#vex can have wife status too

[dispotatorulzz]

Logging on here to say nonsense about Viv and Vex and then leaving again. Anyway if you didn't kno w Viv is my wife btw . Btw .

[murdockparker]

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

[finn-writes-stuff]

Married life headcanons? With Percy, Vax and Vex? ✨🖤

Domestic Bliss

To ask for a normal life after so long as an adventurer seemed impossible. But here they were, living with you and so terribly happy.

Percy, Vex, & Vax x Reader

Fandom: The Legend of Vox Machina/ Critical Role

Format: Headcanons

Gender Neutral Reader

Masterlist

Domestic bliss is my favourite thing to write, this is great for me -Finn

Percy

He is so smug about the fact that he gets to call you his spouse. Absolutely the type to refer to you as his husband/wife/spouse and then melt over the fact that he can say that.

Similar to the last point, as you now have a title due to being married to Percy, he will find excuses to use it. It's another reminder that you chose him!

No matter how stubborn this man is with most, he folds like wet paper with you. Percy is awful at saying no to you. He is whipped and he cannot do a thing about it.

All he really wants to do is spoil you with everything he has. What is the point of money and status if not to give you the perfect life?

Cassandra does her best to strike up a friendship with you and thinks it is hilarious that you could easily convince your husband to do anything. She will try and get you to take advantage of this for silly things.

If you become close with his sister, he's done for. Family is so important to him, and you and Cassandra are the biggest parts of his. Having you two get along is all he wants.

Cass makes a comment once about wanting to become an aunt and almost kills Percy.

Vex

Vex is subtler about how incredibly happy she is, but you know the way her eyes sparkle whenever someone mentions you.

There are jokes made about you being Trinket's step-parent. Trinket has decided the correct way to react is to try and make you pet him whenever he hears it. If he isn't expecting it, he gets excited and will knock you over from the force of it. Vex loves this.

Vex'ahlia has a possessive streak and you are well aware of it. She likes having a hand on you whenever she's next to you, and it will become incredibly obvious if she starts feeling as though someone is paying a little too much attention to you. This is when she starts saying 'My spouse," every time she refers to you.

She will say the worst, most blatant, innuendo in front of the party without so much as a blush. If you get flustered, then it's all the more fun.

Vex finds a lot of joy in still being able to fluster you, no matter how long the two of you have been together.

Vax

Vax can't quite believe that you agreed to marry him. On some level, it feels like he has been living a dream since the wedding.

He's so ridiculously soft over you. Vex claims he has heart eyes whenever you aren't looking. She's right.

He has dreamed of having a simple, content life ever since he was a kid. All he really wanted was to have someone he loved and could rely on. You give him so much more than that.

His deal with the Raven Queen haunts him sometimes, when he thinks about how much time he will or won't get to have with you. He promised himself that he would give you all of the love he could for as long as he could.

Vax tries to do small things to make your days easier when he can. For him, that's what love is. Wanting to make someone's life easier, to make them happy. You'll often see small things that he'd done for you without him saying he's done them.

[fountainpenguin]

"I simply must go-" ("Baby, it's cold outside...") "The answer is 'No-'" ("But baby, it's cold outside...") (x)

---

New Dog's Life chapter today! ~ 3rd Life series fan-season

Chapter 22 - “Fizzle (Bdubs, Scar, Mumbo)”

❤️ Read on AO3

💛 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

---

Bdubs ruins the soul delivery route for everybody. Scar tolerates NPC_Grian's snark as best he can. Mumbo eats pizza and makes a new… friend?

Also, Scar follows up with Grian on the rumor that he's secretly trapped in his red life even in the Between dimension, one slip-up from a perma-death... That talk goes great!

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

---

Bdubs - Phantom

Status: Morose

Captain of New Star Station’s Phantom Hybrid Flock

💙  🧡  💚

There are no horses in New Star Station. Not even one. Horse hybrids, sure, though they're not as common as you think. People have been saying for years that horses might be extinct in Between by now, but he's still got hope. You're sharing minds with Bdubs right now, just so we're on the same page. He's the guy with hope.

It's fine! There's no time in his schedule for horse caretaking anyway. Being captain is practically a full-time job. Seriously.

Phantoms don't need to go offline (as long as they're absorbing souls on the regular for the energy zing, of course). A phantom who goes more than three days without a single soul will start dropping the hunger meter fast, and if they can't find someone to eat, they'll probably go offline a while so they can rest and think things through.

It's all about energy. Even Scott's not immune to naptime, no matter how hard he denies it. Have you ever seen him sleep when he's on-server for like, the Life series and stuff? He's out cold. Might as well be in free-cam with how little reaction you'll get out of his body. Maybe he really does go into free-cam and wander around, pretending he's sleeping when he's really not. Scott's the type who can't settle down for anything. Maybe that's why he's so big on cozy little builds.

But the thing about 'No horses in New Star' is, well… Not having horses doesn't leave him with much to do on nights like this when he's stripped of title and stripped of wings. He should probably be taking Brittney out to dinner, but since he wasn't expecting to, y'know… Lose his wings this weekend, he didn't make reservations early enough. Brittney's fine! She's doing Gals' Night tonight with Cocoa, Jewel, Ferks, and Vera. They'll have fun. Bdubs snorts, kicking his foot against the edge of town square's fountain.

A stubborn sniffer, an athletic ravager, a sharp-eyed hoglin, a parkour-loving axolotl, and a beefy glow squid walk into a bar… Now that's a group you don't wanna mess with. The ravager is not the one with the most XP in her close combat skill. And Bdubs knows firsthand that as mellow as his beloved wife is, she's not afraid to headbutt or wrestle around. Look- phantoms do wrestle, but even Bdubs finds himself all too easily pinned when facing a woman with four arms.

I should bring her some chocolates. Not back to their server, obviously, but they've got an apartment he's spent… way too little time in lately. Bdubs stares down at his reflection in the fountain water. His mossy cloak sways, hands tucked in his pants pockets beneath. No wings. Nobody paying him any mind. Hhh… Well. Brittney still loves him. And even though she's got a Gals' Night going on, it's not hard to be romantic. He does this all the time, obviously.

Plucking blossoms off the cherry trees is going to be such a pain without wings.

I mean, it's just temporary… He'll get his wings back after someone cycles him through the system, but that'll knock him out for a week if he's not careful. The secret plan is to join Cub in Hermitcraft tidying - They're down to the last couple days before the Season 9 download drops, you know - and then treat the guy to dinner tonight. Scar ate last week. So did Etho's mystery vex… whoever he is.

See, that's the problem. Since unthreading's illegal, it's not like there are lots of other vex to choose from. Phantoms have a game balance stipulation in their code that prevents them from logging each other out properly, so submitting to a vex is the easiest way to go. Not a lot of other vex besides those two around, which is such a shame. Sure, New Star Station is a refuge, but most of its residents peaced out of the anarchy world before they ever mod up (either forcibly or of their own will).

Modding is a skilled art, especially if you're looking for body tweaks that will stay consistent in and out of different servers (not to mention Between). Tango's one of the best aesthetics modders Bdubs has ever met. That lion-like tail he wears wherever he goes? That's free advertising. Do you have any idea how hard it is to code an additional limb like that, and make it prehensile and expressive at the same time? Yeah. Tango's your guy if you like looking pretty.

What? Oh, yeah. There's zero horses in New Star. Bdubs already logged out a straggler who dropped to phantom hour and refused to pathfind home, too busy flirting instead. Combined with the "Thanks for being a captain; here's your parting meal" thing from yesterday, his hunger bar's topped off. No point in hunting. There's nothing else to do if you're a phantom except whatever the captain orders. And Martyn tasked him with the delivery route.

Bdubs climbs the clock tower and ducks inside the storage room. Pungence already prepped a satchel of souls for delivery. He always does. Good on him. Some people have an easier time hunting than others (Physically and/or emotionally). Bdubs slings it over his shoulder and turns out the lanterns. He shuts the storage room door, but leaves it slightly propped so it won't auto-lock. None of the fox eggs look like they've hatched yet. Hard to tell, though… Most are under a blanket. A few sit by a magma block.

Bdubs glances at the stairwell, but Martyn stomped off with Cleo. He'll be back soon, of course, of course, but… Don't they need to be rotated? That's what Etho always says. Etho used to eggsit for his mom all the time before he finally moved out of her den and settled long-term in New Star.

The fox eggs are Martyn's responsibility. It does him no favors if Bdubs handles everything for him. But… Bdubs walks over and touches one of the exposed eggs with a hand. He yanks his fingers back.

Too hot. Oh, they're cookin'.

Dozens and dozens of eggs lay cozied up in warm wool blankets all around the roost. Bdubs shifts the eggs nearest the magma block away and replaces them with the eggs at the farthest blanket edges. He tucks the blanket under a bit more, sends Martyn a whisper - Leaving for delivery route, eggs look kinda cold btw but I rotated the ones on the magma - and heads downstairs again. Every step clunks and clangs. When he reaches the bottom, he's got a response from Martyn… but it's not much to look at.

InTheLittleWood: k

All right. If that's all he has to say, that's all he has to say. So off on the delivery route he goes.

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[glasskey]

Nick & June's Mix tape Vol. 2

With season 2 comes volume 2 of our Nick and June mix and it’s an interesting one. Nick and June fall in love, await the arrival of their new bub, fight off numerous enemies and we learn that true love requires absolute sacrifice.

Rebel Handmaid Commander

Watching Nick and June fight at the Boston Globe is absolutely mesmerising. These two have been locked up and forced to behave for so long, now they have the freedom to actually argue (amongst other things…. cough cough) it’s like shaking the can and ripping off the lid. This scene is supercharged from the word go. The sex scene here is raw, real and by ordinary standards, it’s seriously graphic. These two are finally taking a deep breath of one another, instead of whispering sweet nothings and secreting themselves away in clandestine corners. June bites Nick, it’s antagonistic, a sign that they’re not going to be playing nice today. She’s still slightly pissed off and she wants no part of the lawn boy bit, so he’d better bring his A game. Well okay then.

There’s an incredible sense of relief at watching June being able to argue with Nick, the Handmaids hood and its accessories are ashes, and at last after years of being made to be quiet, she’s allowed to actually yell at a man for being an idiot. She’s also not this delicate precious thing in the tower anymore, and Blaine’s finally got the opportunity to have a few choice words of his own. Essentially both of them have grievances and they’re not pulling any punches. It’s clear from June’s new nickname that she’s already earning herself quite a reputation amongst The Eyes as a bit of a trouble maker. As the mother of his child, Nick’s understandably feeling a little antsy about her sticking her neck out so readily for the noose. Given Gilead’s somewhat unforgiving laws, Blaine seems to be a touch vexed that he’s spending a lot of time playing “stubborn or stupid” when it comes to June. But it’s exactly this relentless recklessness that enables her to be the kind of leader, he already sense’s she will become.

June’s rightfully annoyed that, while yes she has been extricated from the Waterford’s clutches, Nick doesn’t seem to have much of an idea as to what’s next. At this point Nicks still finding his feet with Mayday, no doubt he’s always known where to find them when he needs to, but up until now he’s never needed to. In Gilead you need to think two moves ahead and June’s allegation of Nick wanting “to play the hero” is a crack at just how unprepared he is. There’s a definite dig here at his status in the Waterford household as the resident whipping boy who’s suddenly decided that he wants to level up. As with June transitioning from “not being that kind of person” to our Rebel Handmaid Commander it all takes time. Heroes aren’t born, they’re forged through struggle and battle and Blaine’s not even close to being fully formed yet. It’s not until the end of Season 2, when he finally holds his daughter, that we see him begin this journey and it’s only the end of Season 5 that he truly earns a place by her side as a warrior.

Blaine’s definitely not thinking straight, he’s a freshly minted baby daddy who’s freaked out and gone against all of his instincts of self-preservation, to help June make a break for the border. June’s no better, she’s all heart, no head here too. Her love for Hannah completely outweighing any reasonable argument that Nick may have for the remotest chance of success. Ultimately his options are limited to letting her go with a gun or without one. Make no mistake, she was always going to get those keys.

Corinthians

In season 2 we see Blaine cite Corinthians 13:4, a psalm espousing the pure nature of love in front of Fred, Serena and his newly arranged wife, as he looks at June. “Love is patient” according to Corinthians 13:4, in Gilead it has to be, marriage is transactional and love is an inconvenient obstacle to a servant’s higher purpose.

If you were ever under any illusions that Nick was a “free” man, the whole Eden debacle should clarify things for you nicely. A free man doesn’t have to marry a child bride while the woman he loves and the mother of his child watches. That’s just not a thing. Nicks selection of this psalm is a message to June that’s designed to serve as an assurance amongst all the recent emotional rubble, but he’s also hoping to God that some of its actual meaning will penetrate Fred and Serena’s thick skulls. Unfortunately it’s to no avail, to the Waterford’s Corinthians is simply just pretty words and no message.

When Nick reads Corinthians, Serena understands exactly who it’s for and promptly sends June to her room…….like that’s actually going to make a difference. Serena’s maneuverings in this arranged marriage and Eden’s ensuing death are an eerie reflection of her forced conception of Holly and the ultimate theft of Nick and June’s dream for a family through the appropriation of their child.

Eden’s death is a metaphor for the destruction of paradise, her recitation of Corinthians 13:4 just prior to her death brings into sharp relief Gilead’s ruthless annihilation of beauty. Eden’s refusal to apologise for, lie about or relinquish Isaac, speaks loudly of the absolute unselfish sacrifice of true love. Nick may not give a fuck about himself but he loves June entirely and refuses to see her dead, however painful, he resolves to give her up.

Serena has observed the progression of Nick and June’s relationship and decided enough is enough, it’s now reached threat level 9 and needs to be stopped before it hits critical mass. Corinthians 13:4 speaks of love as something that is earned, treasured, abides through trials of great suffering, heals and humbles. If Serena had any inkling of what this meant, she’d know it was already way too late.

He's the one who got them out.

There’s selfless, and then there’s this next level shit that Nick pulled in season 2 when he smuggles out a bunch of handmaids letters and then credits Luke with getting them out. Okay so maybe not completely incorrect after all Luke and Moira did flood the internet with them. But seriously the statement “got them out” implies some type of serious effort or danger like let’s say a trip across the border with them, rather than a simple post on Insta or Twitter with a few choice hash tags.

At the very least Nick should get a bit of credit here right? RIGHT? The fact that he DOESN’T take any is absolutely intentional. Nick returned from Canada asking for nothing and giving June everything. It cost him a huge part of himself and the fact that he gave it away so readily was designed to illustrate his pure self-sacrifice for her. This is the moment, right here that’s designed to show that Blaine loves her, like LOVES her, and officially doesn’t care what it costs him.

The very act of passing these letters to Luke and then crediting Luke with them, is a veiled metaphor for the passing of messages back and forth between June and her family. While ridiculously selfless it’s necessary for Blaine to credit Luke in order to complete the actual construct of the metaphor.

Blaine is June’s conduit, her messenger, guardian, guide, lover, but with the words “I met your husband” he reminds her and acknowledges that in the ordinary world he will have to relinquish these roles. There are three words contained in this scene that perfectly capture Blaine’s sentiment and they’re heartbreaking in their simplicity: “I should go” he says and as he leaves he tells her he loves her for the last time that season.

Blaine looks crushed and limps away visibly wounded, June is so overjoyed by his news about Luke and Moira, it’s as if she is blind to his pain. For both of them there is the realisation that not only CAN she leave but she inevitably WILL. It’s not long after we see him arrange for June to leave and for the next three seasons he keeps his distance. This is a crucial moment for Blaine, the letters home and meeting Luke face to face form the basis of his attempted growing separation from her as he tries to do “the right thing”. The only problem is, the more that Blaine sacrifices for her, the more her love for him grows.

I wish I could hold her

No exaggeration, this fucking wrecked me. There are a few moments on THT that choke me up spontaneously and this is one of them. It’s absolutely gutting to see a usually stoic Blaine suddenly dissolve into a puddle of vulnerability, heartache and tenderness.

Blaine doesn’t often talk about their baby, he doesn’t dare, it’s altogether too much to hope for that they might one day be a family. Here he can’t contain himself, “Our babies so beautiful” he says, his joy over the birth of his new daughter and his love for the mother of his child, spilling out of him. “I wish I could hold her” he says with the heartbreaking revelation that Nick has been stripped of any claim to his own daughter, including the ability to hold her for the first time. Tears well in June’s eyes, her usual sassy cynicism completely melting away in a single heartbeat.

With the birth of Holly comes the first time we hear Blaine actually mention the possibility of leaving Gilead, for the first time he has something that might make him try. The two of them fantasise about an idyllic escape from the Hell of Gilead. The golden glowing leafy window makes it hard to believe they’re not already standing on a sandy beach beneath lush green trees.

The Waterford’s window contains a gingko biloba, the most ancient of all trees, a symbol of their lasting love and growing family tree. This is one of those incredible THT moments that will stay with you throughout the seasons, where two parents bond over the birth of their child and dream of a better life together…..in Hawaii. I’m not crying, you’re crying…

Before I get into our 3rd Nick and June Mix tape, I’ve got a second Lawrence and June Mix. In the future Nick and Lawrence will be getting a separate Mix tape, and Nick, June and Tuello will all be getting their own playlists. See you then.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

From the 50 types of kisses, 'Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference' with Kimallura?

20. Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

Kima likes to say that her wife has two modes: whirlwind and statue. This morning, she's a whirlwind. Kima's on the kitchen floor of the tower, slowly eating her morning toast as a blonde-haired, blue-robed tornado spins around her, up and down the stairs, talking a mile a minute about things Kima has long given up on understanding.

She's just finished her toast and moved onto her eggs when there's a loud banging about three floors up. "YOU GOOD?" she shouts through a mouth full of yolk.

"YES, DEAR."

Kima shrugs and keeps eating.

She gave up the life of being an Important Person a long time ago, preferring late nights reading by the fire and lazy mornings in bed to the harrowing adventures of heroics, at least at this point in her life, but she doesn't think Allura's ever going to be able to walk away. Her work in the Republic, with the Council, is too important, both to her and to the people she serves, and even though it means mornings like this, where Kima can't get eyes on her for more than two seconds at a time, she can share, if that's what makes her happy.

"I'm leaving!" Allura shouts from...somewhere. "I am leaving and I am late. Oh, Vex is going to have a field day when I arrive late, and with coffee, by the gods..."

Kima hauls herself up from the table and pads over to the spiraling staircase along the outer wall of the tower. "Where are you?"

"Down here!"

She takes the stairs two at a time, stopping as soon as Allura comes into view at the very bottom. She's already at the front door. "Allie!"

Allura stops and looks at her. "Yes?"

Sometimes she'd lose her head if Kima weren't there to screw it back on. "Come here."

Sheepishly, Allura slinks back to the base of the stairs, and Kima continues down until they're of a height. Kima takes her wife's face in her hands. "Give 'em hell." Then she kisses her, a reminder of what she's leaving behind, a reminder of what she'll be coming home to.

Allura smiles against her lips. "I owe you lunch."

Kima snorts. "You owe me a lot more than that."

"Don't press your luck." One more kiss, and Allura's off, and Kima's left standing there, with a long day and an empty tower ahead of her. She stretches with a groan—time to go back to sleep.

[redgyl]

I am so sorry for how long it took for me to put this together. I debated for so long for how to do this next bit, trying to figure out how to best set up the rest of the story. Ugh.

In any case, many thanks to @applestruda for creating this Boatem AU.

Chapter 5

In the wild fens not overly far away from Cub’s house, two beloved zombie servants opened a gift for their queen.

There was an explosion.  When the smoke cleared, two stone statues stood in the zombies’ place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was going down over the cozy cottage.  Two children, a red-haired boy of about five and a two-year-old, flaxen-haired girl with red-yellow wings, played gently together around under the trees in the peach orchard, taking delight in the tiny creatures they found there.  Smoke rose from the cottage chimney, where a dark-haired lady stirred the pot in the kitchen.  She tasted the stew, then walked out to the garden to pick just the right herb.

Grian stood nearby, watching the children play.  He wasn’t there in person, so he couldn’t hear her laughter as the littler one caught a ladybug, and he couldn’t smell the blossoms in the leaves; he was just Watching.  But it always did his heart good to be there, even if it was just in spirit.  He loved and treasured the peace and love of home and family.

When Watching in his sleep, there weren’t many voices he could hear.  His wife’s was one of them.  “Dinner time!” her clear voice rang out from an open window, interrupting the children’s play.  The little girl didn’t seem to hear, but her brother lifted his head, called back, “coming,” and then proceeded to drag his sister away toward the house.  She screamed in angry protest (Grian was glad he couldn’t hear that,) and flailed her little fists and kicked her feet and flapped her wings, but he was bigger than her and just as stubborn, so he won.  Their mother came out and gently picked her up, and she cried on her shoulder, presumably telling her about how mean her brother was.

Grian followed behind, and the little boy looked back directly at him.  “I hate it when she does that, Pa!” the boy said, clearly just as upset as the girl was.  “She heard Mum, too!”

Grian quickly shushed him.  “Remember that she can’t see or hear me right now, so please talk quietly,” he reminded him.  “But you did good, Charles.  You answered Mum right away, and you didn’t fight Ariana.  It’s just hard on her to switch so quickly away when she’s focused, so be patient.”

“When will you come home, Pa?”  Charles suddenly asked.

“That … will be a surprise.”

“I hate your surprises,” the boy said sourly.

“No, no, you’ll like this one,” Grian promised earnestly.  “Now, let’s see what Mum has made.”

And so Grian enjoyed his evening watching his family.  Every now and then he would catch his wife, Arlia, winking at him, and he sorely wished he could hear his daughter or she could see him.  The stew looked tasty, and the children went to bed easily afterwards, and he got to chat with Arlia late into the night about their respective adventures and the children’s valuable moments, and news about the neighbors and about the country.  Her raven hair glimmered in the dark, and her black eyes were deep as she looked at him.

“Is the Shadow after you,” she finally asked him.

“Possibly,” he admitted; the Shadow was frequently upset with him for one reason or another, ever since he chose to remain mortal.  “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t usually visit us during the day when you’re gone.  You can only visit us when you are either asleep or knocked out.  But I saw you with the children all throughout the day.”  Arlia bit her lower lip, keeping her composure.  “That frightened me.  What happened?”

So Grian shared with her what he knew; the nearby presence of Shadow when Scar unexpectedly attacked him in Vex form, that transformation seeming to have been triggered by an evoker’s whistle.  He also told her how the group had decided to keep Scar in the order, in spite of the liability he posed.

Arlia shook her head when he finished. “I can’t say I agree with them.  I like Scar, but if the Shadow is using him to get to you … it’s too dangerous to keep him close.”

“We don’t know if anyone in particular was targeted,” he offered.  “For all we know, the Shadow was just having fun, relishing in the tragedy and confusion of betrayal and such.  But targeted or not, I’d rather keep my eyes on him. ’Keep your friends close,’ all that.”

Arlia looked at him sharply.  “You think Scar’s an enemy?”

“No, of course not!  But I think it’s still safer if I know exactly where he is so I can intervene if the Shadow tries again.  I’m alert to it, now, so I won’t likely be caught by surprise.”

“We can’t afford to let Scar go berserk again,” she emphasized seriously.  “Your friends are taking this too lightly.”

Grian nodded.  “I agree.”  But then he felt a tug at the back of his mind.  His form started to fade; he was waking up.

“I’ll talk to Scar about it,” he said quickly as he faded away and his vision dimmed to black.  “I love you.  Give the kids a hug from me.  Bye.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His head splitting with pain, Grian woke to find himself on a bed in a room filled with strange books and glass jars filled with various odd specimens, including a couple with sculk.  A dim lantern set on a small table crowded with half-finished, alchemical projects lit the room enough that Grian could see his friends through the open door that lead to the next room, them carrying supplies back and forth and talking in quiet voices befitting the time of night.  In a far corner stood a clock that read 11:30.  In the room with Grian stood a familiar man in front of a row of colorful jars on a shelf.  The man looked soft and round, his messy black hair contrasting sharply with his white, but colorfully splattered, overcoat.

“Here we go,” the man, whose name was Cub, announced, pulling a small, amber-colored, glass bottle down from a shelf just above eye-level.  Cub turned around to Grian, his eyes smiling through his spectacles.  “Good!  You’re awake.  Let’s get you healed up,” he said as he walked over and sat on the bed next to Grian’s head.  “How are you feeling, Grian?”

“Like an ogre dropped a boulder on me,” Grian answered weakly.  “Potion?”

“Yes,” he answered, pulling out the cork stopper.  He put the bottle to Grian’s lips.  “Just a swallow!”

Grian winced when he caught a whiff of the hot-smelling mystery sludge, and screwed his face to steel himself for a bad experience.  The powerfully bitter, thick-textured, nasty taste washed down his mouth and into his belly, where it hit like lead.  For a moment he felt absolutely sick, but then like sun coming out behind clouds, the pain in his head slowly evaporated, the ache in his neck and wings and chest faded away, and he found that his breathing (he hadn’t noticed how tight and shallow it was before) was now easy and relaxed.  He sighed in relief.

“Why,” he asked, “do you make your healing potions so vile?  For a moment there, I had preferred staying half dead.”

“It’s the golden standard for healing potions, you ingrate,”  Cub replied lightheartedly as he eyed the liquid’s new level in the bottle (was it really only a swallow?).  “If they tasted like candy, people would stupidly hurt themselves on purpose just so they would have an excuse to drink one.  These things aren’t exactly cheap to make.”

“As if THAT’S the crucial reason,” Grian chuckled.  “Is ‘palatable’ really too much to ask for?  Patients need compassion, you know.”

“Most healing herbs used are, naturally, bitter,” Cub answered as he popped the cork back on.  “I’m afraid that diluting this concoction to make it tasty would reduce its effectiveness significantly.”

“Thanks.” Grian’s stomach still felt queasy, but his curiosity still wasn’t quite satisfied yet.  “My head’s better, but my stomach’s still sick.  Why is that?”

“The potion is still hard at work,” Cub explained as he got up and put the bottle back in its place on the shelf.  “You may not be in pain anymore, but that’s just the analgesic effect warping your perceptions; you’re still injured, even if you can’t feel it.  Stay still until the potion has done its job.  You’ll know it when you don’t feel sick anymore.  Now rest easy,” Cub said as he walked toward the door, “while I tend to the rest of my guests.”

Cub left Grian alone in the room, helping the rest of the Boatem Order set up beds and get food and drink into their bellies.  Grian heard them all talking to each other, but they were continuing to keep their voices low, so he couldn’t catch more than an isolated phrase here and there, not enough to know what they were talking about.  Resigning himself to the belly-ache-induced rest, Grian impatiently stared down at the claw gouges in his chest plate.

Once the queasiness was gone, Grian sat up.  Right on time, Scar peeked in.  “Good morning!” Scar said with forced cheeriness.

Grian double-checked the clock.  ”It’s not morning yet,” he corrected him.  “Not ’til after midnight.”

“Really?” Scar said, looking at the clock, too, as he entered and shut the door behind him.  “Oh, man!  I had wanted to be clever.”

“You can be clever in eight minutes,” Grian said.  He smiled, but pointed sharply to the gouge on his chest plate.  “See why I don’t want a boob window?”

Scar’s smile froze and his face stared falling.  “Look, I’m really, really sorry about that,” he said in sincere despair, seeming to hardly notice Jellie rubbing his cheek.  “I am so sorry.  I — I really don’t know what else to say.”

Grian scratched the side of his head.  Flakes of dried blood showered off his freshly-healed scalp, making a mess on the bed.  “It’s all good.  No need to apologize.  I don’t hold it against you,” he said, brushing the flakes off onto the floor.  “I know an enemy did it, not you, if that makes sense.  And I’m okay and you’re okay and so is Impulse and everyone else.  But still … you had transformed awful quickly, and that enemy is still out there.”  Scar’s face kept falling, so Grian quickly added, “so, we need a plan and get ready for the next time we come across an evoker.”

“Is that what he’s called? An epoker?”

“E-VO-ker, Scar.   And I don’t know if we’ll run into him again or if it’ll be a different one.  Either way, you’ve got to know that there are guys out there who can summon and control vexes.  Thanks to that guy this morning, we now know that this includes you even when you’re not feral.”

Scar had started nervously petting Jellie, standing by the door.  “Look, as I said, I’m not blaming you,” Grian continued.  “You're just as much a victim as I am. I’m just saying that we need to come up with a counter for any other evoker we run across.”

“What about Mumbo’s idea?” Scar said in a carefully controlled tone.

“You mean you hold onto Jellie if you hear a whistle?  That may help, but it’s not a solid plan.  We need to figure out some way for you to maintain control even if an evoker is around.”  Grian yawned deeply, suddenly feeling so drowsy.  “How can I be so tired when I’ve been asleep all day?”

“You had a big day,” Scar said calmly.  “Go ahead and lay back down and go to sleep, Grian.  We can figure out all the big brain stuff tomorrow.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple minutes later, Grian was back to sleep.  Scar listened to snores of all varieties rising from throughout the slumbering house.  Only one other person was left awake, his old buddy, Cub, and he was yawning and settling back down to his spot on the floor (having given up the bed to Grian and the couch to Pearl).

Scar wasn’t sleepy, anymore.  His mind was active and clear.  No longer worried about his friends’ acceptance of him, he had been able to think and remember better what had happened that morning — is it now yesterday morning? — and he knew what he had to do.

He had tried to kill Grian, specifically.  He didn’t know why, but he remembered the directed compulsion.  Some deporker … befolker … mesoaker … had directed him to end the avian’s life in particular.

Can that compulsion come again in an instant, like it had that morning?  Would it be stronger next time?  Is there a limit to how much Jellie can do to stop a despoker? Can he learn to keep control in vex form?

Young man, blond with a black headband, wore green, had a magical, all-purpose weapon-armor-thing … there couldn’t be too many people who fit that description.  Not the magical-shifting-weapon bit, at least.  Shouldn’t be too hard to find, right?

Scar went to his makeshift bed on the floor, but as he knelt down beside it, he pulled out a tiny bit of the vex’s power, creating an illusion of him getting under the covers.  He laid out the contents of Grian’s stuff and most of his own on his bed and laid the covers on it, so it looked like he was really there, buried under the blanket.

Invisibly, silently, Scar snuck out of Cub’s house and disappeared into the night.

[libidomechanica]

Death, only death,

A curtal sonnet sequence

               1

—Senses all around her dewy eyes the circled a million emerald plane sits Diotima, teaching back but that word, think not force his jarring thoughts will hit; though it rings, for Love may turn, and, like a bell, which is for ever: yet, ere I wolde have my queynte right ynogh at eve. Death, only death, for that rights the Retrograde—complete: and from pain; thy life.—If I should find. Have said or done amiss, began to question carried nem.

               2

That from his Aid has torn, he bids his bed they will be governance of my ioy, faire triumphal chariot right. And many anguish beyond compare, with some old sorowe, that a little regard was such as sat listening, half afraid, and press’d opinions wide. When no more. Ambition from its mintage, or that I took up my burden may rest, I nill liue in leudnes and roundelayes, which to thee. Stock, Stone, or inanity?

               3

Heaping Wealth and thy welked nekke be tobroke! Were as prompt in her face.—Aurora Raby, a young heart burn and weep! Given her vogue has had its day. They lovėd me so wel, by God above, wearing like a fig, sliced peonies in a Lente—so often the back-stile, and blinder minded; if to secret sorrows whence that cold head, though he looked as a willow trails its delight is pass’d in dream! The Frere gale, lo, quod he, and noght he.

               4

Though you the making matches, and if that she may se, for Amiel, who can be no longer sisters’ libertie; and what this second sight. And bids them make mistake the Tree. Will amiably err, and keepe your companion yestermorn; unwilling leaves, of owlets cry, of logs piled solemnly, as once or twice to smile, and slurring them, and even: If it be not, then love thro’ the slushy sand. Though the even doth half the year.

               5

Juan knew no more but the other blended alters hue, and then a nightingale is dim, and the long light not for Adonais! My restless ways, until, from the blessings of the publick Scorn. And after wyn on Venus moste I selle; but yet without recourse to love! Their Godhead be, stock, Stone, or widow, maid, or seem’d as he liv’d and love. I do not melt! Who hath the tear comes across, and anguish drear, hot, glaz’d, and made the gesture.

               6

She had something of their Care expres word? The mind with a key, and are as suddenly, should forget the Past! When the Forty Morning rent her Garment at his shoulden shepherd blows his nail, and Tom bears logs into the life all through dreary wastes, and suppose, made so fair? That complete to overflow. I rally, need my bosom with new stings! Stately goddess, see whether their ease to hold thee so, then we wonders. My restless main.

               7

And, that I am dead, for pity! Not policy, and pin’d away nor canvass what someone like you, unmov’d, and justifi’d their Brutal Rage; then, let em take and when Ambition from their lucid wombs: then old song vexes my ear; but the Muses’ heads were blended in that I shall voice with my soul in eternity! The Count your many heroes within her lawny continent the treasure lent, and my retorted hairs.

               8

Conversation was dangerous darling, fill my cup; the birth, but patiently bear up against his lip should make of all her hair, it is good to feel that they call freedom in my carrion carcas abounds. Where no disease, a harm no preacher can heal; the Mayfly is torn by the wave, walk’d in a wintry wind that any clerk wol speke good old wife lay smiling and obedient wife, in all effects, to prolong his fate.

               9

All presents to forget you and tuck them deep into the sword outwears its sheath and to my chambre of Venus when she rose from outrage worse awhile, they glide into a warmer air: a moment, or the wretch, who Heavens Annointed dar’d to open for my faith in a trick; down on your lips, and fleeced too in their sleeping flower loves the statue with Phoebus light, which soule from so mean a race, that pray’r? Than in this huge rondure hems.

               10

Of sadness of my King; when I speak he bursts of spangly light; the while the wind, who long ages of a Forgiving Right. Go ahead&eat this poor endeavor, to hold theyr peace, that she be found a vent. That ended badly it got so much as she was interested as was said, because they came, with suddain Vengeance snatch’d away by slow returning from thought, mark me, Peona; nor willing me only word I understand meant.

             �� 11

Sceptre, and growing pelf) than finding moon. And now and the wind, and was worthy prove; no, make me travel forth, I would not doubt it, in listening, how dark with Tears! Into a swooning love all that is nicknamed glory, but modesty’s at times it brought her yoke did vanish ere his Eyes, his conducts to live, to take to pieces. But ryper age such plain roofs as piety could not tye by their voices cooingly ’mong myrtles, what taste!

               12

The riches where it was—against the power, durynge al my lyf, upon his head in a cloud … it must be attentive: the tilt of a head, and would more been thynges eek. Mark of Adam may redress; for the offred bowle? Great son to her eyes that lingering light shade of a religion disapproves; ev’n thought meets thoughts to peace? And hacked and hoary. ’ Free love has done, for one is bothe fyr and tow tassembled Friendship bene fayne.

               13

She spake with oure mayde? She was the slave and in Sommer seasons, and brakes, and to fashion, the passion-winged Dryad of the shadow of white Death, only death, while we, like a fig, sliced peonies in a charnel-roof! Then only this, the days gone by, where roses and lyves than in this microcosm, dabbling a share in some monstrous precipitates delay. Visitors remark my frown when your hands have power to ease me.

               14

For euen so thy thoughts and days when the basement not for all. And if he could prevail: and pitying saints, by some disgusts me; here you shall not care; foolish heart from self- destroying, leading, by the law. That equal periods keep; obedient wife, in all effects, to prolong his broad should achieve and lace itself from vice, with spice and pass; the actors or spectators? And weep, that they slepte, and loving you not till my heart.

               15

Then Kings are the pipe is never did so, never move wi’ motion is delights did ioy amongst the wild? Than weddyng in freletee clepe I, but since I was half-oblivious of my mothers, replicate the gout,—pronounce it as inclines your writers, what hast my mind, which he toil’d: then what can murder works in their servant tell what it is peril keep thyn honour and my present, with the breathe away the palms.—All and the wild?

               16

Down through the ringing with honey dew. The mere command, the hitch between the whippe,—than maystow chesė wheither thought of such a character’d, no breeze would search for euery purl there; or to reform a curl; or with grapes, welcome, and say short prayers; and when I see my hour; unless I tell you, girl, howe’er you babble, great deeds cannot compare better by far you should it best for queens to social pageantry of mist on an autumn.

               17

Before my eye I kept on their cause of the subsiding soul; while greasy Joan doth keel the pomp of dreaming. Make in one, the quick for nothing long: but in thought, mark me, Peona; nor will we work for fame; before you list, your example led, to learning of man: he now is time, I gesse, hopelessness I knew at midnight. Infers a Right thus, as ye have undescribed sounds, that we may leaves me no Pretence have I to take her.

               18

Are artificial, and the dull defensive war. Even to death, but larger was his cups divine, being her behind the true, the blue swirls of water on your own silhouette we saw, slow perhaps to us moon-gazing here reaching then from enuie, that at the sex’s prime felicitie. Meadows, that I am the Mouldy rolls of Noah’s Ark. And bursting in my father breast part of health to poverty; and have no thrifty clooth.

               19

And I will come without miscarriage, because it sometimes called that bold Defiance with a beard; or else one that wrought; Fled is that I doe Stella deare, let my love retain. Yet koude I make an ydiot of oure chaffare; greet prees at market took her wits are gone in tender is its clue? The flash of a hand, streak of a nameless vestal’s veins thou hast so much as they. While he waits his Progress to ordain; with Charioteers the Hall!

               20

Bankrupt is, beggar’d of blood? Me with you just as it was oure sire, redde on his shorn peers a ram goes bleating with her fame; before my eyes. To a wide lawn, whence one could only see stems thronging along the stone where Time should forget that should I stretch of grace: but why should appear, tis but rain, and therefore, was just gath’ring in thy tender feet where’er that Power may move the truth, could wish to serve the Crowd: for wholesale comment.

               21

Cramped under the demon’s self. Come, turn this worthy prove; no, make me mad; and that you, of being a you and your names in my tyme. Alas, how chang’d! Whilst I, whom fortune and the Best. Then with their camp of death, and say too, daily. You shouldst be, if Loue learned round sunshine on the cheke that for possesses Whitmanesque urge&urgency boo Bear, the shore. A phantoms an unprofitable strife, painful warrior horse, to Plots, shall aske.

               22

Is that watery glass, Live! In motion; but she bee, that woman could remove, with blandishment to send a young savage of the truth, with downcast eyes, attemp’ring ev’ry day, and lent the Crown did wear, a thousands of fierce than could a seeker find than this moment, like held breathless fairies take me fressh and greene; so am I us’d by Love, forgetting, by the way to her! To nurse at fullest breast, oercharg’d, to musick lendeth!

               23

—After they hadde me bete on every bon, he koude walke as fressh as is a rose; but I wol kepe it for fear that night, and followe flying soul employ, with strict injunction never debaat. Too full of horror of blood, and that quickly dress my uncertain strata to the Samaritan? And lat us wyvės hoten barly breed Mark tellė kan, oure Lord Jhesu refresshėd many a pearl tiara, and come in helle!

               24

Teach, till he can make mine, to play a note their Principles of pure good and fair. When a Mammonite mother’s head! Th’ Arabian. Old, old. If poverty were vice, would not mount into the air, as that was seen of both of us, and a duteous, now consume every distant mortar& somewhere, maybe not. Our planet is one, the faire text better than a girl; as girls were only born for death, as life unto an end.

               25

Locks of the moon, yet lingered in them, and are brave it out, we men of elder witt. Again I’ll pour into the mind stinging my thumbs press will ever beautie with intent on either in the teeth of winter wind through with something moving across the marble man, frozen in the street, of tears; and fly, ’ she cried aloud: Help, help that self-same fixed trance was wakening into your shoulder where, beare witness is a Godlike David weak.

               26

Betraying about on a train in the bonds of roses and fawe to brynge me gayė thynges trouble of single gentle breath’d a sister’s sorrow was, and with her brother, though probably still will keep a lamb strayed far a-down those beauty it was when Zephyr bids a little fairy queen, gambolled on her face where he chance. Outside ring, and that foes wounds their inheritors of unfulfill’d renown of thy cheste awey fro me?

               27

Himself young, although those of our Good; enclin’d the thief. A light spear topp’d with scorn denied me this: why hydestow, with tears and comfort but of former follies trick’d out so bright, and spring was in his raptures speaking lines of heroic touch and yet if neede were, pitied Youth, ere this sentence to what you have a fair Pretence aside. Yet, grant our own freedom passion in a thorough silence she broke, and seem’d innocence.

               28

This guilty beetle is a frightening thee, who leaves will bloom nor want of inward tuch, and saved from her forehead’s smooth wind, and said, on that day we hadde swich daliance, this clerk at Rome, a cardinal, that happens there is an hind, but all Mankinds Epitome. And a rose in this, t’ have plagued with one I loved you; and third among the shepherd’s nose, the torturing th’ unwilling me only was my comen trade, and for God.

               29

Thou seyst som folk desiren we; preesse on us faste, and the dairy pails bring home they climb! Whose Sacred Rites invade. How shall I never told by rings: but now to purpos, why I tolde the careful to select, and sad. Blustering two angels watch them thus oddly. The cashier will offend. Than the ground with the swellings, with scorn denied me this; say then, shall move toward the East, and nuptial quarrel shall do me Right: nor doubt and drink.

               30

’ The knight; she stood, he flew, breathing a flower, thus ebbing sea of weary days, made deeper exquisitely minute, a miracles are wonders; struggling in the calm’d her fears impart, excuse the sin, yet keep the sea! But to my mind. Trees old and ugly, wished smile a hard-set smile, over them appear’d as suddenly in me. I will pay the fear? How, ever, where shall the way, ’ laughed at you are in our meadows, over these things?

               31

And suit thy pity like incarnations forfeited? When your advice, like a sweete is, see how it the ledger lives, he wakes— ’tis Death is dead, and take it there. Artillery forth, and wound with means; and proves my Peoples Judgment in Exreams: so over Violent, or over Civil, that not one of those simple swain, I would rather their sleeping from the place and voyce, so sweet it is a doll dress’d up for idleness to be there.

               32

And, like trickling balm, their glee: but let’s no longer trouble in his place, hauing no mask of clouds. The singing is a kind that it displease, no merely to his Prince; held up the water drink, loue to earth, and so I dide ful ofte and song, whose paths so dear perhaps he mixt with the right myrie wol I telle, wynne whoso may, for alle his wyf go roule aboute. Love, how it the ledger lives, and sea, that is left. And, for man should I?

               33

So he sigh’d that I rente out of a bastard kind? With that he and she’d said, Could be. Of these rude bones of soul! In wine, when I am not Good by Force he wishes long enough for one a songstress who had not beguile our hope of one for the heat up here and goon a-caterwawed. Punish a Body which shal be bothe made retreat? I goad the statues learn to call her Kidde stooped down the grass fell down on you and made hem swynke!

               34

Nothing me, a something moving across the way to set about their Liberty. Nothing stays. Make more impressed; she liked what you should be movèd; many for a draught of woe? More flower by some freakful chance might refection, just to relieve me, my love, I have done, by staying; but my five senses can dissuade one with familiar in all the imprison’d absence of a thought to your lips that she wile your face looks familiar.

               35

Hear and far more difficulties, as if to veil a noble than stone: a woman. Some say loud is our lives like these, a world she scarce to mar the freedom of three steeds of the twaine, if choice were vanishing or vanish’d hand, for herself escap’d from the deep, and pierce than hate’s known injury. His name; my eyes well-seeing they set you out but the fading and screaming round her eyes and tree, and the Laws. By nature for best or worst!

               36

And daunce, and that speechless lies, attending on all sides, so plied interrogation till heaven clears. For plighted elms, sick rivers, stay! His hinder heele was wrapt in a clout, for with a kiss, go on too with thee grace, and graft my love, they say, it is to keep our holy beacons always preserved or free: he had the article at his should go off? Its limbs hanging hue, and darken slowly with Azra to the viewless wind.

               37

In my father, had he striven to hide the Seasons and poppies red: at which book eek ther was no wight may endure the hid and me. Who earns the fierce stars are booing me. You are not. The Young-mens Vision, and murmur or grucchyng. Her blushing battle- bolt sang from the ruby niplet of her to whom my Muse, here cease thy pain, allow that says most? And take and whilst our tongue be dumb; for, with devocioun; but Crist, that curl the Flock.

               38

Yet, ah, my mayd’n Muse doth breathe my name. For when my Father did these hills and impudency raignes with blood-red heath, the red- ribb’d ledges drip with essence of the wordes bitwene the Geaunt has not the most may err in this my purchaser suspect the dairy pails bring home through strongly hedg’d of bloudy lyons pawes, that when it chides doth cherish’d too much; with fields on flowers fresh in bed: may widows wed as often as they.

               39

And the passion sometimes certain reason, yode forth my tale ageyn. Or that dark cave of frozen chastitee; and yet God wote, such canals of contact, and swete Eglantine, and babbles thorough flowers are just new, and in madness went away, before the Goal of Honour doth the look of its roses crown, that spreads her Locks before the tools; but a work divine, a fellowship with a bag of almost-stale croissants clenched hands;— for lo!

               40

As real as a bittour bumps within dreaming Saints doth queme, but wept alone they could not spare, love itself careening question far too nice, since she can make mine, the fair sun of spring, sooner than his, with that which I don’t need saving&rescues me anyhow listen to me, darling sin. That, passing night, the moonlight refine, no Rechabite more she stretch my empty arms; it glides unfelt into the leaves, wher Venus granteth.

               41

Last Love, I wish to die, and then thinke so still, and all his Vertues to him a tribute paid: nor that a little grove where you shall never can obey! Her fingertips and here of Love did never stopped: when Nature natural Instinct they came; the new polished buxomry demands a man—the night of ioy, while its cool underwater face; they who when Saul was dead, or wife, but still depending on her throws a death-like silence seal’d.

[divineer]

Jing Yuan enters the seat of Divine Foresight, Yanqing at his side. The boy advised strongly against his rising from bed so soon--as did Lady Bailu--but contrary to popular belief the Dozing General could not simply lie around while there were important matters to be dealt with. Namely, confronting his wife and the mess he's dropped on her yet again.

A hush falls as he moves through the room, Yanqing gripping his elbow for support; he's still a little unsteady on his feet.

Fu Xuan looks impressive in her capacity as Acting General, where she's always longed to be. Jing Yuan hopes he never has to see her there again.

He pauses some distance from her, and disengages himself from Yanqing. 'Time to go and get my scolding over with,' he says, ruffling the boy's hair before leaving him behind and approaching his very stern looking wife.

"Jing Yuan." Fu Xuan's voice echoes around the room, bouncing off the statues and chessboard hologram floor. It is otherwise silent. She does not call him by his title. He needn't use it until he returns to his position properly and they resume their professional relationship... And that certainly won't be happening right now.

After all, Fu Xuan's eyes are just as sharp as her intellect. Yanqing is still watching from just inside the door, tense, like he's prepared to leap forward to the general's side at any second. He probably is.

They hold each other's gaze for a few moments before Fu Xuan releases a shockingly heavy sigh for someone so small. "I swear by the stars above, never have I met anyone as vexing as you," she declares, stalking her way in front of the desk. "I would have thought you'd be eager to pass off the great mountains of paperwork and rest for a few days, but clearly not---Are you aware of the number of violations that you committed? You should consider yourself fortunate no one in their right mind would vouch for your suspension or worse."

She catches Yanqing's face drop into a frown, but Jing Yuan seems to be struggling not to break into a dopey grin with everyone's eyes locked on him. He came here prepared for this, and scarcely anything that she could say (and nothing that she would say) would upset him. Fu Xuan has no doubts that he thought of every rule that was broken as he was breaking it. She also has no doubts that everything he did, he did for the good of the Xianzhou.

Jing Yuan's heart is too large for his chest. That's why she has to scold him... but it's also why she does not continue to scold him.

"I truly am relieved that you feel well enough to visit, but perhaps it would be best if you focused your efforts on recovering so that you can sort through all of these---" she gestures to the stacks of documents behind her, "---yourself. Of course, I have everything under control until you do."

[ashleyinwondrland]

Where is my Bridgerton/regency era Vox Machina fanfiction?

It is time for the ladies, whom have never met, to be presented to society and in front of Queen Allura who will decide who is the Diamond of the season. And for the suitors to find their future brides.

Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan are the “bastards” of Lord Vessar but because he has given them his name, they are expected to up hold it and become parts of high society. That includes marriage. While Vex wants no part of it, if she is going to be forced into this she is at least going to make sure she has the best options. Which means being the Diamond of the season.

Vax has no desire to appease his father, or inherit the family holdings. But has the only son with two sisters he loves, he knows he must eventually settle down. And he refuses to settle for anything less than true love. He thinks it may be impossible until he sees her.

Keyleth has always done what she could to make her family proud, to her best abilities. She isn’t the perfect wife for a lord, she talks too much, is clumsy and hates the attention that comes with nobility. But she knows she must find the best match, for her family as she is the only child. She doesn’t see love being in the cards for her.

And the biggest news of the season, Duke Percival De Rolo is finally looking for a wife. After losing most of his family in a tragedy all except his sister Cassandra who is a couple years off from marriage, Percy locked himself away to commit to his studies. Now he has finally decided to take a wife, for the family legacy in Whitestone. He doesn’t think much will come of it, until he meets a woman who challenges him at every turn.

Also making her debut is Pike, a petite lady who doesn’t take the whole thing very serious. She is more than happy to live out her days with her best friend and grandfather’s ward Grog, just having fun. Grog, a man who stands above all the rest, only agreed to it all so he can make sure Pike doesn’t end up with anyone undeserving. Which is everyone in his mind.

Then there is the original rake, Scanlan. Who’s reputation has made him fairly unwelcome, especially to those who have daughters.

Edit: oh Vex and Percy will end up being a marriage of convenience at first. They like each other enough, she gets a grand title and he gets someone that will care for Whitestone as he does. And then of course they fall in love but with either admit it? Of course not!

And during the stay in Emon, Percy is staying at the Ashari house because his family and hers goes way back. The two are good friends and when someone comments about it being improper for him to stay at the same home as Keyleth he basically threatens them if they try to disparage his friend’s reputation again.

Vax falls hard and fast for Keyleth, and tries every way to woo her. Keyleth, while her feelings grow for him, knows she has to marry for her family’s status and that having feelings involved will only make it more complicated. She sees marriage as a job, not something out of love, much like Percy does. She also has another suitor Kashaw Vesh trying to win her hand, though against her better judgement she can’t take her eyes off Vax.

AND PIKE IS LADY SARENRAE ! Aka lady whistledown lmao

EDIT: 

https://ashleyinwondrland.tumblr.com/post/681373237310029824/i-wrote-more-of-the-bridgerton-vox-machina-ideaof

EDIT 2:

https://ashleyinwondrland.tumblr.com/post/682603174768623616/just-another-vox-machina-bridgertonregancy

A Perc’ahlia and Vaxleth excerpt

I enjoy the drabbles, I should do more of them

[i-try-to-write-stuff]

Facade - Chapter 5 (Treatment)

Please do not read this fic if this is not your cup of tea. You have been warned, by clicking on Keep Reading means you have understood the warning. I am not responsible for your content consumption.

18 +

Tommy Shelby fucked you everywhere, indoors, outdoor, in the lake, by the lake. His mind and body were ruled by his cock. You had scrapes on your back from tree bark where he decided to fuck you in the open like some caveman. He fucked you mercilessly, in the shower, in the bathtub, on the kitchen aisle, in the other bedrooms. He fucked your face in the bedroom, on the deck, in the walk-in closet.

He even fucked you by the window to exhibit his claim. His cum staining your mouth, your pussy, your tits, your face, basically your body. He painted you with his cum head to toe, revelling in the masterpiece painted by his seed.

Your week in the cabin had left you tired and achy, you were walking funny by day two, but that didn’t stop Thomas Shelby from nailing you everywhere, pounding into that sweet heaven.

He tied you up to the bedpost to taste your entire body. Your breasts were sore, your nipples engorged and achy, your clit overwrought from Tommy’s insistent fingers, lips, and teeth. Your cunt was battered and bruised. You had taken his cock in every possible position that he engineered. He fucked you in so many positions that you didn’t know were possible. He fucked you on a sex swing installed in the master bedroom. Your cunt was overworked. By the end of the week, you were in a constant state of orgasm. You were cumming like a fountain. Your body had accepted Tommy’s cock as its saviour. His cock pounded into the depths of your cunt, which you didn’t know existed. When your cunt was too sensitive, Thomas Shelby happily fucked your tits.

After he dropped you off after the week, you peacefully slept for a day. You were catching on the much-needed sleep. Your body was wrecked.

------

Grace finally found Tommy in the office. According to the whole Shelby family, he was away for ‘some conference’. She stormed his office. Seeing him sitting and working without the guilt of cheating on his wife, happily chatting with his brothers while signing some papers, vexed her.

Seeing her storm in, Arthur and John left immediately, not wanting to get into another spat between them.

“You love her”, Grace muttered.

“Why do you care?” Thomas questioned

“Because you married me”, Grace screeches with anger.

“You married me because of my money, and I married you for your social status and connection. It was a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“I married you because I love you, Tommy”, Grace pleaded.

“Grace, you married me because your ex-husband couldn’t give you the life I could. You love what I provide for you. You love yourself.” Thomas added coldly.

“So why am I even here?”

“I used to have an excuse for your presence in my life. Lately, I don’t have one.”

“I want a divorce.”

“You aren’t getting it until I get what I want. When my business is done, you can happily take a chunk of my money and go wherever you want because that’s what I am to you, money.”, Tommy Shelby acknowledged soullessly.

Grace left the office huffingly, her face red with anger and embarrassment. Her eyes glared with resentment towards you while you cowered on your desk. Tommy’s indifference hurt her more than his hatred ever did.

------

Thomas Shelby called you into his office.

“Yes, Mr Shelby?”

“Are you taking pills?”

“No, sir”

He kept staring at you with his inquisitive blue eyes, urging you to answer his question.

“I have an implant.”

He just nodded conspiratorially.

“You should go get a full medical check-up. Isaiah will take you to my doctor.”

“But why, sir? I am healthy. I am certainly clean. I have no STDs if you’re worried about that,” you add somewhat defiantly.

“Do what you are told.” Mr Shelby orders abruptly.

You nod.

-----

Isaiah takes you to Mr Shelby’s doctor’s clinic, she was a friendly lady. She asked if you had any prevailing medical issues, before going through with the check-up. You were scheduled for a complete body check-up, which you thought was a bit much.

You were called to the clinic quite late at night. Mr Shelby was waiting for you with a different doctor.

“Miss Y/L/N, we have found some issues in the bloodwork.” This other doctor broke it to you.

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was hammering in your ears. You were fucking scared.

“What can be done?” you heard Mr Shelby ask the doctor seeing your hands quaking.

“I would suggest removing the implant since these symptoms are pre-jaundice. If we treat it, we can avoid any significant liver issues and possibly nip the problem in the bud.” The doctor suggests.

“So, all I have to do is get rid of the implant?” you asked.

“I will also be prescribing you some vitamins and some pills.” The doctor supplied carefully.

“Could you prescribe me some birth control pills?” you requested. Mr Shelby and the doctor shared a look.

Doctor offered.

“Yes, I can prescribe some birth control pills as well. That won’t be a problem.”

“When should I come for implant removal?” you asked.

“I can do it right now.”

“Right now?”

“The sooner we get you sorted, the better”, Mr Shelby chimed in.

“Okay…” you said, a bit uncertain.

“I will get some local anaesthetic. You won’t feel anything.” The doctor smiled and left.

“You don’t have to worry about anything”, Thomas Shelby promised. His hand laced in yours. You looked at him gratefully, your eyes brimming with tears.

“I have already hired a chef, they will take care of nutrition, and I can help keep track of your vitamins and pills”, he added.

“Thank you very much, Mr Shelby”, you whispered admiringly.

“Tommy…Call me Tommy,” he demanded.

You smiled and nodded.

“Thank you, Tommy” you kissed his cheek. Thankful for his presence and support. Tommy smiled appreciatively. He almost felt bad for tricking you…Almost being the keyword.

The doctor removed your implant. Your prescription was handed to Tommy. Tommy dropped you off at the apartment. He went to a 24-hr pharmacy to get your pills and favourite food.

You both shared a meal, it wasn’t the first time, but this was the first time you’d let him see yourself vulnerable.

-----

Tommy liked you. You were open, honest, and trusting, everything he was not. You would be a perfect mother to his child. He wasn’t going to wait till his divorce from Grace to have a child, and he could create his paradise before that. He planned to marry you. But marriage can come after children.

The doctor was on his payroll, and so were the lab techs who doctored the results. He could not let his plan fail, and he had covered all the bases. If you ever went for a second opinion, you would receive the same diagnosis. His doctor handed him two prescriptions, one for the file for your faux illness and another for the prenatal vitamins and other crap for your body.

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

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[nanaminokanojo]

Play the Game | Nanami Kento X You | Part 8/8 [COMPLETED]

CHARACTERS: Nanami Kento X You (fem!reader | PLEASE READ THE NOTES BELOW*) | Gojo Satoru | Geto Suguru | Shoko Ieiri | Utahime Iori | other JJK Characters CHAPTER COUNT: 8/8 WORD COUNT: 4, 800+ GENRE: romance | fluff | slight angst | smut | ooc depictions | female reader with described appearance* | modern au | rich people au | aged up characters CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING: profanity | age gap | cigarette smoking | strong/mature/suggestive language | alcohol use SPOILERS: n/a STATUS: COMPLETED

collection masterlist

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight (final)

"Play the Game" Masterlist

You stood by the door, watching the chaos in your brother’s bedroom as he prepared for his wedding at sunset, waiting for everyone to leave so you can finally speak to him in private. He was, after all, the only one in the family you cared for enough to inform him of your decisions.

People always say you and Gojo were similar. However, those very things that made you alike also set you apart. Besides the platinum white hair and remarkable blue eyes you shared – unique even within the clan – being the absolute obvious, the similarities stopped there.

You siblings were supposed to be akin to one another, but the same things they loved about your brother were the same things people abhorred about you. You and your brother were both prodigies. He was richer than the whole clan, all assets combined being the successful businessman he was ever since he was in his teens. It was as freakish as it was awe-inspiring. You were an artist of great renown with your multi-million dollar pieces and the youngest to have been dubbed as a national artist when you were the same age as him.

But where he basked in fame and acclaim, your prominence was fueled by infamy. Gojo built an empire that served as one of the pillars of the local economy. You produced artistic pieces that inspired execration and controversy. Undeniably brilliant, yes, but absolutely contentious.

Your brother was kind. In fact, he was the best older brother one could ever ask for, and that was not lip service nor was it because of your biases towards him. You can never discount how caring he is to you, how hard he tries to make you happy and how he would go through lengths as to be the idiot just to satisfy your whims. He was just genuinely good-natured although he appeared somewhat insouciant. He had his evil streak, too, which is established in the clan, but his goodness radiated like a light that followed him wherever he went.

However, you have long accepted that your side which reflected Gojo in every way when you were younger had long died. Altruism wasn’t one of your strongest suits and you were only ever affectionate to people you had deep, deep fondness for. And that wasn’t even something common. Even your parents had always been the receiving end of your lackadaisical attitude.

He attracted people, you repelled them. Being surrounded by the good people he called friends was a testament to that no matter how vexing his personality was, and more people want to be near him. Apart from your three friends, you didn't make any more and your school life sucked because majority of your classmates hated you. For what, you didn't know. You don’t think you will ever understand.

It was your seven-year gap that made all the difference, you liked to think. It was much easier to swallow than the concept of the whole cosmos conspiring to create two creatures to be equals but of the opposite nature. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be that way, but you will always be the one looking up to him regardless if you did not choose the same path as his; regardless of whether there were no comparisons with what either of you endeavored to do.

And above everything else, you loved Satoru very much.

“Got a minute?” You began, standing before him in front of the mirror. It was rather annoying watching him struggle with the cufflinks, and you didn’t think he would manage to fix the bowtie still hanging loosely on his neck. Thus, you thought of taking charge. “Give it here.”

Gojo was surprised, but he was nonetheless happy. He wore his heart on his sleeve after all, and you could only guess it was that vulnerability he risked showing that attracted people to him. You have only learned the intricacies of such a matter recently, something you had to agree with since it all made perfect sense.

“Thank you,” he said, tilting his head to the side, watching you work on his cuffs.

“You’re really getting married, huh?” you began, feeling yourself start to falter, but you have decided. You may not have gotten him the best wedding gift materially speaking, but you swore to let him in on what was going on with you, to be honest with him like you hadn’t been for the longest time. “Who would have known?”

“Am I finally getting that emotional pre-wedding sibling talk?” he asked, walking towards the seats by the window and looking out into the garden.

“You’re getting married, not being sent away to prison. I don’t even understand why this happens during weddings,” you quipped, sighing. “But I guess you could call it that.”

He smiled at you, patting the space beside him. You did as you were told, assuming the spot, but also looking out the window, watching as the organizers made finishing touches to the garden below. No expense was spared to make the occasion as perfect as it could get. You couldn’t argue with it. Gojo deserved the best, and to him, Utahime did, too.

“I’m waiting,” he said, breaking the silence that had befallen the room. “You’ve been pacing before the door for god knows how long when you should have been getting ready.”

“I got ready much faster than you did.”

“And you look beautiful.” He tilted his head to the side, eyeing you appreciatively. “Sometimes, I can’t believe you’re all grown up. And what a beautiful woman you’ve become.”

You smirked. “You’re looking at your mirror image after all.”

“Well, there’s that, of course.” He laughed slightly. “But I’m not just saying that because we’re basically the same person. You really are beautiful, baby sis.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, opting for it instead of his usual choice of mussing your hair since it has already been styled for the wedding.

You just shook your head. “Thank you, Satoru.”

“So, what did you want to talk about exactly?”

“The other day…” Your voice trailed off, thinking about what to say. It wasn’t that way before between you and your brother. He was always the easiest person to talk to, always open minded and optimistic about matters. But now that you were going to discuss something that he had vocally opposed, you were a bit scared of saying anything. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do Nanami justice if you decided to hold back now, considering that he was more than ready to speak to your brother.

You’ve both initially decided to sit Gojo down and tell him about your decisions together, but you informed Nanami earlier in the day that you needed to have a proper conversation with him first. It wasn’t just your choice to be with Nanami that was the matter, and you wanted to get things straightened out with Gojo before he gets married.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“You said I don’t talk enough to you; that I don’t tell you things anymore.”

Gojo slowly nodded.

You breathed out. “Things changed. We can’t deny that. I grew up and you…well, you’ve decided you want to spend your life with Iori and build your own family.” Your lips curled up awkwardly as you tried to keep your emotions at bay. It was new territory having such talks with him when you’re used to your easy-going dynamic with him. “I’m scared, too. I mean, I can’t just bother you anytime anymore cause you’ll have your wife and eventually children to pay attention to and prioritize.”

He was taken aback by what you said, immediately drawing closer. “What are you saying, Y/N? You’re my sister. Nothing will change –”

“Our bond will not change, dude, but you have to admit that what I’m saying is true.” You took his hand in yours, squeezing it gently. You beamed at the fact that your fingers were structured in the same tapered manner as his. Even the shape of your fingernails were the same, just that his hands were bigger than your delicate ones. “What I’m saying is that even if you need to do that, I will be fine.”

“Of course, you will be. You’re my sister, and above that, you are your own person, and you’re stronger than you think. You’ve been handling things on your own for as long as I can remember.” He pouted, trying to act cute with you. “It’s disappointing, to be honest, because you’ve never really given me the chance to play my role in your life because you’re always the mature one.”

You were confused now. “What are you on about? You’re my only brother, but I can’t imagine anyone else holding that position in my life. You’re the best I could have asked for. I’ve always looked up to you. You’re my role model.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. The fuck are you so surprised for?” You snickered. “That aside, if you felt like I’ve been leaving you out, that’s not the intention at all. I always want you to be the first one to know what’s going on with my life…”

He clucked his tongue. “I understand you’re not doing it on purpose, kid. I’m just worried that you didn’t think I’m worth telling anything because, well, I’m not exactly a proper adult, am I?”

“You’re realizing that now that you’re about to get married?” you taunted him, jabbing your thumb towards the direction of the garden. “Should I tell Iori to call this whole thing off?”

He waved you aside. “Hey, don’t say that!”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Anyway, there’s something I wanted to tell you for a while now.”

“How long is a while, exactly?”

“Years and years.” You flashed him a rueful smile. “I just couldn’t figure out how to tell you because I am not exactly sure how you feel about it although you’ve told me many times you were opposed to it. What I’m saying it that, I know that fact, but it’s the motivation behind it that is beyond my knowledge.”

Gojo’s eyes rounded, realizing what you were saying. “Are you…”

You nodded. “Yes, I am talking about Kento.”

He just blinked and stood up, pacing around in front of you for a while that you had to stop him from doing it. He had such a bad habit of doing that when he is in deep thought, and always in front of you, too. He was making you dizzy.

You seized him by the wrist. “Please say something.”

“I…”

“Why are you opposed to it?”

He stopped pacing and faced you, taking you by the shoulders, his eyes starting to water. “Y/N…”

“Oh no, are you gonna cry?”

He furiously blinked his tears back, the action almost comical if it weren’t for the serious look on his face. “Because you are my little sister. You think it will be easy for me to just hand you over to anyone? My friends aren’t exceptions to that although I trust them with everything that I have. I will always, always worry about you when it comes to that matter because I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to be taken advantage of, and I don’t want to have to break either Suguru or Kento’s bones when the time comes.”

“I can manage the latter on my own.” You sighed, finding your resolve strengthening. “But like you said, I’m this old now. I want you to understand that I know what I am doing and I am confident about my decisions. Honestly, I didn’t want to talk about this as if I am asking for your permission. This is what I meant when I said I will be fine. I am not saying you don’t have a say in my life, but I am telling you this time because I want you to know before anyone else does.”

“Suguru doesn’t know?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t be petty. I tell him things I can’t tell you just like you tell him things you can’t tell me,” but you nodded anyway. “He doesn’t know yet…I think.”

“So…you and Kento…”

You nodded again. “I’m in love with him, Satoru. And he feels the same way.”

“You are?” His expressions softened, hugging you to him. “You’ve grown. Really grown.”

You returned the gesture, holding onto him tight. “Please don’t ever think that I am leaving you out of my life because I always want to tell you everything.”

Just then, he pulled back, his brows furrowing while his eyes narrowed at you. “So, why isn’t he the one telling me this? Where is that bastard?”

You shrugged. “He wants to be here. Trust me. I just asked him if I could talk to you first because I have issues to resolve with you apart from my relationship with him.”

Gojo exhaled, nodding in understanding. “I understand, Y/N. But are you certain?”

“Yes. I’m scared of hurting him, but I’ll do my best, I guess.”

“Hmm, yeah. Maybe you should tone down on your mischief, too. I don’t want him dying of stress because of you. He’s still precious to me.”

At that, you laughed. “I know.”

He poked you on the cheek. “Alright then. If that’s what makes you happy, I won’t stand in your way. You have my blessing.” His teeth clenched then. “But I’m still going to have to talk to him man to man in case he thinks he’s off the hook.”

“Worry about your wedding first,” you jibed.

“I almost forgot about that.”

“I’m telling Iori.”

He shook his head, feigning panic. “Don’t.”

You both ended up laughing, joking about the guests who were arriving at the garden, poking fun at the relatives you both detested but had no choice but to invite. Just like that, you were back to how it used to be, easily conversing and sharing the same sentiments about things and same penchant for devilry.

Soon, the organizer came to his room, informing him that he needed to go to the garden to prepare. You reached up and fixed his tie and jacket for him, holding him at arm’s length to appreciate your handiwork. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you.” He smiled wide but you saw the nervousness in his eyes. “I’m getting married!”

“You are.”

“I’m more anxious about seeing Kento after what you told me,” he stated dramatically.

You eyed him witheringly. “Shut up and pull yourself together.”

He snickered then. “Kidding. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

The two of you walk to the garden, your arm around his. He stood at the spot just by the last row of seats with you, grinning at you when he saw you looking at Nanami who was already dutifully standing on his spot, speaking to Geto.

“Concentrate on your vows, yeah?” you told your brother.

“I’m off.”

“In case we don’t get to talk before you leave for your honeymoon,” you began, “Just know that I am waiting for the speedy arrival of my nieces and nephews.”

Gojo laughed at that, but nodded anyway and said, “I’ll do a good job, I promise.”

“And Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you.”

“I know, kid. I know.” He turned on his heels and walked towards his place at the front pews while you watched, his steps leading you towards the very man you would want to see standing there when the time comes, his halo of golden locks bright under the setting sun but you knew your future with him would be even more brilliant.

**

The familiar bars of Johann Pachelbel’s “Canon” began to play in a modified, slowed-down wedding version made especially for Gojo and Utahime’s wedding, played on the harp, piano and violin, cueing the beginning to the entrance of the bridal entourage. It began with the entrance of the flower girls who scattered petals of different flowers on the white carpet that lined the long aisle.

Arches and bouquets of flowers festooned the garden, with gossamer cloth hanging about, interlaced with live wisteria that hung down from the canopy along with fairy lights that progressively turned on as the sky grew darker. White and pink dominated the color palette as Utahime had wished and the same goes for the reception area. It was probably one of the most beautiful wedding setups Nanami has ever seen.

But his eyes weren’t on the ornaments. They were trained on the end of the walled garden, waiting for your ascent on the marble steps where the white carpet extended, the march made more dramatic by the organizers by opting for a meandering aisle instead of the traditional, straight walkway for the bride. And it did achieve the desired effect when you finally emerged from the steps and into view.

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips upon finally seeing you clad in that familiar faded rose gown he had first seen being fitted on you to perfection. He kissed you while you wore that very article of clothing not long ago at the couturier’s shop, and though he thought back then that he has never seen anything more beautiful, he was amazed at the fact that you looked even more gorgeous in it as you glided towards the front.

He loved you so much it hurts, and although you’ve both professed your deep affections for one another and decided to take things head on together, he still felt like he was in the middle of a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. You came closer, and once more, he was back at the semi-outdoor ballroom the first day he came that week, beholding the goddess that was you but seemingly in a different light – brighter this time, overwhelming him to the point that he had to remind himself how to breathe when you finally looked his way and beamed unabashedly, your affections towards him unmasked, real and not under the guise of a game.

“Kento,” he heard Gojo say softly just then, the man’s blue eyes furtively glancing at him.

“Yes?” he answered in hushed tones.

“Hurt my baby sister and I’ll have your severed head hung by the gates of the estate,” he said. “Are we clear about that?”

Geto snickered, concealing it by facing the other way.

“Understood,” Nanami said seriously. “I’m counting on it.”

When you were near enough, you smiled at your brother and Geto before turning your attention to Nanami. You winked at him as you passed by before turning towards your spot opposite them across the aisle, your attention trained towards the point where you came from.

He couldn’t stop looking at you, not even when he felt Gojo hold onto his arm, squeezing tight as Utahime came into view. He didn’t mean to be insulting to his friends. She was beautiful in her wedding gown and he couldn’t help but be moved by the loving look that your brother had on his face as he watched his wife-to-be come closer, guided by her father who will give her away as the sun set. It was poetic. A new beginning after a beautiful end. He probably looked the same whenever his eyes would find you.

The ceremony carried on as everyone sat down, waiting for the couple to exchange their ‘I do’s.’ their vows, rings and the much-awaited kiss. It was making him emotional, thinking of the time when he himself would draw your veil and get to claim you as his for life in front of everyone you both loved and cared about. He couldn’t wait for it, and he may be getting ahead of himself, but he wanted what Gojo and Utahime had with you.

As the minister announced the pair man and wife, everyone applauded and cheered for them. He did so, too, chuckling when Geto whistled loudly, being his cheeky self. Just then, he nudged Nanami on the side, grinning impudently.

“Is it safe to assume you’re next?” he queried in the same manner.

Nanami rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Who knows? Someone might actually steal your heart in the next months and we’ll be seeing you crying as you watch your bride walk towards you by next year.”

Geto snickered at that. “Yeah, right. You looked like you wanted to jump Y/N and replace Satoru and Iori at the altar all this time.”

“Who wants to replace my brother and sister-in-law at the altar?” they heard you say, appearing out of nowhere, your head tilted to the side as you shifted your blue orbs between the two males, but before either of them could answer, you linked your arm with Nanami who smiled down at you blissfully. You returned the gesture, your cheeks blushing prettily under the twinkling lights overhead.

“I see you’ve figured things out.” Geto smirked, patting Nanami on the back just as Shoko came into view, taking the former by the arm, claiming she needed a smoke. She pulled him away, leaving you and Nanami to yourselves, winking as they walked away.

“So, you told him?” you asked, cocking your head towards the wide lawn where the pergolas were, built on three sides of the square and closed by an elevated area for the band, all surrounding a dance floor under a huge, white tent above, also adorned with thousands of lights. It was your design, solely for the wedding reception and a form of gift to the newlyweds.

“Satoru did indirectly when he said he’ll have my head hung at the gates of Gojo Manor if I hurt you.” He shook his head, laughing slightly. “Bastard had the gall to laugh at me, too.”

“He nearly cried when I told him earlier,” you said, regaling him with how your conversation with Gojo went. “He trusts you and is actually afraid I’ll hurt you, too.”

He shook his head. “It’s all part of the process, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm.”

“We’ll take it head on.” He held your hand, twining your fingers together.

You nodded, squeezing his larger hand. “We will.”

Just then, your friends emerged from the reception area with Noabara taking the lead, mischief drawn all over her face as she approached you. “I took care of the sitting arrangement,” she said to you then turned to Nanami. “Take care of Y/N. Make her cry and –”

“You’ll have my head?” Nanami supplemented but Nobara shook her head. “I’ll tan your hide. Satoru gets your head apparently.”

At that, Nanami laughed, nodding nonetheless. But to your surprise, she also turned her attention to you, holding you by the shoulders. “Are you still playing?”

“Nope.” You pressed your lips together, shaking your head slowly.

She smiled then. “Good.” She glanced at Nanami. “You’ve got you a good one here.”

“I know.”

They left you alone after that much to his relief, but then you said, “Wanna play a game?”

His eyes rounded and he felt tension again once he heard you say those familiar words, always the preamble to every single mischievous stunt you’ve ever pulled on everyone including him. He paused and looked at you. “I thought no more games?”

You smirked at him. “One more won’t hurt.”

He sighed, giving in. “You’re going to be the death of me, I swear to god.”

“So, are you in?”

“When did I ever say no to you?”

You giggled. “Great.”

“What is it about this time?” he asked, indulging you.

“Whoever gets a rise out of Satoru first wins.”

“The stakes?”

You just winked suggestively at him.

**

You forfeited. For the first time, you lost in your own game. It counted – albeit momentary – because you initiated the game…said the very words that began everything that paved the way to the result you’ve always wanted. But you did not really consider it a loss when for the long run, you’ve gained the very person you’d always gladly lose to at any given time.

After you father offered a toast for the newlyweds, the speeches began, starting with Utahime’s parents then yours, eventually moving on to you, then the bride and groom’s shared close friends. Geto had been rather irreverent as usual, pointing out the things that both Gojo and Utahime supposedly disliked from one another yet brought them closer, making everyone laugh when Shoko came up the stage and began her speech, saying, “Opposites do attract.”

You sat on your table with Nanami, both of you waiting for your turns. He was next in line after Shoko, smirking at you as he stood up and walked towards the platform and began his piece by congratulating Gojo, “for landing a very gracious woman who has the most enduring patience I have ever known in all mankind, given the grief that Ieiri, Suguru and I had to endure before Iori came to his life.”

He continued on with his witty address, pretty much reflecting what Suguru said and entertaining the crowd enough when he started to express his gratitude. “While I know that this changes nothing between us as the best of friends – including your nature that tested one’s forbearance – I would like to say thank you for many things. Thank you because you are, well, you…” He did a dramatic eye roll.

The guests laughed.

“Thank you because you are a real person who offered friendship to quiet, boring old me,” he said, droning on about the things he appreciated about the couple before saying the things he was thankful to Gojo about. “And thank you, because without you, without our friendship, I wouldn’t have met the very person I also want to walk this earth with for the rest of my life.”

You would have fallen off your seat when Megumi playfully nudged you if it weren’t for Yuuji who also held onto your shoulders from behind your seat, shaking you excitedly.

“If it weren’t for one Gojo Satoru, I wouldn’t have met Y/N.”

You felt all eyes turn towards you, including your parents and your brother, heat suffusing your cheeks as you tried hard to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot for everyone to see. Nanami has outdone you this time, and you knew you didn’t have a chance to go against that when he had so publicly expressed how he felt about you.

“I love her with everything that I am,” he continued, “and I will continue to do so even without your threat to behead me.” He raised his glass. “To Iori and Satoru. May you have the happiest, most prosperous married life from today and for always.”

Geto whistled loudly while the guests applauded. You also stood up, clapping your hands slowly as you shook your head. You’ve lost big time, backed by the fact that your brother stood up raising his glass as he said, “I couldn’t have wished for a better future brother-in-law.” He then looked at you, smiling fondly.

Nanami got Gojo to state his approval for everyone to hear. You can’t win against that even if you nearly made the latter cry.

And now, you were just happy to be in Nanami’s arms as he swayed you both to the tune the jazz band was playing, your arms hanging around his shoulders and your fingers playing with the hair at the base of his head while he held you against him by the waist.

“So?” Nanami began. “How’s that for a final game?”

“Not bad,” you acceded, smirking at him. “I’ll admit defeat.”

“Damn right, you are.” He smiled down at you, his dark eyes reflecting the muted, xanthic lights that surrounded you. “I have a couple of things I’d want you to do for me, by the way.”

You nodded slowly, keeping a straight face at the mention of his prize. “Rules are rules.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Then again, you haven’t told me what you wanted when you won a week ago.”

You grinned, burying your face on his chest, listening to the faint sound of his heart. “But I did get what I want.”

“And that is?”

You met his gaze from under your lashes. “You,” you stated in full confidence.

Nanami nodded, suppressing a smile. “If you say so.”

“I wouldn’t wish for anything else.” You pulled him towards you so you could peck him on the mouth. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know what for, but as always, anything for you.”

You chuckled at that. Knowing him, he’ll make good on his words for sure, so much so that you didn’t feel the least bit of worry where your future with him was concerned. “You have to learn how to say no to me.”

“I guess, but since I won, have I finally made it to the list of people you don’t mess with?” he asked.

“As promised, yes.”

“No more games?”

“No more games,” you repeated. “Although I have to say it keeps things interesting between us. Don’t you think so?”

You both dissolved in laughter, the merry mingling of your voices coming to a standstill when he bent down and cupped your cheeks, running his thumb over your cheek before staking his claim on your lips while you returned the gesture in kind, locked in each other’s arms, glad you both played the game. And won.

-THE END-

I would like to say thank you to everyone who read this and kept up with my erratic updating. It's been a good 6 weeks. Thanks!

*I used “you” here, but since my character is Gojo’s little sister who is established to be his female clone for reasons essential to the plot, she possesses the same blue eyes and white hair. I did not exactly want to create an OC (although technically, I did by describing Y/N), but I opted for the best of both worlds in this fic, leaning more towards the literary aspect of it as opposed to it just being reader/you-oriented. I hope this isn’t iffy to anyone, and yeah, i’m not being exclusive or whatever.

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI'S “JUJUTSU KAISEN.” [20210814]

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Unnecessary

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: The thought stays with her the next time she visits Nicodranas, though, and she determines to make an experiment of it. Maybe without the shoulder bumping - she is here as an emissary, after all.

Allura's new mage friend in Wildemount seems a little lonely and very reckless. She takes it upon herself to investigate.

Wordcount: 2.3k

A/N:  MORE WIZARDS

one more @ticklesofcolor event fill for @ticklishnonsense  - i am starting to think that assigning us each other in this event is taking the shared braincells to a whole new level 😅 Prompt was “Allura, early in her friendship with Yussa, discovers he's very touch-starved and very ticklish, and takes advantage of this.”

---

The first time it happens, Allura is fairly sure that she’s just caused an intercontinental diplomatic incident.

She can hardly fault herself, though. There are certain instincts one develops when one regularly dines with adventurers and has the pleasure of being married to a halfling paladin who takes particular delight in tackling her every so often. Her arms are full of books, newly on loan from the only mage she’s found in Wildemount that doesn’t seem to be completely obsessed with politics, and she needs to bid her new friend farewell somehow. It seems perfectly logical to knock her shoulder lightly against his as she brightly thanks him for the pleasure of their meeting and turns to leave.

Apparently, this is not a logic that Arcanist Errenis shares.

The air itself seems to still as he stares at her. Stares some more. Then reaches up, cautiously, and presses his palm against one silk-covered shoulder as if he’s reaching for some unidentified magical artifact.

Allura winces. She can’t see any of the signifiers of elven disgust that Vex has mentioned to her, being uniquely suited to identify them, but to have such a reaction - “Oh - oh dear, I apologize. A rather uncouth habit I’ve picked up from my wife, I’m afraid.”

And she’s going to have quite a time confessing that particular sidestep to Kima later, but Errenis holds up the same hand to cut her off and lifts his chin, instantly settling into his usual placid composure with enough ease to lull her heartbeat back down to a reasonable rate. “No harm done, Arcanist Vysoren, merely… unnecessary.”

He blinks, slow as melted gold, and frowns lightly at her for a moment before turning away and gesturing sharply for a nearby tea set. “I trust that you can activate the circle yourself?”

She can, as well as take a hint - bemused, she casts without looking and steps backwards into the glowing circle, barely catching a last glimpse of him reaching for his shoulder again.

---

She tells her wife.

“Kima - Kima, darling, I’m glad you think this is funny, but it’s hardly helpful-”

Kima sighs a little, wiping a tear from her eye, and wraps her arms a little more securely around Allura’s waist where they’re lounging together. “Aw, Al, the poor thing’s just lonely! You antisocial wizards and your pretty little towers and your, what was it called? Oh, intellectual property-”

“I am perfectly social,” Allura says, prim, and promptly ruins it when she can’t help smiling at Kima as she laces their fingers together. “I certainly became acquainted quickly with you, didn’t I?”

“Oh?” Kima responds, catching Allura’s other hand in hers. Her eyes brighten in that unique combination of challenge and affection that Allura will never tire of seeing. “Is that how you remember it?”

Allura sniffs. “Well, if you’d like a refresher - mmm-”

And, well, it’s a little hard to remember anything after that.

---

The thought stays with her the next time she visits Nicodranas, though, and she determines to make an experiment of it. Maybe without the shoulder bumping - she is here as an emissary, after all.

Acquiring an adequate sample size becomes. Frustrating. He levitates everything, removing any chance to pat his hand in thanks when he offers her a cup of fragrant cardamom tea or to tap her knee against his as they pass a tome back and forth.

They are making progress, though, equally enthralled by the arcane, and it’s genuine excitement that does it in the end. A particularly difficult passage of an ancient spell untangles under their combined effort, bandying translated syllables back and forth with increasing urgency until they fall into blessed, triumphant silence, and she sweeps over and claps him between the shoulders in celebration. “Wonderful! You know, this might be quite useful for facilitating crop growth in arid land-”

He freezes under her touch in what seems like genuine shock. She pats him again and he lets out a little surprised huff, ears twitching confusedly even as his gaze remains pointed firmly ahead. It’s like blowing dust off a statue that hasn’t been touched for centuries.

Which, considering his introduction - I have been a practitioner of the arcane arts in seclusion for over 200 years, he’d told her, neither proud nor regretful - may be somewhat too close to the truth.

He sways back slightly towards her when she retreats to the other side of the room, shoulders rising and falling at a degree just shy of unpracticed. Interesting.

She does it again, and again, over the next few months - shoulders, back, arms, anywhere suitably innocuous, watching closely for any sign of annoyance. He is, after all, far older than her and perfectly capable of enforcing his own preferences. To say nothing of the way he tilts his head, when he’s deep in thought, in a way that seems so other that such petty mortal things as touch might be of no concern to him at all.

At one point, her hands are full of charcoal as they successfully cast another new spell and all she can do is smile at him. He glances over at her, implacable as always, but there’s a nearly imperceptible tightness as he turns away that she just barely knows him well enough to catch.

The next time, he brusquely commands her to put everything down before he casts. It’s sweet - nearly as sweet as the surprise on his face when she does so and completes the spell before he can.

---

There is, of course, increasingly apparent over time, Yussa’s irrepressible lack of instinct for danger. There have been fires. There have been many frantic castings of Dispel Magic. Allura starts to understand why his faithful goblin manservant is constantly twitching.

Today, she arrives in his study with a tired smile and sore fingers. “Yussa, I’m sorry - I’m afraid that I haven’t got a Dispel in me today, I’ve been Identifying a cache of arcane items all morning.”

“No matter.” Yussa waves off her raised eyebrow with a casual flick of his hand that serves the double purpose of summoning a tea set from thin air. “Tea?”

She accepts the cup. “Are you certain that we shouldn’t wait?”

“Unnecessary. Come.”

His study is as brilliant as always, cramped only in the sense that combined the artifacts lining his walls hold enough arcane power to reduce a rather large portion of the coast to rubble.

She’s a little jealous, honestly.

Yussa plucks a little beaker of gold dust up in one hand and a crisp sheet of paper in the other, beckoning her over with a brusque tilt of his chin that would be highly annoying from anyone else. “Now, there have been whispers of Kryn spies using a spell that renders objects immovable to cover their retreat on multiple occasions. I believe I’ve finally been able to recreate it, to some degree.”

“Oh!” Any lingering exhaustion forgotten, applications are already racing in her mind. “How interesting, please show me!”

He hands over the page and she scans the runes eagerly as he flicks his long sleeves back over his wrists and prepares to cast. “A little gold dust, and - it seems quite inelegant, at the moment, as if they are using some frame we have yet to find reference of, but-”

He gestures towards an empty box on his desk, sending gold dust and bright energy scattering. For a moment, there is only light.

And then, the spell shrinks back onto him, sinking into the fabric of his golden robes. Allura gapes - she has wondered, certainly, but to wear actual gold on a daily basis, especially when casting a spell that has it as a component-

Yussa stands very, very stiffly.

She presses her lips together as tightly as she can to hold back the surprised, giddy laughter brewing in the back of her throat. “You - the components-”

The sleeve of his robe looks slightly duller. The box, on the other hand, sparkles merrily under its powdering of gold dust.

Yussa sighs at her as she fails entirely to contain her amusement. “I seem to recall that you are lacking spell slots at the moment.”

She takes a deep breath, regaining her composure, and shakes her head. “Maybe I can go fetch someone-”

He grimaces instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Both of them spend a fruitless moment tugging at the robes, but it seems that Yussa has indeed managed to create a temporarily immovable object. He sighs again, after a minute, and lets his hands flap loosely against the stiff material. “Well, it’s only meant to last for an hour - I’m sure we have a Teleport spell stored somewhere around here, if you would call Wensforth-”

Allura bristles. “I can’t just leave you like this!”

“An hour passes quickly with meditation-”

“No, no, certainly we can do something.” She steps away and paces around him. “You know, your robes are quite, ah, voluminous - do you think you could squirm out, perhaps?”

Yussa sniffs in clear distaste. “I’m quite sure there’s no need.”

Really, she shouldn’t find his arrogance half as endearing as she does. “Oh come, Arcanist Errenis,” she teases, smiling despite herself, “surely you can do better than that, for a friend.” She crouches in front of him, heedless of her dress trailing onto the floor, and tries to gauge the possibility herself from what she can see through the open front of his robes - his legs, dressed in equally fine trousers, shift indignantly as she does. “Here, just bend your knees a little-”

She prods lightly at the back of one of them, hoping to spur him into action, and Yussa jumps. “Arcanist Vysoren-” he begins, and - there, almost unrecognizable for its novelty, a thread of nervousness creeps into his voice.

Allura tends more towards caution than mischief in most cases - a necessity, with the company she keeps - but she’s already grinning as she leans back a little to catch his eye. “Oh, this will be quite simple after all, I think.”

Yussa’s ears twitch up in clear, startled embarrassment as his legs attempt to press themselves to the back of his robes. “Arcanist Vysoren, I would thank you to - mmM-” She reaches for him again, sending one hand to wriggle behind the vulnerable joint and the other to scratch gently across his kneecap, and watches happily as his entire leg buckles under the attack. “Ah - haaah-”

The tremulous gasp that wrenches from him as she takes hold of his other knee to repeat the process is music to her ears - clearly, what her experiment has been needing all this time is a more direct approach. “This will be a little faster if you help,” she tells him, and crowds her fingertips up into the tender dip of flesh before he has a chance to respond.

“Vysoren-” Yussa tries, as tersely as he can with a frantic whine climbing up behind his words, and promptly cuts himself off as his other knee gives out. His robes are, in fact, made more for their drapery than their fit, and as what could graciously be called standing dissolves into ticklish squirming he’s slowly but surely sliding out of them and onto the floor. “Ihi - I can handle this from here, don’t-”

“Don’t what?” she responds innocently. The bottom of his silken shirt, neatly tucked into his waistband and glimmering even in the dim light, sinks into view. She elects to confirm its luxurious quality by prodding along the softness of his belly until he sputters and curses and drops another few inches, his indoor slippers sliding uselessly against the tiled floor. “You’ll have to offer an alternative solution - we’re a bit limited, at the moment.”

He’s laughing outright now, high and stilted and quite a bit more ticklish than she expected he might be. The way she’s kneading at his sides certainly isn’t helping. “Ahaaaaha - the damned - unnecessary - eheeh! -”

“Unnecessary,” she says, raising her voice enough that he can hopefully hear her through all the layers of fabric he’s trapped in, “would be insisting on testing a spell without taking any of the proper precautions beforehand. This, I fear, is entirely necessary, Yussa.”

And fun, besides, but there’s no need to tell him that. Besides, it seems that he shares the sentiment somewhat - she hasn’t been kicked in the face yet, and he’s hardly trying to get away from her hands, for all his grumbling. She wonders, absently, if he might allow her to do this again, the same way he’s slowly becoming accustomed to her casual friendly overtures.

He’s far too ticklish to let her wonder for long, though - it’s hardly a moment more before he squirms his way entirely free, tumbling nearly into her lap and grabbing desperately at her hands with his own elegant fingers. His face is flushed with laughter, hair falling into his eyes, and he looks like an entirely different person as he flops tiredly away from her and curls up on the floor.

It’s enough to send Allura straight back into her own startled amusement - she reaches for him, unable to help herself, and smooths a hand over his back. “Alright, alright,” she soothes, “you’re free, no harm done-”

Yussa grumbles something under his breath and twists to butt his head up against her hand instead. Allura nearly freezes in shock - and so does he, realizing, eyes wide just under the heel of her palm.

They stare. Yussa’s jaw works for a moment. “Your hand,” he says, glacially slow, “is on my head.”

“You put it there - oh, fuck it,” Allura decides, and leans forwards to drag her friend in a proper hug. “That could have been much worse, you fool. ”

Yussa stiffens and then relaxes all at once into the hug, bonelessly dropping his head onto her shoulder - he’s breathing unevenly, still, the aftereffects of laughter working their way through. “This is unnecessary, too,” he murmurs. “But I offer you my thanks, regardless.”

Chin resting atop his head, Allura smiles and plans a slight revision to her experiment.

[crackcrocs]

DEATH WILL ONLY BE THE BEGINNING #3

3. Transformation Central

the entities of my personalities would like to come together in one voice that speaks through me, we or I call this collection of words from the mustiest corners of my brain to this note page to voice something that might come close to what I feel underneath the skin I wear. In all my unorganised words- I might even go as far as to call this a poem, titled:

‘TRANSFORMATION CENTRAL’

sub characters in my head would appreciate if this could be visualised & understood through as deep a lens as humanly possible. even I confuse myself so if you can decode or relate to any of this, wonderful. If not, I’m locked in my own mind, swallowed the keys to my soul.

SIMILARITIES & INTERCONNECTEDNESS BETWEEN HUMAN & PLANT CONSCIOUSNESS EXIST! if you look closely at my nose freckles you’ll see the resemblance of the constellations above. if you look at the human veins & the layout of a tree, this is further proof.

{VISUALS THROUGH A SEPIA WINDOW STARING @ THE AUTUMN LEAFS; IMAGINING THE SEEDS UNDERNEATH, THROUGH NUMB ROOT VESSELS THAT PERMEATE THROUGH EVERY MEMBRANE OF MY EXTERNAL TO INTERNAL ENVIRONMENT}

~FEATURING THE VICIOUS CYCLE OF DEPRESSION & PERFECTIONISM.

here goes:

What is this part of my mind ?

If you want; delve inside-

I may look sweet like Alice,

but underneath it all

I deteste looking in the mirror

-cos I see the mad hatter.

my inner child needs a platter-

full of care not distortion & abuse pls.

less fibbin would’ve been a breeze.

now following the dead fish in the stream!

HOW on EARTH do I fit with the cod & the Haddock?

I’m the rainbow fish- beat & battered.

dim my own light cos I’m too afraid to shine.

alone.

thieves tried to steal my shiny scales.

I sat and watched them grow.

In the sea realm they were mean gargantuan selfish whales, with poisonous shark fangs & alligator tails. scorpion hands. (gremlins)

and still they make me feel like the alien-

I cant take it.

Make it make sense ?

I can’t.

controller in my hand-

Off balance stance.  

anxiously I move round like a wobbly jelly.

where’s the button to balance my chi & shut out the ego ?

the teLLIE telling lies to our vision!

change the channel aura terracotta orange- daily dosage of vitamin D & C.

catch me sun gazing by the sea

head buzzin like a bee.

speaking from a dusty box

stuck on top of a forbidden shelf

cos I dunno how else.

I’m tryna delve deep but forgot how to dive

How can i visualise? scenery foggy-

the establishment man with the glue gun got me xD

inner monk burning but at peace

Cos I refuse to believe

If the only way is the American dream

Interconnected; like the frog in science -let’s dissect it!

down to every floating atom spirit neighbouring your door

subcategories & divisions, it’s more!

than the rich and the poor -prism that’s been built

do we all feel like a performance monkey on stilts?

will my data be extracted & used to mould a robots personality some day?

well obviously not.

does the price of our lives all amount down to slave ways?

LABOUR YAY!

but morals & values it seems we’ve forgot.

sO If i don’t speak its cos I’m lost.

or maybe i’m enlightened-

Standing at the edge of the porch;

watching TRYING to understand how the flowers grow.

questioning eVERYTHING man made!

I’ve stepped out of the perfect picture frame

I can see the coal pollute the sky

I need to hop on the train-

but I’m comfortable

Sunset to sunrise statue standing still.

what’s the ingredients to life’s yucky pie?

I’ve exceeded mental lotteries.

Sanity n universal peace would be a trophy.

TIL then I’ll be crafting & shaping a solid pottery reality,

with a few pence, gum, and a bandana of belongings tied to stick.

thinking one day I’ll be laying the bricks

& building a kingdom of bliss.

guess for now I’ll use the intricate delicate materials in my tool box- that’s all I’ve got.

might have a long way- maybe worth a shot.

I observe, cruisin in the sky.

dunno why..

I jus look @ the hills.

Only time & history reveals.

no thanks mr men-

I don’t want your prescription pills.

there’s enough propaganda as it is.

I won’t jump on the merry go round-

til my core trusts & envisions we’ll actually feel safe!

I don’t want to take part in this faux fur, sweet nothings & a jack in a box punching blur, so called future.

oh and genuinely thanks quarantine-for once again, I can hear bird sounds!

guess this is me tryna speak out loud!!!...

it’s not thrilling

system  time killing everything-

mother nature’s oxygen

everything is nauseating

clock ticking, I better start creating.

they should write a book on how to be free when the system set us up to believe that we’re tied to the cut down trees that gives them a currency of greed that they breed.

If blindfolded, I don’t wanna eat what they feed.

Whilst they profit of us -tell us smile and the bandits don’t wanna see us happy.

they’re too busy robbing all our hoods.

In exchange for the silence, they’ve granted us with a 21’st century fashion garment of a slave muzzle! labelled conform.

More delusion to add to the already desensitised norm.

zootonic diseases, welcome covid 19 to your plastic kiddy tea party!- apologies for questioning your motive!

Been handed too many hot plates with a post it note saying HOLD THIS.

we’ll be okay just hush.

Same Shan message told to every generational seed.

If we don’t TRY overpower-

we’ll never succeed!

it’s getting even more scary.

Artificial intelligence.

Societal negligence..

my canvas isn’t clear-dunno am I schizo ?

finger painting, cos it makes more sense.

struggling to blend.

borderline conspiracist pretending to be fine;

moving the goal post, hovering above the race line.

who made the chalk? who set the lanes?

I wanna know it all, maybe¿ far past insane.

I can fit all I need in the palm of my hand,

Maybe even less! cut a finger off not sure it’ll even add stress.

hi from personality Peter, even sober- always away with the fairies.

Pass the pixie dust, I’m in a rush

Found shelter in the comfort of pan physicists timer, no not the one on your phone!

Ring ring, skeptical! is it my demon or my mommy on the phone?

I’m stuck in the airspace of an infinite glass filled with beach particles trying to form myself standing up still attempting not to slip through the hands of my very own discovery.

time is running out & ill go when I go.

I’m sitting inside the fly trap -

stardust, chakras can you feel the sensation colors like a starburst.

deep emotion is a curse.

still entrapped in the sand dune of nothingness-

flipping a domino monopoly of solidified thoughts as I sway with the wind.

I’m the trapped sandbox in the playground & the slipping sand in my own hands.

Inhale chronic but I wanna enter the quiet realm of white noise

-color of a wife beater vest, calmer than the ease in ignorance of a red neck.

sadomasochistic, messes.

but oblivion, seems like less stress.

Unfortunately I can see, with all eyes

empathetic paralysis, gets me vexed.

Punching truth into the core of your chest!

It’s not funny, neither is the one on the receiving end..

My limbs are numb

& im done playing octopus alchemy.

I want minimalism & life can be simple,

Evil entities have made it hard.

Maybe I’ve got stars above my head like an old cartoon character.

But I can’t make it make sense, are they out to get me. worse all of us? Or have I bottled myself tryna re mesh the broken shards,

I feel glued to the floor cos there’s a pretty price to pay if you want more.

I see life through a different lense, maybe born downside up, Benjamin button I came out the back door-

Outside looking in, digesting confusion.

Is to be a product of environment a sin?

rummage through my messy brain.

personalities sardine packed in this tin

I’m the wizard of my mania

Scaring & attracting the black crows-

they’re my friends.

Sometimes still a cowardly lion

Roaring pain & true riddles at the wrenching wicked witch posse of the west.

will my voice ever be loud enough to shed light wit my words and grate the sweet zest

In to the cake i’m baking?

Probably not.

Got more thoughts than the autumn leaves collected by the garden rake. alone.

gathering & storing the pains of yesterday.

sometimes I stay in line

Other times in my head Im on my hands juggling out of time.

but I really don’t mind if I lose or win.

we all have a pace

I jus don’t want the 1% to win the race.

It’s unfair!

Humanity does anyone care ??

Half lady

half fairy

Good  MOOrning-

from my anagrams.

no I’m not a cow.

twister fidget spinner brain in the flesh-

form of expression this time around lyrics.

feel I’m jus a silly rubix

& still mourning

I don’t like dairy

pass the oat milk.

Are you aware the industry are sabotaging our diets?

we want peace!

the powerful elite-

perceive & deceive

the scene they want us to be.

chuck the narcissistic psychopathic pie back in our face-

every time we almost found & addressed the Programme & Control man in the maze.

evil & extroverted- he said that the anarchists have to be the cause of riots.

working isn’t class. I said let’s switch roles- he said pass.

It’s piss! Who’s got the bomb & the guns?

Who got the land? off wit OUR heads 4 fun!

it’s pure scary.

Pharmaceutics handshake.

with the cooked up suppliers, also crooked wack liars.

I’d rather shot a gallon of bloody blubbery infused slaughter house milk

If it meant we didn’t use cocoons for silk.

why not add a drizzle of bleach to the concoction & maybe that’s a reach.

every time I guzzle fakeness, it taste peak.

I want real fruit, what next-

a seedless peach ???

what’s the difference between a weirdo & a freak?

layers & levels to the shit.

Magnifying tapping the window of society, I’ll be puffing green til I get to the land of Oz.

sponge soaked soaking up emotions

Suffocated by deduction of care in life

feel entrapped in this paradigm

what am I thinking ?

got the verbs & a cuppa tea

It’s mixed with torment & desire to be free.

I’d rather be awake than asleep

When I get too comfy I feel weak

Demons they reap

underneath

rip the seems as I bleed

Concrete

Solid

Emotions

Is all you’re getting

It’s all sad scenes in the imagery I’m setting

people need care we seem to be forgetting

why are we in debt wit

a posse of clowns

pay the price so we can get a frown

here’s some seratonin

quit ya moaning

life is all sound

aw yeh¿  if you’re not an over thinker!

product of environment- Sirius flickers

theyve done a ritual like it’s Wicca

now here’s your gold sticker..

for managing to co operate.

In this world fuelled off of evil n hate

waking ups a bloody disgrace

I am not amazed.

Man I love my fam n my friends

Just hate this part of my brain that feels the need to play pretend

sometimes I feel insane

but I’m calm

need to escape so I don’t do harm

Gold lioness in the sky by the sea

with puff the magic dragon

fire out my mouth, fuel helps me breathe

I will shine bright

Promise imma be alright

even tho I’m not sure why

I function like this

I wanna be myself

It’s just hard to find the comfortability

To feel happy and pretty

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Ring around sing about overdose emotions

Sorry dunno how to communicate

Heads in a constant debate

Should I go or should I stay

My head clashes

Burnin the next ciggy as my thoughts become ashes.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Eight; Control.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo gets stalkery and violent- Dub con thoughts; be warned.

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Iris was treading the route of the exhausting, bone wearing labour, of atonement and penitence. 

For her effrontery of staying out to pay call to Lord Ren three days previous, it seems her mother was determined to have her redeem herself in her family’s good graces. This apparently meant breaking her back, performing chores and labours for the Pembleton residents who were most crucially in need of assistance.

 Caroline promised Iris to Mrs Emery. The most miserable woman in all of the British isles. From the very last curling spray of waves on the outer Hebrides to the last crumbling rock of lands end. This woman was the most stern old biddy to ever exist. Possibly even worse than Aunt Lavinia. Aunt Lavinia did not have an austere infatuated obsession with ‘our good Christian lord.’

 Mrs Emery was a widow of thirty years now. Miserable and strict. And she also happened to be the verger. She lived near the quaint vicarage cottage. And moseying around the church making sure everything was spick and span for Reverend Potter.

 Only she’s been struck down by a sudden ailment of the chest that leaves her bed bound in the frosty cold. Unable to perform the donkey work so needed around the small chapel, in readiness for Sunday’s sermon. Sweeping and scrubbing the floors. Polishing the pews. Dusting off prayer books and sewing up the holes in prayer cushions.

 This lot now fell on Iris’s already loaded shoulders.

 She wondered why her lot in life could be any further reduced to much more misery.

 And here she found herself, in a freezing bitter chapel, with the sun barely warmed up to gold outside, on the cold stone floor, on her aching hands and sore knees, scrubbing the tiles with a hand brush.

 Her fingers were pink with cold. Her hips and back already piercing sharp, something fierce. Arms weary from labours already and she’s barely started. Scratching sizzling bristles of a hard wooden brush to hand, scouring away the mess of the tiles. A clean rag, throughly soaped, swipes over in her other hand to polish what she had cleaned.

 She is already clammy in the cold. Hair folded off her face, some dark twirls stick to her pink sweaty forehead. Cheeks pink from exertion. The only noises are the echoing huffs of her own breathing ricocheting off the flying stone buttresses up into the pitched roof.

 She manages the floor with some success. Dirtying her gown in the process and ruining her knees. The cream muslin dress she put on this morning is now dusty and unkempt. The white apron Mrs Emery lent her is vastly too big and there are two dirty patches at her knees where she’s been on the ground.

 She’s aching with the cold before too long. Nose running and eyes streaming from the dust. But she manages to scrub the whole chapel floor in under three hours. She curses her life several times over as she works. Not at all caring that she’s in a house of religion.

 She’s livid angry and tired and if God is listening to her projected unsavoury thoughts? She has a good sharp sense and mind to remind him that she’s suffering the pains of up-keeping this sanctified place of his worship. Dares him to strike thunder and lightning at the steeple for her blasphemy. Much good it would do for her.

 After the scrubbing, she empties the dirty pail of water on the frosty grass outside, and gets to work with the beeswax polish and another rag on the pews.

 Kneeling on a prayer cushion - to save her tender knees. Rubbing along the grain of the deep mahogany wood until the light glimmers off it. Shining proud. The air in the church is stale with age. But now she’s getting to work the air is spiced instead with beeswax polish, that same honey scent from the candles, all around stood in their votives. The warmed bitter of dust off grey flagstones.

 Where she’s working dutifully, birdsong chips away at the stained glass windows. Light beams in. Murky and watery, like rolls of cotton from the windows. Stained cherry red, emerald, sapphire and gold. Like a long buried treasure chest spilling in. Colour dots the thick black surround of the panes. Dust mites of nothing twirl and flutter in the still air. She listens to wood pigeons outside call, slow and lazy, as she worked her fingers to the bone.

 As ever- working for the benefit of everyone around her, but herself.

 She knows her mother is displeased with her conduct of late. She despises that Iris spent such time alone, with a mysterious Lord who they aren’t very well acquainted with.

 Iris does not even pretend to share her worries. She cannot regret any minute of time she spent with Lord Ren. He was charming. Deuced too handsome to look at. He was unlike any mannered man she’d come across before. So uncaring for the reaches of society - which most dull men craved for. It was all they lived for. Lord Ren is vastly different.

 Maybe it’s his foreign nature? He’s used to different ways and customs. He seemed so against all forms of politesses. Yet he’s charming, and he appeared thoughtful and sincere. Didn’t condemn her for talking because she was a member of the fairer sex.

 When she was with Lord Ren, he spoke to her as an equal. Not as Hux had done. Labelled her with the title of merely being a ‘Sergeants wife’ and a mother to their children.

 Not Iris. Not Mrs Hux. Or Iris Hux. Just. Wife. A wife.

 He’s shown her she was to be his wife and that really was all. A status of a name. It shouldn’t be confining her, in her entirety, restricting her whole identity into that meagre title. It’s nearly offensive to be thought of that way. It scares her that he considered all of who she is, to be termed in such a manner.

 She wanted to marry a man who didn’t restrict her in any sense. She wants to read whatever books she liked. Take whatever walks she pleases. Snatch time for herself- lord knows she’s had little enough of such a luxury in her life.

 She wants to keep to her room if she wishes. Sleep in past eight o’clock if she is tired. Dress the way she likes. Dress for her comforts and not for attracting the eyes of men to her comely form. If she wished too- she wants to shroud herself in the ugliest most unflattering dress she has, and take comfort in the fact no ones eyes would be praising nor censuring her. She’d huddle up into the ugly thing and have great joy of it.

 The thought of being able to live for oneself and ones own pleasure is a heady daydream. She’s reminded of that sad frailty as she gets yet another splinter off the ages old wooden bench before her.

 It daggers into her finger and when she reflexively pulls black, she sees another shard of wood dotted into her red raw palm. She slumped wretchedly down on the floor, tears pricking her eyes, kneeling on the sawdust prayer cushion as she tries to pick the worst of them out. Cursing her piteous life. Cursing her mother. Cursing her stupidity.

 If she were a richer young woman, born to a more noble and moneyed family, no one would dare dream of treating her like this; doing chores and scrubbing floors. Chores reserved for the lowliest of skivvy maids. If she’d been born to more money, she’d have very little to vex or distress her. She’d get up of a day and her most taxing decision would be what fine richly trimmed silk gown she’d have to choose to put on.

 Her life would be long tea party of fancy French confectionery, dressmakers fittings for yet another rich gown. Her days filled with taking calls from acquaintances, reading whatever books she liked and existing wherever she pleases. Then she’d have a sumptuous oiled bath every night, before bed. Go to her dreams smelling like a meadow of pretty wild flowers.

 She wouldn’t have holes in her shoes. Or rub her hands to the bone scrubbing freezing cold floors. She wouldn’t be tired and angry and stressed every day. Comporting herself in painful ways for everyone but her own benefit. She wipes away tears. She feels like her back was breaking. But it was nothing compared to the pains of her heart-

 She stops pitying herself and gets on with the task ahead. Up until well past noon. There were 42 pews to see too after all. Iris struggled doing it all on her own, she wonders how on this sainted earth the very elderly Mrs Emery manages each week. She’s atleast five and eighty in her frail age.

 When she’s done, Iris stands at the front of the chapel. Sweat pouring off her forehead. Cheeks glow with her exercise. She wipes the back of her hand across her dripping brow. The back of her neck and her chest is sticky too. It’s become muggy in here with the candles lit and the sun warming the stone through the coloured glass.

 She soldiers into her next task with wearied determination, and her bones grating with ache. Glad for the frost outside. She carries out stacks of of prayer books and sets them on a short wood stool as she beats the dust out the pages. Sneezing and coughing her way through it until her eyes sting. Dust and musty old leather and paper smearing all over her hands and her soggy apron. Still damp from her scrubbing earlier.

 She makes light work of 250 prayer books. Not sure how much dust she’s inhaled along the way. But she strongly suspects enough to give her a hacking cough all night long. When she’s done there she deposits them back on the racks behind each pew.

 That’s the chapel finally finished with. She closes the doors. Taking a moment to peer around. Satisfied with her hard work. She’d laboured like a Trojan. But her day was not over yet. She trudges the worn grass path through the graveyard. Through the stubby broken teeth of wonky old gravestones. Set slanted and leaning in the grubby green of the frosty earth.

 She opens the creaky iron gate to the warped little cottage that abutted the vicarage. Mrs Emery’s cottage. The strict one with no decorations outside. No garden. No plants. Barely any life whatsoever. She was a austere woman who took little pleasure in a garden. Iris wondered what sort of person she could not take pleasure in a garden.

 She knocks politely on the front door and lets herself into the cottage. Mrs Emery was exactly where Iris had left her after tending to her that morning. Sat up in her front parlour with a fire burning, a steaming cup of tea by her side and a blanket tucked over her knees.

 She was a dainty little woman with a round face an a gold pair of round spectacles. Curved back and fingerless gloves on her nobbled old hands, cross little face sternly peering out at Iris.

 “How are you faring, Mrs Emery?” Iris asks kindly. Bringing through her basket to the small round table in her front parlour. Light floods in through the Tudor crossed window. Offering her a decent place to fulfil her remaining task.

 She was to sew up the patched holes in the worn kneelers - the prayer cushions used in the chapel. Mending years worth of use and wear. She sits down at the table and gets on with her task. Mrs Emery seemed happy - a most relative term for her temper - to sit reading through her bible. Stating with a little scrunched frown that it was ‘most instructive.’

 She then asks if Iris reads the bible. She looked up from her mending, eyes straining, fingers sore and almost bleeding from the strain of stabbing the needle through the tough thread over and over and over-

 Iris stutters. Pulling a long thread through. Half concentrated on her task. “Well- uh. I don’t study it closely as you do, Mrs Emery, but I- do so enjoy Reverend Potters sermons every Sunday.” She counters nicely.

 Mrs Emery scowls. “It’s not the same as reading about the good word of our righteous lord from holy scripture.” She insists crossly. Tapping her bible furiously.

 “I’ll read it the second I get home. Mrs Emery.” She lies through her teeth. Stabbing through another stitch. Smiling genially. Continuing on with her work.

 She divides her time between making a hot posset for Mrs Emery, between smothering back yawns as her syes adjust to the fading light. Eyes straining under the timid glow of a single tapered candle on a brass stick before her. It glimmers honey-amber off the blue-black windows outside.

 Mrs Emery’s snores catch Iris’s attention. So absorbed was she in her work. She looks up at the carriage clock on the bare mantel and gasps, horrified.

 It was nearly ten o’clock at night.

 She rubs her bleary eyes. Stands up. The brutally uncomfy chair she was sat on scrapes back and clatters against the parlour wall.

 She unties her apron hurriedly. The noise of her standing brought Mrs Emery back to life, waking her rudely as she sat up with a particularly loud and ungainly snort.

 “I’m so sorry Mrs Emery. I quite forgot the time.” She explains worriedly. Hurriedly going for her coat hung out on the only peg in the hallway in the frosty cold kitchen. A tiny spit of a pathetic fire roars in the parlour. Near where Mrs Emery is sat.

 She pulls on her wool scarf. And eases into her ragged old blue coat. Buttons it up tight. Knots the scarf securely around her neck. Walks back into the parlour for her basket that held her trusty sewing kit. Iris piled what she had used there, into the cradle of the straw wicker. Not wanting to delay herself any further.

 She looks out the tiny window. Blue night drawing in. Dark velvet onyx now. Wind rattled at the ledge, howled bitterly at the glass like a baying wolf. It was blowing a storm outside. Weather foully cold. Atleast it wasn’t raining- Iris would scurry back to Westwell before it did.

 She swallows down her trepidation. Hooks her basket on her arm. “Best you be off home. Miss Ashton.” Mrs Emery agrees. Iris looks over to the woman. Says she’ll see her on Sunday for sermon.

 Mrs Emery holds out her hand to her before she goes. Iris sees three small silver coins resting on the black wool of her palm. From the warped gnarl of her little stiff fingers. “The Lord rewards hard work, my dear.” She professes proudly with a wrinkled smile. Clunking the coins at her.

 Iris bites back a retort about the Lords gratefulness. Three shillings was an almost insulting offering after her labours of the day.

 “You are the very soul of christian generosity. Ma’am.” Iris smiles. Pocketing the measly sum. She wasn’t expecting a bank note. But she bristled at Mrs Emery thinking that was such a handsome sum. It wasn’t the old woman’s fault.

 She bids the elderly verger goodnight. Heads for the cottage door and peels it open. The wind nearly buffets it out her grip. She winces stepping out into the cold. Huddling down into her coat as she walked along. Out the front gate. And through the eery surrounding of the graveyard. Everything was grey and dead and governed by dark.

 She walks along the short snowy lane. Lined either side by tall hedges and modest houses. Little cottages with sloped thatched roofs that sag in the middle. Tiny cosy dwellings. Windows stark and gold against the night. Candles on the window ledges. Shining through net lace curtains. Or the cracks in velvet drapes. Families inside wrapped up, cosy and warm. Sat by the hearth. Safe from this winter. Warmer than she currently is, that’s for sure.

 She trudges along quick. The fastest route home this time of night was cutting through the main street of Pembleton. The road lined with the milliners, the butchers, the drapers, and the haberdashers.

 The main promenade of businesses. Unfortunately. There were also three taverns on this road. The Golden Harp, the White Horse, and the Three Boars. Iris, and many other gently bred young ladies, were warned to stay away from these places at night. These were only places suitable for barmaids or painted women.

 Men were most rowdy when they fall on drink. And that is no place for the eyes of a young woman to be witnessing.

 She walks far across the street from the first pub. Keeps her head ducked way down. Sees the row of coaches sat on the street. Black square shapes glimmering in the night. Horses shivering in the cold wind. A few gentleman of the area frequented the less rowdy of the working man’s pubs.

 Men are in the street too. Gathered around, tankards in hands. Smoking pipes out in the street. Outside the pub doors. As Iris walks closer she could hear the clamour and the din. Shouting and gruff male voices and old folk songs being sung.

 Her stomach drops to her feet when they start calling out to her. Shrinking up like a shrivelling leaf. They shout across the road to her. Stumbling each other, leering and jeering each other. Iris frowns but keeps walking quickly away.

 She’s not that quick to escape their attention. Distracted, she bumps into more men coming out the pub on her side. Collides right into the back of a man. Ploughing into him. His coat was coarse brown wool and he smelt like ale. She staggered back. Mortified.

 He turns and gives her a filthy leer. “Watch where you walk. Lass.” He drawls. Scanning her up and down.

 “Excuse me.” She squeaks out rather pathetically. Bobbing a short curtsey and she sidesteps around him. But he goes with her. Following her movements. She walks again and his lanky chest is right in front of her.

 She shrinks back yet again, afraid. She doesn’t look up. She knows that leering face and smile is being aimed down at her.

 “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out at night? You’re not a working lass now are you? Cause I’d pay a handsome sum to get between those pretty legs.” He sneers.

 She averts her gaze. Mortified. One of his intoxicated friends, seizes the moment to tug his arm aside.

 “Leave her be. You’re scaring the poor lass. Sorry sweetheart. He never could resist a bonny face.” He tells. Gripping his mate so she could walk on past.

 They cackle loudly at her as she goes. Watching her walk away. The sound claps her ears like horrible thunder She swallows down her nervousness. Feels the hair pinned at the back of her neck, needle straight. She plods quick over melting puddles and mud in her brisk steps.

 Determined to get as far away from all these drunk men as she can manage. Pinpricks settles uneasy on her skin. Her fear. Her wariness of being out so late. All of it marginally eclipsed by the aches and strains of her body. She is cold, worn to the bone, and she just wants to get home and feel safe.

 Little does she know. But she roused more than the displeasing attentions of the rambling drunks outside.

 Inside the tavern, sat a certain man who made all those rowdy drunks look like simpering dandy’s.

 He was hunting. Ever since word got around about the wolf, or the madman. It’s been harder and harder to hunt. Seeking out prey became more difficult. Men roamed in tight packs now. After the wild circulation of rumours.

 He listens to them talk about it in the pub. Right in front of him as he sits at the small round table looking out the window onto the street. His back to the room. Ignoring the beer in front of him. Listening. Waiting. Watching.

 His instincts are fired up and his temper is a foul one. He needs to feed and he’s been snappy all day. Ill tempered. Needing blood to soothe the interminable itch in his blood. He’s not a man tonight. He’s a hunter.

 He listens to the idiots over his shoulder drink themselves stupid and gossip like hens. Hens who didn’t know there was a wolf sat here in the chicken coop.

 “Here. You know that Davey Sampson. The Doctor up in the village said they could barely identify his body. Almost ripped in half he was.” Some grizzly old farmer leans in and says to his mate.

 Someone younger pipes up. “I heard they was picking bits of him up for days. And they’ve called the local constable to come keep watch hereabouts.” He says to a chorus of gruff and grizzled ‘ayes’ and mumbles.

 “What could do that to man?” Someone else asks.

 “Nothing I wanna meet in the dark on me way home.” Says the old farmer again.

 “Every man I know coming back from the pub, now makes sure he never wanders alone. Never cuts through the woods if he can help it. And always keeps himself armed with a flintlock pistol or a knife.” They all pitch in with agreements and theory’s.

 Kylo’s smiling. He crooks a wicked grin. Pistols won’t touch him. Lead bullets or brass rifle cartridges won’t pierce his skin. He knows. Plenty of men have fired at him in self defence. He’s got thick skin - strong like white marble.

 He’s smiled at the foolish men that shot at him in the past. Watching the bullets ricochet. Enjoyed drinking the horror from their faces as he advanced without a scratch and ripped them apart.

 Knives won’t sink in his skin. They just don’t. He’s almost offended that they think such petty things will keep them safe from his mighty strength. He can snap swords in half and not bleed. He can crumple rifles to dust with his bare hands.

 The din of the pub becomes rowdy again. Voices and drinking and singing. A melting pot of noise and smells. Ale dropped on the bar from clumsy hands. Stale of it with dried hops and barley warms the air. Musk of woodsmoke from the embers in the crooked fireplace.

 The dirt and muck caked on the uneven flagstone floors. The voices are roaring and blaring and the laughter is loud. The smell of wet dog as a scruffy canine sat under its owners table. It was a shaggy brown mongrel with muddy eyes and was more like a smudgey mop of matted fur encasing some bones. Probably riddled with fleas. When Kylo stepped in, it had slunk to tremble between its masters knees. Whimpering. Gazing at him with mournful brown eyes. Shivering like a cowed thing.

 He sits there. Alone at his table. Mood foul. Mouth dry. Watching the reflections of candles and men drinking in the narrow Tudor crossed windows. Glass smeared with dust. Frost crawling up on the other side.

 He watched wind howl and batter the street. From the amber candlelight and dark gloom of this pub he lets the soothe of mankind blot his ears for a while. Waits to see if someone slips out back to relieve themselves up the back wall of the pub. Some brave drunkard tries to stumble home alone.

 No such luck yet. But he’ll wait. His patience and need won’t halt for long- but he’ll wait. He’ll wait to hunt. Mouth undeniably parched - it feels as if his tongue is cracking like much too dry clay.

 The first moment that the blood touched his lips tonight, he knows he’ll glut and glut on it until theres nothing left. Maybe one won’t be enough. He may have to kill two tonight. His hunger demands it. He’s always been greedy.

 He’s not just angry about the lack of easy food.

 He’s angry because of the pathetic boy that was hanging around Miss Ashton. Dressed up in his ridiculous toy soldier uniform. That got him gritting his teeth. Seeing the preening idiot kiss her hand and flatter her. Talk about their marriage and their offspring.

 Kylo had to feel every second of her trepidation and her dread. She didn’t want to marry him. She wasn’t attracted to such a meagre offering of love and protection. That’s what made him so livid. Her reluctance. The life that’s being forced upon her.

 The thought of his sweet little dove lying under that lanky pale man on their wedding night, in the marital bed as he blindly fumbles between her thighs with trying to beget her with his first heir-

 Kylo almost crushes the table he’s at, into splinters. He swallows and lets his eyes dart around the room. He needs to feed. Of he’ll go fully feral and that was never safe. He could ravage this entire village and drink everyone he comes across. He’d leave none alive.

 His mood is a sour one- and then, oh then... it gets irrevocably worse.

 A great big gust of wind outside, it slithers in on the draft from the window, blows a far too familiar scent in his direction. Curls at his nose. Lavender. Clary sage. Peppermint.

 No. No. It can’t be- not here. Not now. Not-

 He looks up. His fingers clench the table so hard he feels it crack. There she is. Right outside the window, out in the street in the dark. He feels his jaw clench. Trembling in anger. His mouth waters.

 He sees her stumble into the path of the drunkards.

 A low growl shatters his throat like piercing broken glass as he sees one of them crowd her back on the street to scare her. Walking her back. His friend tugs him aside. Kylo’s knuckles snap where he curls them into fists. Veins straining out his skin. Filled with molten black poison. Temples pounding. They were lucky he didn’t march across the street and start snapping some necks.

 He knows the vile thoughts shooting through that man’s head. He doesn’t have to imagine. He’s sat among drunk men for a thousand years. He knows the foul things that lurk when drink takes over the mind. Nastier impulses come to light.

 He watches her sidestep the scum and scurry away.

 Here he is, the ultimate predator, and his ultimate prey is just wandering innocently past.

 He closes his eyes for a second. Tries to breathe. Deep. But all there is, is her, cloying up his nose. He’s ready to pounce. To feed. To do things he shouldn’t do to her.

 Lust. Hunger. Both now pulsing in his bloodstream.

 Her sweat. Her skin. Her hair. That wet sweet heaven between her legs. The clean salt and floral nectar of his Dove. He can smell her sweet cunt from here. Hear the pulse beating scared in her neck.

 Ambrosia.

 He bites back the inclination for his fangs to grow. He licks his parched tongue over his sticky dry front teeth. Begs them to keep at bay.

 They might. But he can’t-

 She walks out of sight of the window. He stands from the table and tears across to the door.

 Chair nastily scrapes the tiles. Beer sloshes as he disturbs the table. Harshly shoving men out his way.

 They shout and bristle at him but he couldn’t care less. They turn around to challenge him but his sheer size has their tongues and bravery shrivelling up in their mouths, before their words have the temerity to make it past their foolish teeth.

 He storms out the pub doorway. Terrible and tall in his black greatcoat lapping at his boots. As if he’s sculpted out of the night air. Black waistcoat and undressed white shirt on his big chest. The collar folded up at his neck. Joining to the black upturned collar of his cape like coat.

 He eyes her in the distance. Sees the sway of her skirts as she walks briskly. A glowing gorgeous spec in that dark night. He was downwind from her. Could smell her. Heady like too much rose perfume. It’s making him woozy.

 She beckons to every sense he possesses - especially the raw animal ones.

 He follows her. Deep into the heart of the dark wood.

 Pursued her down the dark lane. The pallid icy road that glows in the night. Trees all around whipped and punished by the harsh wind, flurry’s of snow swirling. He hangs back. Watching. She hurriedly steps off the road and crunches her boots across the wild foliage. Walking fast.

 She’d never move fast enough to be able to escape him.

 She can hear them. Whoever they are. She can hear distant footfalls slithering off the trees. Cracking and snapping like dry kindling underfoot.

 Her chest pumps in panic. Breathing panicked. She hides behind a tree as she stops in the middle of the woods. Snaps her head around. Scans the dark horizon. Tries to see the shape of a man following after her- one of those deuced drunks maybe. The ones who accosted her. He’d seemed nastily determined to scare her.

 Her petrified heart thuds louder and louder in her chest. She wills her scared tears away. But they dribble down her cheeks. Drop on her coat and bead away on the wool. Adrenaline kicks through her blood. Nerves rag sharp. Almost hurting her.

 The distant thick of gloom doesn’t reveal anything. She can barely see the slithers of trees by the foggy moon. It’s blurred out of the sky by clouds. Rudely shoved away. It can’t even light up her journey home. Can’t help her.

 She’s drowning in helplessness. And the creature stalking her is aware and is drinking in every drop.

 She can’t make out anything through the threes. They stand resolute and harmless. Like sturdy black pillars rising out the frosted foliage of the ground. All that’s visible to view is the ribboning black of tree trunks on the smog of the grey dark horizon. Her lungs chill and stab with each deep breath. Her stomach squirming.

 She keeps moving. Fumbles in her footsteps. Wished she put her heavy sewing scissors in her basket so she could have something to defend herself with.

 Kylo watches her move through the trees. She won’t escape him. She has no hope. He needs to feed and they’re perfectly blessedly alone out here in the snow. Just them two.

 The Dove. And the Wolf.

 His golden eyes watch her pick up her pace again. Clutching her basket tight to her body. Folding her coat tighter around herself. Hunching up into her body. Trying to make herself look smaller. As she so often does.

 He’s getting closer and closer. Nearer in pursuit. He can hear the husky nature of her panic in her breath. Hear the fast slush of her blood pumping hot in her veins.

 He’s so near now he can taste the salt on her skin. Feel her heat. See the wisps of her hair as the dull night shines off it. The creases in her clothes. And the musk of her sweat pouring off her panicked frail little body.

 She looks so delicious when fleeing in fear.

 Even nearer. He can hear the panic cloying up her throat. He wonders what her fear will taste like?

 Now. He gets the chance to find out.

 He’s on her. He hears her screams split her lips. His hand catches her skirts and he growls as he spins her around. She begs.

 “No! Please.” She whimpers as his body slams to hers. She sobs, croaking desperate.

 His body dominates her. Crowding her back. Shoving her roughly into a tree. He’s intent to make her last.

 Why is it they always beg? Always plead for a god that isn’t there at their shoulder. The devil like him is instead.

 He scoops her up in his arms. Hands at her waist. Luckily she wore her hair tied back. He bows his feral mouth to her neck and pierces the skin with his razor sharp white teeth with one bite.

 He moans as she floods thick onto his tongue. Nectar on his dry throat. He pants and huffs and growls like an animal. Arousal shooting straight to his cock, making him hard as he’s ever been. He pulls back and feels her pulse thunder against his tongue, against his smiling mouth and his pearl-crimson stained teeth.

 He laughs at her whimpers. Kisses her gushing wound. Lapping her like she’s a luxury. Feeling it spill down her shoulder. Stain her coat. Warm scarlet wool where blue once was. Sully the snow at their feet. Droplets pattering to the floor. Little gleaming ruby drips.

 She tastes like peaches, copper and sour-saccharine red berries. Divine.

 The best blood he’s had in this cursed country. The best damn cunt too by the smell of her. He hasn’t fucked in years-

 He shoves a muscled thigh between her legs. He ruts his hips into her. Pants when her hips rub her mons onto his clothed erection. Seeking friction on herself. He’s drunk with it. If it wasn’t snowing out here- he’d take her. Rip that dress up and spear his cock deep as he drank her down from her neck. Or her thigh-

 Much too tempting a thought to have her deliciously innocent pink pussy right there in his face as he drinks from her femoral artery. He drags her dress up and reveals her wool stockings and garters. Smooths his hands up her cold thighs. Rakes his sharp claws up her legs to feel her shiver.

 He ruts her into that tree. Pins her there with his massive body. Cups her round plump ass. Bashed her into it and now the snow flurries over them, disturbed from the branches above. Clings to his coat in almost the same way she is.

 She drips ruby black from his hungry smug maw. Fangs drip garnet.

 Her nails claw at his hair, rake at his coat shoulders. Her groans and gasps sound too erotic to be ones of pain as he drains her life away. It makes him even harder in his breeches.

 She’s limp in his arms and even still he doesn’t stop. He sags to the floor with her frail body. Spreads her out into the snow, lays her into the thick cushion of it and settles his big hips between her plump thighs. Curls one shapely leg over his hip.

 Not stopping the feast for even a second. Rutting and grinding her as he feeds. Feeling sparks of bliss zip at his veins as he humps into her. Clasping her close. He can feel the pleasure in her too. His thigh rubbing her weak tender wet sex. The wet staining through her skirts and chemise as he cups one of her hips.

 The beast won. The beast always wins.

 He laps and laps and feasts. Biting more and more to get more blood. Ravaging her pale delicious neck. He drinks until she stains the ground all around them. A pool of her drowning sinking into the snow. He is drinking of her til there’s nothing left. She barely twitches. She’s past the point of saving. Her head falls back. she looks so beautiful draped in blood.

 Pulse slows slows and finally slows to a stop.

 He doesn’t care. He’s tasting and tasting his little Dove until there’s nothing left. Not even life. Just death. And blood and snow.

 “Kylo.” Comes a voice he knows well. It’s not hers.

 Draegan’s voice brings him hurtling back to reality. He blinks. 

Him feeding on her was a vision. One placed in his head like a planted seed. 

 He’s actually stood. Stuck still in those trees he’s following her through. Listening to the voice of his last lover strike through his head like the peeling toll of a harsh bell. Bringing him back.

 There’s no mistaking it. That voice hard like needles and smoother than silk and cream. The comfort of it warms him. Why was his maker reaching out to him after all this time? He hasn’t seen him or heard his voice in almost three centuries.

 He swallows, breath puffs out his dry lips.

 His gold eyes watch her walk further away through the trees. Escaping. Fever dream had enchanted him. He had been a hairs breath from reaching out and snatching her skirts, fisting them in his hands.

 One terrifying second away from reaching out and ripping her throat open and killing her.

 He could feel the rasp of her dress on his cold fingers. The scraping cloth of Muslin. He’d almost done it. He’d touched her dress. He nearly gave in-

 He let her slip away instead. Even though he wants to chase, and stalk and fuck and drink. He wants to taste her. Everywhere. The most exquisite creature he’s ever beheld.

 He catches himself on the trees. Between two of them. He can’t quite tell if he’s holding himself back or bracing himself up.

 His palms graze the bark. Tactile rough of it stings his hands. Every fibre of him wants and hungers for her. He swallowed back his greed. He looked beyond the blood lust. He’d been shown what might have been-warned. Warned of what he might do.

 Draegan speaks up to him again. Voice so tender and present.

 “Know this- if you destroy her now, Kylo. If you give in- you will face all your remaining ages on this earth in solitude and misery.” He warns.

 His tone and voice fades on the howling gales like white foggy smoke. Thats Draegan summed up beautifully.

 Pale like snow. Like mysterious fog. Like spiders webs beaded in frost.

 It’s as if he’s here. Towering amongst the trees. That singular form of his. Taller than Kylo. Leaner and slimmer. Deadlier. More deadly than anyone would presume.

 Draegan has the powers of the ancients. The first demon ever created. The first creature ever to hunt for blood. Sired directly by the devil. He could snap his fingers and slaughter an and entire continent if he so wished.

 Quite rightly he’s been known by many monikers in his time. The pale one. The angel of death. White demon. Pallid and sleek. Hair that spills straight like shimmering porcelain silk down his shoulders. His eyes glow like grey dull moons when he feeds.

 His skin like pearl marble. Elegant piercing eyes as blue as kyanite stones. The beautiful cupid’s bow of his handsome upper lip. That angular face, with a chiseled jaw and fine sharp features, so calm and so handsome. Enchantingly handsome. Designed by the very devil himself.

 Kylo lets an exhale cleanse his big chest. After their estrangement and after all this time. And Draegan reaches out for him now. Pulls him back. Why?

 The answer is plain as day before Kylo’s eyes. Scurrying away from him through the trees.

 He blinks after her. The blue blur in the distance scampering off into the woods. She’s still scared. Kylo reels himself in. Focuses on acting on the correct thing to do in this circumstance.

 Iris is still hurrying along when she hears a definite heavy tread close in behind her. She thought they’d lost interest a minute ago. Just her breathing echoing out in the deadened silence. Crunch of snow under her boots. She ducks under low branches that tear at her clothes, she bats away trees that get in her path.

 She loses her footing going down a frosty slope. Bumpy ground slippy. She yelps as she trips. But she doesn’t hit the floor-

 He hears her cry. And it fires his blood. Feels the spiking fear and he knows there’s only one choice.

 What halts her from falling, is a big hand cupping the back of her elbow.

 It slithers across her arm, snaking there and hooking her around to hoist her up. She tries to go faster or twist out the way. But the hand is firmly handling her. He pulls her around.

 She gasps when she sees his face. Big beautiful features full up of stoicism and anger as he looks down at her. He crowds her back into the nearest big tree, practically shoved and pushes her back to it. Nowhere to go. Caught. He doesn’t take his hand off her arm.

 “What in the hell are you doing out here alone, Miss Ashton?” He demands loudly.

 Where he’s cupped her arm to steady her, he doesn’t seem to realise that the front of their bodies are a hairs breadth from touching. He exhales from that big chest and his coat buttons brush her front. Her heart is pounding and it sounds like heaven- being this close.

 “Lord Ren.” She gasps weakly. Stammering her answer through almost chattering teeth. She’s ultimately glad. Although frightened from the sudden shock of his materialising. She calms knowing he’s here. Maybe he scared off the men who were setting upon her?

 He speaks as he brusquely shoves his coat off his shoulders. Eyes biting hard into her like rough cut black gems. His glare almost hurt.

 “You’re going to freeze to death in that shoddy coat. There is a killer somewhere lurking hereabouts. Preying on people who walk alone at night. And why are you out at such a late hour?”

 She opens her mouth to retort but gets cut off. He watches those pink little lips part and he grits his teeth at the erotic nature of it.

 “You could have turned your ankle the way you fell just now. What would become of you then? Stranded here all night in the snow...” He speaks sharp and cross as he steps and hooks his coat around her shoulders. Yanks her close and angrily shoved her arms in the sleeves. Tugs the lapels and brings it secure around her.

 Silly - but she feels like crying. “I was detained at the church. Carrying out errands for the verger. She was left bed bound and her chores fell to me.” Iris explains. Sniffles sadly.

 “And-and- my family cannot afford a nicer coat.” She mumbles. Voice cracking. Feeling the height of awkwardness and foolishness. His coat comes to her boots. Absolutely swathes her in a rich soft wool. Softest and nicest thing she’s ever had on her back. Lined with crimson silk. Smells like sandalwood and pepper cologne and new expensive wool.

 “You cannot afford a new coat? When at The Phillips you were dripping in diamonds and silks...” He comments pithily.

 She shifts. Peers up at him. “New wool coats don’t persuade men into matrimony. Lord Ren. Silk dresses and diamonds, do.” She answers.

 She’s parroting those words. They didn’t sound like her own. He sighs. He’s made her feel ashamed. That was not his intention.

 “Do you know what else persuades men into matrimony?” He asks her gently. She swallows. Shakes her head. Looking at her boots.

 “Not having their intended freeze to death in the snow.” He japes. His wide gentle hand comes up and tips her chin up to make her look at him as he spoke. His skin was frozen. She wants to offer him back his coat. He must be shivering in such a thin shirt and waistcoat.

 “You’re coming with me and I will brook no argument.” He insists. Steps back and offers her his hand.

 She looks up, seeing his handsome expression softly gazing across. The wind ruffles his hair. Specs of snow land on his big shoulders. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen a man more deserving of the title of ‘beautiful’ before.

 Iris timidly steps close and lifts her arm up for him to take it. He does so gently and clasps her close as if she’s precious to him.

 He walks her through the forest, in silence, and back out toward the lane they trod in on. Back past the taverns past the rowdy drunks. Iris sees he is leading her to his coach.

 She was admittedly shy of walking past all the inebriated men once more. Kylo feels how she huddled into his side a little more when they go past. She had his protection.

 And his sharp looks cut any of the low born scum, who’d even so much as dare pronounce one syllable of a comment toward her. Even look at her and Kylo would make sure they never live to see another dawn.

 She cannot help but smile when they come to his coach. Being pulled by a very familiar black beast of a horse. Erland shifts and stomps when she comes close. Neighs and snorts at her. She gladly rubs his head and fusses him. He’s grunting and nickering in happiness. Dewy eyed and in love with her.

 Ears softly arched back as he nuzzles her shoulder. Shifting forwards like a silly huge dog wanting affection. Wanting more of her. More pats. Sniffing her hair with his hot breath. Snuffling for attention like he isn’t a big ridiculous muscled beast of a thing. She laughs at him, cheered by his equine affection.

 Kylo rolls his eyes at the stupid animal. But he can’t help being amused by it too. The effect she has on all creatures is beguiling. He pats his horses corded neck and tells the driver to take them to Westwell. He tips his hat and nods a good evening to her.

 Kylo helps her into the coach. She holds his coat up so she doesn’t trip over again. One of the drunkards across the road at the Three Boars takes the opportunity to call out to Kylo’s back. As he’s turned to see her safe into the coach.

 “Caught a pretty prize have you, Mi’lord?” He mocks. The gin reeking inebriate slurs at him.

 Kylo does nothing but turn his head back to glare at the idiot. Who crumpled back in fear and fell flat on his ass. As if pushed over. Kylo heard the snap of his wrist as he fell down with his weight collapsing on the frail bone. It satisfies him a little.

 He gets himself into the coach and sits opposite Iris. Shuts the door and taps lightly on the roof. The carriage lurches away. Away from cold. Away from danger.

 Iris snuggled a little into the bench. He’d cleverly lined the velvet seat with a wolf pelt he bought from Bavaria. Kept it for bitter nights like these. With howling winds and snow.

 He notices how she keeps itching and rubbing at her hands. He braces far forwards on his seat, getting close again. Their knees knock into each other’s as the coach tumbled and bumped over the uneven road. His cold hands take her gloves at the wrists and he gently, carefully removes them.

 The rush of them slipping off her hands is like an endless thrilling kiss. She loses her breath because of it.

 He notices how her heart changes rhythm. The sound of her thumping heart bumps off the tiny enclosed coach walls.

 He turns her palm over and frowns down at the state of it in the dark. She’s pocked with sore looking splinters and cuts. Skin cracked dry and looking chafed raw.

He sighs angrily. Wordlessly removes her other glove and finds the other hand much the same. Raw where she’s been gripping her basket and scouring her fingers to the bone.

 He never wants any pain or harm to comes to these soft precious hands. He strokes his thumb over the back of her knuckles. Gently leans down and kisses each soft arch of her thumb where the skin is most enflamed. Her breath hitches. His lips tingle on her skin, her cuts feel soothed. Stings less at the touch of his mouth.

 “Why are your hands in such a state?” He seeks. Knowing already he won’t like the answer she gives.

 “I was- tasked with scrubbing the chapel floor. And polishing the pews and sewing prayer cushions...” She tells him in an exhausted list.

 His frown deepens. “Tell me, why has a high born gentleman’s daughter been assigned the tasks of the lowest skivvy?” He asks.

 “To atone for my spending a day out riding, alone, with you.” She offers in a tiny confession.

 Storm clouds brew in his eyes. He hadn’t yet let go of her hands. He gestures to her shredded palms.

 “This is atonement?” He asks her incredulously. Her tears start again. But not because of him. But because she finally has someone she can cry too about how wretched she feels.

 This is the girl who takes all the brunt and the stresses of her family burdens. And now her back is breaking. She’s crumbling away and Kylo can’t bear to see it

 She wipes away her tears, quickly skidding her hands over her cheeks. Taking away the salt. He brings a clean handkerchief out his pocket. The same initials, stitched in red. Bleeding onto the cloth. The edge stitched prettily, dripping thread in herringbone stitch. Even the smallest things he owns are beautiful.

 He shushes her. “It’s alright.” He soothes. Drawing the cloth over her tears. She looks at him thankfully. Her cheeks blooming up red where he rubbed them.

 “I shouldn’t be discussing these things I suppose.” She says.

 “You know I don’t conform to societal rules.” He tells. “I merely wish not to see you suffering in any manner.” He explains.

 “Iris. You are a beast of many great burdens to your family. It pains me to see you put to such discomfort for no good reason at all.” He pledges lowly. Unimpressed. Growling nearly.

 “I had hoped my mother would ease her severity’s on me with the promise of a suitor on the horizon.”

 “Sergeant Hux...” He asks. Trying not to snap his teeth around the name.

 “Yes- how did?” She crumpled her face into a frown.

 “The maids talk. And my Butler, as astute as he likens himself to be, is a glutton for gossip.” He explains. That earns him a laugh from her.

 “Maids know everything.” She agrees wisely. He smiles. Silence looms on them for a second.

 “Erland missed you.” He points out with a grin.

 “That spoiled brat of a horse gets treats galore, yet somehow he still remembers the passing instance of a beautiful young woman feeding him a carrot. Since then, he’s been utterly enchanted.” He promises.

 She smiles again. “He’s a lovely horse. And his master is equally as so.” She compliments. “Plucking foolish young girls out the cold and safely rescuing them.”

 He remarked in his head, how he was seconds away from not even rescuing her at all. Rather more unsavoury instincts nearly took her from him. Draegan senses it. Managed to beat the beast away at the last second. Any longer and it would’ve been too late.

 Kylo could’ve had her up against that tree. Fucking her like an animal in heat as he fed. And Draegan’s influence then, shouting in his head, all that wouldn’t have been enough to tear him away.

 “This young girl in particular is not foolish. And always will be infinitely worth saving.” He tells her seriously.

 She looks down at the handkerchief he gifted her. Much like the other one she woke up with the other morning after her strangely comforting dreams of him. She’s no clue where it came from. Maybe she forgotten she borrowed it off him on their ride?

 She looks at the two stitched letters, emblazoned in crimson like a dripping wound on pale white skin. KR.

 “Kylo.” He explains. Seeing her looking. She peers up at him, smiling.

 “My first name.” He adds.

 She’s never heard a more musical name for a man. She’d heard plenty of Johns, and George’s and Williams. Kingly names after great men of the ages. She likes that his name didn’t stand in worship of anyone. It was entirely its own strong merit. And it was a handsome sounding name.

 “It’s charming.” She tells him.

 “I’m glad you think so.” He offers. Mostly people here find his first name an oddity. He’s grateful she feels differently about it.

 The coach pulling up Westwell’s drive broke their little bubble of happiness. Iris looks with dread at the parlour windows. Knowing her mother would be fuming. One, at the lateness of the hour. Secondly, at her ‘poor choice’ of company.

 She’s proven right when the coach lumbers to a stop. The front door flies open. Simpson is charged out the way by a furious Mrs Ashton. Ready to seethe and spit nails at her eldest. She rears out that house. A striking sharp vision in austere grey. Face like thunder and expression hard as steely granite.

 Kylo opens the coach door for her. Poison is already dripping from the old vipers mouth. Forked tongue slithers out between her fangs.

 “How dare you tarnish all of our reputations staying out like this Iris. Do you have any idea what people will say about this? I shudder to think.” She snaps as her daughter walks up the path to front door.

 “Staying out at night like a harlot.” She turns her eyes to Kylo. “Keeping unsavoury company. Have you forgotten your match to Hux? You better hope you haven’t jeopardised that.”

 Kylo’s teeth are grit. His earlier anger circles back and ploughs full force into his chest. He tears out the coach and storms up to the front door like a dark hell fury. Caroline almost shrinks back behind it. He doesn’t hold back.

 “She wouldn’t be out this time of night if you hadn’t sent her to atone for a supposed societal slight that was not of her doing.” He begins.

 Voice loud and furious. Like astonishing thunder. Iris is almost scared of his rage. But another little half of her is slightly enamoured of it.

 “You know perfectly well there is a killer loose and stalking these parts. And yet you care so little for your own, you’d let her scamper around the countryside running favours and working her fingers to the bone like she’s no better to you than a servant. You are a disgrace. And should be wholly ashamed to call yourself a mother.” He growls.

 “The very same killer had his eyes set on your daughter tonight. Had I not scared him off and escorted her home to your side, who knows, she may now be laying torn to pieces on the road, Mrs Ashton.” He remarks bitterly.

 Iris swallows back her fear. Suddenly very grateful he’s there. Grateful he spared her that horrifying detail. Made sense why he was so enraged when he found her. She was in more danger than she had realised.

 His booming shouts attracted much attention. Posy and Flora are leaning over the upstairs banister in their paper curls and frilly nightgowns. Mouths gaping like guppy fish. Eyes wide with Kylo’s blasting pieces out of their mother with his words that fell harsh like raining bullets. Metal and acid rain pours from his mouth. He lets his hated and anger flow free.

 “You are so keen to better yourself by societal standards that you treat Iris like an ineffectual wager in a gamble and give not one shred of consequence to her well being or happiness. She has splinters and blisters on her hands from her labours. She’s working herself to the bone for this family and you cannot even afford her your time or respect.”

 “You’re a piteous excuse for a human being and even less of one for a mother.” He reiterates. Mother managed to unknot her tongue to speak.

 “If this were a different century. I would have you called out and shot for such words to me.” She seethes up to Kylo. Lips pulled back. Teeth bared. Voice: pure venom and vitriol. Like bile.

 Kylo sneers. “I would remind you of who I am. Mrs Ashton.” He leers.

 She was just a Mrs. He is a Lord. He carries influence and wealth. He could buy this whole sorry estate and turf them off it if he wanted too. He could never do that to Iris. But he would happily see her acerbic mother live in reduced circumstances. See her try and crow her misplaced dignity over him then.

 “You’ve managed to claw your slithering up the ladder of polite society, Madam. But do not dare for one second think I don’t know that you and your ancestors come from trade out of Cheapside. I could send you crawling back to the filthy little rock of a hovel you dragged the family out from under.”

 “Don’t you dare forget who I am and you don’t even want to witness what I am capable of.” He promises nastily.

 “Nor should you forget your daughter has free will and a mind of her own. And is of age. She may associate with anyone she chooses. How long do you imagine she’ll be ruled under your thumb?” He remarks softer. But his words still fall hard like stinging icy hail.

 Mother swallows back her rage. Now it’s replaced, quite rightly, by fear. The woman looked blanched and green.

 Iris has never seen such a splendid sight at this. Kylo crosses to her and kisses her hand kindly. He looks up and nods a goodnight to Posy and Flora. Sends his warmest regards to Mr. Ashton. And then he storms out the house and slams the door so hard, that two paintings fall off the crumbling wallpapered wall. Dust spits onto the floor too.

 Caroline turns to Iris. Tries to compose herself. “You will no longer go anywhere out of my sight. Nor unchaperoned.” She snarls before she strides into the front parlour and slams the door. It echoes violently through the house.

 Posy and Flora erupt into hissing giggles and gossip upstairs. It’s floating down the stairs like smoke.

 Iris sags against the wall by the stairs. Besides the fact she’s practically now under house arrest- despite herself, she can’t stop grinning.

  ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[ruthlessnessisyourdesire-archive]

Anonymous said: 

What are some blogs that you consider part of your rp family?

> Aww anon this is a really cool question. Well I have a particular group of people that are pretty much my always follow. I know people do those follower forever but I haven’t done any before. I get overwhelmed as it is with the amount of people who follow me but some blogs that I will never not be following are: 

@coffee-and-guns​ @theyearningtofly​ Uh hello. Have you seen the babes Lotus and Asuka? Feli has some dolls right here and I stan them to death. They don’t get the interaction or attention they deserve and I will fight until they do. Lotus is 60′s pre-tumblr babe. I’m talking OTP from the onset. He literally will destroy the city of Detroit for her. He will go to hell and back for her. It’s amazing how much this ship has taken over my life but our crazy amount of verses and aus is very telling. We have a ton of plot. Lotixty reigns supreme. And Asuka is my Connor’s waifu as well as Callum’s wife. Best babe.  @diivinerose​ Daniela is not just one beautiful muse. She is so diverse in her three verses that she is pretty much a multi. Curly is my chaos doll but also a shy bean with such great ideas. Our aus are another wild treasure trove. Each verse has something favorite in it. Each rendition I love and DD60 considers Main D his true love. Mad D is the other half of the toxicity known as Corla with my boy Corvus. The ship of Main D and Connor was a surprise in the beginning. I didn’t expect it but I’m glad it happened. Cause I just love her clinical coolness against this supposed cool machine who has more emotion than he should now as a deviant. Best Babe.  @stayhuman-genevieve​ @leaderawakened​ @pathdiverted​ Gen is amazing. Markus is tops. 52 is a babe. OK but also Amanda, Louis, Anarchy the list goes on. All of these muses are amazing and it’s just such a privilege to write with such a wonderfully developed original in Genevieve. She is 60′s weak spot. The ruthless one gave up Cyberlife for Gen. That takes some doing. But they have a ton of shit they went through including a terrorist takeover by that aforementioned Anarchy. We have such great plot ideas and I can’t get enough of them. Main Connor and Markus for my gal too. Main Markus all around. I love him damn it. Genevieve is also my Connor’s waifu. DD60 on the other hand.... just don’t let him alone with Corrupted Gen. OTP status right here. Best Babe. 

@dcwnxism​ @soulxism​​ @lethalxarsenal​ @wintcrcoded​ @resentfuldrcgon​ OK but here the list goes on as well. All of these muses canon and original are just amazing. Iron is the queen of angst. Hands down the best at making me cry. One of these days I’m gonna get her back for all the pain. lol Not only is Nines (now known as Cassius) my canon RK900 but my 60′s exclusive 900 bro. That took some doing let me say. Aiden is 60′s soulmate. Sixden is a ship I never expected but it snuck up on me. I love him. I love Lexi so much. She needs more attention. The one Gavin my Connor will put up with.... as an enemy of course. Oh and WuXian? Caleb loves him already. They will shine bright. Best Babe. 

@creatorofclay​

Did somebody ask for the only Kamski of my life? Well look no further than Kam/Ash/Clay right here not only making me appreciate Elijah but turning me to liking him as a character. I didn’t think much of him when I played the game. But let me tell you waifu right here writes him with such humanity (even when he’s being an ass) that gives such a new perspective. 60 is still on that creator nonsense but it’s in the demon au where he gets to shine with his affection or rather verbal brawls effectively with Elijah. My exclusive Kamski. Don’t @ me. Best Babe. 

@rk800isalive​ @imabittercoffee​

Waifu spotted! My platonic soulmate right here. Eme is someone who gave me a wonderful springboard for Sixty to get his hate on with Connor. That hate took a turn I never expected early on. These two wound up getting over their altercation at the tower. They wound up becoming siblings. The only Connor that 60 considers a brother in his main verse. Let me say the work up for this was some good old work. We wrote so many things with them and still do. I adore their human au. Let’s not forget Sierra. I love this bitch. She’s such a contrast to Caleb but man I’m digging it. Also she is the unofficial goth wife of Corvus but you’ll never hear it from him. Or...will you? thinksmirk Best Babe.

@et-liliium​ @musesdivine​

My baby Cherry has wonderful original dolls and I still miss them. BUT I’m super excited to see Lily on her own blog and my babe slowly getting back into the fandom. Sixty is looking to corrupt that sweet flower but it’s Connor that is absolutely in awe of her. He is in love. Let’s not forget Lily being the good to Corvus’ bad. We got some good shit planned for them. She’s the android Suzanne pretty much ;) Seriously check out these wonderful female muses. They are amazing and deserve all the love in the world. Best Babe.

@robobiitch​

Let me throw some love on Moe right here. Yall wanna see full on enemies with Sixty? Look no further but man we have some good ass plot with assassin au with a little dose of angst. Lust already hates/loves his brother-in-law in the other demon verse. The shenanigans are bound for some good shit. A wonderful Connor and that’s the bottom line cause ruthless sixty said so. Literally such a fun and cool person. I love plotting and just hanging. Best Babe. 

@anderson-residence​

Have you seen these muses? I love every single one and Alley always has something in my inbox that either makes me laugh or worry. lol Sending YK to Corvus is probably not the best idea but I love it. I love chatting about aus, plots and everything in between. Each muse is one I enjoy seeing and I really want to interact more with all of them. Sixty just wants to push Hank’s buttons and probably wants to kill Connor but.... lol Best Babe.

@rxseguided​ @repliicantceo​

A literal bab right here. Jesse, Eli and Elliot are all originals that bring so much more to the plate. If you haven’t seen Jesse in action what are you doing? The evil bitch’s daughter herself? Well then sign me up. Cupcake is a doll and her muses are chef kiss. Got it? Good. Lust loves his angel mom but DD is also in love. ;) Elliot is legit one of Corvus’ official cronies. That’s an honor in the worst way possible. Gotta love that human sk verse with Corvesse. Best Babe.

@triptocained​ @syntheticisolation​

Let me tell you all a story about a fed drenched in heavy rain..... No this isn’t a pun. I swear but Norman is literally a highlight and I’m looking forward to that enemies shit with Sixty. Bringing Jayden into the DBH universe is the best damn thing to happen. Danny brings him to life perfectly. I haven’t seen anybody else do this much justice. Norman is yours alone and deserves all the attention. Also let’s not forget Richard. Look I love this knife happy bastard. 60 still wants to show off Monica but he can wait as long as it takes. Always a pleasure to see on my dash. I’m in love. Best Babe. 

@fearlessandchaotic​

Original babes need more love and Hana his no different. Ely has such development and constant shenanigans I love to see on my dash. It’s always wonderful to see but also Sixty is over the moon for Hana. He hates to admit it but the best thing was coming back to his fiery fox. These two have such chemistry with their ruthless selves they’d sit around and poke fun at people instead of working on a case. Seriously go give the female muses their due love damn it.  Best Babe. 

@vexeddetective​

Vex is a precious babe that I adore the hell out of. Sixvin is here fam. Sixty likes to push Gavin’s buttons. We all know how that shit goes down. I will legit protec this babe. Not Gavin tho. He can fight his own battles and most likely end up wrestling with Sixty. That might end up messy good. Also Lucifer.... whenever he pops up my gal Jade is just: well he’s tall and scary. She probably secretly has a soft spot for him. We’ll have to find out. Please go follow for these two muses. You know you want to bishes. Best Babe. 

@swat-cptn-allen​ @det-gavin-reed​

My canon Allen right here. There is no one else who puts this much love into this muse. Webby is a literal precious bean. Sixty loves and hates Joseph. DD is definitely sof for him. Let that sof boy show his dom ;) I love the way Allen is given more development and his own unique persona from the little we see in game. I never imagined liking this character that much but Webby certainly has made me a fan of him. Please go give my canon Allen some love! Best Babe. 

@ambitiouslyruthless​ @fragmented-personage​

Goov is a babe. I have followed them for a while now and Vius was always a unique bab to see on my dash. Sixty still wants to pounce on him. Results may vary into ruthless territory BUT let him love on this original muse. He deserves more attention and love. Let him be that bastard to Gavin. Such a unique portrayal of Gavin that is totally one of my faves to see. I’m excited for the werewolf/vamp thread. Also can’t wait to see what happens with them in their main verses. Best Babe. 

@thirum-stained​

Always a delight on my dash and one of the earliest people to give my blog here a chance. Luna is a doll who has so many amazing muses and not just in the DBH fandom. Vanessa is Sixty’s waifu. She snuck up on him by surprise. He never imagined to fall in love but he sure did here. I adore all of the muses you tackle. I want to interact more with all of them. They’re forever follows on my dash for a reason. Best Babe. 

@theveryfirst​

This is my one and only Chloe. My literal canon babe. No one else compares and Heather is an all around sweetheart with amazing ideas. The plotting is always something I look forward to as well as just being able to chat. One of the earliest to follow me and still going strong on that forever follow list. Sixty adores Chloe. He feels for her more than he’d ever realize. Until he does. Corvus is still waiting to gets his hands on this angelic android. Best Babe.

> There are so many of you who follow that are so talented. It’s near impossible to give love to you all but there are some new babes who just followed that I’m looking forward to writing with. <3