#wooden bow ties

[jackandmiles]

JackandMiles offers an extensive collection of neckties, designed to elevate any wardrobe with style and sophistication. Featuring a wide range of patterns, colors, and textures, each tie is crafted with precision and care. Perfect for every occasion, from formal events to casual outings, our neckties add the finishing touch.

[fayes-fics]

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers. 

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer. 

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered. 

“Are you sure?” 

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him. 

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict. 

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room. 

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby. 

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you. 

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?” 

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later. 

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse. 

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank. 

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours.  “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome. 

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot. 

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is. 

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body. 

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.  

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area. 

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.”  His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise. 

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you. 

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time. 

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly. 

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does. 

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone. 

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage. 

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm. 

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world. 

Which to you both, they are.

Join my taglist HERE

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[tsuutarr]

(Yandere Otome Isekai Harem [commoner MLs] x Reader)

"Thrust into an unfamiliar world, you have to navigate your role as the Heir to the Arrington Estate. Luckily for you, you have allies that are eager to help you. Maybe a little too eager, in fact."

The Arrington Estate [Chapter 1]

When you wake up, the first thing you want to do is throw up. You feel so deathly ill that you’re on the cusp of feeling like you’re not alive at all. But you’re in so much pain that you know you have to be alive – there’s no other way your nerves would be filled with what feels like molten lava.

“Breathe.” A voice, gentle and low, soothes from beside you. A warm hand settles itself on your back and you’re not even sure how you managed to register it, but you do. “Drink.”

You’re not fully conscious of how the liquid pours down your throat, but you soon find your eyes fluttering shut. Your nerves settle down as you’re lulled into a peaceful rest.

Time is foreign to you when you wake up. Your body still feels heavy, but it doesn’t hurt like it did prior. Processing things is difficult, your mind being bogged down with thoughts that have no end. All you can do is stare at the ceiling made of ornate golden patterns. Gorgeous, but…

It isn’t familiar to you.

Panic should be shooting through your spine, but there’s a feeling of… emptiness that seems to sink into your heart, making the situation seem dull rather than frightening.

“Are you awake?”

You didn’t even realize that there is someone beside you – beside the bed you’re in. Slowly, you turn your head to see a man sitting poised and proper on a wooden chair. His long chestnut colored hair is tied in a neat ponytail, a pleasant smile on his face. But what really draws your attention are his eyes – golden, almost.

“It appears that your complexion has returned. That is a relief,” he says, but you can’t really discern the emotion on his face.

“Who are you?” The words come out of your mouth before you’ve even processed them inside your brain. 

There’s something eerie about the way his expression shifts – it doesn’t shift too noticeably, but there’s a hint of pensiveness that makes you nervous.

“My, I suppose your illness has rendered your memory quite poor. That is unfortunate,” he murmurs, but you’re not entirely sure if he means it or not. It’s a weird contrast – he speaks so kindly, so gently, that he seems so harmless. But he is a stranger to you. You don’t know him – if you can trust him. 

Perhaps he notices the wariness on your face, but he relaxes his body somewhat, offering you a friendlier smile as he introduces himself, “My name is Geoffry Cullen. I am your butler.”

“B… Butler? Mine?” you ask, your brain fog slowly receding. Everything about this situation is so foreign to you, from the ornate ceiling to the luxurious bed you’re on to the man who claims he serves you.

You’re pretty sure this isn’t the life you remember.

“Yes, yours.”

“Who am I, then?” you ask, trying to piece together something – anything that can give you a hint.

“Why, you’re the heir to the Arrington Estate,” he states as if it is the most obvious fact in the world. And perhaps it is the most obvious fact to everyone but you.

You can’t help but doubt the validity of this “fact” that’s been told to you because, while you don’t remember much, you do remember something:

You are, in fact, not the heir to the Arrington Estate.

Perhaps your expression gives away your entire dilemma, because Geoffrey offers you a sympathetic smile. It’s the kindest he’s looked so far.

“You must be hungry. Let me bring you your meal.” He stands up gracefully, adjusting his suit jacket as he does so. “In the meantime, please get some more rest.”

He bows, before exiting the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You’re still utterly lost and confused, the uncertainty of your own situation making you nervous.

Despite your legs still feeling wobbly, you force yourself to rise. Stumbling, you make your way to the mirror. It’s probably the fanciest mirror you’ve ever seen – it almost looks like a jewelry box. It’s so fancy that you’re undoubtedly certain that you aren’t home. There’s no way you could ever afford a mirror of this quality.

What’s odd, though, is that you actually see yourself in the reflection. A part of you wondered if you’d possess another body or something of that sort, but… you look identical to how you remember looking. But you shouldn’t look like yourself, right? After all, the butler – Geoffrey – had claimed that you are the heir to the Arrington Estate, which you aren’t.

Now that you’ve been allowed to wake up fully without the pain from prior, things are slowly coming back to you. You recall your home, your friends, your family; and it’s all just so normal compared to the grand room you’ve found yourself in. This room feels too fantastical to be real.

In fact, it reminds you of the stories you had read about reincarnation and transmigration back in your world. Everything, from your confusion to the room to the butler, seems like the hallmarks of one of the transmigration or reincarnation stories you had read back then. Only… you’re not certain what story you’re in. Geoffrey as a character is unfamiliar to you. The Arrington Estate as a place is unfamiliar to you.

Furthermore…

Why do you still look like yourself? 

You can’t wrap your head around it. Sure, some people retained their appearance when they got teleported into another world, but they usually had a role that did not already exist. These people are the “hero” that got called to help save the world, so it makes sense that they retained their appearance.

But it doesn’t make sense for you. You’re considered the Heir to the Arrington Estate, meaning that you must’ve taken over the role of someone who already exists. And yet you still look like yourself.

You groan, feeling tired. You feel lost and confused. There are too many things you don’t understand – too many variables. 

It’s all too much for you.

Slowly, you trudge back to your bed, settling yourself under the plush covers. You’re pretty sure that the blanket itself is enough to pay your rent for a year. You don’t even want to think about how much the pillows, the bed, the entire room may cost. You’re certain that it’s more money than you would’ve been able to see in ten lifetimes, at least.

But now you’re able to see all this money – it’s yours, technically.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. It makes your heart beat loudly inside your brain, making your ears ring as you stare up at the ornate ceiling. Somehow, looking at the ceiling makes the buzz in your brain quiet. Your eyes follow the curves and edges highlighted in gold. Your eyes follow the ceiling’s patterns again and again and again until you lull your tired body into a dreamless slumber.

Geoffrey returns to your room a bit later, only to see you slumbering peacefully. He places your meal down on your bedside table, before taking a seat on the wooden chair by your bedside. Quietly, he watches as your chest rises and falls softly, breathing even in your sleep. 

Yes, you must’ve been quite tired, that much is certain. It’s not easy to come back from death, after all. And you should be dead, yet somehow aren’t.

“Curious, isn’t it?” he murmurs, softly, his gaze lingering on your face for any clues.

Yes, it’s quite curious. You should be dead. He was certain that you wouldn’t be able to recover.

Oh, yes, he was quite certain. 

After all, he’s the one that killed you.

And yet, here you are.

[maybanksbaby]

warnings: none really

summary: jj really loves his new boat and shows it off to his girlfriend

a/n: he looked so cute in the comercial, i love him so much. please let him be happy this season 🙏🙏

⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

JJ Maybank was practically vibrating with excitement as he waited on the dock, a wide grin plastered across his face. His brand-new—well, new to him—boat was tied up right behind him, and he couldn’t wait to show it off to her. His pretty girlfriend and number one fan, the one who made everything in his life feel like it was coated in sugar and wrapped in a pink bow.

The sound of soft footsteps on the weathered wooden planks jolted him from his thoughts, and he whipped around to see his girlfriend, the absolute light of his life, making her way toward him. She looked as cute as ever, dressed in one of those sweet knitted tops she always wore, paired with a short skirt that twirled with each step. Her hair was bouncing with the sea breeze, and she had her usual pink gloss that smelled like strawberries, making him weak in the knees before she even said a word.

"J!" she called out, her voice making his already sky-high excitement bubble over.

Before she could even finish her next breath, JJ was already running toward her, grabbing her hand and practically dragging her down the dock. "You’re here, you’re here, you’re here! Okay, close your eyes!"

She blinked, giggling at his enthusiasm. "JJ, what are you—JJ!” she squealed, letting out an adorable little laugh when his hands covered her eyes from behind, her body relaxing into his. “What are you doing?”

“You trust me, right?”

“I do, yeah…”

“Then close your eyes,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, which instantly sent her into a new fit of giggles.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping down. “Can i at least get a hint of what it is?”

“Nope! Eyes closed, no peeking! This is a surprise!” He placed his other hand over her eyes too for extra insurance.

She let out a playful sigh but complied, trusting him as he eagerly led her down the last stretch of the dock. “Okay, okay! I’m closing them!”

JJ could barely contain himself as he guided her close to the boat, careful not to let her trip. “Alright… three… two… one—ta-da!” He whipped his hands away from her eyes and bounced on his heels as she finally saw it.

The messy panting, that if you narrowed your eyes read 'MAYBANK'S' on the right side, didn't let much to the imagination. Now, she understood.

Her eyes widened, and she let out a surprised gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh my gosh, JJ! Is–Woah. Is this… this boat is yours?"

“Yup!” he said, puffing out his chest and throwing his hands up proudly.

Her gaze swept over the boat—a charming, beat-up thing, but it was perfect for JJ. The paint was chipped, and the motor looked like it had seen better days, but it had a certain rugged charm, just like him. “JJ, it’s—”

“Beautiful? Amazing? The best thing you’ve ever seen?” He interrupted, unable to contain his excitement.

She giggles, nodding along. “Yeah! How did you even manage this? We're... literally broke right now.”

JJ let out a short awkward chuckle, scratching his wrinkled eyebrows, “Uh, well... that's not really important. What is important though, is that she's all mine–Ours! It's not really new but, with a couple of technical adjustments, a little more of my girl's style right here and—boom! Meet 'The Maybank!”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes twinkling, before bursting into giggles. “The Maybank?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a work in progress, name-wise” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “But who cares about the name? Check this out! Come on, come on!" He grabbed her hand again and practically sprinted to the back of the boat, pulling her along with him like an overexcited puppy.

“JJ!” she laughed, trying to keep up with his energy.

“Look at this beauty of a motor!” he exclaimed, leaning over to pat the engine like it was some prized race car. “She purrs like a kitten! Well, kinda more like a sick kitten, but once I fix her up—purring.”

She smiled warmly, her heart swelling at how proud and happy he looked. JJ had been through so much, more than most people could handle, and yet here he was, smiling like a little kid on Christmas morning, showing her the boat he’d worked so hard to get. “A sick kitten? Oh, it's... Yeah, probably fixable. Without any more costs...”

“Oh, it is, princess!” JJ said, completely missing the uneasy tone. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet! Come here!”

He tugged her to the front of the boat, showing off the seats with grand gestures, talking a mile a minute. “These seats? Top-tier comfort. I mean, okay, there’s a rip or two, but it’s vintage, y’know? Character! Like–Like you say. Aesthetic.... And this right here—” He pointed to the tiny built-in cooler. “Boom! Cooler for all our drinks. You, me, the Pogues? Ice-cold sodas, beers, whatever we want. Fancy, huh?”

“Very fancy,” she giggled, nodding along.

“And wait, wait, there’s more!” He led her to the very front of the boat, practically skipping at this point. “See this space? Perfect for you to lay out and tan while I drive. Like a little sunbathing queen. Plus, I can park us in all the secret spots around OBX.”

She couldn’t stop laughing at how eager he was, and her heart swelled as she watched him ramble on. “You’re really proud of this, huh?”

He stopped mid-gesture and turned to her, his grin softening for a moment. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not much, but it’s mine. I can finally take you out on adventures, like we always talked about.”

Her heart melted at his words, and she reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “JJ, it’s perfect. I love it. I’m so proud of you.”

He leaned into her touch, his heart thudding in his chest. But before the moment could get too soft, his energy snapped back, and he grabbed her hand again. “Come on, I haven’t shown you the captain’s seat yet!”

He practically dragged her over to the helm, hopping into the driver’s seat and patting the spot next to him like an excited puppy. “Check it out! You wanna drive? You totally gotta drive.”

She shook her head, laughing again, but took a seat next to him, watching as he fiddled with the controls like a seasoned pro. “I don’t think I’m ready to drive a boat just yet, JJ. Can't even drive the HMS Pogue”

“Pfft, you’ve got me! I’m a captain now, baby. I’ll teach you everything. Plus, there’s not much to it—steering, not hitting rocks, easy peasy. You got it.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe next time, Captain Maybank.”

“Next time, I’ll hold you to that,” he smirked, turning to plant a quick kiss on her forehead.

With one swift movement, JJ started up the boat, and they pulled away from the dock, the boat chugging forward at a steady pace. The wind whipped through her hair, and JJ was practically glowing beside her, his smile as wide as the ocean they were heading toward.

“See? Easy!” JJ exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear as they coasted along the water. “This is just the start. I’m gonna take you everywhere, baby—secret beaches, hidden coves, the works. We’ll go places no one else even knows about. And just then, we'll be traveling all over the world. Like pirates”

She watched him, her heart practically melting as he rambled on, his energy so infectious that it made her feel like they were the only two people in the world. His joy was her joy, and she couldn’t help but beam at how proud and excited he was. “JJ, this is… amazing.”

He shot her a playful smirk. “I'm telling you, just wait until I fix the motor. Then we’ll be flying across the water, like those fancy Kooky boats. But better.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as the boat slowed to a gentle stop in the middle of the water, the sound of the engine fading away to leave just the soft lapping of the waves. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a beautiful mix of orange, pink, and purple. It was serene, and perfect.

As they glided over the water, JJ kept up his constant narration, pointing out every little thing about the boat, from the condition of the steering wheel to a small patch he’d made on the deck with duct tape. She soaked it all in, giggling at his over-the-top enthusiasm, and her heart swelled at how happy and free he seemed.

After a while, JJ slowed the boat to a stop in a quiet, serene spot with a perfect view of the setting sun. The water around them was calm, reflecting the orange and pink hues of the sky.

“And here we are,” JJ announced, throwing his arm over her shoulders as if he’d just revealed a million-dollar mansion. “Not bad for a first trip, huh?”

She snuggled into his side, her fingers tracing little patterns on his arm. “Not bad at all. I think I could get used to this.”

JJ grinned, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “You'll see, pretty girl. ”

She laughed, tipping her head up to kiss him on the cheek. “I can’t wait, Captain Maybank.”

JJ wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close as they watched the sunset together. His excitement from earlier had finally settled into a comfortable warmth, and for the first time in a while, he felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. He places his chin on his shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“Uh-oh,” she teased, gentely tilting her head go look at him. “That’s never good.”

“Hey!” he laughed, then shook his head. “Nah, but seriously. You, know, the name of the boat? ‘The Maybank's’?" The way he pronounced it, slowly and with a twich of his eyebrows, managed to get a giggle from her. "It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

"Mhm, yeah. Really... characterized"

His grin softened into something a little more serious but no less JJ—playful yet full of warmth. He stepped closer, the arms around her waist gentely tighting. “Well, I was thinking… It’s perfect for when we get married too, you know? You’re gonna be a Maybank one day. Well, if you want. You can keep your last name though, not sure how it all works up these days, but... I wouldn't mind to share, you know? Just saying”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her cheeks flush as his words settled in. Instead of being flustered, she melted into him, her smile only growing wider, softer, and so full of love. “No–I... You really think so?” she whispered, gazing up at him with that sweet, adoring look she saved just for him.

Her breath caught, the realization washing over her in a wave of warmth. They both knew it, had known it for a while now. The thought of marrying JJ felt like the most natural thing in the world, like it was already written in the stars.

“Of course! You’re my girl,” he said, his voice steady, almost serious, as if he was laying down the law. “When we get married, it’s going to be you and me, officially. Just picture it: ‘Captain and Mrs. Maybank’—how cool is that?”

A dreamy smile spread across her face, and she bit her lip, feeling giddy at the thought. “Mhm, sounds amazing, Jayj. Like a dream.”

His eyes lit up, and he pulled her closer, their bodies practically melting into one another. “See? It’s meant to be. I’ll show you the ropes on this boat, and then we can plan our future adventures as a married couple. Our honeymoon even” He flashed that goofy grin that always made her heart race. “You’ll make the best wife ever.”

Her cheeks flushed at the sincerity in his words, and she felt her heart swell with love. “I would love to be your wife, Mr. Maybank,” she said earnestly, her voice a soft melody. “I can’t imagine anything better.”

“Mhm. You, me, and this boat—just sailing off into the sunset. It’s perfect.” He pointed to the sea vaguely, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And, hey, we can even practice the whole captain and first mate thing. We'll be the king and queen of these waters”

Her heart is about go explode in her chest, her eyes hurting from how much love they're holding while looking at him.

“Do you think we can take it out soon?” she asked, turning around in his arms to be face to face with him.

“Oh, absolutely. I already imagine us cruising around the island, just the two of us,” he said, a dreamy look crossing his face. “And then, in a few years, we’ll be out here with our kids, teaching them how to sail. It’ll be perfect.”

Her heart swelled at the thought, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. “I can’t wait for that, JJ. You make everything sound so fun and exciting.”

“Because it is! Especially with you!” He grinned down at her, and she could see the love and enthusiasm shining in his eyes. “You and me, forever, right?”

“Forever,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, but filled with all the certainty in the world. As they stood there together, she knew without a doubt that one day, they’d be sailing through life as Mr. and Mrs. Maybank, and nothing could be more perfect than that.

With her by his side and the open water ahead of them, JJ Maybank couldn’t imagine life getting any better.

[bunnwich]

Gifts (Leona Kingscholar)🧡

Leona muses on the gift you leave him for Valentine's Day. (Based on the official merch twst 2024 Valentine gift messages)

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Yuu/MC!Reader (Can be framed as platonic or romantic)

Words: 936 words, Leona's POV

Notes: Wanted to challenge myself to do something short and sweet in a few hours and was inspired to improve upon yet another dry official Leona gift message response.

--

Gifts.

They came easy over the years, like plucking an oversweet tart from a dessert tray. He was disliked, feared even, but lucky for him easy on the eyes — and still a prince to occasionally bow and scrape to. So many folks over the years were eager to oblige him and follow the traditions of the Sunset Savanna. Idolize the royals; the divine oligarchy. He was simply “lucky” enough to be born under that umbrella. That’s all.

Those gifts and attention fed him for a while, but if he was being honest, some part of him always remained hungry. 

After all, shiny trinkets were nothing like a dusty old book or the heady cedar smell of a well-used chess set. What was the value of pretty baubles to sit on shelves of his empty room or clothes that cost more than some folks' houses?

Pillars of sand.

Was it so damn pathetic and vapid to want something not given by his family's twisted obligations or plucked from the hands of a quivering servant?  No games. No more ulterior motives. 

Wishful thinking, maybe or a childish habit that he had dumped in the trash, like all those boxes of sweets that long went bitter on his tongue.

He reminded himself that others had suffered much worse than not being doted on in their preferred way. However, this reality failed to take away his distaste for each and every gift. Tch. How many times would he have to snuff out that damn sentimentality that he had been so “lucky” to inherit?

Leona’s eyes fell upon the small bottle vial in his palm and the wooden lion tag attached, tied carefully around the bottle. It had been nestled on the corner of his bed when he returned from Spelldrive practice this morning, all nice and wrapped in shiny paper.

His mouth crinkled and a small sound rumbled from his chest without his permission. Relief of some kind maybe. It had been one of the first gifts he received that was not for his birthday or from his family.

A friendly gesture or…somethin’ more insidious?

To think, someone who came to this world with nothin’ goin’ outta their way to get him somethin’...special.

But, “friends” weren’t something he kept. Instead, he had a collection of starry-eyed froshes, classmates, rivals, those few worthy of his respect. And then there was Ruggie of course but, would he be around if not for the understanding they had come to? Best not to dwell on it now.

Leona chuckled watching the amber liquid swish around the curved glass like liquid gold. How bold of them to choose a scent for him of all things. Beastfolk were sensitive to ‘em and he especially. But, they had been the brash and precocious type ever since they came to this school. Always skipping steps to pull off an advanced move.

Regardless of how big of a crowd he’d ever have cheerin’ at one of his games or how many brilliant trinkets he’d be gifted, nothing beat his chosen audience of one. Who, even after seeing firsthand all the grimy parts of him...still havin’ the audacity to stick around so long.

His eyes fell over to the chessboard at the corner of his desk. Brave little creature indeed, and brimming with Savanaclaw tenacity. A little pawn that made it to the other side of the board, ready to be crowned.

No way they knew the implication of such a small gesture, how important scents were to beastfolk, not that he was one for tradition, of course. Still, He brought the bottle to his nose for the umpteenth time as he leaned forward on his elbows. In an odd way, it reminded him of the gardens back at home when it rained, all those lonely hours pouring over books and chess games. 

Alone but…if he concreted enough, he was able to catch a whiff of the oil where their fingers touched the glass. Yes, in their note they had mentioned that this scent reminded them of him, but to his nose it was missing something. A key complementing note. A missing piece. 

The scent of a little herbivore turned into a formidable beast that he couldn’t get out of his head.

His brow furrowed as he glanced over at the small pile of notes, discarded by his boots. Then he tried again this time with more wit.

"Hey– Allow me to thank you for your generous gift. Heh. I can’t believe you actually picked out a halfway-decent fragrance. I might actually keep this. I thought about sending you something in return if the mood struck me, but this thank you note should do the job just fine, right?"

Leona kept it short and sweet. He knew they two were past formalities, but it was amusing to still play the game a little. He had been waiting for them to approach him in such a bold way, and finally, he had been rewarded for his saintly patience. Still, he wasn’t ready to show his hand yet, well-

He allowed sentimentality to win this time and flipped over the note, scrawling a little something extra for their eyes only. 

“P.S. If you were gonna treat your lion so nice…the least ya could do is make good on such bold intentions and show him some proper attention.”

He chuckled again as he let the paper slip from his fingers, finally satisfied with what he had come up with. Honestly, it didn't matter much what he wrote. Maybe he was becoming sentimental in his “old” age but he knew...that they would always find each other in the middle.

It was their move again.

Besides, it was only fair that he repay them properly. Etiquette and all that.

[amarmoria]

Summer Heat

Kook!Reader

Rafe Cameron x Reader or JJ Maybank x Reader?

Rafe is with Sofia here, JJ swoops in and saves you, though I don't think Rafe really liked that.

Wc: 3.2k

Notes: 'finish your wips! finish your wips! Finish your wips!' I will whip you, JK, ofc I will, but I js had to write these two ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄

(set somewhere in s4)

You're watching them.

Rafe and Sofia. Dancing around each other with no care in the world for who knows how long.

The drink you've been nursing has long been warm in your hand when you hear them laughing, so sweet so bitter, if not the crowd around you, you would've been vomiting your stomach out.

Another gurgle in your stomach sends you sitting down on one of the wooden high chairs, the legs slightly sinking into the sand as you place your long forgotten drink on the counter.

You didn't even have the appetite to drink anything, let alone party, why'd you even come here? Your jaw flexes as another wave of nausea hits you, you should've stopped 7 cups ago. You're not normally a drinker, in all senses you hate seeing people drunk of their asses, you're always the sober sister when it comes to these parties, only drinking a cup or two to loosen up, never drunk though, not like this.

Despite the booming speakers you can still hear them, like they're just right behind you, the thought sends you shivering, you wanted to puke, so bad, not sure if it's because of the alcohol or the other, maybe both, you're not sure.

Then a guy comes beside you, recklessly stumbling to sit on the chair, you roll your eyes, oh good, a pogue.

You've never been the one to pay attention to the ongoing war between the kooks and pogues, you're all just people living on an island, even though your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, has always wanted to show them who's the boss, the one on top, it sounded childish, how a grown man, not really, like him would choose to have a beef with teens not less than one or two years younger than him, he seemed almost sure he can drive them off the island like insects.

Your thoughts were stolen away when the guy beside you bumps your shoulder, maybe from trying to adjust the chair or whatever.

"Shit sssorry— my bad, man" he chuckles as he downs a shot.

"It's fine-" you pause when you finally glance at him.

"Mhm? Got you speechless huh?"

"Aren't you—?"

"Maybanks' son, yeah, uh-huh, been there, done that," he waves you off. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Just a little shocked,"

"Shocked. Yeah, a very common reaction in seeing a pogue in a kook party."

"No I—!"

"Tis fiine, got nothin' to worry 'bout, sweetheart" you cringe at the name, if not the forced accent he just did.

"Hit a nerve huh?"

"N-no.."

"Yeahhhh, def did."

"Are you drunk?"

"Nahh, just tipsy, nothin' compared to me in a pogue party."

"Pogue party?" Your eyebrows furrow. "Yeah, like a party on our turf of the island? You're not that clueless are you kook?"

Your face heats up. "I-I'm not! It's just that, a party is a party no matter where it is, so might as well say that this party is boring compared to yours."

"Hahhh, you're very funnyy for a koook"

"And you're pretty rude for a pogue."

"Huh, didn't you say a party is a party no matter where it is?"

"I'm talking about the party, not you."

"Sooo, serious kook, you should loooosen upp firsss"

"Ugh, I'm too drunk for this." You rolled your eyes and turned around, making your back face him.

A few seconds passed and he was suspiciously quiet, your attention going back to the still dancing couple at the center.

"Sayyy, we get outta heree" you yelp as he flicks your head. "W-wha, I don't even know you."

"JJ Maybank at your service" he bows, pretending to put on a top hat and fixing his imaginary mustache.

You couldn't stop the chuckle that escapes you.

"Now you know me, so should we dip or what?"

"Still no, I don't go with strangers, especially at night."

"You kill joy doucheee" you laugh as he almost tips over. "Careful there."

"Sir yes sir!"

You laugh again. "You're very funny for a pogue"

He joins you laughing, then he burps abruptly and laughs again. "Well, you're not so bad yourself kook"

"What do you say huh? Ditch this thing-a-ma-bob of a party for a real one?"

"Hm, let me think" if you were any sober you would've quickly turned him down and safely went home, but the alcohol in your system was wurly burly, and it maybe, just maybe, had a play at your decision.

"Fine—"

"Yes!" He animatedly made a goofy jump, he paused when his hand was about to reach for yours, quickly taking it back like you've burned him.

"Follow me, mademoiselle!"

You chuckle as he jogged just further in front of you. You unknowingly followed him through the busy crowd, slightly get annoyed when the others curse at him quietly, angry that a pogue was here, but he didn't seem to mind, almost like he was used to it.

Your mood turns slightly sour, you can't even take a little criticism, a little curse at you would send you spiraling and weepy, you didn't like it when people didn't like you, so you can't imagine what he's even feeling right now, he didn't seem bothered by it, but it bothered you.

"Almost theeere," he glances back at you, the booming speakers awhile ago was fading in the background, your mind long distracted away from the couple.

Then JJ slows down, matching your pace as the music beats in the background, the waves replacing the booming speakers.

"So this is your party huh?"

"Nahh or maybe yeahhh, maybe I'm here to abduct you and give you to the aliens, or maybe here to lure you in the water and let the mermaids eat you,"

"First of all it's the sirens that lure you," you hear him hum, but you don't expect him listening, the way his eyes drift on the random things that pass by tells you he's high as a bird, only humming when you end your sentences.

"But you might be the one who wants to lure me out here, then kill me for the pure pleasure of whatsoever."

He chuckles, "Maybe I did, or maybeeee I might just be here to ask for ransom,"

"Hm, let's see here," you whisper, but just loud enough so that he can hear, he arches an eyebrow, putting his hands on the back of his head.

"No, please don't kill me, Mr. Maybank! I wanna be in the sequel!" You clasp your hands together, trying to contain your laugh, but a few seconds pass and he doesn't make a noise. Great, you've scared him off.

You sighed and you were about to take off when you heard him wheezing, your eyebrows furrowed and your face quickly heats up, the embarrassment creeping in.

"What's so funny?"

"You— w-what did you—" he kneels on the sand as he tries to breathe, but the laughing easily comes back to him. "I'm— your—"

"I'm what!" You stomp your foot.

His fit doesn't stop for a long time until he was on the floor, on his back, trying to get oxygen back in his body while you were there angrily crossing your arms.

"There, now can you answer me more properly?"

He gives you a boyish smirk, sitting up and shaking the sand off his hair.

"Dork." Your eyes snapped back to his. "W-what did you just call me?"

"I said you dork!" You didn't have time to react when he tackles you to the ground, right where the ocean touches the sand, so now your clothes are half wet half dry.

"Hey! No fair!" Okay so now you're mad, you didn't have extra clothes brought because you weren't planning to swim anyways.

"I'm wet now!" JJ snorted when you stood up, flicking the heavy sand off you. "What?!"

"Dude did you not hear yourself?"

"JJ I don't care! My clothes are wet, and it's cold! And I have nothing to change into!" You stomped on the water, briefly splashing JJ but he didn't mind.

"Woah, princess getting worked up," he raises his arms up, whistling.

"I'm serious, JJ!"

"Chill man, you're fine, its gonna dry later anyways," he speaks as if this was nothing to him, what if you get sick? The wet top and cold air blowing on your back will kill you.

You were somewhat sober now, not that drunk compared from earlier, and that was thanks to JJ's wake up call.

"It's not that big of a deal anyways— woah—"

You tried to tackle him further into the water, but he was big and heavy, and more stronger than you so all your might was only half of his, only throwing him off the ground where there was mo water than could catch him.

"Ha! See that! That's what you get!" You laugh, holding on to your stomach, you ignore the shiver than ran through you when another cold breeze came by.

You paused when you hear no JJ, he was crouched on the floor, his forehead leaning against the sand as he clutches his stomach, his face contorted into a painful one, letting out a pained groan.

"..JJ?"

"Agh— fuck—"

"Oh my go— JJ are you alright?" You hurriedly kneeled beside him, placing your hand on his back as he continued to crouch on the sand.

"I- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, JJ, I'm— w-where does it hurt? Oh gosh, JJ answer me please? Did I hit you too hard? JJ—"

You pause when he wheezes, you thought he'd hurt himself even more but he lets out a series of out of breath laughs, wheezing and punching the sand, he lied on his back once more, clutching his stomach not from pain, but from laughing.

"Wha.. JJ are you alright..?" You frown. "I-I'm— sssorrry but—"

"JJ what're you—"

"Did you actually— believe that shi—" he fell into a coma of laughter once again, kept on hitting the sand below him as you stood up with an irritated look.

"JJ, I'm actually tired, and too drunk of your bull, so if you want to keep dying here, I may as well let you."

You angrily turned around and stomped away from the twitching man. Just because you let him talk to you without getting called pogue slurs doesn't mean he can insult you like this, you won't let him.

"W-wait— wait up, stop—" he stood up staggering, calling out your name, but your ego was hurt, and you wouldn't let it past him.

"Wait— I'm sorry—" you didn't have time to react when a body hugs you from behind and throws the both of you into the water completely, you hurriedly sat up from the ambush and angrily looked around, you spot JJ, who was also drenched with you, already sat up and looking at you.

"Why did you—"

"I told you to wait up"

"I don't care If—"

“Alright chill, chill, my fault my fault, But you have to admit, that was def funny.”

You paused, trying to stop the snort out of coming your mouth. THE JJ Maybank apologized? How in the world did you—?

JJ flinched when you burst out laughing, you try to muffle it but you just couldn't stop laughing, a few seconds of you painfully wheezing then JJ bursted out laughing too, the two of you splashing around the water like children and laughing so loud you didn't even know you had in you.

"JJ Maybank—!" You inhale, wheezing it out once again. "Yeah?"

"Apologizing?!"

"Huh, why not?"

"Since the flip when?!"

"The flip?!—" that's when he bursts out laughing even more. "Now where'd you get that?"

"Wdym?!"

You splash him with water, the tides were getting bigger, and def stronger the more both of you stayed in it, he was about to splash you back when a grip on your arm pulled you up, you stumble in front of the very last person you wanted to see.

"What the fuck do you think your doing?"

You thought he was talking to you, but his eyes were trained on the soaked blond still in the water.

"No, what the fuck are you doin' here?" Now JJ was the angry one, both of them were, you meekly turned to glance at the blond behind you, silently begging him to just pull back and let everything slide on, but his attention was solely on the other blond in front of you.

"Last time I remembered, this was a no pogue zone, dipshit."

"Yeah, well I didn't see no sign, Cameron, so if you can just fuck off and leave us alone" he was standing now, just right behind you, careful on not getting too close, you might even think he was careful on not getting you wet, but technically you already were soaked in salt water.

"Since when does a fucking pogue order me around huh?" You can tell Rafe was trying to rile him up, and JJ seemed to be riled up enough.

"Since the fuck now— " you yelp as JJ pushes you aside, although he had his hand on your arm, you still trip on your feet, Rafe's hand caught your waist and pulling you up, you didn't have anytime to reload before they started punching eachother.

You had to stop them, before they kill each other again, you've always been there for each one of their party fights, the other always happy to oblige with the wishes of the opposite, but you were never the one to get involved, you were always hiding, taking your phone out just in case something happens, but this time it was just you, and the two warmongers.

That is until you hear the crowd hyping them up, then you see Sofia, uselessly standing right behind Rafe and yelling at them to stop.

No they won't stop the fuck? Hasn't she even seen them whenever they fight? No, you suppose not, she's busy flirting and frolicking around the bar and Rafe.

But what can you even do to stop them though? At least Sofia was trying, you were only standing frozen, and here you were calling her useless.

A shove from behind you quickly snapped you from your thoughts.

"S-sorry— oh shit, JJ stop no—!" It was Mr. Heyward's son, Pete? Pablo? It's on the tip of your tongue, just not quite there yet.

"Rafe, let him go, stop it!" You hear Sofia shout, but the two blonds kept landing punches on each other.

One moment they're still standing, next another they're on the floor, with JJ on top, of course Rafe wouldn't let his image get ruined like that so Rafe flipped the both of them, crashing into the waters, you hear the crowd whistling and howling, some even betting on them, it's fowl, how they think this is fun, how they think two half bloodied guys fighting are worth to bet on, Rafe had a bruised lip, while JJ was sporting a bruising black eye, both of them had bloodied noses.

Some time during everything, their friends managed to join their ruckus, turning their fight into a wrestling match, you see Topper fighting Sarah's boyfriend, uh husband, then Kelce jumping in to pull Heyward jr. away from JJ and get a punching of his own, their girls nowhere to be seen.

Except for Topper's girl, she suddenly appeared behind Sofia and pushed her away slightly, even she knew not to mess with Rafe's girl, huh, Rafe's.. girl..

You didn't even register that she was headed for you, not until she got a fist full of your hair, managing to pull you down on the ground, you didn't back up though when you got a grip on her newly bought necklace and ripped in from her neck, the necklace must've been expensive because of how tightly it clung on her neck despite how hard you pulled, the more she pulled your hair the more you pulled on her thousand dollar jewelry, then your hands finds its way to her top, if she was going to bring you down, your bringing her down with you.

"Fucking bitch!" She screams when you rip her bikini off, her grip on your hair disappears as she covers her boobs with her hands, you flip her off as you try to fix yourself, you are surrounded by phones and their flashes, but you couldn't care less when she was the one who targeted you in the first place.

You see her slink away in the crowd, muttering a curse before running off to whatever.

During the scuffle at one point the crowd slowly joined, the others just wanting to add fuel to the fire and hype up the people recording.

"Fuuuuu— booze and thiis?" You hear the guy moan, ugh, you thought, quickly scuffling away from him.

And just before you can escape the human stampede, a hand clamps around your arm, you try and keep up the mysterious hand pulling on you, only seeing a gust of blond hair on your guy, you try to pull against him but he keeps you steady behind him, your weak attempts at trying to escape looked nothing compared to his grip.

He dragged you across the brawl hurriedly, your feet taking twice as many steps as his did. "Y-you're hurting me!"

You didn't think he heard you, with the music being tuned up for the sake of the audience's enjoyment, you hear the others chanting 'fein' while punching a person square in the jaw.

"Stop! Please!" You pull for your arm, but the man yanks you back again, this time you bump into his chest that felt like bumping into a wall.

"Hold. Fucking. Still"

"R-Rafe?"

"C'mon" he grunts, you didn't even notice that you were already out of the riot until he places you in front of him, beside his truck.

Only then you noticed how bruised he actually was, his face was marked with the aftermath of the brawl—bruises blooming in dark purples and blues around his cheekbone and jaw. A cut near his eyebrow oozed slightly, leaving a faint trail of dried blood. The swelling along his lip made it difficult for him to smile, and a faint redness traced the area under his eye, hinting at a blow that landed too close.

"Rafe, you're bleeding—"

"—Don't" he raises his hand, you shut your mouth closed, as much as your ego loved seeing him like that, you couldn't deny the worry threatening to pour out, to drag him to your house and play nurse on him, you didn't like seeing him like this, you finally decided.

"We should wash that," you reach out to the cut in his eyebrow, he doesn't flinch, not like how he does when he's high. "Rafe where.."

You hesitate, he doesn't look up when you pause. "W-where's Sofia? The last time I saw her was before you—"

"—No."

"What do you mean no? What if Sofia's still back there, we should go—"

"Stop—! talking, about her I," he runs his hand through his buzz cut. "T-take, take me home, n-not, not tannyhill, no, not there, jus', yours, your house,"

You frown, what about—?

"Please.. please"

"Rafe, I don't —"

"'M not asking for a million, doll, js- just take me home..?" his voice slightly breaks at the end, his words were swirly and airy, if not high rafe then very drunk rafe.

...

"Okay."

[onevison]

CHAPTER ONE: THE MOVE TO THE 'PINK PALACE APARTMENTS'

hii my darling angels,

welcome to chapter one in this Coraline au,

please note beforehand that this is my first-ever story and I’m so excited for you to read this and fall in love with our socially awkward protagonists.

The reader will be referred to Coraline throughout the chapters.

Trigger warning: descriptions of neglection, descriptions of buttons for eyes and a stitched mouth, soul-eating.

Word count: 1853 words!

I really hope you enjoy this first chapter – thyia

As the old, dirty window was wide open, the silver moon shining bright in the night sky, the cold winter breeze flooded the room. Silence filled the room; it was almost deafening.

A doll with beady black button eyes and a stitched-up mouth, as if it was silencing the doll from making any noise.

A cold, lifeless bitter laugh escaped the thin mouth of the beldam as she claimed her third victim. Another soul. A soul that she ate and trapped, a soul that will never leave her again.

Her long metal hands clenched onto the cotton-filled doll, and her metal fingers, which looked like sharp blades, held onto the doll's body.

The doll had brown hair in small braids tied with dirty, ripped, faded pink bows. The dress on the doll was also covered in dirt and faded pink, with a darker pink ribbon around the waist.

The beldam placed the inanimate object on her table as she opened her case of supplies. The case creaked open, the sound was sickening, yet filled the beldam with so much pleasure as she couldn’t wait to make a doll of her next victim, another soul just waiting for her, waiting to get stuck, forever.

Oh, how the beldam couldn't wait to manipulate her new victim. Her new “child” as her husband would say. Oh, how stupid he was, not a single brain cell in his mind. Just how she liked them.

She turned the doll over onto its front, taking the scissors in her metal, cold monster-like hands, she snipped up the spine of the doll, hearing the fabric tear beneath the sharp steel, sending shivers down her spine in pure bliss and thrill.

She turned the doll back onto its back, her long endoskeleton-like digits tugged onto the dark brown wool, watching the hair coming out on the head of the doll in awe, her lifeless button eyes lit up as she was getting closer and closer to creating a mini new victim, her mouth drooling as she thought about the new soul she will eat.

She licked her dry lips, trying to stop the drooling from getting on the doll, she grabbed some pliers and took the thread out from the buttoned eyes, removing the buttons as she worked on the doll.

The beldam grabbed a sharp tool and dragged it across the mouth, hearing the fabric tear, her body shivered in awe as she listened to the sound.

She then held the doll upside down, the long sharp digits pulled out the stuffing from the doll, watching it as it fell to the ground with a soft thump on the dusty, cobwebbed wooden floor.

She took her hand and forced it into the mouth of the doll, making it inside out. She placed the doll back onto the table, took a funnel cone and inserted it into the doll, filling it up with sand, she restitched up the mouth of the doll, took two smaller black buttons and stitched them onto the doll where the eyes would be.

She used blue wool as the hair of the doll and made an outfit for it.

A yellow raincoat, an orange shirt, blue pants, yellow wellies. After she was done with her masterpiece, she sent the doll out of the window. “Goodbye, my dear. I will see you very...very soon,” she said to the doll, her voice cackly as the dirty window slammed shut.

It took over a day and ten hours to get to Ashland, Oregon and Coraline was not thrilled at all to be leaving the life she knew behind, just to re-start her life all over again, she was huffing and puffing, whining and complaining to her mom Mel jones and her dad Charlie jones, but her complaints fell onto deaf ears.

Her parents completely ignored her complaints and babbled on about their gardening magazine, Coraline sighed as she was ignored again, which was becoming a routine she became familiar with.

‘If only I had another mom and dad out there somewhere,’ Coraline thought to herself, taking her raincoat sleeve and wiping it on the fogged-up window in the 2006 Volkswagen Beetle.

A bright pink sign was up ahead, and it read: ‘Pink Palace Apartments’. Coraline couldn’t help but groan at the fluorescent pink sign, hating every single thing about it.

The beetle parked in the apartment car park and Coraline grabbed her bags and sighed, looking up at the pink apartment complex with disgust.

Her pointy nose scrunched up as she helped her parents carry the boxes into their apartment.

The apartment was dull. Lifeless. Not a speck of colour in sight. She groaned and placed the boxes down as her mom paid the moving company $10 dollars.

She knew she had to leave this place before her boredom got the best of her. She left through the creaky backdoor and into the massive garden, going past what she fought was a normal bush but picked up some poisoned oak.

She brushed off the dead leaves on the stick, holding it by the branches as she held it up, using the stem of the stick to guide her through the garden.

She opened her eyes as the stick led her to her destination, she went through the old, rusty black gate and went up some cobblestoned steps, leaving the garden and walking further and further away from the apartment.

As she went up a hill, she heard some rocks crumbling onto the floor near her and looked up and around to see what would have caused the noise but continued walking cautiously, feeling nervous.

She put on a brave face, not wanting anyone to see how suddenly anxious she got. “Hello?” she called out, her voice wobbling gently before taking in a deep breath and exhaling.

“Is anyone there?” she asked hesitantly while continuing her walk, her shoulder slouched showing how vulnerable she was through her body language.

A loud meow-like shriek came from a nearby rock, and Coraline started to pick up her pace almost afraid, she started to run the hill and then back down another hill, occasionally looking behind her shoulder.

Her pace slowed down as she stepped onto some mud, her bright yellow wellies getting coated in mud, which will annoy her mom when she returns to her new “home”. The breeze around her started to pick up as her breathing went quicker.

There was a rustling noise in the dead grass, which made her breathing hitch to the back of her throat. A loud meow came behind her as a slim black cat with big blue eyes was sitting on a dead tree stump, the cat licked its paw and cleaned behind its ear.

She couldn’t help but let a sigh of relief escape her. “You scared me, you daft cat,” she exclaimed and laughed. “I’m looking for a well…have you seen it” to which she got no reply from the cat. “Not talking, hmm...lil guy”.

A loud honk comes from behind her, to which she jumps back in fear and turns her head to see a bike and some boy. In some weird modified skull mask/helmet?

She watched as the boy rode his bike down the hill at a fast pace towards her, she fell to the ground, getting her raincoat covered in mud. The helmet came up, and there he was.

He was about 5’8ft, brunette hair and blue eyes. She looked at the boy curiously, her brown eyes locking on his.

“Ooo, let me guess, you're probably from Texas or Utah?” the boy asked, his Boston accent evident in his tone, which she found fascinating.

“I’m from Michigan,” she told the boy, correcting him about what state she is from with annoyance in her tone.

“Close enough” he replied with a faint laugh, “Oh you are standing on the well you are looking for by the way.” He added which made the girl jump back carefully.

“I’m surprised they let you guys move in, they don’t rent this place out to families!” The unfamiliar boy told Coraline.

“Huh? Do you know why?” Coraline asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it… My gran owns the Pink Palace apartments…I’m Matthew…by the way, but everyone calls me Matt.” Matt finally introduced himself.

“Matthew, hmm. I’m Coraline.” Coraline introduced herself back.

“Caraline?” Matthew said her name wrong, which filled the blue-haired girl with more annoyance.

“Coraline!” she exclaimed, feeling helpless as she was used to people getting her name wrong.

In the distance, a loud, old feminine voice yelled out for Matt to go home. “Seems like your gran is calling you back,” she said to Matt, who then awkwardly nodded in return.

“Oh, by the way. That’s poison oak,” Matt finally told her, to which she immediately dropped the stick and wiped her hands on her raincoat watching as Matt left.

She groaned as quietly as it started to rain, and she ran back home

🏷 thyia’s tag list: @courta13, @submattenthusiast, @kaybug88, @55sturn, @sturns-mermaid, @st4rcs, @endrfairy, @pinkpalaceblogs, @stxrsniolo, @throatgoat4u, @sturnslutz, @t33nspirtit, @owensbabygirl, @wr1tingsonthewall, @loonysbarn, @secretlocket, @isabellatb1234, @from-the-stars-to-the-moon, @sosasturns, @raesturns, @stefansring, @matts-girlfriend, @chrissweetheart, @drewswife, @itsccc, @naevk14, @ch6rm

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

like this, you feel a little like a lamb laid at an altar.

wrapped up in shimmering silk, a heavy sash tied around your waist, not loose enough to slip, not tight enough to beget discomfort — layers upon layers, a pure-white, nearly translucent shawl draped around your shoulders, jeweled pins gleaming between your locks like shells under water. a pile of molten rubies. the fabric weighs heavy on your bones; were you not sitting with your knees against the floor, you might have found it difficult to keep them from buckling.

but you are. seated on the elevated flooring in one of his temple’s chambers, wearing robes that suguru dolled you up with himself; reverent, in doing so, the very point of this occasion. or so he says.

biting at the inside of your cheek, you withhold a sigh. when he said he had a surprise for you, wearing such a blinding smile, looking so pleased with himself — well, you weren’t really expecting this.

(then again, that glint in his eye has never been a particularly good sign.)

and now you’re… exposed, for lack of better words. 

the centre of attention.

suguru’s voice echoes throughout the room, laced with intention, heavy charisma. low and commanding.

”worship your god,” he almost seethes, but you can tell he’s putting effort into keeping his vocal chords smooth, in maintaining his composure. ”worship them properly.”

before him, on the flooring just below you both, are rows of people in dogeza, tucked in on themselves, bowing deeply. his congregation, gathered just for you. murmuring, under their breaths, their foreheads nearly smushed against wooden flooring, a quiet whirlwind of whispers seeping in through the gaps. praiseful lulls, recited scriptures, pure worship.

… it’s an odd sight, if anything. you can’t help but squirm, discomfort gnawing at your bones. 

suguru seems to notice, because he speaks up.

”… are they not to your liking, my love?” he asks, curious, coaxing, syrupy sweetness on the tip of his tongue. his voice is so soft, when he speaks to you, it almost makes you feel at ease with the audience before you. he crouches down in front of you, bangs swaying idly. ”should they bow deeper…?”

an inhale of air. the room smells of incense, weighing on your veins, making you sleepy. ”n-no, it’s just —” you stammer, gnawing at your bottom lip, senses finding solace in the scent of lilies and magnolias on your robes. ”i feel a little… out of place?”

a hum, buzzing at the base of his throat. then, a raspy chuckle. ”… you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

suddenly, he’s bowing too — leaning forward, until his forehead nearly meets the floorboards, hands planted firmly against them. so handsome, from this angle, the bridge of his nose catching a glint of light from the lamp above him. glancing up at you, with a smile that only makes your heartbeat sputter further. 

he curls a hand around your leg; slipping his fingers under the fabric, until your ankle is exposed. slowly, tenderly, he noses at the spot, angles his face to press a kiss there. a whispered lull of his tongue.

”this is the treatment you deserve.”

your breath hitches, in the back of your throat. feeling his warm lips on your bare skin, against such a vulnerable spot, just below your sensitive achilles tendon. despite his calm demeanor, his soothing voice, your nerves are roused — eyes darting to the rows of men and women on the floor, still kneeling dutifully. they aren’t looking at you, diligent in their murmuring, their silent prayers, but you still feel so thoroughly exposed, like they’re seeing something that should be for the two of you alone — suddenly suguru’s lips are moving, as if he’s intent on worshipping every inch of you, and —

”s-sugu—” you squeak, scooting away, gaze shying from his own — a hushed whisper spilling from your parted lips. ”i don’t want them here.”

… that gets his attention.

honeyed, amber eyes suddenly harden. a crack down a frost-slicked lake, a sudden drop in temperature. it’s as if a switch is flicked; his face settling into firm lines, left eyebrow giving way to a twitch.

and he stands up. sharp, low-lit eyes gazing down at his congregation with a tight-knit expression.

”out,” he orders, a razor’s cut of his tongue. ”at once.”

a voice as clear as the toll of a bell, hiding no intention. it rings out from the depths of his throat, echoes behind his teeth and above the gathering of people at his feet. cold and jarring. even you aren’t entirely unaffected by the dominance he exudes, like this; you count yourself lucky to never be at the other end of it, to always be met with the sun’s glow and not the sting. the room goes eerily silent.

before you can blink, his followers are dispersing, like a flock of ravens — or a group of cornered mice — rising to their feet, and leaving the room. scattering away, though not before bowing once more.

you exhale, in relief. 

it’s easier to breathe, when it’s just the two of you. even though the incense makes your eyelids heavy.

”forgive me, my darling,” comes his voice, as he crouches down to meet you at eye level again, cradling your face with both hands; gaze warm and slick with sweetness, lips meeting yours for a kiss. 

a cube of ice against a furnace. you melt into his touch. 

”i don’t know what i was thinking,” he clicks his tongue, voice sinking an octave — you can taste the bitter hints of his displeasure even when he pulls away. ”making you watch those bugs prostrate themselves. no, that just won’t do…”

regret clouds his sunsoaked eyes, smudges them at the corners. coal on soft linen. he looks beautiful, like this — silky, raven locks like a river flowing down his shoulders, eyebrows furrowed and lips dipping out into the slightest frown. a pleasant storm, in his expression, the way he sculptures himself for only you to see — but then the warmth, his hands against your face, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones. you picture him plucking apples from an orchard and feeding them to you, slice by dutiful slice. 

”i-it’s okay.” another kiss, in between your words. as if he’s still apologizing. ”i appreciate the thought, but… i don’t need to be worshipped, you know?”

a sudden silence.

(a familiar glint, in his golden eyes.)

the corners of his lips heave themselves up, like the branches of a ginkgo tree. his voice is ripe with mirth. 

”… oh, but you do.”

before you can figure out what that look even means — his heavy hands are slipping down, down, and he’s leaning forward to press his lips against the fabric of your robes, a kiss above your breast. your heart.

then he’s pulling away. standing up, leaving you blinking, a fawn in front of a chain-link fence. 

suguru steps down, the soles of his sandals meeting the flooring in front of you, his broad figure taking up the empty spot his followers left behind. with practiced ease, an elegance you cannot help but watch in mesmerized silence, he bows —

deeply, knees hitting the floor. hands clasped together in silent prayer.

and then he smiles, again. 

a shaky breath leaves your lips. his hand reaches forward, slithers around your ankle, fingers curling around your foot and coaxing it forward until your leg is ghosting against his broad thigh. you can only blink, feeling the pumping of your heart just beneath your throat, warmth blooming from the tips of your ears to the fat of your cheeks. he kisses your ankle, as if picking up where he left off — and meets your flustered gaze with nothing but sunlight.

molten lava. heat. 

(reverence, reverence, reverence.)

”well, then,” he breathes, eyes glinting under dim lights. ”allow me to worship you properly.”

[grapejuicestyless]

Paper Crowns

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: After finally having some down time after a hectic few weeks, you and Harry finally get around to decorating for the holidays.

“What do you think?”

My gaze was drawn to the thick, red and green stockings hung over the mantle, embroidered with the first initials of our respective names. Along the brick hung thick ropes of tinsel spread through the deep green garland with pops of red cranberries scattered throughout.

But the real show stopper hadn’t been the festive rugs, or the seasonal mugs, or the extravagant lights Harry and I had woken up bright and early to hang all across the roof and the gutters, but the tall tree that sat squished in the corner of the living room, a small blanket wrapped around the base of the tree and a thick pine-y smell wafting through the house.

It was decorated with a mixture of ornaments and garlands that shouldn’t have mixed, but due to the extreme randomness of the assortment, it felt all too perfect. Each ornament was a souvenir of a shared experience or memory that tied to places that expanded down the Western and Eastern coasts of the United States all the way to the beach-y shores of Australia. Some were collected from our families, old art projects from our early school days, or framed family photos that we used to find embarrassing as children.

There was crumpled up tinsel in all different colors and red and silver and blue and yellow ribbons swirling around the branches. But right on top, sat a beautiful, golden star that shined so brightly, it put all the other sparkling things to shame. And it felt so much like home, I felt like the grinch. My heart had grown three sizes bigger.

“It’s perfect, Har.” I complemented, vaguely aware of the comforting of his hand resting against my hip, pulling me closer to him as we shared a small space in the center of the room.

He smelled of shaving cream and vanilla, and he was as warm as the crackling fire by our feet. We’d spent so much time together, running around in private so that one day, we could both return to the spotlight. Harry now adorned a scruffy mustache, one I was familiar with, and one he had previously grown out during the lockdown a few years back. In this light, one could forget that he was Harry Styles, because under our shared roof, he was simply Harry. Nothing more, nothing less.

“M’glad we found time to do this together this year.” I spoke softly, my eyes flickering from the shiny decorations to the deep greens of his eyes. Only to find that the entire time, he hadn’t been admiring our work the same way I had, but rather he hadn’t been stuck looking only at me.

“Me too.”

In previous years, though Harry and I were both granted a few days off from our hectic work schedules to enjoy the holidays with family, the weeks leading up to it never seemed to synchronize. But, a bare home is a sad one, so when eventually, snow began to turn into slush and our house looked eerily dark compared to the other houses around the block, one of us would end up setting up the house in the quiet, letting the moon be our company while the other was far away attending to their own problems.

This year was different. Harry wasn’t touring, and the album had been finalized a long time ago. As for me, I had finished press for all my movies, and the premieres had come and gone. I could spend my days laying at home now, tucked beneath a blanket with the satisfaction that it had all washed over, and I had the pleasure to bask in the glory, not in Time Square or the heart of Los Angeles, but beneath the covers with my head pressed against my lovers chest, sighing out in total bliss.

“Theres only one more thing for us to do.” Harry smiled, leading me across the cold wooden floors to the dining room, which had been pre-set with all the plates and cutlery for our eventual guests that would roll in on Christmas morning.

Next to each plate lay a large paper tube shaped in something close to the appearance of a bow. Christmas Crackers, is what Harry called them. Cardboard-like things that were meant to be pulled apart like a wishbone, a harmless game where the winner of the larger half would win a small prize.

I smiled, leaning my hip against the table and watched as he leaned across the table cloth to grab one of the spare crackers that sat in the center of the table next to the stacks of candles.

“What do I win if I get it?” I asked softly, grabbing the end of the game firmly between my fingers.

“Is the prize not enough?” Harry laughed, his eyes crinkling happily as he bared all his teeth in his smile.

“How about a kiss. Just to satisfy my cold heart.” I teased, and he didn’t argue. We both knew that despite the result, I’d get what I wanted either way. It was Christmas time after all.

“What if I win?” He raised a brow. “What do I get?”

I hummed, watching his grip tighten around the other end, his fingers flexing under the strength of it.

“Anything you want, my love.” I promised him softly, blush rising on both of our warm cheeks at the open promise.

Harry simply nodded with a teasing smirk, counting down softly under his breath, but skipping the two and jumping to three like he often did before his songs.

There was a short battle before a loud pop sounded, and as we looked down at our hands, I was surprised to find the larger half attached to where I held on.

Inside there was a bottle opener shaped like a reindeer. It was dull and already rusting, but it wasn’t really the prize I cared about, not when Harry was already wrapping his arms around me with a loving grin, drunken in his gaze as his eyes locked onto mine.

There was a paper crown too, purple and delicate. His fingers fiddled with the material before slotting it on my head, and pressing his palms against my cheeks.

When he kissed me, I felt warmth expanding in my chest down to my cold feet, and I swore his lips were meant for mine because they fit so damn perfectly against mine every single time.

When he pulled back, it was with a shaky laugh, and a touch of his mouth to the tip of my nose. The moment felt golden, like something I’d stolen from the world, and I was happy to have gotten away with it.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.” I couldn’t help but giggle at the sappiness of it all. The giddy feelings had me reeling, making me forget for a moment that I wasn’t a young girl in love anymore, but the woman that had proudly grown beside him.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

[saylor-twift]

Older and Wiser

~Word count: 2.4k

~Warnings: none!

~Summary: Through an unexpected birthday gift, the Wanderer falls in love with you a little more.

~Notes: A very much needed romantic birthday special for one of the best characters hoyoverse has ever created. I haven’t written anything in over half a year… yikes! hope y’all enjoy this shit lmfao

(divider from cafekitsune <3)

He remembers. He remembers a sunny afternoon mid-September, when the skies were free of clouds and, as per usual, the ever rambunctious streets of Sumeru were crowded with all likes of people from near and far. Wooden carts and stands and makeshift stages and of course, the blazing sun. He was irritated. Meaning, his mood was as average as it could be for such a typical day. He had just finished another lecture, one that of course he had absolutely not decided to attend of his own will. It’s always invites upon invites upon invites, and no matter how hard he tries to show disinterest, the well educated people of the Akedemiya never seemed to have learned how to take a hint.

The large hat he favors on a daily basis does well to protect the sun from blinding his eyes and scorching his fair skin, though it’s not like his puppet body could even form a sunburn. Not to mention it blocked his view from unwanted passersby if he tilted it at just the right angle. That way, he always had the excuse of, “Oh, I just didn’t see you” every time somebody accuses him of ignorance. It usually works, too. The majority of people are not brave enough to try and continue a conversation with him once they’ve seen that they’ve already been shut down. Most people, of course, can never quite equate to a whole. There’s always at least one person who stands out from the rest. And quite frankly, who that “one person” happens to be, doesn’t bother him so much.

“Hey!”

I don’t see you.

“Kuni, hey!”

Ah, wait, I know that voice. Nevermind, then.

A sweet smile and rosy cheeks, an even sweeter voice. Sweets are growing on him, dammit. Growing? No, they’ve long since planted their seeds and sprouted. He knows this.

“Yes?” He responds, and it’s not quite as irritable as it could have been. “Have you been following me?”

“No.” You respond, a little too confidently. “Well, yes. But it wasn’t my original intention. I was grabbing some groceries and I saw you walk out. I thought you weren’t meant to be done till five?”

He turns around to face you, tilting the brim of his hat upwards. You deserve to have his full attention, even if prior to hearing your voice all he desired was to return home and away from prying eyes. He offers a nonchalant shrug in response to your question.

“I was meant to be done. Turns out the old geezer could only stand to talk for so long. He wrapped the lecture up somewhat nicely, but there were so many unresolved questions and holes in his logic that anyone could see he was just trying to get it over with.”

You can’t help but laugh, at this point you can only find his penchant for exaggerating situations he dislikes rather humorous. The sound burns his ears, and until he met you all that time ago, he had no idea his puppet body could feel butterflies in his stomach.

“There is nothing to laugh at. The entire lesson was completely insipid.” He argues, but even the supposedly heartless puppet can’t help the way you make him smile.

“Well I wasn’t exactly planning on ever attending a lecture from the Akedemiya, but now I have reason to stay away on purpose.” You quip, smile never fading. He chuckles in response, and you admire how nice his features look at ease, when they’re not so tightly wound up in discomfort. “Hey, before you go…” you say suddenly, after a few moments of silence bordering on awkwardness. You reach into a small pocket in the folds of your clothing, and swiftly pull out a polished, silver key dangling from a long black string. The string is tied together in the middle in a neat little bow. You don’t miss the way his eyebrow raises in confusion. Before he has the chance to make any sort of comment, you are quick to explain.

“I found it in some pawn shop a few streets down. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t leave it alone. There’s.. not a whole lot that’s special about it, but I thought maybe you should have it.”

His eyebrow raises higher, if that’s even possible. “A… key? But it’s a necklace? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture, but… there has to be some other reason as to why you purchased this.”

You reach over and dangle the loop around his slender fingers, and he holds it out in front of him in curiosity. You simply shrug in response. “It’s nice, at least a little, don’t you think? Maybe it was the design on the handle. If you look closely, it looks like little lotuses. Like your hat. Maybe that’s why I liked it so much. In any case, please keep it! You don’t have to wear it, but you can’t get rid of it, alright?”

“I..” he looks at the strange piece of “jewelry” as if one would a strange plant found in the wilderness. He appreciates the gesture, but still, he doesn’t quite understand it. “I do think it’s nice. I do. I will keep it.” He assures, offering something that could almost pass for a smile. You try not to let on just how pleased you are.

Today is January 3rd. Out of all the days of the year, The Wanderer has decided that this is the one he dislikes the most. Even if he tried to pretend it was just another day like he always had, he cannot possibly shake the nagging reminder that on this day, all those years ago, his body had been infused with the element of her, and been brought to life. Her hands that made him, her hands that cast him away, her hands that “freed” him. He wouldn’t rather trade the life he has now for much else, but still, he never can quite stop his mind from imagining how different things would have been had his creator not been shocked by his crystalline tears.

It has somehow become common knowledge that the Wanderer does not like to show his face to the public on his birthday. How everyone found out this certain day was even his birthday in the first place, he will never know. Henceforth, it has become somewhat of a tradition for the Wanderer to seek out different hiding places throughout the day and see how long they lasted, mostly for his own amusement. Of course, he really could just stay in his room the entire day, but with an aunt-figure like Nahida hovering over his shoulder and enforcing self care and improvement 24-7, that was not much of an option.

It seems his most recent choice for a place of solitude was his best work yet, because even as the sun descended over the horizon and the sky turned orange, no one has yet to find him. Except, the funny thing is, this isn’t really a hiding place. It never was. And he’s hoping the one person who knows of this little safe haven, tucked into the corner of a large branch near the top of The Divine Tree, stumbles in any second now.

His eyes have begun to peacefully shut, but one opens on high alert at the sound of shoes on wood as his person finally finds him. He smiles, more of a smirk, but a smile nonetheless.

“Took you long enough.”

“Right, like you haven’t been avoiding everyone all day.”

“It was a test to see if I was really worth your time. You passed, by the way.”

You laugh in disbelief, shoving his shoulder a little as you sit down. Carefully cradled in the gentleness of your palms is a small, yet dense package. It’s wrapped neatly in green patterned paper and topped with a neat little bow. He pretends not to notice.

“Test. Yeah, sure. Happy birthday.” You reply sweetly, your smile even sweeter. He tries not to show you the discomfort that phrase brings upon him. “It’s just a day. Nothing special about it.” He insists. His gaze is focused on the landscape down below, on the merchants slowly packing up their shops and the sun setting beyond the trees, his palm atop his knee.

“You always say that. It will never make me stop trying, you know. I care, even if you don’t.”

“I know.” He insists. “You always do. I know. I.. appreciate it.”

You smile. You were expecting more of a fight from him, to be honest. Although, over the months, he’s lost quite a bit of the usual fierceness he so dearly loved to harbor.

“Happy birthday. I mean it.”

…

“Thank you.” he replies, gaze trained down at his lap.

“I.. have something for you.” You say. He perks up. He’d almost forgotten about the pretty little package sitting in your lap. “Again?” He questions, a cover up for his obvious interest in whatever trinket you’ve fished up for him this year. Somehow, you’ve always had a knack for giving concealed meanings to simple items.

“Again? Of course I’ve got something for you again. Why would I not?” You grip the box a little tighter, and it’s hard to deny the ever growing sense of worry in the pit of your stomach. Even knowing how easy it is for you to please him, you’ll never know if one day your efforts turn out to be in vain. Perhaps he’s grown tired of your antics, or he’s simply not in the mood for your sweetly attempted gestures. You can only pray you’re overthinking. “You.. you are too much, you know that? Too good. Very well, let’s see it.” He replies, feigning nonchalance.

You roll your eyes, but carefully place the box into his cool, slender, outstretched hand. It dips a bit under the weight of the dense box. So little, yet carrying so much weight. What could you have crammed in here, he wonders. He eyes you again, and you nod to give him the go ahead to peel away the paper. He does so with utmost caution and care, as if the wrapping paper itself was the precious gift. Tearing the paper away reveals a little box with a keyhole in the center. It’s silver, and has got intricate little engravings all over the top and bottom as well as four little curved legs. He attempts to open the gift, but to no avail. You’ve given him a locked box? He looks to you with yet another raised eyebrow.

You can only bite your lip to conceal your growing excitement, hands clasped in the fabric atop your lap. “A puzzle, is it?” He murmurs, turning the metal box over and over in his hands, tracing his thumb along the engravings as if that were enough to crack the invisible code.

“A smart man needs a smart gift, no?” You reply, leaning so you can rest your chin on his shoulder. Instinctively and completely without thought, his hand moves around your back to rest on the side of your waist. Your sly compliment makes the tips of his ears turn just a little crimson, unnoticeable in the dim night sky. “I’ll give you a hint. You need something I hope you didn’t throw away.” You whisper, and the way your breath tickles the side of his face makes it hard to keep his mind away from you, let alone think about how to solve the puzzle. “You won’t open it while we’re out here, I’ll tell you that much. So you can wait till you get home. For now, is it alright that I stay here with you for a while?”

For some reason, your request to stay has the feeling in his chest drooping in relief, the promise that you’re here with him just for a little longer. He turns to you, with your chin still on his shoulder, and allows his own head to fall on top. His lips silently brush against the top of your head, grazing against the softness of your hair before turning back again to the sun that has set beyond the horizon.

“Like I’d ask for you to leave.”

He has no idea what time it is, and it’s a bit difficult for him to find the ability to care. His chest is light and his heart is free. A stark contrast to the gloomy, pessimistic way he had begun the morning. Every birthday spent with you had ended feeling like this, he notes. How queer.

Though, not entirely. It would not be a grand exaggeration at all to say that you have been the reason he has been so willing to continue on after centuries of living off of spiteful determination.

He’s figured out the puzzle now. Of course, with a mind like yours, it makes so much sense this would have been a gift planned out for months. He opens the drawer to the side of his nightstand, removing notebooks and old papers to reveal an object in the very back corner collecting dust.

He remembers, he remembers the sunny day in September he was given a peculiar key attached to a string. He remembers being told it suited him, for no particular reason. He understands now. He always felt a compulsion to hold on to the strange trinket you had given him, though it’s not like he’d ever discard something from you anyway. He delicately admires the key, engraved with those little lotuses before carefully slipping it inside the lock on his new gift. The satisfying click it makes as it turns perfectly in the hole scratches his brain, and he knows he’s doing something right.

He opens the metal box with tender fingers, and upon pulling back the top he is met with a lovely sight. The contents inside expand to create a beautiful piece of artwork, paper folded to reveal an amalgamation of colorful butterflies all surrounding a grandiose lotus flower posed right in the center. It’s nothing special, he can already hear you saying. Maybe to you, but to him, it’s something he’s certain he will keep with him until the day the fates decide he’s no longer fit to continue living in this world.

He understands the deeper meaning inside, whether intentional or not. He had been given the key months before, without any clue of what it could lead to. Yet he trusted you and your words, and he’s finally received the prize at the end. He understands what you mean to tell him, what you meant all along for him to understand.

“Trust me, my love. Give me your time, and I’ll give you mine. Trust me, and in due time, you’ll come to understand.”

[hederasgarden]

The Price of Survival (2)

Summary: Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.4K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Modern zombie AU, references to attempted SA, overall dark/gritty themes. Not all themes will be tagged. A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca and @aninnai for looking this over! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Gladiator Masterlist

You follow behind Lucius, tethered to him by the short length of rope he holds. His steps are steady, his pace unhurried despite the darkness, but you can’t help checking over your shoulder. There hasn’t been a hint of the undead for hours, and the silence only makes you more uneasy.  

As you turn to glance behind you once more, your toe catches on a rock, and you stumble. But Lucius is quick, his hand steadying you before you can fall. It happens again moments later, and without a word, he closes the distance, slipping his hand between your arm and side to pull you closer. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, your fear coiling tighter with every step.

Now that the rush of adrenaline and fear has settled into a steady pulse of terror, the sting in your wrists grows unbearable. The skin is tight, itching as the blood dries. Your shoulders ache from the strain of your bound arms while your side throbs, bruised from your fall. Your feet feel almost numb from the cold water.

A hundred questions press against your tongue, but Lucius hasn’t spoken a word since he tied you up so you swallow them all. You know where he’s taking you, back to the settlement the other men mentioned. It’s not hard to guess what’s waiting ahead, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You think about running again even though you know it’s futile. Lucius has shown you what he’s capable of. 

You’re tired, your legs unsteady as you force yourself to keep moving. After a minute or two, the dense forest begins to thin, and the darkness lifts slightly to reveal a clearing ahead. A massive wooden wall looms in front of you, so high that you have to tilt your head back to see the top. Lucius steps forward, his voice cutting through the still air as he calls out to someone on the wall. A figure appears on top, a man with an arrow notched in his bow. He stares down at you, surprised by your presence. 

“That’s a strange looking deer,” he calls down, watching you with a curious, open smile. 

Lucius exhales sharply, irritation creeping into his tone. “Viggo and the others are bringing the game back. Open the gate.”

The man shakes his head, muttering something you can’t hear and then calls over his shoulder for the gate to be opened. You glance nervously behind you, the words Lucius and the man trade feeling painfully loud. Lucius seems to sense your unease, glancing back into the dark woods.

“There are no undead near the settlement,” he says. “We cull them when they get too close to make sure their numbers don’t grow too great.”

An opening appears in the wall, a door so small that you and Lucius must duck to pass through it. You can’t help but wonder how much longer the safety of this settlement will last or how long the culling will keep the dead at bay. There were rumors of places like this, outposts that managed to carve out some semblance of peace. But every one your group found had been abandoned, overrun by the undead, or collapsed under the weight of its own people.

As you enter, the man from the wall slides down a thick length of rope, his movements swift and practiced. He’s dressed in worn fatigues and lands with a muted thud. His eyes scan you briefly before settling on Lucius.

“Macrinus will want to see her. He’s in the canteen.” 

Lucius nods sharply and roughly jerks you forward. 

Torches line the path, their flickering flames casting a soft glow that illuminates the way ahead. You pass a dozen small cabins, each spaced evenly apart. There’s no sign of life as Lucius leads you forward, the stillness around you thick and unsettling. It’s only when you reach a large wooden lodge, standing apart from the row of smaller cabins on the other side, that Lucius finally slows. To your shock, artificial light spills out through the wide windows that line the front of the building. The sight is jarring, electricity was something you never thought you'd see again.

The porch creaks under your combined weight when you both climb the steps. Lucius pushes open a heavy set of double doors, and you’re hit with a rush of warm air and the rich scent of food. Your stomach growls painfully and your mouth salivates in response. The three long tables that dominate the center of the room are full of men, women, and a few small children. The murmur of their voices rises and falls in conversation, punctuated by the quiet clink of cutlery. No one notices you enter but as Lucius takes you deeper into the room, the chatter slowly begins to cease. 

It doesn’t escape your notice that there are nearly twice as many men as women here. The few women present watch you carefully, their expressions hard to define. You catch the eye of a woman seated near you. She rubs her swollen belly and exchanges a look with the woman beside her who subtly shakes her head, some silent warning passing between them.

Lucius comes to a stop before a small table set off to the side, where an older, strikingly beautiful blonde woman sits beside a bald man. She watches Lucius intently, the only sign of any emotion you see is the subtle tightening of her jaw. The man beside her seems oblivious to your presence, casually rifling through a bowl of fruit, his fingers moving leisurely from one piece to the next. Though there’s nothing overtly threatening about him, your heartbeat picks up when he looks at you. 

“Lucius, my boy,” he greets, leaning back and spreading his arms wide. “You’ve brought us a new guest.”

The man beside you nods, his tone neutral. “Macrinus.”

Macrinus chuckles, unbothered by the cool greeting he receives. He rounds the table and approaches you. “Come now, is the rope really necessary?” he asks, glancing at Lucius.

Lucius unties your arms, and the older man steps closer, his smile widening as he studies you with a calculating, almost predatory interest. It’s not the crude desire you felt from those men in the woods, no, it’s something far worse. It makes you feel small and insignificant, like an insect under a microscope. You rub your aching forearms, forcing yourself not to retreat. With Lucius standing so close, his shoulder brushing yours with every breath, you feel hemmed in.

“It’s been a while since we’ve found any survivors,” Macrinus says before introducing himself and the woman beside him as his wife, Lucilla. “You must be hungry,” he continues. “Come, let's feed you, and then perhaps we can get you some clean clothes. We have hot water for a shower, too.”

There’s something unsettling about the warm, friendly demeanor of the man in front of you. The veneer of his kindness feels thin in light of Lucius’s tense silence and the behavior of the women. There’s a trap here but you’re uncertain of what will spring it. 

"Am I...a prisoner?" you ask hesitantly.

Macrinus laughs, shaking his head. “Heavens no, but we must be careful about who we take into our settlement." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as if he's sharing a secret just for you. "Lucius is just the cautious sort," he adds.

Cautious. You think about the way Lucius killed those men in the woods to protect you, his brutal efficiency. You stare back at Macrinus, unsure what to say. He sighs and leans back on the table, crossing one foot over the other.

“You are free to leave if you wish but I hope you’ll hear me out. If you’re not satisfied you can go,” he promised solemnly. 

“Please, sit with us,” Lucilla says with a gracious smile. “If Lucius brought you to us, you must be special.”

“Very special,” Macrinus echos. 

You glance at Lucius but find him staring straight ahead. For a brief moment, his gaze sweeps to Lucilla before quickly shifting away. 

“Some food for our guest please,” Macrinus commands.

He snaps his fingers at a young man sitting nearby who springs into action. Lucius pulls out a wooden chair, his touch gentle as he guides you to sit. When he takes the seat beside you, Macrinus spares him a brief, displeased look. 

“We’ve set a place for you with your men. You should join them.”

“I’ll eat here, with my mother,” Lucius responds. 

You take in the newly revealed information with a surprised blink, looking between both pairs of blue eyes, their expressions carefully neutral, unreadable. Lucius takes a steaming bowl of soup from the young boy and places it in front of you, accompanied by a small piece of bread. You hesitate for a moment, fingers hovering over the food. The bread is soft, its yeasty scent warm and inviting, a comfort you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

Your stomach growls, reminding you just how hungry you are, though a sharp edge of nausea lingers. You take a bite, savoring the warmth that spreads through your belly. The stew is rich, hearty, and full of flavor. It’s been so long since you’ve had something like this, something that feels real and sustaining. It tastes like before. 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink rapidly, willing them back.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through out there,” Macrinus says, shaking his head. “The hardships you must have endured. It’s a miracle you found us.”

He pats the back of your hand, but this time you can't help the involuntary flinch that passes through your body. Too many hands have touched you tonight, unfamiliar and heavy with intent. The thought of another hand on you churns your stomach.

“Our rules here are simple. Everyone contributes to keeping the settlement running. If you stay, we’ll find you a suitable job based on your skill set,” he continues, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “We work hard here and in return you’ll never go hungry or cold.”

As you and Lucius eat, Macrinus explains the rules, most of them simple and easy to follow. By the time he finishes, your spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl, the last of the soup gone. You feel uncomfortably full, a heaviness settling in your stomach.

“There is one last rule.” He pauses, leaning closer and Lucius stiffens beside you. “We don’t allow unattached women in the settlement.”

Your brow furrows. You look from him to Lucius and his mother but their expressions offer no clarity. 

“I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s not anything personal,” he says. “It’s for the safety of the settlement. Women, unattached women…well, things can get complicated. Tensions can rise. Things...happen.”

Macrinus leans back, casually draping an arm over the back of Lucilla’s chair. His hand brushes lightly over her shoulder, a gesture that might have seemed comforting if not for the sharp, unsteady breath she takes in response. A faint shudder ripples through her, as if his touch stirs something deep within, something unsettling. She clears her throat and beside you Lucius’s fingers tighten around his spoon, his knuckles turning white.

“There were incidents when Macrinus first founded the settlement. Violence, discord. It almost didn’t survive.” She pauses, her eyes flicking briefly to her son, then back to you. “The rule was put in place after that, to keep things...stable.”

The spoon in your hand slips from your fingers, clattering against the bottom of your empty bowl. For a moment, you feel numb, frozen in place as the weight of their words sinks in. Unattached. The word echoes in your mind, a cold realization dawning. You remember the cryptic conversation between Lucius and Viggo earlier, the undercurrent of something unspoken that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“If you decide to stay, you’ll be given time to decide the right match for yourself,” Macrinus assures you. “And if, at the end of that time, you don’t feel this works for you, you’re welcome to leave.”

You swallow hard, struggling to keep the rising tide of horror from breaking free. Now that the truth is finally clear, you understand exactly what it was Lucius had tried to warn you about.

Macrinus stands smoothly, his voice rising above the conversation of the room. “Everyone in this settlement is here because they chose to be.” You don’t need to turn around to know every eye in the room is fixed on your table, waiting for your reaction. “Plenty of others have taken their chances outside. The choice is yours.”

What kind of choice was that? You want to ask, but the words die in your throat. Outside these walls, there’s nothing left but death and suffering. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the grief you haven’t even had time to process crashes over you like a wave. The handful of people you could rely on in this shattered world are gone, taken from you only hours ago. You are utterly alone now. The only thing you know for sure is that it’s not freedom that Macrinus offers.

You don’t even realize you’re standing until the sharp clatter of your upturned chair jolts you back to reality. Your progress is abruptly halted by Lucius, his hand closing around your wrist. His touch burns and a soft, pained sound escapes your lips. When you look up at him, you see that his gaze is fixed, not on you, but on his mother. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Lucilla murmurs softly, her voice sweet as she rises from her chair. She brushes her hand lightly over Macrinus' arm and watches him through her lashes. “Let me help her get settled for the night.”

Macrinus stares at her for a moment before he gives a small nod. Lucius releases your wrist as his mother rounds the table.

“Come,” she encourages you, offering you her hand. When you hesitate, her expression grows more brittle. “Please.”

After a brief moment, you place your hand in hers, allowing yourself to be gently pulled to her side. She leads you back the way you came, her steps slow and deliberate, guiding you past the row of tables and the silent onlookers.  As Lucilla ushers you into the cool night, the door closing softly behind you, you catch one last glimpse of Lucius. He stands motionless, his hands hanging loosely while his eyes burn bright with a storm of emotions you can’t decipher.  

[httpshujii]

DADDY'S HOME !

Diluc x f!reader

ᯓ Diluc is a girl dad. CW: suggestive towards the end, implied s*x?

Girl dad!Diluc who smiles a tired smile at the sound of his daughter's rapid steps towards him when he comes back home early from the tavern.

Girl dad!Diluc who carries his daughter and presses kisses to her chubby little cheek before walking over to you and kissing you as if it's his last day on earth.

Girl dad!Diluc who eats dinner and loves listening to his daughter talk about her day with her friends (plushies) and how she helped you with cleaning dishes.

Girl dad!Diluc that gets so depressed when he makes his daughter or you sad. He can't handle the thought of him hurting either of you with his words or actions.

Girl dad!Diluc that sits on a small, pink, wooden chair that he's convinced is going to break sooner or later. His hair tied into a messy ponytail with a bright pink bow. Sipping on tea and talking sophisticatedly only to make his daughter laugh.

Girl dad!Diluc blushes whenever you catch him baby talking or humming your daughter to sleep. And gets even more flustered when you call him a good dad. He loves getting praised for something that he had absolutely no idea how to handle.

Girl dad!Diluc that's so grateful for you for giving him such a blessing.

Girl dad!Diluc that jokes about getting so many kids just to see you get flustered.

. . . or maybe it's not a joke?

I just finished a 4 hour exam :D @kitorin

[banditthewriter]

Trust - Astarion fic

My first try at writing for Astarion. Here's hoping I don't butcher him! 1.1k words, not edited at all lol

Enjoy!

***

The box was wrapped in a simple brown paper. You tucked it under your arm as you made your way through the crowds of people that filled the square. Gone were the tiny villages that you had stopped at before. Baldur's Gate offered many new opportunities and options, as well as new dangers.

Which was partially why you had the box. It wasn't for you though. It was for Astarion. He had stayed back at the inn, not wanting to be out and about while things with Cazador were unsettled. Especially not after riling up his siblings.

You motioned to the group that you were ready to leave. Gale had an armful of books and scrolls, Shadowheart had a small leather bag with something solid in it, and Karlach had a shiny new ax that she was desperate to try on her old boss's face. Once everyone paid up and gathered their purchases, you all set off back to the inn.

After you stowed your other purchases, you made your way over towards the fire. Astarion sat in one of the plush seats closest to it, his eyes on the flames while a goblet of probably-not-wine sat clutched in one hand. You watched him for a moment before you crossed over to him.

The firelight reflected back in his red eyes as he watched the flames dance in the fireplace. You knew that he was aware of your presence but you also knew he wouldn't address you until he was ready.

Scratch and Scritch, the name Shadowheart had given the owlbear cub, came barreling through and nearly missed his legs. That's what broke the spell the fire held over him.

"What can I do for you, fearless leader?"

You rolled your eyes at his tone. Then, without a word, you held out the box. The plain brown paper didn't give way to anything, but the small bow you had tied with a red lace ribbon showed that it was a gift.

"What's that."

It wasn't a question really, more like a confused statement. You rolled your eyes again and thrust it out closer to him.

"It's called a gift."

Astarion stared at the box for a long moment before he used his free hand to accept it from you. Gently he placed it to balance on his knee before he looked back up at you.

"Why are you giving me a gift?"

You shrugged as your eyes went from his confused facial expression to the box on his knee.

"Because I saw it and thought of you. Does there have to be a reason?"

The silence that followed that question was enough to remind you just who you were dealing with. Astarion didn't trust kindness without purpose. He trusted you, at least you hoped he did, but he still disapproved when you did kind things for others unless there was something to gain from it.

A gift for no reason? Of course he was looking for the catch.

"Just open it Astarion," you urged with a gesture to the box.

He gently placed the goblet down on the table beside his chair. Then he slowly lifted the gift to inspect the wrapping. First he untied the lace ribbon and laid it on the table. Then he found the place where the paper had been tucked and pulled it out slowly.

Either he was careful because that was just his manner or he expected a trap. Either was possible at this point. You had been known to rip gifts open with abandon so this was definitely something to bear witness to.

The paper finally came undone and he let it fall to the floor beside his boots as he looked at the simple wooden box. You didn't rush him, but eagerness made you shift your weight a bit as you waited to see his reaction.

He undid the clasp and lifted the lid. You couldn't see the gift from where you were, but you'd stared at it enough before you forked over a truly jaw dropping amount of gold for it.

With a questioning noise, Astarion lifted the dagger out of the box and held it up. The silver blade shone red and orange from the firelight nearby. Then the hilt had a series of red rubies that seemed to glow.

"Careful, it's sharp," you started, but he interrupted.

"Well of course it's sharp, who buys a dull dagger?"

You knew his sarcasm was hiding his confusion, so you didn't react to that. Instead you pointed to the hilt.

"There's runes inscribed on the hilt, do you see them? The dagger is extremely dangerous to vampires." At his raised eyebrow, you shrugged and looked away towards the fire. "I know you don't trust me yet when I say that I...that we will keep you safe from Cazador. Maybe having that will help you feel a bit more in control. That if any of them try to take you against your will, you have more in your arsenal than just the tadpole. Even if you feel like you can't rely on us, you aren't vulnerable."

A few moments of silence seemed to drag on forever so you glanced over at him. He met your gaze and then shifted to switch out the dagger that was in his boot. You knew that he would wear it on his hip when he was armored, but for now, he kept it close.

"Thank you," he offered lowly as he closed the empty box. "I...have nothing to give you in return."

"A gift doesn't need reciprocity. I just want you to feel safe."

He gave a nod, his eyes drifting down to the box that he held loosely on his lap. With nothing else to say or do, you turned and headed towards towards the few stairs that would lead you to the rest of the room.

His voice called out and made you stop.

"Would you like...to join me? By the fire."

You turned around and smiled. You eased yourself into the chair next to him. He put the box down beside his feet, tucking the wrapping paper beside it as well. Then he picked up his goblet and offered it to you.

You took a quick sip, grateful that it was wine and not blood, and handed it back to him.

"I do believe you when you say you will do whatever it can to keep me from Cazador's grips," he explained quietly, his eyes trailing from your face to the fire. "Whether that will be enough to truly keep me safe is yet to be determined."

"We have the advantage, but we'll face him together."

Astarion's red eyes met yours, the fire lighting behind him to make him look like he was glowing.

"Together."

[only-lonely-star]

can you do dallas winston x soc reader where she invites him over to her house and it’s super pink and girly and he wants to look at every little thing! love you’re work btw!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Pretty in Pink . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Warnings - Pure fluff. Established relationship between a soc!fem!reader and Dallas Winston.

Summary - If it were up to him, he would never leave your room ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

Author’s Note - Thank you so much for this request!!! I’m truly so happy to hear you love my writings, it means the world to me 🫶🏼. I sort of took ‘house’ and turned it into bedroom, so I hope this is still okay skhfhsjjs 😭. I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do!! 🩷🩷

Word Count - 1.1k.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Applying a thin layer of tinted gloss, you puckered up and smiled upon the reflection in your vanity mirror. The white, wooden piece blended with the rest of your room perfectly as it leaned against the floral wallpaper adorned in patterns of pink peonies. Pink - you were certain there wasn’t a color as perfect as the pastel hue that flooded your room. As a finishing touch, you doused the sides of your neck in a fancy perfume, one that cost a fortune. The bottle was, of course, a baby-pink heart with a white ribbon tied around it. You felt ready to take on the world.

Leaned against the windowsill of your bedroom, your eyes longed to catch a glimpse of that rusted, old Thunderbird that Dallas typically took you around the city in. You could hear it a mile away, the noisy vroom of the vehicle, and the screeching shrill of its breaks. The stars cast a beam of light against the pavement to your driveway, ensuring he’d find his way there eventually.

Although you loved him to death, this boy had never spent a second in this house past your doorway. Tonight was different - he wasn’t dropping off flowers, knocking on your door to shower you in drunken kisses, or even luring you into his car to sneak out for the night. He was staying over. In your bed. Staying in your girly bedroom. Just at first glance, it was clear Dallas was no softie. He didn’t care for frilly pink bows or dainty jewelry, he was as masculine as they came. A hint of nervousness formed at the pit of your stomach as your brain worked double-time to map out every negative outcome possible. Maybe he wouldn’t like it, it would be too overwhelming - the possibilities were endless.

Just as these thoughts began to overwhelm you, the repetitive ring of your doorbell brought you back to reality. He was here. You raced for the front door without a second thought, leaping down the staircase, taking two steps at a time. Once you had reached the door, you flung it open with excitement, only to wrap your arms around his figure. He wore a cocky grin, a classic expression he often used in moments like these. You felt the jerk of his body as he stifled a laugh. “I saw you yesterday,” he commented wittily, slowly running a hand up and down your back.

You stood on the tip of your toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. Without waiting a second longer, you snatched the boy inside with a simple yank to his arm. “Come on, get out the cold, Dal,” you teased.

Dallas glanced down at his boots, giving them a quick stomp or two before taking a look around. “So this is your little mansion, huh?”

“Mansion,” you scoffed in reply. “This ain’t even the best part! Come on upstairs with me, I’ll show you my room.” You ran a hand up and down his sleeve as a signal for him to follow your lead.

Dallas let out a low whistle, slowly making his way up the staircase. His eyes darted in every which way, gliding his hand the entire way up the wooden railing of the staircase. “Shoot - I’d sure like to live in someplace like this.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re living in my room tonight,” you responded cheekily, biting back a smile. As you reached the final step, you guided him down the hallway which led to a number of bedrooms, each decorated in their own unique way. Dallas poked his head in each one, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion as to which was yours. “Dal, it’s this one.”

He whipped his head around, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Continuing to follow your lead, he carefully took in the new environment. Pink, flowers, ribbons, lace, hearts, dolls - it all hit Dallas like a tidal wave. His dull eyes were now filled with excitement at the sight of it all. “Jesus Christ,” he scoffed, “l think you might like the color pink.”

Letting out a burst of laughter, you ushered him inside. “Who would’ve thought, right?”

Dallas’s attention was immediately drawn to the white jewelry box with flowers painted along the side. He curiously stepped closer. He traced his finger along the woodwork, whistling lowly, “This a dollhouse or something? Looks like it would be for a-.” His attention diverted quickly, just before you could correct him. Dallas smiled in fascination as he caught sight of a small ballerina placed on a shelf near the closet doors. He inspected its fine details, running his fingers along the figure.

Before his interest was sparked again, you decided some commentary was needed. “That’s actually a music box, if you look at the bottom there’s a little knob.”

Dallas had his fingers twisting relentlessly around the knob before you even finished that sentence. He set it back down on the shelf, watching the little dancer spin around as the steel comb inside produced a delightful sound. “No fuckin’ way…” his voice trailed off in awe.

“You like that?” you chuckled, standing beside him to observe the figurine. It felt strangely comforting seeing Dallas with such youthful wonder in his eyes.

“That’s so cool, man, I want one,” he shifted his gaze from the music box back to you with a genuine smile.

“I have to show you this doll, I’ve had it since I was…five? I don’t know,” you spoke excitedly, dragging him towards your bed.

Kneeling beside the bed frame, you reached underneath it to retrieve a box. This box was worn out, each crease and wrinkle in the cardboard, a sign that it was well-loved over the years. Out came a porcelain doll, dressed in a white, ruffled dress with a lacey bodice that was colored in a soft shade of pink. Her hair was blonde and curled to perfection, a small bow added to accessorize her faux hair. Dallas stood over you, his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “She’s gorgeous, I bet that thing is worth more than my life.”

You gently stroked the back of her hair, admiring the delicate fabric of the miniature dress. “Hell- who knows?” You began to pack the doll up once more, hearing the shuffling of Dallas’s feet along your carpet. You paid no mind to this at first, assuming he was checking out more of your belongings. It was only then, that you stood up to find Dallas cozied up in your bed underneath a heap of fluffy pink and white blankets, holding a teddy bear against his arm. He had thrown on a satin sleeping mask adorned with small red hearts. Dallas had truly made himself at home, despite standing out more than any unique decoration in your room. He had a field day in your dollhouse of a room.

“How do I look?” he asked playfully, adding a hint of sass to his voice.

In adoration of a softer side you’d never seen before, you pounced onto him as you let out a giggle, wrapping yourselves in the plush blanket. “You look so pretty in pink.”

THANK YOU ALL FOR READING!! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS ONE!!! 💋

- Sophia 🫶🏼

[pinnedmother]

Caring for The Impaler (3 short stories)

Showing our love for the snakey man through acts of service! 🐍ɞ

1/3: Brushing his hair

There’re hardly any real battles nowadays so Messmer keeps the straps of his helmet loose for convenience, despite your worries of it being unsafe. He brushes them off and leisurely assures you that the helm is only there as a symbol, an accessory akin to the red drapery on his shoulders: he has no real need for such protection. He’s a demigod, “thou dost oft forget it” – he says.

Once you’re alone, he takes the helmet off. His red hair flowing down his shoulders like wavy flames.

You tell him to sit in front of the mirror. Messmer regards you with a quizzical look and an arched brow, yet still complies. He’s effortlessly lifting a nearby chair with one arm like it’s weightless before placing it where you want it. Sitting down, he rests his hands on his thighs and waits. You can’t help but notice how his gaze avoids the reflection, finally looking at it only to meet your eyes.

Pacing closer, you gingerly brush one hand through his dense strands while reaching for a wooden comb with the other. It has an intricate carving of coiling serpents on it. “Of course” – you think. Everything belonging to Messmer has a snake imbedded somewhere on its surface. His winged companions curiously watch your every move, a contrast to Messmer’s seemingly indifferent demeanor. As you hover a comb near his hair, you wonder if he likes all the serpent imagery or if he’s silently sick of it.

Some of his hair is matted, just barely so. You work your way through every strand with a gentle and diligent approach. Messmer doesn’t move. His eye closed, his breathing steady.

Once you finish combing his hair, you take your time enjoying the smooth feel of his locks between your fingers, making sure everything is thoroughly brushed. A soft sheen is more prominent now that every individual hair is laying perfectly in its rightful place.

You’re not done, however. Going softly with a comb to separate a small strand on each side of his head, you divide them in three and start weaving braids, combining the two at the end. He breathes out with his nose and sneers. “What..?” – you ask, tilting your head. What could’ve made the man laugh all of a sudden? Have you tickled him, perhaps..?

“Tis nothing” – he responds, his voice low and serene. You know not to probe further. 

Still determent, you keep at your little task, and once it’s complete you sigh in content and reach for a golden decorative plate – its side so polished it would work perfectly as a handheld mirror. Messmer takes note of your actions and moves his head to the side to watch you closely.

“Look” – you speak, holding the plate up for him to see the reflection of the back of his head in the mirror before him. He does so and narrows his eye a little. “I noticed some of your family enjoys wearing braids. Thought it might look good on you as well”.

He looks at you through the mirror, his expression hard to read. Worrying you might have angered The Impaler you feel like you need to justify your action further. You look away and continue. “It’s not as sophisticated, of course. And I made the braids slightly loose so you could wear your helmet freely.” You make a soft gesture in the air emphasizing your words, while keeping the plate with one arm at his eye level.

After a moment of time, Messmer bows his head in gratitude. “I love it quite. Mine thanks are thine to savor”. You catch his adoring gaze through a reflection, a subtle smile on his lips.

[fayes-fics]

Vignette

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: An artist meet-cute in the park.

Warnings: none... this is the fluffiest of fluff

Word Count: 1.2k

Authors Note: Anon request fill (see HERE) about Benedict and an artist having a meet-cute in the park. Unbetaed. I hope you enjoy this, Nonny, and sorry it has taken so many months! <3

A wooden toy hoop whooshing inches from your knee interrupts your quiet refuge amid the flower gardens of Regents Park, breaking your intense concentration on your drawing and almost dropping your charcoal.

Seconds later, a pretty young girl of maybe eleven years old comes running after the errant object, her plaited hair bouncing, her blush pink dress swishing around her knees as she calls out an apology to you and retrieves the hoop from the nearby bush.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her face a picture of impish inquisition as she wanders back to your bench.

“I am drawing,” you smile benevolently; something about her mischievous spirit reminds you of your nieces.

“What are you drawing?” her grin somehow infectious.

“You see those roses there?” you point with your charcoal to a nearby white alba maxima rose bush, stems almost bowing under the weight of the heavily ruffled peach-tipped petals. “Those are in peak bloom, and I am attempting to capture them, their ephemeral beauty...”

“Are you any good?” 

You chuckle at her youthful bluntness, but just as you are tilting your work towards her, you are interrupted by a man rounding into this same quiet corner. 

“Hyacinth! Please refrain from injuring and bother…” his refined voice begins to chastise but suddenly grinds to a halt mid-sentence as soon as he catches sight of you.

But he is not the only one who has lost the power of speech. 

Something vaults hard in your stomach like you are plunging down an invisible chasm. He is handsome in a way you have never seen before in your twenty years on this earth: tall, with a strong jaw and a dandyish colourful outfit that fits him very well. 

There are a few moments where all you do is stare at each other, lips parted, before he appears to shake himself a fraction and bows his head in polite greeting.

“Where are my manners? I would like to apologise for my little sister almost causing you injury, Miss. The fault is entirely mine; I should not have let her play quite so spiritedly in a public park. I-I hope you are not injured?”

“N-Not at all; the hoop merely brushed my skirt. I am more than fine,” you assure hurriedly. “Mr….?”

“Bridgerton,” he offers, nodding to you in a more formal greeting.

You would know that name anywhere—one of the most esteemed families of the Ton. You instantly know he is not the Viscount, having seen him at society events, so you surmise this must be one of his younger brothers. Before you can offer your name, however, he speaks again. 

“You draw?” 

“Oh.. yes, yes… I-I do,” you stumble, a little taken aback by his question, even as you feel his sister’s gaze volleying between the two of you with a bemused expression.

“I draw too,” he explains, placing a hand over his sternum, the sunlight catching upon a signet ring on his little finger. 

“Oh…” you seem inordinately pleased to share such a hobby with this virtual stranger.

“I also know well that charcoal fingers are an occupational hazard..” he adds cordially as he catches you attempting to wipe the dark smears upon your hands with a rag. “May I see your work? If it is not too impudent of me to ask,” he adds modestly.

“I-I am not very good…” you fret, looking down at the partial image you see on your sketch pad. “Tis merely a pastime I use to escape…”

“Believe me, Miss…?”

“Y/l/n.”

“Believe me, Miss y/l/n, it is very much the case for me too - being that I am one of eight. Including such trouble-makers as this one,” he rolls his eyes affectionately as he signals to Hyacinth, who seems to be rapidly losing interest, distractedly spinning the hoop she holds. “Escaping is almost a full-time hobby for me…” 

You cannot help but giggle at his droll humour, and he seems delighted, his face lighting up as you hide a mild blush behind the back of your hand.

“May I?” his ask is so soft you cannot do anything but acquiesce.

“‘Tis just a small vignette…” you excuse meekly as you hand over your sketchpad, suddenly so nervous to hear his opinion. You have never shared your drawings with anyone before, but something about his affable demeanour makes you bold enough to do so.

He is quiet for some time. It feels like an age, even though it is likely only a matter of seconds, but still long enough that butterflies start to roil in your stomach.

“I did say it is just a hobby…” you titter nervously, looking away.

“It is beautiful…” he exhales quietly, tone filled with admiration as your eyes ping back to him.

Your heart flutters as he extols the virtues of your work, effusively admiring your use of shading to capture shadows and the lines you have used to denote the multitudinous layers of petals, his gracious hand gesturing over the picture as he speaks.

“You flatter me entirely too much, Mr Bridgerton…” you demure, even as you feel yourself blooming under his praise, just like the flower you have painstakingly attempted to capture. A warmth in your chest that seems to radiate out to glow all over.

“I assure you I do not,” he smiles, handing you back your sketch pad.

“Benedict,” Hyacinth whines, stamping her little boot on the grass, “you said we would play…”

“I do not wish to interrupt your family time,” you placate, pleased you have learned his first name.

“Hyacinth, I am sure Eloise said something about sandwiches; you want lunch, do you not?” Benedict responds, raising a pointed brow.

“Well, yes, but…”

“Run along then,” he pulls an exasperated face at her that again has you giggling, making a shooing gesture with his hands.

She sighs but departs with a dramatic flounce.

“Sadly, I must also depart; a family picnic indeed awaits. But if I may be so bold, I would very much like for us to meet again. If you would be amendable? With a chaperone, of course,” he adds hurriedly, keen to be gentlemanly. “I think perhaps we would have much to speak of… around art. And perhaps we could… draw together? Here?”

His proposal, so sweet and straightforward, has you rendered speechless again, heart leaping at the very thought.

“I…I would like that very much,” your honest confession out of your mouth before you can swallow it.

“As would I,” his response instant, his face beaming. “Would you be here, perchance, Thursday afternoon around this same time?”

“I would…” The hitch of excitement in your own voice unmistakable.

“Excellent!” his hazy blue eyes seem to dance in the sunlight as he respectfully tilts his head again. “I am so looking forward to it, Miss y/l/n…” are his parting words before he takes his leave.

“As am I, Mr Bridgerton…” you murmur belatedly, the words shared only with the fragrant roses surrounding you, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

Your stare lingers where he stood long after he has left, an excited buzz over your skin at the thought you have met a kindred, artistic spirit. And one so very handsome, too.

Join my taglist HERE

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @hanji-emo-blog @Huffelpuffforlife @0x1harmonia0x1 @sya-skies @balladynaaa