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sseomtada · 6 months

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being [ruben dias]

you receive a visitor while working late & make a pivotal decision.

warnings: 18+... | wc: 5093 | 4/8

“Did you get the package I sent?”

You’d finally made time to have an extended FaceTime call with your mom who was more than happy to give you an earful of her recent doings. The ramblings that once served as an annoyance now provided a strange comfort. Perhaps it was because it reminded you of the time when your biggest worry was whether or not you’d ace your next test.

“Yes,” She laughed. “The English are terrible with food, but they got tea making right.”

That made you join in with her. The traditional food here did leave much to be desired, but thankfully, a wonderful immigrant population has made their culinary world highly diverse and tasty.

Earlier, your mom sent you a picture of her posing next to the Nike ad your company had helped brand. She said she could tell by one look at it, without even knowing you were a part of it, that it had come from your mind. In that moment, her eyes were a bit shiny.

You felt your heart soften. There were rarely times where she visibly showed how proud of you she was, her words were always at the forefront. Your own eyes teared up as you looked up and blinked.

What did you think of it?

Just how proud of you I am.

Collaborating with big brands and names, celebrating your successes in rooms with insurmountable net worths - it was all great. None of it came close to providing the same amount of validation as hearing those words come from her. One of the biggest driving forces behind you not giving up and chasing this crazy dream was her. You couldn’t put into words how relieved you were when you felt that her sacrifices for you had paid off.

“I’ve got to start getting ready for work, but I promise I’ll talk to you soon.” You looked at the time with a sigh.

“Tell Aki I said hello!” She waved. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You returned the gesture.

Though things were going well with Bana’s latest projects, you’d been dragging your feet when heading into the office for the past few days. There was something like a weight on your chest akin to the feeling of when guilt gnawed at your insides.

That conversation you had with Ruben played in your mind over and over whenever it wasn’t otherwise occupied. You didn’t tell Aki how you’d gotten back to your place, or the exchange that occurred. There wasn’t any particular reason behind your withholding, you just needed time to process it.

A definitive answer still had yet to come to your latest question, what would you do now? Was there even anything to do at all, anything that could be done? The truth behind the breakup was just…sad. More than anger or pain, you just felt disconsolation.

It seemed as if you and him had both bitten off more than you could chew. You were overly enamored with him and placed him on a pedestal that he wasn’t ready for and didn’t want to be on.

The way things ended would never be excusable, but you now had a sense of understanding that made it more digestible. You were able to start working on that wound and healing it to the point of a mild ache instead of the agony it once generated.

“Do I get a gold star for beating you in today?” Aki gloated at the door.

You faked a laugh. “I’ll think about it. Mom says hi, by the way.”

She got all giddy at that and started reminiscing about your mother’s cooking. Before she could make your stomach start speaking in tongues, you told her to grab Cindy for your morning meeting in the conference room.

The project with Erling was going well so far. After your first conversation with him and his assistant, they sent over some of the ideas they were leaning more towards as well as additional points they’d like to meet.

“I’ve been playing with these fonts and color schemes for the logo and typography.” Cindy presented on the large screen.

“Awesome,” You nodded. “I’d send those over to him so you can get that finalized by the end of the week.”

“Sponsor option one is willing to pay a pretty penny, but they do want exclusivity for a period of time. The second is coming in lower with the benefit of more contractual freedom and a door open for bonuses if key revenue markers are met.” Aki gave her update.

They were both good proposals to consider, so you gave her the same directive as Cindy.

When it came to your specific workload, there was still plenty to do. You showed them the outline of what you’d done so far and received feedback on features that could be useful as you continued to build.

Website design was one of the more headache inducing parts of marketing, one that would usually be handled by a design team. You didn’t have the cashflow just yet to hire or outsource someone to do this aspect.

That left you tapping into the Python and CSS skills you developed in your IT minor to get the job done. Thankfully, technology had come a long way to make website building much easier than doing it from absolute scratch.

There were a few tweaks you had to make to the work you’d already done and more features you wanted to complete before clocking out for the day. Given the busy and focus intensive nature of the tasks at hand, your girls left you to it. They let you know when they were headed out through the company’s Slack.

You weren’t sure if your blue light frames were doing anything, or if your eyes were just exhausted from staring at the monitors for hours on end. A quick eye drop and coffee break was all you could trust yourself to do.

Any longer than that and you would be convincing yourself to shut down your computer. It would only make you feel like shit once you got home and showered though, considering you were already down to the last two bullet points on your to-do list.

You sat back down at your desk, took a deep breath and got back into it. Add a few more lines of code in the backend software, run it to test to ensure there were no glitches, and repeat the process. One more bullet point was left to go when your phone pinged.

Is this still your number?

Ruben’s name sat above the message. You slid your glasses up to your hair and picked up the device, contemplating if you should reply or not. It was kind of funny that he texted you that considering that he hadn’t changed his own either - hence the contact still popping up with his name.

Depends on who this is.

You couldn’t help pulling his leg a little. Knowing him, he would obviously gather that this was still, in fact, your number and you were taking a crack at him. Three dots appeared shortly after your reply.

That’s fair.

Are you busy?

Your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, brows meeting. It was pretty late on a weekday, a time when most would be winding down to go to bed if not already sound asleep. Unfortunately for him, perhaps, your answer wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

I’m still at work, so…yes.

Those little dots appeared again, his acknowledgment floating up without hesitation.

Okay, I’ll leave you to it.

That was a conversation ender if there ever was one. You placed your phone back to the desk, face down, and slid your glasses back on. Tackling the last bullet point suddenly became even more of an uphill climb than it already was with that fresh dialog banging pots and pans in your head.

It was mentally difficult to disengage from the conversation. You started to wonder what Ruben wanted. Why did he decide to message you tonight at this hour, days after the last time you spoke? What would he have said if you did tell him that you were free?

With a groan, you spun around in your chair until you grew dizzy. After the stars cleared from your eyes and the pit in your stomach settled, you grounded yourself enough to get back on track. All that pondering could wait until you were tucked under your duvet.

You returned to user interfacing , trying to approach the website so far from the visiting fans and prospective client views. Everything was in top shape so far, making you throw your hands up in the air gratefully. Just after you saved and tripled checked that you’d done so, the office’s door buzzer went off.

If Cindy or Aki had come back to check on your wellbeing, they would’ve just entered the code. Deliveries weren’t made after a certain hour either. You pulled up the security camera feed out front on your monitor to see whether or not you’d have to call the cops.

The sight it brought disarmed you, but didn’t entirely provide relief. Ruben peered around and when he spotted the lens, he waved. He held up the bags in each of his hands, clearly full of take out. Responding to that before you could was your belly, an embarrassing gurgle echoing through your office.

“I could’ve been gone by now. Or lying.” You raised a brow after opening the door.

“Yet here you are.” Ruben shrugged.

A tense period passed of you two looking at each other. He was wondering whether or not you would let him in and you were tossing the same question around in your head. Eventually, you stepped aside.

“Ten pounds says you haven’t eaten anything since lunch.” Ruben set the bags down on the coffee table. “No, breakfast.”

It was exasperating how he had the tendency to be absolutely on the money. You regrettably haven’t grow out of a habit he knew all too well about, which was neglecting your meals in an effort to get your tasks completed.

“Hm. What’s on the menu?” You grunted and sank to the guest sofa.

“Lo mein…butter chicken…” Ruben pulled the containers from their respective bags. “Kebabs. I wasn’t sure what you’d want most.”

And so his irritating ability continued. Even though both assumptions were made on the basis of the past and were somewhat of a shot in the dark for your present self, they both held true. Your taste in cravings still stood the test of time.

“Why are you here, really*?*” You couldn’t pretend like this was normal.

There was something bigger than an elephant in the room. It carried the immeasurable weight of everything that had transpired from the moment you weakly kicked his football back to him, to your first kiss and dance, and every juncture leading up to the only time he’d made you cry tears of sorrow.

The uncertainty of what was to become of you and him carried the bulk of that heaviness.

“The easiest way I can answer that is by asking you a question.” Ruben paused, lowering the napkins. “Would you prefer it if we live in the same city, run in the same circles, and basically act like we’re strangers or would you rather do…this?”

A frustrated puff of air left your nose.

“That’s just it.” You ran your hands down your face. “What is this?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t do the alternative.” He sat beside you. “I can’t act like we’re two people on a morning commute who happen to make eye contact and stutter through small talk to ease the awkwardness. Can you?”

There it was. That **was the solution to the problem that had been harping on you since that last conversation. You couldn’t figure out what it was you wanted to do, what you could do now, because you hadn’t even considered the other perspective - what did you not want?

It was exactly as he said. You didn’t want to carry around your history and act like it never happened. That made hearing his name, or even thinking about the slightest chance that you would run into him feel suffocating.

You wanted to breathe. Though it was obvious that neither of you knew exactly how to go about that yet, Ruben had at least taken the first step. All things considered, an olive branch extended in the form of your favorite foods wasn’t the worst place to start.

Your response came in the form of motioning towards the butter chicken.

“I should’ve bet on that too.” Ruben shook his head with a small smile.

The train had left the station, but there was no destination in sight. Yes, it was agreed that acting like you didn’t once mean a significant amount to one another wasn’t the best way to go about things. That still left a gaping sense of what now, which rang louder than the silence as you dug into your meal of choice.

You decided to take the next step this time. It was a painfully ordinary way to break the ice, yet one that could lead to other paths. Or it could have you opening doors you would rather not see behind.

Seven years seemed like a lifetime. There was evidently a story surrounding how he went from playing locally to now being part of such a big foreign team, so you started there by asking him about it. Ruben visibly relaxed more as he shared his trajectory.

It was bittersweet to hear all that you missed. The big matches and the grand occasions you once had envisioned was a part of your future too. You had a sense that the feeling was mutual for him when the question was returned to you.

Ultimately, what you were both most conscious of was the fact that you’d made the dreams you whispered about late at night in each other’s arms come true. And somehow, they had led you to be sitting right here. Together.

“How’s Aki doing?” Ruben asked and then laughed to himself. “I know she can still pack a verbal punch. She didn’t hold back at that launch party.”

That piqued your interest. She and him always had a sibling relationship with banter filled exchanges that sounded borderline abusive to those who didn’t know they were close. How badly did she chew him out to have him fearful?

“Did her choice of words allude to you finding the nearest ditch and falling into it?” You snorted.

“Okay, not that much of a punch. She told me to not do anything after I…” He bit his lip, considering. “After I told her that I didn’t want to hurt either of you again.”

Gravity thickened once more, but not in the same sense as before. The wheels were moving less heavily now with the flow of communication going like it always had. You guessed his words were a harrowing reminder of how you’d gotten to be here in the first place.

For a moment, you’d forgotten. It began to feel the way things did back then and him saying that brought reality back to the forefront. The relationship you had with him, regardless of what that looked like, would never be the same as it once was.

“What do you mean by she told you not to do anything?” Your subconscious backtracked a bit to a point you were confused about.

“Her words verbatim were then stop. It was like a warning, she was telling me not to act on what was going through my mind.” Ruben replied candidly.

It felt as if you were approaching one of those doors you thought about earlier. You took a beat to decide if you were going to turn the knob and face whatever laid in wait bravely, or walk away with blissful ignorance.

Except…there would never be the latter in your case. If you didn’t dare to look at or hear the things that could frighten you, there wouldn’t be a moment of peace in your spirit. You would toss and turn, night after night, going through a cycle of beating yourself up for shying away and then convincing yourself it was for the best.

No more running. You recall the silent promise you made to yourself when you drank with Aki not long ago. It was time to make good on that.

“What were you thinking then?” You set aside your nearly empty container and turned to him.

“I was thinking the same thing I am now.” When he looked at you, his eyes were resolute. “That I still love you. I did back then and I never stopped anywhere in between. The difference today is that it doesn’t scare me anymore. To be deeply by you and giving you it all in return.”

Your lips parted with nothing and everything behind them.

You wanted to yell at him and call him every bad name in existence. You wanted to admonish him for only just now being ready to accept your feelings for him, the very thing he once saw as a burden. But you couldn’t, because that wasn’t what you truly desired.

His revelation did end up frightening you in the way you feared the most. That whatever you discovered would be like having a mirror held up to you. Aki played dumb that night for your sake because you’d been too much of a coward to admit it - the real reason you hadn’t been on more dates than you had fingers on one hand.

“And what if I don’t anymore?” You weren’t sure if your words were born of that same cowardice or from the spite you so badly wanted to be real.

“I’d be a fool if I thought you did.” Ruben sighed. “I’ve already made peace with that aspect of us…remaining in the past.”

What was left unsaid was the reason he brought it up in the first place. Beside you asking, he could’ve just given an answer that was pacifying. Something that didn’t imply that he also wanted to know whether you still felt the same or not. Yet, he chose to go with the unfiltered truth with hopes that he’d pull the answer out of you.

“I was always the smartest one between us.” You took the bait indirectly.

Ruben looked at you then with knitted brows, proving your point. You were sharper than he was in many ways, though not by a measurable amount. Only a few seconds went by before recognition struck. His gaze softened, a hand reaching for you hesitantly.

Yours met it halfway and pulled him in. It was a move he didn’t anticipate causing his full weight to come down on you. There wasn’t room to analyze the awkward position of your body, half sitting, half lying down. That task was impossible when he was chest to chest with you, his nose a hair away from your own. Those dark pools of his swallowing you whole.

He inched closer, then paused. “Can I-”

You nudged your head up slightly to mold your mouth to his. It was just a prolonged peck, yet your heart was pounding like the ground under the galloping of hundreds of stallions. When you sank back down, you were breathless.

Ruben cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking the supple skin tenderly as his gazed fluttered all over your face. Your eyes closed against the feeling and you only had seconds to savor it before he initiated the second kiss.

He trembled against you, muscles tensed with forced composure. You didn’t want that. Your arms curled around his neck to bring him even nearer. When his tongue finally slid against yours, a part of your memory cracked open.

It left you breathing erratically in the same way you did when on the verge of tears. You’d forgotten. Though your mind had filled in the blanks with similar sensations, you’d forgotten the exact way he felt and tasted.

Kissing him felt like hot summer days of the past. The baking of your skin suddenly given reprieve under gray clouds that rolled in unannounced, and then the skies breaking to douse you. Instead of running, you always let your head fall back and your jaw slacken - feeling, tasting.

A small, desperate sound sounded from the back of your throat. How much of him had been lost? It must’ve been too much to bear to recall how his hair grew thickest at the base of his skull and how strong his grip became as his need for you grew.

“Can you say it?” Ruben rasped.

You blinked dark spots from your vision, trying to grapple with the meaning of his inquiry. It was you this time who was struggling to keep up. Once you were able to, you smiled up at him. The reason why every thought of him still hurt and why you dreamt of him so often was telling. Of course you did and yes, you could admit it at last.

“I still love you too.”

That was all he needed to hear for his final tether to snap loose. He tilted your head further, his tongue reclaiming yours - slick and warm, much like the state of things between your thighs. Fingers curled around the back of your knee, tugging, and no more had to be done for you to shuffle until he was fully nested in the middle of your legs.

You caressed along the sides of his torso, bunching up his shirt along the way. His lips detached from yours to let you remove it completely, and when you chased after them hungrily, you were met with denial.

Ruben had other plans, immediately latching onto the skin of your neck while his hands worked deftly to unfasten the buttons of your blouse. You arched into him, wanting more. Needing it after been deprived of him for so long.

Your palms greedily ran over every inch of skin they could find, grasping from the beginning of his hips all the way up to his shoulders. He’d always felt sturdy beneath your touch, but today he felt indestructible.

Muscle upon muscle rippled as he moved against you on instinct. Ruben’s breath was ragged against your collarbone where he sucked and nipped. That bottomless, gnawing yearn you had for him grew ravenous. Your hips pressed upwards and into his, lips trailing along his hairline.

“I missed you.” The words tumbled from you freely.

You didn’t think there was ever a time in your life where you’d felt this exposed, vulnerable. Coming back home to a place you thought was lost to you for eternity would do that, you supposed.

“Yeah?” He grinned against your skin.

You nodded promptly.

Ruben slid a hand up your stomach. “I missed you too. So much.”

“Come here.” You whispered.

His lips travelled up from between your breasts until they met your own again. You exhaled into them, trying to swat away your impatience to allow yourself to relish in every line and dip. When that battle could no longer be fought, you twisted beneath him.

Your hands shot to the belt low on his waist before his own could. Though the series of actions that followed were done with fervor, they might as well had lasted an eternity. Your fingers undid the buckle, his hands assisted your toes that pushed at those stubborn last layers. He went to remove the slick soak panties revealed by your ridden up skirt, but you refused to wait any longer.

“Please - ” A frustrated whine ripped its way out.

Ruben leaned down to hush you with a languid and ardent kiss. It had your toes curling into the upholstery before the feeling of him rubbing your thinly covered heat could. You moaned appreciatively, but kept pressing up into his touch - more.

Two of his digits slipped the fabric aside and sliced through your folds. That was better. You sucked on his tongue, your lower half writhing to move your swollen clit against his fingers. Maybe it should’ve been embarrassing to experience yourself react this vividly, but it wasn’t. You were beyond touch starved and the first hands to make contact were none other than his. In a way, it was oddly poetic.

“Ruben…” You called to him with your voice again, urging alongside your body.

He heard you, teeth flashing against your mouth, “Just making sure you’re ready.”

Despite your state that was bordering on delirium, you picked up on a slight tone to his statement. It felt like it had two meanings - the first spoke obviously to your physical state, and the second aimed more at your mental. Were you ready to do this again?

You could never be a stranger to Ruben. Certainly never just a friend or acquaintance. As long as you both existed in the same place and at the same time, it was always going to be you and him, together.

“I am.” Your fingers comb through his hair. “I want all of you.”

His head dropped to your chest, lips brushing over the top of your left breast. You clenched around nothing in response to him sliding his cock against you. The sound of him coating himself in your wetness, much less the feel of it, had you on the verge of madness.

When he rested his tip at your opening, you took in a shaky breath. Air slowly exited your lungs as he gradually entered you. What a stretch it still was to make sure you took every inch of him. You hugged his strong back while you adjusted.

Soon, you began circling your hips and then working his length. Ruben was quick to pick up your rhythm, pulling just a little out as your back arched and pushing all the way in when it curled. You were taking him with ease now - warm, slippery juices making a mess between your legs.

Fuck, he felt so incredible. It would’ve been useless to fight the urge to moan and coo. Those sounds coupled with slurred, half-finished variations of his name fell from your lips as your muscles began to tighten.

Ruben lost himself in you. His groans came as a direct response to your mewls, eyes fixated on the pleasure overcoming your features. He thrusted into you, going deeper than he’d been before and you gasped.

Your hands flew to his face. You cupped his stubbled cheeks and pressed your forehead to his own. With your eyes locked firmly in on his, you found yourself nodding urgently. That’s it, that’s the spot. Your ears were ringing too loudly for you to determine if you’d said those words aloud or not.

It didn’t matter either way. There was no one who knew your body better than him. Ruben eased his strokes at the very moment you needed him to and not a minute sooner. With each huff of air and roll of your hips as you came, he was there. His lips trailed along the underside of your chin, then your neck.

“Doing okay, baby?” He checked in when you stilled.

You were slightly vibrating at a higher frequency than usual and a bit hazy behind the eyes, but hadn’t felt better in ages. To make that clear to him, one of your hands reached lower to stroke and reposition his cock.

Ruben entered you again and it was easier than before, but twice as stimulating. Your moans were muffled by his neck that your face had pressed into while his thrusts into you were slow and testing. You slung one arm over his shoulder and wrapped your legs around him tight, pleading.

His pace quickened in response. Your head fell back onto the sofa, eyes blinking shut as you felt his hands sliding up your torso softly. He laced his fingers with those of your free hand and brought the conjoined pair to rest over your head.

You squeezed down as you rocked against him, shuddering with each drag of his cock through your walls. Ruben sensed how close you were again. His tongue was waiting for your mouth that opened soundlessly, lapping up your own with hunger.

“Tell me where, love.” He grunted, speeding towards his end as well.

“Stay.” You didn’t miss a beat. Knowing he would second guess your request, you reinforced it for good measure. “Stay in me.”

Ruben whined breathily and that was enough to send you tumbling into the abyss. You were a pool of uncontrolled chaos until he grabbed hold of your hips. His own staggered with each shot of his cum that settled deeply into your core.

The seconds that followed were blissful. You stroked up and down his spine as he kissed you sweetly. Ruben nuzzled his nose against yours, a move he knew you favored. It did the impossible in making you feel even more satiated than you already were.

And then, reality began to remove those rose colored glasses.

It wasn’t in a negative way. You didn’t regret having sex with him or saying any of the things that you did. With post orgasm clarity setting in, it allowed you to take in both of your half-dressed, wrecked states as well as realize you just did all of that in your office. On the common area sofa.

Your hand covered your mouth, a laugh bubbling from between your fingers. Ruben couldn’t stop himself from joining in too. He pulled out and you yelped, trying to no avail to keep all he’d given you inside.

“You’re definitely gonna need a new chair.”

#ruben dias #ruben dias imagine #ruben dias fic #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias x you #being

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

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all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

synopsis ; modern!au. you have been in love with your best friend's older brother for years. on Christmas eve, things finally come to a head.

wc ; 6k

warnings ; explicit lanugage, some allusions to reader having a shitty family, christmas angst, pining, one mention of margaret thatcher

note: i'm not british (english isn't even my first language) so pls excuse any inaccuracies in any slang etc etc... also this was supposed to be a smutty thing and no instead it's exclusively tooth-rotting fluff so I'd like to apologize.... merry Christmas??? if anybody does want a steamy part two... well, hit me up I guess!

i stole the title from britney spears' my only wish (this year)!

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. They've got it all - the stockings above the merrily crackling fireplace, the Christmas crackers twinkling on a long table, the boughs of holly climbing up doorways. It's like a Selfridges on the 21st of December just vomited all over the place.

"Seriously," you say, blinking in a mixture of awe and fear, "how big is this thing?"

Eloise, much more accustomed to her family's display of wealth and Bridgerton harmony, shrugs without looking away from her phone screen. "No idea. Benedict is like 6 feet, and that thing is twice his size, so, like… 12 feet? I don't know, it's Christmas. You do the math."

She turns away, still glued to an Instagram page plastered with pink graphics informing about various social issues in carefully-designed typography, and leaves you standing alone in the entrance hall. If you didn't like the Bridgertons so much, you'd be the first to say their Christmas tree is obnoxious. It's a ridiculous thing, wide enough to commandeer half the room. It's covered top to bottom in tinsel, dark blue ornaments dangling from every branch and reflecting the light until the thing looks less than a tree and more like a hallucination one might have two hours into an LSD trip.

The London townhouse you've crashed at more than once after a night on the town gone to shambles is impressive enough, but the Brdigerton's ancestral home in the countryside is a whole other beast. From the sprawling gardens to the sheer endless rooms, from the stucco ceilings to the servant stairs, from the life-size portraits of nineteenth-century family members to the white marble busts, you half expect a tourist group to round the corner at any moment. You're pretty sure you saw a hedge maze on your way in.

Sure, you've known your college best friend Eloise Bridgerton was loaded, but you didn't expect this. Then again, her sister is married to a Duke and shows up on the Sun's front page semi-regularly, so maybe this one was on you.

"So what do we think? Sufficiently Christmas-y or too much?"

You sink your teeth into the tail-end of a scream, letting out a strangled sound instead. Benedict Bridgerton really is six foot tall, and fuck him for that. Couldn't he at least have been some sensible height? Five reasonable feet and seven nice inches? Has he got to be perfect? Has he got to be the six feet you've been dreaming about for the past four years in increasingly more frenzied fashions?

He stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, with his hair tousled and his face relaxed into the same friendly, good-natured smile he always gives you.

"Uh… What?" Immediately, you curse your lack of eloquence. And earlier on the ride over, you'd sworn to yourself that, for once, you wouldn't act like an actual idiot in front of him.

Benedict, grinning, points forward. "The tree."

"Oh." You crane your neck back to look at the star mounted to the top, floating somewhere above the marble railing hugging the walkway to the second floor. "Well. It's very… big."

Benedict chuckles. "Yeah, I agree. I did tell Mom it was excessive, but she insisted. I'm pretty sure Hyacinth would mutiny if she ordered anything under ten feet."

You hum, faintly wondering what it must feel like to get a tree, let alone one big enough to get put up in front of the Rockefeller center. "Hyacinth can be pretty persuasive," you acquiesce, thinking with a shudder of the time the prepubescent girl stared you down until you gave her your brand-new Charlotte Tillbury lipstick. Sort of like being bullied out of your lunch money.

"You can say that again."

Benedict falls silent, and for a moment, you just stand there, side by side, staring up at the tree. Dean Martin drifts over from the dining room. Your stomach is on the most terrifying rollercoaster ride of its life.

Then, out of nowhere, Benedict says, "You're wet, by the way."

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

He nods down toward the floor. "Your shoes, I mean. You're soaking the rug."

You follow the line of his eyes down to your boots, still caked in the snow and sludge you drudged up on the way up the ten-mile-long driveway. A grey puddle has accumulated around you.

"Bugger," you mutter. "Eloise did say I could leave the shoes on…."

A conspiratorial grin crosses Benedict's face. He says, "Remember when you and El caught me smoking that joint in the study? I won't tell if you won't."

This is the thing: Worse than Benedict's six feet, worse than his messy hair and blue eyes and dimples, worse than all of that, is that he's actually nice. A genuinely good guy who talks to you like you're more than just his little sister's best friend, more than the annoying girl that gets invited to family holidays because her home life isn't the best, who moons over him at every turn. That's the thing that keeps you hoping, stubbornly, stupidly.

"Maybe you should go change for dinner," he suggests. "I'll take your suitcase up for you."

"You don't have to!" you protest, even as he's already bending over to retrieve it, even as you're secretly glad you won't have to try and lug that thing up all those stairs yourself.

"It's fine." Benedict waves you away, then tests the weight of the suitcase. "Jesus. I thought you were only staying for three days. What the hell did you pack in here?"

The sight of your bedroom floor at home, every inch covered with discarded clothes and toiletries and last-minute Christmas present purchases, overcomes you like a war flashback. "Uh… Books," you say, falling into step beside him as you climb the stairs together. "I brought a lot of books."

If Benedict knows you're one of the worst liars in England, he doesn't let it on. Instead, he hums Wham! 's greatest hit while ascending the stairs two steps at a time. You try your best not to stare at his butt when he overtakes you and focus instead on the plush velvet carpet and the actual footsteps you leave on it, cringing.

You follow him down a long corridor, past decorative Chinese-style vases filled with out-of-season greenhouse flowers. "This is your room," Benedict says, pushing the door at the end of the hall, somewhat separate from the others, open with his hip. "Eloise is just down the hall."

Like everything else in Aubrey Hall, the room is so tasteful you're scared to touch anything. Held exclusively in shades of pastels, in the softest blues, pinks, and creams, a huge four-poster bed is pushed to one wall, flanked on both sides by nightstands. The opposite side of the room is covered in floor-to-ceiling French windows that offer a spectacular view of the grounds, powdered with snow. Somebody lit a fire in here too, and above the mantle…

"Oh, God," you squeak, staring at a huge oil painting depicting perhaps the most miserable-looking man you have ever seen. Margaret Thatcher and her iron lady posturings have nothing on this bloke.

"Right, that's Uncle Barnaby." Benedict deposits your suitcase on a stuffed armchair. "Us kids just call him Uncle Fester."

"Yeah," you say slowly. "That checks out."

Benedict laughs. "Sorry, you got stuck in this one. All the other guest rooms are in the West wing, and Mom figured you'd be more comfortable not being that far away from everybody else."

The West wing. You get the sudden, spectacular image of yourself in an ankle-length lace nightgown wandering down stone hallways with nothing to light the way but a single, flickering candle. If you can fantasize about Gothic romances set in your own home, you decide, you should start thinking about downsizing.

"Right." Benedict runs a hand through his hair, and you track the movement, watching the muscles rippling in his forearm. He's wearing a grey cashmere sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight could make a stronger woman swoon. "I'll let you get settled in."

You don't want him to leave. All your time spent with Benedict is stolen, clipped, bookended by family dinners, or movie nights with his sister. The closest you've ever gotten to him was when you all crowded into the back of a cab on your way to a club, his thigh pressed against your own and his arm awkwardly angled somewhere behind your neck. Just half an inch of space between you, but your ribcage cracked open like somebody wedged a crowbar in there.

"Where are you sleeping?" It's a desperate attempt to prolong the moment, to keep him in this room alone with you for just a little longer, and you regret the question the moment it's out. Either he now thinks you're a stalker or, even worse, that you're secretly trying to draw up a layout plan of the estate to prepare for your inevitable heist. You wouldn't be surprised if there were several million pounds in cash stashed in a vault somewhere in Aubrey Hall, and rent in London has reached astronomic heights. Who could blame you for indulging?

But Benedict doesn't look concerned. Instead, he pauses just a step or two from you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and answers, "I'm right next door. Just knock if you need help with anything."

For a split second, Benedict's hand finds the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing through the thick knit sweater and painting a shiver down your back. It goes through you like a bolt of lightning.

Then he draws back as if nothing happened, gives you a crooked, curling smile, and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

You drop down onto the mattress with a groan, bury your face in the 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and pretend you're not actively trying to strangle yourself.

"Well," you mumble, voice muffled by the pillowcase, "Happy Christmas to me."

Christmas dinner with the Bridgertons is a bizarre experience. Everybody talks over each other, Hyacinth and Gregory chuck spoonfuls of peas at each other, Colin spills a whole ladle of gravy across the tablecloth, Anthony and his wife Kate spend half the meal whispering to each other and the other half stealing kisses, Eloise starts debating politics with Simon (who isn't half as stuffy as you expected a duke to be) at the top of her lungs, and Benedict drinks at least five glasses of sparkling wine before his mother takes the bottle from him.

You watch the whole thing with a feeling in your stomach like a bullet wound.

After a dessert of indefinable mush Hyacinth swore up and down was her homemade plum pudding, you move to a large sitting room. There is a second tree in here, this one a little less obnoxious and covered in homemade ornaments, the exploits of eight children and countless pre-Christmas arts and crafts sessions. The crackling fire paints flushes into the family's cheeks and gives the whole room a homey, rustic atmosphere that seems at odds with the overall elegance of the house.

Everybody is allowed to open one present. You think you see the instantaneous regret on Violet Bridgerton's face when her youngest son unpacks his new portable speakers with a whoop of joy loud enough to bust several eardrums. Watching the pandemonium unfold before you, you sit squished into a corner of the sofa beside Eloise, your hands trapped under your thighs, and try not to feel out of place.

Maybe this was a mistake, you think to yourself. Maybe you shouldn't have intruded on a family holiday as you are, regardless of Eloise's invitation. It must have been a pity thing anyway, what with you saying you were just going to stay in London for Christmas, in your shitty flat with the broken radiator and the leaking pipes. You pretty much guilt-tripped her into that by mentioning the frozen curry you were planning to get from the Tesco frozen section, now that you think about it, and God, you were definitely forcing yourself on them, weren't you, and they were all just way too nice to mention it and…

"Here," Violet's voice tears you from the downward rollercoaster ride about to plunge neck-deep into the pond of anxiety. "Merry Christmas."

She places a flat present in your lap, wrapped in deer-print paper.

"Oh," you say softly, and your chest feels tight like somebody is pulling a cord taut around it, "you didn't have to…."

"It's just a little thing." Violet has the kind of smile so warm you suspect it could melt ice cubes within seconds. "We're so happy to have you for Christmas."

You feel self-conscious as you unwrap the present, aware of all eyes on you. The paper reveals a picture frame, simple yet tasteful dark wood that feels smooth and supple against your skin. Behind the glass is a watercolor painting, a study of a tulip. The pink petals seem almost life-like in their detail as if a drop of dew should drip off the edge and roll down the picture any moment. You can practically feel it, wet and cold against your fingertip.

"Eloise said you're very fond of flowers. I thought you might find a place for it in your room."

For a head-spinning, gut-wrenching moment, you think you're going to cry. "I… thank you," you choke out. "It's… lovely."

Violet smiles and pats your hand. "It wouldn't be Christmas without a present. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you?"

They move on to Colin, who tears at his wrapping paper with such eagerness he gets a papercut, but you feel stuck. There is a lump in your throat, and you clutch the picture too tightly. Somehow, you realize, you did think they'd forget you. Only that's not really right. To forget you, they'd have to think about you first, and you can't imagine any of the Bridgertons wasting a single thought on you, apart maybe from Eloise. Sure, you spend more time at their house than in your own flat, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? It's not like your own family misses you much this Christmas. You've gotten more than used to being invisible.

"I want this one," Benedict says and, to your horror, lifts one of the presents you left there earlier. "I like the sustainable vibe."

Feeling obliged to get presents for everyone, you'd spent yesterday running through a department store for at least three hours. Mostly it's boxes of chocolates and a book for Eloise, stuff that diminished your already meager savings more acutely than you'd planned for. And then it had come time to choose something for Benedict, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time agonizing over possible presents. By the time you'd made it home, only to realize you'd forgotten to get wrapping paper, all the stores were closed. So you'd wrapped everything in the newspaper the ancient couple living next door hadn't picked up off their welcome mat yet. They're in Cardiff visiting her sister for the holiday, and you're supposed to be watering their plants while they're gone. Which is a task that might be a bit hard to accomplish, seeing as you're currently several hours outside of London.

"Oh, that's… that's mine," you pipe up, then immediately clear your throat. You've somehow managed to sound like a cartoon mouse. An especially squeaky, pathetic cartoon mouse.

Benedict glances at you, gives you a smile he most certainly inherited from his mother, and says, "Perfect."

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

He has a similar approach to unwrapping presents as his younger brother, but at least he doesn't injure himself in the process. As you watch him, your heart beats somewhere in your throat. Suddenly you're right back where Violet picked you up, on the verge of anxiety about to perform one of history's most spectacular dives.

It might be dramatic to say that your whole life depends on whether your best friend's older brother likes the gift you picked out for him, but apparently, that's where you are now. In the most pathetic turn of events of all time, you're pretty sure the trajectory of your future hinges on this moment.

The improvised wrapping paper floats to the carpet like that plastic bag Katy Perry immortalized in her magnum opus Firework. For a moment, Benedict says nothing, staring at the gift in his hand.

"I can… If you don't like it, I can just return it," you say, even as you start frantically searching your memory for where in the world you put that receipt. Your heart is pumping blood through your veins at a pace that makes you dizzy. "It's not a big deal. It's fine, it was…."

Benedict holds the box of watercolours in front of his chest like some sacred artefact. He opens the lid and peers inside, examining the different shades wordlessly. Then he closes it, looks up, and right at you. A beat passes with him just looking at you, with your heart fluttering its feathery wings against the cage of your teeth, with you squirming in the spot. And then Benedict smiles, wide and bright and honest. "I love it," he says, "thank you. It's fantastic."

Your chest caves in.

"Oh," you whisper, half deaf over the rushing of blood in your ears. "Okay. Cool."

For a second, it looks like Benedict will say something else, like there are words forming on the tip of his tongue, and you feel like you're clinging to a cliff's edge by the tips of your nails. But then Hyacinth pulls the box from his hands to look at the paint, to run her fingers over the shades, and the moment passes.

If somebody asked you later, you wouldn't be able to tell them how the rest of the unwrapping goes. It's all a blur, a mirage of different exclamation and laughter and more or less well-thought-out presents that passes in front of you like a supercut, all of it accompanied by a playlist consisting mainly of Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé. You stay in your spot on the couch, still sitting on your hands, trying not to think about the way Benedict looked at you. Trying not to dream.

When the younger kids rope Colin and Anthony into a game of charades that requires an exorbitant amount of physical movement, you help the others clean up the abandoned shambles of the dinner table. Benedict is doing the dishes in the kitchen when you enter carrying a pale of plates so high you see nothing but the dried gravy Jackson Pollock sprinkled all across the edges.

"Careful." Benedict's fingers brush yours as he takes the plates from you and places them gingerly on the countertop.

"Thanks," you mutter, then spend just one second staring at the broad expanse of his back, holding your hands uselessly in front of you, before turning back toward the dining room, intent on finding something else to occupy yourself with.

Benedict's voice stops you. "Do you want to help me?"

You whirl on your heel embarrassingly fast, clearing your throat when you find him smiling at you. "Uhm. Sure."

He nods toward a dish towel on a rack and asks, "I wash, you dry?"

"Yeah. Sounds amazing." For a second, you genuinely consider slamming your head into one of the kitchen cabinets. Since when has drying dishes ever sounded amazing?

Benedict gives no indication that he thinks you might be the weirdest girl he's ever met, though, so you take that as consolation. He's rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue button-down again, his arms elbow-deep in the sudsy water of the sink, and you pretend not to notice the droplets running down his skin. Outside the window, snow falls in thick ribbons, covering more of the grounds. The faint sound of the Bridgertons enjoying themselves drifts into the kitchen's silence.

You accept the pan he was washing and start running your towel over it. A wet stain soaks into your dress where you press the Teflon-coated edge to your stomach.

"We can put the plates in the dishwasher later," Benedict says, filling the silence gaping like a canyon. "But I think the big stuff we should do by hand. Pots and pans and all that."

Unsure how to answer, you nod. Your mind is whirling, reeling, somersaulting. For so long, you've wanted to be alone with Benedict, have imagined it, dreamed it, conjured it up in your mind. And now here you are, and you can't seem to open your mouth. And it's not even like you have nothing to say, quite the opposite. You have so much to say you don't know where to start.

Like: You look great in that shirt. I hope you like my present. I think you're a great artist. If the Torys keep passing that PM cap around instead of letting us vote, I'm going to scream. I think capybaras are criminally underrated, and I'm glad they're having their moment on social media. How do you feel about turnips? I might have been half in love with you since the first time I met you.

Benedict, putting an end to your spiral, says, "It can be a lot, right?"

"Sorry?"

"The whole thing." He jerks his head in the direction of the dining room, an indulgent smile on his face that tells you all you need to know about Benedict's feelings for his family. "The whole Bridgerton Christmas chaos."

You shrug, lowering your head so he can't see your face, can't see whatever emotion might betray you. "I like it."

"Even Hyacinth's plum pudding? I think that could pass for a murder weapon."

"Yeah," you say, and find that your voice is much too sincere. "Even that. It's not… I've never had this." You cut yourself off immediately, not even sure why you said it in the first place. It's much too easy to be honest with Benedict, and it scares you in ways you can't describe.

"What do you mean?"

It feels like an impossible task to look at him, so you don't. You're too afraid of what you'll find - pity, maybe, or incomprehension. How could someone like Benedict possibly ever understand?

If you turn on a TV around Christmas time and watch a commercial or a movie, if you walk down a shopping street and look at the advertisements playing on screens or smiling from posters, if you pick up a holiday-themed novel, there is a certain feeling being sold to you: of warmth and joy and community. Of smiling grandparents and colorful sweaters. Of presents heaping like molehills beneath gleaming trees. Of roasts and mashed potatoes and peas and carrots and Christmas puddings and beaming families devouring them in perfect harmony. It's the same feeling you encountered right here in this house, in the perfect rooms populated with perfect Bridgertons. In those images, people are always happy.

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

"It's not…." You hesitate. "In my family," you say finally, and hope your voice sounds steadier than it feels, "it's never been good. It was just a lot of yelling, and… I've never had this. The laughing together and enjoying each other's company and all that stuff. The love. And I… I look at it, and I can tell, you see? That it's just so normal to you guys, I think maybe you don't even notice it. But I do. And it just… it doesn't really seem fair."

You don't wait for an answer, instead turning away from him in a way you hope makes it clear that this is not an avenue of conversation you want to pursue. It's like you've just stripped yourself bare in front of him, exposed yourself to his ridicule and his gaze under the unforgiving kitchen lights. It's like you have handed him a map to the innermost parts of yourself. All those ugly, pathetic parts you've spent your life hiding.

Benedict seems to understand because the next thing he says is, "Thank you again for the present."

For a beat, you close your eyes. There, you think. You've got what you wanted. He's ignoring it. He's looking away.

You chance a glance at his side profile, at the furrow between his brows as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of charred carrot sticking to the pot. "You're welcome," you answer. "I'm glad you didn't think it was shitty."

"Why would I think that? It's perfect." When you chuckle, shrug, when the self-deprecating note sneaks into the sound, Benedict ceases his scrubbing to look at you. "I mean it. It's really special."

"It's not even…." You hesitate, wondering if maybe you're fishing for compliments here. Whatever, the validation feels nice, and Benedict seems willing to give it to you, even if he probably finds you annoying. "It's not even a very creative gift. All things considered, you know?"

Everybody knows Benedict likes painting, even though there was some botched stint with the Academy a few years back. He eventually dropped out, but you don't think his aspirations changed.

He shrugs and turns back to the pot. "It is to me. My family all seem to think I'm not serious about the whole art thing, so it's nice to be acknowledged. It doesn't happen that often."

You pause to glance at him. Thrown into relief by the golden spill of the light, bracketed on one side by the winter night, for a moment, he's so pretty you feel your stomach clench.

"But you're so…" You break off, swallowing. Your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof. "Everybody sees you."

"What do you mean?" Benedict looks at you with real confusion scrunching up his face, and you feel almost stupid.

Helplessly, you shrug, dry the last drops of water off the pan, and put it down on the counter. "Just… People always notice you, you know? When you enter a room or when you go somewhere. I just thought… I thought you must feel really acknowledged. Like all of the time. I don't know."

Your heart is beating so furiously that you wonder if he can hear it. Embarrassment leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as the words escape you. Now he really should file a restraining order, you think. It would be perfectly justified, with you exposing just how much attention you've been paying to everything he does. God, you're a freak, aren't you?

When he smiles at you, there's something sad to the expression. "I've noticed," he says, forming the words carefully, "that what most people acknowledge about me is my family. But that's not the same as acknowledging me. That's not the same as seeing me."

For a moment, you imagine what it must be like. There was such warmth in that room earlier, such joy and love, but there were so many people, too. All of them loud and charming and lovely. All of them wonderful. All of them captivating in their own way. How easy must it be to get swallowed up by the sheer force of all of them? How easy must it be to feel passed over as the second of eight children, always surpassed by somebody else? Always somebody cleverer or funnier or more lovable? Sometimes, you think, it must be a lonely thing to never be alone. Sometimes, you think, he must feel invisible.

"I do," you say, and your face feels hot, your voice sounds far away, your palms are sweaty. "I see you."

Something in Benedict's gaze changes, something transforms, and then he whispers your name, holds it in his mouth like something precious. "I think you…." He swallows, and his eyes rake over your face as if he's searching for something, as if he's hoping for something, and finally, he pushes on, his voice as uncertain as you feel, "I think there's so much more here than you realize. Because I do, too. I see you. And I know you're lonely, and I know you're scared, maybe even as scared as I am, but I think... I think maybe you don't have to be."

It's like being on a frozen lake, right in the middle, side by side, moving step by step, nothing solid in the world but his hand in yours.

He takes a step closer to you at the same time that you move forward, his hip bumping yours, his gaze on your mouth, his knuckles knocking against yours, your breaths hitched, your hands shaking, your head spinning…

"I've got more dishes," Kate chirps, stepping into the kitchen. Immediately, you and Benedict jump apart. You busy yourself with drying the pot furiously as he accepts the new pile of tableware, eyes on anything but you. Then, completely ignoring her brother-in-law, Kate wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you away. "I'm supposed to tell you guests don't have to do dishes. And that's coming from the hostess herself."

If Kate noticed anything off between you two, she doesn't comment. But you could swear you see her casting a long, searching look at you when she deposits you on the couch.

You spend a little longer enjoying the overall Christmas charm of the night. You and Eloise pull apart a cracker together, put the paper crowns on each other's heads, and sit on the rug by the fireplace for hours, chatting, ignoring the general mess around you. When Violet starts making people sing Christmas songs whether they want to or not, you excuse yourself. You've been hiding yawns in the crook of your elbow for the past half hour anyway.

On his way back in from the bathroom, Benedict almost bumps into you in the doorway.

"Oh," he says, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder, and then you both say sorry simultaneously. By now, the eggnog and the absolute shame of whatever passed between you in the kitchen have caught up to you and you giggle like a school girl, staring at the bit of skin exposed where his shirt is unbuttoned.

"Off to bed?" Benedict asks. His voice is gentle enough that, for a moment, the yearning resonates somewhere in your bones.

You nod. "I'm tired."

"Okay." It might be wishful thinking, but he sounds almost disappointed to your ears. "Sleep well, yeah?"

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

"Hey, Ben!" You glance over your shoulder to find Hyacinth grinning at the two of you with something in her eyes you can only describe as the glint of the devil. A dawning sense of horror sends a shiver down your spine. "You're, like, right under the mistletoe, you realize that, yeah?"

Following the line pointed out by her finger with your eyes, you feel the dread pooling in your stomach. And lo and behold, above your eyes, fixed to the doorway, is an unassuming twig of mistletoe.

Have you mentioned that you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie? One with an exceptionally uncreative screenwriter?

When you finally tear your wide eyes away from the mistletoe, feeling helpless, you find Benedict already looking at you. "Ignore her," he says, smiling the smile of the long-suffering. "Hyacinth just wants to stir up trouble. It's fine, nobody's going to make us…."

"Well." From her perch on the arm of Anthony's chair, a saint-like expression on her face, Kate looks once from you to Benedict. "It is tradition."

And then, to your horror, she winks at you. Your stomach plummets down to your feet.

Benedict stares at Kate like she just told him she thinks the moon landing was faked. "I… I don't think…."

Anthony, after exchanging some private glance probably only decipherable to spouses, shrugs and leans back in his chair. "I agree," he says. "It is tradition."

"And a very nice tradition, too," Daphne affirms, crossing her legs and taking a dainty sip from her wine glass. No wonder not even the gossip columns ever have anything bad to say about her. She's perfect. "It would be a shame to let that opportunity go to waste."

With a look on his face you can describe only as aghast, Benedict turns to you. “I… uhm… Is it… okay?"

If you lived in the nineteenth century, you'd be asking a servant to bring you your smelling salts by now. Slowly, you nod, even though you're so dizzy, you're not sure you don't completely mess up the movement. "It… it's fine, yeah," you agree.

Benedict's hand finds the side of your face. You're so aware of all the eyes on you that, for a moment, you think you might be sick all over Benedict's shoes. He's so close you can feel his breath on your face and smell his cologne. Your toes are going numb.

"You sure?" he mumbles, leaning even closer, only an inch separating you. He has very kind eyes. If you said no now, you know he wouldn't even be mad.

Beyond words, beyond any thought past oh god I can't believe this is really happening oh dear god he's about to kiss me, you just nod.

"Oh, for god's sake!" That's Simon. "Just kiss the girl and be done with it, Benedict."

So he does. It's little more than a quick press of dry mouth to dry mouth, but your heart almost beats out of your chest. You feel his fingers tighten against the side of your face, feel his slightly-chapped lips, taste the eggnog and the chocolate and the wine. Then, when he pulls away, just for a beat, he lingers, his exhale a gasp, and for that instant, it's like you're the last two people on the planet, like he's the only thing that matters, like nothing existed before you and nothing will after you're gone. Suspended in time.

"Great!" Eloise calls, throwing her hands into the air. "First, Colin starts going out with Penelope, and now Benedict is snogging you. Will you people ever leave my friends alone?"

A collective burst of laughter travels through the room, and then the chattering returns, the paused music resumes, and you stand there, unsure what to do with yourself, unsure how to continue on when it feels like the whole world just shifted an inch to the left and nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore.

Benedict's hand is solid against the small of your back. "Will you… will you stay a little longer?" he asks, his voice hesitant.

It doesn't sound like he just means tonight. You don't think he just means tonight.

You swallow, exhale a shaky breath. And then you say, keeping your eyes on nothing but him, "Yeah. I'll stay."

Benedict beams. It's a sight that lights up his whole face, rivaling that ridiculous Christmas tree out in the Bridgerton's entrance hall. "Lovely," he says. For a beat, his eyes flicker back to your mouth, but then he just grins. "Merry Christmas."

You can't help it - you laugh. There's relief in the sound, the kind you haven't felt in a long, long time. Here, with the fire crackling and Gregory and Francesca delivering what could perhaps be the worst rendition of All I Want for Christmas Is You the world has ever known, it feels a little like maybe, just maybe, being seen isn't half as scary as you thought it was.

"Yeah," you agree and slide your fingers into the spaces between his. "Merry Christmas, Benedict."

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. But, God, are you happy you were wrong.

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fluff #christmas #mine #f:atl

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my-rose-tinted-glasses · 9 months

Text

Rose Recaps Rose Tinted Glasses It's been three months since I made a post thanking this community for being a place for me to share my love of BL.

And since then, every day I feel a little bit more comfortable here.

This place is so special to me for so many reasons and the fact that I found it is a small miracle. I was talking with my friend Neely about something BL related and they told me that they think I'm doing much better since I came here. So thanks again.

I was never a part of any online fandom. And before BL I never really felt like I was missing something. Maybe because I always found someone irl that I could freak out about whatever I was watching I never really felt the need to go look.

And the people here are exceptionally kind. Before, I made a point to never engage much online, except for certain support groups, because of the hate that sometimes exists in certain spaces. So I was very much surprised by the kind humans that exist in this bl fandom in this corner of the internet.

Also. There is some serious brilliant people here. Look giffing is not easy, it takes a long time, sometimes you spend so much time with a set only to hate it by the end and never posting it. And sometimes you post something and you're really proud and crickets. And sometimes you post it just so it doesn't go to waste and all of a sudden it explodes. It's all part of the magic.

I keep my sets pretty simple so I'm in awe of how some people make these beautiful art pieces with layers and colouring and typography. It's incredible and I applaud your creativity and patience.

Speaking of brilliance, I'm constantly in awe of the meta writers. That shit is not easy.

It takes way longer than we think, to make it neat and readable, adding gifs or shots to illustrated a point, sometimes wasting so much time finding the gif you want in the mess that is the gif search (I understand it now, cause yesterday I was on the hunt and it would've been quicker to make the damn gifs), and reviewing it before posting, changing it in the process, sometimes leaving it in drafts because the idea is not completed. I'm tired just thinking about this. I'm not able to do that. Sure I can talk for hours about this stuff but actually organize my ideas into a coherent point of view and writing it down. Nope. Not me. So bravo meta writers. I applaud you.

And of course all the people that share the stuff that really matters. Like the colours, the wardrobe, the places we see, the news about what's coming, language nuances, pictures of the pretty people in sometimes ridiculous or beautiful outfits, sometimes the pretty people before shirts were invented, and some of the funniest commentary I ever encountered.

I don't wanna single people out by tagging them because truly there are way too many. So I just want to thank some people that helped me navigate this place and made this time so enjoyable. First and foremost. @twig-tea You were the first person I talked to here and you were so kind and patient with me and my awkwardness and lack of knowledge of how this place works. She also writes great meta and is brilliant and everyone should be following her. @lurkingshan because of the Sahara-Sensei post that you tagged me in and made me feel so seen. @pharawee because IFYLITA just wouldn't have been the same without your sets. @respectthepetty because she helped get the colour coded subs right and she appreciates the bokeh in all its glory. @itsallaboutbl for screaming with me in portuguese. @mikuni14 Because she's been so incredible kind to me. @iguessitsjustme because of many reasons. And If I ever reblogged anything from you, consider yourself tagged in this post. All of you are amazing. And finally...

@blmpff for a lot but mostly for the most unexpected and incredible moment I experienced in this short time. The day that a bird took over my dash. Khun Feathers was such a treat and this masterpiece was the highlight of the day.

image by @blmpff It's been a wonderful year and I look forward to see what happens tomorrow. Wishing you all a happy new year!💜

#rose rambles #rose recaps 2023

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3terna15unshin3 · 10 months

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I NEED MATTY PROPOSING TO ESTE AND/OR THEIR WEDDING I BEG 🙏🙏

Dedication

The proposal

1420 words

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a/n: thank u sm for this request bc i loved dreaming this up !!! also slightly inspired by charli and george’s little tea tray bc that broke my heart. wedding blurb may come in the future but for now here's the proposal :))) anyway sorry if this is bad i haven’t written in like over a month😭😭 but i kind of love it so enjoy lmfao love u

Read the main fic here!

—

It’s late in the evening, the summer sun is dim and almost hidden by the horizon. An orange and pink and lilac sky surrounds the mosquitoes that buzz about. Este sits at the small table in their backyard and lights a citronella candle to stop them from nipping at her. It makes the air smell like fond August memories.

She can hear Matty shuffling around the kitchen as he makes the two of them cups of tea. He’s been out at the studio most of the evening, so they ate dinner separately. On nights like these, they almost always share sweet and lazy conversations over a brew afterwards, to make up for that missed time. Their sometimes foggy minds or tense muscles need a way to find solace before resting each night—and Matty and Este find that in each other.

The glass doors reopen to reveal Matty and the two mugs. He had a book tucked under his arm, too.

“Thank you, love,” Este says after he sets hers down. The table is small and round and flush against the concrete wall, so he sits on the left and her on the right. They lean against the house with their teas between them and peer at the sunset, taking leisurely sips.

He hums in response to say ‘you’re welcome’ wordlessly. Then, he hands the book over to Este. “Got you something while I was out.”

Once it’s in her hands, she recognises it to be a copy of And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos by John Berger. It makes her smile since it’s a favourite of hers. Este had never seen the cover design before.

“Is this a new edition?” She asks, admiring its colours and typography and the way they perfectly align with her taste.

Her eyes break contact with the book to look up at Matty, who gives a nonchalant shrug.

“Not sure,” He says, “Maybe the inside cover will say.”

Matty’s right; the publication information is typically listed within the first few pages. She has to flip and find it quite often for work. Este likes his suggestion, a smile still pinned on her face from the nice surprise as she opens it up to feel its pages. They feel thick and durable and have rough, haphazard edges.

She drags her fingers over them to appreciate their character, then flips past the first page that reads its title, and sets her eyes onto the small text on the opposite side. Before they find any answers Este is looking for, they settle on another—much more important—spectacle. It makes her heart stop. The dedication. She stares at it in shock.

The book is one she’s reread plenty of times, so she remembers John Berger’s small blurb that formally thanks some institutions and few people who helped him put together the prose to follow. But it doesn’t say that. Instead, it reads,

For my Este. I’d like to make you my wife if you’ll let me.

Matty’s knee shakes from the other side of the table. He watches her mouth fall agape and smiles nervously. He isn’t sure why the nerves are there, since he’s never been so sure of anything in his life. But they race through Matty’s body as he waits for her to say something.

He slides the ring in an open velvet box across the table to her when she finally looks up.

“Are you fucking joking?” Este’s voice quivers.

She can tell there are words threatening to spill from his tongue and every emotion possible washes over her when she imagines how beautiful the words will be. She has to stop herself from jumping out of her seat and tackling him in excitement and pure adoration.

Tears well up in the corner of her eyes at the expense of those thoughts swirling in her mind and Matty reaches over to wipe one away when it escapes. He does the same to his own when they eventually fall. More rush down her cheek when Este realises that he’s crying too, but of course he is.

“Course I’m not joking,” he starts, voice equally as weak. “There are a million ways I could explain how much I love you and why I am so desperate to marry you, but one that feels so authentic to us is with this. This book is so special. Not only because I know how much you love it—that’s the reason I read it in the first place—but also because it sort of changed me,”

Este reaches across the table to set her hand over his and rub her thumb back and forth against his skin.

“When I was falling in love with you, so much of that time was spent away from you. It was the busiest year of my life. And in moments—not in doubt, but just in fear of tainting how significant your love was to me—I considered that to be an opportunity for weakness to grow. That maybe one day, that distance could wedge between us. But when I read this, it showed me just how important every aspect of those times are. The far and close. It says,”

‘When you are away, you are nevertheless present for me. This presence is multiform: it consists of countless images, passages, meanings, things known, landmarks, yet the whole remains marked by your absence, in that it is diffuse. It is as if your person becomes a place, your contoured horizons. I live in you then like living in a country. You are everywhere.

In the country which is you I know your gestures, the intonations of your voice, the shape of every part of your body. What changes when you are there before my eyes is that you become unpredictable. What you are about to do is unbeknown to me. I follow you. You act. And with what you do, I fall in love again.’

“And yes, I did memorise that for the purpose of reciting it back to you,” They both laugh. “But it wasn’t hard, because it felt so true. You are everywhere, Este. Even when we aren’t face-to-face, everything I know of this world is through what it means to love you. And all I want for the rest of my life is for you to keep doing and for me to keep falling in love with it.”

By now, the neckline of his t-shirt is dampened with the tears. Matty gets up from his chair to kneel between her legs and hold Este’s waist. The rise and fall of her breathing is unsteady from all the crying but it still calms him. She cups his face like it’s the last time she’ll ever have the chance to.

“Marry me, please,” She utters desperately and brings his face up to kiss him. Matty’s lips taste of salt and English Breakfast tea. They can feel each other’s grins.

“I think I'm supposed to say that,” he argues, leaning his forehead against Este’s.

“Took too long.” She jokes. Matty stands and lifts her into an embrace. Her legs wrap around him and he spins with joy, then sets her down.

“Was the speech too cheesy?” asks Matty, half-serious.

Este shakes her head. “You are everywhere, Matty.”

They stand and stare, wiping the last of the tears off of each other’s faces. He turns to reach for the ring and she lets him slip it onto her finger. She admires its chunky bezel and the way she hadn't seen an engagement ring quite like it before. Este kisses him once more, and studies his hysteric smile. His eyes are squinty.

And then, they go about their evening. They sit back down, each in their usual chair; and though their teas are a bit cold now, it doesn’t bother them.

Matty explains that he found a local Manchester book binder to design a cover for And Our Faces specifically for her, and to bind the proposal into its dedication. He even chose the font, paper, and roughed edges that he thought she'd like the best. Este expresses how perfectly loving the gesture is and grips the book—now the most prized in her collection—with passion.

Excited discussions of a ceremony (its venue and her dress and his suit and how soon they can do it) are exchanged over their now empty mugs as what's left of the orange summer sun washes over them with charisma.

Somehow it can’t make the moment any more beautiful than it already is.

#tbsg #meste blurb #ask #matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy fanfiction #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy x oc #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fic #matty healy fluff #fluff #fanfiction

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ao3cassandraic · 1 year

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Angels, demons, language, and culture: part 2

(Part 1, for those interested)

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." --John 1:1, King James Bible

A better theologian than I could perhaps write a meta in which the Starmaker is the Word. I'm not prepared to go that far, honestly. I am fully prepared to say that written words, in the GOverse, are very, very important -- but curiously neither angelic nor demonic. They're human.

I mean, watching s1 I noticed that there's not a whole lot of written words in Heaven, to the point that I was wondering whether angels are even literate. There's the Quartermaster's list (which now I'm wondering about again -- we don't see whether there are words on it; perhaps it's just pictures and maybe checkboxes?), and... and... um... surely there's more... there's got to be more, right? ... huh, go figure.

Word of Gaiman says that angels mostly don't read the Bible; it's not angelic, it's human, and as such rather déclassé. In s2, we do see Gabriel's name written across his file -- but inside it? Not forms, not written documents, but video. There's an Ursula K. LeGuin line -- I think from The Telling? or maybe Four Ways to Forgiveness -- about a society that's postliterate, having left the written word behind for video, and is for that reason extra gullible. Yeah, that line sure does remind me of Heaven.

No wonder Muriel doesn't get much respect from their colleagues or reporting line. If words aren't angelic, how can respect be due to a mere scrivener?

Jimbriel can read, though his grasp on the alphabet is a bit shaky. He can't really read, though -- just as angels can speak human language but not think human thoughts. Only someone who can't quite get his head around the idea that written words convey meaning would try to organize books alphabetically by first word. (Aziraphale does understand this, of course. "But nobody would ever -- yes, fine, go ahead." I love that line. Aziraphale would hate my metadata class -- or he'd love it, just to do the opposite of every organizational principle I teach!)

Hell uses writing, but very inexpertly: the typography on its signs is (with full Doylist intent) execrable, and in s2 we learn that most demons can't spell for beans. What Hell can do with written words, apparently, is contracts, like the one Crowley has to sign for the baby Antichrist -- and after the Job minisode and its miles-long bet contract, I don't actually think contracts come from Hell in general, I think it's Satan specifically who writes them. (Maybe Satan used to be the Word. That'd be interesting. GO theologians, start your engines.)

Hell does seem to have a lot of paper around, shuffled into various overflowing cabinets and stamped at various desks. Hell even has a Lord of the Files! Even so, Furfur relies substantially on a visual display at his desk, a camera, and a surveillance video display. Most of the paper seems to be for handling former humans -- once again, written words and humans are inextricably entwined in the GOverse.

As for angelic and demonic magic, I notice a substantial absence of grimoires, chanting, or incantation, and a whole lot of picture (as we see in the Starmaker's book) and gesture. The Starmaker says "Let there be light" (and so does Aziraphale in s1), but I don't think by internal GOverse logic it'd have worked without the pull-down gesture.

All of which is to say that Aziraphale doesn't need the written word to be an angel; the written word is distinctly unangelic. Writing has to have been something he picked up from humanity, and decided he liked. It's one more thing that distances him from Heaven, as we can see in Gabriel's open contempt for Aziraphale's books, and even the well-meaning Jimbriel's instrumentalist use of books as fans and flyswatters and gravity testers.

Notably, when Nina asks to use Aziraphale's books instrumentally -- as weapons -- she rationalizes it to Aziraphale by indicating that the information in the encyclopedias will still exist online. Aziraphale accepts this! Not without pain, but he accepts it. He, unlike Jimbriel, can separate the meaning of a writing from its carrier. Hi, hello, yes, I am a librarian and I have read my Suzanne "Madame Documentation" Briet and Paul Otlet and Michael Buckland. I've even taught them. Content vs. carrier is a Whole Dang Thing in the history of librarianship. (Also, I am now headcanoning liek whoa that Aziraphale learned French to better understand Briet and Otlet. If he ever starts waffling about antelopes, I will know why.)

But that still leaves @thundercrackfic's actual questions: what exactly attracts Aziraphale to the written word? and how well does he understand it? And my additional question: what about Muriel? I'll get there. I promise! But I still need to talk about rules.

#good omens #good omens meta #aziraphale #heaven and hell #literacy #jimbriel the holy fool #the quartermaster #angel muriel

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dirtyoldmanhole · 10 months

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YRMR cover progress for the curious!

before drawing, there were a few things i knew that the cover had to have/show:

critically, had to have vibes of an enemies-to-lovers dynamic in the sense of ... the power tilt? even though that's not "technically" the true nature of their dynamic. gunter's not a nice guy in this fic, even aside from the possession, and i also didn't want anybody to run into this unsuspecting the darker parts to the fic. him more looming/threatening than you'd expect in base game, etc.

wanted to emulate kozaki's style through the whole cover in line qualitty, coloring, and composition. thankfully he gives a few tips over on his twitter. it's both a neat little nod at the source material, and also as a style experiment.

a big theme in this fic is gunter being made of so many masks/shells (there's a perfect blue cover, see below, that specifically made me think this composition could work.)

learning that kozaki hews pretty close to grids + the golden ratio was another big lightbulb moment, here's a drawing yoinked from his twitter where he shows it himself.

after scraping/studying from kozaki's twitter, i made one or two thumbnail doodles below. you can see the solid one had a golden ratio + general line dynamic check squiggled to the side. there's room for the title, the focus is on corrin, it'll work both in a horizontal and vertical crop, looking good so far.

you can see how pretty tightly to the thumbnail i kept, other than moving the vertical text to the top since i didn't have as much room there. i'm a little worried about the different line quality between how big the face is vs corrin but we'll see.

something i also realized i like about the composition is corrin "could" look like she's attacking the viewer, but she also looks like she could be guarding him with her back to him, which.... heh. comes up in some interesting ways in the last third of the fic (possession wise).

bunch of cleaning up.

as I suspected since this is 11x17in (much bigger than what i normally draw) i had to grab a different brush for gunter since thin lines were not going to work as they did for corrin. i think kozaki's real genius is how he treats texture with his linework; where he does thin lines, where he puts the thick ones, etc.

corrin's coming along great but there's a spirit to the first face on the left i think i'm missing now, so i'll probably re-insert that. (also decided to at least draw in his face there even though the masks/slices will distort that). i think what also helps is gunter's face is very low contrast and needs to remain low contrast, to help corrin pop out in front.

then i started thinking about typography. a lot of the fonts i had were either way too masculine/bland/modern, or way too feminine/curvy. this title needs a hint of masculinity to nod at FE's general action-adventure RPG roots, but it's also very distinctly the kind of erotica that doesn't easily lend itself to a genre. it's tender horror, it's daddy kink, it's vicious romance, it's ... a lot of things.

here's another thing: when thinking about title typography, another consideration is genre. briefly i considered something like lovecraftian covers; my doujin circle and i had been sharing pictures of old pulp covers. i also noticed a lot of my favorite JP erotic horror doujin have very spiky titles. this title also needs to be scrunched up in a tight space so it's not like we got a sprawl of acreage here either.

what doesn't help is enemies to lovers doesn't really have a visual language in mainstream media.

it's a staple of Ao3 (written) genres, but the closest you'd get otherwise would be romantic horror (kind of says a lot about who makes what huh?). for example, the shape of water (movie) isn't a 1:1, but it's pretty damn close -- unfortunately that poster dodged the question by using an art deco-inspired font typeface that was more about the setting than the genre.

and then i had an epiphany. maybe i was approaching this from the wrong direction: it's the knight/liege romance that's the heartbeat to YRMR.

think more old dragonlance novels. old medieval/fantasy pulp novels; plenty of kinky sex and ass in there, and still close enough to FE. remember everyone and their mamma having a bi ass crush for bad boy raistlin? that's the vibe i want.

this kind of glorious deranged shit. you're not gonna be surprised at possessed grandpa whip kink if you read these on the regular.

after ~*arcane designer magic*~ (I do this for a living) bolton and magiona display were the two fonts that were gonna work just fine together.

god that looks so much better. this looks believable now.

the thin/thick line weight contrast in magiona display is going to accentuate the lineart in a way that might be tricky with other fonts that work better on painted covers. bolton's "squished" vertically enough it doesn't compete with the other one, and makes for a good secondary/tertiary font.

few other things happened.

i shrunk gunter's face because not being able to see his jawline (sex appeal u see) was bothering me from a composition standpoint. it's the same reason frank frazetta didn't censor his glorious asses.

(said seriously, by the way. so many people don't give their lust in art enough credit.)

i also needed more room for the title to show, and the line quality/scale difference between his face was also bugging me. does this mess up the golden ratio composition? sure, temporarily, but his armor's weirdly flexible that we can adapt it pretty easily.

it's about this time i'm also looking through my hydrus network stash of favorite covers for what color palette and contrast to use. kozaki tends to skew purple/cooler hues for nohr characters, and that'd go well with these two.

purple/green hues that play well with light purple and the yellow from those old covers i love so much, low contrast midground, and something that'd contrast well with text above. dark/black background for the gothic vibes, and the text will probably need to be white or some sort of light-warm hue for that "pop".

doing color tests is more of a leap of faith and intuition than an exact science, but damn it is it satisfying when you nail it in one go and go 'holy shit i want to read this. :D

(green/gold for the hint of anankos' mask, also matching the yato and her warmer skin tone. purple flames for him, but the high contrast armor to separate her from his larger shapes. we've got the dragonstone and the yato as flexibility for lighting and emphasizing contrast with her. )

i kind of like how i accidentally made the mask shards reflect(?) a bit of his own face. hell yeah throw it in. this is something that's more likely to work than not. this is something that has that mix of id and horror i've been going after.

here's another version with references to the side and the golden ratio laid on again.

honestly a lot of it at this step is going 'dude you know what would be SO DOPE.... PURPLE FIRE...' 'dude..... fuck yes....' 'what about some sick ass sword effects?' 'YEAH....' and saving a bunch of backups in case of the idea didn't work out.

(am i going so much harder on a literal gilf porn fanfic cover than i need to? hell yeah. gunterfuckers deserve better. :D )

anyway here is when i start questioning everything, so i'll take a break from the colors to tighten up the lineart. now that the composition's settling in much tighter, i'm also thinking about how the two shapes interact with each other and if there's any potential issues with tangent points (where two lines intersect each other in a way that makes an optical illusion.)

that said i love how his jawline "points" at her face, that kind of line you want.

grinding away on corrin's lineart. also double checking that the shapes/colors/forms for her "make sense" both standalone and with the composition too. what's nice is she's at the point where i can just turn off my brain and polish up.

naturally couldn't resist poking at it more and this is when the rest of it clicked after figuring out which bit was anankos' mask, which bit was possessed!gunter vs himself (polished up the armor a bit too. at this point i'm pretty confident that it'll stay "set"; the biggest thing i'm likely to change is the blue silohuette to the dragonstone side for corrin.

here's the last true screenshot before cleaning up the last 2% of the lines. added the pulp cover texture around the border, switched the colors of the text so the cream would stand out more, cleaned up gunter's face and also increased the darkness of corrin's body so it'd contrast more with him behind.

thanks for reading. :D

#own art

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profanepurity · 1 year

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your praetorium au is always such a fun read, it's so interesting and i honestly and running with it as the actual lore of the band. i was curious though, what year is it set in and how old is everyone? like when did primo become papa and how much older is he than secondo and terzo and copia to have raised them in a sense and just like all of those little details abt them! thank you if you answer, your work is phenomenal, both the art and writings <3

That is such a big complement, thank you so much!!! So the AU actually takes places over quite a significant chunk of time. I guess you could technically say it started back in the mid 40's- early 50's. I've been considering the idea of making one big timeline post to show designs, ages, and other info. I think it would be helpful to have as a reference to go along with some future comics I have planned, but it would take a minute to make lol, so it might be something I have to draw out as I go. I was thinking of the timeline images looking something like this...

Please excuse the typography for now, I lost the Adobe Suite and I'm working with CSP text only lol. Here's a copy of the text in the image, just in case: "Primo Emeritus was born in 1944. Nihil was unaware of his son's existence for some time. Six years later, 1950, he would meet Sister Imperator in Translyvania. Nihil is 31 at this point, and Imperator is 24. Nihil will become Papa during this same year. While he and Imperator are in a relationship, they would never marry, and she would not be considered his Prime Mover. Towards the end of 1950, Primo is discovered by the church at a near by orphanage and identified as Nihil's son. On the night of Primo's dedication, at just 6 years old, Lucifer reveals himself to the clergy and claims him as his next prophet." To answer your question, Secondo was born in 1953 when Primo was nine, Terzo was born in 1967 when Primo was 23, and Copia “arrived” at the church in 1970 when Primo was 26. So there's quite an age gap between the boys, besides Terzo and Copia. Primo was well into his 20's by the time they were born, so he and Elizabeth were able to pretty much raise them at that point. That's not to say Primo didn't look out for Secondo as well, but he could only do so much still being a child himself. Primo didn't become Papa until 1986, at the age of 42, when Nihil finally decided to "retire" at the age of 67. Primo was already married to Elizabeth by this time (they married when he was a Cardinal), so she took the role as his Prime Mover at the same time as his ascension. There is so much more info and dates, but for the sake of not just vomiting numbers at you guys, I'm definitely going to draw this out over time lol! Also, just to clear up potential confusion, this updated timeline may or may not follow previous dates or minor facts that I've had in some of my past fics and art. All major events will be the same, but some small details may be different! More coming soon 🖤

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popawritter12 · 10 months

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𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐮 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫: Kiryu Setsuna

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲: Kengan Ashura

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐞: Obsession since childhood, stalking and religion

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: I'm pretty 'inspired' today, so let's see what comes of this.

〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜）

Sweet,

This is how he described how it felt to simply be by your side, something he never thought he would feel in his entire life.

Something he resented just thinking about having, something so soft and beautiful that he had never felt in his miserable, horrendous life.

It wasn't like other things, it wasn't like being with his first love, it wasn't like chasing Ohma, it was... different.

But what made it different? At first, Kiryu didn't know, he didn't understand why he wanted to be so close to you, but he felt...warm.

It was not like not feeling anything, it was not the same as when he became the boyfriend of someone who gave him and fulfilled each and every one of his whims without hesitation, satisfying even his deep desire to take revenge on his father. he.

Nor was it when he met Ohma, who chased him like a baby cow chasing his mother that had no love for him.

No, it is not similar to the feeling of appreciation he had for his managers at the time of the annihilation tournament.

So, how can we define his appreciation for you?

Well, that's an easy one: confusing.

And more now.

---So... What's the plan with all this? ---You ask, looking out of the corner of your eye at the paper taped to the wall.

Matsuda Tomoko had been dragging you everywhere --- Including from your room to the forest outside the tournament area ---, like a child participating in the best treasure hunt of her life.

---You said you were looking for a boyfriend, right? --- Mentions the woman with short hair, a highlighting shine in her eyes.

---Uh... I guess ---You pant heavily, thinking about the stupid idea you were seeing plastered on wallpaper.

---So this was what you were looking for! You've been saying for a while that you were looking for something like this, right? ---Tomoko intoned, almost skipping around you.

She pointed her index finger at him, her lips curled into a proud smile, as she tilted her hips to one side of her.

---And good? What do you think about the idea?

You look at the paper, at the woman in the photo and the smile on her face; almost as if he was having the best photo ever of him. The pink and reddish colors made a striking color game along with the white letters, you couldn't identify the typography.

---It seems like complete bullshit to me.

Tomoko almost fell to the ground, and it seemed like you could hear a part of her heart break at the softness of your comment.

---But why?! That sounds like an excellent idea!

---To be honest, Tomoko, why would I want to go on a blind date?

---Oh, come on! Couldn't you even give it a chance?

---After the last time I did that? No.

---But..!

---No.

Before the exchange of words turned into an argument, a call interrupted everything.

That was Tomoko's superior.

---Tomoko! Where the fuck are you?!

Just hearing her scream, even though she wasn't on the speaker, made you realize the danger of the situation Tomoko was in.

The short-haired woman almost flinched from Soryuin's sudden scolding, not only because of her insult --- Something not so unusual for her ---, but because of the tone in which she spoke to her.

---S-Soryuin... I-Is something wrong? --- Tomoko questions, pressing her back against the wall, her knees bending and seeking stability.

---Yeah! I need you to come here right now!

---A-Now I'm coming, Soryuin... b-but, why are you so angry...?

She couldn't even finish that little question, which the other woman shouted; <<Come here right now, or I swear to God I will be the one to rip your head off>>

Those words were enough, and like a little boy scolded for having made a baton, he began to walk slowly to God knows where.

You remained static, the doubt about what had happened to the relaxed woman you considered almost like a sister passing through your mind again and again, besides, what kind of mistake could Tomoko have made to make it seem like she had been caught committing a tax fraud?

You shook your head, before looking back at the wallpaper.

<<Looking for a rental girlfriend for my idiot brother,

Any woman/man/human specimen consult this number: +## ########>>

A laugh escaped your lips, before you pulled out your phone. It had been a long time since you had been romantically interested, so why not give a blind date a try?

I guess, in the end, what Tomoko had proposed to you wasn't such a bad idea.

<<With Tomoko>>

The short-haired woman was aggressively grabbed by the neck, a terrifyingly strong glare from the long-haired blonde of hers clinging to her in such a way.

That would scare anyone.

---Why you did that?

The question alone generated as much fear in her as the feeling that she was going to receive such a scolding that she would seem like a mother challenging her son.

---Of all the things you could do with her, why that? Are you daring to challenge me?

Doubt, not just one, many doubts, the attitude of her superior was quite rooted in something that Tomoko did not know, was she in love with (Name)? Or worse yet, what if she actually hates her and doesn't want her anywhere near her?

No, she didn't agree. Soryuin always sought to have male partners, she never thought of a woman as anything other than a companion or enemy, or a stranger.

But (Name)? She never gave her special treatment, she always treated her almost as if she were her family ---something that, in fact, she did with several very trusted friends---, so what would have happened that led this woman to Being so paranoid about something like... seeing a sign?

---From now on, don't even think about staying close to (Name), understand? I don't care if it's even to talk about politics or something ---The blonde woman took another step, shortening the distance between them---, if you even look at her again, I swear I...

A sharp and extensive noise of a door opening invaded the place, cutting off the blonde woman's sentence. By the time Soryuin realizes this fact, it was almost too late to put the safety of his partner or her own first.

The man with long hair, delicate features and noticeably large circles under his eyes makes his appearance, his mere presence accompanied by his gaze that originally almost never shows any sign of emotion harmoniously adorns the barely lit room, after all, the beautiful beast was named after a reason.

--- Soryuin... --- Is the unique thing that came out of the man's lips.

His voice was hoarse and accented by a hatred that was slowly eating away at his mind, as was an intense sense of alertness on Tomoko's part, almost as if his survival instinct was screaming for her to run or Kiryu will try to kill her at that moment .

The beast was sharpening its fangs, and the two tamers shuddered at the thought of seeing the creature rise up to take control of everything.

Kiryu approached the two women, the blonde was trembling at the thought of having someone like him on the verge of a breakdown and a possible assassination attempt.

The hunched back and messy hair, along with quite... striking musculature, looked like a failed attempt at a human.

Human nature was funny when it came to creating someone like him.

---Tell me, Soryuin, why did Tomoko do...that? ---Kiryu asked, directing his gaze to the young woman.

--- It's not what you think, Kiryu, she just... --- The blonde woman hesitated, but her words stuck in her throat ---.., it won't happen again.

Kiryu tilted his head to the side, like a confused dog.

--- I didn't ask you if she wouldn't do it again --- The man responded, bringing his face closer to Soryuin's ---, I asked you why she did it.

---I-I don't know, she was just playing with (Name) and then she...

---Shut up.

Kiryu's voice was even deeper than now, you could tell that he was progressively more on the verge of exploding.

---If you can't give me answers, then the person in charge will ---Kiryu said, now advancing to where Tomoko was.

But, it was Soryuin who was in front of Tomoko, so... she took a few steps back, thus getting out of the way of the long-haired man.

And Tomoko saw her, she could see how she was trembling and even at the moment when she heard her stuttering she could get the idea of what was happening.

A deal that had never been revealed to the short-haired woman, which he never had any right to see.

--- Tell me, dear Tomoko --- Kiryu called, with the same tone that he had extended so much ---, is there something you have to explain to me?

She was perplexed, exactly a few days ago he had said that he had become attached to both of them, why now...?

---E-Eh...I-Is something going on with (Name) that I never found out about...? --- The young woman questioned, leaning her head to one side of her.

---What if something happens...? --- Kiryu repeated, slightly changing the gravity of her voice to a softer one.

Was she trying to smooth everything over so as not to attack...? Or maybe...she is acting?

A grip on the woman's neck prohibits any interruption of her words.

---Of course something happens ---His grip tightens, his fingers cling to her skin as his hand sticks to the skin of her throat ---, don't you know you can't tell him? to an angel who walks with a mortal?! That goes against the rules, it goes against EVERYTHING, who the hell do you think you are to try to change natural laws?!

Her brow furrowed, as her eyelids expanded. Her tone of voice became harsh, her movements now erratic and incorrect for someone who He considers himself a great professional fighter.

But, at the end of the day, was it really wrong to do something like that?

---Everything I have done for YEARS cannot go to waste because of your whim! --- He screamed somehow louder, and with the help of her arms, he pushed Tomoko against the concrete ---, She will not belong to any mortal! None of you puny mortal beings deserve to even LOOK AT HER!!

After all, many people considered that all religions should be respected, right?

---I'm sorry...

Tomoko's voice was soft, but rigid and barely audible, and while her hands moved in search of freedom from the person who was actively seeking to kill her.

---I-I'm really sorry...

Tomoko was no longer well, the air in her lungs and in her blood in general was leaving so fast that her voice was the announcement that she was approaching the drawer instead of going for the fruit.

Kiryu looked at the woman, a part of him wanted to give in and stop before committing another sin, she was still someone that he love after all.

And eventually, her grip softened, and after a few seconds of the short-haired woman regaining her oxygen, he let go of her, leaving her on the ground.

Kiryu stayed silent, before finally walking away from Tomoko, returning to the metal door.

The long-haired woman did not move: she was static, almost with her heart in her hand for everything she had just witnessed.

And it is then that, when the door was closed with fixed abruptness, Soryuin came to her senses; He moved quickly to where Tomoko was, grabbing her shoulders with uncontrolled force.

---Tomoko? Tomoko! Answer please!

The short-haired woman just looked at her, before trying to catch her breath again.

And, with one last thought, she finally passed out.

<<Is (Name)... an angel to him?>>

〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜) 〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜）

And here this one shot ends.

Now I really liked how it turned out!

This version is better, or at least for me, that's why I like to think that you also liked the result <3

So well, until I can figure some things out, see you until the next one shot or story I update

〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜) 〜(^∇^〜）〜(^∇^〜）

#yandere #obsessive love #yandere male #Setsuna Kyriu #Kengan ashura #Yandere kengan ashura #Yandere one shot #x female reader #x reader #Kyriu

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