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leuchtstabrebell · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 7 /Prompt: Reluctant whumper

Leia is 15 and desperately waiting for the summer to finally be over. She could be doing important things, spending time with her friends, building important connections or studying. Instead, she is stuck with meaningless conversations and the uncomfortable dress that Palpatine is making her wear. The celebration honoring the coronation of Naboo's new queen ironically takes place on Coruscant, and while those in charge have tried their best to make the decorations reminiscent of the Emperor's home planet, it all seems so incredibly fake and superficial. Leia doesn't understand why Palpatine even bothers to seem interested in his former home world anymore.

Her father is here as well but doesn't leave the Emperor's side, as usual, and Luke is on an official inspection visit to some planets in the middle ring, ostensibly to demonstrate his diplomatic skills.

One of the few bright spots of the evening is the presence of Mon Mothma. Since Leia has known the Senator she has been the coolest person in every room she is in almost all of the time, and Leia is pretty sure that she plays an important role in the rebellion, although she can't prove it. Mon’s mental shields are some of the strongest Leia has ever encountered. She knows that Mon wants to save her from her father's influence, and Leia wishes she could talk openly about him, or even openly about anything in her life, so Mon would understand that it’s not him she is worried about.

"Ah, the young Lady Vader," Mon greets her, drink in hand.

"Hello Mon," Leia says, even though she knows Mon likes to insist on formality. “Where did you get that drink?” she grins.

Mon grimaces. "Really, Leia, where are your manners?"

“Oh, so now you’re on first name basis too,” Leia laughs. Mon can't help but smile with her. Leia knows she has a daughter close to her age, and sometimes something maternal comes through in her that Leia longs for.

“How’s school going? Do you know what you want to do after?” Mon asks, and Leia gives an evasive but acceptable answer, and so the conversation moves along.

Leia senses something is about to happen before she hears the shouts and screams in the next room.

She and Mon look at each other and, like most of the guests, make their way to the source of the commotion. In the middle of the crowd stands the emperor, and next to him, her father has captured a man, his arms twisted unnaturally behind his back. A blaster lies on the ground a few steps away. The man can't be older than 20, and his pupils are dilated with fear and pain. His one shoulder looks like it's been dislocated.

Palpatine has a hand pressed protectively to his chest, but Leia knows it's all an act. He likes the facade of the old, frail man, and her father as a dangerous monster who needs to be controlled. The entire party holds its breath, waiting to see what Palpatine will do next. He stands up and takes a few steps away from the young man, who is still being grabbed by her father.

“Please excuse the bother, dear friends,” Palpatine says. The man tries unsuccessfully to free himself from Vader's iron grip, curses and shouts: “You will pay for your actions, I promise. If I don't do it, someone else will!”

Palpatine ignores him. "It saddens me deeply to have to order this, but I think we must neutralize this threat to the public," he says, looking encouragingly at Vader. The thought no longer makes Leia's stomach churn. She has seen her father kill too many times for that.

But something is holding Vader back. She sees it in the way he stiffens, almost imperceptibly.

Leia, his voice rings in her mind, and she knows immediately that whatever her father is about to say is something terrible. He wants you to do it.

No, she thinks. She wishes she had asked Mon for a drink after all, then at least she could hold on to it now. She feels as if time has stood still.

“Leia,” her father’s voice booms through the silence. All eyes are suddenly on her. She wants to shake her head, wants to run away. Mon's presence next to her suddenly doesn't seem comforting at all. “Pick up the weapon,” Vader thunders. She knows these aren't her father's words, that Sidious is whispering them to him, but somehow that just makes it worse.

She doesn't look at her father - even without a mask, his blank expression wouldn't help her - but at Palpatine. He doesn't smile, but there's a darkness in his eyes that she knows all too well. “Don’t worry young lady, of course I would never expect you to take over your father’s work. Death is not a nice thing, even if it is sometimes necessary for the greater good.”

Leia swallows against her dry throat. Of course, Palpatine once again presents himself as the bastion of reason, the one who keeps the bloodthirsty monster Vader in check. And of course, it is this monster who now wants to get her hands covered in blood.

"For the safety of the Empire," she says, forcing herself to go to the gun. Their footsteps echo loudly in the silence. The man looks at her pleadingly, but she forces herself to look through him. She comes to stand next to her father and suddenly has the childish desire to hide her face in his chest. Help me, she thinks out loud, and then, please, don't let this happen. She knows it's not fair to ask this of him, and yet she feels betrayed by him. But her father doesn't answer, and with trembling hands she takes the gun in her hand. It's loaded and cocked, and Leia presses the barrel against the back of the man's head. When she looks up, her eyes meet Mon's. Her expression is pointedly neutral, but beneath it lurks disappointment and horror, and Leia has to look away. Her finger on the trigger doesn't move.

"Do it," her father says, and they all think it's an order, but Leia hears the pleading in his voice. She sees that his hands, holding the man's arms in place, are also shaking. Then she pulls the trigger.

A bang and her father drops the lifeless body to the floor. Some blood has splattered on her face. She looks down at that terrible dress and there are some red spots there too. “The dress,” she whispers. “Papa, the dress is stained. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get it dirty.”

“We’ll get it cleaned later,” her father says.

A murmur arises in the room, whispering, excited conversation. The Emperor approaches and takes her hand, the one with which she was just holding the weapon (when did the blaster fall to the ground?). “Thank you for your drive and courage,” he says, and Leia hates him with every fiber of her being. She smiles at him in a daze, nods in all the right places, smiles, and finally says goodbye in the direction of Mon.

She wants to fall on her knees before her and ask for forgiveness. But when you spend your whole life on your knees, the gesture is worthless, and so she stumbles to Mon, who has since joined several other liberal senators, and doesn't fall or plead. She can see that politicians are having a hard time keeping their composure, that they don't quite know what to say. She is grateful to her father for playing the monster again, for giving her the opportunity to blame some of her actions on him. But murder isn't something you can just excuse with a father complex.

“Hello Mon,” she says and, without asking, takes the glass from her hand, drains it in one go and then makes a face. The stuff doesn't taste anything like the liquor one of her friends brought back from the academy, but maybe it's exactly what she needs right now.

#whumptober 2023 #no.7 #reluctant whumper #altprompt #star wars #fic #death #gun violence #alcohol #vader raises the kids AU #again #whumptober2023

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jessicas-pi · 2 years

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me: i WILL finish this chapter of Time Heals today! And i will NOT get distracted!

*gilligan cut to me, starting a second chapter of Seventeen, Young And Sweet that i probably will never finish, with the Time Heals All Wounds doc open and forgotten*

me: how did this happen

#the Teenage Rebellion AU #the Time Heals 'verse #darn it sidesofmayo your 'reluctant sith acolyte prince charming' comment gave me IDEAS #(not that i'm complaining)#star wars rebels #star wars

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spacedace · 9 months

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Reluctant War AU Part 2

Part One

...I ended up writing more for that Reluctant War AU...Like. Wrote this before work and started on part 3 with plans for part 4 more.

this was supposed to just be a brain worm what happened (also thank you @catastrophic-crow for the AU name <3 <3 <3 Also, also: welcome to the cult of Ancient of the Speedforce Elle! Membership includes nonsense, shenanigans and chaos haha)

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Every corner haunted by death and tragedy.

Every street stained red at least once in its many years.

Every dark shadow holding the faint shadows and shades of the dead.

Gotham was, before all else, a grave yard.

Jason had known that his entire life. Every kid born and raised in the Alley did. Death came fast to Gotham’s streets. Especially for those the rest of the city turned its back on. He did his best to lighten the reaper’s load when it came to the people that called Crime Alley home. Well, mostly. He’d certainly added names to old Death’s list before, when the occasion called.

When the armies of the dead descended upon Gotham, the only surprise Jason could feel was that those white wearing pieces of shit had dared to try and hunker down in his city.

It was a sentiment shared by most of Gotham’s fine citizens. By the city itself - herself? Something to ask later, if there was a later - even if the impossible, living shadow that rose up out of Gotham’s many dark corners was anything to go by. He knew, almost instinctively, that the entity - skin of cracked pavement, mouth a bridge suspended too wide across the face, eyes of CCTV camera lenses and body built brick by grimy, bloody brick of the sharp skyline - was Gotham. Not a ghost but something bigger, greater. Something awfully, terribly alive in all its horrible, noble glory. His city, manifest in the shape almost human beneath the green glow of the torn apart sky above.

Phantom’s armies arrived without warning as they had everywhere else, and their enemies poured out in unforgivably unmarred white suits to meet them. Horrible and garish against the Gotham streets. How they’d ever managed to slink by unnoticed while being so blatantly, clearly not of Gotham Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

If either side thought this would be like the battles they fought before, they were mistaken.

Gotham was a place for Ghosts.

A place the dead piled up, lingered well beyond their deaths. A place where the rules were different from everywhere else in the world. Where crime was rampant and chaos reigned but at the end of the day people said their thanks that they were born to this hellhole and not so cursed to call anywhere else in the world home.

The dead came to fight

And Gotham, a thing so alive it was sickening to look upon, rose up to fight right along side them all.

The agents were ready and prepared for the incursion of the dead. It’d been two weeks since the first volley of attacks. Two weeks spent shoring up defenses and ramping up weapons and strategizing ways to kill what was already dead. They were, as best as they were able to be considering how endless the armies that came for them, prepared.

They weren’t prepared for Gotham.

Weren’t prepared for the city itself to rise up and take spectral, eldritch shape. Jagged building spire and shattered glass teeth bared in a snarl that spanned miles. Screaming rage in a voice made of gunfire and the concussive boom of explosions and the shrieks of a furious crowd.

Weren’t prepared for its people to ignore the gentle ushering of the dead trying to push them away to safety and instead press forward to fight shoulder to shoulder with the ghostly armies.

Weren’t prepared to have brick and bottles and trash and debris rain down upon them from the jeering living. Weren’t prepared for dirty faced children with hard eyes to light up rags stuffed into chipped beer bottles filled with gas and kerosene and throw them with more speed an accuracy than any professional baseball player. Weren’t ready for Gotham’s motley crew of terrifying Rogues to band together with the citizens they so often accosted and worried and bring down wave after wave of chaos and Goons.

Weren’t prepared for Red Hood to swap out his rubber bullets for the real deal and start mowing the fuckers in white down, his own crew at his back, the rest of the Outlaws on their way.

The Justice League was trying to find a peaceful resolution. Trying to play go between to the US Government and the infinite dead. Too wound up in US politics to side with the dead outright, too disgusted by what the American government had done to ever want to stand with them. All it had gotten them was spun wheels and confusion and the slow creeping realization that the time to try and play negotiators had well passed.

Red Hood wasn’t a member of the Justice League.

He had no obligation to try and find a way to talk things out.

What he had was a grave he’d dug his way out of, enough ammunition to arm a sizable country, and a burning need to make things right.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts, and Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

Haunting the streets he’d survived as a child, the city he protected as Robin, the family he’d loved and lost a thousand and one times before and after his death.

The sky cracked open above his home, and it was not an invading army that came rushing out but a native one. Friends, neighbors, strangers on the street you caught from the corner of your eye. The people of Gotham knew their own and fought for them. Only Gotham was allowed to fucked with Gotham and they’d been screwed over enough by the government themselves to know what side they were on.

He lifted his guns and fired, teeth bared in vicious satisfaction beneath his helmet as white was splattered bright red.

A hissing electric whine of a weapon, a flash of green from the edge of his vision.

“Down!”

He was thrown bodily to the cracked and ruined street beneath him, the body shielding him warm and living as one of the agent’s weapon fired a blast of energy right where he’d been a second before. He’d seen that same weapon reduce one of the raging dead to dripping green and screams of agony the dead should not be capable of making.

Before he could shove himself up and respond in kind, the body above him was in motion and the air above him cracking with the snapping-popping-roar of a gun of a much higher power than even what he had. The fucker in white that had shot at him dissolved into a mist of red viscera, body seizing and shuttering in the briefest moment it had before it was obliterated completely.

“Watch yourself.” He looked up - and up - and wondered at the lovely, fierce face he found staring down at him. “Even without shooting at them you’re Liminal enough to trip their sensors.”

She was tall enough to be an amazon, six inches in height on him at least. Body strong beneath the pitch black armor she work - as deep and dark as the depths of space, etched with starlight, a familiar crest upon her chest in the dizzying burst of a supernova - she held herself with confidence. Strands of hair the color of a warning sunrise escaped out from beneath the helm she wore, bright against her pale skin, warming the glass-sharp teal eyes that had pinned him in place.

The hand not holding the gun she’d just used to delete the asshole that had just tried to shoot him - a strange, impossible thing that made him taste lightning at the back of his throat to look at it - stretched out to help him up.

He accepted it.

Something pulsed to life in his chest. A piece forgotten where it’d been left behind, half buried in grave dirt and broken pieces of a casket he’d clawed his way out of. It burned like a hot coal in his chest, froze him with the same aching cold of a blizzard, crackled his nerves to life with lightning even as his brain popped and fried with the same sizzling energy.

On his feet, hair on end and body and Core pulsing with the need to fight, to rend and tear and scream for all done to him, his people, his home, he met the eyes of the woman before him. Her cool gaze softened, just a moment, just a second as she seemed to realize what had happened. Her hand, lighter than the armor she wore should allow it to be, tightened on his just a moment, mouth tilting from determined frown to soft understanding.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

---

Part Three

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #jason todd #jazz fenton #GIW #reluctant war au #ghost zone goes to war #ghost king danny #liminal jazz #halfa jason #sorta kinda #he's waking up alright #anger management #if you squint but if i do end up writing even more of this it'll be a thing lol #spirit of gotham #gotham spirit #eldritch gotham spirit #tw death #tw violence #implied gore #gothamites take one look at the GIW and are like: yup time to fuck some bitches up #the entire city has been itching for a chance to fight the US government after all the times they got cut off after a disaster #ghosts are trying to evacuate them and they're like: Nah we're good #Gotham Girl Scouts get badges for making molotov cocktails and knife fighting you can't convince me otherwise #Outlaws are gonna show up to find Jason has somehow collected yet another tall red head that can kick his ass #They're convinced he has the world's most specific meta ability with how many he ends up running around with #Bruce in mid convo w/ Waller trying not to kill her suddenly has his *one of my kids is Up To Something* senses go off

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cleitherphobiamonsters · 1 year

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No offense but the only thing I'm willing to accept right now from this hypothetical season three people are talking about...

Is the existence of Ragnar Vizsla.

I'm not really feeling the rest of this plot people have been thinking up, sounds like it needs a little bit of a reread and editing before being presented. Might just be me, but hey there's potential in the idea.

Of course I can't really talk since most of my fanfiction about Mandalorians aren't about the show so eh. We'll just have to see if this hypothetical season three will happen, season two ended pretty nicely so it's not like we desperately need another one.....

#star wars #the mandalorian #rant #denial #my boy lives and my mand'alor is reluctant thanks #read at own risk #star wars au

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inejswag · 2 years

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just saying anything by this point but. six of crows on the jellicoe road au

#LISTEN THO. LISTEN.#territory wars super competitive teenagers split into fractions... we already have the druskelle vs the crows AND we could #add a special category to be the grisha #but it's normie!au and so it's not that deep. but its definitely helnik and they are on different sides definitely #the druskelle as the cadets. listen. jellicoe school can be the crows aka the special cases kids that heavily feature criminal activity #led by kaz of course. townies (equivalent of grisha/ravka??) are led by nina.#i just think interactions between kaz matthias and nina as leaders of 3 different children armies/schools SO funny. such comedic potential #im thinking its either kaz inej jesper in jellicoe side and nina wy in the townie side #just cause they were the last to join the crows so if we're dividing them by that basis it still makes cents #or nina jes on her side so its the grisha of the group but it makes less sense and is even less likely to happen in canon #*likely to have happened like. they dont have an extra special history or bond just cause theyre both grisha. so #that leaves the ravka vs ketterdam factor as a divider so its kaz wy jes vs nina inej vs matthias and co #and that works so so well for ME cause the whole girls vs boys that actually happens in the book too #what w how the townies and cadets almost exclusively feature boys and then there's taylor and raffy on the jellicoe school side #also they would roast them sooo bad and the interactions would be sooo fun #but im still reluctant to pair kaz wo inej but STILL i think thats the way it works so theres a banging combination on all sides #like nina wouldnt be as fun paired w wy or jes but w inej YEA #nway ill get back to y'all as i go further in my jellicoe reread. maybe #anna.txt

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bardbattledhasmoved · 2 years

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verse tags part one.

#❪ main ❫ ⤿ home is behind‚ the world ahead.#❪ nobility ❫ ⤿ ours is a legacy of story and song.#❪ royalty ❫ ⤿ keep your heart soft and your sword sharp.#❪ archaeologist ❫ ⤿ they were locked in history and we are not.#❪ star wars ❫ ⤿ hope is like the sun.#❪ sensate au ❫ ⤿ isolated above‚ connected below.#❪ selkie ❫ ⤿ the not blue and the searing light.#❪ mermaid ❫ ⤿ the sea knows me every time.#❪ doctor who ❫ ⤿ you are a child of the cosmos.#❪ gallifreyan ❫ ⤿ to be inspired or run.#❪ bbc’s musketeers ❫ ⤿ nos cœurs sont valeurs.#❪ bbc’s merlin ❫ ⤿ what is happening here is beyond us.#❪ the last kingdom ❫ ⤿ we’ll write their names on stone‚ a million reluctant heroes.

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zutaramonth · 28 days

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Zutara month 2024 Prompts

Reluctant Allies

Diary/Journal

Meet Ugly/Cute

Ashes

Katara kept her scars

Sun Warrior Zuko

Divine Intervention

Actors AU

“You’re Married?!”

Secret

“Mom & Dad are fighting again”

Kiss at Midnight

Breakup/Exes

Exposed

Scarf

Injury Recovery

Reality TV AU

Alter-egos

Rumors

Accidental Kissing

Wrong Blind Dates

Disaster

No War AU

“I wanted to, but…”

First Responders AU

Drunk

“Shall we?”

Rival School Teachers AU

Brightest in the Dark

Time Loop/Time Travel

Reincarnation

Due to the high number of similar prompts that were voted for and for the sake of variety, some prompts have been modified to be more inclusive.

Special thanks to @origo-tentaculum for the graphic

#zutara month 2024

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fayes-fics · 3 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 9 - Partance

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: A tiny touch of spice... some making out, celebrations and some more late-night confessions.

Word Count: 3.4k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is when we find out if their whole gamble pays off... Happy Valentine’s Day! This is my gift to you 🫶 Also, be warned that the rating will increase in the next chapter. 😉 Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939

You awaken early to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. A glance into the living room, as you wander downstairs towards the enticing scent, shows the sofa is already rearranged and blankets neatly stowed, as if not slept on at all - a little twinge behind your ribs at Benedict’s forethought around the ruse you shared a bed last night.

Almost reluctant, you enter the kitchen, and there he is, pouring two cups from the cafetière, the sunlight catching the ring on his finger as he does so. Your husband. Benedict Bridgerton. He twists, and you see he is wearing glasses, taking you by surprise. On the table, you spy a newspaper open. You are momentarily embarrassed that you are married to a man you know so little about; you didn't even know he wore reading glasses.

“Good morning,” his greeting is soft but apprehensive.

“Good morning,” you mumble back, taking the proffered cup from him without quite letting your fingers touch.

Guilt eats at your soul as you take a seat, the creak of the old chair as you sit down seeming so loud in the otherwise silent room - guilt about pushing him too far with kissing, guilt about your confession, as if you burdened his sleeping subconscious with an unfair weight. It makes the need to talk about anything else bubble up within you.

“I had an idea,” you break the silence as he takes a seat. He says nothing in response, just looks at you expectantly. “We could pretend our relationship developed long distance. Say that we met through Eloise a few years ago? But were both with other people at the time. Perhaps we wrote to each other and, over time, grew close? I thought we could write some ‘fake’ love letters this morning. Fold them up, make them look a little old and creased, you know, and then exchange? Carry the letters as if we truly sent them to each other. It doesn't have to be many. Maybe 3 or 4? Backdated, of course.”

As you talk, his face lights up. “It’s brilliant!” he enthuses quietly, whipping off his glasses. “It's the perfect explanation! Then it makes sense I rush to Paris to rescue you! And my sister. The outbreak of war made me realise what you truly mean to me,” he spitballs, talking fast, gesturing animatedly. “It would explain our whirlwind marriage too - that we couldn't live another day apart without…. without being together with the looming uncertainty of war.”

His chair drags loudly across the tile as he stands up rapidly, grabs your hands, and hauls you up and into an embrace, lifting you off the ground and twirling around—a spontaneous celebration.

“You are brilliant!” he exclaims fervently, and then your lips find each other impromptu. A kiss that starts as a mere brush to seal the pact rapidly morphs into something else. Before you know it, your mouths are open, tongues tangled, and he is hoisting you higher in his arms, his hands grabbing your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist so your nightgown rides up to your hips, the heat of his pelvis crushed against yours through thin cotton pyjamas….

And that is the sight which greets the returning homeowners and Eloise.

A loud squeak from Marie has you rocketing apart, sliding down his torso back to your feet, cheeks aflame. But it's too late. There is no way to deny what they walked in upon-–you wrapped around Benedict’s body as you kiss fiercely.

“Wow… I miss that passion,” Jerome wisecracks in a bid to break the tension.

Although she is silent, the look on Eloise’s face is one you won't soon forget—shock, abhorrence but a streak of inquisition, as if taking on new information and filing it away.

You and Benedict both mutter apologies in unison, which seems to charm your hosts even more into good-natured joshing as they unpack croissants and jams from a wicker basket.

“A breakfast for our newlyweds,” Marie chimes with a wink. “I’m sure you need sustenance after a night like yours.”

In some ways, although mortifying, you cannot deny the cinch they caught you in does not exactly hurt the illusion of you being a real couple.

And so you all take a seat and begin breakfast together. Each treat on the table is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.

“You do know Solene will be mad she was not invited to the wedding,” Eloise remarks offhand at one point.

“Pssh! Let me deal with my sister,” Marie counters with an almost stereotypical Gallic shrug and a dismissive chuckle.

—

With a couple of hours until your sailing, you pack the few things you unpacked in the last couple of days and then turn to letter writing as Eloise reads. You sit outside, a delicate breeze over your sleeves as Benedict joins you. You agree on some dates and then fall silent as you pick up pen and paper and compose letters.

Yours don't feel sophisticated, but they feel honest - writing about actual events back home and more recently in Paris to lend an air of believability, interspersed with words of affection, longing, and hope to be reunited. Your final letter is dated the day war was declared, expressing a need to see him as soon as possible.

You have no idea what Benedict is writing, but his intensity and speed impress you, pages seeming to pile up around his elbows as you see glimpses of his elegant, looped script.

“I just have much to say, that’s all,” he responds, somewhat enigmatic when you express your concern that his letters appear much longer than yours.

—

Before you know it, Jerome and Marie are dropping you off at the port in Le Havre, hugging you all so tightly with promises of letters, telegrams, and phone calls. You will certainly miss them and Solene; they have been so welcoming to you, even for such a short period.

Benedict wraps an arm around your shoulder as a porter loads your cases onto a trolley and accompanies you to the boarding queue.

“Just like we practised,” he turns his head and murmurs into your ear so only you hear.

And then he sweeps you into his arms and kisses you, instantly opening your mouth under his, your pulse racing even among the crowd.

“Do you mind?” Eloises hisses, disgust evident on her face.

Breaking the kiss, you giggle and bury your face in Benedict's shoulder as he shoots her his trademark elder brother look of derision.

“Do you want your best friend to come with us to England or not, sister? Because we have to look married and madly in love,” he points out, his arm stroking your back.

“You don't have to swallow her face,” Eloise grouses, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes as she pouts, looking aside.

“The more convincing, the better,” he counters, but their dispute is interrupted by your being called forward to the desk.

After asking for your tickets and passport, the surly young man looks at your passport and frowns.

“Are you planning to remain in the UK?” His ask is terse.

“Yes,” you reply, clear but polite.

“Reason?”

“She is my wife,” Benedict cuts in, that arm back across your shoulders.

“Do you have proof?” the man looks sceptical.

Benedict produces the marriage certificate from a folio in his case.

The man scans the document, his frown deepening. “You got married yesterday?” His questioning tone raises the attention of others nearby.

Your heart leaps into your mouth as a face you recognise materialises from behind a glass office. It's Theo Sharpe - the young soldier Eloise met in the bistro a few days ago.

“Is there a problem here, Jones?” he asks with an official tone.

“These two just got married. I have concerns…”

Theo peers at Benedict and you as if assessing you as a couple.

“What sort of concerns? They look in love to me…”

“We have letters!” you pipe up, nerves jangling.

“Letters?”

“Love letters we have written to each other over the months.” Benedict takes over. “When war broke out, I had to come and rescue the woman I loved. And then I could not resist proposing. And yes, we married yesterday. Sirs, you likely know better than anyone - war brings clarity to a man’s heart like nothing else. I could not go another day without her being my wife…” his speech is reserved but impassioned, and when he is done, he tucks you under his arm, kissing your forehead.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eloise frown as he hands over your letters, and you do the same with his from your handbag. Theo takes the pile and unfolds them, his eyebrow rising at something in one from Benedict’s pile.

“Jones, tell me that is not the sign of a man in love,” he tilts the page to his fellow soldier, seemingly pointing to a particular line.

The man coughs and runs a finger into his collar. “Oh… well… yes…” he seems to stumble, his cheeks heating.

What on earth did Benedict write?

“I think we can safely say they are a real couple, can't we?” Theo argues, refolding the letters and handing them back to you.

“Yes, yes, I think so…” the man agrees hesitantly.

“Well then, please issue the lady with the paperwork for residency,” Theo prompts, almost impatient.

You can barely contain the furl of excitement as the man dutifully grabs an official certificate and transfers your details, passing it under an embossing stamp and placing it inside your passport.

“Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mrs Bridgerton,” he smiles tightly as you see Theo shoot Eloise the briefest of winks behind the man’s back.

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe, almost stunned into a quiet silence, as again you are in Benedict's strong embrace.

“Well done, you were perfect,” he assures a few moments later as you walk up the ramp onto the ferry, his arms never having left your shoulders since.

With reality finally setting in, relief and elation radiate from inside - like the sunny day seeping into your being, making you feel the lightest you have felt in weeks. You can't help the grin you shoot him and drop a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“All thanks to you,” you demure as you cross onto the deck, “I owe you my life.”

“You owe me no such thing,” he counters immediately and sincerely. “Your idea - the letters - that is what sealed your future. You are much smarter and stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he adds, his tone ardent, a hand tenderly cupping your jaw as his thumb strokes your cheek.

Again, you find yourself lost in his eyes.

“God’s sake, you can quit the mooning now, you idiots,” Eloise gripes and elbows Benedict unceremoniously out of the way, drawing you into a bear hug. “I’m so happy!” she chimes into your ear.

“Me too,” you reply, laughing joyously, hugging her back as fiercely.

“I may have planned for this,” she winks, withdrawing to pull a bottle of champagne from her bag with a flourish.

And so, as the ferry pulls out of port and enters the English Channel, the three of you raise a toast to France as you watch the shoreline slip away. A kaleidoscope of emotions washing over you - a bittersweet farewell to your all-too-short French adventure, but also excitement and apprehension for the start of something new. A stay in England. And a new husband, well, sort of. For the first time, the future feels completely unwritten in a way that is freeing.

—

When you arrive in Portsmouth that evening, you immediately head for the stately Royal Maritime Hotel by the port. But there is a snag when you get to the check-in desk. The late hour and no reservation means only one room is left—with one double bed.

“I will sleep on the floor,” Benedict offers, ever the gentleman, as you all accept the room, knowing it's likely a similar story in all the other hotels with this many people escaping mainland Europe.

After dropping your luggage, you all head to dinner, which becomes drinks in a local bar, all of you wanting the celebratory mood to last a little longer. You nurse just one drink while Eloise seems determined to drain the port city dry, tipsily wandering off to the little dancefloor in the back room.

At some later point, while Benedict is at the bar paying the tab, Eloise returns, sidling up to your seat and loops her arms around you.

“You know how much I love you…?”

“What do you want, Eloise?” you chuckle, patting her elbow as you let her sway you with her hug.

“I've met someone,” she whispers excitedly, her breath sweetened by brandy, “and I realllllly like him. His name is Phillip. He’s lovellllyyy,” she singsongs.

“That's nice. But what does that have to do with me?” you ask, amused.

“If I were to spend the evening with him, would that be okay? With you?”

“You've never asked my permission to enjoy your previous dalliances, El; why now?” You are finding her thoroughly entertaining.

“Becaaaaause it means you will be stuck alone in a room with my brother,” she spells out. “And no woman should have to endure that,” she counsels with faux gravity, only mildly undermined by her comedic look of horror.

Your stomach vaults at the idea of a night alone with Benedict in a hotel room, but you must school your face to one of casual indifference.

“El, I shared a cottage with him last night; I think I can handle it.”

“Oh yes… and what in God's name was this morning all about?” she suddenly shifts the topic, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

You do your best not to choke on your sip of cocktail. “We saw you all coming up the path. Benedict thought it best for the ruse if we were caught in a compromising situation,” you bluff, waving your hand dismissively, even as you feel your cheeks glowing at the mere memory.

She side-eyes you momentarily but seems to accept it, giving you one more squeeze before bidding you goodnight. Her farewell to Benedict at the bar appears to be a smack on the arm and a warning with a pointed finger—ever the loving siblings. Then, with a flutter of butterflies under your ribs about the night ahead, you and Benedict head back to the hotel.

“Thank you again,” your tone is sincere as he unlocks the room. “If we had only known Theo would be at the port, maybe we wouldn't have had to go through all we did,” you point out wincingly, still apologetic, as he secures the door closed.

“We did what we had to. We were very fortunate he was there today; it was a wonderful coincidence, but we had to prepare for any circumstance. Besides, it is all water under the bridge now. You have your paperwork. You have your residency,” he points out brightly.

“But you had to marry me….” you point out, unable to let it go, guilt still shadowing your heart. “That was a huge sacrifice.”

“I am not the one who had to break a promise to another,” he counters softly. “You had to be the brave one here. You should not think of yourself as selfish. And you should feel free to pursue whatever you want in this world, y/n.”

Something in the choice of words in his heartfelt petition seems oddly reminiscent, but you cannot pinpoint it.

“I will still sleep on the floor,” he adds reassuringly, removing his coat.

“We… we could share…?” you feel your heart pound as you extend the tentative offer.

The look on his face is indecipherable, but you don't miss how his pupils dilate a fraction. “I promise not to kick…” his response is a genial callback to your discussion days ago.

You giggle, feeling that lightness in your being again. “And if you do, I’m sure I could find plenty of rope to remedy that. We are right by a port after all,” you can't help but banter back, gesturing to the harbour outside the window.

His responding warm laugh is like a balm.

He excuses himself to shower, and while he is gone, you unpack some basics. As you are delving in your bag for your hairbrush, the pile of letters Benedict handed you spills out.

Intrigued, you unfold them—curious to know what Theo had seen. The letters are a thing of beauty; you find yourself crawling onto the bed to read them properly. Pages of lyrically crafted praise that make your correspondence seem entirely lacking, more akin to a boring newsletter. You find yourself swept up in reading - lines of poetry, yearning sentiments and a few racier epithets that make your breath catch and your blood run hot.

‘Every night since we met, my love, I dream of nothing but you. Endlessly. I dream of your laugh, your smile, that wonderful little crease on your forehead when you think I am being foolish. You captivate me - body and soul. I dream of that delectable noise you make when I kiss you. I dream of tasting your skin. I dream of you coming apart in my arms, grasping me so tight you leave finger marks on my body. One day, my love, one day…’

You almost jump out of your skin when Benedict reenters the room, freshly showered, his hair in damp curls, sporting a distractingly fitted white t-shirt. You attempt to conceal what you are reading, embarrassed somehow, but it’s too late.

“I was wondering if you would,” he laughs softly when he realises.

“I’m sorry,” you utter, feeling as if you have snooped somewhere you should not have.

“Don't be,” he cuts in, smiling gently.

“How did you think up such poetic stuff?” you query, fingertips tracing almost reverentially over the words. A wistful ache in your being, hoping anyone would ever be inspired to write such an elegy to you one day.

“I just told the truth,” he shrugs.

“You must’ve been in love with whoever has made you feel like this in the past,” you sigh, standing up to put the letters aside on a table, feeling as if they definitely do not belong to you. Conscious of the slim band around your left ring finger, like a guilty weight stopping him from that possible life.

There is a long pause, making you look up at him. He is drawing near, something profound burning in his expression.

“You,” he breathes finally. “You inspired this in me.”

The confession knocks the breath from your very lungs, almost a need to bend double.

“Wh….” you cannot even find enough voice to finish a simple word.

He moves closer until you are almost touching.

“I heard you…” he admits softly, his fingers encircling your wrist, then bringing your hand close to his face. “Last night, when you thought I was asleep…” a plunge of utter dread in your stomach as you realise what he means. Your confession.

Oh no.

“Benedict, I….” but you can't finish. There is no end to that sentence, even in your quick mind.

“So I thought it was only fair you have mine,” he continues, a flicker of a modest but charming smile as he tilts his head to the pile of letters.

Your eyes cut briefly to them before darting back to him.

“Y… you dream of nothing but me…?” you stutter, parroting one of the many memorable lines, a flicker of desire and hope and yearning so strong you can't help but ask.

His smile turns crooked. “Every night…” he confirms, eyes glittering.

“A-all of it?” you can barely utter it, your cheeks heating as you recall precisely what he wrote that he dreams about.

“Every word,” he asserts before his warm lips brush the back of your knuckles.

It's like you are thrown into a hurricane, a hundred thoughts and feelings tumbling, making your breath catch hard in your lungs. But it all converges into one singularity as you stare up into those hypnotic eyes. An overwhelming need coursing through you. For him. A longing that is tart on your tongue and deep in your core. And you are powerless to do anything but grab his neck and pull him down into a searing kiss.

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