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murdockparker · 6 months

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Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say.

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed.

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by.

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise.

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?”

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?”

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion.

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.”

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more.

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct.

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.”

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room.

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it.

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process.

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—”

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze.

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.”

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal.

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display.

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter.

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door.

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon.

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—”

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask.

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say.

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish.

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly.

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered.

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck.

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water.

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face.

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out.

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward.

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed.

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above.

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said.

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—”

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother.

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—”

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?”

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain.

Rain.

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting.

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in.

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise.

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…”

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely.

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—”

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified.

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience.

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this.

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.��

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him.

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again.

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while.

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter.

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray.

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have.

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #this is a doozy and i am sorry #but only a little bit!!!

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tarotwithavi · 11 months

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Venus in houses

Venus signifies love, beauty, relationships, art, aesthetics, and harmony in astrology. It also represents how we express affection and what we're attracted to.

These post are general and won't resonate 100% because we have to consider other aspects too.

For entertainment purposes only!

Venus in the 1st house

People with Venus in the 1st house tend to be naturally charming and attractive. They have a friendly, approachable vibe that draws others in. People often find them physically appealing, even if they're not aware of it. These individuals have a certain grace and poise about them. They carry themselves with elegance and may have a good sense of fashion and style. They know how to make a positive first impression. Venus represents beauty, and when it's in the 1st house, these folks have a deep appreciation for all things beautiful. They may have a keen interest in art, fashion, or design. Socializing comes naturally to them. They enjoy being around people and are often the life of the party. They make friends easily and can adapt to different social situations with ease. Relationships play a significant role in their lives. They are often focused on creating harmonious and loving connections with others. They may fall in love quickly and enjoy the romantic aspects of life. In conversations, they tend to be diplomatic and tactful. They have a way of saying things that doesn't ruffle feathers, which makes them excellent mediators in conflicts. People with Venus in the 1st house are generally well-liked and popular. They have a magnetic quality that draws others to them, and they can often get what they want through their charm and charisma. Many of them have artistic talents, whether it's in music, visual arts, or any other creative endeavor. They may find joy and fulfillment in expressing themselves artistically. On the downside, they may have a tendency to indulge themselves a bit too much. This could manifest in overeating, overspending, or other forms of self-gratification. They often have strong preferences when it comes to aesthetics. They know what they like and don't like, whether it's in their home decor, clothing, or personal grooming. They value harmony and balance in their lives. Disruptions or conflicts can be particularly distressing for them, and they may go to great lengths to restore peace. Their personal values are very important to them. They are likely to stand up for what they believe in, and they seek partners and friends who share similar values.

Venus in the 2nd house

Having Venus here often means you appreciate the finer things in life. You might have a knack for making money and enjoy spending it on beautiful stuff – whether it's a fancy car, a stylish wardrobe, or a cozy home. You're likely drawn to luxurious and high-quality items. Quality over quantity is your mantra. You'd rather have one exquisite piece than a bunch of cheap stuff. Venus in the 2nd house can bring a touch of charm and grace to your financial dealings. People might find it hard to say no to you when you're asking for a loan or negotiating a deal. Your values play a significant role in your relationships. You're attracted to partners who share your values, especially when it comes to money and possessions. Harmony in these areas is important to you. You tend to be generous with your loved ones, showering them with gifts and treats. It's your way of showing affection. You usually have a good sense of how to manage your money. Financial stability is essential for your peace of mind, and you work to achieve it. Venus also rules beauty and art, so you might have a keen eye for design and aesthetics. You could excel in professions related to art, fashion, or interior decorating.You find pleasure in the sensory experiences of life – good food, beautiful surroundings, and physical comfort. This can also extend to your romantic life, where physical intimacy is essential. if Venus isn't well-aspected here, it could lead to overindulgence in spending or a tendency to be materialistic. Be mindful of not equating your self-worth with your possessions.

Venus in the 3rd house

Venus in the 3rd house blesses you with a silver tongue. You have a natural charm in the way you speak and interact with others. Your words are like sweet melodies, making it easy for you to connect with people on a personal level. You're a great conversationalist and can easily win people over with your pleasant demeanor. Venus is the planet of beauty and creativity, and in the 3rd house, it infuses your communication with a touch of artistry. You may have a talent for writing, public speaking, or storytelling. Your creative ideas flow effortlessly into your conversations, making them engaging and memorable. You're socially adept and thrive on building relationships with those in your immediate environment. This placement often indicates a strong bond with siblings, making you a friendly and supportive sibling or enjoying close relationships with your brothers and sisters. You may also have a knack for forming close friendships with your neighbors or people you encounter in your day-to-day life. Venus in the 3rd house can make you a lifelong learner. You have a curiosity about the world and a love for acquiring knowledge, especially in subjects related to art, culture, and aesthetics. This placement can encourage you to pursue studies or hobbies that involve beauty, such as literature, music, or the visual arts. While you're charming, your interactions with others may sometimes be perceived as flirtatious, even if that's not your intention. You enjoy the playful side of communication and may engage in witty banter or playful teasing. This can make you quite popular and fun to be around. In relationships, you express your affection through words and gestures. Love letters, sweet text messages, and small romantic surprises come naturally to you. You appreciate the beauty of love and use your communication skills to strengthen your romantic connections. Your relationship with siblings tends to be harmonious and supportive. You're there for them when they need you, and you bring a sense of ease and understanding to your family dynamics. The 3rd house also relates to short journeys. With Venus here, you may have a fondness for weekend getaways, road trips, or other short adventures, often with loved ones.

Venus in the 4th house

You find a deep sense of emotional security and comfort within the confines of your home and family. There's a strong need for a harmonious and loving domestic environment. You have a strong attachment to your home and might enjoy decorating and making it aesthetically pleasing. Your home is often a place of comfort, love, and artistic expression. Family plays a significant role in your life. You may have a close and loving relationship with your family members, particularly your mother or maternal figures. You attach sentimental value to family heirlooms, traditions, and memories. Your family's history and heritage are important to you. Your approach to love and relationships is nurturing and caring. You may express love through taking care of your loved ones, especially within the home environment. You seek a harmonious and peaceful home life, and you might go to great lengths to maintain a loving atmosphere. You enjoy entertaining at home and often find happiness in hosting gatherings. Venus in the 4th house can grant a good sense of style and design for home decoration. You may enjoy collecting art, antiques, or items of beauty for your living space. Your early childhood experiences, especially in your family, can strongly influence your attitudes and behaviors in love and relationships as an adult. There can be a strong interest in real estate, and you might invest in properties or find a career related to homes and interior design. Striving for balance and emotional security is crucial for your happiness. You seek relationships that provide a sense of comfort and emotional well-being.

Venus in the 5th house

With Venus in the 5th house, you have a magnetic charm that makes you naturally attractive and romantic. You seek love and pleasure in creative and playful ways. You enjoy the excitement of romance, and your relationships tend to be passionate and full of affection. This placement enhances your artistic and creative abilities. You may have a talent for music, art, or any form of self-expression. You find joy and fulfillment in creative pursuits and often use them as a means of showcasing your love and affection. Your inner child is very much alive, and you enjoy fun and playfulness. You may have a special connection with children and might excel in roles involving teaching or working with young people. Your love life often resembles a romantic fairy tale. You have a love for entertainment, whether it's through the arts, sports, or other leisure activities. You enjoy the finer things in life and are willing to invest in experiences that bring pleasure and luxury. Your charm and charisma are accentuated, making you a natural flirt. You tend to be social and love attention, often becoming the center of attraction in social settings. This can be a positive trait in your love life and personal relationships. You may be more willing to take risks in matters of the heart. This can lead to exciting and passionate relationships, but it may also involve some ups and downs. Love and creativity often go hand in hand for you, and you're not afraid to pursue your passions. If you become a parent, your love for children will shine through. You're likely to be a warm, affectionate, and creative parent who encourages your children to explore their own creative talents. Venus in the 5th house can bring out your dramatic side. You enjoy being in the spotlight and expressing yourself with flair, whether on stage or in everyday life. You may have a wide range of hobbies and interests that allow you to express your creativity and love. Your interests can become a big part of your identity and how you attract and connect with others.

Venus in the 6th house

You have a natural flair for bringing beauty and creativity into your job. You tend to enjoy work that involves art, aesthetics, or social interactions. You are likely to be diplomatic and pleasant in your interactions with colleagues and clients, making you a valuable team member. Venus in the 6th house often bestows good physical health. You are inclined to take care of your body and may be drawn to activities like yoga or other forms of exercise that are not only beneficial but enjoyable too.You are charming and diplomatic in your interactions with co-workers. This can create a harmonious work environment, but be cautious of overindulgence in office gossip or drama This placement can signify a love for helping others. You may be drawn to careers in healthcare, social work, or any field that involves assisting and nurturing people. You have a strong need for beauty and aesthetics in your daily life. You might decorate your workspace, have a well-organized and visually pleasing schedule, and appreciate the finer things in your daily routines. Your creative talents can be expressed through your work. You may find ways to infuse artistry into even the most mundane tasks, making your daily routines more enjoyable and fulfilling.Be cautious about romantic involvements in the workplace, as Venus in the 6th house can lead to romantic attractions with colleagues. It's essential to maintain professionalism in such situations. You may struggle to find a balance between work and personal life, as you can become so absorbed in your job or daily tasks that you forget to take breaks for self-care and enjoyment.

Venus in the 7th house

Venus in the 7th house indicates a deep need for harmonious relationships. You are drawn to partners who are attractive, charming, and cultured. You seek equilibrium and balance in your partnerships and may avoid conflict whenever possible. You have a natural ability to attract people and form meaningful connections. You may be seen as diplomatic, charming, and well-liked in social situations. Your charisma can be a significant asset in your personal and professional life.This placement often signifies a strong desire for committed and long-lasting partnerships. You are likely to value the institution of marriage and may dream of a fairy-tale romance. Venus in the 7th house can enhance your artistic and creative talents, as the 7th house represents partnerships, and Venus is the planet of aesthetics. You might find artistic expression through collaboration or partnerships. You have a refined sense of beauty and may be drawn to artistic or visually appealing partners. You appreciate art, fashion, and all things aesthetically pleasing. In your relationships, you tend to be diplomatic and value compromise. You may go to great lengths to maintain peace and harmony, sometimes at the cost of expressing your true feelings. This placement can influence not only your personal relationships but also your business partnerships. You're likely to have a good sense of business and can form lucrative partnerships, particularly in ventures related to beauty, art, or design. While Venus in the 7th house brings a lot of positive attributes, there can be challenges too. You may struggle with being overly dependent on your partner for emotional well-being, and at times, you might fear being alone. People with Venus in the 7th house often attract love into their lives. However, the challenge lies in maintaining that love over the long term, as you may idealize your partners. Your ability to negotiate and find common ground with others is a significant strength. You're skilled at resolving conflicts peacefully.

Venus in the 8th house

You possess an intense and deep emotional nature. Your feelings are not superficial; they run profound and can often be veiled, even to yourself. In your romantic relationships, you seek deep, passionate, and transformative connections. You're drawn to intense, soulful bonds with your partners. Your desires and pleasures are deeply rooted in the physical realm. Sensuality plays a significant role in your life, and you may have strong sexual appetites. The 8th house is also associated with shared resources and joint finances. You may have financial dealings with others, such as business partnerships or shared assets with a spouse. Venus in the 8th house can give you a magnetic and alluring presence. People may be naturally drawn to you because of your intense charm and charisma. You are inclined towards personal transformation and growth. You're not afraid to confront the darker aspects of life and explore the mysteries of the human psyche. You take your relationships seriously and are willing to invest a lot of emotional energy into them. Loyalty is crucial to you, and you may have a tendency to hold onto relationships longer than most. Financially, you may experience highs and lows. Joint financial matters can be a source of both gain and loss. It's essential to be cautious in financial partnerships. The 8th house is associated with the occult, mysteries, and hidden knowledge. You might have a natural inclination towards astrology, tarot, or other mystical subjects. Venus in the 8th house can also lead to a desire for control in relationships and financial matters. You may find it challenging to trust others completely. Your love life is often transformative. Relationships have the power to change you, and you may go through periods of intense emotional growth and change through love. On the downside, you might struggle with jealousy and possessiveness in relationships. It's important to work on trust and open communication. Venus adds an element of grace and elegance to your personality. You have a refined taste and may enjoy indulging in luxurious and beautiful things.

Venus in the 9th house

You possess a deep love for exploring new horizons, whether through travel, higher education, or spiritual pursuits. The desire to expand your worldview through these means is a significant part of your life.Venus brings harmony to your beliefs and values. You seek a sense of unity and may find beauty in various cultural, philosophical, or religious traditions. This placement often indicates a person with a more liberal and open-minded approach to different belief systems. You're attracted to intellectual and philosophical subjects. Learning is not just a duty but a pleasure for you. You may excel in fields related to higher education, publishing, or teaching. Venus in the 9th house encourages an appreciation for art, culture, and aesthetics from around the world. You might have a love for foreign languages, literature, or art. In relationships, you may be drawn to partners from diverse cultural or educational backgrounds. Romantic relationships often have a touch of adventure and exploration. Travel can be a source of pleasure and learning for you. You may have the opportunity to travel for pleasure and education. These experiences can be pivotal in your personal growth. Your ability to express your beliefs is marked by diplomacy and charm. You can discuss sensitive topics without causing offense and might even be a mediator in philosophical or religious debates. You seek deeper, spiritual truths and might explore various belief systems to find your own path. This placement often indicates a person on a lifelong journey of self-discovery. Your sense of aesthetics is influenced by your exposure to different cultures. You appreciate the beauty in diversity and may incorporate elements of various cultures into your personal style or home decor. At times, your strong desire for expansion and exploration can make you restless or commitment-averse in relationships. You may need to find a balance between your love for freedom and the stability of a long-term partnership.

Venus in the 10th house

You are likely to be quite focused on your career and public image. Venus in the 10th house suggests that you have a strong desire for success and recognition in your chosen field. You're drawn to professions that involve art, beauty, fashion, design, or anything that allows you to express your creative and aesthetic talents. You possess a natural charm and diplomacy that makes you adept at dealing with people in authority. This can be a valuable asset in your professional life, as you have the ability to network, negotiate, and create positive relationships with influential individuals. You have a refined sense of aesthetics, which can be applied to your career choices. Whether you are an artist, a fashion designer, or even in a corporate setting, you appreciate beauty and elegance. This can help you stand out in your profession. Your public image is important to you, and you are often seen as someone with a strong sense of style and grace. People may view you as a tastemaker or a person who embodies the ideal of beauty and harmony. Venus in the 10th house can also indicate an interest in social standing and a desire to be associated with those in higher social strata. You may feel comfortable in elite social circles and aspire to climb the social ladder. You tend to approach authority figures with diplomacy and grace. This can help you navigate your way through the corporate world or other hierarchical structures with finesse. There can be a connection between your career and your relationships. You may meet significant others through your professional endeavors or choose a partner who is supportive of your career goals. Careers in public relations, marketing, or any field that involves presenting an appealing public image may be particularly suitable for you. Your ability to make things look good is a valuable skill. You are likely to gain popularity and recognition in your career, which is influenced by your charm and your ability to win people over. However, be mindful of balancing your personal and professional life. With Venus in the 10th house, there can be a tendency to prioritize your career at the expense of your personal relationships, so it's important to find equilibrium.

Venus in the 11th house

Venus in the 11th house is like a social magnet. People with this placement often have a natural charm and are well-liked by their friends and acquaintances. They're the ones who make social gatherings more enjoyable. This placement fosters strong and meaningful friendships. Venus encourages harmonious connections, and in the 11th house, it means you're likely to have a wide circle of friends who genuinely care about you. The 11th house is associated with social causes and humanitarian efforts. With Venus here, you might be drawn to charity work or other activities that promote social well-being. Venus in the 11th house makes you great at networking. You easily connect with people who can help you professionally and personally, which can be a significant asset in your career. You're a team player by nature. Collaboration and group activities bring you joy, and you're likely to excel in team-based projects. You might find yourself involved in social or community events, and people often look up to you as a popular figure. Your charisma and appeal can lead to a high level of popularity. In matters of love, you're an idealist. You seek a partner who not only shares your goals and dreams but also someone who is your best friend. Your love life is often intertwined with your social circles. This placement can also bring creative friends into your life. You're drawn to artistic, musical, or creative individuals who inspire you. On the flip side, there can be a tendency to keep some emotional distance from friends. You might appear more aloof than you actually are, which could be misunderstood by some. The 11th house represents your hopes and dreams. With Venus here, you're likely to have artistic and aesthetic aspirations. You may want to make the world a more beautiful place. Venus is linked to money, and in the 11th house, it can bring financial opportunities through your network and friends. Your social connections might play a role in your financial success.

Venus in the 12th house

This placement often indicates secret or clandestine love affairs. You might find yourself drawn to relationships that aren't out in the open, maybe due to societal or personal reasons. You've got a vivid imagination and a strong creative streak. This could manifest in artistic talents or a penchant for daydreaming. You tend to keep your emotions hidden, even from yourself. It can take a while for you to truly understand what you want and need in love and relationships. The 12th house is about self-sacrifice, and with Venus here, you might find yourself giving a lot in your relationships, sometimes to the detriment of your own needs. You have a deep well of compassion and empathy for others. You might be drawn to help those who are less fortunate or in need. Venus in the 12th can inspire artistic pursuits in seclusion. You might excel in creative fields where you can work behind the scenes. This placement can also indicate a strong connection between love and spirituality. You might seek a partner who shares your spiritual beliefs or find love in places of worship. On the flip side, relationships can be a source of inner turmoil. You might attract partners who are emotionally complex or who bring hidden issues to the surface. Your idea of romance can be dreamy and idealistic. You might have high expectations in love and may need to learn to balance these with reality. The 12th house is often associated with past life issues and karma. You might feel a strong karmic connection with some of your partners. Privacy is essential to you when it comes to love. You might not be one to flaunt your relationships on social media or in public. Your desires in love can be somewhat unconscious, and you may not always understand why you're attracted to certain people or situations.

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genderqueerdykes · 2 months

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i was reading the recipe suggestions on some of the cans of mackerel i have in my cupboard, and I've noticed that on all of the recipe suggestions for pasta, seafood, anything really say "try this for a low-calorie, low carb, low fat, low sugar dinner". you. need those things when it comes to be mealtime. calories are a measure of how much "energy" you can burn, not how much weight you will gain from eating the food. carbohydrates get broken down into starches, sugars, and fibers, which are all necessary for you to function.

your brain & body operate primarily off of fats, sugars, and proteins, but i've noticed that protein is the only thing we push as absolutely necessary, which just isn't true. whenever you idle and not in motion, your body has nothing to do with the extra protein you're bringing in. it will be stored as extra fat if you do not give that protein a reason to build muscle tissue instead.

your brain consumes 20% or more of the sugar you take into your body- our brains NEED glucose, you literally need sugar to think. if you feel depressed and like you're sluggish reacting to things, thinking, remembering things, and other mental processes, if you are the kind of person who refuses to eat any sugar at all due to wanting to be skinny, you are doing your brain a huge disservice:

i can't stand the hatred towards dietary fats, because it's causing so many people to be outright miserable or even sick. you need fats to function. they are an excellent source of energy and are literally required for you to be able to move, think, and combat disease. they are not this icky thing that you need to avoid at all costs. fats are extremely important for brain development, as well as brain function, and even immune system function:

also for many people, 2,000 calories or less per day is nowhere near enough. your brain actively consumes calories, fats and sugars while you are awake, no matter what you are doing:

i sincerely refuse to believe that if JUST YOUR BRAIN ALONE consumes somewhere in the ballpark of 400-500 calories just for being awake and active that we can only survive off of 2,000 calories a day. capitalism, diet culture and fat shaming forcing us to starve ourselves of vital nutrients so we are weak and too tired to fight back against the bullshit we face every day. food is important.

food isn't just to satiate the feeling of an empty stomach. it is the ONLY way you get vital fuel in order to keep moving, living, thinking, and breathing. vitamins and minerals are NOT the only vital aspects of food. you're not meant to restrict how many nutrients you get at FUCKING MEAL TIMES. YOU NEED FUEL. PLEASE FUEL YOUR BODY AND BRAIN. A CONVENTIONALLY ATTRACTIVE BODY ISN'T WORTH SUFFERING AND LIVING YOUR WORST LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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pomefioredove · 3 months

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hello dovee! I saw the "I'd look good on you." and immediately thought of vil! if I could please request for that? THANK YOU SO MUCH🍰stay creative!

thank you everyone for feeding me vil requests. I got a little crazy with this one

summary: "I'd look good on you." type of post: short fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, a little suggestive a part of this event

"No, no, no, no. Wrong, dreadful,"

You dodge another designer handbag as it goes flying across Vil's room, joining the growing pile of clothes behind you.

"Why is this so difficult?" he groans, storming out of his closet. "I have not a SINGLE decent thing to wear for this interview."

You look over your shoulder, watching him as he begrudgingly begins to clean up the mess he'd made.

"I think you're stressed,"

Vil pauses midway through sliding a silken shirt back on its hanger to glare at you.

"Another excellent observation," he says dryly. Then, a sigh.

"Sorry. I've been wanting to work with this director for years... I don't care for this role, but if the film does well, he'll likely want to work with me again... How's this?"

He holds up a glittery purple dress in front of him. You blink.

"...Good,"

"Ugh," he scoffs, tossing it aside. You don't know how many more times you can tell him he looks good in everything before he kicks you out.

"What is the role, anyway?"

Vil rolls his eyes, catching onto your attempt to distract him. He indulges, anyway.

"Another villain, although this film is more of a..." he pauses, gesturing vaguely. You stare. "...A young adult movie."

"So it's bait for teenage girls?"

"...Essentially,"

He sighs again, cleaning up the last of his temper tantrum and sorting it in his massive closet.

"Thus my role is more... provocative, we'll say. Which is fine, if not for the fact that I feel I did horribly,"

"I'm sure you didn't,"

"I'll be a laughing stock, this director will never work with me again, and I'll become one of those pathetic, washed up former child stars by age twenty-one,"

That feels... a tad overdramatic, but you don't mention it.

"That's not going to happen," you insist. "I'm sure you make a great... provocative... villain!"

Vil sighs, returning to the bedside to sit with you. For a brief moment, you can feel him staring, but you say nothing of it.

"You haven't even seen it," he mumbles, finally looking away. "I only have half an hour... I feel completely unassured."

You can't help but feel pity. Before knowing Vil, you had stupidly assumed that most celebrities are confident by nature, exuding grace and certainty.

Now...

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Vil quiets, seeming to consider the offer. "...May I use a line on you?"

You're not exactly sure what he means by that, but it can't be anything too painful. He only has half an hour, after all.

You nod.

Vil smiles, then turns away. He takes a deep breath... you've seen this before. He's getting into character.

It's very effective.

When he turns back, his expression is completely different. And his body language. Even his very presence has shifted.

You've seen this before, you remind yourself. The dangerous, menacing facade that he's known for, that makes his roles so iconic...

But he's also smiling, his eyes lowered, a pleasantly amused look about him.

His hand finds its way to the bed on your other side, effectively caging you between his arms. And then he moves in, guiding you down onto the mattress and leaning over your body.

This is your friend. You're just helping him. There's nothing to be nervous about.

Despite what you tell yourself, you can feel the effect he's having on you.

He can tell, too.

Vil tuts, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Scared?" he asks. His voice is gentle, though there's a lingering danger behind it.

"Poor thing... I won't bite,"

He leans closer, his other hand intertwining with yours and keeping it pinned to the mattress, hot breath pressing against your ear.

"I'd look good on you," he whispers.

You know you shouldn't interrupt him, but you can't stop the nervous, flustered whine that comes out of your throat.

Vil breaks character, beaming, and gets off of you.

"Oh, my..." he grins, studying your expression. "You were right. I was worried over nothing."

He stands, smoothing out his clothes, and strides towards the closet to change, leaving you flustered senseless on the bed until he returns.

"How do I look?" he asks.

Of course, perfect. He always looks perfect. And now that he's confident again, gorgeous.

He smirks. "I'll take your silence as a compliment, potato. Thank you for the boost... I'll be back to pick up where we left off in a few hours,"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #queued

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cosmicconversations · 1 month

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Daydreaming and Neptune Aspects 🛏️

SUN-NEPTUNE ASPECTS: These are the kinds of people who want to escape themselves. They can spend a lot of time dreaming of being another person, possibly someone they really admire, like a celebrity or a particular role model. It is also common for them to “re-imagine” parts of themselves. They may fantasize about elements of their past or their life being very different than how it turned out. It’s no surprise that many of them have a deep love for acting, as they are really good at morphing into another “character” and hiding behind it.

MOON-NEPTUNE ASPECTS: Fantasy is like a comfort food for them, as they spent their childhood escaping into their daydreams. Their inner child has a hunger for fantastical experiences, which is why many of them feel a deep need to be an artist. Regardless of their life path, though, there is a very deep love of music or movies or video games within them (maybe all of the above) and they can get totally lost in these things for hours. It’s such a habit for them and comes so naturally and those who are close to them or live with them will attest to it.

MERCURY-NEPTUNE ASPECTS: Daydreaming is a state of mind for these individuals. Often times, they think more clearly when they are drifting off. Creatively, they can excel at any kind of writing, whether it is songwriting, poetry, screenwriting or prose (possibly more than one of these). Storytelling is easy for them when they can transport themselves and other people to another world. For some of them, their characters or these pieces of writing can allow them to communicate things that they would ordinarily struggle to say or put into words.

VENUS-NEPTUNE ASPECTS: Love becomes infused with fantasy and dreaminess for these individuals. Some of them can get so wrapped up in the daydream of someone that they are more in love with the fantasy of the situation than the reality. However, they have the potential to be a hopeless romantic with a pure belief in love. It keeps them holding out for “the one”. Romantic films and love songs intensely capture their heart and if they’re artists, they will be able to convey both the saddest and most beautiful aspects of love.

MARS-NEPTUNE ASPECTS: They have a very active fantasy life when it comes to sex. When they are alone, they go to all sorts of vivid imaginary places that get them off. Being comfortable in their sexuality requires them to be comfortable exploring and accepting all of these fantasies. Much of their sexual energy can be sublimated into art. They have the potential to be very visionary and churn out creative projects that beat the competition. If they put no limits on themselves and seek to blur the boundaries in creative expression, their otherworldly output will make a big impression.

#astrology #astro notes #astro observations #neptune #neptune aspects #sun neptune aspects #moon neptune aspects #mercury neptune aspects #venus neptune aspects #mars neptune aspects #neptune in astrology

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damienkarras73 · 4 months

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An essay on Furiosa, the politics of the Wasteland, Arthurian literature and realistic vs. formalistic CGI

Mad Max: Fury Road absolutely enraptured me when it came out nearly a decade ago, and I will cop to seeing it four times at the theatre. For me (and many others who saw the light of George Miller) it set new standards for action filmmaking, storytelling and worldbuilding, and I could pop in its Blu Ray at any time and never get tired of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was deeply apprehensive about the announced prequel for Fury Road's actual main character, Furiosa, even if Miller was still writing and directing. We didn't need backstory for Furiosa—hell, Fury Road is told in such a way that NOTHING in it requires explicit backstory. And since it focuses on the Yung Furiosa, it meant Charlize Theron couldn't return with another career-defining performance. Plus, look at all that CGI in the trailer, it can't be as good as Fury Road.

Turns out I was silly to doubt George Miller, M.D., A.O., writer and director of Babe: Pig in the City and Happy Feet One & Two.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is excellent, and I needn't have worried about it not being as good as Fury Road because it is not remotely trying to be Fury Road. Fury Road is a lean, mean machine with no fat on it, nothing extraneous, operating with constant forward momentum and only occasionally letting up to let you breathe a little; Furiosa is a classical epic, sprawling in scope, scale and structure, and more than happy to let the audience simmer in a quiet, almost painfully still moment. If its opening spoken word sequence by that Gandalf of the Wastes himself, the First History Man, didn't already clue you in, it unfolds like something out of myth, a tale told over and over again and whose possible embellishments are called attention to in the dialogue itself. Where Fury Road scratched the action nerd itch in my head like you wouldn't believe, Furiosa was the equivalent of Miller giving the undulating folds of my English major brain a deep tissue massage. That's great! I, for one, love when sequels/prequels endeavour to be fundamentally different movies from what they're succeeding/preceding, operating in different modes, formats and even genres, and more filmmakers should aim for it when building on an existing series.

This movie has been on my mind so much in the past week that I've ended up dedicating several cognitive processes to keeping track of all of the different ponderings it's spawned. Thankfully, Furiosa is divided into chapters (fun fact: putting chapter cards in your movie is a quick way to my heart), so it only seems fitting that I break up all of these cascading thoughts accordingly.

1. The Pole of Inaccessibility

Furiosa herself actually isn't the protagonist for the first chapter of her own movie, instead occupying the role of a (very crafty and resourceful) damsel in distress for those initial 30-40 minutes. The real hero of the opening act, which plays out like a game of cat and mouse, is Furiosa's mother Mary Jabassa, who rides out into the wasteland first on horseback and then astride a motorcycle to track down the band of raiders that has stolen away her daughter. Mary's brought to life by Miller and Nico Lathouris' economical writing and a magnetic performance by newcomer Charlee Fraser, who radiates so much screen presence in such relatively little time and with one of those instant "who is SHE??" faces. She doesn't have many lines, but who needs them when Fraser can convey volumes about Mary with just a flash of her eyes or the effortless way she swaps out one of her motorcycle's wheels for another. To be quite candid, I'm not sure of the last time I fell in love with a character so quickly.

You notice a neat aesthetic contrast between mother and daughter in retrospect: Mary Jabassa darts into the desert barefoot, clad in a simple yet elegant dress, her wolf cut immaculate, only briefly disguising herself with the ugly armour of a raider she just sniped, and when she attacks it's almost with grace, like some Greek goddess set loose in the post-apocalyptic Aussie outback with just her wits and a bolt-action rifle; we track Furiosa's growth over the years by how much of her initially conventional beauty she has shed, quite literally in one case (hair buzzed, severed arm augmented with a chunky mechanical prosthesis, smeared in grease and dirt from head to toe, growling her lines at a lower octave), and by how she loses her mother's graceful approach to movement and violence, eventually carrying herself like a blunt instrument. Yet I have zero doubt the former raised the latter, both angels of different feathers but with the same steel and resolve. Of fucking course this woman is Furiosa's mother, and in the short time we know her we quickly understand exactly why Furiosa has the drive and morals she does without needing to resort to didactic exposition.

Anyway, I was tearing up by the end of the first chapter. Great start!

2. Lessons from the Wasteland

Most movies—most stories, really—don't actually tell the entire narrative from A to Z. Perhaps the real meat of the thing is found from H to T, and A-G or U-Z are unnecessary for conveying the key narrative and themes. So many prequels fail by insisting on telling the A-G part of the story, explaining how the hero earned a certain nickname or met their memorable sidekick—but if that stuff was actually interesting, they likely would have included it in the original work. The greatest thing a prequel can actually do is recontextualize, putting iconic characters or moments in a new light, allowing you to appreciate them from a different angle. All of season 2 of Fargo serves to explain why Molly Solverson's dad is appropriately wary when Lorne Malvo enters his diner for a SINGLE SCENE in the show's first season. David's arc from the Alien prequels Prometheus and Covenant—polarizing as those entries are—adds another layer to why Ash is so protective of the creature in the first movie. Andor gives you a sense of what it's like for a normal, non-Jedi person to live under the boot of the Empire and why so many of them would join up with the Rebel Alliance—or why they would desire to wear that boot, or even just crave the chance to lick it.

Furiosa is one of those rare great prequels because it makes us take a step back and consider the established world with a little more nuance, even if it's still all so absurd. In Fury Road, Immortan Joe is an awesome, endlessly quotable villain, completely irredeemable, and basically a cartoon. He works perfectly as the antagonist of that breakneck, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote-ass movie, but if you step outside of its adrenaline-pumping narrative for even a moment you risk questioning why nobody in the Citadel or its surrounding settlements has risen up against him before. Hell, why would Furiosa even work for him to begin with? But then you see Dementus and company tear-assing around the wasteland, seizing settlements and running them into the ground, and you realize Joe and his consortium offer something that Dementus reasonably can't: stability—granted, an unwavering, unchangeable stability weighted in favour of Joe's own brutal caste system, but stability nonetheless. It really makes you wonder, how badly does a guy have to suck to make IMMORTAN JOE of all people look like a sane, competent and reasonable ruler by comparison?!?

…and then they open the door to the vault where he keeps his wives, and in a flash you're reminded just how awful Joe is and why Furiosa will risk her life to help some of these women flee from him years later. This new context enriches Joe and makes it more believable that he could maintain power for so long, but it doesn't make him any less of a monster, and it says a lot about Furiosa's hate for Dementus that she could grit her teeth and work for this sick old tyrant.

3. The Stowaway

Here's another wild bit of trivia about this movie: you don't actually see top-billed actress Anya Taylor-Joy pop up on screen until roughly halfway through, once Furiosa is in her late teens/early twenties. Up until this point she's been played by Alyla Browne, who through the use of some seamless and honestly really impressive CGI has been given Anya's distinctive bug eyes [complimentary]. It's one of those bold choices that really works because Miller commits to it so hard, though it does make me wish Browne's name was up on the poster next to Taylor-Joy's.

Speaking of CGI, I should talk about what seems to be a sticking point for quite a few people: if there's been one consistent criticism of Furiosa so far, it's that it doesn't look nearly as practical or grounded as Fury Road, with more obvious greenscreen and compositing, and what previously would've been physical stunt performers and pyrotechnics have been replaced with their digital equivalents for many shots. Simply put, it doesn't look as real! For a lot of people, that practicality was one of Fury Road's primary draws, so I won't try to quibble if they're let down by Furiosa's overt artificiality, but to be honest I'm actually quite fine with it. It helps that this visual discrepancy doesn't sneak up on you but is incredibly apparent right from the aerial zoom-down into Australia in the very first scene, so I didn't feel misled or duped.

Fury Road never asks you to suspend your disbelief because it all looks so believable; Furiosa jovially prods you to suspend that disbelief from the get-go and tune into it on a different wavelength. It's a classical epic, and like the classical epics of the 1950s and 60s it has a lot of actors standing in front of what clearly are matte paintings. It feels right! We're not watching fact, we're watching myth. I'm willing to concede there might be a little bit of post-hoc rationalization on my part because I simply love this movie so much, but I'm not holding the effects in Furiosa to the same standard as those in Fury Road because I simply don't believe Miller and his crew are attempting to replicate that approach. Without the extensive CGI, we don't get that impressive long, panning take where a stranded Furiosa scans the empty, dust-and-sun-scoured wasteland (75% Sergio Leone, 25% Andrei Tarkovsky), or the Octoboss and his parasailing goons. For the sake of intellectual exercise I did try imagining them filming the Octoboss/war rig sequence with the same immersive practical approach they used for Fury Road's stunts, however I just kept picturing dead stunt performers, so perhaps the tradeoff was worth it!

4. Homeward

Around the same time we meet the Taylor-Joy-pilled Furiosa in Chapter 3, we're introduced to Praetorian Jack, the chief driver for the convoys running between the Citadel and its allied settlements. Jack's played by Tom Burke, who pulled off a very good Orson Welles in Mank! and who I should really check out in The Souvenir one of these days. He's also a cool dude! Here are some facts about Praetorian Jack:

He's decked out in road leathers with a pauldron stitched to one shoulder

He's stoic and wary, but still more or less personable and can carry on a conversation

Professes to a certain cynicism, to quote Special Agent Albert Rosenfield, but ultimately has a capacity for kindness and will do the right thing

Shoots a gun real good

Can drive like nobody's business

So in other words, Jack is Mad Max. But also, no, he clearly isn't! He looks and dresses like Mad Max (particularly Mel Gibson's) and does a lot of the same things "Mad" Max Rockatansky does, but he's also very explicitly a distinct character. It's a choice that seems inexplicable and perhaps even lazy on its face, except this is a George Miller movie, so of course this parallel is extremely purposeful. Miller has gone on record saying he avoids any kind of strict chronology or continuity for his Mad Max movies, compared to the rigid canons for Star Trek and Star Wars, and bless him for doing so. It's more fun viewing each Mad Max entry as a new revision or elaboration on a story being told again and again generations after the fall, mutating in style, structure and focus with every iteration, becoming less grounded as its core narrative is passed from elder to youth, community to community, genre to genre, until it becomes myth. (At least, my English major brain thinks it's more fun.) In fact there's actually something Arthurian to it, where at first King Arthur was mentioned in several Welsh legends before Geoffrey of Monmouth crafted an actual narrative around him, then Chrétien de Troyes added elements like Lancelot and infused the stories with more romance, and then with Le Morte d'Arthur Thomas Malory whipped the whole cycle together into one volume, which T.H. White would chop and screw and deconstruct with The Once and Future King centuries later.

All this to say: maybe Praetorian Jack looks and sounds and acts like Max because he sorta kinda basically is, being just one of many men driving back and forth across the wasteland, lending a hand on occasion, who'll be conflated into a single, legendary "Mad Max" at some point down the line in a different History Man's retelling of Furiosa's odyssey. Sometimes that Max rips across the desert in his V8 Interceptor, other times driving a big rig. Perhaps there's a dog tagging along and/or a scraggly and at first aggravating ally played by Bruce Spence or Nicholas Hoult. Usually he has a shotgun. But so long as you aren't trying to kill him, he'll help you out.

5. Beyond Vengeance

The Mad Max movies have incredibly iconic villains—Immortan Joe! Toecutter! the Lord Humongous!—but they are exactly that, capital V Villains devoid of humanizing qualities who you can't wait to watch bad things happen to. Furiosa appears to continue this trend by giving us a villain who in fact has a mustache long enough that he could reasonably twirl it if he so wanted, but ironically Dementus ends up being the most layered antagonist in the entire series, even moreso than the late Tina Turner's comparatively benevolent Aunty Entity from Beyond Thunderdome. And because he's played by Chris Hemsworth, whose comedic delivery rivals his stupidly handsome looks, you lock in every time he's on screen.

Something so fascinating about Dementus is that, for a main antagonist, he's NOT all-powerful, and in fact quite the opposite: he's more conman than warlord, looking for the next hustle, the next gullible crowd he can preach to and dupe—though never for long. For all his bluster, at every turn he finds himself in way over his head and writing cheques he can't cash, and this self-induced Sisyphean torment makes him riveting to watch. You're tempted to pity Dementus but it's also quite difficult to spare sympathy for someone who's so quick to channel their rage and hurt and ego into thoughtless, burn-it-all-down destruction. When you're not laughing at him, you're hating his guts, and it's indisputably the best work of Chris Hemsworth's career.

It's in this final chapter that everything naturally comes to a head: Furiosa's final evolution into the character we meet at the start of Fury Road, the predictable toppling of Dementus' precariously built house of cards, and the mythmaking that has been teased since the very first scene becoming diagetic text, the last of which allows the movie to thoroughly explore the themes of vengeance it's been building to. A brief war begins, is summarized and is over in the span of roughly a minute, and on its face it's a baffling narrative choice that most other filmmakers would have botched. But our man Miller's smart enough to recognize that the result of this war is the most foregone of conclusions if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention, so he effectively brushes past it to get to the emotional heart of the climax and an incredible "Oh shit!" payoff that cements Miller as one of mainstream cinema's greatest sickos.

Fury Road remains the greatest Mad Max film, but Furiosa might be the best thing George Miller has ever made. If not his magnum opus, it does at least feel like his dissertation, and it makes me wish Warner Bros. puts enough trust in him despite Furiosa's poor box office performance that he's able to make The Wasteland. Absolutely ridiculous that a man just short of his 80th birthday was able to pull this off, and with it I feel confident calling him one of my favourite directors.

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thebenjiblackwoodexpress · 2 months

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Devil's Snare

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

𝑨𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍'𝒔 𝑺𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔.

Description: Y/N is apprehensive when she is assigned the post of Aemond Targaryen's handmaiden. She expects him to be cold and cruel, and is surprised when he is actually kindle and gentle to her. All the while Aemond finds himself falling for his shy and skittish handmaiden.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Disclaimer: this is incredibly self-indulgent. I love Aemond and wanted to focus in on the softer sides of his character. I've planned 3 parts to this series but who knows.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of canon typical misogyny, female reader (sorry! This just makes it easier for the plot), handmaiden reader, slow-burn, lengthy?, potentially ooc Aemond but Ewan Mitchell did say Aemond just needed someone to love him.

Y/N was filled with trepidation as she approached the royal quarters, her movements slow as she fruitlessly tried to delay the inevitable. She supposed she should be grateful for her new appointment as Prince Aemond's handmaiden. But she found she'd much rather have continued on in the lower chambers of the keep. Alas, the matron had chosen her for the position, recently opened when the prince's previous handmaiden was mysteriously dismissed. Prince Aemond was known by many denominations, whispered rumours spreading like wildfire throughout the Red Keep. The One-eyed Prince. The fierce dragon rider who'd claimed the largest dragon in existence. The cold second son with a particular proclivity for swordsmanship. None of these served to assuage Y/N's fears for her new role. She was grateful, at least, that it was not Prince Aegon. She'd heard terrible rumours of his behaviour towards female servants. She'd heard nothing of the like about his brother.

The matron had told Y/N not to worry, that Prince Aemond barely acknowledged servants at all. And surely she was the perfect choice, with her excellent skills in needlepoint and, more significantly, her quiet and timid disposition which enabled her to move like a shadow. Y/N tried to even out her breathing and calm her wildly beating heart as she reached the door of Prince Aemond's chambers. Upon knocking and hearing no reply she entered anyway to find the Prince was not within, to her great relief. If she was particularly fortunate she might complete all of her tasks before he returned and avoid an interaction altogether. Quickly setting to work, she began to tidy and clean. Though Prince Aemond's quarters were already unexpectedly neat. Y/N considered this was perhaps a reflection of the controlled demeanour he always seemed to carry whenever she had spotted him in the Keep.

Turning her attentions towards making the bed she noticed a thin strap of leather strewn across it. Picking it up, upon closer inspection she recognised it to be Prince Aemond's eyepatch. Y/N frowned as she realised the strap was broken. She knew Aemond always wore it to cover the gaping wound that still remained from when he'd lost his eye in a brawl with his nephew. Y/N had once passed a group of handmaidens whispering by a stairwell about how the Prince purposefully wore the eye patch so as not to upset the ladies of the court, and hearing them erupt into giggles. She had found herself frowning at their laughter, thinking to herself that it was thoughtful of the Prince, chivalrous even.

The smooth feel of the leather in her hand brought Y/N back to the present, she was prone to losing herself in thought, and she came to the decision that she would mend it for him. Y/N knew the importance the eye patch held for him, indeed she was surprised he had left his chambers without it. Pocketing it, she quickly rearranged the Prince's bed sheets and, thinking the room sufficiently tidy, she exited the Prince's chambers to find her sewing kit.

Y/N had dedicated more time to mending Prince Aemond's eyepatch than was truly necessary, determined to make the stitches as neat as possible. It would be worn by a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms after all. Returning to the Prince's chambers that evening to stoke the fire and light candles, she began to fear her actions had been rash and presumptuous. Perhaps Prince Aemond would be angry with her for taking something so important from his room without his permission. Perhaps he did not feel a need for it any longer and she would simply be cementing the idea that he did if she presented the eye patch to him. By the time she reached his chambers she was wracked with nerves from reviewing in her mind every possible reaction the Prince might have to her actions, and a sickening feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She was once again relieved to find the Prince was not in his chambers. Though her relief was short lived, for no sooner had she lit the candles and begun lighting a fire than the the very object of her thoughts strode into the room. He halted briefly upon seeing her, but quickly moved to sit in a nearby armchair, seemingly ignoring her presence. The matron may have been right then, Y/N had worried for nothing.

But her heart dropped as she realised he was, in fact, wearing an eye patch. She had been stupid to think he should only have the one and now cursed herself for being so foolish. Y/N gnawed on her bottom lip with worry. Perhaps the Prince would be angered with her taking his belongings from his room without his permission. Or maybe he had meant to throw it away and would think her silly for presuming otherwise. Nonetheless, she determined that she would return what belonged to him. Finishing stoking the fire she rose from her knees and dusted off her skirts, before slowly inching her way over to the Prince. It was only when she stood directly in front of him that he raised his one good eye to meet hers, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. Y/N wrung her hands nervously, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She hardly knew what to say, and could not help stuttering as she spoke. "My Prince, I must apologise to you." Aemond seemed momentarily surprised by this, before his features settled back into a mask of indifference, though he leant forward at her words, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. "Must you now?"

Y/N swallowed down thickly, before nodding. "I couldn't help but notice the broken eye patch upon the bed as I attended my duties this morning, and I took it to mend it. I realise now this was presumptions of me, but I had only thought to be helpful as I know you always wear it." Y/N's eyes widened as she realised her words might suggest she believed he should cover his wound. Holding her hands palm up in a supplicatory manor, her words spilled out quicker and even less elegant than before. "Not that I believe you need to wear the patch. I just thought it must be important to you. Oh I am making a mess of my words. Here, My Prince." She bowed her head and tentatively held the mended eye patch out to him, not daring to look in his direction. After a moment a hand came into her line of vision as Prince Aemond slowly took the patch from her, his much larger hand closing over hers briefly.

Y/n could barely stand the Prince's silence. If the rumours were to be believed, his silent composure concealed its own danger. And, being too fearful to look up at his face, she had no idea of his reaction to her offering. "What is your name?" Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet Aemond's good eye. She had not expected his question, spoken in such a measured tone, having anticipated his ire instead. "Y/N my Prince." Prince Aemond only hummed in response before getting to his feet, prompting Y/N to take several small steps backwards in order to maintain a respectable distance. Y/N averted her eyes to the floor, but nevertheless still felt his gaze upon her, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. "I thank you for your thoughtful actions Y/N. That will be all." She didn't have to be told twice, quickly curtsying to him and rushing hurriedly from the room.

Aemond frowned as the handmaiden fled from him, as if he had struck her rather than offered her his thanks. But she did seem a rather skittish little thing. He had never seen this particular handmaiden before, his mother having dismissed the previous one for reasons he did not care to know. As he'd entered his chambers he'd startled for a moment, taking in her features which he found decidedly pretty. He quickly dispelled himself of that thought and opted to ignore her presence, having come to understand it made the servants less nervous in his presence and more efficient. Taking a seat close to the fire the girl was stoking, he could not help keeping his eye trained upon her in interest as he observed a range of emotions crossing her face. He had not expected her to approach him then, almost admiring her boldness before she quickly turned into a stuttering mess, and it was only with a concerted effort that he understood her at all. Yet he found himself moved as he disentangled the reason for her apology from her frantic speech.

Looking down at his now mended eyepatch he could not help but admire her handiwork, the stitches were so neat and close together that you could hardly tell it had ever required mending. Aemond had carelessly strewn the broken eye patch on his bed that morning, he had many others in case of such incidents and had not thought of it since. But at the sight of it in her proferred hand, Aemond became aware of a strange feeling in his chest. He had hardened himself following the events at Driftmark that had lost him his eye, an act of violence against him which had never been avenged. He still felt the slight keenly for his nephew had never been punished for it. Aemond had not since felt such genuine kindness directed towards him, such care for this most essential part of him, even by his own family, with the exception of his gentle sister Helaena. His lost eye had ever been a painful subject to avoid. It was only a small matter really, the mending of an eye patch, but it carried a far greater significance for Aemond, who found himself charmed by this particular handmaiden's thoughtfulness towards him.

Y/N burned with embarrassment as she fled from the Prince's chambers. His reaction was admittedly better than she could have hoped for, but she'd still managed to make a complete fool of herself in this, their first meeting. She felt she could not have given a worse impression of her capability as his handmaiden and overstepped boundaries. Over the next few days she endeavoured to move quickly as she completed her tasks in the hopes that she would avoid the Prince entirely. She successfully managed to do so for two consecutive days by following the same schedule, only entering his room at hours she knew he would be otherwise preoccupied.

On the third day Y/N entered Prince Aemond's chambers, she was startled to see the Prince himself sitting in his armchair. The morning sunlight pouring through the windows cast his face in a soft glow that accentuated his features, which were admittedly beautiful. He was lazily playing with a coin, weaving it between his fingers. When she realised she'd been staring at his hands for an extended period of time she briefly raised her eyes to his face to see his mouth upturned in a slight smirk, and she quickly shifted her focus to completing her tasks. She moved quietly and efficiently throughout the room, trying with great difficulty to avoid looking in the Prince's direction, to pretend he was not there at all.

It would not do for her to turn back into a jittery, stumbling mess and prove what he must already have thought, that she was completely incompetent and unsuited to her position. Removing a tray of used cups and goblets from a side table, Y/N turned to take them back to the kitchens. Walking past Prince Aemond, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that he was wearing the eye patch she had mended for him and halted her moments to confirm she was correct. The Prince was looking at her almost expectantly, as if he'd been waiting for her to notice. With a barely perceptible nod of her head, she hastily left the room.

Aemond had hoped that exclusively wearing the eye patch his handmaiden had mended would assure her he was not angry with her for her actions. And yet he did not see her for the two days following their meeting, and Aemond realised she must have taken account of his movements to avoid being in his chambers at the same time, the clever minx. So on the third day he resolved to put an end to this ridiculous game of cat and mouse. Though it was his habit to rise early and leave for the training yard, he settled himself in his favoured arm chair to await the maiden's arrival. A satisfied smirk ghosted onto his face as she entered, clearly startled to find him still within his chambers and Aemond noted how she'd stared at his hands for several moments before turning to attend to her duties.

His brows furrowed in frustration as he watched her mill about the room, steadfastly ignoring him and avoiding looking in his direction entirely. He did not wish for her to be afraid of him. It was only when she was exiting his chambers that she glanced at him again and, finally, seemed to notice the eye patch he was wearing as she stared at it, rooted to the spot. A light dusting of pink rose to her cheeks before she nodded and swiftly departed, and Aemond assumed she had now realised he was not displeased with her. The moment she disappeared from his view, Aemond found himself wanting to see her blush again.

Y/N was still wary in Aemond's presence, a consequence of her own shy disposition and acute sense of awareness in the difference in their stations. However, she was no longer afraid of him, so to speak, and stopped trying to avoid being in the same room with him, simply finding a rhythm of getting on with her tasks whether he was there or not. He did not address her often, but thanked her each time she completed her survey of his room and turned to leave. His voice was smooth and quiet and Y/N noted that he was much more soft-spoken than his loud and overbearing brother. Prince Aemond clearly did not feel the need to shout to make his presence felt. Y/N had passed two weeks in her new post before there was any shift in the dynamic the Prince and his handmaiden had developed.

Y/N had finished lighting all of the candles in the Prince's chamber and had started collecting empty cups strewn about the various surfaces in the room when she spotted the eight legged monstrosity, prompting her to let out a high pitched shriek and drop the tray she'd been holding, sending goblets crashing to the stone floor. She had always been terrified of spiders, begging the other handmaidens to deal with them when she had worked in the lower chambers of the Keep. But it was just her now, and her heart beat wildly as she realised she would have no choice but to remove it from the Prince's room. She kept her eyes on the creature with a sickening sense of dread as it crawled along the length of the side table she'd been cleaning. But she heard Prince Aemond speak behind her, his tone somewhat demanding "What is the matter?"

Y/N tried to keep her tone even as she answered, but even she could hear the slight hysteria tinging her voice and knew he would not be fooled. "Simply a spider, My Prince. I have never been fond of them. I apologise for disturbing you with my outburst and I will deal with the creature and the mess forthwith." Taking a deep breath to steel herself for what she was about to do, she took a tentative step towards where the spider was still crawling, before letting out a small squeek of surprise as warm hands enveloped her waist and gently moved her to the side. She had not heard the Prince's footsteps, he moved so quietly. Wordlessly he scooped the spider into a goblet she'd dropped and walked to his balcony, opening up the doors to set it loose. By the time he'd returned, shutting the doors to block out the crisp night air, Y/N had come to her senses and cleared up the mess she'd made, tray back in hand. She felt immensely grateful to the Prince for stepping in as he had, clearly having sensed her distress, but she could not help feeling somewhat ashamed of her silliness.

Looking up from the tray she'd been holding as his boots came into her line of sight, she attempted to channel her sincere gratitude into her voice "Thank you, My Prince. I am most grateful for your kindness in stepping in, and I assure you it will not happen again." She watched as a strange look passed over Prince Aemond's features, before he leant his head down towards hers, his long platinum hair brushing against her shoulder with their proximity. "Spiders only look frightening little one, they will not harm you." There was a glint in his eye that hinted at a hidden meaning to his words, though Y/N could not understand what it was. Straightening up, Aemond lightly waved a hand in dismissal. "That will be all for this evening Y/N." Still slightly dazed from their former proximity, where she'd been close enough to smell his scent of leather, musk and pine, Y/N simply nodded before turning from him and speeding back to the servant's quarters. She felt the Prince's stare on her back until the door concealed her from his view.

Aemond had reread the same page at least thrice. He kept having to pull his eyes from his handmaiden's form as he watched her move about his chambers. She'd sparked his interest from their first meeting and though they interacted little, he consistently found himself watching her movements, though he could not tell why. Resuming his focus on his book, a shrill shriek had his eyes snapping back up to his handmaiden. Concerned she had hurt herself, perhaps cut her hand on one of the cups that had tumbled to the floor, his voice came out sharper than he'd intended in his urgency. "What is the matter?" He felt relief wash over him to learn of the reason for her outburst, and a small degree of amusement at the cause being but a little spider. This quickly diminished when he observed her genuine fear as she cowered away from the creature. She looked as if she were headed for battle rather than contending with a spider.

Rising from his seated position he quietly moved over to her, taking hold of her waist to move her aside and remove the spider himself. Returning to her side, he'd not expected the earnestness in her gaze as she thanked him. You'd have thought he saved her from Vhagar instead of a mere spider. But it was her reference to his 'kindness' that had sent his mind spinning. Kind was not a word oft associated with Aemond Targaryen, he was well aware of his reputation within the Red Keep. He felt that same strange sensation in his chest he'd noticed once before, when she'd handed him his mended eye patch. As warmth spread throughout his chest he realised he was endeared to have someone feel so positively towards him, to look to him for protection, to think him kind when this seemed laughable in conjunction with his somewhat fearsome appearance.

With a somewhat cocky smile, Aemond moved closer to the handmaiden, leaning his face close to hers. "Spiders only look frightening little one, they will not harm you." He'd hoped to subtly convey to her that he too held no danger for her, that she had no need of being so skittish around him. But he could see from the look of confusion that crossed her dainty features she had not understood his meaning fully. He did not wish to increase her level of discomfort around him so quickly straightened and offered her his dismissal. He tried not to address the sting of hurt he felt as she once again rushed away from him.

After Prince Aemond had gallantly saved her from the spider, Y/N had begun to feel more and more comfortable with him. He had not mocked her or made her feel silly for her actions, indeed he had not mentioned the incident at all. She realised that he had done nothing but try to make her feel comfortable around him and she had responded by treating him almost as if he were a snake about to strike at any moment. So she resolved to make a greater effort not to appear so frightened in his presence, her shyness be damned. She started out small at first, actually greeting him as she entered his chambers, though he seemed surprised she had even addressed him at all. Eventually she even began to ask after his day as she stoked the fire in his chambers and bid him goodnight for the evening. The Prince seemed to welcome her small attempts at conversation and readily responded, sometimes with quite extensive accounts of the events of the day.

Several days followed where their schedules did not align and Prince Aemond was absent every time Y/N entered his chambers. She tried to suppress a bizarre spark of dissapointment at this, not knowing when she had started to actually look forward to their short interactions. Dusting his bookshelf, she ran her hands over the ornate spines of the books. Laying down her duster as she carefully pulled one out to gaze at it, grazing her hand softly over the cover. "You take an interest in the Targaryen histories?" She was startled out of her reveries by Prince Aemond's question, not having heard his voice in a few days. Quickly replacing the book where it belonged she curtsied to him "I apologise My Prince, I should not have..."

The Prince walked over to her, his hair lightly swaying in tandem with his shoulders, until he was close enough to brush his arm against hers when he took the book back down from the shelf. "You are welcome to borrow a few volumes should they interest you." It was such a generous offer that Y/N was saddened to have to reject it. "Thank you My Prince, but I cannot read." Aemond seemed surprised for a moment before he cleared his throat and pulled his hands behind his back, removing the book from her line of vision. The Prince's voice was soft when he next spoke "Is it something you would like to learn?" Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet Aemond's, though she had to crane her neck to do so with him standing so close. Excitement had shot through her at a possibility she'd often longed for, she'd never had the opportunity to learn before. It was not considered necessary for her line of work.

But doubt began to fill her mind. Did the Prince mean to teach her himself? They'd come a long way from their first meetings, but she was still shy around him and could not but think such a situation would inevitably lead to embarrassment. Besides, he was a Prince and that would be beneath him. Prince Aemond did not break his focus from her but spoke before she could voice any of her concerns. "I will have my sister Helaena see to it." With that he turned from her and left his chambers entirely, leaving Y/N to stare after him, mouth hanging open at the suddenness of his departure.

Aemond had been pleased to find Y/N in his chambers, a welcome sight after many days and he quietly took in her presence as she ran her hands across his books. He watched her take a particular interest in a book detailing the histories of his House and felt a spark of something, perhaps excitement, at her sharing this interest with him. He himself was a dedicated scholar and was well versed in the histories of the House of the Dragon, such was his prerogative as a Targaryen Prince. Hoping not to startle her too much, he had asked her if this was in fact the case.

Frowning as she hastily replaced the book from whence she'd taken it, he quickly strode towards the shelf to take it back out and offer it to her. He'd thought it could be an opening for a potential friendship between them. He had noticed she'd begun to interact more with him of her own volition, taking this as a sign of her feeling increasingly comfortable in his presence.

His hopes came crashing down at his handmaiden's next admission "I cannot read." Of course, he'd been foolish not to think of it and cursed himself for potentially fracturing what little progress they'd made by potentially causing her embarrassment now. Nevertheless, he could not help himself from offering her the chance to learn, having seen her gaze so longingly at the books just moments prior. Aemond had in fact intended to teach her himself, and the initial excitement that lit her eyes at his suggestion had him believing for a moment that she would be amenable to the idea. That was before he watched her face fall, and various emotions flit across her eyes.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in his belief that she was now comfortable with him and this was the cause of her conflict. It pained him somewhat to think the idea might be so displeasing to her but he tried not to let it cloud his judgement as he tried to think of a solution that would be more acceptable to Y/N. It came to him to ask Helaena of her assistance. She had a gentle and calming disposition, at least to him, and perhaps Y/N would feel more comfortable with his sister than him. He left Y/N without waiting for her response, not wishing her to see his barely repressed dissapointment, and went to seek out his sister.

Helaena had willingly agreed to teach Y/N how to read, and Aemond had gratefully kissed his beloved sister on the crown of her head before returning to his chambers, hoping that his handmaiden would be pleased.

Y/N began to spend much of her time when she was not working occupied in the Princess Helaena's chambers. The Princess was a patient teacher and a kind soul, though she often spoke words that seemed oddly prophetic and disturbed Y/N, who could not decipher their meaning. She was grateful to the Princess for her help, and more still to Prince Aemond for securing this chance for her. More surprising was his unexpected willingness to answer any questions she had of the material she read with Helaena. The Prince seemed pleased at her questioning, always gazing at her attentively as he answered. She could not help thinking they'd managed to form a strange sort of friendship, despite her shyness and the stark difference in their positions, and she increasingly looked forward to each interaction.

Aemond was not surprised to see Y/N in his sister's chambers when he had come to visit that day. She was often there now, either leaning over a new text as his sister pointed different things out to her, or playing with his little niece and nephew. He was sure her presence was a great comfort to Helaena as well, and was glad of having introduced them. He was surprised, however, to see the look of horror on his handmaiden's face as Helaena placed a furry spider upon her outstretched arm. Her eyes widened so far it might have been comical, if he had not already been aware of her deep seated fear of the creature. All the same, he felt his heart stutter slightly at the sight, in the knowledge that his handmaiden would allow such a thing in order to please his sweet sister who was giggling slightly and cooing at her pet.

And in that moment Aemond realised what he should have done weeks ago, when he had first noted that feeling of warmth spread throughout his chest at Y/N's actions. He was falling in love with his handmaiden, or indeed already had. He was certain his mother would not be best pleased. He was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and was surely set for a match that would be politically beneficial to his House. In truth, he found it difficult to care. He had lost so much at such a young age, and though he now rode the largest dragon in existence, he still often felt like that scared, insecure little boy who'd been mocked by his brother and nephews. He had dedicated so much of himself to embodying the role of a true Targaryen Prince, and yet his own father essentially ignored him, favouring his bastard nephews over him.

Taking all of this into consideration, was it truly wrong for him to look for a love match with someone he truly cared for? He came to his decision there and then. Aemond wanted Y/N and he would have her whether it pleased his family or otherwise. The greater problem lay in Y/N's meek disposition and wariness around him now, which had admittedly diminished but was ever present. She could hardly stand to meet his gaze for more than a few moments at a time. The Prince resolved that he would find a way to warm her heart to him, and took a step forward to rescue the object of his affections from her current predicament.

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