maaeveeee

[maaeveeee]

[maaeveeee]

Hi guys!! I decided to reread my bridgerton fanfics and.. I hate them??

I will be rewriting them soon

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 & 𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐄.

Summary: Clint Barton, Matt Murdock and Bucky Barnes do the trending challenge of baking something when one of them is blind, deaf, and mute!

Author’s note: This is unusual, this is weird and kind of cringe. Enjoy!

Credits: I got the idea from a this tiktok posted by @missusmaximoff (go follow them)

The Avengers' kitchen had seen its share of destruction—Thor had previously destroyed the fridge over a protein shake missing from it,

the curtains had previously been set alight when Tony's "self-cooking" robot chef short—circuited—but the extent of destruction that met their eyes this day was different.

Flour had covered all the surfaces like new snow, a melted pat of butter had made a shiny, greasy patch of a puddle on the floor which seemed to glare belligerently, and one solitary egg had given up the ghost, splattering beside the sink with a dismal splat.

The counters were a war zone of overturned ingredients, the sink was filled with sticky measuring cups, and the oven door hung open, as if resigned to its fate.

Three of the toughest heroes stood at the epicenter of this disaster: Clint Barton, Matt Murdock, and Bucky Barnes, both of them wearing a ridiculous—looking apron in opposition to their battle—hardened physiques.

Clint's was a dark gray one with a cartoon pizza wedge and the words "Dough Not Mess With Me" barely legible.

Matt's was a plain black one he'd clearly grabbed from the kitchen, though it had a light covering of flour over it.

Bucky's was a garish, ugly yellow with "Grill Sergeant" in large letters, which would have been funny if he wasn't shooting withering stares at everything in the room.

Tony Stark had forced them all onto this worst—of—decades team—building activity: baking a cake under conditions one couldn't hear, couldn't see, and couldn't speak.

A video in a corner of the room captured every second, because of course Tony wanted to immortalize their misery.

Clint, the one playing the part of the "deaf" one, had his hearing aids out and was yelling loudly enough to rattle the windows.

"WHAT? TWO CUPS FLOUR OR TWO POUNDS?" he yelled, holding a sack of flour as if it were a live hand grenade.

The voice echoed off the metal kitchen equipment, causing a tottering tower of pots to rock eerily.

Before anyone could stop him, the sack burst open, spewing a cloud of flour like a smoke bomb over the countertop.

Clint coughed and covered the face with a hand, not hearing the devastation he'd caused. "I'LL JUST USE IT ALL!" he declared, pouring the rest of the flour from the sack into a mixing bowl with the delicacy of a demolition team, sprinkling more powder onto the countertop to mix with the puddle of butter to form a hazardous slick.

Matt, the "blind" one (which, well, he already was), tilted his head, his heightened sense racing to keep abreast with the chaos.

“Clint, I'm not reading the measurings, but I can scent you using too much flour. Stop it!" he shouted, a knife's edge of frustration in his voice as he waved an arm.

His errant hand knocked a bottle of vanilla extract off the countertop, which hit the tiles and shattered. The sweet, whisky—like scent rose up, mixing with the cloud of the flour to become a head—reeling cloud.

Matt stood there unmoving, his radar picking up the tiny skitter of glass shards across the tiles. "Did I just destroy something?" he asked, holding up a sneeze as the vanilla filled the air.

The "silent" Bucky couldn't scream his increasing frustration, so he channeled it in the form of enraged silence.

His vibranium arm hissed with every brusque movement, the sound a low, ominous hum that cut through kitchen chaos.

He grabbed a blank whiteboard that had been left out for them and scrawled with furious intensity: YOU'RE BOTH IDIOTS.

He stood there, holding it aloft with an eyes—scorching glare, the yellow apron not diminishing the danger in his gaze.

When that didn't get the response he wanted, he grasped a wooden spoon and started banging it off the countertop, the staccato tapping sharp and insistent, as if he was tattooing an SOS in Morse.

The noise made a nearby container of sugar shudder, in danger of becoming the latest casualty on the growing pile of them on the floor.

Clint, not realizing the world yet, completely misread Bucky's pounding. "OH, YOU WANT ME TO MIX IT? ON IT!" he bellowed, grabbing the bowl of flour and stirring with a wooden spoon as if he tried to dig a trench.

His aggressive stirring sent globules of floury paste swirling through the air, which slapped Matt's shoulder with a wet splat.

Matt sprang back, brushing it off and bracing himself as the paste smeared across the black apron. "Clint, I'm sensing the destruction you're causing! You're going to bury us under dough!" he exclaimed, shaking his head and knocking a spatula off the countertop by accident. The spatula landed with a thud.

The recipe called for three eggs, which would have been a snap, only nothing was a snap in this kitchen of horrors.

Matt used sense to find the eggs, extending a firm hand. His radar was befuddled by the cloud of flour and lingering aroma of vanilla, and he grabbed a lemon from a bowl of fruit.

“Got one!" he declared, cracking the lemon into the bowl with a reassuring nod. The citrus juice splattered onto the flour mixture, colorising it an ugly, sickly yellow that looked poisonous rather than cake batter.

Bucky's jaw dropped, and he scribbled the following onto the whiteboard: THAT'S A LEMON, MURDOCK. Three times he underlined it, then pointed to the bowl with a look that screamed, You are serious, are you?

Clint, blissfully unaware of the lemon disaster, decided it was time to "up his game." He grabbed the bowl of lemon goo and stirred even harder, turning the mixture into a glue—like, soggy slush that looked like something from a swamp.

One spoonful splattered off his spoon onto Bucky's chest, spreading down the yellow apron and leaving a streak of lemony goo.

Bucky swiped it with his finger, tasted it, and gagged immediately, spitting into the soapy water in the sink as if he'd been betrayed.

He grabbed the whiteboard and scrawled: THIS TASTES LIKE PAIN. He hurled the board across the room, where it hit the wall and splashed with a sad plop into the soapy water in the sink.

Matt, desperate to fix their precarious disaster, decided that the batter needed more dry ingredients to "balance out" the recipe. His now—perplexed senses led him to a can of cocoa powder instead of flour. "We need something to soak this up!" he declared, pouring out half the can into the bowl with a firm nod.

A chocolate cloud burst, dusting the three of them with a light brown dust that made the kitchen look like the scene of a chocolate factory meltdown.

Matt coughed, brushing the chocolate from his face and licking the cocoa from the edges of his mouth. "That's. not flour. Did I make this a chocolate—lemon cake?" he asked, aghast in confusion halfway across the room.

Chocolate dust and lemon goo now blanketed Bucky, as though he'd passed through a battlefield made of dessert. He grabbed a rolling pin and started thumping it onto the countertop, the sound angry and loud, as though he was calling for attention—or perhaps just releasing tension.

The thumping made a pile of dishes shudder, one sliding over the edge and landing with a smack on the countertop.

Clint, still not hearing anything, considered the thumping an invitation to participate. "WE'RE MAKING NOISE NOW? I'M IN!" he bellowed, grabbing a ladle and a pot and clashing them together as if he was leading a parade for one.

The commotion was so loud, Natasha Romanoff was drawn to the kitchen by it, where she leant against the doorway, arms folded, and watched the chaos.

"What is this, a demolition derby or a bake—off?" Natasha teased, sidestepping a stray glob of chocolate—lemon goop.

Clint, who hadn't heard her, shouted back, “WHAT? ARE WE DONE? IT'S A CATASTROPHE!” He kept banging against the pot, spewing more flour into the air that Natasha brushed a hand across her face.

Matt, removing chocolate sauce from the face, tried to leap to the aid of a strip of dignity. "We're testing, Nat. It's… chocolate—lemon cake—may be a thing!" he hazarded, though the manner in which he said it made plain he didn't believe a word.

Bucky, losing patience, grabbed a fresh whiteboard off the counter and scrawled: GET ME OUT HERE.

He stood holding it with a look of utter desperation, now sporting a yellow apron smeared with chocolate, lemon juice, and flour so that he looked like a human arts and crafts project.

Natasha giggled, pulling a pouch of actual flour from a nearby rack and tossing it in their direction. "You're a mess all over. Don't kill anyone—or the kitchen, okay?" she said with a headshake and leaving them to their destruction, the sound of her laughter ringing down the hallway.

Trying to combine the new flour with the mix, Matt blindly groped, spilling it onto Clint's arm. "My bad!" he said, stepping back as Clint flung the flour off like a dog shaking water from a bath, showering it all over the place.

Clint, now a human statue covered in flour, scooped up a handful of the chocolate—lemon goo and flung it at Matt in retaliation.

Matt ducked, and the goo splattered against the wall and slid down with a slow ooze.

Bucky, seeing an opening, grabbed a whisk and started whipping the mixture with a fury, the splatters spewing out like he was accomplishing a frantic paint job in the kitchen.

One splatter hit the lens of the camera, covering it with goo and adding a gritty, war—zone look to the footage.

When, eventually, the oven timer beeped (which Clint didn't hear because, well, deaf), their "cake" was a misshapen, grubby brown monstrosity that resembled something pulled from a swamp.

The batter had chocolate streaks and lemony juice coursing through it, with clumps of unmixed flour floating like sad islands in a sea of despair.

It had a hint of lemony scent off it, and the burnt scent of the stuck—on cocoa.

Tony strolled in, hands in pockets, and looked at the destruction with a grin. "Well, chaps, you've made… the ultimate biohazard. I'm calling it 'The Avengers' Revenge Cake.' Maybe send it out to repel the next alien invasion," he said, poking the "cake" with a spoon.

It sloshed with a soggy plop, and a bubble burst across the surface, spewing out a cloud of lemony scent which made Tony jump back.

Clint put in his hearing aids, taking in the chaos at last. “Hold up, we were baking something? I thought we were just messing around!" he cried out, wiping at the flour covering his face and leaving streaks across it as though he'd had a battle with a water gun filled with wheat.

Matt groaned, ridding himself of chocolate smudges from his apron and shaking his head. "I'm not baking anymore.” he grumbled, flinging a sticky spoon against the side of the sink with a clang.

Bucky didn't write this time. He just scooped up a handful of the grayish mess and hurled it at Tony.

Tony dodged, laughing as the glob hit the wall and slid down with a slow, sad plop.

The kitchen was a disaster—flour on the ceiling, cocoa on the cabinets, lemon juice on the floor, and a lingering smell of burnt vanilla that would haunt the tower for weeks.

The camera had captured every second, and the internet would never let them live it down.

[maaeveeee]

"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

[maaeveeee]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍!

Pairing: Ao’nung x female oc

Summary: read to find out

Note before reading: english is not my first language, this will take long enough to finish, so please have patience.

Warnings: angst, violence, parental abandonmen, illness, mild gore, interracial relationship, mature themes & oc is my own creation.

Parts of the story:

Part 1 - coming soon.

[maaeveeee]

i want 50 avengers tower fanfics of the thunderbolts on my desk by morning do you hear me

[maaeveeee]

THE GOOD PLACE 4.09 | The Funeral to End All Funerals

[maaeveeee]

My baby boy, My husband, My boyfriend, Love of my life

[maaeveeee]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[maaeveeee]

I have a request for a bridgerton story, but part of me wants to write it , but I know I’ll never get to it. I also feel like I’d need multiple parts like a full story, which is too much to ask for. The curse of having ideas but never getting to write them 🫣. — 🫐🫖

I totally understand you and I’d love to help with your Bridgerton story!

No worries about it being too much—how about we start with you sharing your ideas with me so I could try to write them? Lemme know what you’re thinking! :)

[maaeveeee]

Am I the only one who’s like super annoyed over how Bucky has longer hair AGAIN?🫠

I loved his appearance in FATWS and wished he had stayed that way.

[maaeveeee]

Because you’re out of bridgerton ideas, does this you won’t take bridgerton requests?

Just because I'm out of ideas doesn't mean I'm not waiting for ideas to write about it :)

Feel free to request for more Bridgerton!

[maaeveeee]

I'm officially out of ideas for Bridgerton fanfics.

I will move forward to fill other masterlists :3

Requests are always open and I will write anything you ask for!(read the rules and info first before requesting!)

This is me btw. Talking to a wall.

[maaeveeee]

mᥲᥱ᥎ᥱ’s mᥲr᥎ᥱᥣ mᥲs𝗍ᥱrᥣіs𝗍 !

# 𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

The deaf, blind & mute

Waiting for requests !

[maaeveeee]

A huge thank you for all the support I’ve been recently getting!! You guys make my day :)

[maaeveeee]

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x oc!black!fem!

Warnings: none

Author’s note: I rewrote this but the plot is still the same

There were few things Anthony Bridgerton prided himself on more than his ability to assess a situation quickly, efficiently, and with the ruthless precision of a man who had spent the past ten years ensuring his family didn’t fall into absolute chaoswas

with this same precision that he now stood in the center of Lady Danbury’s salon, gazing across the sea of eligible young ladies like a general surveying the battlefield.

He had a mission. He had a list. And by God, he would be married by the end of the season.

He moved briskly from one cluster of ladies to the next, exchanging pleasantries, making mental notes.

Too timid. Too giggly. Frighteningly obsessed with swans. Passable, but mispronounced ‘Goethe’ and will therefore not do.

Then his gaze fell upon her.

Lady Evelina Marchand was not trying to get his attention. In fact, she looked determined to avoid it entirely, seated slightly apart from the crowd near a window, sipping tea like she had paid rent on that chair and fully intended to stay until the lease ended.

She was dressed in a gown of smoky gray, her hair artfully arranged but not overly fussy, and her expression unreadable—save for the slight arch of one perfectly unimpressed brow as she caught him staring.

Interesting.

He made his way over, purposeful as ever.

“Lady Evelina,” he greeted smoothly. “I’ve come to inform you of a decision.”

She did not rise. She did not simper. She did not blink, even as she slowly set her teacup down with surgical precision.

“Have you,” she said, as if this were the most exhausting news she’d heard all day. “Should I brace myself?”

Anthony allowed himself a small, confident smile—the one that usually got at least a blush, if not an outright curtsy.

“You are, by far, the most suitable candidate for Viscountess.”

A pause.

A long pause.

Evelina tilted her head slightly, like a cat observing an unusually loud bird.

“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re serious.”

Anthony’s smile faltered. “Yes. Quite.”

“Well,” she said, leaning back into her chair with an air of amused dismay, “I suppose I should be flattered. I’ve never been selected with such military efficiency before.”

He frowned, a little thrown. “It’s not military—it’s logical. I’ve considered all options. You’re intelligent, and well－mannered, your family is of excellent standing, and you’re fluent in multiple languages. You were presented to the Queen without incident, which is more than can be said for half this room. You haven’t fainted, shouted, or attempted to flirt with my brother—which, frankly, sets you leagues ahead of the competition. I believe you are perfectly suited for the role.”

“The role,” she repeated, sipping her tea. “Of wife.”

“Of Viscountess,” he corrected. “There is a distinction.”

She set her cup down again, very slowly, and then—God help him—laughed.

Anthony blinked. He had, in his twenty－nine years, been rejected, mocked, and even once slapped (that had been a misunderstanding involving a fencing match, a very determined lady, and a bottle of champagne). But he had never been laughed at mid－proposal.

He narrowed his eyes. “What, precisely, do you find amusing?”

“You,” Evelina said brightly, utterly unbothered. “You’ve made a list, haven’t you? I can see it now. Written in that terrifyingly neat hand, probably organized by columns—traits, ratings, acceptable conversation topics—”

“There are no ratings,” he said indignantly, which was not a denial.

She beamed at him like she’d just caught him in a trap of his own making. “You’re trying to hire a wife.”

“I am seeking a suitable match.”

“You sound like you’re choosing wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper doesn’t argue,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, is that what you’re hoping for in a spouse?” she asked, eyes dancing. “Docility? Silence? A woman who won’t correct your Latin or point out when you’re being insufferable?”

“I am not insufferable.”

“You’re currently trying to logic your way into matrimony by interviewing women like they’re servants.”

“It’s hardly—” he paused. “It is a highly efficient process.”

She stood in one graceful motion, towering over him by at least one inch thanks to her heels and her complete lack of respect for his authority.

“Anthony,” she said, with the air of a woman speaking to a very stubborn child, “I am not going to marry you.”

He blinked. “You’re turning me down?”

“You didn’t even ask, my lord. You just… announced it. Like you’d chosen a new horse.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a horse?”

“Oh, forgive me. Was that your job?”

Anthony opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.

She smiled. “Good day, my lord.”

She walked off, leaving him standing by the tea tray, feeling something very unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

Annoyance.

Intrigue.

Maybe… both?

He wasn’t sure.

But what he did know, with absolute certainty, was this:

He was going to marry her.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Anthony sat at the breakfast table, jaw tight, spoon clinking aggressively against his teacup.

Benedict strolled in like a man who hadn’t been emotionally humiliated in public, whistling a little tune, coat slightly askew in that sort of way that made women sigh and Anthony want to commit light murder.

He took one look at his brother and grinned.

“Oh no,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Anthony snapped.

“The look of a man who has had his romantic overtures not only rejected, but mocked.”

Anthony inhaled sharply. “I was not rejected.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Benedict said, pouring himself tea with theatrical elegance. “You merely proposed a logical, emotionless union to Lady Evelina Marchand, who then laughed in your face in front of half the ton.”

“It was not a proposal.”

“It was certainly not romantic,” Eloise added, entering the room like a gust of wind, hair half up, holding a book with the spine cracked so far back it was practically a pamphlet. “You might as well have handed her a contract.”

Anthony set his cup down with such force it clinked ominously. “I simply explained why we were compatible. There’s nothing wrong with approaching marriage with maturity and rational thought.”

“Yes,” Benedict said, leaning back, “because nothing sets a lady’s heart aflame like being told she’s statistically optimal.” tv

Eloise flopped into the nearest chair. “Did you even ask her if she wanted to be married at all?”

“She’s at the marriage events,” Anthony said. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she said, resting her chin in her hand with an expression of delighted pity. “You really do think women exist only to be chosen, don’t you?”

“I do not—”

“Does your list of qualifications include ‘has her own opinions’ or was that under the ‘to be discouraged’ column?” Benedict asked.

Anthony glared. “It is not a literal list.”

Eloise and Benedict shared a look.

“She compared herself to a horse,” Anthony muttered.

“And you were surprised she didn’t curtsy afterward?” Benedict said, looking as though he might genuinely expire from glee. “Oh, this is better than the time Colin got caught climbing out of that opera singer’s window and sprained his ankle.”

“At least that wasn’t in the paper,” Anthony growled.

“You’re right,” Eloise said with mock solemnity. “This is far worse. This happened in Lady Danbury’s drawing room. The woman remembers everything. There’ll be a ballad by next Tuesday.”

Anthony stood abruptly. “I’m going riding.”

“To chase her down again?” Benedict said helpfully. “Might I suggest flowers this time? Or perhaps a hand－delivered spreadsheet?”

Anthony gave them both one last scathing look and swept out of the room.

There was a long pause.

Then Benedict leaned toward Eloise. “He’s going to do something incredibly stupid, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Later that afternoon in Eloise’s Room, She was writing a letter to Penelope (a very dramatic one, titled “The Patriarchy Continues To Offend Me”) when Hyacinth knocked and stuck her head in.

“Eloise,” she said, “Anthony just asked me if Lady Marchand likes dogs.”

Eloise blinked. “Why?”

“He said he’s going to ‘accidentally’ run into her at the park.”

“With a dog?”

“With two dogs.”

Eloise grinned slowly, wickedly. “Do you think we have time to borrow Newton from the Featheringtons?”

Meanwhile, at Hyde Park Anthony stood beside two borrowed dogs—one of whom had clearly never been on a leash, and the other of whom was currently chewing on his bootlace—with the air of a man deeply regretting several life decisions.

He was wearing his best coat. His hair was perfect.

And then, as if summoned by Fate or the Devil himself, Lady Evelina Marchand appeared on the path.

She was arm in arm with another lady, laughing at something utterly unrelated to him (which offended him slightly), and looking so infuriatingly radiant that Anthony nearly tripped over the smaller dog.

She spotted him immediately. Her expression changed not at all.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said as they drew closer. “Are those… your dogs?

“Yes,” he lied, with the confidence of a man who had absolutely never owned a dog in his life.

She looked down at the one attempting to eat a stick three times its size. “They seem… spirited.”

“They are very well－trained.”

At that exact moment, the larger dog lunged forward, tangled the leash around Anthony’s legs, and sent him stumbling backwards into a hedge.

There was silence.

Then—of course—Evelina burst out laughing.

“Are you trying to impress me,” she asked, voice breathless with mirth, “or is this just a bonus?”

Anthony stood, brushing leaves from his coat with all the rage and dignity of a man who had been bested, again, by a woman with a sharp tongue and unreasonably good cheekbones.

“I was merely out walking,” he said tightly.

“Of course you were,” she said. “In full dress coat. With unfamiliar dogs. At precisely the hour I frequent this path.”

“…Coincidence,” he muttered.

Her smile was maddening. “Well. I’ll leave you to your coincidence, then.”

She curtsied, impossibly graceful, and walked away.

The smaller dog immediately attempted to follow her.

Anthony sighed. “Yes, I know. She’s charming. Shut up.”

The following afternoon, Lady Evelina Marchand sat beneath the shade of a great chestnut tree in the gardens of the Bridgerton estate—by invitation, to her mild surprise.

The request had been delivered on crisp stationery with Viscount Bridgerton’s infuriatingly exact signature, and a line so succinct, it could only have been his:

A matter of some importance. — A.

She’d considered ignoring it. She should have. And yet, curiosity—and an inconvenient flutter in her stomach—had won out.

And so here she was. Alone. Waiting.

Of course he was late.

She did not have to wait long.

Anthony appeared with all the subtlety of a man who had rehearsed this in the mirror and yet still managed to look vaguely annoyed with himself.

He wore no cravat, his hair a little mussed, as though he’d attempted to appear casual and ended up looking handsomer for it, damn him.

“Lady Evelina,” he said, voice measured, as he approached.

“My lord,” she returned, polite as ever, though her eyes sparkled faintly. “I must admit, I’m surprised you summoned me. I half－expected you to dispatch a solicitor.”

Anthony exhaled slowly, clearly preparing himself. “I owe you an apology.”

That brought her eyebrows up. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said, with all the dignity of a man being stabbed politely in the pride. “For my earlier… proposition. I may have approached it with the finesse of a banker inspecting livestock.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Evelina said, utterly straight－faced. “There was some romance. You did mention my French.”

Anthony gave her a look. “I meant what I said. About your merits. But I realize now that I failed to… account for your spirit.”

“My spirit,” she echoed, amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“You are… exceedingly difficult.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t—” He exhaled again. “It shouldn’t be a compliment.”

“But it is,” she said gently. “Especially coming from you.”

They stood there in silence, the wind teasing at the leaves above.

“I’m not used to being refused,” he said after a beat.

“I’d imagine not.”

“I’m not used to being laughed at, either.”

“That,” she said with a grin, “you rather deserved.”

He looked away, then back, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Less pride. More… searching.

“You intrigue me, Evelina.”

It was the first time he’d said her name aloud.

She blinked. Then tilted her head slightly, like she was weighing something delicate. “Because I said no?”

“No,” he said quickly, then hesitated. “At first, perhaps. But now—”

He stopped himself. Anthony Bridgerton, master of speeches, commander of social maneuvering, rendered speechless.

Evelina stepped closer, just a fraction. “You’re very serious,” she said, softly. “So terribly proper when it suits you. And yet I suspect you’re not half as composed as you pretend.”

He met her gaze squarely. “I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” she said gently. “You think love is dangerous. That wanting someone too much is a liability.”

He froze.

“And now you’ve met someone who won’t agree to be married out of logic, and it’s turned your entire strategy upside down.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” she said, and this time her voice was quieter. “You want a life you can control. A future that won’t surprise you. But Anthony—what makes you think marriage to someone like me would ever be… predictable?”

There it was again. His name, this time from her mouth.

It did something to him.

He stepped closer. “You think I can’t handle being surprised?”

“I think it terrifies you,” she said, standing her ground. “You’re not after a wife. You’re after a guarantee. And I’m afraid I offer none.”

Anthony looked at her then—not just looked, but saw her. Her spine straight, her eyes steady, her lips parted slightly as if daring him to argue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Would you allow me to court you?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Evelina’s eyes searched his. “Court me?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Properly. Not with lists. Or logic. Or dogs.”

A beat.

“Just… me.”

Evelina exhaled. “What happened to efficient decision－making?”

“I’m realizing it’s a rather lonely sport.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable for once.

Then—finally—she smiled. “You may court me. On one condition.”

His voice was low. “Anything.”

“No lists.”

He smiled, then. Truly. “No lists.”

[maaeveeee]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: none, just pure fluff

The gardens of Aubrey Hall were in full bloom, and yet Benedict Bridgerton found himself utterly unmoved by roses.

A dozen young ladies fluttered about the main lawn, dressed in spring’s best pastels, their laughter floating through the air like birdsong.

Footmen carried lemonade. A quartet played something light and lovely. Children tossed hoops in the distance.

It was all perfectly charming.

And terribly dull.

He had lasted longer than usual, even managing polite conversation with three mothers, two debutantes, and one lady whose name he’d already forgotten. That was enough social heroism for one day.

Benedict excused himself with a smile, slipped through a break in the hedges, and headed toward the quieter part of the grounds—the part his family rarely fussed over. It was wilder there. Less sculpted.

Trees were allowed to grow as they pleased. Grass danced past ankle height. Daisies had claimed the edges of the path with gentle rebellion.

He preferred it.

Tucked under his arm was his sketchbook. In his hand, a pencil. In his chest, a familiar ache that always appeared this time of year—the pull to create something, anything, that wasn’t bound in manners and expectations.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was seated on a worn stone bench beneath an old elm tree, set slightly apart from the trimmed lawn and its polite society.

A book rested open in her lap, though her eyes weren’t on the page. Instead, she looked upward—at the canopy of branches above, the fractured sunlight, something only she could see. Her expression was soft. Thoughtful. Entirely unguarded.

He froze.

He didn’t recognize her.

That wasn’t unusual—plenty of guests had arrived with cousins and distant relations—but this girl didn’t fit into the world he’d just escaped.

There was no fan in her hand, no calculated posture. Her gown was buttercream yellow, simple but lovely. Her gloves were crumpled beside her, forgotten.

Naturally, that made it impossible not to notice her.

Benedict lowered himself onto a patch of grass several feet away, using the wide trunk of another tree as cover. He opened his sketchbook, set pencil to paper, and began.

She became lines first. The arch of her neck. The angle of her cheek. The downward curve of her lashes. Her posture was regal without effort. Her hair, though pinned, had wisps falling from it—sunlight catching on those strands like threads of gold.

He captured her mid－thought, gaze tilted toward the sky. There was something curious about her stillness—an air of waiting, or watching, or both.

Benedict wasn’t sure how long he sketched. Time blurred when he drew. He added shading to her collarbone, the suggestion of a breeze tugging at her hem.

Then—she looked up.

His pencil stilled.

Their eyes met across the space between them, and Benedict braced for it—for the wide－eyed offense, the indignant flush, the scolding.

Instead, she smiled.

Not coyly. Not flirtatiously. Just… knowingly.

And then she looked away.

He blinked, stunned.

She’d seen him. And she didn’t mind.

Later, the garden grew quieter as the guests were called inside for music and dancing. A few stragglers lingered, but the performance of the day was done. The sun slipped lower, gilding the trees in honey. Still, she didn’t move.

And neither did he.

When she finally stood, Benedict pretended to study his sketchbook. He wasn’t ready for the spell to break.

But she walked toward him.

He looked up, startled. She approached with graceful purpose, hands folded at her waist. Up close, he could see that her necklace was a small locket, and her gloves—still held loosely—were embroidered with tiny flowers.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. Her voice was warm, clear. A touch amused.

“You know me,” he said, finding his footing. “That hardly seems fair. I was hoping to sketch you anonymously.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

His mouth twitched. “Ah. So I’ve been caught.”

She tilted her head, her eyes flicking briefly to the edge of the page still visible in his lap. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You should,” he said honestly. “But I imagine you’re too clever for that.”

That drew a quiet laugh. “Maybe.”

She reached into the small reticule at her side and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

“For you.”

He took it without question. Their fingers brushed.

“Is this a calling card?”

“A fair exchange,” she said, turning to leave. “Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton.”

And just like that, she was gone—moving with unhurried elegance through the tall grass, back toward the house, her yellow gown catching the dying light.

Benedict looked down at the parchment in his hand.

He opened it.

Inside was a sketch.

Of him.

Seated under the elm, sketchpad in hand, brows furrowed in focus. She had caught him mid－thought, his posture relaxed but alert, pencil to paper, a hint of concentration at the corners of his mouth.

It was excellent. Better than excellent.

And beneath it, written in delicate script:

“It seems we’ve both been watching.”

Benedict’s breath caught. He laughed, low and disbelieving.

He folded the drawing and placed it carefully between the pages of his own sketchbook.

Later that night, as candlelight shimmered off crystal chandeliers and violins spun their golden melodies into the corners of Aubrey Hall, Benedict stood just beyond the ballroom’s threshold, eyes searching the crowd.

He didn’t see her at first.

Then—there.

She stood beneath the glow of a candlelit sconce, half－shadowed, watching the dance floor as if she were observing a painting rather than waiting for an invitation to step into it.

She wore a pale lilac gown now, the color of twilight, and her hair had been re－pinned with something small and silver at the crown. Her locket still hung at her throat. Her expression—serene, curious—hadn’t changed.

Benedict’s steps carried him forward before he’d even decided to move.

She noticed him approaching and smiled before he spoke, as though she’d expected him all along.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said softly, offering his hand.

“I thought you didn’t enjoy balls,” she teased, placing her hand in his.

“I don’t,” he replied. “But this evening has given me reason to reconsider.”

They stepped onto the floor as the music changed—something gentle and slow, the kind of song that asked for no words.

They danced for a full minute in silence. Just movement. Just breath. Just the hum of something unspoken between them.

Then—his voice, just above a whisper:

“You never told me your name.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” she said, her gaze lifting to meet his.

“Would you?”

She smiled—not shy, not bold, just the sort of smile a woman gives when she already knows the answer.

“Lady Evanthe Calista Lysandell.”

Benedict blinked. “Evanthe… Calista… Lysandell.”

“You look overwhelmed,” she teased, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“I just wasn’t prepared,” he said honestly.

She laughed then, soft and musical. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers. “It suits you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly in his, their dance forgotten, the music fading into background.

And there, in the glow of a thousand candles, beneath a name he could barely pronounce but would never forget, Benedict Bridgerton smiled.

Because Lady Evanthe Calista Lysandell wasn’t just a name.