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luveline · 2 years

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eddie and roan | you realise how happy you are, which leads to some late night tears. eddie comforts you, and roan wants a hug too ♥︎ dad!eddie munson x fem!reader

The filter on the fish tank makes a droning but quiet sound. You wonder how Lucky the fish is faring with his Christmas themed decorations, and struggle to think back on the day and remember if he's been fed his allotted pinch of fish flakes.

You can't move to check.

Sorry, Lucky, you think, looking down at your small family with a big smile. Eddie's wiped, sleeping deeply enough that his lips have parted, and you can feel the heat of every breath he exhales against your neck. His hair tickles you with each rise and fall of his shoulders.

Rammed to your ribcage lies his daughter Roan. She's slipping further and further into your lap, tiny hand pressed to your tummy, heat lining every contiguity between you. Like Eddie, she runs hot. With their warmth on each side and the air conditioning up high, you're definitely sweating. Your stomach gurgles passionately, dinner a forgotten ideal, and you've needed to use the bathroom for the last twenty minutes. You're hungry, the fish is hungry, but you refuse to disturb them.

Roan looks like she's made of silk when she sleeps. Eyes closed sweetly, lashes skimming the skin under her eyes, there isn't a wrinkle to be found on her smaller face, no stress, no lines. She has a freckle under her lips, like Eddie has a freckle under his eye, a dark beauty mark that you touch very gently. She smiles in her sleep.

This is everything you've ever wanted. Everything you thought you might never have.

Eddie had fallen asleep trying to soothe you, your arm pulled loosely to his chest, his callused fingertip stroking long, feather light lines down the length of your arm over and over as you'd watched TV. A Charlie Brown Christmas is long over. You've muted the sound altogether, advertisements flashing up one after another.

Eddie's hand twitches around your wrist, pulling you closer, and in tandem, Roan's hand rubs over your midriff like she's looking for you. They push in closer.

You think of all the times you've worried about being alone. How often have you cried over that? Terrified you'll never find someone. A very private, and yet very widespread fear. That you'll be alone forever, and that it will hurt the whole time.

You'd just — you'd seen him and Roan in the grocery store for the tenth time, in his overalls with his hair a little bit limp from a full day, and Roan had been younger but not any less lovely, and it had been terrible timing, really, but you couldn't not speak to him.

The way he'd spoken to her had clued you in to his heart. You know now that he's a dick, a sweetheart but a fucking dick, who's sarcastic and picky and play fights at the first sign of mutiny. He does ridiculous stuff in bed that should kill the mood and never does, he makes you feel loved everywhere you go. And loving him is just as fun as being loved by him; kissing him all softly to get your way and to watch his lovesick defeat; brushing his hair straight out of the shower while the water drips on your shirt so you can curl each piece one at a time around the handle; crawling up the length of the bed and into his lap to watch him try to hide his blush. You'd do a lot of bad things for him if it meant he'd be happy and safe.

You'd do even worse to protect Roan.

This is it, right? You and Eddie are getting married. Roan loves you as a daughter loves their mom. It's two days until Christmas, you're first together in the home you've made, and they're both sleeping soundly.

You don't really realise you're crying. You're so happy, and your eyes start to sting, hand carding through Roan's unbound hair in a fruitless attempt at self-soothing.

You tremble with tears. They aren't dramatic, there's no sobbing, just cheesy happy tears with a great big smile the whole time. Still, your sniffling wakes one of your babies, the bigger mess of curls scratching over your collar.

"Hey," Eddie mumbles, "was I sleeping, lovebug?" He crosses his hand over your chest. It lands unapologetically in the curve of your neck.

"Lovebug?" you ask, tears abating quick, replaced by a cheerful and startled laughter.

"Is it too late to try new ones?" He sits up, hand to your jaw, your face, then dropped as he leans away. His back clicks three different times. "Sorry if I was heavy."

"Eddie, you're not heavy" you say quietly. In what world have you ever cared? He can climb all over you any hour of the day for the rest of time if he likes.

"Ro slept too?" He scrubs his eyes, pulls all the hair out of his face, and catches you red handed, wiping tears off of your tacky cheeks.

"It's not-"

"What's wrong?"

"-what it looks like," you finish.

"No, seriously, what's wrong?" His tone leaves no room for argument.

"I was thinking about you. About us. I'm really happy, you know?" Tears rise up again. "I'm so happy. So, so happy, Eddie."

There aren't any other words to describe how you're feeling. This is pure, constant happiness. Sure, you and Eddie argue sometimes, Roan can be hard to handle, work sucks and everything is too expensive, but you're happy. Life is what you want.

"My love," Eddie says grandly, a hint of genuineness softening his otherwise theatric delivery, "don't cry, I'm begging you. Not over that."

He moves in without hesitation for a hug. "Are you real?" he asks, lips pressed to your cheek, arms an irreplaceable security needle behind your back. "Come on. Love you so much, you know that? And I'm- so happy you're happy. M'happy too. Gonna make us this happy forever."

"I'm so lucky," you add, and that's it, you're dissolving into tears underneath him. He tsks, doubling down his comforting efforts.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Is there something that's making you think about all of this?"

"Only good things. I promise."

"Okay." He rubs your back, kissing the side of your head. "God, you freaked me out. Not that you can't tell me everything, 'cause you can, but I really wasn't expecting it. Like, shock horror."

You laugh, giddy, his touch and his voice both working to relax you. "Chill, lovebug."

He snorts, digs his nose into your neck like a shithead.

You feel smaller arms come to life, a warm body trying desperately to worm its way between you and Eddie.

"Let me in," Roan complains sleepily. "I want a hug too."

You're reluctant to let Eddie go, even though it's Roan, because it might've just been the best hug you've ever had. You and Eddie part on the left to let her in, and you kiss her cheeks in sync without meaning two. She smells amazing, baby shampoo and Johnson's almond and honey soap.

"Is it Christmas yet?" Roan asks.

Tired and yet her priorities stay the same.

"Not yet, babe." Eddie pats her back, placating. "Can you hear that? That sound, like thunder?"

"Yeah?"

"That's Y/N's stomach. Come help dad make dinner?"

Roan kisses you and sighs as Eddie picks her up like she weighs nothing. She holds out her hands to you, bleary eyes widening in surprise.

"Save me," she pleads, a soft mirror of her dad's drama.

"Don't save her, she's fine."

You stand up, stretch, and watch them both disappear around the corner of the hallway toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna save her," you call. Your voice drops to a murmur. "After I feed poor Lucky."

#eddie and roan #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #dad!eddie munson x reader #dad!eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fluff

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vidavalor · 7 days

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How do you think the Ineffable Husbands reacted to the 1914 Christmas Armistice?

Also, it is autumn now and very cloudy and soggy, so here is a seasonally-appropriate recipe: https://www.hairybikers.com/recipes/view/caramelised-apple-cheesecake

Aw, a recipe! You're lovely. 😊 That looks amazing!

I envy you being in one firm season over there. September is a transition month here in New England. Half-summer, half-fall. It's very strange, though, not terrible. One day is lemonade and watermelon and the next is where's my blanket? and I need an apple something and looking up what day Bake Off starts to air over here. Another week, though, and it'll be pretty much fall from here on out. Definitely going to make that cheesecake. 😊

I think they probably reacted to the Christmas Armistice the same way many of us do when we learn about it-- that it's both beautiful and morbidly depressing at once. It showed people coming together to express a sense of shared humanity but then they went back to killing one another afterwards. It wasn't a new story for Crowley and Aziraphale because they had seen that in people all throughout history but I'm sure they found the same mix of hopefulness and sadness in it that a lot of people do.

The one who understands what it takes to bring about peace now best in the series is actually Gabriel, imho. It's because he understood the deeper meaning of Sandalphon's words that Sandalphon didn't actually understand himself: "you can't have a war without war."

Some short thoughts on ties between war, frozen peas, and one of my favorite of Agnes Nutter's prophecies beneath the cut.

When Sandalphon said: "you can't have a war without war", what he meant was: "Look how clever I think I am to use this word twice in two ways in one sentence! You can't have a war without War: The Character! Mirelle Enos is playing a character that shares a name with large-scale killing and destruction and I pointed it out! I'm so smart!"

Gabriel, though, heard the potential of bigger ideas: "You can't have a war (a large-scale military conflict) without war (people willing to fight in a war and, also, a person's inner struggle leading them to be willing to fight in war)."

Meaning: A war can only happen if people are willing to fight the war.

Meaning: No soldiers, no war.

Gabriel knew Aziraphale heard it like that, too, and was like lol Aziraphale, this guy thinks he's a poet omg let me flatter him enough that he won't notice that I just tried to help you sell more erotica and didn't murder you for having a lover and then we'll get out of here...

Gabriel saying that he "might use that one day" about what Sandalphon says is a line that-- delightfully-- ages quite differently the more we get to know Gabriel.

We know he said it in that moment to make it sound like he was telling Sandalphon that what Sandalphon had said was just so profound that Gabriel was tempted to use it himself... but we also know that Gabriel is neither as dumb nor as vapid as he strategically lets people think he is and that he understood the deeper way of looking at what Sandalphon said more than Sandalphon did.

Looking back on it, it's Gabriel actually joking about mutinying in front of Heaven's most fervent Metatron-worshipping fascist in a way that is very much going over Sandalphon's head. Gabriel is all can't have a war without war-- yeah, true dat, Stasi a Fond. I'm slowly losing it over here and my favorite fantasy is just peacing out entirely of this whole 'Commander of The Heavenly Host' shit and wouldn't that really completely eff up The Ineffable Plan? Oh, my secret daydream... if only I could...

Then, what happens, though, by the end of S1?

Gabriel sees a kid do just that.

The eleven year old spawn of Satan is all yeah, no, you can't have a war without war. I don't want to start a war. I like the world. I've got enough on my plate dealing with my own life-- I don't want to rule over everyone. I want everyone to feel at peace and be happy and take care of each other.

Gabriel was freaked out because of the consequences of this and the fact that he, at the the time, thought The Metatron might kill him for failing to start Armageddon but, after the day was over and Gabriel had a moment to breathe and think about it, you can't tell me he didn't hear Adam saying that it was too much pressure to be in charge of every other living being in existence and he just wanted to chill with the people he liked and live his own life in peace and let everyone else do that, too and think to himself:

Yeah, kid. Me too.

The dude who is told he's responsible for everyone in Heaven and who sees angels falling as partly his fault and whom the humans deify and to whom they make statues was like fucking hell, the little antichrist brat was right.

He realized that it's not about Armageddon, it's about living and building a life until you have all the world you need. It's about what Crowley and Aziraphale have been trying to do and about what he and Beez were as well. Gabriel's proposal to Beez is a simple one:

What if, instead of Armageddon, there was no Armageddon?

What if, instead of war, there's no war?

So, he ended up fulfilling his own prophecy a bit when the one day came when he used what Sandalphon said-- just not in the way that Sandalphon meant it but in the way that Gabriel himself and Aziraphale heard it: you can't have a war without war... no war exists if enough people refuse to fight it.

That's the way to stop Armageddon.

Gabriel came to realize that the best thing he could do as a leader in Heaven and commander of its armed forces was to refuse to fight, come what may. He quits the army and defects to the embassy of the only independent country that exists in the supernatural world: the United States of Crowley and Aziraphale.

As Agnes said:

...the calm cometh when Redde and Whyte and Black and Pale approache to Peas is Our Professioune.

In this case: Redde/Red (Crowley), Whyte/White (Aziraphale), Black (Beez), Pale (Gabriel). To profess: to state. Peas = the talking of frozen peas because homophone: peace.

The calm cometh when Crowley, Aziraphale, Beez and Gabriel talk and each get closer to their own peace and to peace with one another and help each other to spread that mentality throughout all those willing in Heaven and Hell and Earth.

That's what you feed the other ducks-- your frozen peas. Your own stuff that is disturbing your own inner peace and creating inner wars and small-scale conflicts that, if left unchecked, can build into larger-scale ones.

If you break that shit down and talk about it, there needn't be any war.

Sometimes, it means shedding some armor, keeping an open mind, and admitting that you were wrong-- all things that can be difficult...

...especially for those are secretly tender-hearted but put up that armor to survive in worlds steeped in toxic masculinity...

...and, sometimes, it's maddening because people are scared and get set in their ways and do dumb shit and you have to upend power structures and reinforce more positive behaviors to get them to shut up long enough to start listening to one another...

...but the more who learn to unlearn the harmful stuff at the core of their own struggles and who open their minds up to listening to others, the more we're professing our peas to our fellow ducks and getting closer to peace within ourselves and within the world as a whole and that's what it's all about. It might always be approaching Peas is Our Professioune rather than a perfectly peaceful world but the point is the effort of the approach and to just keep making steady progress as much as we can while we're walking the Earth. After all...

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens meta #good omens 2 #good omens theory #the archangel fucking gabriel #lord beezlebub #ineffable bureaucracy #sandalphon #pepper good omens #adam good omens #the them #agnes nutter #good omens analysis

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whencyclopedia · 20 days

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Treaty of Paris of 1783

The Treaty of Paris, signed on 3 September 1783 by representatives from Great Britain and the United States, was the peace agreement that formally ended the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783) and recognized the United States as an independent nation. The treaty was considered generous to the United States, fixing its border at the Mississippi River and thereby doubling its territory.

Background: The World Turned Upside Down

On 19 October 1781, the battered British army marched out of Yorktown, Virginia. Dressed in resplendent new uniforms freshly issued for the occasion, the British soldiers passed between the French and American armies to throw their muskets onto a steadily growing pile of surrendered arms. Emotions were running high; some British soldiers wept as they laid down their weapons, while others haphazardly threw their muskets onto the pile in the hopes that they would smash. Lord Charles Cornwallis, commander of the surrendering British army, was not present at the ceremony, having pled illness. It was left to his second-in-command, General Charles O'Hara, to offer his sword to American General George Washington, who refused, instead motioning for O'Hara to give the sword to his own second-in-command, General Benjamin Lincoln. According to legend, as the ceremony took place, the military bands played a tune aptly titled "The World Turned Upside Down".

As this dramatic scene suggests, it was immediately apparent that the Siege of Yorktown marked an important turning point in the war. But in the direct aftermath of the siege, few could have anticipated just how significant it had been. Despite Cornwallis' surrender, the British army certainly had the military capacity to continue fighting, as they still possessed sizable military presences in New York City, Charleston, Canada, and the West Indies. Indeed, King George III of Great Britain (r. 1760-1820) and Prime Minister Lord Frederick North, had every intention of planning a campaign for the upcoming 1782 season. The king and his ministers knew that the fledgling United States was on the verge of failing. The Continental currency issued by Congress was worthless, and many of the underpaid soldiers of the Continental Army were close to mutiny. To top it all off, the treasury of the Kingdom of France was running dangerously low, leading the French to hint that they would have to exit the war if peace was not soon concluded. All King George III and Lord North had to do was prolong the war for a year or two more, and the American rebellion would collapse in on itself.

But unfortunately for the king and his ministers, the British people had long been experiencing war fatigue, and the defeat at Yorktown was the final straw. This attitude was reflected in Parliament when it reconvened after its Christmas recess in January 1782. While many in Parliament did not necessarily approve of an independent United States, they were more concerned about the negative impact that the war was having on British resources and international prestige, particularly after the conflict had taken on a global scale with the entry of France and Spain in 1778-79. Year after year, members of Parliament had listened to Lord North give excuses as to why British arms had failed in North America during the previous campaign season, before promising that a British victory loomed just over the horizon. Now, when news of Cornwallis' surrender reached London, they had finally had enough. In February 1782, colonial secretary Lord George Germain was forced out of the cabinet, with Lord Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty, losing his position soon after. The house of cards finally collapsed on 20 March, when Lord North resigned rather than face the indignity of being removed from office by a vote of no confidence. George III himself even considered abdicating the throne but was persuaded against it.

Lord North

National Portrait Gallery, London (CC BY-NC-ND)

North was replaced as prime minister by Charles Watson-Wentworth, 2nd Marquess of Rockingham, whose political faction, known as the 'Rockingham Whigs', had opposed many of the policies of the North ministry including the war in North America. Supported by influential British politicians like Charles James Fox and Edmund Burke, Lord Rockingham immediately took steps to end the war upon coming to power; the king, who despised Rockingham – indeed, the two could not even be in the same room – could do nothing as the new ministry set about bringing seven years of war to an end. In April 1782, Rockingham sent a representative to Paris to begin informal peace talks. When Rockingham unexpectedly died the following July, the Earl of Shelburne became prime minister and took up the supervision of the negotiations.

#History #AmericanRevolution #USHistory

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hephaestuscrew · 10 months

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It's so important to me that Minkowski and Eiffel and Hera spend December 25th together to celebrate Eiffel's birthday post-canon. And the hope that they spend that day together is a sentiment shared by Gabriel Urbina.

But Minkowski canonically cares about Christmas itself. Minkowski has people in her life whom she could spend Christmas with. And so there will probably have to be a difficult conversation at some point after the Hephaestus crew return to Earth, when someone says how good it will be to have Renée there for Christmas Day again. And Minkowski will have to look at her husband, or her relatives, or her in-laws - people who loved her and mourned her and celebrated upon her return from the dead - and she'll have to tell them that she won't be there on Christmas Day. And if the person who asks knows her at all, they'll see the look on her face and know that there's no negotiating to be done here.

It's not exactly that she doesn't want to celebrate Christmas with the people she used to celebrate Christmas with. But she can do that on any day near the end of December. Spending December 25th with Eiffel and Hera is something she absolutely cannot compromise on.

The main reason she'd give for this is that December 25th is Eiffel's birthday. Whether or not it matters to him as much as it used to, Minkowski wants Eiffel's birthday to get the recognition it deserves, because it was so important to him and he never expected anyone else to care or remember.

A second reason - one she might never speak aloud - is that she's always thought that Christmas is a time for family, and nowadays that means that spending it with Eiffel and Hera feels right to her.

But I think there's a third, perhaps equally important, reason underneath those two. Maybe she doesn't admit it to herself consciously, but I think part of Minkowski believes that the only people who can really understand the complicated way she now feels about December 25th are the two people who were there with her when everything went to hell on Christmas Day.

It was December 25th when they realised they'd made contact with aliens, and when Hilbert locked Minkowski outside the airlock and tried to incapacitate Eiffel and tore out Hera's personality hardware, and when everything Minkowski had thought she knew about the Hephaestus mission fell apart.

How can she exchange gifts with people for whom it isn't the anniversary of the one of the worst days of their life? How can she gather round a Christmas tree with people who've never feared for their lives at the hands of Alexander Hilbert and Goddard Futuristics? How can she eat turkey and trimmings with people who weren't there when the Christmas dinner was never eaten because there was a murderous mutiny from one of the intended guests? How can she spend December 25th with people for whom it's never been a day of betrayal and fear and loss and uncertainty eight lightyears away from Earth?

Eiffel doesn't remember that awful Christmas and that brings its own kind of pain for Minkowski. But he was there, and so was Hera, and so (no matter what anyone else expects) Minkowski needs to be with them on that complicated day.

#Wolf 359 #w359 #Renée Minkowski #Renee Minkowski #I wrote this intending to schedule it to post on Christmas Day #but I'm kidding myself if I think I can do delayed gratification like that #I have to post things as soon as I write them #so you're getting it now #Apologies if it's too early in December for Christmas-related posting #I guess I'll reblog it on Christmas Day instead #I nearly fucked up this post by mentioning Christmas traditions that I don't think are celebrated in the US #But luckily I remembered just in time that Christmas crackers are not universal among Christmas-celebrators #I almost mentioned charades but idk if that has Christmas associations in the US or even if it's widely known #I do think Minkowski would absolutely love Charades though #if she played with people on the same wavelength as her that is #Eiffel would be trying to act out very specific scenes from films Minkowski has not seen and she'd get so annoyed lol #wolf 359 spoilers #w359 spoilers #the empty man posteth

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

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all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

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

wc ; 6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can say that again."

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

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

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest caves in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. "I'm tired."

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

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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amazingmsme · 3 months

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eurylochus: Here's a fun Christmas idea. We hang mistletoe, but instead of kissing, you have to FIGHT whoever else is underneath it.

polites: eurylochus, no.

odysseus: mistlefoe

polites: odysseus, STOP encouraging this.

- inq anon

Oh so THAT’S how the mutiny started!

#asks #anon ask #inq anon #incorrect quotes #epic headcanons #eurylochus #odysseus #polites #epic #epic the musical #epic musical

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workingclasshistory · 2 years

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On this day, 25 December 1914, 100,000 troops on the Western Front during World War I held an unofficial truce where they refused to fight one another. German troops began singing "Silent Night" in German, French and English, along with other Christmas carols. They decorated the trenches with Christmas trees, lit candles and hung multilingual banners wishing opposing armies "Merry Christmas". Across much of the front artillery fell silent, British troops joined in the carol singing and both sides began to shout Christmas greetings at one another. On Christmas Day, soldiers began to climb out of the trenches to fraternise with the other side, bring back bodies from no man's land and exchange gifts like tobacco, chocolate and alcohol. In several areas there are first-hand accounts of often-improvised football matches being played. The truce covered about 100,000 men, almost entirely on the Western front however there was also a small truce along part of the Eastern front between Austrian and Russian troops. Fighting continued in some areas. Henry Williamson, a British private, wrote to his mother on December 26: "In [my] pipe is tobacco. Of course, you say. But wait. In the pipe is German tobacco. Haha, you say, from a prisoner or found in a captured trench. Oh dear, no! From a German soldier. Yes a live German soldier from his own trench. Yesterday the British & Germans met & shook hands in the Ground between the trenches, & exchanged souvenirs, & shook hands. Yes, all day Xmas day, & as I write. Marvellous, isn't it?" British authorities were extremely angered by the mutiny, and ordered that soldiers engaged in informal truces be court-martialed. Learn more about the Christmas truce in our podcast episode 38 with Srsly Wrong about mutinies, available on every major podcast app or our website: https://workingclasshistory.com/2020/05/26/e38-mutiny-with-srsly-wrong/ https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2170449319806873/?type=3

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ltwilliammowett · 11 months

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Masterlist - Advent Calendar 2022

Day 1 - The Christmas Box - here

Day 2 - Love is in the Air - here

Day 3 - Man over Board ???? - here

Day 4 - Karavaki - Christmas Boats - here

Day 5 - Christmas at Sea, The Longest John - here

Day 6 - St. Nicholas Day- here

Day 7 - Aubreyad Christmas - here

Day 8 - The Eliza Ann - here

Day 9 - The Christmas Tree aboard the Anna - here

Day 10 - The mysterious Sailor's English Plum Pudding - here

Day 11- The Christmas Tree Ship- Rouse Simmons (1868), 1912 - here

Day 12- A self made Christmas Tree - here

Day 13- The Christmas Mutiny of 1857 - here

Day 14- Christmas celebrations aboard a warship and a merchant vessel - here

Day 15 - Sailor’s superstition - Christmas Edition - here

Day 16 - Santa Barbara Anna - here

Day 17 - Christmas aboard Whalers - here

Day 18 - Sinterklaas - here

Day 19 - Christmas on Arctic Expeditions - here

Day 20 - I saw three ships - here

Day 21 - Christmas in the southern hemisphere - here

Day 22 - Christmas Punch - here

Day 23 - Christmas Presents - here

Day 24 - Christmas Eve Greetings - here

#naval history #naval art #age of sail #age of steam #history #advent calendar #masterlist #2022

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donteattheappleshook · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday Prologue Challenge

(I should probably actually do the challenge for my own event lol)

So many WIPs!

1) Not Broken At All

Killian gives a short, humourless laugh, head hanging slightly as he works a dampened cloth over the bloodied skin of his neck. “Believe me, Swan, it’s very easy to do nothing.”

2) His

She already hates the idea of this shop being sold and taken over by someone else or turned into a saloon or a tack shop or something else less wonderful and beautiful than the dimly lit, clustered little book store.

3) Honey don’t feed it (It will come back)

"I don’t think anyone knows enough about you to warn me off… or warn me on.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Sure it is.” She pulls the empty stopper away. “Sorry, Chewie, that’s all of it.”

Oh, hell, she’s bloody named it.

4) A Swan by Any Other Name (AKA Bi!Killian fic)

The quartermaster rolled his eyes. “Aye, Captain. Just remember, killing one on the first day invokes fear; killing two invokes mutiny.”

5) Madly (a Cyrano de Bergerac AU)

“And what do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel the way I did the first time I saw the sea.”

“Go on.”

“It was terrifying”

“I terrify you?”

“Aye. frighteningly powerful, awe inspiring and strong willed, I knew that she could destroy me without even intending to. And I knew that I would never again want to be apart from her.”

“And now?”

“I’m reminded of the first time I fell in.”

6) Untitled silver Killian won’t date Emma fic

“Oi! What the hell was that for?” Will gasps, cradling his arm protectively to his side. Emma slaps it again. “Ow!”

“Are you kidding me?” Smack. “After six months -” smack. “I finally get him to ask me out -” smack. “I finally get him home. And you do this.” She lands three slaps in a row to his shoulder.

“Stop hitting me!”

“No -” smack. “Do you have any idea how much goddamn furniture I bought? For nothing!”

“Ow!”

7 & 8)How did it end up like this? (It Was Only a Kiss sequel) and Pining fic (an earlier version of only a kiss)

No words yet - just vibes.

9) Optometrist fic (I don’t think I’ll continue this one tbh)

“Fine,” she sighed, deciding it wasn’t worth the battle. “How long is this going to take?”

10) Pride and Prejudice AU

It was a bright, sunny, and perfectly pleasant afternoon when Cora burst into the room and disrupted it.

“Have you heard?” She shouted, forcing all three men to jump in their seats and take note of her. Killian set down his book, wondering what could possibly have thrown his stepmother into such a state. His brother rushed to her side, trying to urge her to sit as she panted in excitement as though she��d run all the way home from the market. Their father barely looked up from his cards. “Misthaven Castle is let at last!”

11) Remember the Night AU (I forgot about this one)

“Listen, if don’t come with me then I won’t go to Boston. I can’t let you stay in this city with nowhere to go. It’s my fault you’re in this mess and I feel a certain responsibility for you.”

“You didn’t make me steal the watch,” she deadpans.

He tries again. “If you don’t come then you’re going to make me miss Christmas with my family. Can you live with that?”

..........................................................................................................

Honestly a lower number than I was dreading!

#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #so many wips #captainswanwipwednesdays #cswipwednesday #what have I done.....#oh boy lol

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piratecaptainscaptainpirates · 5 months

Note

for piracy history questions: what do we actually know about ned low?

More than we know about some pirates, but still not much!

He was probably born in England and we know he moved to the US as a young man. We know he lived in Boston, and we know from state documentation that he married, lost a son in infancy, and his wife died in childbirth with his daughter.

He worked on a few merchant ships for a while, but this guy had just a terrible temper, and he turned to piracy after failing to mutiny on a captain and promptly getting kicked off the boat, turning around, and stealing a sloop.

He was a pirate for three years (that's pretty good, the average was two years), and during that time he picked up a reputation for some of the most vicious cruelty of any pirates active during the Golden Age. He was known for torturing prisoners, setting ships on fire with the crew still inside, and just straight-up burning people alive.

His tactics usually relied on brute force. Early in his career he capsized one of his ships (the Rose Pink). Some pirates have a reputation for being smart and he's not one of them

His later flagships were the Merry Christmas and then the Fancy. I just think he had absolutely delightful ship names.

We have absolutely no idea what happened to him. He just disappeared. He was never hanged, just drops right off the map.

#atticus' pirate hour

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luminouslywriting · 3 months

Text

Chapter 20 (Mastermind)—MOTA Fic

A/n: So much fun here.....so much to say....so I'll just leave this here and eagerly await your thoughts haha!

February 14, 1943

Dearest darling heartbreaker Ruthie,

You won’t believe this anymore than I can express it, but we’ve finally managed to oust Sobel from our ranks. It took a whole mutiny from the NCO’s (which you most certainly would not have approved of), but he’s gone and that means that we finally have some decent leadership when it comes to the field. And though I can’t spoil much, I can say that things are looking towards a horizon where action is coming. And you’ll be proud to know that the NCO’s did this for our good friend, Dick.

He won’t admit it much, but I will—he misses you. And frankly, so do I. What does a man have to do to find some good humor here in England? You’ll find it funny to know that I’m still hiding some Vat-69 in his locker, though I suspect he may know that and may have known for some time (Did you tell him?). You should write to him again, I think he’s missing the backup and sensibility that you provide the whole company. We did get your Christmas presents though, and it was awfully nice of you to send us a whole bunch of scarves. Though with spring on the horizon, I can’t imagine we’d have much use for the scarves quite yet (we’d look like babushkas or something, you know?).

In your last letter, you asked about things were going at home. They’re the same as they were the last time you asked, which is to say that things are going poorly and I don’t think we’ll last the year. It’s alright though—what’s a man to do when he’s thousands of miles from home and fighting a war, after all? Anywho, I hope you’re keeping yourself busy with weeding out the weaklings in the army and having fun whilst doing so (with that little smirk of yours, you know the one). I hope to hear from you soon—and that you can visit us sometime.

Your friend,

Lewis Nixon

For a moment, Ruth just stared at the letter in front of her, a fond sort of smile on her face. That daft man was always going to be one of her favorite people in the world—though her ever-sensible mother could never know that Ruth had spent the better part of a year with a half-drunk troublemaker such as Lewis Nixon.

She supposed that her friendship with Nixon was somewhat akin to Bucky and Gale Cleven’s friendship in terms of being odd. They were not an expectant pairing of friends, nor were they what people expected them to be when they were together. That was quite alright with her, even if she had no intention of visiting anytime soon. That would be a distraction—though right now, a distraction might prove to be just what she needed.

Things had just been plain strange around Thorpe Abbotts since her brother had so prolifically spread the rumor that she and Robby were dating. And things had only continued to spiral into a sort of madness about the whole situation—their contract for such an event, in an effort to keep attention away from Abe and onto themselves—Harding’s feelings on the whole situation in order to discourage pregnancy amongst the women in the camp—yes, the whole situation was just odd.

Then there was the fact that she had come back from London and the holiday season with a young teenage girl in her care, who didn’t want to be parted from her or travel to New York to be with Ruth’s family. That left her with precious few options except to keep Liesel on the base with her—though she had fought Harding on the entire situation until he had relented. Liesel attended the nearby school where the other children on the base went during the day and it seemed to be a good system that was working for them for now.

Since coming to stay with Ruth, the girl hadn’t spoken more than a few words at a time. Ruth was lucky when she got Liesel to say more than a few words and almost formed a full sentence. It had only happened once or twice, not that Ruth entirely blamed the girl.

Trauma tends to linger and steal ones’ voice, after all.

It didn’t take long for Ruth to start the drive to the school, just a mile down the road from Thorpe Abbotts. It was still chilly as she waited for the students to start pouring out of the school—and there were tufts of snow all over the ground, but nowhere covered completely. Ruth kept a steady gaze on the school until the students began clambering outside. Liesel clung to the back of the group, keeping to herself as she hurried down the steps and into Ruth’s waiting jeep.

Sensing that the day had gone exactly how the previous few weeks had gone, Ruth just wordlessly pulled a chocolate bar from her bag and handed it to Liesel. The girl just held it, a tentative gaze peering back at Ruth. “Eat it. You’ll feel better. Chocolate always makes me feel better.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You smoke to feel better,” Liesel said in a small voice.

“Well you’ve got me there. Vices and virtues and all that. If chocolate and cigarettes are my virtues and vices, I think I’ll be fine. Eat up,” Ruth gave a gentle encouragement towards the girl.

It took a moment for Liesel to actually listen to her. But once she started nibbling on the chocolate bar, a small smile appeared on her face. It was a rare thing to see Liesel smile these days, not that Ruth blamed her for that either. It was even harder to see her relax if any men were in the vicinity, though given the cruelty of the soldiers and the horrors Liesel had witnessed, that just made sense.

“I—uh,” Ruth let out a shaky breath and gestured at her purse. “I also got you something for today. Being Valentine’s Day and all.”

The look in Liesel’s eyes was one of suspicion as she dug through the purse, finding a satin blue hair tie inside. “You—”

“I remember being your age. I liked things for my hair. Thought you might like something nice too,” Ruth said.

Two smiles in one day from her cousin Liesel was honestly all that Ruth needed to make February of 1944 a good month. Ruth would have been perfectly content if that’s all she did for Valentine’s Day, but upon returning back to her office, Ruth found Abe sitting there and throwing a ball at the wall.

“Did I miss something or are you going to the slammer?”

“Funny, Ruthie,” Abe gave a roll of his eyes. “No, I’m here to make sure that you actually make it to your date tonight.”

“I don’t have a date.”

“Yes you do. Rosie’s been planning it for weeks.”

“Well I don’t want to go.”

“Oh come on, Ruthie! It’s Valentine’s Day!”

“Yes, and that doesn’t mean the war has halted.”

“But Ruth, you told him you’d be there.”

“I’m a chronic liar.”

Abe just folded his arms and gave a huff. “It will look odd if you don’t show up to the date that he’s been planning.”

Ruth just let out a huff. “Abe, I’ve been up since two this morning, my back is killing me, and all I want to do is take a long smoke and drink a bit of wine by myself in a bathtub which I clearly don’t have.”

“A nice dinner could help?” Abe weakly offered.

“It won’t,” Ruth pinched the brow of her nose. “Fine, I will go. If only to get little cretins like yourself off of my back and so I can get to bed earlier.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red wasn’t a color that Ruth often found herself in, but going for a bold look was better in her opinion than not. She wanted to intimidate people and wanted them to be afraid of approaching her in all regards. It was the preferred method of avoiding unsavory conversations and setting expectations from the get-go.

Ruth met Rosie in the officer’s club, finding him at a table and waiting for her. Almost immediately, she charged ahead without waiting for him to say a word. Taking a seat, she smugly noted the slight ajar look he held on his face. Pulling out a cigarette from her bag and lighting it, she just gave him a look. “Close your mouth, dear, you look like a fish.”

“Uh—sorry,” Robby apologized quickly, shoving a rose in her direction.

“Is that a play on words?” Ruth questioned, blowing smoke outwards in slight distaste.

“Abe’s idea.”

“You ever get the feeling that the little shit is having a little too much fun spreading outlandish rumors about us two?”

“Yes.”

At that, Ruth finally accepted the rose. “Well thank you anyway. I’d say that I’m sorry I’m late…but I truthfully didn’t want to come.”

“Oh wow,” Robby mumbled into his hand. “Honesty off the bat, that’s never a good sign from you. Long day?”

“Long day,” Ruth echoed. “And yourself?”

Robby gave a shrug and began slowly picking at his food. “Nothing too crazy. Just a few practice drills.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You’re going to anyway, I’d wager,” Robby gave a slight grin in her direction.

“Guilty as charged,” Ruth admitted, letting a small smile appear in the corner of her mouth. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never really had any serious girlfriends. But you seem the type to want to settle down and—well you know, get married. So what exactly is it that you’re looking for?”

“Why?” Robby nearly choked the words out.

“Because if I can find this little angel girl, I can have you out of my hair sooner,” Ruth said pointedly.

“Okay well that’s only fair if I try to do the same for you.”

At that, Ruth gave a wolfish smirk. “Oh I don’t think so. We both know that men don’t like me for very good reasons.”

“I mean, yes,” Robby agreed, earning himself a sharp rap to his knuckles. “But maybe we’ll find someone who actually likes the fact that you’re mean.”

“Doubtful. But you’re not mean. There’s bound to be at least one daft girl that we can convince to like you,” Ruth retorted, taking a bite of her food.

Robby just let out a sigh and gave a shrug. “I don’t know—I like honesty. I like—I like women who are passionate about something. And independent—they can think for themselves. And they’re willing to work for what they want.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Why? Because I have standards?”

“Yes,” Ruth admitted.

Robby leaned back in his seat, settling to look at Ruth properly. “You wanna know what I think?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“I think that you’re asking me all of this because you’re lonely. But you want to get rid of me anyway.”

Ruth stiffened in her seat. “Gather all of that from one conversation? Absolutely brilliant, counselor,” she practically sneered the word at him. “Maybe I prefer to work so that I don't have to have to be around people like you who so callously call people like me out.”

“That’s just self-isolating behavior.”

“Oh you’re a psychologist now?”

“No, I just see you for who you are and I think that that scares you.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Ruth scowled, grabbing her purse. “Have fun at dinner.” With that, Ruth strode away before Robby could so much as apologize for the wording that he had failed so epically with.

Rising from his seat, he followed where he thought she would head to—for surely she’d be heading to the barracks. But she didn’t go there and instead stopped outside of the medical wing. That was where Robby found Ruth, leaning against the wall with a pinched up expression on her face and scowling.

Blinking open an eye, Ruth let out a huff. “Can you kindly fu—”

“Are you doin’ okay?” Robby blurted, hands falling in his pockets as he looked at her. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Sorry, I guess.”

Ruth just stared at him for a long minute, as if trying to calculate what his play was here, what the ulterior motive for apologizing was. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

He gestured at the door with his head. “Were you going in?”

“Debating.”

“So I reiterate. Are you doin’ okay?” Robby questioned.

Her hands strayed to her neck and she frowned. “Just some neck and back pain, that’s all.”

“Sleep on it wrong?”

“That and well—” Ruth just cut herself off. Kindly explaining that her breasts were large and caused immense amounts of back pain wasn’t the kind of conversation she needed or wanted to be having with Robert Rosenthal in any capacity. Nor did she care for explaining the lingering spinal damage that she had endured thanks to Timothy. “Yes, I slept on it wrong,” Ruth amended her previous statement.

Robby rocked on his heels, eyes glancing up at the ceiling for a long moment. “I could help.”

“What was that?”

“I mean—I could help with your neck, if you wanted. I used to give my ma’ neck massages, that’s all,” Robby’s cheeks were a healthy tone of pink that Ruth was unaccustomed to seeing on him.

“But why?”

“Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“Just shut up and let me help you, please. And we don’t have to mention it ever again, I promise.”

Ruth was silent for a long second, piercing gaze burning holes into his very being. Finally, her shoulders deflated and she just let out a small whimper. “Oh alright,” Ruth breathed out. “But just this once and don’t you dare get handsy or I swear—”

“I know, I know,” Robby grinned. “I’ll lose my hands.”

The duo quietly slipped back to her office wherein Ruth sank into the chair, finding only slight relief in sitting down. Robby seemed uncertain at the fact that he was actually going to be touching her and Ruth picked up on the way that he was lingering and unable to walk forward. “You know I don’t bite,” Ruth stated dryly.

“You and I both know that you do.”

“I only bit you once,” Ruth amended. “And it was when we were kids anyway! Just let it go!”

At that, he rolled his eyes and crossed over behind her chair. He wondered if what he was about to do was going to fundamentally change things on a cellular level between the two of them—if this was a point where they could actually become real friends or something. Or if this was all just to further the facade of their relationship.

The minute that Robby’s hands touched her neck, Ruth almost hissed at the coldness. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Your hands are cold,” Ruth mumbled, finding herself incredibly tense with someone touching her neck. She was never big on physical touch anyway and found herself having a hard time even letting family or boyfriends touch her. It wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed.

But oddly enough, under his slender and firm fingers, Ruth found herself entirely melting and turning to absolute jelly. It was the strangest sensation, with his fingers gently rubbing into the knots and Ruth had to resist the urge to purr like a cat or something. It was tantalizing and mind-numbingly relieving at the same time.

“Is this okay?” Robby’s voice was honestly so far away from where she was at the moment that Ruth almost felt like she was going to just collapse on the spot.

“Y-yes,” Ruth mumbled out. The heat that was spreading from his fingertips down to the very bottom curl of her toes was maddening and though it was heavenly, Ruth wanted it all to just stop. If not for the fact that this was rather intimate, then certainly for the fact that she could feel herself dampening down below and that was alarming. How was this possibly a turn-on for her at a time like this?

Forcing her knees together and plastering a smile onto her face, Ruth turned in her seat, nearly startling Robby. “That was great, thank you. I have work to do now, so you can go.”

And as he left her office, Ruth just breathed out a sigh of pained relief and need. He was actually going to be the death of her, wasn’t he?

#mota fanfic #mota #masters of the air fanfic #mastersoftheair #masters of the air #oc originalfemalecharacters #rosie rosenthal #robert rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal x oc #ruth x rosie

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