auroracalisto

[auroracalisto]

i'm not saying people shouldn't be reading more books, but i do think it's funny how many people thinking "reading comprehension" is just about how good you are at reading books and not like. criticial thinking skills.

[auroracalisto]

You never recover from being weird in middle school

[auroracalisto]

sometimes you just gotta lay on the floor

[auroracalisto]

divine intervention — Henry Collins was a sailor. That much was certain. What wasn't certain, though, was the fact that he returned home to nothing. No one waiting up on him, no child or family to call his own. What a cruel world he lived in, and even a crueler world knowing his angel would never truly be his. word count: 3.6k words a/n: fem!reader but i plan to write gn! in the future—this fic was kind of hard to spin gn! :( pre!expedition; bro joined the merchant navy in 1832 and the royal navy in 1844, but for the sake of this fic, pretend he's already joined the royal navy. i also cannot find much information on henry's family, so i took some creative liberties. also, he's a bit on the religious side? not really saying he believes either or BUT he refers to God a few times and the reader as an angel. also. i need this man in ways that i cannot express with the english language.

It was not often that Henry was on dry land, waiting for the metaphorical paint to dry and to hear of his next appointment. It was not often that he found himself standing around at a stifling ball, wishing for a strong drink and for the music to die out so he could gather his thoughts.

And yet, here he was. On dry land. Waiting to hear where he'd be off to next. Standing at a stifling ball. Waiting for the clock to strike at least three in the morning so he could leave without showing disrespect to the General holding the damned thing.

The champagne had done a whole lot of nothing, and he wished that he would stop this madness and just enjoy himself. Balls were supposed to be an enjoyment for all, and yet he felt as if he was dragging his feet.

What would make this moment worse was a ghost from his past (before the last year or so, of course).

He had no one waiting for him at home. No wife, no child. His mother, God rest her soul, would be rolling over in her grave knowing her son was nearly six and twenty and still unwed. But the life of a sailor, a life in the Royal Navy—it was not meant for niceties such as a wife and children. How often would he be home? How often would he tread the soft green grass leading to the very house that kept his family safe?

His father, on the other hand, would not give a damn. He had time to marry whatever body would accept him, job and all.

It was fortunate that he had no will to be wed on behalf of his father. He did not know what the future would bring to him. If it brought him a wife, then so be it. He would not rush things along, he would not put himself in the way of a woman unless divine intervention looked upon him. Only an angel would take him to the edge—there would be nothing more, nothing less.

The angel he had wished to marry not too long ago would be the bane of his existence if she showed, here and now. If he saw her father, it would be even worse. How could he look her in the eyes and not want to make a scandal?

Henry downed his third champagne glass of the hour. He sat it on a passing servant's silver tray, nodding his head in thanks. His eyes swept the ballroom, listening to the music change over to something familiar—would it have been Beethoven? Or perhaps Hadyn? He did not care enough to focus. The strings were enough to at least satiate his need for something softer; there was no singing now, as the woman of the hour had taken a moment to herself.

He thought of his angel's father—the man who had disheartened him so at the simple notion of "no."

"You will never be home for her."

"You will keep her up all night in hopes you travel safely."

"She will never know a moment's peace with you as a husband."

To hell with him. That simply wasn't true. Yes, it would be rather taxing, but he knew his angel could handle it. He knew that she could handle anything that God threw at her. Many others had made the relationship work. He knew several officers who had wives waiting at home with children of their own. It was normal. People continued to live their lives, even with a job such as his own.

It could work. It would work. But convincing a man such as his angel's father was no easy feat.

Henry was so involved in his own mind that as he moved to find another servant or perhaps a table of refreshments, he nearly walked right into a rather harrowing sight—an old friend, of sorts.

His angel.

Your name left his lips almost instantaneously. He stepped back, apologizing to you and bowing his head with a soft smile. It was merely what society expected of him, of course. What he wouldn't give to be able to take you by the hips and—

"What a pleasure it is to see you again, Lady Y/n," he said.

He watched the way your lips upturned in a small smile.

"Mr. Collins," you said, politely greeting him in ways that your mother so often chided you to do. "The pleasure is mine."

His grin is unmistakable. "I do apologize for nearly running you over. It was not my intention to throw you off your feet."

Again, another smile—or had your first one even left? His eyes flickered to your hands. One gloved, one not—the one not was your left, no ring on your finger. The other held your extra glove. His eyes returned to your gaze.

"I am surprised you are here, Mr. Collins," you said. "I would have assumed you were off again, traveling the high seas."

"I only just returned," he admitted.

"And you are here? At the General's ball?"

He gave a tense smile. "I have my reasons, as do you."

You nodded, agreeing. He watched as you looked out at the ballroom, eyes resting on the strings he had been eyeing only moments prior.

A comfortable silence overtook the immediate area; he couldn't see your parents, but he knew they were somewhere.

What would you say if you knew he thought of you as his angel?

Banish the thought—you would not know. He would not tell you.

There was not a day that had passed him by when he didn't question the turn of events that had become his life. There was not a day that passed that he did not wish he would have said something sooner—that he had manned up, so to speak, and ask for your hand in marriage. Before your father had promised your hand to another. Before that damned crook of a man outright told him he would not give him the time or right to marry you, his eldest daughter.

It seemed the champagne was inside of his mind, misconstruing the facts. He had asked for your hand in marriage through your father, who gave an overwhelmingly distasteful "no" in answer. He had asked for a reason, but he was not given one. And then, the crook of a man promised your hand to another. Some Thomas Willmington. The name itself frustrated Henry to no end.

It was a shame—he would have married you in a heartbeat. He did not know what the future would bring him, but he cursed his past. He what he could have done differently to procure you as his wife. Should he have signed for more daunting expeditions? Should he have tried to sail to the Antarctic, or join in the Chinese War? He wondered what he could have said, what he could have done to make sure that when he returned home from a life at sea, he would be there, with you.

But such was the life of a sailor. At least, such was his life.

He dreamed of the soft green grass—of the garden you would insist to have and even work in it at your own accord (he remembered what you'd said to him nearly three years prior, how you wished to get your hands dirty if it meant you would be doing something more than just existing). He dreamed of the home he would have with you, of the days he'd count to return to you.

How cruel was fate—how cruel was the life he had chosen for himself.

His mother would roll over in her grave to know how he felt about a woman off limits to him. But perhaps she would have understood. She had been a lady in love, once upon a time—she had married his father, after all.

Henry heard the words, "Where is your husband, Lady Y/n?" And for a moment, he hardly registered that the question had come from him until you looked up at him, that puzzled expression on your face that he'd become so used to. It had been nearly a year or so since he last saw it—most likely two at this point. However, it was as if no time had passed. The lines on your face were as new as the last time he saw you.

You were ephemeral.

"My husband?" you asked, tilting your head curiously. "I've no husband, Mr. Collins. Where is your wife?"

He let out a short laugh, one that you could have mistaken as a cough. "I've no wife, Lady Y/n," he said. "Were you not... betrothed?"

Realization spread across your face. "Oh," you said, giving a small nod. "Yes, I was."

"May I ask what happened?"

"You do not know?"

"No," he said, genuine in his answer. What did he not know? What did your father do to you?

A servant walked by with a tray which he grabbed two flutes of champagne from. He offered the second to you, which you gladly took.

"He caused such a scandal, Henry," you said. His name on your tongue was heavenly, as if God himself had placed it there just for him.

"A scandal? When was this? Why have I not heard of it?"

"It's been nearly a year now," you said. "My father accepted his proposal on my behalf, and then he went and fathered a child with his sister-in-law. They fled to Brazil, last I heard."

Henry nearly choked on his champagne. He covered his mouth with his fist, forcing himself to swallow as he looked down at you, puzzled.

"What?"

You cracked a smile. "I am surprised this is the first you are hearing of it, Mr. Collins."

"Well, I—I would have been out at sea. Perhaps that is why."

"Perhaps."

Henry let the conversation die there. He downed the rest of champagne, which you couldn't help but laugh at.

That damned laugh. It was the kind that would have made his knees tremble had he been just a boy.

Was that truly what had happened to you while he was gone? A life of scandal which you were merely the collateral for? How infuriating.

The silence continued on.

Time and time again, Henry appreciated the silence... but for once, he wished that something would change it. The music had paused for the time being, but he was sure it wouldn't last long. It never did.

For a time in the not-so-distant past, Henry would have burned heaven and earth for you. His priest would have had a stroke had he uttered those very words in confession, so he held onto them. They died on the tip of his tongue, at the brush stroke of his pen. He would never say them aloud. You would never hear him say it for as long as he would live.

If he could court you, he would. He would have done so long, long ago.

He would have married you the moment he met you had society not stood in the way.

You finished off the rest of your champagne and cleared your throat.

"You've no wife," you softly said, keeping your voice low for eavesdropping servants and ball-goers alike.

"No," Henry said, chuckling softly. The conversation the two of you had had always been so personable—there was no need for frilly language or a barrier that would keep him from knowing what was on your mind. You were an open book to him. One that he had put down long ago but wished to pick back up, only he did not know how to. He did not know if he could.

"And why is that?"

He scoffed softly, though there was no bite to the sound. "You know why, Y/n," he said. "The life of a sailor is not always fit for marriage."

Your eyes flickered up to his. "You cannot truly believe that."

He raised a thick, curious brow. "I truly know that."

"Have you tried?"

"Tried what?"

"Marriage?"

"I have tried to court before, but I have never gotten as far as a betrothal," he said, sighing softly, "if, of course, that is what you are after."

You pursed your lips. It wasn't the first time he had seen you do that, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Deep within, however, he knew that the time between each one was getting longer and longer. Soon enough, it would not be the same. Soon enough, you would be married and away, and the only time he would see that purse would be in his dreams.

"Have you truly tried to court?"

"Yes," he said. "I have."

"Who?"

Henry looked at you incredulously. "Is this truly a conversation you wish to have around so many prying ears?"

"This is a conversation you could have with just about anyone," you said. "I do wish you would answer."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew how you would take it—on one hand, you would take it well. On the other, he would not be able to forgive himself for upsetting you (if he was reading the room correctly).

"There was a woman when I first turned twenty," he admitted. "I courted her alongside of another gentlemen, of whom I do not care to remember his name. She rather liked him, so it led to nothing."

"Is that the only one?"

"Yes."

"Lord above, Henry Collins, surely that is not the only—"

"—I have attempted to court you, as well."

Your words die before they can leave your lips. He what? When was this?

At the furrow of your brow, he said: "Your father disapproved and I did not push the issue."

"What?"

He hummed softly in response. He grabbed another passing champagne flute, sipping at that. A whiskey would have been nicer than whatever this was—it tasted as if a grape had gone terribly spoiled, each bubble attacking and damaging his tongue with each drop.

"Henry," you said, a hand suddenly on his arm to stop him from drinking again. Your eyes widened a bit and you quickly dropped your hand, hoping that no one would have seen such a brazen act. "Are you in earnest?"

Henry looked down at you, lowering the champagne flute. "I am always in earnest, Y/n," he admitted. "I have never once lied to you."

He'd lied to himself, many times, though. About marriage, about love, about not wanting to spend the rest of his earthly days with you. Heaven or hell could not keep his heart from yearning for you, regardless of how your father spoke.

You blinked once, twice—lips parted in confusion. You gripped onto the stem of your champagne glass, looking away from him.

"You cannot be in earnest, Henry," you said. "You have not attempted to court me."

Henry scoffed. This time, the act caught your attention.

"Yes," he said. "I attempted. But I did not continue once your father disapproved."

"He would not disapprove of you," you said defensively. "You mustn't be—"

"—Y/n, if I could have courted you, I would have."

The words alone shut you up. You stared a bit longer than society believed was acceptable. You looked away from him, hearing as the music started up again. A polka, of some sort. But you didn't feel like dancing. You felt like shriveling up as a grape does in the sun, crawling into yourself and never looking out at the world again.

Henry cleared his throat and glanced at the clock nearest to them. It wasn't quite three in the morning, barely even one, but he no longer cared. He was finished with the night, much like the champagne in his gut was finished with him.

"I must bid you farewell, Lady Y/n," said Henry, sitting his glass on a nearby table instead of waiting for another servant. "I cannot stay any longer, though I hate to go."

You looked up at him, lips parting as you tried to find something, anything you could say to make him stay. But there was nothing. You were tired and angry and worst of all, hurt.

Had he tried? Truly? Why would your father say no?

You gave a tense smile, giving a small bow of your head.

"It is always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Collins," you said.

He gave a small nod, but his smile was nonexistent. "To you as well, Lady Y/n." He left before you had half the gall to stop him, not looking back despite the inkling in the back of mind screaming at him to do so.

—

It had only been a few minutes that Henry had left. You found your mother soon after, disbelief flooding through your very marrow.

"Mother," you said, drawing her attention away from one of the ladies in which she conversed. "I must speak to you."

She apologized to her friend and excused herself, sending you a frown.

"What is the matter?" she asked. Had it been your father, she would not have been so nice. Had it been up to her, she never would have married him. But with him, she had you—she could not imagine a world in which you did not exist.

Your arms were crossed over your chest in the most unladylike manner. You tapped your fingers against your elbows, lips parting but no sound escaped.

She frowned softly and took ahold of your arm, guiding you out into the hall. Privacy was not guaranteed at a ball of this manner, but the hallway would give you some leeway.

"What is the matter?" she repeated, letting go of your arm once you were out by a window.

"I need you to be honest with me," you said.

"Of course," your mother answered.

"Did my father turn a man down?"

Your mother's brows furrowed.

You recognized her confusion and quickly asked: "For marriage. To me. Did a man ask to court me?"

Her eyes widened. "I do not..."

"Please," you said. "I—I will not be cross with you, mother."

"There was a man who wished to court you, yes," she said. "However, your father did not like him."

"What was his name?"

"The man?"

"Yes, mother. The man."

"It was Mr. Collins, Y/n."

Your heart pounded in your chest. You pressed a hand to your mouth, bile rising to your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Why would he say no?" you asked, voice muffled slightly from your hand.

"He believed Mr. Collins was not worthy of your hand," your mother answered honestly. "He thought that any man to marry you should be well-to-do and capable of making a name for himself."

"But Hen—Mr. Collins," you said, looking up at her. "I care for him, mother. More—more than I should. Why would—why would father deny him? Why wouldn't he ask me?"

There was nothing your mother could say that would comfort you. She pulled you into a gentle hug, allowing you to calm yourself against her, but she knew that nothing she could say would make it through your racing mind.

A sailor's life was one of strife. It was one filled with uncertainties and a chance of no return.

You would have waited for him to return. You would have. You will. You needed to find a chance to see him again. Perhaps you would convince your father to allow him a second chance. If he saw the way you cared for him, then perhaps your father would hear you out. Perhaps things would be different and the man you cared for could be your husband.

—

The Arctic. He had signed onto the Franklin expedition as the second master on HMS Erebus. It would be the farthest he had ever gone, but the idea of double pay was a reward in itself. To find the Northwest Passage would mean incredible things for himself and the officers of the expedition. How incredible would it be to return in two years and finally have the right to ask your father to marry you? He would be able to offer you riches of all kinds and support you where your father would one day stop. He would have the means to do so much for you.

He would be able to marry you.

If you would wait for him. If you would wait for the metaphorical paint to dry and wait for word of his return.

Dry land was starting to drive him crazy. Only two months remained before he would leave for the Arctic. Less than two months and he would be six and twenty. In only a month, it would be around the same time in which he had first asked your father if he could court you.

How odd was it, now, to know he would be on an expedition to create a pathway that would make Britain even greater than it already was?

Bah. To hell with Britain.

If it meant he would return and finally ask for your hand and not be turned down by your father, then he would do it.

He would do it in a heartbeat.

In two years, he would return. He would march right to your father, ask for your hand in marriage, and then he would never have to sleep alone at night again. He would court you if you truly wanted it, but truth be told, he would marry you right then and there.

In two years, he would not need a strong drink to speak to him. He would know he had done well, and he would do so proudly.

His mother, God rest her soul, would be sound in her grave, grateful that her son had finally settled down.

Divine intervention be damned.

[auroracalisto]

brooo the notes on this bitch are insane. i love you tumblr people

i was made for lovin' you

fem!plus size!reader, 2.4k words summary: the reader loves benedict bridgerton. when he dances the night away with her dear sister, she wonders if her love is perhaps... unrequited. a/n: my initial note for this fic was: i was the chubby unpopular insecure girl in school. i'm still the chubby girl. and i need fluff today. so that's what's gonna happen. i initially started writing this... last year. it's been over six months ago since i've touched this. the title is totally from the kiss song. tw: bodily description, vague description of anxiety, momentary insecurity, but it's brief!!

Curves adorned your body in a way that remained otherwise unknown to so many others. Thick thighs hid beneath layers of clothing. Your stomach pressed against the fabric of your top, threatening to squeeze the very essence of life out of you. But you stood there, discomfort climbing its way up your spine, threatening to call you out for being a fraud. You lived in peril, awaiting the blossoming of the flower of insecurity and fear.

No gentleman would ever look your way, even with the most expensive of clothing. Liquid gold could be dripping from your fingertips, and not one of the men in the 'ton would give you the time of day.

At least, that is what you told yourself. That is what you had believed since the time you could register the fact that you were the thicker girl.

And it's not that you hated your body. No, that was far from the truth. You had come to love yourself in your own way, trying your best to live with what the world had given you. But you knew men, and you knew the gentlemen of the 'ton. You were treated differently, just because of your size.

You were different.

But he never treated you as if there was something wrong with you. No, Benedict Bridgerton was your dearest friend, but you couldn't help but feel as if he never truly cared for you in the way that you cared for him.

The way that you loved him.

You had yet to properly talk to him, knowing his elder brother hosted the ball of the evening. It wouldn't surprise you if Benedict was busy entertaining other gentlemen—entertaining your sister, perhaps.

The clothing you wore that night was flattering, for the most part. You couldn't deny that. Your mother had chosen well for the ball, keeping your mind at bay. She had impeccable taste, regardless of the crude comments that so often left her rouge lips. But despite the clothing, despite the restricting fabric, you couldn't help but watch and feel less than others around you.

Especially when you knew the man you favored was out there, fawning over your sister (not even liquid gold would work in her favor—she merely needed to raise a finger, and men would fall to her feet, begging for a chance to be hers).

The beautiful women who danced passed you, hand in hand with a suitor or with a dear gentleman. Their dance cards were nearly filled at this point. The stunning men wore beautifully tailored suits, sending smiles and small nods to those they spoke with. Well-rounded pencils would need to be sharpened before too long.

You stuck out like a sore thumb in the corner of the ballroom, drawing imaginary attention right to your very soul.

Your dance card rested in the palm of your hand, not a single gentleman's name residing on it. Like many balls before, suitors avoided you—or perhaps, you avoided them. Staying in your safety corner seemed to be the best bet, but you knew it would catch up to you (eventually).

There wasn’t a possibility for a suitor to come to you, unless he wanted whispers to be spread. You were an outcast.

You made yourself an outcast. But perhaps our worst enemy came from our very own minds, taunting us and keeping those we love far, far away.

Had you been your elegant sister, dancing the night away with the handsome Bridgerton boy amongst many other men, maybe you would have felt more comfortable.

Her card was completely filled, and now, she milled around with her friends, looking for a gentleman to speak with. The season wouldn't last forever.

And you knew it.

The season would be over in a heartbeat, and you would be left without a single name on your dance card.

How incredibly frustrating. You knew you were beautiful. You knew you had a grand personality, fit for that of a gentleman. You were smart and intelligent and you knew how to do so many things.

But standing here, you felt as if your clothing was choking you to the point of no return. It didn't matter that you could read a book in a day, or recite your favorite poetry. It didn't matter that you learned to cook from your favorite maid, or that you could write a piece of prose so beautifully it brought tears to your delicate sister's eyes.

Warmth flooded throughout your body. You hesitantly pulled up the fabric of your skirts and made your way to the crowd, finding the cool night in an instant. The chill of the breeze cooled you down the best it could, but it could only do so much for the roaring fire in your mind.

Your mother would surely have yet another snide comment about the fact that she did all this work just for you to avoid the crowd. Your father would listen silently, but you knew he agreed. He always did.

Your sister would yet again set on a suitor, her beauty and gracefulness the only blessing upon your family. She would be set for life while you die a lowly spinster.

Maybe she would bless you with a quaint cottage of your own. She'd be able to marry the richest man in the 'ton, if she was so pleased to say yes.

You walked closer to the fountain that sat in the middle of the courtyard, eyes closing as you came to a stop. The chatter and music from the manor wafted in the air, and the smell of freshly trimmed grass plagued your nose. Goosebumps appeared on your skin as the air around you only seemed to get cooler. Perhaps outside wasn't your best decision, but anything was better than the scrutiny of roaming eyes.

Solitude found you best, creativity striking you when you were all alone—most of the time. Today, it only brought you a fraction of the comfort you sought.

Despite your indiscretion, you weren't alone for very long.

"Lady L/n?" a voice came from behind you.

Your eyes shot open and you looked over your shoulder.

Benedict Bridgerton.

He had danced with your sister nearly three dances ago—you hadn't seen him since then.

He sent you a soft smile, relaxing when he saw you.

"May I ask what you're doing out here all alone?"

"I could ask you the same thing," you said. "Sir Bridgerton."

His smile only grew.

The two of you had known each other far longer than you would ever admit, and every time you saw him reminded you of why you fell for him to begin with. But he belonged with someone else—he would be good for them, and marrying into a family of money would secure the safety of the woman's future and her family's future.

You would take what you could get, even if it meant waiting until your father made you a match… if even he could manage such a feat. He quite hated the idea of society. It was your mother who pushed him into the world, making him do good by the ‘ton and his family name.

Benedict deserved someone good—someone who would boost his status in society, and always be there to love and care for him.

Many weren't so lucky with their marriages (your mother and father, for example).

"That's no way to talk to a gentleman, now is it? Whatever would your dear mother say if she were to find out how you speak to me?" he asked, feigning offense as he placed a hand over his chest.

"Trust me," you said, turning to face him with a soft smile. "I promise she will find little problem with it when she knows you are on Katherine's card."

"Hm," he tilted his head as he watched you. "And who have you danced with, Lady Y/n? I have yet to see you out on the dance floor tonight, and now I find you all alone. It feels as if autumn is already upon us. Surely you don't want to catch a cold as well?"

"I have danced with no one," you said, looking back at the fountain. "And you surely shouldn't be here with me, alone. Quite a scandal you'd create for your sister to cover up."

"Is that not why she is the Duchess? So I can create whatever scandal I dream of?"

You could practically hear the smug smile on his face, but you didn't turn to face him. Your arms hesitantly wrapped around your torso as you continued to stare at the flowing water.

"Y/n?" he softly spoke, coming to stand beside you. "Are you alright?"

His hand touched your cold arm and you immediately pulled away.

"Should you not be back inside with Katherine?" you asked. "It will be quite a scandal if you were to be out here with me."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "What is with you and scandals? Nothing of the sort will happen. I'd much rather spend the rest of the evening with you."

You frowned. "If you must, perhaps we should return inside. You should sign my dance card to keep my mother from asking questions."

"I would do so, gladly, Y/n, but I did not think you wanted me to do so," he said, eyebrows furrowed as he spoke.

"Why wouldn't I want you to?" you began, averting your gaze. "You know me better than I know myself."

He tilted his head curiously. "I do believe there are things I've yet to acquire," he said, gently taking your hand as he spoke. This time, you didn't pull away. "Whatever is the matter?"

"You are a dear friend, Benedict," you said. "I would never want to do something to put our friendship in jeopardy."

"Perhaps you will if you continue alluding me so. I asked you a question, my Lady."

A beat passes, the music coming from inside becoming light and jovial for the newest dance. Your sister was already dancing with another, enjoying herself and smiling all the while. Not that you could see.

"Y/n, please," he said, voice barely above a whisper—defeated, one could safely say.

"I care for you," you said. "If—if my sister is what you want, if she will make you happy, then by all means, you have my blessing."

He blinked slowly at you, lips parting to speak, but you speak first.

"I understand why you care for her so. She is beautiful, and she will be an excellent wife. She is so unlike me. She... she will make you so unbelievably happy, Benedict."

"Wait."

His fingers laced with your gloved hand as he gently pressed his other to the side of your face, making you look at him.

"Where is this coming from?" he asked, allowing his hand to drop. "Who said... who said I was interested in her?"

"No one. Nothing needed to be said for me to assume. Did I assume correctly, Lord Bridgerton?"

He chuckled softly, tilting his head as he watched you. "Not at all, my dear," he said. "You are so far from the truth that it is quite... comical."

"Comical?" you blurted, looking up at him in disbelief.

"Your sister was... helping me. I had planned to ask you in such a grand manner that I needed some assistance. Perhaps her planning skills would be far superior to mine when it comes to an event such as... well..."

"An event? What—what have you been planning, Benedict?"

His eyes softened. Were you blind? Or had he been so secretive with his feelings for you that you remained oblivious to the fact that he loved you more than life itself?

"Benedict, please," you said. "We do not have all night. They will notice we have left the party, soon enough."

"I wanted to know what would be best to ask you," he said.

"Ask me what?"

"To marry me, Y/n."

Time stood still. Big eyes stared up at him in disbelief, lips parted as you swam in an ocean of words, but nothing broke the surface. Was he serious?

"Benedict—"

"—will you marry me, Y/n?"

"I—"

"—I had planned on asking you soon, with flowers and a ring, and perhaps a grand occasion so the gentlemen knew you were taken, but—"

"—Benedict..."

He looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed. You were going to say no. He could see it in your eyes.

"You want to marry me?" you asked, hand holding onto his. "You... do you... I care for you, deeply, Benedict."

"And I, you, Y/n."

You searched his eyes for a sign—for an answer, perhaps. You had dreamed of this night for so long, and here it was, front and center. He cared for you. He wanted to marry you.

"I will," you said.

He released a breath, suddenly pulling you into his arms. You said you would. Yes. The answer was yes. Benedict would marry his best friend.

Benedict fought the urge to kiss you, despite knowing you would allow him.

“Let us return,” he softly said. “Perhaps you should inform your mother of your latest rendezvous.”

Your eyes widened a bit.

“Of course, I will be with you. Wouldn’t she enjoy seeing that?”

Your lips spread into a soft smile. “Yes. She would.”

Benedict took your hand and led you back to the porch. No one else stood outside.

“I will return first,” he softly said. “I will find your sister, and then, I will come and find you.”

“Oh, you do not want a scandal, dear Benedict?” you asked, a grin forming.

His eyes hardened as he looked back at you. “Would you like a scandal, Lady Y/n?” His voice betrayed the look he gave you, and instantly, his hard look dissolved into a smile. “Allow me to return. We will have enough gossip to go around once the news has broke in the ‘ton.” He took your hand again and pressed a kiss to your gloved knuckles. “Until we meet again.”

“I will see you inside,” you said, smiling all the while.

Benedict left you, and you waited merely a few minutes before you returned. You remained blissfully ignored, and for once, you appreciated the fact. You found your mother in an instant, and only when Benedict found you again did you tell her the news.

[auroracalisto]

the terror masterlist

— est. june 2025

James Fitzjames nothing to lose, 1.1k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)

Henry Foster Collins divine intervention, 3.6k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)

[auroracalisto]

i've gone and made a grave mistake of being an enjoyer of the terror and reader inserts. WHERE are they? i've found like,,, ten maximum, bro.

(guess i'm gonna have to alternate personal writing and fanfic writing for the handful of people who would read it)

[auroracalisto]

GAHHH thank you, Sophie. <3

day #10: gingerbread house

tangerine x gn!reader, platonic!lemon x gn!reader, 825 words a/n: i don't even know what the fuck this is good luck. possibly out of character, possibly not. you be the judge, pookie.

You took the sugary icing from Tangerine, carefully lining the edge of the gingerbread roof—tongue poking out in concentration. Tangerine snorted softly at the sight, eating yet another gumdrop from the decor for your gingerbread house.

"I swear to god, if you eat another one, I'm going to break the damn house," you said, not looking up from your meticulous work. As excited as you were for this gingerbread house, you wouldn't be afraid to wreck all the hard work from the both of you.

"Oh?" Tangerine asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he grabbed a red gumdrop. "Sounds devastating, love. Whatever shall I do?"

You looked up at him, icing bag squeezed in your hands. A gob of the icing fell on the edge of the roof, souring the meticulous outline you had.

"You are being dramatic," Tangerine chided.

"Me? Dramatic? I would never," you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

He watched you closely as he put the gumdrop between his teeth, a wicked grin on his face.

"Oh, you bitch," you said. "You've done nothing but be a pain this entire time!"

"Me? Love, where's your manners? All I'm doing is helping out. What more can I do?"

You narrowed your eyes. "You know what you can do?" you asked. "You can eat my icing."

He snorted at your words. "What?"

Before he even realized what you were doing, because who in their right mind would even do this, you were pointing the piping bag of icing right at him and squeezing it. It didn't really get very far, falling from the bag and plopping down on his trousers, but it was enough for him to glare at you.

"You're fuckin' jokin', now, ain't you love? What the fuck was that?"

"Payback," you simply said. You go back to your gingerbread roof, carefully scraping the already drying icing off. You cursed under your breath. "This is gonna suck, because of you!"

"Because of me?"

"Yes, because of you, you—"

You hadn't a chance to finish before a gumdrop was launched at your face. You paused and looked up at him, wiping the sugary excess from your cheek.

"You wanna play that game?"

"Not a game, mate," he said, grabbing a handful of sprinkles. "Don't do anythin' you'll live to regret."

You quickly stand and grab a handful of sprinkles as well, ready to throw it at him, when his brother walked into the kitchen, seeing the two of you ready to launch red, white, and green sugary specs at each other.

Lemon blinked slowly seeing as the two of you had paused, glancing back at him.

"What in the hell are you two doing?" he blurted. "Fuckin' right mess, you've made. Who the fuck's gonna clean it all up?"

One glance was shared between the two of you. That's all it took for you to both throw the handfuls of sprinkles at Lemon, practically chasing him out of the kitchen, yelling about how he was not gonna be the one to clean up the fuckin' gingerbread trash house they made.

Of course, it wasn't the only bit of sprinkle thrown.

Tangerine grabbed another handful and grabbed you by the bicep, pulling you into his chest. The hand of sprinkles hovered precariously over your head.

"Don't. You. Dare."

Tangerine's eyes flashed with wicked glee. "What'll you do, Y/n? Ice me to death?"

"Tangerine, stop it!"

He let a few of the sprinkles spill from his hand and onto your head. He leaned forward and captured your lips in a kiss before he did the unthinkable—he let his hand down the front of your shirt and dropped the sprinkles from his hand.

You shrieked, and rightfully so, grabbing the icing from the table and pointing it at all, all the while sprinkles falling from the top you wore.

"You are so annoying!" you nearly yelled, squeezing the piping back so hard that it popped at the top. You began swatting him with the plastic, only to be laughed at by your assassin boyfriend.

He grabbed you by the hip, other hand grabbing your wrist that held the piping back.

"I am annoying? Who started this fuckin' thing?"

"You did!"

"I did, hm? You better watch your pretty little mouth, love," he said, eyes narrowing playfully.

You scoffed and let the piping back drop to the floor, still feeling sprinkles in your shirt. You watched him closely, slowly catching your breath.

"Why the fuck did you put them down my shirt?"

"I saw the chance, I took it," he said. "Was hopin' you would've taken it off by now," he cheekily grinned, capturing your lips with his once more.

By the kitchen entrance, Lemon passes, muttering under his breath: "Fucking gingerbread houses." Of course, it wasn't the only thing he said, but it was the only thing you heard as Tangerine pushed you against the table, ignoring the multitudes of gingerbread walls and candy decorations.

[auroracalisto]

i have an unhealthy obsession with men old enough to be my father and no, licensed physician, i do not want to talk about how it curtails with my lack of a father in my day-to-day life. thank you, next.

[auroracalisto]

“no one wants to read this” ok but you do. and that’s enough. and also wrong. i want to read it. hand it over

[auroracalisto]

don't judge a fic by its stats

[auroracalisto]

captain john is making me unreasonably angry. that is all. (i’m at beginning of episode 3–i have read the wiki so i know, i know)

ALRIGHT who was gonna tell me The Terror was absolutely incredible? may have to invest in some fanfic…

[auroracalisto]

nothing to lose — James Fitzjames and his wife do not often disagree, but with the prospect of an Arctic Expedition? His wife would rather he listen. Her dreams are harrowing, and even more so is the fact that her husband will not listen. He'll leave her within the week, no matter what. word count: 1.1k words a/n: okay sorry this is totally a fem!reader x james fitzjames. sorry about that. especially during pride month. i just,,, want this man. ANYWAY. i just kind of started writing after i remembered that people actually have and use crystal and james popped up in the very next paragraph. also, please do not question me. it's been ages since i wrote fanfic and ages since i have existed beyond the realm of work and recovery. should i keep adding to this? idk. maybe. i guess we will see.

The chilled crystal glass in her hand belonged to her mother—a remnant of the past that she has yet to run away from. It was a simple reminder of what has been, and what will be in the very near future.

Her conversation with James had proved unfruitful, only leading to a tense argument and the reminder that he was a Royal Navy officer before he was her husband. There was nothing she could do to stop that.

There was nothing she could do to get her husband to see it how she did—the fear, the nightmares that haunted her in the early morning hours. Dreams of pack ice and waiting out the winter in a ship filled with like-Naval men.

She stared at her glass, watching as the red wine swished around. Taking a sip, her eyes flickered over to James where he sat, poking at the pork loin on his plate. He hadn’t taken a proper look at her in nearly a day.

“Are you still mad?” she softly asked, hearing her voice before she truly realized that she was, indeed, the one who spoke first. She could have scolded herself had it not been for the subtle glance he gave.

“I am not mad,” he gruffly answered, letting his fork fall.

She blinked slowly—once, twice. She could see the metaphorical gears turning in his mind, the words he wanted to say abandoned within the shell of their marriage.

“I know I cannot stop you,” she began, only to be interrupted by James’ curt laugh.

“You will not stop me.”

“I know.”

James finally allowed his eyes to rest upon her, a frown evident on his lips. One that didn’t suit him—not well, anyway. He looked better when he smiled at her, when he was happy to call her his wife.

“You will come back, won’t you?” she asked, sitting the crystal down on the table, careful of her own plate which had barely been touched.

His brows furrowed at the question. “Of course I will come back,” he said. “It is an Expedition, not a death sentence.”

The words left him, but the tense nature of the conversation remained heavy in the air.

“An Expedition to the Arctic, no less,” his wife sighed, looking away from him. “I worry for you, James. I do not wish to stop you as I know this is your—your livelihood. But I cannot stop but worry.”

“I will be with Arctic scholars and veterans,” he said, scoffing softly. He stood up from the table, downing the rest of his own red wine. “You must realize at some point that I must go. This is not something I will try to escape from.”

I wish you would.

The words echo in her mind, but they do not leave her mouth. She took in a sharp breath, floundering for something—anything. But there was nothing she could say that she hadn’t already told him. There was nothing she could do but watch as her husband set sail for the Northwest Passage.

A hand rested on her shoulder; lips pressed against the top of her head.

“I will return to you, my love. You have my word.”

“Your word,” she repeated, tilting her head to look up at him. “I do not know if that will be enough.”

James grimaced, letting her go. He eyed her for a moment, shaking his head.

“I do this for you.”

“You do this for yourself.”

“Perhaps,” James said, jaw clenched. “I would appreciate it if my wife cared more for what I want than for what she fears will happen.”

“I do not fear something bad will happen,” she interjected. “I know.”

“There is nothing to know about this Expedition. It is the Arctic. Surely there is more to all of this than what you seem to know or even care to listen to.”

James stood up a bit straighter, brushing his coat with the palm of his hand.

“If you are truly so distraught by my leave, perhaps you should pray,” he said. “Pray for my return. But do not try to stop me.”

“I will not stop you,” she repeated.

“No, you will not.”

James eyed her warily for a moment. It ate him deep within to know his wife did not see the trip as a good thing. He would be well-known throughout all of England—his efforts to the Crown would be seen as revolutionary. The things he and the crew would set out to do would be one for the history books.

“I leave within the week, wife,” he said, eyes searching hers for something more than disdain. “Please do not treat me so poorly.”

“Must you truly leave?” she asked, voice smaller than before. There was no bite to her words—no argument between the lines. Genuine despair, if anything, laced her words, a bitter reminder that he was to leave her for God knows how long once the ships set sail.

“I must,” James said. He reached forward and placed a hand to her cheek. She leaned into his grasp, and he smiled, ever so lightly.

“But I cannot be gone forever. I will be back before you know it.”

“You give me your word?”

“I already have, my love,” he said. “You have had my word since the day we met.”

She gave a weak smile, knowing there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say. James would be on Erebus in less than six days. Yet, here she was, begging him not to go.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be all that bad. Perhaps her husband would find riches untold during his journey.

It took everything within her to hope for his speedy return. It took everything within her not to rave of the terror eating her up inside.

James pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Come, now. Let us retire. We have a busy day tomorrow, and you know it.”

He held his hand out for her, which she took moments after. He helped her to her feet, a hand moving to the base of her spine.

“I promise you; I will be as careful as I possibly can,” he said, leading her away from the dinner table. The maid would come in soon enough to clean it up—neither had to worry about it. He led her to their bedchambers, letting go of her hand only to open the door.

The room was dark and quiet, the opposite of the turmoil within his wife’s mind. But she says nothing more, no argument and no begging.

He would go, regardless of what she wanted. He would go where so few had been before.

He was a revolutionary—he was… a prideful man with nothing to lose.

[auroracalisto]

ALRIGHT who was gonna tell me The Terror was absolutely incredible? may have to invest in some fanfic…

[auroracalisto]

People are like “it’s so beautiful no clouds at all” it could use a little clouds if I had to be honest.

[auroracalisto]

The most human thing a character can do is contradict themselves.

The cynic who still carries a childhood stuffed animal.

The liar who craves honesty.

The overthinker who makes reckless decisions.

The heartbreaker who believes in soulmates.

The pacifist who holds lifelong grudges.

The tough guy who cries during old movies.

The thrill-seeker who's terrified of commitment.

The grump who’s unfailingly polite to waitstaff.

People aren’t consistent. Your characters shouldn’t be either.

[auroracalisto]

i recently rewatched x-men (like a month ago but who’s counting) and i’ve had two drafts sitting in my saved for weeks now. maybe once i get some time to myself ill actually get to writing them. 💔