#deep condolences

[pearwaldorf]

This is some cold-ass shit. As President, Biden has to say something. But he can say it in a way that says nothing and everything.

I want to shake the hand of the staffer that wrote this because this is absolutely fucking superb.

I know we (in general but especially neuroatypicals) prefer things to be clear and straightforward. But occasionally, you can do things in full view of the world like this. And that's kind of incredible.

[6kuros]

trying to draw as much as i can before my grind starts again

[siya-sayani]

Imagine giving exams right after u have had your games period..bhaiiii those red faces with hair drenched in sweat-tap water combo. That sweat running down your forearms slipping on your sheet. Ommggg torture lol 😭😭😭😭

[annachum]

We've gotten to a point where Asterix, Prince of Egypt, Jodha Akbar, Empress of China series and several other great historical fiction franchises are more ' historically accurate ' than Cleopatra Netflix Docuseries

How sad.

My deep condolences to Egyptians and Greeks all over by the way.

I hope you all are okay.

[themiddlemutt]

I am deeply sorry for each family that received bad news about the Titan yesterday. It is always sad to hear about infrastructure or technology malfunctioning and harming people.

I hope OceanGate- if they are to restart these tours- updates their safety protocols and submarines. Large institutions such as NOAA and JAMSTEC have piloted hundreds if not thousands of dives for deep sea research and collection. Look to the experts to make your necessary changes.

I truly hope this never happens again. And to everyone that says the lives of millionaires/billionaires is not a big loss, you need to remember that they were human beings with memories and passions and families that will dearly miss them. No one deserves to die like this.

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/718796278743678976/beatingheart-bride-theheadlessgroom

@beatingheart-bride

“​O-Oh, it’s like anything, really,” he shrugged affably with a smile-he was unused to being asked about his art, so this question briefly caught him off-guard as he looked up to face her, giving a little shrug as he said, “Y-You know, practice makes perfect and all!”

He’d been drawing for a lot of years: Although he was never formally taught, in some ways, Randall picked up this skill from his father, who was a casual sketch artist himself, having come to the States with a sketchbook in one pocket and a guidebook to the English in the other, oftentimes sketching his surroundings when he wasn’t practicing a new language and, later on, sketching his wife and son when he had a free moment. When Randall was a boy, and Wilhelm was in recovery, he would sometimes sketch things (at least, when the shakes had stopped) between sips of iced tea, and so, Randall himself found himself following in his footsteps, first drawing little pictures in the dirt with a stick, before graduating to sketchbooks of his own the older he got. He still had some of his old ones kicking around in his room, and still carried one with him to work on between customers.

As for painting, well, that was a bit more of a recent thing: He’d managed to save up for a paint set (a relatively cheap one, but he didn’t mind), and had been practicing off and on during the weekends; he wasn’t exactly sure how good he was at it, honestly, but Emily seemed to like it, and that was enough for him.

After giving it a moment of thought, he then looked to her with a smile, asking, “W-Would you like to give it a try?”

[mediculling]

one of me. is more. +han enough.

[yourfaveisamuppet]

that post about saying "im sorry" as condolences is going to be the death of me

[shidouryusm]

Maybe if you wait it out for a bit itll show up? that's happens withmy posts somtiems

I feel like since the fic is smut, they caught some words and now Im grounded in tumblr LOL. I'm gonna reword some words and not add too description in the contents. let's see if it works then </3

[the-modern-typewriter]

Imagine a villain straight refusing to fight another member of the Hero Team just cuz his hero archnemesis is not present

"Where are they?"

"Oh, not again." The protagonist could feel a headache coming on. "Look-"

"-Are they hurt?" The villain's eyes went dark and dangerous. "Who hurt them?"

"They're fine! Oh my god."

"Then where are they?"

The protagonist definitely had a headache. "It's their day off."

"They didn't tell me they had the day off. What's wrong?"

The really concerning part was that the hero probably would tell the villain which days they were working and which they weren't. The two of them were as bad as each other! The hero was going to be unbearable when they came back and found out that the team had fought the villain without them.

"Can we just get this over with?" the protagonist tried.

"No."

The protagonist sighed. They pinched the bridge of their nose and took a few deep breaths. "Okay," they said slowly. "But you realise I'm still going to have confiscate your nightmare robot."

"It's not for you. And don't think I didn't notice you dodging the question!"

The protagonist considered their options; lies, truth, everything in between.

The villain's nightmare robot hunkered down a little more pointedly in the middle of the bridge. Several people honked their horns. It was, honestly, embarrassing for everyone involved at that point.

"Their grandma died."

"Oh no." The villain's whole face softened. "Grandma L or Grandma P?"

Of course he knew the hero's grandparents. Of course he did. "Look, about the robot-"

"-I'll reschedule," the villain said.

"I can't let you keep the robot. My boss would have my head."

"That sounds like a 'you' problem. I have flowers to send."

The protagonist's eye twitched. "If you try and walk away with it-"

"-Do you really want to traumatize this entire bridge of innocent civilians?"

"I'm sure they're traumatized having to listen to you two idiots on a weekly basis."

"I'm taking the robot. When are they back?"

"They haven't said," the protagonist said, through gritted teeth. "As you know-"

"-They'll be doing all the funeral arrangements. Yeah. You know what, give me their number. I'll text them."

"I'm not giving you their number."

"Why not?"

"It's against policy."

"I'd like to express my condolences."

The protagonist looked them dead in the face. "Mm. That sounds like a 'you' problem. I have a robot to confiscate."

The robot slammed a fist into the bridge. It wobbled precariously.

The protagonist raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. They folded their arms across their chest.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" the villain snarled.

"I hate you too, don't worry."

"I should kill you."

"They'd have so much paperwork when they got back from the funeral. It would really improve their month, you killing me."

They ended up glaring at each other.

"If I give you the bloody stupid robot, will you give me their number?"

The protagonist smiled sweetly. "That's the only smart thing I've ever heard you say."

Everyone, generally, preferred it when the hero was around.

They all made sure it didn't happen again.

[bluerosefox]

Gray and Graysons

One of the Bats has a secret. Something they never told to the others.

They were so very young but they have memories of a sibling, so small and tiny. They remember the burst of warmth they had in their heart when they held the tiny baby for just a moment.

But they weren’t allowed to keep them, their family couldn’t raise them. Money was tight, just enough for three but not for four, despite their shows always bringing in a crowd it was getting harder and harder for the world to be wowed by them in the new age and their sibling was too small and tiny and needed to be cared in a single place than for them to be on the road. Their lifestyle was not good for his tiny sibling apparently.

They had to watch as their parents gave his sibling away to people in suits, them promising to give his baby brother to a loving family when they find a ‘home’ for him. He watched his parents try to be strong only for his mother to break down once the car left down the road, his father holding her and apologizing, the rest of the circus troupe all silently coming over to give the heartbroken family condolences.

Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson had tears running down his face when he last saw his baby brother.

A brother he got to name before he had to be given away.

Daniel ‘Danny’ Grayson.

-x-x-

Dick never told the others. If anyone dug deep into his past they might find his brother’s birth records maybe, if someone got around to digitizing the paperwork for him but given the fact he was placed in the US childcare systems just a few days after his birth and the fact that Dick was still pretty young they most likely believed he didn’t remember his baby brother now. Not after so many years.

But they were wrong, Dick remembers. And he kept the secret close to his heart and memories.

And the only physical evidence he had was a single picture of him holding his brother, a smile on his tiny face towards their father who had taken the photo of them together. When he had lost his parents, lost most of the things that connected him to them, to his past in the circus that had been his whole life, had been taken from him in Gotham’s ruthless childcare system, he held on tight to the picture in secret. Hid it away from anyone trying to rip it from him, hid it from Bruce when the man took him in days later, hid it from Alfred despite how gentle the butler was towards him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t risk losing his photo at the time, he hadn’t trusted anyone and by the time he did he didn’t have the heart to reveal it.

So yes, the existence of his baby brother Danny was his most guarded and best kept secret.

So that’s why Dick, as Nightwing, nearly died from a heart attack when leaving a Justice League meeting he spotted a familiar face among one of the new engineers working in the Watchtower.

It was like seeing a young version of himself. Only, Dick could see that the young man was more than a copy of him, so much more than a clone. He held many traces of John Grayson but also had a bit more of Mary Grayson than Dick did. Small details that Dick foggely remembers taking note when he had held his baby brother.

“Hey, hurry up with that report Gray!” Shouted the head engineer from down the hall, his hand beckoning the young adult to come over.

“Coming! And boss, I told you Danny is fine!” Danny shouted back before hurriedly leaving a stunned Nightwing.

[party-hearses]

go ahead and cry, little girl

pairing: joel x f!reader (no use of y/n)

rating: explicit, MDNI 18+

word count: 2.4k

summary: daddy makes everything better.

warnings/tags: explicit smut, pwp, established relationship, softdom!joel, pre/no outbreak (up to you baby), brief mention of alcohol, daddy kink, pet names (baby, baby girl, little one, little girl), dacryphilia, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, size kink (big joel is big), overstimulation, creampie. lmk if i’m forgetting anything!

a/n: i said i needed to have the feelings fucked out of me, right?

huge thank you to @bastardmandennis for letting me cry and be dramatic about this, and @nostalxgic for beta-ing, and always being excited about what i’m working on 🖤

You’re two cocktails deep when Joel’s keys turn in the lock.

Anxious muscles carry you to meet him at the door, the overhead lights in the entryway low, cloaking you in shadow.

It startles him, a sharp hiss spit from between his teeth when he nearly bowls you over.

“Shit, baby. Scared me.”

He snaps the door shut behind him, massive frame silhouetted by the broken rays of light coming through the distorted glass.

“Daddy,” you whine in response, fingers already tugging on the cuff on his jean jacket, coaxing it off him.

It’s all he needs to hear.

Immediately, the jacket is on the floor, forgotten, and his hands are cradling your face tenderly.

“You need daddy?” he soothes, lips ghosting your own. You nod, doe-eyes wide and swimming with tears, bottom lip quivering in a pout.

“Baby…” he presses his mouth to yours hungrily, swallowing your pathetic hiccups, letting the way the tip of his tongue slides along the line of your lip finish his sentence. He opens you up for him, licking into you with a different kind of urgency, his tongue massaging hot against your own.

Open palms follow, slipping over the the sensitive flesh of your throat, thumbs tracing crescent moons into your jugular.

Your blood hums under his touch — blooms hot across the plane of your chest, thickens with anticipation. It would be too much, if it wasn’t exactly enough. If you didn’t need it.

His hands fall further, reassuring and insistent, until he’s scooping you up against him, one hand curved against the swell of your ass, fingertips edged just under the lace trim of your panties, the other splayed flat at the small of your back. You cling to him, arms locked around the heft of his neck, face nuzzled into the slope of his shoulder.

“Did my sweet baby have a bad day?” he mumbles into your hair, footfalls heavy in the narrow emptiness of the hallway leading to your bedroom.

You sniffle in response, tears still pinching at the backs of your eyes. He hums a condolence, a promise to make it better, into the delicate shell of your ear.

His arms tighten around you as he drops his body to the bed, positioning you securely in his lap. Absentmindedly, you grind down against him, desperate for him to have you now. To feel only him.

But you know he’ll take his time, given the way the hand on your back crawls up your spine to cradle the base of your skull in its palm. He laces his fingers in the roots of your hair, tugging just enough to tip your head back and meet your gaze.

Crystalline tears stream down the round of your cheeks, the torrid relief of finally being in Joel’s arms overwhelming. A small smile plays across his features when he sees them, eyes a cavernous, pooling black. He brings your face to his mouth, snaking his tongue out to catch the falling drops.

“You’re so pretty when you cry, baby girl.”

You whimper, writhing against his hold — a feeble attempt to roll your hips against his hard length eliciting a pitiful laugh from him.

“No, little one. You know the rules. Let daddy take care of you.”

Another hiccup, more tears, and a supplicant nod follow his command. He purrs against you, hand roaming around the gentle curve of your thigh to your center, where his thumb strokes soft lines across your throbbing clit. A reward for your capitulation.

You squirm under his ministrations, a dark pool of slick soaked across the material of your panties. His pressure remains consistent; practically feather-light and sumptuously tortuous.

The combination of soft lace and calloused skin drives you wild — makes you cant your hips forward, chasing his touch. Even though you know better.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, tsk tsk, before skimming his other hand down the span of your arm to capture both your wrists in one massive palm behind your back. The muscles in your thighs quiver, knees dug into the bed on either side of him, overextended from the precarious act of balancing on his lap.

You flex your arms against his grasp, wiggling your ass for some kind of leverage. His grip only tightens — pushes forward to arch your body towards him, to press your chest flush to his.

“Little girl…” it’s a warning, his voice dripping as wet as your tears against the dip of your collarbone.

All you can manage is a broken mewl in the shape of his name, letters italicized and underlined with earnest desire. You know it’s exactly what he wants — to break you open completely, flesh and muscle and bone softened into something perfect and pliant.

“Need you, daddy. Need you,” you plead quietly.

His thumb strokes faster, harder. The zipper of his jeans bites into the place your thigh meets your pelvis, the sting of it sending shivers through you when he raises his hips.

“Say please, baby. Ask me nice.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.

“Please, daddy.”

He hums in pleased approval, pausing to skate the angle of his nose against the cut of your jaw.

“Let me undress you, little one.” He tugs your arms back, cupping your ass to steady you as you straighten your legs to shakily stand.

You watch the pull of his biceps through half-lidded eyes as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your panties, laving tender kisses across your belly as he eases them down to your ankles. Your fingers clutch his disheveled curls for balance as he does, every graze of his skin against yours dizzying.

His hands slide back up your calves and thighs, languorous and reverent, beard scratching sinful against your softness. The clench of your cunt is persistent, slick dripping down the flesh of your thighs without your panties to stop it.

Your lashes flutter closed, bitten lips popping open as you let the feel of him consume you. It’s the sweep of his fingers that you focus on as they climb up, up, up, bypassing the place you need his touch most, to delve below your t-shirt.

He cups the fullness of your tits there, swiping his thumbs across your sensitive nipples before rolling them to taut peaks between his deft fingers. Sparks of pleasurepain wind through you when he pinches and pulls at them, soft moans decorating the space between your bodies.

The shirt comes off, then, his need growing to mirror your own, his touch more urgent — more desperate. His mouth finds your nipples immediately, sucking each into his mouth to swirl his tongue around the tight buds one at a time.

You tug at his curls gently, heat curving through your limbs. You’re soaked, cunt walls fluttering around nothing, head tipped back and chest heaving. Am I broken enough yet, daddy?

Pulling off your swollen nipple with a pop, he’s up and shucking his own clothing off as fast as you’ve ever seen him. It’s less than a minute before he’s got his arms wrapped around you, hauling your smaller body up the length of the bed to situate your dripping core directly over his mouth.

Your head swims, hands scrambling for purchase on the lip of the headboard before you’re even able to fully process the shift. He wastes no time in hooking his arms over your thighs, spreading you open above him, big brown eyes alight as they watch you flush and squirm.

He licks a broad stripe through your folds slowly, savoring the taste of you. He repeats the action, your fingernails digging divots into cheap wood with every lap. It’s only when you rock against his face rhythmically that he speeds up, pointed tongue flicking against your aching clit expertly. He circles it once, twice, three times before suctioning his lips around the bundle of nerves. The change in pressure makes you buck against him involuntarily, body trembling as he holds your firmly against his mouth.

It’s inescapable, but it’s everything you asked for.

Fingers pressing bruises into your thighs, he doesn’t let up licking figure eights into your folds, nudging his nose against the blinding ache of your clit.

“Daddy, daddy, daddyyy,” you cry, the tense stretch of your muscles ready to snap.

“I know, baby girl, I know,” he coos in response, words tangled by his tongue’s exploration of your velvet center. He dips it further inside you, collecting your slick on the flat of the muscle to drag it back up to your oversensitive bud.

Every nerve ending in your body lights up iridescent, heat swirling up the column of your spine. It’s the oblivion that you’ve been begging for since Joel walked in the front door, and your limbs tremble with deliverance.

He licks you through the aftershocks, tongue unrelenting against you. You whimper, hypersensitive, dropping one hand to card through his sweat-damp hair, a gentle insistence for him to slow down.

But he’s in control, and he knows he’s in control, so he drives his tongue into you as far as he can before laving short, quick strokes over your clit. You’re helpless to it, only able to push down against him, to let him draw another orgasm out of your quaking cunt.

Your second orgasm approaches too quickly, your body overwrought and writhing, slick flooding Joel’s waiting mouth. The noises he’s making are downright obscene, slurping like it’s the first meal he’s had in weeks, cheeks and beard sticky with you.

Panting brokenly, tears welling up in your eyes again, you try to pull away. He doesn’t let you, eyes blazing when you look down at him desperately.

“Cry for me, little girl.” He draws his mouth back just enough to ensure that you hear him — that you understand him.

“Da—” you choke out a sob, knowing that he won’t let you go until you obey.

“Cry for me, and I’ll fuck you like the good girl you are.”

Your drag your bottom lip between your teeth, throat closing around the pleading moans hanging in the warm air of the bedroom.

The tears finally fall, streaming and stormy, down your burning cheeks. Faster than before, the stress and anxiety of the day finally ripping free from the cavern of your chest.

Like he knew exactly what you needed, more so than even you.

They’re heaving sobs, now, a combination of intense relief and overstimulation, Joel’s heart beating hard and angry beneath you. He moans against your pussy, determined to undo you completely, lapping at your clit with reckless abandon.

And there you are again — your third orgasm ripping through you so overwhelmingly that your entire body goes slack, slick spilling down the corners of Joel’s mouth, matting in the length of his dark curls. You succumb to it completely, to him completely.

“There she is, little one. There’s my sweet baby girl.”

And you are — sweet and pliant, overly-sated in the most erotic of ways, and you know without seeing that Joel’s erect cock is absolutely weeping pre-cum.

He doesn’t need to exert much effort to flip you over, to settle you against the pillows, to pose your supple limbs exactly as he wants them. All you can do is watch him through glassy eyes, tear-stained cheeks flush and glistening, the smallest of watery smiles pulling at the corners of your mouth.

Ghosting a knuckle over your soaking center, he leans forward to pepper your jaw with warm kisses, something akin to adoration glowing in his amber irises.

“Okay, baby girl?”

You meet his scorching gaze, nodding demurely. Yes, daddy. Of course, daddy. Take what you need, daddy.

Slipping two fingers into your tight heat, Joel works you open with little resistance. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been together, taking him in his entirety is always a stretch. He crooks his fingers to meet that spongy spot inside you, soft strokes making your eyes roll back in your head. But it’s less urgent, less demanding.

The gentleness with which he touches you makes you feel warm all over, a soft roll of your veins under his hands.

But as gentle as he’s being now, you know he needs just as much as you did, pupils blow-out with lust, breathing shattered.

As soon as he draws his fingers out of you, you lift your hand to his length, running the tips of your fingers along the underside of his twitching cock. He swallows hard, rocking his hips forward, allowing you to grasp him in your palm. A strangled groan follows, always so sensitive to your touch.

“Put it in, daddy.”

He drops his head, curls flopping into his eyes, while he grips the base of his cock in his hand to ease the head, flushed a furious red, into your entrance.

You sigh contentedly, already feeling stretched and stuffed as your warmth swallows him inch by inch. No one has ever filled you like he does, has ever undone you like he does.

His hard length disappears inside of you, your walls gripping him impossibly tightly. This is your favorite part — the part where you adjust to his size, where the hint of a painful sting wanes into something utterly delicious. Something you can’t live without.

The thrusts are slow at first, his speed gradually increasing as your pussy pulses around him. Soon enough he’s pumping into you in an allegro tempo — mirroring the quick, bright pace of your heartbeat. You push into his thrusts, running your fingernails over the sticky flesh of his ribcage above you.

He’s so much — hips snapping against you, cock massaging your walls salaciously.

“F-fuck, baby girl,” he stutters, driving into you harder, licking a hot stripe of the column of your throat. He nestles there, nose pressed just below your ear, soft growls snapping from between his teeth. “Gonna c-cum.”

“Cum for me daddy,” you purr, thighs tightening around him, sucking him in deeper. He grinds down into you, pulling out only enough to slam back inside, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix.

One more buck and he’s done for, spilling thick inside of you, filling you completely. He snarls a string of dark moans and expletives, drawing his hips back just to push inside again, edging his cum deeper into you.

It’s perfect.

He collapses to the side of you, chest rising and falling raggedly. You automatically curl into his side, pleased when he wriggles his arm beneath you to stroke his fingers across the curve of your ass.

“What do you say, little girl?”

“Thank you, daddy.”

[odinsblog]

I know there’s a lot more serious things happening than worrying about what some spoiled culture vulture thinks, but the Jenners + Kardashians stay hopping on the, “I support the latest popular thing” bandwagon, without having any understanding or taking any nuance into account.

In sharp contrast, here is the thoughtful post Gigi Hadid released:

"My thoughts are with all those affected by this unjustifiable tragedy, and every day that innocent lives are taken by this conflict too many of which are children. I have deep empathy and heartbreak for the Palestinian struggle and life under occupation, it's a responsibility I hold daily. I also feel a responsibility to my Jewish friends to make it clear, as I have before:

While I have hopes and dreams for Palestinians, none of them include the harm of a Jewish person.

The terrorizing of innocent people is not in alignment with & does not do any good for the 'Free Palestine' movement. The idea that it does has fueled a painful, decades-long cycle of back&forth retaliation (which no innocent civilian, Palestinian or Israeli, deserves to be a casualty of), and helps perpetuate the false idea that being Pro-Palestine = antisemitic.

If you are hurting, as I share my condolences today with my loved ones, both Palestinian and Jewish, I'm sending you my love & strength — whoever and wherever you are. There are a lot of complex, personal, and valid feelings, but every human deserves basic rights, treatment, and security; no matter their nationality, religion, ethnicity, or where they were born.

I know my words will never be enough or heal the deep wounds of so many, but I pray for the safety of innocent lives, always."

—Gigi Hadid

[daycourtofficial]

Secret exchanges

Summary: a few weeks after the aftermath of Rhys’s banishment, your mate, the new High Lord of the Autumn Court, has a secret meeting with someone from your family.

Author’s note: this is set pretty soon after I am ash from your fire ☺️

Warnings: furthering my sexy Eris agenda by letting him be a smidge cunty

Word count: ~1k

“Shadowsinger.”

“High Lord.”

The titles were exchanged with tense tones as both males look each other over in hopes of finding a nearly fatal wound they could exploit. Coming up short of that, the two watch each other with uncertain gazes, this meeting marking something new.

The Illyrian steps closer, holding out a box in his scarred hands. The new high lord accepts the parcel, looking inside to ensure everything is accounted for. Underneath the lid, the box contains six beautifully decorated mint chocolate cupcakes from the bakery you adore that’s nestled in the heart of Velaris.

“Are condolences in order?”

Eris sneers at Azriel’s taunting tone, snapping the lid to the cupcakes, “only to the foolish noblemen my father made rich. It feels as if everyone in Autumn can breathe properly now that a foul stench has dissipated.”

Males of lesser intelligence could have pieced together the timeline between Rhys banishing you from Night and Eris assassinating Beron within a 24 hour span. Despite his feelings for the red head before him, Azriel was impressed at how swiftly he took the reins.

Azriel inspects the male before him, somehow standing taller than he had previously seen, as if the weight of the world were lifted from his shoulders. His pale skin glowed in the sunlight passing through the trees, and he looked as if the Earth had molded him herself. He almost glowed beneath his skin, as if his veins crackled with pure fire.

Azriel knew Rhys was blowing things out of proportion by banishing you, and Azriel, along with the rest of the inner circle, had no idea how to help you or to let you know that they didn’t care.

Well, they did care. They cared a lot. He and Cassian alone spent several hours sparring trying to work through their rage at the Cauldron’s choice of mate for you.

They weren’t thrilled by this situation, but ultimately they understood that this wasn’t your choice, and while it is your choice now, Azriel of all people couldn’t hate you for trying to make your mating bond work.

He wanted to hate you, though. When he was first told of your banishment, he wanted to destroy your room, destroy any and all memories of this betrayal. He spent days in a fog, running through his meticulous backlog of scheduling to figure out when and how such a ‘relationship’ had occurred.

He had finally left his room in a rage and was on his way to your room when he ran into Nesta, where she practically dragged Azriel by his ear to the training ring. She forced Azriel to spar with her, forcing him to talk about why it hurt so badly.

It would be easy for him to write off your banishment as the right thing to do under the guise of his hatred for Eris. But the real truth, settled deep, deep down in his bones, was that you were the only other member of the family who wasn’t paired off.

He felt less alone when you were around. Not that he had any inclinations towards you. It just didn't feel as crushing with someone else to share the burden. Now with you being gone, albeit not of your own accord, he felt that loneliness seep back in, that deep desire for someone to love him wholly.

But now you’re off, banished not only from your court, but from your family. Rhys had commanded all of them to cease any contact with you directly.

Technically Eris was a workaround.

Azriel could never deny you, especially not when it came to your obsession with the cupcakes he just handed to Eris, the two of you sneaking off on several occasions to satisfy the sweet tooth you shared.

Despite every part of screaming to do so, he couldn’t deny your mate when he came to the shadowsinger, asking for an olive branch.

Azriel cleared his throat, not wanting to spend anymore time with the newly appointed High Lord, but still needing some update on you, “how is she?”

Eris sighed, mulling over how to answer the shadowsinger. His thoughts went to you, and how you always spoke fondly of Azriel. You’d never keep the truth from Azriel, despite keeping the mating bond from him. You hated not telling anyone in your family, a topic of conversation you and Eris constantly circled back to.

“Coping as you would expect,” the new high lords words making Azriel feel worse than he did before. The shadowsinger’s eyes move to the ground, and in a rare move, decides to extend an olive branch of his own.

For you. He would do this for you.

“I don’t agree with Rhys’s actions.”

Eris raises his eyebrows, “ah, so the dogs can disagree with their master.”

Azriel’s snarl causes Eris’s lip to curl in a smirk, but he holds his hands up in surrendor.

“I never expected you or the other one to ever disagree with him, at least never admitting it to me.”

Hazel eyes meet amber, a mask over his features as he slits his eyes in warning.

“Don’t make me regret disagreeing with Rhys.”

Eris’s expression softens at the Illyrian despite the obvious threat lacing his words. He looks down at his fingers, inspecting his nails as if he can't be bothered to look at Azriel anymore.

“If I ever do anything that would make you regret it, you and the other brutes may come and dispose of me yourselves. The honor would belong to you, if she doesn’t wish to collect.”

Azriel turned to leave, but was stopped by Eris’s voice.

“Before you go,” Azriel turned as Eris procured several sealed envelopes with your handwriting on the front.

“I was instructed to leave these with you.”

Azriel grabs the letters from Eris’s hands, as if he would burn them in front of the Shadowsinger, taunting him further with any contact to you.

In his hands lay several letters, each one addressed to a member of your family except for Rhysand.

Eris’s voice chimes back in, “she wanted to write to him. Couldn’t find the words.”

He shrugs, turning his back on the Shadowsinger as he starts walking back through the orchard, flowers blooming all around them.

“Or perhaps she knew he would skin you alive if you delivered it to him before he was ready.”

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Precious Truths: Part 4

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.

A/N: I will not be taking tags for this series!

Series Masterlist

The next day, your Aunt Eliza takes you to the modiste for new dresses. The ones you had gotten earlier in the season "wouldn't do anymore" according to her. Now, you had to stand out more, make yourself look more appealing. Corsets were tighter, hugging your figure more and making you breathe less.

Your aunt is holding up some fabric against you when Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton enters the shop with an annoyed Eloise following her.

"Good afternoon, Lady Bridgerton," you greet the woman with a kind smile.

She observes the fabric held against you, "Well, that is a beautiful fabric. It goes well with your eyes."

"Thank you," you give her a small nod.

Violet clears her throat, "I assume things are...well now?" The dowager does her best to be discreet.

"As well as they can be, Lady Bridgerton," you respond.

After Aunt Eliza brought you home, your father was asleep, still cradling a bottle of brandy in his hand.

You confessed to Aunt Eliza about your secret identity, about your writings. She was proud to know that you never truly gave up on poetry as well as how famous your words were becoming. However, she was saddened that you felt the need to hide your ongoing love for poetry from her. She expressed that she would have helped you, that you didn't need to hide that love from her, especially since she also loved your mother like her own sister.

Aunt Eliza became even more determined to help you out of the situation.

Although your father and Aunt Eliza are siblings, none of the luxuries of your father's lordship well onto her. She also never found someone to marry, becoming a spinster and learning to become content with it.

She can only do so much to help you, given that your father still has the funds to help. Thankfully, your Aunt Eliza had stepped in to help manage the finances.

"Remember, dear, if there's anything you need, you let me know. We are happy to help," Violet says as she places a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. Your family has always been so kind to me."

Violet gives a smile and greets your aunt, the two moving towards a shelf of silks that catch their eyes. You move to Eloise with a grin, whose face is the complete opposite of yours, "Everything alright, El?"

She groans, "You disappoint me. Mama, says you're taking this season more seriously now and that I should do the same. I blame you for this!"

You let out a deep breath, "My condolences, but, trust me, this wasn't the plan either."

The young Bridgerton steps closer to you and whispers, "What happened? Anthony and Benedict were talking about you this morning when we were breaking fast."

You blow air out of your mouth, "My father threatened to marry me off to my dreadful cousin if I am unable find a husband within a month's time."

Eloise makes a pondering face and then asks, "Is it the cousin that visited a few summers ago? He tried to best Anthony in everything?"

You scrunch your face in distaste, "The very same."

Eloise shudders, "God, he was...appalling."

"Yes, and there is absolutely no chance I am marrying him. So, you see, I'm lacking a choice." You give her a pointed look and she nods.

"Oh, Y/N," Eloise hugs you, "We shall both get through this together."

Aunt Eliza calls from the door, "Y/N, make haste! We must continue!"

Your shoulder slump forward, "I'm coming!" you give Eloise a wave and follow your aunt out.

______________________________

Benedict's in the sitting room, sketching in his notebook. He's sketching a pair of eyes, ones soft and full of wonder. The very pair that belongs to you, the eyes that he loses himself in.

"Here," parchment falls over the sketch and Benedict sits up, looking at Anthony, who's given him the paper.

"And this is...?"

"The list of eligible men for Y/N."

Benedict gulps as he reads of the names, sitting up to read the list "No to Harris," he says with a shake of his head and then grimaces, "Absolutely not to Woodrich."

"What's wrong with them? They're from good standing families, no scandals-"

"That you know of. I hear Harris has been visiting the brothels far too often lately. Woodrich apparently invested in the empty mines that Lord Featherington spoke of last season. So he has no money."

Anthony gives his brother an annoyed expression, "I shall cross them off the list, but the rest of them?"

Benedict hands the paper back to his brother, "I suppose they're alright. But Y/N gets the final say, obviously."

"So you have truly decided you won't do anything about this whole ordeal?" Anthony asks his brother in disbelief.

Benedict stands with a sigh, "Yes, brother. I have. I won't do anything but assist in Y/N's search for a husband. That is final." He steps aside, striding out of the room in annoyance.

Hyacinth, who sits with Gregory playing a game of chess, shakes her head, "I always thought Y/N and Benedict would get married."

Anthony nods, "As did I, Hyacinth," he murmurs and also exits the sitting room.

____________________________

No longer were you able to be a wallflower when it came to balls, soirees, luncheons, etc. You and Penelope had been wallflowers together since both of your debuts. However, now Penelope is on her honeymoon with Colin, so you are left to fend for yourself.

You now stood more towards the front, more accessible and noticeable. You hated it. You hated how people looked at you when you attended the next ball with your new gown and different hairstyle.

When you saw the Bridgertons, you immediately rush up to them, clinging onto Benedict's arm.

"Please dance with me," you beg in desperation, yearning for some sense of familiarity.

"Of course," Benedict takes your gloved hand and leads you to the dancefloor. When he looks over his shoulder, Kate is winking at him and he rolls his eyes.

You curtsey as Benedict bows before the next dance, a waltz. With the strings, you and Benedict move as one. Swaying to the melody, bringing each other in close.

"Thank you, Ben, for dancing with me."

"Of course. It is tradition at this point, is it not?" he gives you that cheeky grin that always makes your heart flutter.

You sigh, "Might be the last time I get to dance with you for a while. I should probably prioritize potential suitors."

Benedict's smile slowly fades, "Yes, well, Anthony came up with an impressive list. I overlooked it as well. You might find some of them...agreeable."

You hum as you circle Benedict, "Are any of these men here now?"

Benedict takes a quick glance around the room, "A few of them. Shall I introduce you?"

You shake your head, "No. Thank you, but it is probably best I do that myself. You might scare them off," you give him a smirk and he chuckles.

"That is a fair argument. If I am quite honest, I don't think any man will truly be worthy enough for you."

You arch a brow at him, "Oh?"

He nods, "You're...everything and so much more."

The way he says those words, you feel like there's something more to them. He relayed them to you so breathlessly and he's looking at you with a gaze that makes you feel as though you two are the only ones in the room.

As the dance nears its end, you and Benedict are face to face, so close to lips touching. However, when he inches closer to you, you pull away and curtsey.

"Thank you for indulging me, Mister Bridgerton," you walk away from him without another word, fanning yourself as you grow warm.

[janetsnakehole02]

This is probably my last post on the whole “Liz is dead” situation but I want to talk about my great grandmother, who is currently 92 years old. When I was growing up, hell even now, she’d tell me a lot about her own stories, mostly about how terrifying life was under both the British Raj and Nizam rule (her side of my family is from Hyderabad - Google the Nizams and the Razakars if you’ve never heard about them, that’s a whole other thing of its own).

Something I remember very clearly is her telling me about this one song she was forced to sing in her school - she went to a Christian convent school - and the song was about the greatness of “George Prabhu and Mary Rani,” aka George V, Elizabeth II’s grandfather. Recently my mom was able to film her singing this song so that we could listen to the lyrics, which are originally in Telugu, and roughly translated it means “we’re singing in honor of George and Mary, who are the rulers of India and have brought great fortune to India, and we see them as our father and mother.”

This is just a really difficult reminder that when we’re talking about why Elizabeth II and the royal family don’t deserve our respect or condolences, many of us have very personal stories that run deep through our families. “But she was a mother, a grandmother, a person” and I don’t care because she and her family were in the business of dehumanizing and erasing the identities of millions of other mothers, other grandmothers, other PEOPLE. Why else would my great grandmother be forced to sing a song in their honor? “But she wasn’t responsible for India” fair enough, her darling grandfather had a great time doing that, but how about you go and talk to Kenya? Or anyone in Africa? Or the Caribbean? I’m sick and tired of being told to “not speak ill of the dead” when REALLY I and millions of others should be getting an apology from anyone who wants to “praise her legacy” and talk about how “revolutionary” she was.

edit: i got the george’s mixed up before. george v is elizabeth ii’s grandfather. george vi is her father.