#jane austen x reader

[eraenaa]

Most Ardently

Inspired by Pride and Prejudice

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader Tag List

Synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen had accompanied his younger brother to Highgarden in hopes of securing Daeron a wife— he did not expect he would want to secure a wife for himself as well. 

Warning: Not Proofread, Enemies to Lovers, Jealousy

Word Count: 3,702

Aemond walked stiffly as he was about to enter a hall filled with merriment. He only wished to go to Old Town with the purpose of visiting and checking upon his younger brother’s well-being as requested by their mother— he had no wish to be dragged to Highgarden and attend a ball hosted by its Lord. Aemond walked behind Daeron as they entered the hall, all eyes upon them. All attendees bowed when they passed— all showing respect to their princes except for one. Aemond saw you by his right, a chalice in your hand, whispering to a girl beside you with a grin on your lips— completely disregarding the presence of royalty. 

When you finally realized that everyone around you had grown quiet and the music had stopped, you turned to face forward—locking eyes with the unique gaze of Old Valyria. Quickly curtsying as you remembered it was the protocol, bowing your head and breaking your gaze from the prince who only had one eye. His name seemed to elude you. You knew of Prince Daeron well, the prince having spent the week’s end in your family’s keep, hosted by your lord father because he was courting your elder sister. You seem to forget which brother Prince Daeron now walked with— was it Prince Aegon or Prince Aemond? 

“Which prince is that again?” You whispered to your sisters as your father scanned the crowd in search of you two to be presented to the esteemed guests. “That is Prince Aemond,” Your sister answered. “He looks miserable, poor soul,” You whisper, making your sister shake her head in amusement. “Miserable, he may be, but poor, he most certainly is not.” You frowned at your sister’s words. “I was told he has twice the inheritance than any of his brothers— even though he is only the second born, he is greatly favored by his mother and grandfather. That he is set to inherit Dragonstone once Prince Aegon is King.” You hummed and could not think of a reply as you two were finally seen by your father and were whisked away to be presented to the princes. 

Music flooded the room once more as you stood before the princes. A lone eye would intermittently fly to your frame as your father spoke. “Prince Daeron, my daughters, you already know of.” Your father began, and you wanted to playfully roll your eyes at your sister as the moment she and the younger prince locked eyes, a blush ran on both cheeks and a giddy smile plastered on their lips. “Of course, and my I introduce you two to my brother, Aemond.” Prince Daeron smiled as he was delighted to be accompanied by his older brother. 

You and your sister curtsied once more, smiling expectantly at the newly arrived prince who simply stood stiff as a board and offered no signs of recognition to you nor your sister. Simply blinked as his lone gaze would shift between the two of you. You wanted to frown, but your sister who knew you too well took hold of your arm and lightly pinched it as a communication to keep your expression neutral. 

As the song ended and a new one began, you and your sister, along with the prince who courted her, went off to the side to chat whilst your father spoke formally with the One-Eyed prince whose gaze would fly over to your group with each moment passed. “I apologize for my brother— he is just not keen on large parties… nor small ones to be honest,” Prince Daeron explained. “And so you decided to take him to a ball instead?” You asked making your sister nudge your side, fearing that you spoke offense but Prince Daeron simply laughed. You passed your gaze where the older prince stood, seemingly glaring at the room, passing his gaze around the sea of people as if they had wronged him. 

Prince Aemond found his way and stood next to his brother once more. Silent as you three were enveloped in conversation. As a new song began, you smiled as you watched the younger prince escort your sister to the floor for a dance. You passed your gaze to the prince, who stood stoically beside you, unmoving except for his eye. “Do you dance, Prince Aemond?” You inquired, his lilac eye still scanning the room filled with glee— judging as everyone around seemed to be intoxicated with joy. 

“Not if I could help it,” He coldly responded. Not even turning to you as he spoke. It was then that you finally let the confused frown slip your face. But you shrugged him off and walked away, determined not to let his demeanor dampen your mood. Aemond’s eye followed you as you walked off, a small smile on your lips as you admired the merriment around. It did not matter that you were not asked to dance; you were completely fine to watch your sister get more acquainted with the youngest prince of the realm, who had been courting her for the past three moons. 

 After two songs passed, you found yourself resting your feet behind a pillar, your presence unbeknownst to anyone who walked past. “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld,” You hear the familiar voice of Prince Daeron speak and you could not help but smile at how enamored he was with your sister. You hear Prince Aemond hum, and you peek from behind the pillar to listen more into the princes’ conversation. “And her sister is very agreeable, do you not think so? She is of celebrated beauty here in the Reach.” You smile at the younger prince’s recognition of your beauty but quickly vanishes as you hear Prince Aemond’s response. “Perfectly tolerable, I dare say, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” 

You scoff to yourself as you hear their footsteps depart. Greatly offended by the prince’s words. Your tried to proceed with the night and forget you had heard his offensive words. But as you were forced into the chatter of a group with him, you could not help but let a hint of animosity show. “I wondered who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love?” You ask as your mother embarrassingly recalls you and your sister's past suitors who were keen on writing you sonnets after sonnets but never fully committing to marriage. “I thought that poetry was the fruit of love?” Prince Aemond asked, the group hiding away their surprise when the prince finally spoke and joined in on the conversation.

“Of a fine, stout love, it may. But if it is only a vague inclination, I’m convened one poor sonnet will it stone dead.” You replied as you gazed at his lone eye that would fleet away, unable to hold the intensity and teasing mirth in your orbs. “So what do you recommend to encourage affection?” He asked, finally holding your gaze as you felt a smirk rising to your lips. “Dancing, my prince. Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.” You smiled and curtsied, watching as his eye flooded with the realization that you had heard what he had said. You walked away before he even got a chance to reply. His gaze followed you as you blended into the sea of guests. 

When the night ended, you told your sister what you had heard while hiding behind a pillar. “Count your blessing, sissy, if he liked you, you’d have to talk to him.” She says as she brushes your hair, gently squeezing your shoulder. “Precisely, as it is, I wouldn’t have danced with him for the whole kingdom, let alone dreary Dragonstone.” You tried to laugh it off and brush away the wound he had inflicted on your pride. After a few moments of silence, your sister spoke once more. “I still cannot believe what he said about you,” she muttered as she finished brushing the fine locks of your hair. “I could easily forgive the prince’s vanity if he had not wounded mine,” You say as you tucked the strands of your hair behind your ear, gazing at the mirror. “Me? Perfectly tolerable? He’d be lucky if anyone who had half of my beauty would find him tolerable,” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes, making your sister laugh at your pride and confidence that muddled with each other. You sighed and stood, “I do not wish to think more about the One-eyed Prince. Good night, sister; I shall see you when morning comes.” You say and kiss her cheeks before leaving her room.

When morning came, Prince Daeron was quick to send an invitation to you and your sister to visit him in Old Town. An invitation your sister giddily accepted, and you politely declined— no want to see the One-Eyed Prince once more. But as your beloved sister was taken by fever whilst on her journey there, you had no choice but to follow her. 

“Lady Tyrell, Your Highnesses,” They announced your arrival, and you walked into the room. Biting the inside of your cheeks when Prince Aemond abruptly stood from his chair and bowed.  You quickly curtsied and turned to his brother, “So good of you to come so quickly; your sister has missed you terribly.” Prince Daeron said and walked towards you. “Follow me, and I’ll escort you to where she rests.” He said, and you followed him out of the room but gave one last look at his older brother before doing so. 

Aemond silently trailed behind the two of you. His mind was plagued by your eyes, by your voice, by your smile. His brother had no intention of sending an invitation for you to come to Old Town, but he had infiltrated his thoughts and lightly manipulated him to send the invitation, which you declined, disappointing the prince. It would be cruel to him to admit that he saw your sister’s illness as optimal because now you had no choice but to join them in Old Town. “Oh, sissy,” You fretted as you saw her lying on the bed, pale and had a damp cloth on her forehead. 

“Thank you for taking care of my sister so diligently,” You said to Prince Daeron, who gave a nod and a smile. “Of course, it’s a pleasure she’s here,” You smile at the prince you suspect would be your brother through marriage soon enough. “I shall give you two privacy— if you are in need of anything, do not hesitate to ask,” you smile and nod, watching as Prince Daeron reluctantly removes his gaze from your sister. “He is completely in love with you; I’m quite certain of it.” You smiled at your sister and took her cold hands in yours to warm them. “I’m so glad you’re here; I feel such a terrible imposition.” You laugh, “Please, the prince seemed thrilled that you are here being ill.” You smile, and your sister shakes her head. 

“I’ve come to know of something the other day,” She said, piquing your interest as you thought she would share gossip. “Apparently, your invitation was sent for by Prince Aemond,” Your sister smiled, but you did not mirror it. “He is the one who sent you an invitation— he wishes for your presence.” Your sister further explained as she saw concussion in your eyes. “What for? To insult me once more?” You say bitterly. “Oh, sissy, you cannot let one’s transgression sully your entire image of them. People are bound to make mistakes— I’m certain Prince Aemond did not mean what he had said.” You rolled your eyes and stubbornly shook your head. “It does not matter if he is the one to send the invitation or not— my only purpose of coming here is to see how you are.” You said, and thankfully, your sister no longer brought the subject up. 

Days passed as you were in the presence of the Princes as you waited for your sister to recover. You found yourself engaging in more arguments than conversations with the Prince, whom your sister said was the one to send you the invitation. If not engaged in lively arguments, both of you would simply catch each other’s eyes. Gazing at each other silently, secretively until caught. 

You were in the parlor with Prince Daeron, playing a round of cards, when his brother came in with a book. “You waste your time with the frivolity of gambling,” You feel yourself frown but quickly take hold of your expression, turning to the younger prince whose turn it was to disagree with his brother. “It is just a bit of fun, brother. Not everything in life must be overly serious. Come, join us,” Daeron said and discarded in the middle of the velvet table. 

“I’d rather read of civility than play cards and be at the threshold of a scoundrel,” Prince Aemond stated, his eye flying to you. Resisting the urge to smirk as the furrow in your brow returned as well as the pout on your plump lips. When your eyes locked, he raised his brow in question. “Anything to share, Lady Tyrell? Any musings or disagreement you’d wish to discuss with your prince?” He hummed, tone almost teasing. You knew he was baiting you, and if you had more energy that day, you’d happily take it, but you shook your head. “None, Your Highness.” You say, slightly disappointing the prince, for the only opportunity he had to speak with you and keep your attention with him was through your arguments.

When supper came, you entered the dining room expecting two princes, just like the other nights. But only the One-Eyed Prince waited for you. You quickly curtsied as he stood, “Where is Prince Daeron, your Highness?” You inquired as you were assisted to sit by one of the footmen. “My brother says he wishes to retire early tonight— it would be just us… if that is agreeable with you. If not, then say so, and I’ll take my supper in the servant’s quarters.” You looked at him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out why he was still challenging you. “I am completely fine with any arrangement, my prince,” You say and proceed with the overly quiet meal as the prince and you shared no word but only stare at each other— challenging gazes that neither fell victim to. 

The following morning, your sister had recovered enough for the both of you to head home. No anger wanting to impose and overwelcome your stay with the princes. “Prince Daeron, I do not know how to thank you,” You hear your sister say in gratitude, “You’re welcome anytime you feel the least bit poorly,” You bit back your smile as you followed your sister to the carriage. “Prince Aemond,” You cursed stoically— only doing it as he was a prince, and it would be impertinent not to note his presence. You turned to Prince Daeron and let a smile slip your lips, curtsying to the prince you hoped to be your brother in marriage in the near future. 

You raised your leg to step foot in the carriage but were slightly startled as you felt someone take hold of your left hand, assisting you in boarding the wheelhouse. You turned to the prince, who took hold of your hand. Aemond quickly savored the surprise in your eyes and how your plump lips parted before relinquishing his hold of your hand and returning to the keep without another word, stretched his hand that touched yours as an unfamiliar tingle consumed it. 

It was not a week later that you returned to Hightower, where another ball was to commence. You and your sister walked, arms linked, you wearing the green of your house whilst her the yellow, both of you had flowers adorned in your hair. “Will this perhaps be the night you will finally be a prince’s betrothed?” You teased and laughed as your sister’s cheeks bloomed with color. “Do not get my hopes up, sissy; it has been three moons since the Prince had first started courting me… in all honesty, my faith is running thin.” You frowned and shook your head. “Do not speak as such, sister. He is in love with you— I am quite certain of it,” 

You straightened your back as you neared the hall's threshold, the hosts standing before it to welcome their guests. “I—I’m so pleased you’re here,” Prince Daeron told your sister whilst your gaze was traveling the room, distracted and trying to ignore the challenging yet indifferent gaze of a lone lilac eye. “And how are you tonight, my lady?” Prince Daeron asked, but you were too preoccupied. “My lady?” He called once more, and your sister elbowed your side. “Are you looking for someone?” Prince Aemond drawled, and you shook your head at his inquiring eye, glancing over to where your gaze was. “No, not at all,” You said and quickly curtsied to enter the hall, an eye following you as walked away. 

Aemond tried to refocus his gaze to anywhere or anyone else but he could not. It had been steady on you since the moment you arrived, watching you whilst you were chatting with a group of girls you had known since childhood, when suddenly you were approached by a young man from house Redwyne, and a gnawing feeling in his gut announced itself as he saw a smile bloom into your pink lips as you gave your hand to the young man who escorted you to dance. Aemond’s hold on his chalice tightened as he saw you giggle with the man who spun you around and dared to keep his hold on your waist. The prince saw red as he watched the man dip down and whisper something in your ear, earning a sweet, bashful blush on your cheeks. 

The prince dug his nails into his palm, quickly moving to the sea of dancers to take your partner's spot before anyone else would have a chance to dance with you— before anyone else would have a chance to hold you. “May I have the next dance, lady Tyrell?” The prince asked the moment the first song ended. You looked around the room as most eyes were on you, a peculiar scene as the stoic prince, who seemed to detest dancing and preferred to stand by the side, asked you for a dance. You licked your lips before answering, “You may,” You quietly said. 

“Did I just agree to dance with Prince Aemond?” You whispered to your sister, who had a teasing smile on her lips. “I dare say you will find him very amiable, sissy.” Your sister smiled, and you shook your head. Stubborn and still holding a bias against the second-born prince of the realm. “It would be most inconvenient since I have sworn to loathe him for all eternity!” You rambled but could not help but laugh at your fate. Your sister joined along and pulled you towards the dance floor as the second song was to start, and two princes waited for the two of you. 

You were stood across the One-Eyed Prince. His stance is still stiff, and you began to wonder if he’d be any good at dancing. Aemond bit his tongue as you curtsied before him, your dress and lowered stance giving him a slight view of your bosom. He clenched his jaw and willed any thought of impropriety may leave his thoughts and body. 

“I love this dance,” you say as you circle around the prince, his eye following your every movement. Aemond would note that they would waver upon his gaze if it were anyone else but not you. “Indeed, it is most invigorating,” he answered, slightly cringing to himself if that was the proper response. There was another moment of tense silence between the two of you, you sighing as you were starting to grow accustomed to it, but in all honesty, you’d rather talk that night, even if it were with him. “I believe it is your turn to say something, my prince.” You say and feel your lips twitch upward as you have the devilish thought to tease him.

“I talked about the dance; now, you ought to remark on the size of the room or the couples present.” You say as you feel his hold on your hand tighten ever so lightly. “I am perfectly happy to oblige you, my lady. Please advise me of what you would like most to hear,” You let a smirk slip your lips at his sardonic response. “That reply will do for now,” You said as you focused on the dance. But you could not truly do so because it seems your whole being was intent on focussing itself on the prince. The way he stared you down, the way his lithe body gracefully glided with the dance, the way it felt to hold his hand. It would shame you to say that after the dance, your body felt alight, and the beat of your heart ran almost alarmingly in your chest. 

You excused yourself from the crowded room, finding calm outside in a marble gazebo. The structure barely lit and only illuminated by the light of the moon. You rested your back on the cool pillar, hoping it would ease the inner heat that torched your body. You closed your eyes and tried to control your ragged breathing and raging thoughts of the One-Eyed Prince. 

“Lady Tyrell,” You jumped in your spot, eyes growing wide as you were startled by the prince's presence. “My prince,” You breathed out, uncertain why he had followed you. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do.” He began to speak rendering you more confused. “What… your highness, I—“ He shook his head and dared to step forward. You stared at his eye, lilac darker in the dim light. 

“My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell I admire and love you.” Aemond watched you as your lips parted and your fine eyes filled with utter shock. “Most Ardently.”

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Because peeps asked for part 2, here's some more Austen referrences Jason's sweetheart makes.

“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.” You mumble in Jason's hair, to make sure he knows how much you cherish him letting you see this side of him.

“Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.” You muse during one of those quiet evenings at your apartments, sitting at the kitchen floor while Jason lets you patch up his pullet wound.

“To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.” You probe Jason verbally so he finally concedes and dances with you at his father's gala at least once.

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” You hiss indignantly to Jason's ear after you had misfortune of meeting a person who had the audacity to tell you that reading is boring.

"I have loved none but you. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan." Jason whisper to you after you confessed to him that you feel like you're dragging him down. You were, in fact, not in Bath. But Jason knew you understand his words perfectly.

[urgogodancer]

currently on holiday but you guys....i watched sense and sensibility (1995) on my way to my holiday AND WHAT IF I DID LIKE AN AU OF THAT WITH GWAYNE AS COLONEL BRANDON LOLOLOL my jane austen brainrot is off the roof right now. let me know if it's a good idea cus im desperate to write anything atp!!

[shmaptainwrites]

Hiiiiii againnn its meee coming back to annoy you again :D

I saw you extended your accepting date until the 9th, and I know I literally just requested something, but would you be down to write a blurb for an angry love confession in the pouring rain? I'm a sucker for that cliché trope, and I love your writing so so much <3

Once again a female reader if you don't mind 😭

bestie you've freaking GOT IT and sometimes cliché tropes are the best, really who are we to judge btw i also put carl davis' pride and prejudice suite iii on repeat while writing this for ~vibes~

Pairing: Fitzwilliam Darcy x fem!Reader

Warnings: scandalous behaviour for the 1800s i guess, minor height description (shorter than Colin Firth and Matthew MacFayden, they're both like 6'2)

The Truth

Normally when the rain was pouring down from above you'd make it a point to look for cover, but what was the point in that anymore. You let the cold water from the sky envelope you, absorb into your skin, soak your clothes. If you just focused on the rain you wouldn't have to focus on anything else.

If it were just you, alone in the world perhaps that would be the case, and although it felt like it sometimes, that didn't mean you'd get peace when you wanted it.

His voice was muffled at first, but you supposed that was your own fault, too focused on other things to bring your mind to hear what he was saying, but as he approached closer you could hear him clearer.

"What are you doing?! It's pouring outside!"

You could hear the urgency in his tone, but couldn't bring yourself to feel it.

"I'm well aware of that," you called back.

"Then why in God's name are you out here?"

He was behind you now, you could tell, his voice so close you could just about feel his warm breath cut past the cold air surrounding you.

You turned around and shook your head with a slight shrug of your shoulders.

"I don't know," you admitted.

"Well come inside then," he insisted, offering an arm to you. "We'll both get sick if we stay out here any longer."

"I don't care."

"You don't care?" he frowned. "What is going on? You don't seem like yourself."

"Lying can do that to a person," you said simply and turned away.

"Lying?" you could almost hear the exasperation in his voice. "Please, I don't understand."

"Of course you don't, why would you? You don't feel the same," you mumbled to yourself.

"I really must insist you explain what is going on," he said quite firmly.

"I can't!" you shook your head and wrapped an arm around your waist, the other covering your mouth. "Please, Mr. Darcy, just...just leave me."

There was silence for a moment and you thought maybe he head left, the downpour masking the sound of his footsteps, but then a voice spoke up.

"No. I will not leave you."

"What is it you want from me?" you turned back to him again and asked angirly.

"I want the truth."

"The truth is that I love you!" you looked down at your feet, knowing you wouldn't be able to meet his gaze. "I love you and I don't think you feel the slightest ounce of that towards me."

"And what would give you that impression?" you heard the squish of wet grass and mud beneath his feet as he came closer to you. "Because if I, in any way, have made you feel like that, it must be rectified."

You finally looked up at him, tears mixed with raindrops runnig down your face.

"Fitzwilliam, please, I-I can't bear to have my heart broken," you whispered. "If this is just kindness I-I-"

You weren't given a chance to finish your sentence as he lifted your face to look up at him, his hands were warm against your cold skin and out of instinct your eyes fluttered shut, just as he pressed his lips on yours.

You gripped tightly onto his forearms, bringing him as close as you could, wishing nothing more in the world than for that moment to last forever.

When you pulled apart, his forehead still resting on your own, you let out a small breathy chuckle, letting one of your hands come up and hold his cheek.

"You never said anything," you whispered, "and with all this-this talk of suitresses...I-I thought I was being foolish."

"I must be the fool for not saying anything earlier," he lifted his head only to kiss your forehead, and bring you in for a proper embrace. It felt as if you were meant to be joined and knit together as one and it reminded you that in the end, it was always important to tell the truth.

[diaconicon]

Could you write a connor stoll x daughter of Athena reader. Where connor watches the reader and another person do romantic kareoke and he gets jelous because he think the reader likes that person.

⬆️This was an anonymous ask, which I unfortunately lost because I accidently deleted it😭 I'm so sorry to whoever requested this, I hope you still find it in some way!

All my Loving

connor stoll x daughterofathena! reader

Summary: basically what the request says, made it a bit christmassy because its in less than a week (2 days now), and i miss the spirit

Warnings: none (I think), probs ooc everyone. We're just gonna ignore the fact that the Camp has the barrier that stops it from raining inside okay? I kind of forgot don't hate me love you guys xoxo. English isn't my first language, so there could be some errors

22nd of December. It was almost Christmas, and Camp Half-Blood was in a fuss between Christmas decorations, some of the campers packing to go back to their families the day after for the Holiday, and the preparations for the 24th and 25th for the other campers who would stay, everyone had something to do and somewhere to be, not leaving a lot of free time to wish everyone goodbye and a Merry Christmas.

Here came the Hermes Cabin, as always, to 'save the day' - as said by its residents. They decided to host a karaoke night on the 22nd as a sort of pre-Christmas celebration, so everyone could also enjoy it with their friends who would go away the next day.

Of course, everyone was invited - although it was still a mystery how the Hermes Cabin was always capable of pulling out all these big parties without getting in trouble - but you were still debating on whether to go or not, not being the most social type, and definitely not very inclined to be singing, but after contemplating for some minutes, you decided to cave in and go. Most of your half-brothers and sisters wouldn't be there, but, after all, Connor did ask you personally to come, saying that 'you would really do him a favour' because 'everyone was just so boring and no fun to be around', and you just couldn't say no to him, you were, besides, quite fond of both him and his brother and it would be rude to just not go.

I mean, you wouldn't have to sing anyways if you didn't want to, right? You could just go, have fun with your friends, have a few drinks, watch other people sing and, most importantly, spend a bit of time with Connor before you went back home to your family for the holiday's.

Well, you were wrong. Almost everything was going perfectly. You arrived at the cabin, said hello to some of your friends, poured yourself a drink, and then, as planned, you went to search for Connor, who you found in a corner next to his brother, who scattered away (not without tripping at least a few times) almost immediately after greeting you with a quick "Oh hello there, how are you? Everything okay? Hope you're enjoying yourself. Oh, just a minute, will you? I think someone's calling me - and then turning to his brother - catch you later, Con."

And that left just you and Connor alone, in an awkward silence. Although you were usually so talkative with him, it really wasn't so hard to open up when he was around. He always let you feel so comfortable without even trying, you guessed it was in his demeanour, the way he walked, the way he acted, you didn't know exactly, but he definitely wasn't much of an awkward person as you were, quite confident of himself, but quieter than his brother, calmer, which made him more likable in your opinion. He was fun to be around, very animated, but when needed, he could also be very sensible and almost a shoulder to cry on. He was just so.. warm, almost like the sun, or an oven! You weren't sure how to put it, but he did really remind you of freshly baked cookies, who were still warm ones out of the oven, but that you had to wait for to cool down before eating, otherwise it would be 'bad' for your stomach (at least according to your dad).

But maybe it was something in the air that night, the music was really loud and you already could barely hear yourself over the others singing, maybe it was Travis' abrupt disappearance, but neither of you said a word, not even a 'hello' or a 'how are you?' After some seconds, what must have felt like minutes, you decided to be the first one to break the silence, then you saw that he too wanted to say something, and opting to let him take the word instead, you leaned in to hear him better. But just then, some of your other friends called you, wanting you to come sing with them and even after making it pretty clear that you had no intention whatsoever of participating, they still dragged you out to the karaoke section, pretty much forcing you to sing at this point. Maybe you were exaggerating - well, you were definitely exaggerating - but at that moment, it felt like being processed to death, tragically waiting for a guillotine to cut your head off.

You didn't know how it happened, but you ended up having to sing a duet with some Apollo boy you didn't even know well, although quite cute in your opinion, you couldn't even seem to recall his name.

Not quite as bad as you thought it would be, the song went by really fast, and you could even say you had fun. After chatting a bit with the Apollo kid, finally remembering his name, and him suggesting to spend more time together once in a while, having enjoyed himself, you bid goodbye and immediately went back to find Connor, still a bit embarrassed by the public scene, which you still wished to have avoided.

Though, not being able to find Connor anywhere, you decided to ask his brother if he had seen him.

"Connor? I think I saw him going outside just a few minutes ago. If you see him, tell him to come inside quickly, will you? It's like freezing out there, and I don't even think he took his coat with him"

You thanked Travis, grabbed Connor's coat, which he left in the cabin (by demand of his older brother), and went outside as well, hoping to catch up with the latter, wherever he went to.

Travis was right. It was indeed freezing, and in the time you spent in the Hermes Cabin, it also had begun to snow. Realising this, your heart couldn't help but to warm up a little. You absolutely loved snow, especially in this time of the year, only adding more to the Christmas spirit already strong around the Camp.

You eventually found Connor after a while near the beach, the sand now mixing with the snow that was falling, secretly thanking the Gods that he didn't go into the forest or it would've been probably impossible to find him.

He was sitting on a random trench, with his back to you, looking out in the distance, to the stars or the sea you didn't know which, still not having noticed your presence behind him.

So, you carefully went up to him, anxious of approaching, like reaching out for a baby deer who would otherwise get scared if you were too loud. Not only that, but you were also anxious about what to say. He looked upset, and you didn't know why. For how much you tried, you just couldn't think of what could've made him so distressed. Was it something you said? Well, you didn't exactly say anything... was that it? Did he expect you to have said something? Had he wanted to tell you something before you were dragged away by your friends? Maybe it was just the change in the weather that affected him so much. It was always pretty warm at Camp anyway. Maybe it was something that had been going on all day, and you just didn't know. You only first saw him this evening, and he already looked pretty off.

Whatever it could've been, you decided to just go and rip the band-aid off. You would've to ask him directly what was wrong, so you could try and help and comfort him.

You were now not even a few steps behind him, but he was still oblivious of you being there (sometimes you asked yourself how he was still alive with how bad his hearing and reflexes were), so you extended your hand towards him, the one with which you were holding his coat, and poked him on his shoulder, finally capturing his attention.

'Here, put it on, your brother is going to kill us both if you don't', you said, referring to the jacket, trying to relieve some of the tension around the air.

He didn't protest and grabbed the jacket, but he still didn't say anything and turned away immediately, his face impassable.

You set next to him, and for a while, just looked at him, not saying anything. Anxiety filled your stomach up to the point you thought you were going to feel sick. He didn't look only upset anymore but actually mad. Angry. And you were so scared it had to do with something you did. In the fraction of time you used to contemplate on what to say and how to start the conversation you were clearly about to have, he beat you to it and started first.

'Well, thanks for the coat. You can go back now if you'd like', he said, irritated, not once looking at your direction but keeping his eyes fixed on a vanishing point which you still couldn't figure out.

'Is something wrong? You know if something happened you can just tell me, I'm here to help you you know. Just.. please, I don't like to see you like this. You know if it's something I did, I'm sorry, I didn't realise. But just tell me, okay? I'm so sorry if I hurt you in any way.' You were desperate at this point, just hoping this would end soon. You'd never seen Connor this upset, and it quite frankly scared you a bit.

But just then, his gaze softened. He just couldn't stay mad at you, not like this, not seeing how much stress this caused you. He wasn't even mad at you. He could never be mad at you, not even if his life depended on it, he thought.

'No, I'm sorry, okay. Really. Just forget about it, I'm overreacting. It's nothing'. Although his voice was sincere, he felt like he needed to say more than that, much more, if he wanted to make it better. 'Look.. it's just that.. well. Just give me a moment, will you? I need to think of how to say this right.' It was now his turn to feel anxious, and he started picking at everything he could find to keep calm. His nails, the wood on the trench you two were sitting on, the zipper of his jacket, and so on.

You weren't doing much better, shaking your legs up and down, picking at the skin of your lips, and basically dying of anxiety. If you were exaggerating before, now you definitely weren't. You would've preferred the guillotine over this at any moment.

'Yes, of course, take all the time that you need. I'm here for you.'

And after that, it fell silent. The only sound you could hear were the waves of the sea and the snow falling on the both of you, and in the distance, a bit of the long forgotten party going on in the Hermes Cabin. You were now only waiting for Connor to start speaking. You wanted to say patiently, but it was eating you up inside.

A few minutes went by, and you couldn't take it anymore. You were about to say something before he beat you to it again.

'Okay, so this isn't going to be easy to say, but I want you to listen to me until I'm done. Please. I know I'm not the best speaker in the world, and I really did want to make this more worthy of you, more meaningful, but I'm probably gonna mess things up, so I'm sorry in advance, but just try and listen, okay?' He began, carefully, and you just nodded, following his instruction and waiting for him to continue.

'Okay so, well, I thought this was honestly kind of obvious already - he said this with a smile - but I really like you, and I mean really, since at least a few years I think already. And seeing you with that Apollo kid, I don't know it just made me mad, I thought I couldn't stand a chance against someone like that, so much more talented and what not than me. And not only him, I mean everyone. You're just so perfect in every sense, and I know you could do so much better than me, so I got a bit self-conscious, but that's it. I'm so sorry for worrying you. It really wasn't my intention to be such a dick, but my emotions got the better of me.'

You were left speechless. You really didn't know what to say. Not even a sound could come out of your mouth at that point. Luckily, it didn't have to because Connor went on before you could even think of anything to say.

'No, wait, don't say anything yet. I'm not finished. I want to say it better. This is definitely not how I imagined this. You know I made up so many speeches in my head, practising on what I would tell you if ever came the right moment. But I forgot all of them now, so I'll just have to figure something out,

'I am every second more infatuated by your presence, by your kindness, your beauty. You leave me without breath every time that I see you, and every time, just a bit more than the day before. Every time I look up at the stars, I'm reminded of you, perplexed on how the Gods didn't take you as the inspiration of such creations. Every time I look up at the moon, I can't think of anything else other than how your beauty surpasses even hers, how the reflection of the moonlight on the water isn't just an allegory of you. Because it's something so beautiful that you just can't take your eyes off it. How honey isn't scraped directly from your voice because it's even more sweet and warm than a cup of tea. You fill me with joy of which I've never experienced before, which I didn't even know was real. I'm at every second more and more confused on how all of nature doesn't revolve around you, on how it wasn't created for you and because of you, for at every thing I look at I am every constant reminded of you. If I ever was to meet Aphrodite, I know she would take your appearance and, although I can't dare say you are more beautiful than her or you know what would happen, I can say that in this world and all the universe you are one of the Gods' most beautiful creations. That if it weren't for Prometheus, I would steal the fire just for you, and you only, to keep you warm from days like this one. To keep you warm like you do constantly to me, by just your mere presence, by just an insignificant conversation you could have with me, which I hold dear forever and never forget. What I'm trying to say is that I don't only like you, no... no. I would hold up the sky full of stars and galaxies for you, I would go up to the moon to retrieve your lost items for you, even just to see your smile, to see you happy, to know that you are content. For you have already stolen my soul and hold my heart, I couldn't sell it to the devil, but I would, just to let him promise me to always keep you safe, that nothing could ever touch or hurt you. For you only I think and plan, for you only I ever want to live on. I love you, I really do, and I only hope for you to love me back at your own pace and time. But I could never force you to do anything. If you don't reciprocate my feelings, let's forget about this. Just go on with our daily lives. A simple no, or just a shake of your head, will silence me forever, I won't ever bother you again, I promise. But if there's even just one chance, a little bit of hope that you could give me a try, please don't let me wait for too long. Because how I am to take even one second longer of this I do not know.'

And with this, he stopped talking. He went completely mute, now only waiting for your answer, for a little hope.

But you didn't know what to say, how could after such a speech, such a confession? Anything you would say, even if meaningful, would never compete to something such beautiful and utterly captivating as this.

So you opted for saying exactly that.

'Connor.. I.. I'm really speechless, I don't know what to say, no, everything I would say could never compete with what you just did. I'm so sorry, but I really don't know how to own up to that.' You said with the biggest smile you ever had, which started growing since Connor began to speak.

'No, don't worry about that, just tell me, please. A yes or a no would be sufficient enough.' The poor boy was so stressed, but you couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't you mocking him or anything like that. It was a genuinely happy laugh, like you've never had before. He also started laughing at this, being influenced by you.

'Stop laughing, I'm serious. You're making me sweat cold here.' He said, finally lighting up from his serious stance.

'I'm so sorry, but I just really can't see how you could've become this worked up only because I was singing Last Christmas with some guy. Like, really, from all the songs Last Christmas, that's not even classifiable as a real love song.' At this point, you just couldn't stop laughing, completely captivated, almost not being able to breathe anymore.

'Hey! That's not true. It's one of the greatest love songs ever written. And I'm honestly quite offended you didn't sing it with me, okay. You know how much I love Wham!' Saying this, he also kicked your leg playfully. Finally, the mood was completely lightened up. Now, the interaction being like one of the many you had every day.

'Okay, now on a serious note', you began, and you could see Connor tensing up again, 'yes. And a million times, yes. I really like you, Connor, and I've had probably since I came to this camp. I could even say that I love you too.. but maybe for that, I do need a bit of time. But I do want to give it a try, and more than one if need to. Just don't make anything like that up anymore. Otherwise, I'd just look like a bad girlfriend, okay? I can't even come up with a good speech to convince my dad to let me adopt a cat, even think of confessing my undying love for you. I just think I need a little bit more time than you, but I'll get there eventually, I promise. Just wait until you'll get a Jane Austen type letter under your pillow.' You finally said, as sincere as you could. You were truly so happy, and you think you've never been this happy ever in your life (at least not until your dad would finally cave in and let you get a cat).

Connor, too, was happy. Oh, so happy, he thought he could break out in some type of dance right there and walk up to the sky to get a handful of stars to gift to you. But that was impossible, so he opted to wrap an arm around you and let you rest your head on his shoulder.

And like that, you stayed for a while, just you two together under the snow looking up at the stars and into the horizon.

'Don't worry, if we ever move in together, we're gonna adopt not one cat, but at least twenty, be sure of that.' He said.

Okayy this is it! I really hope you like this. omg, it came out so much longer than I was expecting. Also im so sorry it took so long to write but I was really busy with school! Also im honestly very happy about the ending. Hope you guys like it!

[haly-reads]

✨ a few books i hope to read in 2024 ✨

last year, i read 57 books. thanks to master's, i read a diverse range of works. i usually switch between mindful reading and planned reading every year. last year, i had a set reading goal and a monthly reading tracker. this year, i would be reading books, minus any fixed number.

I had started the brothers karamazov, another complex work by dosto, but sadly couldn't finish in 2023. so this year, i will finish reading it. and this year, i also hope to finish reading all of austen's novels.

what's your reading resolutions for the year?

[varnikareads]

When Khalil Gibran said, "Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most love is lost"

When Jane Austen said, "And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in."

When Fyodor Dostoevsky said, “Much unhappiness has come into world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.”

And when Parveen Shakir said, “Jo dilon ke darmiyan hain fassle, kabhi zikr nahi, kabhi bat nahi.”

[amymbona]

OMG PRIEST IN KNIVES OUT IS CERTAINLY GOOD, BUT VICAR MR. ELTON... 🧎🏻‍♀️🙏 I need to confess all my sins to him and beg for forgiveness, please, and what would it be without his silly smile 😃

MR. ELTON MY BELOVED 🛐🛐🛐🛐

The sheer obscenity of the whole situation, how basically nothing is allowed in the late 18th century, everyone is to be behaving properly and poor you are having all these thoughts. And, what makes it absolutely terrible, all these explicit ideas circle around the young, face-made-in-heaven vicar, the servant of God who's adapted by the whole town. You adore him as well, so deeply that when you pray each evening, you wish he was in your room and stroked your hair as you struggle to fall asleep.

Each Sunday, you sit in the front row of the picturesque little church, eagerly nodding and listening to the each word of the sermon. When he offers the annual time for confession, you linger behind, allowing everyone else to confess to their sins instead.

"Dear child," the way he adresses you has you weak in the knees - thank god you're kneeling right now - and you're really having issues staying calm at the moment. "What seems to be troubling you?"

You join your hands by your chest, bowing your head down to gaze at his feet, heart beating as you suddenly feel so small under the intensity of his warm gaze. "Forgive me for I have sinned, father."

Now calling him that feels incredibly odd to you, considering there is not that huge of an age gap between the two of you, plus the intensity of your mind consuming dreams is like a heavy weight on your back.

"How have you sinned, my child?"

The most vulgar of words are running through your mind, some of them made up as you've never been to speak in the lower class way, but at the moment, you seem unable to come up with a properly former sentence. You feel the pit of hell burning beneath your knees, the eyes of christ drilling a hole into the back of your head. This isn't anything close to the casuality of accidentally showing an ankle or refering to someone with the wrong title.

"I've been having thoughts, father. Odious, ill and mind consuming."

"What exact kind of thoughts?" Mr. Elton asks, the softness of his voice like a caress to your cheek. How are you supposed to say it?

You gulp, fingers still intertwined, nails digging into the soft flesh of your own hands. "Thoughts that are not appropriate for an unwed woman. That should never occur."

Mr. Elton has rarely been exposed to certain vulgar images of female mind, not many women having visited him to confess to such a matter. And for that reason, he is supposed to find it troubling, to find it so obscure that he shouldn't even allow you to speak on such a matter. But something in his mind that has been touched by the finger of a devil, the not so God devoted part that's secretly longing for the basic male need is tempted to converse on such a matter.

However, you are a good christian girl, your father is the mayor of Highbury and he'd be damned for allowing your mind to get swallowed by something so sinful. He has to offer help, the same way he does to all your neighbours and all the people that come to seek his guidance.

"Tell me what exactly is on your mind, child," he demands softly, his voice as steady as his stance.

You gulp, eyes closing in shame as your heartbeat speeds up. This is way worse than if you were to confess to a murder, but once you've taken a bite, you have to eat the whole cake. So you speak. And for the sake of you both, choose to leave out the name of the main star of your fantasies.

"I've been... Imagining- vividly imagining the sight of a bare body, a man's body. And mine as well. Together, close," your voice is so quiet and full of shame that at first, Mr. Elton can barely hear you. With a small hum, he beckons you to continue. "And touching as well, places that shouldn't be touched. Kissing and performing other acts. I have never engager in anything of this kind, father, I don't know where the thoughts are coming from."

He can see you trembling at his feet and the urge to reach in and wipe the small tear that's rolling down your cheek takes over him. His hand shoots out and Mr. Elton manage to stop himself barely in time, the tips of his fingers running over your hairline. You flinch and he almost gasps too, luckily managing to disguise it as drawing a cross on your forehead. "Poor child."

You nod shakily, your heart beating so loud that it fills your ears like a sound of a drum, the whole entirety of the church suddenly suffocating you tightly. Mr. Elton smirks as the sight, your desperation as bright as the sky. He takes very sick and twisted pleasure in this situation, almost wanting to make the best of it, because it's not every day that a good girl like yourself, prim and proper - almost brain washed -, confesses to having such dirty thoughts. Would it be a sin to let you swim in the lake without offering a branch to grasp onto for a big longer?

[underqualified-human]

? Yuu: There could have never been two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, so feeling so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were strangers; nay worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.

Idia: Yeah that's beautifully melancholic and all, but why are you British?

? Yuu, still with a British accent: I have no idea what you're talking about, now back to the book-

[yooils]

lightweight . drunk!isagi x reader. fluff. accidental proposal. short blurb + extremely forced plot.

— ISAGI YOICHI is a lightweight.

it’s a truth acknowledged by everyone close with him, really, with the way he begins his flowery proses after a drink or two– followed by a gradual descent to an emotional wreck; usually accompanied with an abundance of impulsive decisions and a self depreciating monologue of his life.

but in spite of that, he knows how to handle himself 90% of the time. (the remaining 10% is left unmentioned by all, regardless of the copious amounts of black-mail material some of his teammates possess.)

so naturally, the first time you see yoichi have an emotional breakdown in public is during a team get-together! he’s half on his knees with an abnormally flushed complexion; his eyes are starting to water from the reverie he’s found himself in, and his throat is constricted with hiccups. you've been so-called paged by his colleagues– only to find that the emergency they had mentioned afore to be your drunk boyfriend.

“i just want you to know that i love you.” is the first thing that comes out of isagi's mouth when he catches sight of you entering the bar his team had booked for the night.

the collective wolf whistles from his teammates would have portrayed the unfolding scene to be akin to an extremely romantic (read: corny) scene of a movie, if it wasn't for the uncharacteristically delirious look in your boyfriend’s eyes.

“my affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this. i just want you to know that i’m pregnant, and you’re the baby. will you marry me?”

(a few feet away, rin spits out his drink, outraged at the sheer blasphemy of one of his favourite books and movies. nagi's recording next to him, half-asleep yet still giggling at his friend's drunken antics.)

you love yoichi too, you really do– but you have to run through the list of things you love about him just to keep yourself from strangling him to the brink of unconsciousness so he stops talking.

– he's cute. he's only a little bit annoying sometimes. he does the laundry properly. he just confessed that he loved you amidst his drunken stupor even though you've never said it to each other directly before in person– and then proposed to you. and he's hot.

finally forfeiting to his boyish, drunken charms (and having had enough public humiliation for today), you find yourself and your extremely drunk boyfriend in the middle of the parking lot; with you holding him by his coat so he doesn’t escape, and him squirming around with airy sounds of discomfort which you had opted to ignore.

isagi’s leaning in close, breath reeking of alcohol and hands fumbling with his seatbelt clumsily.

“psst.. don’t tell anyone, but i’m gonna marry you one day.”

the pause in the car is deafening.

you furrow your eyebrows. he obliviously leans his cheek against the car window, unbothered by the sheer weight that his words had carried.

“wait, you don’t want other people to find out that you’re going to propose to me, so you tell the person you’re actually proposing to?”

his drunk gasp speaks volumes to you. “oh no, did i say that out loud? am i being kidnapped? where am i? is the world finally ending? but i still haven’t told (name) that i loved them…”

(okay, maybe he’s a little more stupid when he’s drunk, but you’ve grown to become a believer in the concept that drunken words are sober thoughts in the last hour. you hope.)

isagi’s eyes melt into something akin pools of sapphire stones under the lamppost-lit light. it’s been your favourite colour from the moment you met him.

“yoichi, why are you sniffing me?”

you amusedly ask, finding minor entertainment in his actions.

he’s half slumped on you by the time you stop the car by his apartment– and you realise that there’s no way of getting out of your vehicle without damaging 1.) your spine 2.) your arms and 3.) his dignity. (which really is already ruined, objectively, from the amount of second-hand embarrassment you’ve faced tonight.

“don’t wanna leave you.. smells like home..” he almost-incoherently mumbles, and you impulsively have half a mind to keep him forever-intoxicated because of how cute, despite tedious he’s become.

as a relatively simple man, isagi has always been subjected to a desire for more; especially when it came to football.

(but you, he thinks, will always be more than enough for him. and he hopes he’s enough for you too, even in his drunken haze, because he doesn’t want to let you out of his grasps for even a second).

the way you stroke his hair has his mind collapsing into a puddle of melted goo even in the air-conditioned car. you’ve rewritten his brain chemistry to make yourself the only pearl in his universe composed of mostly football, and in every life, he would let you break his heart over and over again.

once you realise that he's stopped his drunken ramblings and fumbling, the panic finally kicks in.

"yoichi, are you sleeping? we're still in the car park! i can't get out with you laid on me!"

(the next morning, he apologises after a much needed hangover pill and a reminder of what happened last night, sent to him in the form of a video by nagi.

you don't tell him that you've already seen the ring in his sock drawer.)

8.12.23

[nymphpens]

"I'm half agony half hope..."

Readers:

[shmaptainwrites]

wait i lied do childhood besties to enemies to lovers PLS

betsie ngl it took me a minute to figure out a good plot for this concept that i could do justice with the length i'm going for so now that i have something i really hope you like it! also atp it isn’t a mini blurb it’s a full on ficlet cause i just kept writing LMAO

Pairings: Fitzwilliam Darcy x GN!Reader

Warnings: Wickham mention (yes that's a valid warning bc he sucks), minor height descriptions (again i'm sorry)

Lost Years

Your least favourite time of year was always the time you visited Pemberley with your siblings. It had been that way for a while now, you probably could have pinpointed the date if you tried hard enough.

But just as every year before it was unavoidable.

It used to be an occasion of good fun. Two of your closest friends lived on the estate and you would savour every chance you got to spend with them both, but as you grew older and responsibilities set in, so did the disputes. Your close friendship had become fragmented along with your heart.

The first few days you tried to make sure you were always with at least one of your siblings, or maybe even Miss Georgiana Darcy which would create a buffer for the tension between you and her older brother.

As the estate was so large, it was always possible that by mere coincidence, one may end up in a room alone with another individual.

That quickly became the case for you, as you walked in the library, perusing the selection of books curated by the late Mr. Darcy and his son.

You went to reach for a book on a shelf you could not reach and before you could even thinking of a further attempt to grab it, someone reached from behind you and brought the book.

When you turned around and saw it was the younger Mr. Darcy you couldn't help the sharp remark that slipped past your lips.

"I could have gotten it myself. There was no need for that."

"And I suppose you would have climbed the shelves to accomplish that," he snapped right back.

"I find myself in a different mood than before. You may keep the book, Mr. Darcy," you said curtly and began to walk away.

"Am I to assume that nothing that comes from my hand will be accepted?" he asked.

You turned around.

"Miss, I have delt with your contempt of me in as amiable of a manner as I thought I was capable, but this has crossed a boundary."

"I have crossed a boundary?" you blinked, pointing to yourself. "I believe maybe you should have thought of that when you refused to give Wickham his portion entitled to him of your father's estate!"

Mr. Darcy stared at you blankly for a moment before his expression hardened.

"If Wickham is where your loyalties lie then perhaps contempt on both sides is justified."

"I disagree," you shook your head. "When he told me I could not believe what I was hearing. That you of all people could be so cold and unloving towards a friend. If you could do something like that to Wickham what was stopping you from doing it to me?"

"And what exactly did he tell you?" Mr. Darcy asked and you didn't hesitate to recount Wickham's version of the events.

You could see what almost looked like shock on Mr. Darcy's face as he saw in what light he was being painted, but he allowed you to finish before saying anything.

"I don't suppose you have anything to say for youself," you crossed your arms over your chest.

"That isn't what happened," he said simply.

"T-That isn't what happened? Really Mr. Darcy is that all you can-,"

"I swear it to you," he said. "Ask Mr. Bingley, if you must, but that is not what happened after my father's death."

You loosened your stance, letting your arms fall to your side.

"If not, then what did happen?"

Mr. Darcy took a breath before beginning to explain to you the events following his father's death. He was able to say in great detail what had occured, lining up his story with the timeline of events that had occured in his own life and Wickham's. Even things you had witnessed to your friend's character. Suddenly everything came crashing back down to reality.

When he finished speaking you had to excuse yourself in order to sit down on one of the couches behind you.

"Years," you whispered. "I went on for years believing this."

"You were listening to a friend you thought you could trust," Mr. Darcy even went as far as defending your actions towards him, when all this time he had been innocent of what he was accused. "I understand that this is a lot of information to take in, but may I ask you something?"

"Yes, I suppose," you nodded your head.

"Why didn't you ever ask me about this?"

Of everything he could have asked you, it had to be that. You closed your eyes and swallowed thickly.

"Mr. Darcy I-I'm not sure it would be appropriate to say."

"I have delt with many things much more difficult than this," he assured you. "Please...answer the question."

You chuckled softly to youself,

"We were young, Fitz," you looked over to him and you could see his face soften at the childhood nickname you called him. It was so easy how one word could transport you back in time, maybe a time where things were simpler. "I-," you shook your head and held it in your hands, massaging your temples. The words had become caught in your throat. "I-I-I loved you and if I spoke to you and it was true? It was easier to believe him and spare myself the hurt of hearing it from you directly."

You couldn't sit next to him, quickly standing and moving towards a window instead.

"The thought of finding out someone for which you feel so deeply, might be capable to do something of such an unkindly nature was too much for me to bear I-I'm so sorry."

"You loved me," he whispered softly. "Past tense."

"If I didn't love you, would I care this much about your treatment of Wickham?" you looked back at him, tears glistening in your eyes.

Mr. Darcy stood from his seat and slowly made his way towards you, gingerly reaching for your hand before finally clasping it in his own and bringing it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to its back.

"I have lost money; I have lost trust; I have lost many things because of Wickham," he murmured, your hand still close enough to his lips your could feel them move as he spoke. He lifted his other hand to gently caress your cheek. "But I will never forgive him for making me lose the years I could have spent with you."

"Fitz, I'm so sorry," you apologized as the tears finally spilled from your eyes, "I'm sorry."

You repeated your apologies many times, but they became muffled as he pulled you into him for a tight embrace.

You wrapped your hands tightly around his neck and buried your nose in his shoulder.

When your apologies quieted, he gently moved away, just barely half an arm's length.

"There is no need to apologize, my dear," his countenance calm, at peace. "We will simply have to make up for lost time."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

@iceman-kazansky

[ssentimentals]

dating joshua feels like...

being put on the highest pedestal. it's him asking you for your heart because he can't have anything less, he wants all of you ('give me your heart, it's safe with me, i won't break it') and you giving it, because you know he'll take the best care of it.

('aren't you afraid?' you wonder, tilting your head to get a better look at him. 'what if we won't work out?'

'but what if we will?' he challenges in a soft voice and you bite your tongue, cause there's no answer to that. he smiles and brushes a fallen hair strand out of your face. 'you gotta take that leap of faith, darling. i told you that my heart is yours because i know you won't betray my trust. and you've given me yours back and it's my biggest treasure. i won't break it, darling. i won't.')

his love is gentle, his love is sweet, his love runs through your veins like a hushed reminder that you are the one who has his heart. joshua thinks so highly of you, would give you the moon and the stars if he could, writes thousand poems and none fully portray how he feels about you, what you make him feel. you put him on the cloud nine, love lifts him higher from the ground, fills his heart with light. but he's not blind. he is not in love with a perfect image of you, he is in love with you, real you, with your issues and struggles and imperfections.

('you are my kindest angel,' he soothes, wiping tears away from your eyes. 'please don't cry.'

'i am not kind, i am horrible, i was so awfully mean to her and now i can't even go and apologize cause i'm scared she won't accept it,' you wail, turning away from him. you sure you look like a mess with running nose, ruined make-up and red eyes. joshua gently but firmly makes you face him and you whine, shaking your head: 'no, shua!'

'you are my kindest angel,' he repeats again, making eye contact with you. 'the fact that you realized your mistake and you want to apologize already means so much. and horrible person wouldn't be sitting here and crying because of this.' he smiles, handing you tissues. 'you are the kindest person i know,' he starts and ignores your protests, continuing: 'and you would have forgiven her for this, just like she will forgive you now. no more tears, angel.')

joshua is handwritten letters hidden under your pillow when you wake up, he is a love song sang to you on acoustic guitar, he is 'angel, darling, sweetheart' petnames, he is a butterfly kiss on your lips that leaves you tingling. he reminds you that you first have to love yourself and only then love others and he teaches you to be kind to yourself.

('i didn't do anything special,' you reason with him, looking at all the bath bombs from lush. 'what's the occasion?'

'there's no need for special occasion to pamper yourself, you deserve to feel good,' he replies, running a bath for you. he smiles in satisfaction once the temperature is up to his liking. 'now, lilac bomb or stargazer one?')

his touch is full of reverence - you are walking and breathing dream for him, he sometimes can't believe that you chose and keep on choosing to stay by his side. his appreciation for you runs deep and maybe he is not screaming to the whole world about it, but you know this and that's enough for both of you.

dating joshua is like that feeling when you are tucked into the bed, kissed on the forehead with the wish of a good sleep and murmured 'i love you'. that feeling of peace, serenity and warmth - this is what dating with joshua feels like, this is what he gives you on daily basis without a fail.

('josh,' you call and he looks up from the set of notes scattered on the table. 'what are you doing?'

'writing you a love song,' he replies easily, smiling at your blush. 'it's not finished yet.'

'you wrote me one last month,' you remind him, stepping closer. 'are you planning to gift me one every month?'

'i wish i could,' he says honestly, kissing your hand and pulling you closer. 'you inspire me to write love songs every day.' he stares at with open wonder and when you are ready to call him out for staring, he suddenly confesses: 'you are such a dream.'

it's cheesy but it's sincere and it makes you melt against his frame. 'i love you,' you whisper and he hugs you tighter.

' i love you too, darling.')

tag list: @pearlygraysky @woozionascooter @smalliechelle @jaetaimjadore (let me know if you want to be added!)

a/n: do i think that joshua belongs to the 18th century romance books? i do, i really do. have i also recently started watching 'bridgerton' and can i picture joshua there? yes, i do, i do. wish i could write some bridgerton inspired peace but anyways, here is the link to other members imagines, come check them out as well :) - nini

[to-the-stars8]

Affairs and Letters

Jason Todd x Reader Regency AU! AO3 Chapters

Part VIII

The way you had approached Mr. Todd had left you feeling faint. You knew a woman in your position should not be making advances on such a man, even more so at the risk of your entire career. You attempted to recover yourself by folding away clothes as it seemed to be the only thing you had control over as your heart had taken away any independence your mind possessed. A fool, you quietly declared yourself. One of the biggest fools in the county—Possibly the entire world! Not once had you hated yourself more than in that moment.

Fear crept up in the corners of your mind, lulling you into a panic at the idea of being desolate because of an affair. Damn, you wished now that you had never given Mr. Todd that letter. 

Nonetheless, the feeling of his skin against yours had occupied your mind above any panic or other terrible thought. His hand was warm, and, for a moment, you had wondered if the rest of him was the same. You imagined his embrace. Drowning in the scene of his sweet cologne as you gingerly let him hold you, whispering all the things that were not meant for love letters. 

Your heart fluttered at the thought, but the feeling quickly left as anxiety entered when you heard Lady Kent call for you. “Yes, Ma’am?”

As you stepped out of your room she approached. “We will be leaving a bit later than expected as Mr. Wayne insists on showing us the entirety of the grounds. In the meantime, you may do what you please as it seems all chores are done.”

“Very good, Ma’am. Please let me know when I am needed,” You said, but Lady Kent was already leaving you. 

The joy of having time for your own pleasures was turned into a flush of secret embarrassment when Mr. Todd quietly approach you from behind. It must have been the sunlight that made him look like a Greek prince with flushed cheeks and sparkling, inviting eyes with an air of gentleness around him. He regarded you sweetly, commenting how it was nice for Lady Kent to let you have the afternoon off. 

You found yourself troubled as you looked for words to respond, trying not to urge him to continue speaking to you since your mistress was still not too far from you. “Yes, Sir, it is.”

Mr. Todd stepped closer and held out his arm. His voice was low as he stated, “It is too lovely of a day for you to spend it in your room, come, let us tour the house.” 

Hesitantly, you took his arm. After all, you had reasoned, it would be rude for you to refuse. 

Your mind had the most intolerable habit of thinking of the most inappropriate things at the worst times. When you had taken Mr. Todd’s arm, you had noted that it had felt strong, enough so to hold you securely. His embrace would be safe, you mused. Then, wholly, at once, you had realized that you mustn’t think of such things when he was so near. Yet, you meddle in the amusement for a moment longer, wondering what he would say to you in whispers that would not be put into letters. You shook off the affection for him as best as you could by telling yourself that men were oft fickle in their love. 

Still and all, you could not forget what he wrote to you. You had wondered if Mr. Todd had dipped his pen into his heart to create such beauty with words, making ballads that not even the greatest musicians in court could conjure—for that, you were sure. 

“What do you think of our home, Miss?” Mr. Todd inquired suddenly. 

You smiled kindly at the ground, too within the woes of roses to look at him, “It is one of the most lovely of homes in the county. Second to Kent House, of course.”

Jason chuckled, looking away as well. “ Yes, of course. We all have a partiality to our own homes, to be sure.”

You chuckled. “Yes. I am inclined to agree.”

Another silence fell between you, and you thought of commenting on the house as you usually would just to fill the need for words. It was a beautiful home with such detail of elegance that could only be implemented by the most talented, studied of architects. There was not much care on your part in particular, but you thought Mr. Todd might have been keen to notice, surely. Mr. Todd sought to end the quietness by whispering in your ear. 

“Miss, may I be so bold?” 

You wished to tell him no, that speaking to you in such a way was ungentlemanly, and that you were a servant to the Kents, not a lusty mistress. You were still curious, so you gave him your permission to go on. “Since I have met you, I cannot get the vision of your lips on mine out of my head.”

“Mr. Todd,” You gasped, looking at him. His eyes were serious, more serious than you had ever seen them, and you could not help but feel the same. “You…We cannot say that to me, sir.” 

“Do not say that, my dearest,” You wished he had not called you that, such a nickname would make fighting your affections for him so much more difficult. “I would—”

“Jason!” 

Mr. Todd pulled away from you to look at whoever called to him, eyes losing their inviting look. Mr. Grayson entered the corridor with a smile, eyes looking at the two of you as if heard all that was said. Compared to the night before, Mr. Grayson was exceptionally much more handsome now, but there was a sense of playful wickedness to him. You, in turn, would not meet his eyes out of shame. 

“Miss, how are you enjoying your visit,” Mr. Grayson asked. “It is going well, I am sure.”

“Yes, sir,” You said, glancing at him as you tried to pull yourself from Jason’s arm. He, though, would not let you go. “Mr. Todd was being so kind as to show me the rest of the house.” 

Mr. Grayson snickered and gave his brother a once over with his eyes. “Yes, he looks very pleased with himself.”

“Dick,” Mr. Todd warned. 

Mr. Grayson did not take any threat from his brother’s obvious repulsion to his words, instead laughing before leaning toward his brother to whisper something. You were too caught up in your own mortification as you spiraled downward in the thought of losing all that you had worked toward for a simple man. 

“Fine,” Mr. Todd said, and Mr. Grayson then vanished when you looked up again. 

Quietly, you said, “We should part here, sir…”

“Have I caused you some offense, Miss?” Mr. Todd asked, apprehensive of your want to leave, yet still letting you go from his arm. “Tell me, I will rectify it.”

You shook your head. “Mr. Todd, you would have a fool of me. You know if…” Taking a moment to look around you lowered your voice to a whisper. “If we were to act on our feelings, it could cause a scandal.”

Mr. Todd did not seem swayed by your words, and, instead, smiled. “Then, you return my feelings, Miss?”

There was a wish for you to be mad at Mr. Todd, to reprimand him for not heeding your words, but you could not. Not when he looked at you with such happiness. “Mr. Todd, please.”

Jason relented, “I would not do you the dishonor, you have my word.”

“It is not your word that I am worried about,” You insisted. “I—I must go before someone sees us.”

“They already have,” Mr. Todd laughed. “My brother, if you recall.”

You were not amused by Mr. Todd’s jest and started to step away before he caught you by the hips. No one had touched you in such a way before and the feeling caused a sensation you did not know existed. When he pulled you away into a room that was dark and quiet, pressing himself flush against you, the feeling intensified. It was as if you became overly sensitive all at once, wanting him to touch you more while wanting him to stay away so this sensation would not consume you. 

“I did not mean to frighten you,” said he. “I simply wanted to speak to you freely, without eyes threatening to pry on our affairs.” 

Breathlessly, you said, “I am not frightened. Wholly.”

Mr. Todd chuckled, moving a strand of hair on your face. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Jason,” You said, eyes moving down to his lips. You felt this yearning for him now, being so close. 

 Jason said your name, and it felt like cool water on a hot day. Against your better judgment, you leaned up, brushing your lips against his. Mr. Todd, ever the gentleman you knew him to be, returned your affections tenfold by leaning more into the kiss, hands beginning to become curious. 

You were largely grateful that when your name was called, Mr. Todd had your tongue preoccupied so you could not reply out of habit.

[l4long-winded]

iii. mr. wright and jane austen

summary: sherlock observes you from afar and learns things against his own whim. that's what he'll keep telling himself (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: i was working hard to get this done in a timely manner while i still had the ideas for it in my head. this speedy process has left me with little direction, however, so i hope i will be able to get to the next part of this soon. i have a certain vision, but working the details out is another matter entirely. i am hopeful for this one. please enjoy and feedback is always encouraged.

warnings: seamstress!reader, condescending!sherlock, mystery brewing, cursing, longwinded descriptions, overthinking, sherlock is in denial, suggestive language, reader is going through it, off screen character death, somewhat slowburn, enemies to lovers, sherlock watches reader, eventual smut, victorian era (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 6,004

previously: consequences and a lead

( this work has been cross posted on ao3 )

Sherlock avoids you and you avoid him and he notices you’re doing the same to him from how you turn away when you spot each other or how you inevitably have to cross paths and choose to focus on other points in space rather than him. In one instance, you walk past each other and the fabric he’s been investigating for a week taunts him as you graze his right arm, your chin turned up in pride. You don’t allow him to deter you, but he can tell by your trembling fingers and how you fall back into a slouch once you’re closer to your door that you’re working hard again. While you refuse eye contact, he opts for it. He doesn’t know why he does, but against his better judgment, he studies your face and notes the violet rings adorning the contours of your lower eyelids. A champagne pigmented chain hangs around your neck, a white lily of the valley charm hangs off the chain, and those trembling fingers caress it after you two pass in the same fashion as parallel lines. Something beyond your job is troubling you and he acts as indifferent as he can until he reaches the staircase and walks up two total steps. From this view, he can look at you properly, your attention on unlocking the door to your flat. He hears a light sniffle before you enter it and you close the door with a gentle pressure, so gentle that he would not have known the action had been done had he not seen it done in front of him. Sherlock purses his lips in thought and then he shakes his head to return to his clues he’s gone over a million and one times in his mind and then he ascends the staircase to do the same in his office.

You’re not someone he should worry over. He knows it’s unnecessary as there’s this common, unspoken treaty between the two of you to stay a distance away. It’s for the best considering how neither of you entertained requests from one another. Except, he’s pondering why you might be sniffling and why you did it so soon without knowing if he was truly gone. Either you did it on purpose and for attention, which makes little to no sense since you clearly want nothing to do with him, or it’s because you couldn’t restrain yourself any longer. Both are causes for concern.

That’s the first time he sees something is amiss, a week after you dismissed him at your flat. He’s visited a total of 36 seamstress and tailor shops since then and miraculously none of them have carried the fabric you’re utilizing for your dresses. In his mission, he figured which shop was yours. It wasn’t difficult since it was close by and actually the first in mind he wanted to visit, but he saw you through the window and immediately did a full 180 turn to maneuver to the next possible stop. From then on, he tried to keep his head up and ahead to not keep any tabs on you as an accidental eye-lock would indicate he was stalking your establishment, and from your past conversations, he did not wish to use your help in any capacity, much less against your knowledge. He did well in not letting his ego wander in and cave into some sort of apology, his glances at the shop kept at a minimum unless a person of interest walked inside while Sherlock went to and from his home on Baker street. His abnormal hours prevented him from running into you besides the miniscule moments of time he would see you in his building. He thought it would be easy to continue this repelling for as long as possible.

That is, he thought this before he made the poor decision to deduce you off a whim on his way to his flat. You didn’t stay at the forefront of his mind for long, but as he let himself get carried away with his case, you did appear randomly and without warning. After that, the next morning, as Sherlock ventures out into the world, his cerulean irises delve into the atmosphere of the shop. He observes the bodices holding your hand-made clothing, the stitching impressive even from a far away gaze. He doesn’t stop walking to try and bring his mind peace, doing so would mean he’s going against his commitment to leave you out of his investigation, but he indulges in the interlude and distance it takes strolling by to gather pieces of information. He’s not so much curious about the fabric, but what’s seemed to have you so shaken and work stricken. The last thing he desires is to talk to you so this feels as if it’s the next best logical choice. The lights are off, you’re not in yet, and as he comes to a corner, he catches the sign above the shop and then he commemorates it into his brain, a mental note he slaps to the far wall of his skull: Mr. Wright’s Threads.

The next time he passes the shop, it’s the afternoon and he’s in need of nutrients if he wants to continue his travels. He’s on his way home and his head turns a touch to look through your window and alas, you’re there tending to a headless mannequin while an older woman speaks to you from the side. He watches the interaction and you smile brightly as you showcase the dress, but when the woman turns away to look through the other items, he sees your face fall. He can tell you’re blowing a breath of air out to keep your patience, but there’s also something else beyond that. Your cheek sinks in, most likely due to how you’re biting the inside of it to keep yourself at bay, from what Sherlock does not understand, but as the older woman pivots on her heel, your smile is back and you’re the expert merchant helping as much as the customer desires.

He thinks he’ll never fully understand how people can commit to duties they hate, but then again, Enola would probably tell him how that came from a place of privilege. He comprehends how he has an unusual form of work that pays well and more than the average worker, much more than a woman in any field, but from what he had seen in your flat and the quality of your clothing, you’re well off. You have money. Whatever is making you miserable is a puzzle for him and it’s actually not any easier to navigate than this murder investigation he’s currently undergoing. He sadly prefers the game since answers would always be unveiled to him eventually. The same could not be said for how he could decipher a woman and her feelings. Still, this is not the last time he looks into your shop. He looks into it again the next morning, the next afternoon, and the next evening when he stops by the pub for a glass of wine meant to calm down his nerves and smother his thoughts. Curiously, each time he does, he realizes you’re alone. A shop run by a woman is not unheard of, but the extravagance of it and its location have him questioning how it came to be. Not only are you selling clothing and pressuring yourself at home to complete your goals, you’re also the cashier, the cleanup crew, and from what he can tell, the manager.

Perhaps, the owner.

Sherlock realizes what he’s doing around the fourth day of peering into your shop and he refrains at the midpoint of his stroll. He lightly scolds himself for going against his own aims and tells himself that it won’t happen again, he can’t let another thing distract him from what’s important, especially not someone who refused to help him in this endeavor. He’s not sure what possessed him to be checking in on you as frequently as he has been, but it’s not going to happen anymore. It’s time to intensify the seriousness of his situation tenfold and travel out to gain a look at the bigger picture he’s obviously been overlooking in the process of being too curious for his own good, too curious about a woman who cannot stand him the very same.

He speaks with a shop owner nearby, one he’s already spoken to before but the tailor did reassure Sherlock that he would be checking his inventory for the fabric. A cup of tea and some banter he has to sit through to maintain a friendly facade later, it’s another dead end and he’s disappointed as he leaves and shoves his hands into his pockets. His luck in this case is close to nothing it seems and he fears it might have to go cold, something to archive while he works on something new. It’s another kind of technique, taking a break from what has your mind in shambles in order to find new pieces and details. From what he understood, the creatives of the world did so to find new inspiration and broaden their horizons they unknowingly limited through narrowed thinking and crescendoing stress.

It’s only that Sherlock doesn’t operate this way. He obsesses (as much as he would hate to admit it) and thrives until something is complete. The sad and maybe deranged fact of it is that it’s not always for the intended victims to gain sooner justice, but for his own sake. It won’t stop burrowing into his mind until it’s solved, he can’t sleep a wink, and if he does, the case will mock him in his dreams. He will not let it continue to do so, he has to think of another way to attack this that does not involve abandoning it or you, the woman he catches in the library he decided to turn inside of—what the, what are you doing here of all places? At the sight of you, he subconsciously tightens his grip on his cane. He doesn’t need anything else to sour his mood. Fortunately for him, you’re busy reading at a table and didn’t catch wind of him. He’s quick to move out of your way in case you do look up and he busies himself scanning the shelves so he can possibly bring something home. He reads title after title, each one he’s read before and in this, his frustration amplifies by the seconds. It’s then that it occurs to him that the book you��re holding might be something that’s not in his collection.

It’s not that he wants to know about your interests any further. That could be so far from the truth. No, he desires to ensure his entertainment with a new book that may end up helping with his investigation. That new book is quite possibly sitting in your hands… though, from what he can tell overlooking from his position behind a shelf, the pages are yellowed and old. Every time you turn to a new one, he can hear the distinct crisp that follows due to the silence of the area. Few people walk by, their shoes on the creaking floors still not drowning out the pages that you shuffle beneath your fingers with care. It cements a factor about you in his head, how you’re also a reader and you don’t want to damage the knowledge and words in your hands, strange when he thinks about how damaged the print is already. What a sign of sentiment. Oddly enough, despite how much he’s seen it happen these past few days, your hands are not trembling. And it’s not due to a lack of work since your efforts are high and alert in his eyes, it’s because you’re trying to relax. From what he could surmise, it’s working, your shoulders laying softly into the back of the chair you’re sitting in, your eyes dreamily passing through every word in your immersion, lashes fluttering open and closed. Those stubborn hair strands you messily push away often are even hanging over the apples of your cheeks, but you make no motions to remove them from where they are. You simply let them be, just as you currently simply are.

Sherlock gazes downwards a minute after he’s looked at you because it takes him that long to remember what he told himself moments before he entered the library. He’s not supposed to be deciphering anything about you and your shop, he’s supposed to be working on his case just as you’ve been sewing in your time. His fingers tap the shelf impatiently, impatient with himself for falling right back into a pattern he didn’t know started almost two weeks ago now. He doesn’t understand what it is about you for you to continuously pull his attention out of thin air without doing anything particularly extraordinary, but the aged books sitting in front of him cause him to recall where he is. He’s in a place of silence, silence that’s present and prominent in consideration of an even quieter reading among the individuals inside. You just so happen to be one of those individuals and it’s not wrong for him to be discovering what book is currently in your hands. You’re not at Mr. Wright’s Threads and you’re not his neighbor he circumvents in order to evade another awkward situation. You’re a reader who holds a book he possibly hasn’t read and it’s alright to move into a position where he can read the title for confirmation. Said movement is conducted by him in an instant after rationalizing this and he treads carefully still not wanting to be detected by you. He’s successful in being nonchalant, and soon enough, your digits nudge over the cover enough for him to read what is currently in your possession. Persuasion by Jane Austen isn’t a bad read, but he’s read it all the same.

“The chokehold romance has on people,” he whispers to himself, but it’s not in some patronizing way. He’s fascinated, actually. Towards him, you’ve presented this cold exterior with the intentions there to stop yourself from appearing shaken in any type of way and while he can trace this phenomenon to your two not-so-amiable interactions together, his ego isn’t that grand to think he’s the sole cause. You live a life beyond being his downstairs neighbor and over these past two weeks, he’s been privy to it no matter how much he’s tried to keep his nose in his own business. There’s almost a melancholy aura to how you live and how you speak with other people even if there’s a welcoming grin on your features. Because really, your grin is not feigned, but it’s necessary to hide away feelings you don’t want to seep into your work, much less to the bleeding socializing life towards strangers, and so much more less to a stranger who plays violin at almost all hours of the early morning when he can’t think clearly. Your mask is evident to him because he’s seen it removed when you think no one’s watching and it’s a vital detail to him here in this moment because said mask is nowhere to be found. You’re reading without your usual safety precautions which could only mean that you’re at ease.

So maybe he can’t comprehend why love seems to be such an enthralling topic for not only you, but countless others across the country and the world, but he can understand that its effect and longing for it can change moods and emotions. It can affect motivations and bring out the best and worst in people according to how it’s applied to situations. This realm is not at all his forte and he tends to subtract himself from circumstances that deal in love unless it’s necessary to the caseload he’s working on. And yet, he lingers as he nears the exit. He lingers watching as you bring your fingers towards your lips and the peculiar part is you’re doing so in thought, but a real smile slowly graces your mouth and it conveys to him that you’re probably suppressing it subconsciously. In your enjoyment, you still find a way to hide genuine mirth and he believes it’s out of the habits you’ve created for yourself and for those around you to see. No one observes people like him, however. Sherlock is not sure if anyone could detect who you are because of how good you are at concealing her away, but he’s been gifted (and cursed) with the ability to not only see what others can’t, but to see everything. And he sees your smile and a negative cloud drapes over his shoulders for some reason knowing that if you see him right now, it would crumble away and the mask would promptly be lifted back up. It’s the possibility of disturbing your peace that finally pushes him out of the library and back to the pavement where he resumes his pursuit of that evasive fabric.

It’s late at night when he finally calls it a day. He’s on his way back to his flat when he takes a glance through your shop’s window. He doesn’t mean to and he’s about to stare straight ahead when he sees a frequent customer of yours leave through the front doors. He notices how she waves her goodbye to you and you wave back before you’re heading inside to clean up. He should leave the older woman alone, he knows this, but there’s something that’s been bothering him when it comes to your shop. From what he’s gathered, he’s certain you’re the owner. It would explain your constant vigilance, this marriage to your work that you’re committed to at home and within this store, and why you seem to live alone. You have the funds, but they definitely most come from the shop. What is not accounted for is who Mr. Wright is. While Sherlock may not know your first or last name, he’s positive you don’t go by Mr. Wright. It’s possible you’re taking care of everything in his absence, a reason as to why you’re working yourself to the bone, why you appeared downstairs seemingly out of the blue. Being on location is easier than not. Before, you probably sent your work through a carrier.

With these questions and theories in mind, Sherlock jogs lightly to catch up to the older woman. His presence is easy to catch because of his sheer size and she immediately looks up at him with a warm smile. Age has caused her to slightly slouch, but she stares up with bright eyes that he knows have not forgotten youth for a second. Something snug spreads across his chest at this, but he ignores it and reflects back her smile.

“Excuse me for bothering, but I’ve been meaning to—”

“You’re not bothering me at all!” she chirps, not willingly cutting Sherlock off, but it happened nonetheless. Older people have that habit of delayed processing and he knows that so in response, he gives another smile, one he’s practiced in the mirror numerous times. Mycroft used to remind Sherlock to fix his face, to think of the emotions he’s replicating and failing at since he wasn’t good at them naturally. She’s still just as inviting as before, so he counts it as a success.

“Right,” he continues, “Say, I’ve been meaning to commission an item there for a while now, but I haven’t seen Mr. Wright around to do so?” He’s cautious as he asks this, watching her facial structure closely for anything that he might have said wrong. Mr. Wright may be imaginary, but the probability of that is low. Sherlock is taking an educated guess here relating to the existence of Mr. Wright and he does regret his approach for a moment when he sees her face transition into a frown. It’s only a moment, however, because he realizes that it’s not in confusion, but in… dread?

“Yes, well… I’m sorry to be the one to break the news, young man, but… Mr. Wright won’t be around any time soon.” The woman sighs and turns her stare down to the ground. Sherlock’s not sure what changed the mood, but he continues walking with her at her pace and shortens the strides of his long legs out of courtesy. She walks slowly already, but the weight of her words have seemingly pressed into her back and her pace is now similar to that of a snail’s. “His daughter’s a diligent and brilliant young lady, so I do recommend going to her for this request. From my experience, she’s easy to speak with and navigates a cluttered schedule well. She’s closing up now, but I’m sure you can converse with her tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock physically bites his tongue at this and it’s to refrain from commenting on you and just how “easy” it is to speak with you. He’s not about to give into spite and possibly throw away another vessel of information, he’s learned his lesson much like how he’s now learned that Mr. Wright is your father. Of course you’d be striving to keep it in shape, it’s a family business.

“I don’t know if I can do tomorrow morning, or anything for a while in that regard for a consultation,” he lies, “So, if you can please tell me when Mr. Wright will be back, I’m sure that’ll be simpler for the both of us.” The prospect of Mr. Wright existing is what causes Sherlock’s brain to light up. He didn’t want to interfere with your work or stoop to a lower level in which he would have to give you a meaningless apology, so the idea of there being another authority figure in this shop that sold his rare fabric is something that greatly intrigues him. He could skip the formalities with you and ensure that the space between the two of you would be maintained for as long as you both wished. He feels the answer to his problems is closer and closer and something electric travels up his wrists that he hasn’t felt in a long while. The last time was probably during the last case he solved, this being months ago now.

Though, the electricity fades as the older woman comes to a complete stop on the street. Fortunately there are no carriages passing by and there is little traffic among the people walking home/taking evening strolls. He pivots where he stands to face her fully, his eyes blinking in confusion. He glances at her heels and he thinks for a second that she might be stopping because her feet hurt. Then her hands hold each other and he thinks that perhaps she’s cold with the night’s air biting through the thin fabric of her sleeves. She fidgets with her mouth, twitches in it that he interprets as confirmation of his thought. Sherlock shimmies his overcoat off his broad shoulders and manages to remove one cuff off his wrist as he says, “Here, would you like my coat?”

Before he can slip another side off, the woman raises her hand and presses it to his forearm. He volleys stares from her hand to his arm to her face that is now gazing up at him with what he could only describe as apologetic eyes. He’s not sure what they were apologizing for, but he doesn’t try to guess out loud. He solely listens.

“You haven’t heard,” she whispers. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s technically right since he didn’t even know if Mr. Wright existed prior to this conversation, but these words are not meant for him. They’re meant for someone who actually knew Mr. Wright, an acquaintance of this woman who would care more deeply about him due to a mutual, friendly connection. Sherlock hasn’t heard anything about this man because why would he? He doesn’t know this man. He should cut his losses and back away because maybe it’s the right thing to do. But he doesn’t budge, he stands still and waits for her to continue because even if he does not know Mr. Wright to hear about the information she’s about to divulge, he’s a Holmes. And a Holmes has to know.

“Mr. Wright… Mr. Wright passed away not too long ago. From what people have said and from what I have seen firsthand, his daughter was left the clothing shop.”

That’s not what Sherlock expected her to say. Or maybe it was and he was truly hoping that it would not be the case. There went his chances right out the window at proceeding with his investigation. That’s what he’s choosing to focus on and not the earth shattering discovery of how your father passed away recently. Because if he focuses on that, Sherlock’s brain will become laden with moral culpability. There’s that skin deep influence and place of privilege that Enola would have snuffed out first before he did. She’s better with emotions than he is, better at empathizing and using other tools besides nitpicking every single aspect of complex human behavior. He would’ve arrived at this obvious conclusion had he not turned every which way from you. Because if he focuses on this, then it’ll hit him upside the face that he invalidated you in not just common decency, but in the human experience. If he stops, physically as he’s done now despite the older woman patting his chest in sympathy he doesn’t deserve as a stranger to Mr. Wright and an ill-mannered stranger to you, he’s going to realize how he’s the one who’s in the wrong and the only one truly standing in his way is himself.

Sherlock’s brain is moving faster than he can form coherent thought because it takes him fifteen seconds of contemplating what would happen if he focused on your father’s passing to become aware that he’s indeed ironically focusing on that very thing. His fists clutch at his sides in disappointment and there are so many things he can say to this older woman who is wrongfully attempting to comfort him of all people, but he can’t bring himself to utter anything that would help her in this or deceive her into believing a man’s death meant something to him at all. All he can muster is, “When?”

The woman replies, “About one month ago.”

It’s the afternoon and you’ve just arrived at your building. You had a long day of work ahead this morning, but now you’re finished with half and you’re going to do your best to enjoy your lunch time. You must find a way to stay positive since sales are not where they need to be and you can hear your father warning you about “giving up is truly giving up”. You have this urge to yank at your own hair, but the memory of his voice helps you walk to your door. In the process, you see Shoulders in the middle of the staircase. Before you have the chance to turn away as usual, you notice how he’s already been looking down at you and most likely did so when you came back from work. It’s too late to refuse his gaze. There’s an interlude of you looking into his eyes and him looking into yours. This action itself is not brand new, but it somehow feels different than other times before. You don’t know what to make of it.

“How’s work?” He asks and breaks the silence. His break is clean, there are sans any nerves, but the tension rests between you. You don’t comprehend why he’s being so casual with you after three weeks of not interacting with one another and separating as if quarantining from the black plague, but you don’t reply with anything negative. You don’t reply with anything positive, either, but venom’s not twisting your tongue this time around.

“You tell me,” you say in a neutral tone. You know he’s smart. He knew you were a seamstress without you telling him and then you recall how he’s a detective consultant. The other day, you felt yourself bloom a rosy shade across your cheeks and chest thinking of the time he came by to ask for your help. From your appearance and from how he focused his eyes at the top of your head, you came to the realization that he probably figured out you were in the bath before you answered the door. Luckily for you, this was weeks ago now and you were no longer embarrassed at the prospect. You’re the one who wound up turning him away, after all.

Mr. Holmes leans into the railing as he observes you. You’re keenly aware of how his eyes stay on yours, his gaze wordlessly asking if that’s really what you wanted since he did hold the ability to do so. He’s disbelieving you’re guiding him towards this since you’ve rampantly been frigid in his presence and he in yours, but you don’t have the energy for it today. That’s what it comes down to for you to offer this challenge for him (and boy does he read this as a challenge), the fact that you don’t have enough energy to tell him about how your livelihood is at stake and how you can’t conjure new and paying clientele. You nod at Mr. Holmes to give him that push to go ahead and you watch as his chest expands and deflates in the process of a decisive sigh.

“It’s tiring, isn’t it? Full of commitments and responsibilities, free of equal payout to match the work ethic put in, long hours that are barely worth their weight.” Mr. Holmes pauses and you’re in awe that he’s nailed it so perfectly without overstepping any boundaries. You don’t think you’ve heard anyone understand these aspects of your job so closely without still expecting more of you, while still being general. He couldn’t know the details that have gone into your work, but you’re sure that they’re written across your forehead for someone like him.

“Yes, that’s right… My work is shit.”

You don’t know what you were expecting saying such a thing to Mr. Holmes, but it certainly wasn’t the small smile on his mouth. You actually expected him to laugh rather than smile your way and your hand reaches up to grab your own bicep as a method of shielding yourself away. Your own smile comes to your lips and you gesture your head to your door. “I have to get going. Can’t take too long since I have to go back soon.”

Mr. Holmes merely drops his chin in comprehension and you do the same in acknowledgment before you get back to opening your door. He’s heading up the steps as you enter your flat. Your face dawdles near the door as you try to decipher what exactly just happened between you and your crabby neighbor. It’s not that it was friendly, because it was, it’s that it wasn’t dismissive or conflicting. That’s what made the concept of it all the more conflicting.

As you take a step back and away from the door, the heel of your shoe bumps something solid on your floor and you’re quick to catch yourself from stumbling. Looking down, you see a brown package wrapped in twine, writing underneath the winding binding forming neat knots. Picking it up for a closer look, you undo the knots of the twine and loosen it enough to move it aside and read what is written at the top of the parcel: For Ms. Wright greeting you in handwriting you did not recognize. The only people who could send you anything were either your mother or your sister. You may have taken the shop over, but you doubted you created relationships with any of your customers so deep enough for any of them to discover where you live and send something. That and the package is missing any sign of an address. It just holds your last name. It’s a curious thing.

You commence the unwrapping of the package and as you unfold the paper, you notice how someone sent you a book. The book looks familiar to you, but instead of listening to your gut, you turn it over to see it for yourself. Just as you surmised, Persuasion by Jane Austen stares back at you. Oddly enough, you forgot your own copy back at home with your mother who lived out in the country and you didn’t have time to write anyone to send it over. You also did not want to interfere in your sister’s attendance with your mother. The attention needed to be on the frail woman and you would not take a second of that away from her. That further eliminates them from being the senders and you’re nervous trying to think of who could have possibly done this. You sift through the pages and you can see that this is an old version, but not as old as the one at the library you like to stop by at. 

It’s the sight of a dried plant that stops you from carrying on any further. In chapter 16 of the book, there is a dried lily of the valley matching closely to the one currently dangling from your neck. You immediately grasp the charm in your hand as you inspect the dried flower. Despite its condition, the floral smell still fills your nostrils and it reminds you of your garden back home where you could sit in when everything collided in the background. While everything in the house became tumultuous, you could bring yourself to your knees and smell the flowers blossoming around you, listen to the breeze as it traveled by and took various petals along with it. You revisit the garden in your memory and staring at the lily will barely give you any answers so, you untuck the scrap of paper underneath it and begin to read.

I saw you reading this at the library. Consider it a peace offering. I’m not sure if it’s enough, but I would like for us to have a clean slate. We could be friends or enemies or mere acquaintances, time will explain.

Yours sincerely,

     Sherlock

You had a feeling of who “Sherlock” could be, but you could hardly believe that he, of everyone, would send you such a thoughtful gift despite hardly knowing anything about each other. You don’t remember seeing him at the library and you don’t think you ever mentioned the lily of the valley. Just as you think it, you close your hand over the charm at your necklace and how visible it is for anyone with a pair of eyes to nose out. Then, the last time you attended the library had not been that long ago and you do recall how you sat by yourself and tuned out the world around you. It’s likely that you didn’t notice him near you because of how invested you were in the book, the same story currently sitting in your hands. It wouldn’t be too out of left field. He simply saw you and you didn’t know how to react to that. Especially since you’re not sure what made him take this direction. He seems as stubborn as you are.

Not wanting to hurt your brain any further with overthinking, you instead begin to read the passage beneath the lily aloud. “Lady Russel listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply: ‘Elizabeth! Very well; time will explain.’” At this, you let out a soft chuckle. He underlined what he wrote in his note.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes… What are you playing at?” You say to yourself. You trace the letters on the note, the indentation he’s left behind. “Sherlock Holmes,” you murmur as if testing the name out, trying it for a spin, “What will time explain for us?”

[claudemblems]

It is a well-known fact to everyone acquainted with the Light of the Kshahrewar that though he presents himself as a generous man, he’s greedy when it comes to your affections. No matter how much you pour into him, he is never fully satisfied. As soon as your lips leave his, he’s quickly diving back in, chasing after more. When it's gotten late and you've just left his home, he’s fighting to not throw open the door and take you into his arms again, begging you to stay with him for just a little bit longer. Even in his dreams, he finds himself yearning for one more laugh, one more kiss, one more smile, one more touch. You are everything he desires. Everything he could ever need or want.

And wherever you go, his love for you will follow.