loved it. You felt almost breathless and he hadn’t even touched you yet. “Let me show you.”

Finally, you were pushed back into the cushions as he kissed you. Feeling the heat of his body on top of yours as you deepened your next kiss. “Touch me.”

He pushed a hand up your shirt teasing and pinching your nipples with his hand. You whined.

“Stanley.”

“I know, doll, I know. So needy.” He rearranged your positions so he could properly grind against you, pulling off your sweater in the process. He moaned into your open mouthed kisses, tongue stroking over his own.

Just when you were starting to unbutton your pants, you heard as someone pulled up onto the gravel outside and a bunch of different voices.

“Shit!”

You don’t know how you managed to untangle yourselves, but soon you ware hastily gathering up the salacious material.

“Sixer's finished his trip with 'em early!”

Taking stairs two at a time, you managed to dump the box in a hidden spot in your room by the time you heard your names being called by Ford.

“Wait a second.” You took the copy of ‘hunky drifters’ out of Stan’s pocket and tucked it under the mattress. “For later.”

A blush creeped up his neck. "You'll be the death of me, doll."

#stanley pines x reader #stanley pines x you #stan pines x reader #gravity falls fanfiction #reader and stan are kinda feral for each other if you haven't guessed that already :P

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