#they marvel at the design and intricacies of it all

[babsbabbles]

Modern atheistic scientists: There was nothing and then there was. The universe is younger than we thought actually. Life is so unlikely to have evolved, it is considered an impossible occurance. The reason we should preserve life and biodiversity is because every living thing has inherent value simply by being alive. Humanity may be more unique than we expected.

Bible-believing christians:

[partycatty]

Hello :) please could I request love at first sight headcanons for Kenshi, Syzoth, Johnny and Liu Kang 💙💙

ofcccc love

kenshi, syzoth, johnny, liu kang > love at first sight

uh oh, the boys are smitten ;))

notes: you're a monk/trainer/idfk at the wu shi academy, so that's where they meet you for the first time! also pretend syzoth didnt have a wife and kids up until like 30 minutes before u guys meet LMFAOMFOMAF

masterlist <3

♡

kenshi >

kenshi kept mostly to himself, given his motivations for fighting in the tournament in the first place. of course, he'd get into the occasional spitting match with the actor that held his sword hostage as well. but something about you made his work feel unimportant.

he wouldn't make himself known to you for quite some time, but he caught your eye during the introductions when he arrived at the academy. you stood beside liu kang as his second in command, posture perfect and eyes forward. you were a trained individual, and kenshi couldn't help but be fully enamored.

you embodied everything kenshi aspired to be, and he was torn between wishing you two would spend more time together, to wishing you'd kick the shit out of him. maybe both?

"i come requesting for a sparring partner," kenshi explains, eyes transfixed on your perfect form. he had to avert his gaze to the ground as he bowed, lest he fall victim to your beauty. "i was hoping for some advice and feedback."

you agree, considering it's your job. and so, you begin setting up the environment for a spar. the floor is cleared and you roll up your sleeves, taking your personal fighting stance. kenshi almost forgot to ready himself when you charged at him.

you were objectively a better fighter than him, sword or otherwise. his blows were easily parried and his punches were matched with kicks. and sure, he had a crush now, but when you stood over him with your hands on your hips, something stronger blossomed. he felt his face become hot as he laid flat on his back between your legs.

then, he smirked with a newfound confidence. now or never, tattoo.

"perhaps we should spar more often, if this is the outcome," he'd slyly remark.

his comment earned him a week of scrubbing floors, but he doesn't regret it, no matter how hard johnny and lao pointed and laughed. and neither do you.

♡

syzoth >

he fought like hell to get out of outworld, freed from the shackles of shang tsung's imprisonment. when the portal behind everyone closed, syzoth stood awkwardly alongside ashrah behind the earthrealmers.

"meet the newest players of earthrealm," johnny introduces them to liu kang, though he is already familiar with their existence. he created them, after all.

"syzoth, ashrah, please," liu kang gestures for them to follow him. he needed intel on the situation, and fast. something sinister was brewing.

he leads them into a large room decorated with hourglasses and dragon statues. tables with scattered scrolls, maps, and figurines litter the room. this must be liu kang's workspace.

as syzoth enters the spacious room, he is marveled at the intricacy of the designs. what captures his attention quicker, though, was you. you were sitting in a distant chair, standing upon the group's arrival and taking your spot beside liu kang.

"this is my trusted assistant," liu kang introduces you, and you bow to them respectfully. "please inform them of any useful information regarding shang tsung."

syzoth feels as if life slows down, and his cold blood send a shiver down his spine. his face flushes with a greenish tint, and he already finds himself impossibly infatuated with your appearance. you remind him of an ancient statue, how your beauty deserves to be preserved for all to appreciate. but at the same time, he feels a strong desire to keep you to himself.

you sit across from the zaterran, briefly introducing yourself before diving into the questioning. syzoth, however, can't seem to focus on your words, only your plush lips.

"syzoth," you say, trying to regain his attention that is obviously diverted. "tell me how you fell into shang tsung's imprisonment."

syzoth tries so hard to spill the entire timeline, but his words stumble over each other every time he looks up at you. your eyes are so warm, so inviting, so perfect. he's flustered incredibly quickly. it's so obvious that even ashrah playfully rolls her eyes from a distance.

you make him nervous, and that's really cute.

♡

johnny >

johnny walks through the portal with new his fellow chosen ones, taking in the view of the academy. he tunnel visions hard, only focusing on getting adequate information using his phone. that is, until he pans over to the group of monks awaiting his arrival. he stops on you, shamelessly zooming in to get a good view of your face.

"didn't know monks could be so sexy," he'd call out with a smirk, not even putting his phone down for a single second to admire you in person. it's only when kenshi shoves his arm downward that he actually gets a good look at you.

his playboy jokes would die down when he neared you as it was replaced with a warm obsession. you were drop-dead gorgeous. he could score you some roles in movies, you could be the face of perfumes across the globe!

what he felt wasn't like hollywood infatuation. he wanted to know more than what you hid under your robes, which was relatively new to him. he felt the need to grow and change to earn your praise.

he felt little to no shame about this realization. every chance he could, it was an offer to dinner, an offer to visit his sleeping quarters, or him casually dropping he'll be in the secluded hot springs after training, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you heard him.

johnny would make a clear effort to somehow always be in your way, forcing you to interact with him. he'd insist on cleaning your dishes, always be first up for demonstrations, and just so happened to memorize your schedule and "accidentally" bump into you on the gravel paths. it was so abundantly obvious that this man was head over heels, it was kind of embarrassing.

you didn't entertain the actor, honestly. it's not that you didn't like him, it was that he'd A) flirt with a vase if it had nice curves, and B) your duties were more important than a celebrity. or at least, you forced yourself to believe it.

"come on baby, surely you're wondering what kind of punch a hollywood actor packs."

"in your dreams, cage," you'd reply with a smile, knowing damn well you want to take him up on his offer later.

♡

liu kang >

he swore to never get entangled with mortals, not after what happened - or rather, didn't happen - with kitana.

liu kang grows out of this infatuation after eons of busywork and dedicates himself to the stability of the timeline. nothing could distract him from his duties.

that is, until he met the New Era you. you were a relatively insignificant part in his life prior to the timeline reset, so he never paid much attention to you or knew you existed. but, this time around, liu kang took some creative liberties and decided to give you a more significant purpose. what he didn't do was see you before this moment.

he was discussing important matters with geras at the wu shi academy, mind only focused on the importance of the hourglass and the absurdity of recent events revolving a somehow resurrected titan. as he circles the sandy display, he glances through the vision and realizes you, one of the monks, is standing in the doorway with seemingly important knowledge to deliver.

liu kang feels his heart flutter, and he places his hand on his chest in mild surprise. his face remains stoic and expressionless, but it's clear that something winded him. geras glances over at the fire god with a knowing look.

"lord liu kang," you say with a quick bow, and liu kang makes a mental note to himself that he may or may not be into titles. "i come bearing news regarding the chosen ones."

liu kang stands there, his bright eyes totally unreadable. his lips open and close, and his tattoos flicker. he doesn't realize just how long he'd been staring and lost in thought. your beauty reminded him of the universe he painted, so elegant and full of life. he doesn't know how he didn't notice you sooner. to him, you were everything he wanted to be right in the world with your gentle features and kind voice.

geras waves a hand in front of him, making him blink and snap back into reality. he clears his throat.

"yes, yes, please," liu kang suddenly adopts a warm, loving tone, one that's more caring than his usual godly silky voice. his old personality shines through, the charming pretty boy attitude he swore to abandon eons ago. "you may enter, my dear. some tea?"

geras makes the observation that he's sweeter to you than most others, but he's going to keep that to himself. for now, he just watches with mild amusement as liu kang prepares a small cup of matcha for you with a smile that travels into his glowing eyes. he witnessed that look before, when he'd see his kitana. but this was new, this was something that could be beautiful if he let himself try.

[soapyghostie]

hiiii can i req a fem reader x dbd ghostface and legion of how would they react to readers backstory? before the fog, reader was a highly skilled and deadly merc (she doesn't mess with innocent ppl tho) who got nerfed by the entity 🙁 and became a new survivor, they found out all abt this when reader was telling her stories at the camp, and it also explains how she's so good at not getting killed pls and ty <333

I thought this request would be fun to try something a little different since it’s a very detailed request. I worked all afternoon on this request so I hope y’all enjoy. Now I’m going to go take a brain break…

The Ghost Face/Danny Johnson

In the desolated realm of the Entity, where the fog shrouds every corner and the survivors’ desperate screams echo through the air, a mysterious connection blossomed between Danny Johnson, the Ghost Face killer, and you. You are a resilient survivor whose past echoed with tales of life lived on edge. 

One evening, as the survivors gathered around the flickering campfire in the cold embrace of the Entity’s realm, you decided to share your story. The glow from the fire danced across your face, casting shadows that mirrored the secrets you held. 

Danny sat in the shadows, his iconic Ghost Face mask concealing any discernible emotion. As you began to recount your life before the fog, Danny’s curiosity intensified. 

You were a highly skilled and deadly mercenary, known for your precise tactics and an unyielding code that forbade harm to the innocent. Your reputation on Earth was both feared and respected, a shadowy figure who navigated the murky waters of morally ambiguous contracts. You described your missions with vivid detail, the adrenaline-fueled pursuits, and the high-stakes negotiations. Danny listened intently, recognizing a certain darkness in your tales that resonated with his own experiences. 

As you spoke, the survivors marveled at your tales, their eyes widening at the realization that this seemingly ordinary woman had once danced on the razor’s edge of life and death. But Danny, he remained silent, the mask concealing any emotion that may have betrayed his thoughts. 

You continued, detailing the night you found yourself ensnared by the Entity’s web. The mercenary who faced down countless dangers suddenly found yourself in a realm where the line between predator and prey blurred, and only survival mattered. The Ghost Face, still concealed in the shadows, felt an odd connection to your story. 

He admired the strength and resilience that allowed you to escape so many trials, but something deeper stirred within him. 

When you delved into the intricacies of your survival techniques during trials, Danny’s attention sharpened. He recognized the cunning strategies she employed – a result of her mercenary past. It explained why you never faltered, consistently evading the clutches of killers and outsmarting the Entity’s malevolent designs. 

After your story concluded, a heavy silence slung over the camp. Danny remained in his stoic silence, contemplating the revelations that had unfolded. He has never anticipated a connection with a survivor that transcended the typical predator-prey dynamic: an obsession. 

In the following trials, Danny found himself observing you with newfound respect. A shared understanding passed between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of the shadows y’all both carried. As y’all navigated the fog together, Danny couldn’t help but feel a mysterious kinship with you, the mercenary survivor, who had faced down the darkness and emerged, still fighting.

The Legion/F.J.S.J

In the eerie realm between dimensions, where the Entity’s grasp manipulated time and reality itself, a new survivor emerged. This survivor was you who bore a mysterious past that surpassed the boundaries of the fog and was sought after by none other than The Legion – Frank, Julie, Susie, and Joey. 

The campfire flickered as the survivors gathered, each harboring their own twisted tales of suffering. Among them, you, a young woman, stood out. Your eyes held a glimpse of a world far beyond the fog, haunting memories of a life as a highly skilled and deadly mercenary. One night, curiosity seized The Legion. As the survivors shared their stories to break the monotony of their torment, you decided to unveil your past. Your voice, tinged with both sorrow and strength, resonated through the chilling air. 

Before the fog claimed you, you had navigated the shadows of society, dealing in a world of cutthroat mercenaries. Your skills were unmatched, your reputation whispered in dark corners. You spoke of stealth, precision, and a strict moral code that forbade harm to the innocent. The Legion listened intently, their interest piqued by tales that mirrored their own descent into darkness.

As you recounted your final mission before being ensnared by the Entity, The Legion exchanged glances, recognizing a kinship in the shadows. They saw echoes of their own stories in your struggles against a fate that twisted you into something beyond your control. 

You detailed your transition from a deadly operative survivor trapped in an endless cycle of trials. Your survival instincts, honed by years of dangerous missions, allowed you to navigate the fog with grace that often eluded your fellow captives. It explained why you danced on the edge of sacrifice during trials, evading the killers’ grasp with an uncanny ability.  

Frank, the charismatic leader of The Legion, felt a peculiar connection to you. He saw in you a kindred spirit, someone who, like them, had faced the darkness head-on. Susie and Joey, normally reserved and mysterious, found a silent respect for the mercenary survivor who shared their pain in the silent campfire tales. 

The Legion, usually united in their chaotic pursuit of chaos, now found themselves touched by your story. Each had faced the Entity’s cruel hand differently, but your resilience left an indelible mark on their collective consciousness. 

In the trials that followed, The Legion observed you with a newfound understanding. They saw a survivor who, despite the Entity's attempts to break you, clung to your humanity. You had faced the shadows of the world before the fog, and in the twisted realm of the Entity, you continue to defy the darkness.  

As they hunted survivors, The Legion couldn’t help but feel a strange connection to you. Through you, they found peace in shared pain and a flicker of hope that defied the unrelenting despair of the fog. And so, in the shifting shadows of the trials, you and The Legion danced to the haunting rhythm of survival, bound by the echoes of y’all’s shared pasts.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ [4]

Pairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Reader

series masterlist || series playlist || chapter song

Summary: Drowning in women and designer drugs, Bucky Barnes of Valkyrie’s Revenge is in a race to rock bottom. Fed up, his bandmates give him an ultimatum—straighten up, or fuck off. In a last, desperate bid to maintain his place, he agrees to return to the one place he swore he’d never set foot again—home.

Warnings: Angst, Drug Addiction, Mental Health issues, Toxicity, Recreational Drug use, Hard drug use, PTSD, Dealing with trauma, Slow Burn, Fluff, MINORS DNI, [More to be added]

A/N: another installment down! i’m really eager to hear what folks are thinking and feeling, so please don’t hesitate to hit my inbox with comments or questions! divider by @firefly-graphics​

series playlist || chapter song

This work is entirely unbeta’d, and unedited. Though I don’t own any of Marvel’s characters, this work and the plot contained inside are entirely mine. I do not consent for this work to be posted anywhere else by anyone but me. Enjoy 😘

🎤

You don’t sleep until the sky starts to turn from deep purple to pink at the edges, waiting for your phone to ring, or the doorbell, or a fierce knock—but nothing comes. You begin to slip down into slumber as the dawn stretches bright fingers up the faded wallpaper of your bedroom, and your anxieties follow you in. 

 You’re in the car. Why are you in the car? The window is cool to the touch beneath your fingers—it’s winter. It was winter. Maybe here it always is. Someone squeezes your hand—Bucky, you know it without looking. You know him so well that even the guitar callouses on his fingertips are as known to you as the folded pages of your favorite book. 

 You stroke your thumb over the creases in his skin. They are the familiar lines of a map you have learned down to the letter—every scar recorded to memory. 

 Why are you in the car? Rebecca is there too, her face blurred in the mirror as she leans over to whisper something to Bucky’s mother. You can’t hear her, like she’s speaking from under water. 

 “You think you’ll ever come back here? When you get famous?” You know how this goes, you remember this part—

 “When we get famous, you mean.” The world tilts on its head and suddenly you are standing in the rain on the shoulder of the road, staring at the smoking, twisted metal—

 “Mommy?”

 Your eyes are slow to open, like your body doesn’t actually want start moving again so soon after falling asleep. Iris is perched on the edge of your bed, her wide gray eyes searching your face. 

 “Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” you sit up onto your elbows with a huff. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” You hadn’t slept at all, really, but your daughter doesn’t need to know that. “Were you up long without me?” She shakes her head. 

 “No.” She looks so much like Bucky as she cocks her head at you, her eyebrow lifting ever so slightly as she regards you. It’s almost laughable how many of his mannerisms she’s seems to have inherited despite never being around him, how much of him is in her. 

 Iris crawls up to the head of the bed and scoots underneath the blanket with a little sigh. You wrap your arms around your daughter, pressing a tired kiss to her forehead. 

 “You sleep okay? Any bad dreams?”

 “No. I was a mermaid in my dream.” Iris replies seriously. 

 “Oh? Did you see anything cool down there under the ocean?” As she begins describing the intricacies of her subconscious, you start trying to ready yourself for the day. It’s Saturday—one of your only full days off. Generally, your off time consists of taking Iris to absorb what little culture Meridian and the surrounding counties have to offer, but today, you’re dragging. 

 You haven’t dreamed about the crash since after Iris was two, but you know you shouldn’t be surprised by it’s reoccurrence, not really. The past has a way of biting your ass when you least expect it, your grandmother had said that to you when you were young, and you found it still held true. First Bucky, then Steve—it had been bound to happen sooner or later. 

 You can’t stop thinking about it as you slide out of bed, only managing to half listen to Iris as she describes the flavor of kelp ice cream to you over freezer waffles. 

 Following Bucky back from the softball game, riding in Steve’s truck because Winnie’s tire blew out on her sedan—Bucky was going to go back and pick it up later with the spare from the garage.

 Kissing him and telling him you’d see him at home, that you loved him.

 Watching the drunk driver plow headfirst into Bucky’s truck. 

 Bucky pulling his mother and sister from the wreckage, and screaming, so much screaming—

 “You’re sad today, mommy.” Your head snaps up, your fingers loosening on your fork in your shock. It clatters against the plate, but Iris doesn’t blink. “I can tell.” 

 So fucking much like her dad.

 “I guess I am,” you say after a moment.

 “Why?” 

 You’re not sure what to say—you certainly can’t tell her that you’re thinking about the crash. The one almost exactly a year before she was born. You can’t tell her that that’s when everything fell apart, when Declan Forge’s truck jumped the divider and slammed full speed into Bucky’s Dodge.

 But you don’t want to lie to her either. 

 “Something… bad happened, just before I found out I was pregnant with you. There was an accident, and some people I was very close to passed away.” Iris knows what death is; you’ve never shied away from some of the harsher truths, but this one is still hard for you to stomach. Iris looks like she’s thinking hard, her little brows scrunched up as her nose wrinkles. 

 “I’m sorry you’re sad, mommy.” Your chest goes painfully tight when she places her little hand on your cheek. “You shouldn’t have to be sad.” There’s a simple, childish wisdom in her words that makes you want to protect her, keep Iris just like this forever—but the concern written in the lines of her little face tells you otherwise. 

 You wipe at your tear filled eyes, fixing Iris with a soft smile. “Thanks, kiddo.”

 You bundle Iris into the shower as she talks a mile a minute. There’s barely enough time to answer one of her questions before she’s firing off others, each thought biting the tail of the next as they rush to get to her mouth.

 “Are we going to the center today, mommy?” She asks as you towel her off. “Miss Kitty said there’s berry picking today.” 

 Truth be told, you don’t want to spend any more time at the community center than you have to, these days—especially now that Bucky practically lives there. You’re bound to run into him—Meridian is smaller than a goddamn speck—but you don’t want to do it more than you have to. If Steve is already noticing the uncanny likeness between your daughter and his best friend, you don’t want to add more opportunities for Bucky to do the same. 

 “Wouldn’t you rather go to the park?” You suggest, but Iris shakes her head. “Or maybe the library? Or we could go see—”

 “Mommy, I want to see my friends at the center,” she whines, scuffing her foot against the bathroom tile. “Please?” You can’t deny her trembling lip and wide eyes, and you heave a sigh as you draw the wide toothed comb through her hair. 

 “Sure, sweetheart. We’ll go see your friends at the center.” 

 —

 Steve’s house is better than the studio apartment Tony had rented in his name, Bucky’s grateful for that. Waking up from the withdrawal induced nightmares to stare at the creepy painting of cherubs by his bedside was driving him crazier than the cravings. And now, there’s more than one place to sit around all day parsing out what a piece of shit he is—there are options; the kitchen, the porch, the living room, the den; all laid out for his choosing pleasure. 

 Bucky is currently parked on the porch, smoking what he thinks is either his fifth or eighth cigarette of the morning—he can’t remember. He’d been up early enough to watch the sun rise over the old warehouses in the distance, stretching golden fingers through the streets until it passed beyond the dead-end cul-de-sac where Steve’s mother used to live. 

 He’d missed that funeral, too. Bucky tries to recall where he was when Sarah died, tried to dredge up the memories—but they’re too cloudy for him to sort through. What a good friend, he thinks sourly, shaking either his sixth or ninth cigarette loose from the carton. Don’t even remember when my best friend’s mom kicked the bucket.

 “Hey.” Steve’s voice makes Bucky turn, squinting in the bright morning sun. “You’re up early.” Bucky appreciates that Steve doesn’t comment on the fact that Bucky’s always awake, knees trembling as he picks the cuticles on his hands down to the quick. 

 “Couldn’t sleep.” 

 Steve sits down beside him, shaking his head when Bucky offers him a cigarette. He’s not sure when Steve quit smoking, another memory lost to the shuffle. 

 “You going down to the center today?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s lip curls as he exhales smoke. He doesn’t much fancy going down there to wallow in self pity and regret. Easier just to do it here, where there isn’t anyone to ask him how he’s processing it all. 

 “If I said no would you make me go anyway?” He asks, and Steve actually laughs. 

 “Probably wouldn’t be too hard,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re skinny as shit.” 

 When they get to the center, Kitty is already there and going strong. She gets an almost religious fervor about herself as she speaks, her eyes bright as her lips move impossibly quickly. It reminds Bucky of what it was like on stage, the crowd’s attention and devotion like a steady morphine drip. He wonders if that’s Kitty’s addiction—being the center of attention. 

 “We talked about rock bottom last meeting,” she says, clapping her hands. “Now I want to talk about moving up. I want to talk about moving forward.”

 No forward for you, the demon mutters. Just under. Six feet, right?

 “Obviously today’s session isn’t mandatory, but it’s still useful. We’re going to give back to our community today, the community that has held us through these tough times.” Bucky’s not sure which community she’s talking about, considering that most of the folks inhabiting Meridian are no better than rabid dogs, but he keeps that little thought to himself. 

 “There’s a local business in need of a little assistance, they’re short staffed this quarter, and we’re going to assist! Isn’t that wonderful?” Bucky wants to shake his head, but refrains from doing so—barely. “Raul’s Berry Farm, out north on 49.” 

 Great.

 Kitty’s rented a van for today’s excursion, but Steve volunteers to drive him, which Bucky is thankful for. He’s not really sure how many more “uplifting” and “inspirational” stories he can handle. He gets back into Steve’s pickup, leaning his head back against the headrest. Steve pulls out into traffic, following the van. His fingers drum nervously against the wheel, tapping out an anxious rhythm Bucky’s not even sure he notices. Steve’s always been fidgety when he’s nervous, though, ever since they were little. 

 “What?” Bucky asks, and Steve turns to look at him like he has three heads. Bucky gestures at Steve’s fingers, tap-dancing across the dashboard. “What’s the problem?” 

 Steve shrugs. “Nothing.”

 “You always were a shit liar.” 

 Steve scowls at him. “It’s nothing, Buck. Seriously.” 

 The berry farm is a Meridian institution, one of the local businesses that had been around since before the town was a town. Bucky doesn’t think that’s a particularly impressive resume, but he knows better than to mention it when he hops out of Steve’s pickup and down into the dusty parking lot. Kitty gestures for everyone to circle in, clapping her hands excitedly. 

 “Alright everyone. We’ve got some little helpers here today too,” she points at a short yellow school bus that Bucky assumes also came from the community center. “I think we all know how important it is in the process to make amends not only to ourselves but to our community!” 

 Can’t make amends to people who are dead though, can you?

 Bucky picks up his five gallon bucket and starts down a line of blueberry bushes. He pops a few into his mouth, tart sweetness bursting over his tongue. He doesn’t wait for Kitty to deliver instructions—after all, how much directing could they possibly need to pick berries? The smell of the hot sun, the laughter of the children racing up and down the rows—it’s nostalgic. Bucky had been here many times himself on school field trips, the farm being one of the only “historic” locations within forty-five minutes of Meridian. 

 A group of children rounds the corner, flying down the dirt path at top speed. One of them crashes into his legs, and then lands back on the ground with a soft oof.

 “Easy, kid.” Bucky reaches down to help her up, and his heart leaps into his throat when Iris beams at him. 

 “Hi, Mr. Bucky!” Her wide smile is missing a couple of teeth. “I’m sorry I runned into you.” 

 “That’s okay.” He glances around, looking for you, but he doesn’t see you. “Where’s, um. Where’s your mom?” She cocks her head at him. 

 “She’s talking with Miss Kitty.” Iris points back towards the parking lot, and then makes a face. “Grown-up stuff.” She looks so much like you, wrinkling her little nose with distaste the same way you do. He can’t help but wonder who you’d found after him, who had tried to help you pick up the pieces because Bucky wouldn’t. 

 Couldn’t.

 And perhaps that’s the worst part of all, that when he’d broken you, he expected you to stay that way. But you hadn’t. You’ve moved on, you’ve grown, while Bucky is stuck in the same mud pit, nursing the same old wounds. Or maybe he isn’t nursing them at all, just tearing them open again and again because he knows he doesn’t deserve peace. 

 If he did, he’d be in the ground same as Beccs. 

 “Do you, um. Do you like blueberries?” Bucky asks lamely. He doesn’t know how to talk to kids, not really. Iris looks around conspiratorially, before gesturing for him to lean in close. 

 “They’re mommy’s favorite,” she stage whispers, and Bucky nods. He remembers that, at least. “She’s sad today. If I bring her something she likes, maybe she’ll be happy again.” Iris says resolutely, secure in the soundness of her childish reasoning. It makes Bucky’s heart ache a little, though he isn’t sure why. “Can you help me?”

 Bucky rubs the back of his neck. He knows you probably don’t want him anywhere near your kid. He looks around, searching for you, but he doesn’t see you. 

 “I dunno, kid, I mean… your mom, she…” Bucky stops, unsure of what to say. He can’t exactly tell a six year old that he’d nuked their relationship, can he?

 “Please?” 

 “I guess I could… help you get a few.” She chatters aimlessly at him, and Bucky struggles to keep up and respond to every loose thought that seems to fly from her little mouth up to his ears. Iris is so much like you—and it isn’t just the fact that in more than a few ways, she could be your twin. She reminds him of you before. 

 His fingers are stained purple by the time Iris’ bucket is even a quarter of the way full. Bucky can’t believe he even remembers how to do this, gripping the soft fruit gingerly and twisting it off of the vine. Iris’ mouth and hands are purple too, though that’s more from eating than picking. She stands up away from the bucket and waves at someone Bucky can’t see, crouched underneath the thorny vines the way he is. 

 “Hi mommy!” He pulls hurriedly away from the bush, wincing as one of the thorns catches his finger. You look less than pleased, but not angry. Panicked might be a better way to describe your tight expression, the frantic way your eyes move back and forth between Bucky and Iris. 

 “Hey, sweetheart. I was looking for you,” you reply. The weak smile on your features grows strained. “Hello Bucky.” 

 “Hey.” 

 “Mr. Bucky helped me get lots of berries, mommy, see?” Iris reaches indigo stained fingers into the bucket, and lets a handful of berries fall through her tiny fingers like gold coins. “Lots!” 

 “Woah! That’s so many,” you agree, placing your hands on your knees as you bend over to peer into her bucket. “I thought maybe we could head out, sweet pea. Maybe go for dinner? My friend made reservations for us somewhere special.”

 “Is it Andy?” Iris replies, her nose wrinkling again. “I don’t like him, mommy.” 

 You wince. 

 Who the fuck is Andy? The live-wire of jealousy that flares to life within him is neither logical nor fair. It’s the same one that had sparked when he’d found out you’d gotten pregnant, moved on, had an entire life without him while he was drowning in pills. But you like pills. The demon’s sly whisper makes him wince. More than anything. 

 “Okay. Well, why don’t we talk about that in the car, hmm? You should go say goodbye to your friends.” 

 “I don’t want to,” Iris whines. “I don’t want to go to dinner, I want to stay and—” You crouch down in front of Iris, grasping her hands in yours. 

 “I know, sweetheart. I know you’re frustrated because you want to stay and play, but it’s time to go. But you’ll see all your friends next week after school, won’t that be fun?” Iris’ pout is gut wrenching, her little lip poking out and trembling as she stares at you with watery eyes. 

 “Okay.” She scuffs her foot against the dirt, kicking up a few pebbles. You massage your temples as you watch her go. 

 “Sorry about that. I hope she wasn’t too much trouble.” You stuff your hands into the pockets of your jeans, making small talk. 

 “No, no. She’s, um. She’s great.” Bucky says, shaking his head. “So… Andy.” He can’t help the bitter tinge that colors his words, he can only hope you don’t taste it too. Your jaw tightens at the mention of his name, and you blow out a breath. “The um. The police guy.” 

 “Yeah.” You look away. “He’s nice.” 

 “I didn’t think badges were your type.” He scoffs.

 “What would you know about my type?” You fire back, hackles already up. Bucky’s lips draw into a thin scowl, and he opens his mouth to loose more venom, but stops, and deflates. 

 “Nothing, I guess.” He says after a moment, shrugging. He attempts to steer the conversation back into safer waters. “Your kid, she’s, um. She’s really something.” 

 “Yeah.” You hook your thumbs through the belt-loops of your jeans. “Even if she does announce my business to the world.” Bucky laughs at that. 

 “That’s what they’re for, right?” He says, and for the first time since he’s been back you really smile at him. Bright and wide and beautiful, like you used to. His chest goes tight. “Looks just like you.”

 You shake your head, laughing. “She…” You hesitate, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as the two of you watch her gesticulating enthusiastically at another group of kids her age. “She looks like her dad.” It hangs in the air uncomfortably between you. He wants to ask. He wants to ask so badly, but he knows it’ll just make you throw up another wall. He wonders how many you’ve built just because of him. 

 “I didn’t know they would put you guys to work like this,” you say quickly, as though forcing more words out will cover up the ones that went before. “Is that legal?” Your stiff joke lands, and the corners of Bucky’s mouth turn up. 

 “I don’t know. Probably not. Pretty sure there’s hazardous chemicals in the sheds that we could use for nefarious purposes.” For a moment the two of you are laughing together, and Bucky feels the clock rewind—and then it’s over, dirt crunching under Iris’ sneakers as she approaches. 

 “Okay mom,” she says decisively. “We can go.” 

 “Oh, well, thank you very much,” you reply, shaking your head a little. You glance at Bucky over your shoulder. “I guess I’ll, um. See you. Around.”

 “Yeah.” Iris looks back at him too, giving him a wide smile. She tugs her hand out of yours and jogs back over to him, reaching conspiratorially into her pocket. 

 “I saved you some,” she says, and then holds a purple stained finger over her mouth. “Don’t tell, okay?”

 “Okay,” Bucky whispers back, nodding seriously. “I won’t tell.” The berries are a little squished and hot from the heat of her palm, and they stain his fingers with fresh purple juice. He watches you go, Iris bouncing excitedly beside you as—Bucky grimaces. He remembers Andy well enough, his manicured beard and sharply pressed uniform hard to miss. Bucky gets a perverse sort of pleasure watching Iris’ lukewarm greeting, and the way you turn your face so that he gets your cheek when he drops his head for a kiss. 

 Prick.

 At least he knew Andy wasn’t Iris’ father. That would have been a much harder pill for him to swallow, and all the more distasteful. Who is her father? The question plagues him as they head back to the community center. It’s like a rock in his shoe, impossible to ignore no matter how many times he shifts it’s position. There are other rocks too, ones that make him narrow his eyes as he stares out the window at the passing countryside. Iris’ allergy, her age… 

 He supposed he had been trying not to think about it, the thought playing at the edges of his conscious mind. Mainly because it would be unthinkable—you’d agreed, both  of you had agreed that you would get an abortion. 

 So Iris couldn’t be his. 

 What if she didn’t? The oily smooth voice at the back of his mind whispers. What if she didn’t?

 Steve’s pickup rumbles into the driveway, and Bucky sits in it vacantly for a few minutes after Steve hops out. The thought eats at him, won’t leave him alone. 

 What if?

 What if?

 What if?

 “Buck, you’re pacing.” Steve comments from the doorway of his room. “I can hear you downstairs.” Bucky scrubs a hand down his face. 

 “I’m sorry.” He perches on the edge of the bed, his hand tapping nervously against his knee. “I just, I can’t stop thinking, you know?” Usually he has the pills to help with that, to dull the anxious turning of his mind. But now, he has nothing. 

 “Yeah?” Steve moves to sit beside him. “What about?”

 “About Jellybean, and the kid, and fuck, what if it’s mine? And I never fucking knew this whole goddamn time? That would fucking serve me right, wouldn’t it?” Bucky barks out a humorless laugh. He looks at Steve, waiting for him to say something, anything. “Right? I mean it’s not possible, right? It-It’s not.” 

 It’s so silent, Bucky reckons he could hear a pin drop. For once he’s thankful to be out of the haze, because it lets the puzzle pieces slide together almost disgustingly easily. His face contorts as he jumps up, away from Steve. 

 “Oh my God.” He presses the heels of his palms into his closed eyes as he shakes his head. “You fucking knew.” Steve holds his hands out placatingly. 

 “Buck.” He reaches out to place a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, but he shoves him away. 

 “No, you shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, shaking his head disbelievingly. “You fucking knew.”  His voice cracks, just a little. 

 “She asked me not to say anything. I swear, I didn’t know before we got back—” Bucky’s already running down the stairs, the sound of his pulse roaring in his ears blocking out the sound of Steve frantically shouting his name. He doesn’t realize he’s leaving the house until he’s already outside, rapidly fleeing into the coming evening before Steve has a chance to follow.

 I have a daughter.

next chapter

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library​ for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

[liyawritesss]

ᖴᒪOᗯEᖇᔕ Iᑎ ᗷᒪOOᗰ - ᐯᗩᒪEᑎTIᑎEᔕ ᗪᖇᗩᗷᗷᒪEᔕ

Ｄａｙ １４ － Ｓｅｃｒｅｔ Ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐ

－ Adore You - T'Challa Udaku - Marvel's Black Panther

－ In which being in a secret relationship is never easy, but the King shows his affection in the little ways that matter.

－ Check out more prompts and other activities on the Flowers In Bloom Event Masterlist!

You’d always admired T’Challa from afar.

He was a man of many things; talent, charm, compassion, care. He warmed the hearts of all those he met, leaving smiles in his wake as he threaded through the world, carving his own legacy in the actions he did. He’d stolen your heart, just as he did everyones. It would only be later that you’d find out that the feat was an intentional one.

Your little escapades started in his princely youth, but with someone with so much to lose, the best gambit was to be like the air that surrounded you two - when it came to your love, the invisibility of it to the regular eye was key. It was a dance the both of you mastered by the time T’Challa had taken on the mantle of Black Panther, taking on newfound abilities that scared the both of you just as much as it deepened your connection with one another.

You took your fears and turned it into something tangible, channeling it into a positive force that could benefit the both of you instead of tearing you down. That is how the first sketches of the new Black Panther suit came to fruition, and with the help of Shuri, the ingenious inventor princess with undeniable sass and wit, the first prototypes were completed within the coming months. While Shuri had been the one to present to the King his new, high tech, insanely more practical Black Panther suit that would aid him in his missions much more efficiently, the comments of its intricacies didn't go unnoticed by the Princess, who was sure to relay them down the pipeline.

However, this was the extent of what you could do to show your affections for T’Challa, and for the most part, you were fine with it. You were busy enough as a scientist working at the most high-tech and top lab in the world; time wasn’t necessarily friendly to you, either. You were satisfied with the meetings and kind smiles and longing stares you two shared.

It never occurred to you that maybe T’Challa wasn’t, or felt that he could be doing more, because when you approached your home one night after clocking out from your shift at the lab, you found a black box with the Golden Tribe insignia etched onto the top. You grabbed the small box and brung it inside with you, setting it on your kitchen island along with the rest of your belongings before directing all of your attention to it.

You examined the outside of it first before curiosity took control of you, and upon opening the box, you were met with something that made your eyes go wide and your heart skip a beat for a few seconds. Inside, lying against a tiny black velvet pillow, was a small charm bracelet with black claw-like gems and obsidian beads. It was a smaller version of the Black Panther necklace you had designed with Shuri, the final prototype that T’Challa now wore as a staple of his everyday attire.

A tiny slip of paper poked out from underneath the velvet pillow, and upon pulling it out and reading it, you smiled: a piece of me, as i have of you.

The next day, you received compliments on the new piece of jewelry that rested on the same wrist as your kimoyo beads. Despite the gushing of the sentimental value it represented for the protector of your nation (and the knowing stare from one princess), only you would know the truth behind it.

[salvawhores-world]

Benedict Bridgerton X OC PART 2

Benedict bridgerton x Helen Ashford (OC)

Warnings - Character death, mentions of pregnancy

A/n - This concludes their story I’m in love with Helen and Benedict they’re my babies. It has the same energy as Fix you by coldplay.

Benedict and Helen had been wedded for a week, and though their time together had been somewhat awkward, they found solace in their individual pursuits.

Benedict would often retreat to his art studio, engrossed in his paintings, while Helen sought the company of the Bridgerton siblings and Kate, who graciously guided her through the intricacies of her new life.

Eloise, in particular, was enchanted by her sister-in-law. The two would engage in spirited conversations about literature and their shared distaste for societal conventions.

Eloise, ever inquisitive, inquired of Helen, "Have you perused the recent theories on gravity, dear sister? I would relish a further elucidation from you."

Helen, with a gentle smile, replied, "I possess a modicum of knowledge concerning the origins of said theories, commencing with an apple's descent and culminating in a comprehensive equation."

Their discourse was momentarily disrupted as the spirited young Hyacinth bounded into the room. "Ah, Hyacinth, do come hither," Helen called, retrieving an item from a nearby table.

"Behold, I have completed this for you. inspect the design, and should it displease you, I shall make suitable alterations."

Hyacinth's eyes gleamed with delight as she held the intricately embroidered handkerchief in her hands. "I adore it, Helen! Truly, I do," she exclaimed, marveling at the artistry. "The colors are most pleasing to my senses."

Eloise, eager for more of Helen's attention, playfully intervened, drawing her away from Hyacinth's side. A light-hearted banter ensued between Eloise and Hyacinth, each claiming Helen's exclusive company.

Sensing the need to restore harmony, Helen interceded, her voice gentle but firm. "cease this quarrel, dear sisters. Eloise, fear not, for I shall gladly elucidate the topic of gravity to you presently. And, Hyacinth, my dear, why not prepare the chessboard? Once our discussion concludes, we shall indulge in a pleasant game."

As the lunch hour arrived, the family gathered around the table, their eyes wandering in search of Benedict and Colin. Helen couldn't help but wonder where her husband had disappeared to, especially as Colin's absence was equally peculiar.

"Pray, where have the two young gentlemen ventured?" Kate inquired, her curiosity piqued. Eloise, unable to resist a teasing remark, chimed in, "Ah, Helen, do enlighten us about the whereabouts of your dear husband. It seems he has chosen an intriguing path of seclusion."

Before another word escaped her lips, Eloise felt a sharp pinch from Anthony, a silent reprimand for her audacious jest.

Helen, embodying grace and poise, rose from her seat and cleared her throat delicately. "If you would all kindly excuse me, I shall embark on a quest to locate our elusive gentlemen," she announced with unwavering composure. With a polite nod, she made her exit, leaving the Bridgerton siblings to exchange furtive glances.

Violet, the matriarch, took notice of the unfolding situation. Determined to maintain order, she commanded, "No one shall leave this table, do you comprehend?"

Her words carried an air of authority, prompting the family members to feign nonchalance, suppressing their desire to investigate further.

"But, Mama, one cannot deny your yearning for a glimpse into the private dynamics of their relationship," Francesca mused mischievously, hoping to lighten the mood.

Violet, catching on to her daughter's playfulness, responded with a hint of wry humor, "Indeed, my dear. However, it appears we must grant the couple some precious time for personal interactions."

Anthony, unable to resist a sardonic retort, interjected, "Ah, yes, because clearly they have been starved of such moments thus far."

His remark elicited laughter from the assembled family, their mirth filling the room.

Helen embarked on a mission to find Benedict, starting with his art studio. She traversed the grand halls of the Bridgerton estate, her steps echoing in the silence.

As she approached the studio, she knocked thrice, but there was no response. With a sense of anticipation, she pushed open the door, only to be greeted by an empty room adorned with scattered palettes, papers, and canvases. Benedict was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was in their chambers.

Sighing, Helen made a mental note to admire the paintings later. She reached their chambers and, before knocking, heard muffled sounds of commotion within.

Determined to uncover the source, she knocked once, then twice, but each time, she was met with an eerie silence. Frustration began to brew within her.

Without further ado, Helen boldly barged into her bedchambers, only to be met with a disheveled and perspiring Benedict, accompanied by a concerned Colin. Both Bridgerton brothers turned to face her.

Surveying the room, Helen's eyes fell upon a scattered sketchbook and a few charcoal sticks strewn across the floor.

Two cups of tea sat abandoned on the table. Benedict, looking rather unwell, attempted to muster a playful tone:

“If I must, what is happening here?" Helen asked, her gaze sweeping the disarrayed room.

Before Colin could utter a word, Benedict interjected, his words laced with a touch of mischief. "Colin, my dear brother, do enlighten me. I fear this lady is a stranger to my acquaintance."

Benedict squinted his eyes and giggled, maintaining a distance as Helen approached.

Just as she was about to inspect his countenance, he took a step back, declaring, "No, no! I shall not permit you to touch me! I am a respectable married man, and I refuse to engage in anything that might displease my wife."

With a sullen demeanor, he retreated to a corner near the window, resembling a sorrowful child.

Helen was taken aback, her heart swelling with a glimmer of hope. She hadn't expected Benedict to acknowledge their marriage so openly or exhibit such integrity towards her, especially within the second week of their union, when they still knew so little about each other.

Turning to Colin, Helen adopted an elder sisterly tone, despite their similar ages. "Colin Bridgerton, pray tell me what has befallen my husband. I am certain you possess knowledge of the matter."

Colin sheepishly ran a hand through his hair, attempting to alleviate the tension in the room. "Well, you see... he was under considerable stress, so I thought a small amount of my traveler's powder would alleviate it."

Helen scrunched her nose, unimpressed. "I highly doubt that is its proper name."

Benedict continued to gaze out of the window, discontented by the unwelcome intrusion of an unknown lady attempting to touch him. How dare she? What about his loyalty to his wife, regardless of love or friendship? Loyalty must prevail!

Colin cheekily whispered, "Opium," as he explained the true nature of the powder. "He was meant to take a pinch, but he ended up consuming the entire quantity," Colin confessed in his defense.

Helen, resting her hand on her hip, eyed him with mock annoyance. "Colin Bridgerton, do not think you shall escape the consequences of subjecting my husband to such misadventures. Once this ordeal is over, you shall be in for a most amusing retribution, my dear brother."

Colin looked at his sister-in-law sheepishly, realizing the predicament he had caused. "Very well,Colin, now properly chastised, glanced at Helen with a mixture of guilt and amusement. "I shall leave you both now and join the others for lunch. But I must inquire, what of the two of you?" he asked before making his exit.

Helen flashed a warm smile. "Fear not, dear Colin. We shall manage just fine. Inform your Mama that Benedict is feeling under the weather, and I am attending to him. Rest assured, we will join you soon."

As Colin left the room, Helen took a deep breath, preparing herself for the task of dealing with her high-as-a-kite husband.

Helen's delicate hand came to rest upon Benedict's shoulder, causing him to turn around in confusion. As he looked into her eyes, a spark of recognition flickered within him, and he whispered her name, "Helen."

"My lord," she spoke with grace, a smile reserved solely for her husband adorning her lips. "I have brought you lunch, for you have not partaken in any sustenance."

Benedict furrowed his brow, his mind slowly piecing together the puzzle before him. "There was a lady here, was there not? Where has she gone? Did Colin escort her to his chamber?"

His words spilled forth in a mixture of confusion and concern, while Helen silently grimaced at the mention of Colin taking her to bed.

“Yes, my lord," she replied, playing along with her husband's musings. "She departed when I arrived. Fear not, for you need not worry. I assure you, all is well."

Relief washed over Benedict's features, and he fervently grasped Helen's hands, smearing charcoal upon them. "I pushed her away, Helen. I promise you, I did." His urgency conveyed his sincerity, and Helen understood the importance of loyalty and integrity in her life. It was the foundation upon which true love could flourish.

Helen gazed at Benedict, her voice a mere whisper. "Benedict," she spoke softly, using his name rather than his title, as he had requested. "I believe you, my dear. Now, let us proceed. I shall accompany you to the bathing chamber."

With gentle guidance, Helen led Benedict, the disheveled artist, towards their private sanctuary.

There, amidst the flickering candlelight, she began the tender process of undressing him, her movements both delicate and awkward.

Benedict's words tumbled forth, his gaze intense as he expressed his admiration, "Have I ever told you how exquisite you...look?"

Helen held her breath, her heart fluttering at his words. Countless men had uttered such sentiments to her, but the intensity and proximity of Benedict's gaze had a profound effect, melting her resolve like a puddle of mud. "I do not believe you have, Benedict," she replied, a teasing smile playing upon her lips.

Benedict gasped dramatically, as if he were a a lady wronged. "How incredibly rude and inconsiderate of me," he lamented, drawing a giggle from Helen. She found his antics endearing, and gently she removed his hands from his beautiful face.

"Fret not, dear. There is always a first time for everything," she reassured him, her voice filled with tenderness.

Helen sat beside Benedict, the room filled with the faint scent of opium as the effects of the drug lingered in his mind. She held a spoonful of soup to his lips, her eyes brimming with concern and affection.

"Open wide, dear," Helen coaxed gently, her voice filled with tenderness. Benedict, still under the influence, opened his mouth like a child eager for a sweet treat.

Helen carefully guided the spoon, ensuring he swallowed each mouthful.

"Goodness, Benedict, you are being quite the handful today," she remarked playfully, her fingers brushing against his cheek as she wiped away a stray droplet of soup.

Benedict's eyes sparkled with a mixture of confusion and childlike innocence. "Am I, my lady? I cannot seem to recall."

His words were laced with a touch of mischief, despite the clouded state of his mind “Shall I sketch you? Capture your beauty?” He offered

Helen let out an awkward chuckle, her laughter slightly nervous, yet filled with genuine affection. "Oh, Benedict, you always find a way to surprise me. But, I must warn you, my face might not be the most captivating subject for your sketch in this state."

Benedict's brow furrowed, his cloudy mind struggling to comprehend her words. "Nonsense, Helen! I... I want to capture your... um, beauty on this paper. It's... part of being a married couple, right?" He scratched his head, a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

Helen couldn't help but blush, feeling the weight of their arranged marriage in the air. She hesitated for a moment before responding, trying to find the right words. "Well, yes, I suppose it is. But let's not put too much pressure on this sketch, shall we? It's just... a friendly attempt at art."

Benedict nodded, his eyes flickering with a mix of determination and self-consciousness. "Right, just a... friendly sketch. Nothing more." He picked up the sketching stick, his grip a bit unsteady, and glanced at Helen, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink.

Helen sat still, her posture slightly rigid, as Benedict started to draw. His strokes were hesitant, his hand shaking slightly as he tried to capture her features.

The resulting lines on the paper were far from perfect, but there was an endearing quality to the sketch—a rawness that mirrored their newly formed connection.

The night grew late, casting a serene ambiance over the Bridgerton estate. Helen, finally finding a moment of respite after a demanding afternoon caring for her husband, sat at the pianoforte, her fingers delicately dancing across the ivories.

Lost in the melodies she composed, she sought solace in the harmonies that flowed from the instrument.

Just then, Kate entered the room, carrying a dainty cup of tea. With grace, she approached Helen and extended the offering. Helen accepted it graciously, her eyes filled with curiosity. Taking a sip, she relished the delightful warmth that caressed her senses.

"My dear Kate, this tea is truly remarkable. Pray, may I inquire about its origins?" Helen inquired, her voice tinged with intrigue.

Kate chuckled softly, settling into a nearby seat. "Why, my dear, this tea is brewed in a manner reminiscent of our Indian traditions. Back home, after long and arduous days, I would prepare a cup for myself, finding solace in its comforting embrace."

"How do you find it, my dear?" Kate inquired, her voice gentle and curious. "Well, as I mentioned earlier, it is quite refreshing and unlike anything I have experienced before,"

Helen replied, setting the cup aside with a delicate touch. "But pray, Kate, I believe we both know you are not referring to the tea. You speak of my marriage to Benedict. How has it fared?"

Helen took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before responding. A faint smile adorned her lips, revealing a touch of awkwardness. “It has been... good. Benedict is a truly remarkable man, one with a kind and gentle spirit." Her words held a mix of sincerity and uncertainty, as if trying to navigate the complexities of her emotions.

Kate observed her sister-in-law closely, attempting to decipher the emotions that danced across her features. "I know that a love match was your heartfelt desire, as it is for many in our family. While your marriage may not have sprung from romantic love, I do believe that you and Benedict complement each other. He is a free-spirited soul, a ray of sunshine who lives life on his own terms. Trust me, in due time, he will come to truly love and cherish you, treating you with the utmost care you deserve."

Helen's smile grew slightly more genuine, her gaze drifting to a distant memory. "Of course, with time, I shall strive to know him better," she replied, recalling a recent incident that had left an impression.

Kate nodded, her smile warm and understanding. "Helen, it would be unjust to ask if you are in love with him, for we all have our own beliefs and paths to tread. But tell me, how do you truly feel? You can be honest with me, dear Helen," she gently encouraged.

Helen paused, contemplating her response. She spoke with a quiet certainty, "Kate, I have always viewed marriage as a duty, a means to bear children and foster a certain level of companionship. Love, in the romantic sense, has never been a concept I hold dear. So, I would be content if our relationship remains as it is, devoid of passionate love. I have no secrets from you,Kate. You are dear to me, and I bid you goodnight," she concluded, gracefully stepping away from the conversation, leaving Kate alone, caught in her own thoughts.

Kate was left astounded, realizing that perhaps she had underestimated Helen's true nature.

She considered the similarities between Helen and Eloise, both strong-willed and resilient in their own right. In different fonts, they were cut from the same cloth.

How could she have expected anything less from Helen

Soon the next day Colin couldn't resist sharing the amusing tale with Benedict, recounting how Helen had come to his rescue.

Benedict, torn between avoiding Helen and expressing his gratitude, realized it was time to have a conversation with her. As the evening grew late, Benedict searched every nook and cranny of their home, determined to find his elusive wife.

"Look at him, scouring the house like a lost puppy in search of his wife," Anthony chimed in, unable to resist a teasing jab.

Colin, quick-witted as ever, couldn't help but add fuel to the fire. "Oh, dear brother, do you recall your own escapades with Kate, our dear sister-in-law? You're hardly one to lecture about following wives like loyal puppies."

Kate, always one to join in the banter, interjected with a playful smirk. "Colin, are you suggesting that a husband's devotion to his wife is a dreadful thing?"

The words hung in the air, leaving Colin momentarily flustered. Before he could respond, the conversation took an unexpected turn.

"Would someone please enlighten me as to the whereabouts of my wife?" Benedict exclaimed in frustration, his patience wearing thin.

Hyacinth, ever the mischievous one, couldn't resist poking fun at her brother. "Seems like everyone knows more about your wife's whereabouts than you do, Benedict," she teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Benedict, growing more exasperated by the minute, snapped at Hyacinth. "Silence your tiny mouth, Hyacinth! Aren't you the one attached to her like a leech at all times? Now, tell me where she is!"

Anthony, always the charmer, interjected with a smirk. "Oh, dear brother, what happened to the free-spirited Benedict who once lectured me endlessly about loosening up and learning to take a joke? Has marriage tamed you, perchance?"

Francesca, adding her own tidbit to the conversation, joined in with a knowing smile. "Ah, the yearning of young love. I happened to see Helen heading towards your art studio, Benedict."

Benedict, fueled by a newfound determination, scurried off towards his art studio, eager to reunite with his beloved wife.

Helen was engrossed in her scribbling, her eyes filled with a passion as she observed the ethereal sky. Benedict, silently admiring his wife's presence, couldn't help but appreciate her uncommon interest in astrophysics.

It was an enchanting trait, for it was not often that one found a woman during this era with such a fascination for the moon, stars, and the vast night sky.

Benedict longed to know more about her, but he lacked the courage and opportunity to delve deeper into her world.

"Helen," Benedict called out, his voice filled with awkwardness as he cautiously approached her in his studio. Helen, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice his presence, simply hummed in response.

Benedict took a few steps closer until he stood directly behind her. Helen turned, inadvertently meeting his chest, and when she looked up, she found herself face to face with her husband, his baby blue eyes locked with her own.

Helen's brows furrowed in her classic frown, but before she could utter a word, Benedict impulsively reached out and smoothed the line on her forehead, as if fixing a stroke on one of his paintings.

It was the closest they had been in the two weeks of their marriage, except for the incident when she had cared for him, but she disregarded that moment.

The tranquility was interrupted by the rustling leaves, and Helen took a step back, leaving Benedict fidgeting awkwardly with his hands.

"You were searching for me, my lord," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Helen, how many times must I tell you, I am Benedict," he sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. "But forgive me, it has become a habit for you, I suppose."

She forced a smile. "Benedict, tell me, how may I be of assistance?"

Benedict cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words. "I was hoping we could discuss the events of the other day when, well... you know..." He trailed off, finding it difficult to express himself.

"You were quite high and behaving like an adorable little child," Helen Questioned, her voice filled with amusement.

"I had no idea you found me adorable," Benedict replied, a playful tone in his voice.

"I find children adorable, Benedict, and that's exactly how you were acting," she retorted, continuing her teasing manner.

"Ah, yes, I apologize for burdening you with the task of caring for me in such a state. I should have been more responsible. Nonetheless, thank you sincerely for looking after me," Benedict expressed his gratitude.

"I will always take care of you," she responded with a smile.

The lack of communication between them had led them to play a dangerous game. While Helen fulfilled her duties out of sheer obligation, disregarding matters of the heart, Benedict felt a glimmer of happiness. Perhaps, slowly, he could foster a genuine friendship with her.

“Well, I would love to hear you talk about how navy blue should only be mixed with Prussian blue because, as you once said, they understand each other. Now that you are sober, of course," she laughed, attempting to keep the conversation flowing.

If she were to make any progress with Benedict, to move beyond the awkwardness she needed to engage in normal conversation.

“Then, dear, you are in for a treat. But first, tell me, why do you constantly fixate on everything you gaze upon in the sky?" Benedict playfully inquired.

"Come, let me show you," she said, turning around excitedly to peer out of the window, her hand still clasped in his.

“You see, I spot one star, and then the adjacent stars create a precise spacing here," she explained, showcasing the paper she had been scribbling on.

“Finally, I attempt to connect them to form constellations, understanding them better in the process." She pointed out of the window.

"You see right there? These stars together form Orion, the hunter from Greek mythology. Its brightest stars are the blue-white Rigel and the red Betelgeuse," Helen informed Benedict.

Benedict, a man of passion who had always sought solace in his art, resonated deeply with the concept of having a true passion.

He understood the sparkle in his wife's eyes, even if he didn't comprehend the details of her explanations. What he knew for certain was that Helen Bridgerton's eyes shone the brightest, even more so than the blue-white Rigel and red Betelgeuse.

After that encounter two days later, Benedict stepped into his art studio one evening, a playful grin adorning his face. "Ah, my dearest wife, it seems you have taken a fancy to invading my sacred artistic haven," he jested, arching an eyebrow in amusement.

Helen's eyes twinkled mischievously as she turned away from the window, meeting Benedict's gaze. "Well, my lord, if you do not guard your territory diligently, I shall have no choice but to claim it as my own," she retorted playfully, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

A routine had formed between the newlyweds, where after their evening meal, Benedict would immerse himself in painting, and Helen would gaze at the night sky, finding solace and fascination in the celestial wonders. She had discovered that the view from Benedict's studio offered a remarkably clear panorama of the heavens.

In the tranquil embrace of the studio, their companionship flourished. Benedict cherished the calm presence of his wife, finding solace from the boisterous energy of his siblings.

He relished the moments when she offered feedback on his art, expressed admiration when prompted, and engaged in delightful conversations on various subjects.

Helen, having grown accustomed to solitude, found joy in the presence of another. While Benedict may not fully grasp her passion for the stars like Eloise did, she treasured the instances when he would pause his brushstrokes and stand beside her, gazing out the window at the vast expanse of the night sky.

It was during those moments that he would listen intently to her passionate musings, even if they were mere fragments of her thoughts.

It was a tranquil morning within the Bridgerton household, seemingly filled with serenity. Benedict and Helen had gradually developed a budding friendship over the past week, slowly unraveling the layers that separated them.

As they savored their morning tea, Benedict alongside his brother Anthony, and the rest of the family engaged in their respective activities.

Kate had taken Eloise to visit the modiste, Colin was out with Gregory, imparting his equestrian knowledge upon the young lad, while Violet and Fransceca engaged in the art of embroidery.

Meanwhile, Hyacinth and Helen found themselves absorbed in an intense game of chess, their minds focused on strategic moves. However, their tranquility was abruptly shattered by the arrival of Earl Henry Ashford, Helen's brother, who stormed into the household unannounced, leaving the family members stunned.

Helen's heart skipped a beat upon seeing her brother, her face initially lighting up with delight at the unexpected visit. But before she could even extend her arms for an embrace, Henry delivered the shocking news.

His voice trembled as he spoke the words they never anticipated. "It's mother... She is... she is no more," he announced, his voice heavy with grief.

The sudden revelation left the Bridgerton family in a state of disbelief. While the family had known of their mother's absence, with the Dowager Countess Ashford choosing to reside overseas following her husband's death, they were unaware of the true circumstances.

Helen's world stood still, her throat constricted with a mix of emotions she struggled to comprehend.

In the midst of her overwhelming emotions, Benedict swiftly moved to Helen's side, his touch gentle as he clasped her hand while providing support at the small of her back. His presence was a grounding force, offering solace amidst the storm.

Anthony, ever the gracious host, extended his condolences to Earl Henry, exhibiting his empathy for their loss. Violet, concerned for her daughter-in-law, sought to offer comfort, inviting the earl to take a seat and partake in some tea.

As the room enveloped in a tense silence, Benedict softly whispered Helen's name, cautious not to startle her fragile state.

She slowly lifted her gaze, her expression revealing a complex amalgamation of emotions. It was not sadness that etched her features, but rather an unexpected anger simmering beneath the surface.

Benedict couldn't fathom the object of her ire, but he knew that she was grappling with a storm within.

In a voice tinged with an undercurrent of resentment, Helen finally found her voice amidst the turmoil. "You could have conveyed this news through a letter, dear brother. There was no need for you to make the arduous journey," she uttered, her words laced with bitterness, leaving those present bewildered by her uncharacteristic response.

Earl Henry, expecting such a reaction from his sister, composed himself before continuing. "I have come to invite you to the funeral, which is to take place at dawn tomorrow," he informed, his voice carrying a tone of finality.

A defiant spark ignited within Helen's eyes as she firmly stood her ground. "You know very well that I refuse to attend. I want no part in mourning and offering empty prayers. Excuse me," she declared, abruptly releasing Benedict's hand and making her exit from the room, leaving her loved ones stunned and searching for answers.

The anguished atmosphere lingered, heavy with unanswered questions and the haunting absence of understanding. Helen's unexpected response to her mother's death shattered the family's perceptions, leaving them to grapple with their own emotions while trying to comprehend the turmoil that resided within her.

"I beg your forgiveness for my sister's uncharacteristic behavior," Henry offered a sincere apology, his voice laced with concern.

Violet, the ever-understanding mother-in-law, quickly reassured him, dismissing his need for remorse. "Oh, no need to apologize, dear Henry. Each of us grieves in our own way. Let us grant Helen the time she requires."

With his apology acknowledged, Henry took his leave, departing from the household.

Benedict, torn between his longing to seek out his wife and the counsel of his brother, found himself at a crossroads.

Anthony, sensing his brother's confusion, placed a hand on Benedict's arm, imparting his wisdom. "Give her the space she needs, Benedict. Allow her to confront her emotions in solitude."

Benedict nodded reluctantly, his heart aching to reach out to Helen, yet understanding the necessity of granting her time.

He couldn't comprehend the depth of her turmoil, for he had never witnessed her in such a state of wavering emotions. As the family gathered for dinner that evening, an oppressive silence filled the air.

Helen, noticeably absent from the table, sought solace in her solitude. The family, ever empathetic, respected her need for distance during this trying time.

Later that night, as the hour grew late, Benedict retired to their shared chamber, expecting to find Helen still awake, her mind plagued by restless thoughts.

To his surprise, she lay in peaceful slumber, her countenance serene like that of a contented child. The familiar furrow between her brows, an almost constant companion, had disappeared, granting her face an uncharacteristic tranquility.

Benedict's confusion deepened, his mind flooded with a multitude of unanswered questions. He had an overwhelming desire to be there for Helen, to provide her with the support she so clearly needed.

The morning sun cast a gentle glow upon the room as Benedict entered, his worry etched upon his face. His gaze fell upon his slumbering wife, her form peaceful yet troubled. He hesitated, hesitant to disturb her rest, but the growing concern within him outweighed his reservations.

Helen needed to awaken from her prolonged slumber, for the consequences of such continued isolation could be detrimental to her well-being.

Approaching the bed, Benedict leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper. “Helen," he gently nudged her arm, hoping to rouse her from her deep slumber.

She remained unresponsive, lost within the depths of her dreams. With a tender touch, he ran his hand through her tousled hair, calling her name once more. Startled, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Benedict murmured, his voice laced with reassurance. "It's me. You're safe. You're okay." He offered her a soft, comforting smile, his presence a soothing balm for her startled soul.

In that moment, she whispered his name, and he nodded, conveying his understanding and support.

Benedict extended a glass of water to Helen, her trembling hand accepting the offering. Concern laced his voice as he asked the inevitable question, aware of its futility. "How are you feeling now?"

Helen's response was swift and dismissive. "I'm fine, don't worry. My mother's death doesn't concern me. I just needed time to process. I'll return to my usual self from today." The words held a hollow ring, a façade that barely masked the turmoil within her.

Sensing the walls she had built around herself, Benedict reached out, his hand enveloping hers. He understood the hollowness that resided within her, the grief that silently consumed her. He yearned to break through those barriers, to be a source of comfort and solace for her.

"Helen, that's precisely why I am here," Benedict spoke with earnestness, his voice carrying a gentle plea.

“People often speak when something affects them, but shouldn't we also talk more when something doesn't, particularly in moments like this?"

Helen's gaze fixated on his captivating features—the mesmerizing blue of his Bridgerton eyes and the softness of his lips. He was undeniably beautiful. "I have nothing to say to you," she responded, her tone devoid of hostility yet resolute. Adjusting her nightgown, she prepared to face the day.

Unwilling to let her retreat, Benedict grasped her wrist firmly. "I know you may not wish to discuss this with me, but..." Before he could finish his sentence, she abruptly tore her wrist from his hold, her voice now laced with frustration.

“Then don't say it. What do you gain from forcing me to acknowledge my mother's death?" Her words pierced the air, leaving Benedict stunned.

"Helen, she was your mother. It is clearly weighing on your heart," Benedict stated, rising to his feet. "Yes, she was MY MOTHER. It's BOTHERING ME. But what does it matter to you? How does it concern you?" Helen retorted with simmering anger.

"I just want you to have someone to talk to, Helen. I'm your husband," Benedict expressed, his eyes filled with a multitude of emotions. "And even before that, I want to be your friend. I want you to know that you don't have to face this alone. I refuse... I refuse to let you bear this burden alone." Tears glistened in his eyes for his wife.

Helen met his gaze, her spirit shattered and vulnerable. Benedict's touch on her cheek sent tremors through her, breaking down her defenses.

A loud sob escaped her lips, a dam of emotions finally giving way. She crumpled to her knees, bringing Benedict down with her, and unleashed a torrent of tears.

Benedict held her tightly, cradling her in his embrace, his gentle hands soothingly stroking her hair and back. Whispers of reassurance escaped his lips as she wept in his arms, the weight of her anguish finding release in his steadfast presence.

“I loathe... I despise her... I have harbored this deep…de..deep hatred towards her my entire life... and now that she's departed, she has no right to inflict this anguish upon me," Helen whispered amidst her sobs, her words muffled against Benedict's chest.

Benedict held her even tighter, providing a steady anchor amidst the storm of her emotions. "Darling, it's alright. You have every right to feel whatever you feel. Let it all out. I'm right here by your side, and I'm not going anywhere," he reassured her, his lips planting tender kisses upon her trembling head.

As time went by, Helen's cries began to subside. Gently, Benedict lifted her from their embrace and placed her on the bed, his hands delicately wiping away the tears that stained her face. Reluctant to let go, Helen clung to his hand, seeking solace like a lost child in his unwavering presence.

Helen slowly composed herself, clearing her throat to reveal the hidden truth behind her intense resentment toward her mother.

"During my childhood, I bore witness to the profound love shared by my parents," Helen began, her voice trembling with memories as a faint smile graced Benedict's face. "Their union seemed destined, as if crafted by fate itself, spanning every realm and transcending lifetimes," Helen continued.

Benedict couldn't help but be captivated by her beauty, even in her nightgown, with flushed cheeks, a runny nose, and sorrowful eyes, she resembled a model in a painting depicting melancholy.

"As children, my brother and I were regaled with tales of our parents' love, straight out of fairytales. We were the epitome of a perfect little family, the four of us," she recalled, her voice laden with sorrow.

“My parents shared a true love, a love match, and they were utterly smitten with each other. It was all like a beautiful dream," Helen said, her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes once more.

"And then I was fourteen, I wandered into the backyard one day. Usually, my father would teach my brother and me fencing in the afternoon, but not that day. Instead, I stumbled upon my father's lifeless body. He had taken his own life," she choked out between sobs.

Benedict, all too familiar with the pain of losing a father, pulled her closer, his embrace a shield against the anguish.

“He discovered my mother's infidelity and could bear the weight of it no longer," Benedict listened in stunned silence, his mind reeling with the weight of this new revelation.

“And when she arrived at the scene, not a single tear fell for the man she professed to love, her husband, the father of her children," Helen muttered bitterly.

“No guilt, no shame tarnished her face. That wretched woman," she spat. “Within a week, she disappeared, running away with her lover,"

Helen continued with a scoff. "Leaving my brother and me to fend for ourselves," she said, clutching Benedict tightly. "I want nothing more than to erase it all from my memory.”

Benedict held her close, his protective arms encircling her. "My love, I am profoundly sorry that you had to endure such pain. And look at the remarkable woman you have become. I am immensely proud of you," he whispered, coaxing her to find strength.

“It is not easy to bear this burden and speak of it as you have done."

Helen gazed up at him, still clinging to him with unyielding determination. "I am proud of you too," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“And I promise, I will never allow you to feel even an ounce of the suffering I endured. If you do, I will be here to shield you, to hold you close," Benedict vowed, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

In that moment, Helen felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude for the stars that aligned to bring Benedict into her life, to be her husband. Benedict's presence filled her with emotions she had long suppressed, burying herself within his comforting words.

He seethed at the injustice suffered by Helen's father, the cruelty thrust upon a young girl at the tender age of fourteen, and the strength with which Helen had fought to become the remarkable woman she was.

From that day forward, Benedict vowed to be the husband she truly deserved, to offer her every moon and star she gazed upon in the sky, placing them upon her very brow.

Weeks passed by, and Helen found herself moving beyond her grief, or whatever it was that had consumed her.

She and Benedict grew closer, though Helen insisted there was nothing romantic about it. Their interactions became filled with simple gestures of affection—holding hands as they strolled together, playfully splattering paint on each other, and Helen effortlessly fixing Benedict's collar or shirt.

Benedict would peck her forehead with contentment or before he set off somewhere. It was the regular stuff, but it meant the world to them.

Helen found solace and comfort within the Bridgerton household, unintentionally falling in love with not just Benedict but with the entire family.

She felt her walls crumbling as she slowly opened up, allowing herself to feel safe and protected.

Violet shared stories of her own love with Edmund, and Helen listened intently. Anthony and Kate playfully argued over how they fell in love, their banter filling the air with laughter.

The family even teased Simon about his fake dating ordeal. Helen couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Ashford bad luck was fading away, replaced by the fortunate embrace of the Bridgerton name.

And perhaps, amidst it all, Helen entertained the notion that falling in love wouldn't be such a bad idea. After all, she had her best friend by her side, ready to catch her, to hold her close.

The possibilities seemed endless, and Helen allowed herself to dream of a future where love bloomed and happiness was within reach.

Benedict Bridgerton was utterly and irrevocably smitten with his wife, much to everyone's amusement—everyone except his oblivious wife, that is.

His eyes would light up like a thousand suns whenever he laid eyes on her, his enthusiasm rivaling that of an overexcited golden retriever.

She brought a perfect balance to his life, and it had only been their second month of marriage. So much could change, but what he adored about Helen was her profound understanding of things, her delightful sense of humor, her unwavering courage, and her unmatched compassion.

And he couldn't help but be teased mercilessly about how he melted into a puddle whenever she was near.

Helen, on the other hand, was discovering more of herself within their relationship.

The couple found themselves engrossed in conversation in a cozy corner of the room. "Do they even talk to anyone other than each other?" Colin groaned, earning a mischievous smirk from Francesca.

“Well, news is, Colin Bridgerton has taken a fancy to Penelope Featherington. If we discuss that, perhaps Helen and Benedict will join us," Francesca remarked, causing the ears in the room to perk up.

“I don't think I've ever heard someone say so many wrong things consecutively in a row," Eloise chimed in, disapproving of the idea of her brother and best friend together.

Helen and Benedict laughed at the duo's banter, with Helen gently brushing off biscuit crumbs from Benedict's shirt.

“You eat like a child," she playfully scolded him. Benedict responded, grinning mischievously, "Well, lucky for me, you find children adorable."

Eloise couldn't resist joining in the teasing. "Benedict, you're always hogging Helen," she remarked, whining about her.

Benedict replied, matching her tone, "Eloise, Helen is my wife." Eloise shot back with a same teasing tone.

“Legally and socially, perhaps. But emotionally and mentally, Helen and I have a connection." Helen giggled and added, "Absolutely, we do, Eloise," making a heart shape with her hands.

The rest of the family burst into laughter Benedict's expense.The butler interrupted their banter, entering with a letter in hand. "For Mrs. Helen Bridgerton," he announced.

Helen instructed her maid to leave the letter with the others in her bedchamber, and the family continued their playful banter.

Late into the night, while Benedict was engrossed in conversation with his brothers in the study, Helen retired to their bedroom.

She found herself surrounded by piles of letters, both opened and unopened, scattered about. "Goodness , Benedict really needs to find a better place for his opened letters," she muttered with a sigh, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

As she rummaged through the letters, Helen searched for the one she had received from her sister-in-law, Caroline. "Ah, there it is," she exclaimed, finally spotting it.

But before she could open it, her eyes fell upon another letter—a fresh one—neatly tucked underneath. Its bold lettering revealed it to be from the Royal Academy of Art. Helen didn't need the keen observation skills of Sherlock to deduce what was going on. It wasn't an old letter; it was recent.

She glanced at the date and realized it was from two weeks ago. Curiosity piqued, Helen took the letter and began reading it aloud.

Her heart swelled with joy as she discovered that her husband had been accepted into the most prestigious art school in the world.

The realization struck her—this was the same day Benedict had experienced his opium episode. Suddenly, everything started to make sense.

He was planning to leave in a week's time. But when was he going to tell her? Did anyone else in the family know? And if they did, why hadn't they told her? After all the closeness they had developed in their marriage, was Benedict really going to keep her in the dark? The audacity of not informing her! She had believed they were truly building something meaningful in their relationship as husband and wife.

Helen refused to give Benedict the satisfaction of seeing her sad and disappointed, especially when he was the cause. She needed answers, and she needed them soon. "I should have known better," she reproached herself.

Just as she heard shuffling outside the door, Helen quickly placed the letter back in its rightful spot, swiftly breaking the seal of Caroline's letter and beginning to read it.

A radiant smile lit up Helen's beautiful features as she devoured every word of her sister-in-law's letter. Just then, Benedict entered the room, his eyes falling upon his beaming wife.

"Ouch! Whatever the reason, I see that it's not me who's responsible for putting such a joyous expression on my wife's face," he exclaimed with his usual flair for drama.

Helen looked up from her letter, her gaze meeting Benedict's handsome face. "You give yourself too much credit, Mr. Bridgerton," she teased playfully, her eyes dancing mischievously.

Slowly approaching the mirror, Benedict began removing his jacket and waistcoat, leaving him in a simple white shirt. Feeling Helen's gaze on him, he couldn't resist a playful remark. "It is improper to stare," he quipped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Without missing a beat, Helen strode over to him in just a couple of steps, gently smacking him with the letter she held in her hand.

“Oh, hush! Caroline is with child! Finally, after trying for so long, they are blessed with such wonderful news. I can't express how overjoyed I am," she exclaimed, her smile radiant and her eyes shimmering like Venus herself.

"Wonderful news indeed! Congratulations, Auntie Helen!" Benedict beamed, his hand gently cupping her cheek. Helen blushed at his touch, the warmth spreading through her.

That night, the couple retired to bed with a sense of peace and contentment. Helen made a silent vow to herself that she would confront Benedict.

the morning sun illuminating her radiant features, Helen turned around to find herself face to face with her husband, who was already up and gazing at her. "Good morning," she hummed, her voice filled with warmth and a hint of uncertainty.

"A very good morning indeed," Benedict sighed, his eyes fixated on her. Helen found herself lost in his mesmerizing blue gaze, which held the depth of an ocean. Her own hazel-brown eyes resembled the sand upon the beach, constantly drawn back to the captivating allure of the sea.

It was a beautiful metaphor, made even more poignant as the morning sun streamed through the window, their hands brushing together as Helen tenderly held his.

Gently running her hand through his light brown eyebrows, Helen couldn't help but leave Benedict smiling.

He leaned in slightly, a spark of anticipation igniting within her. But suddenly, Helen's protective walls rose around her, reminding her of the pain she had experienced before.

Acting quickly, she planted a soft kiss on Benedict's forehead, then rose from the bed, leaving him in a state of adoration and confusion.

"Eloise must be waiting for me. We are starting a new novel today," she explained, teasingly chuckling at his slight frustration towards Eloise.

As the day progressed, Helen searched for the right moment to talk to Benedict, but it seemed elusive, slipping through her fingers like sand.

Finally, she thought she had found the opportunity when Eloise ran off to join Penelope, leaving Violet and Francesca to admire the dresses delivered by Madame Delacroix.

Helen inquired about Benedict's whereabouts from one of the household staff, who pointed her towards the outside.

With a nod of gratitude, Helen walked outside, only to be met with the unexpected sight of her husband engaged in conversation with the modiste.

It seemed peculiar—what business could Benedict have with a dressmaker? Madame Delacroix appeared remorseful, while Benedict appeared awkward.

The conversation abruptly halted as they noticed Helen at the door, her husband arching an eyebrow and the modiste fidgeting nervously.

She despised being subjected to such a scene. After the incident with the letter yesterday and now this encounter, it was clear to Helen that every man in the ton was the same.

Benedict called out to his wife, his voice tinged with curiosity. Helen straightened her posture, her tone cool and distant as she replied, "When you're finished with whatever this is, I would like to discuss something with you." With that, she stormed inside without waiting for his response.

Thoughts suffocated Helen, her mind plagued with self-criticism. Of course her husband was involved with other women.

She had entered into an arranged marriage with a Bridgerton, an artist no less. What had she expected? Declarations of love? She berated herself for lowering her defenses and allowing him to enter her heart, even if only a little. She knew her purpose, her goal was clear, yet the foolish woman she was had succumbed to this vicious cycle of emotions.

Benedict hastened after his wife, his explanation trembling on the tip of his tongue. "Helen," he breathed out, opening the door to their room. As he entered, he found Helen standing by the bed, her gaze fixed upon him, her expression filled with concern.

Taking her hands in his, Benedict frowned at the sudden distance he felt from her. "What you witnessed downstairs," he began, but Helen, ever straightforward, interrupted him.

“I do not wish to know. You are a man, and whatever you do is deemed acceptable by society," she stated, pulling her hands away, leaving him with closed eyes, consumed by eagerness.

Helen continued, her tone formal and distant, "However, if you had at least informed me of your departure in a week's time, I would have appreciated it. I extend my congratulations and offer my best wishes for your pursuit of art." She smiled politely, the formality of her words echoing in the air.

Benedict despised this distant treatment from his wife, as if she regarded him as a complete stranger.

Furthermore, the fact that she believed he could be disloyal to her stung him deeply. Helen started to walk away, but Benedict held her wrist, “Hear me out, plea..”

She forcefully pulled her wrist free, her words laced with bitterness. "What could you possibly have to say? Empty apologies and sugar-coated expressions?" she retorted sharply.

"I am your husband, Helen. I would..." Benedict began, only to be cut off once again. "I know all about it. I'm sure being my husband is hindering your path, and I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do," she hastily replied.

Benedict's frustration reached its peak. "My God, woman! Do you ever listen?" he exclaimed, his voice resonating with exasperation.

"Helen, I am your husband. I would gladly take a bullet rather than entertain thoughts of disloyalty," he declared, holding her shoulders firmly.

“I know we began with an arranged set up, but what kind of monster do you take me for? Madame Delacroix was a mere thing from the past, offering her congratulations. But every word she spoke, I despised because it was not you," Benedict confessed, tears welling up in his eyes.

Helen stood there, utterly perplexed, as she attempted to process his words. "Because I hate anything anybody says these days, unless it's you," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion.

“And yes, initially, I had contemplated leaving any wife I might have and attending art school. But now, the mere thought of being away from your side, even for a moment, feels like divine punishment. The reason I didn't tell you is because I am considering not going. I couldn't care less if it's the most prestigious art school in the world. I would abandon every art school in the universe if it meant spending every second of every day with you," he professed, his gaze locked onto hers.

Tears now streaming down both their faces, Helen vigorously shook her head. "No, no, don't... don't say it. Don't do this to me, Benedict," she pleaded, her brow furrowed with the familiar frown that Colin liked to call "the Helen frown."

Slowly, Benedict cupped her cheeks, his touch gentle yet filled with determination. "No, you will not bury your feelings or keep them bottled up, hurting yourself more than me in the process, Helen," he asserted, his forehead gently resting against hers.

“I refuse to believe that a woman as extraordinary as you would live a life devoid of love, especially when I have the opportunity to give it to you."

They cried in each other's arms, their tears mingling, as Benedict whispered, "Helen, I love you. I am in love with you. You have made me feel emotions I once escaped and expressed.

“And I know you feel the same way. If uttering these words makes it all real, then, Helen Bridgerton, I will provide you with the most magnificent reality imaginable, within the universe that you explore." He continued

Helen clung tightly to Benedict, her walls crumbling beneath the weight of his words. Only he had the power to accomplish such a feat.

“And until you can finally admit that you are in love with me, I will do so on behalf of both of us. I promise," Benedict vowed.

In this dramatic moment, their love blossomed, and fear mingled with longing. "Ben... Benedict, I am scared. I don't know... all my life, I have prepared myself for a loveless existence. Why... why would... you..no," Helen struggled to form coherent sentences, her voice choked with emotion.

Benedict, anguished to see his beloved wife in such a state, held her tightly, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Helen, I refuse to let you go through life without experiencing love. I am here, and we shall both fall in love together, stay in love together, and grow in love together," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Just know that even if I fail to hold you, I will be there, falling alongside you."

With tears streaming down their faces, they embraced, their hearts entwined in a love they both longed for.

In that moment, the world faded away, leaving only their profound connection and the promise of a future filled with unwavering love.

As they reluctantly parted, Helen delicately removed her silk gloves, using her bare hands to tenderly wipe away Benedict's tears.

A radiant smile graced her lips, causing Benedict to mirror her expression. Cupping his cheeks, she gazed into his eyes and spoke with heartfelt sincerity.

"Benedict, I could never bear the thought of you sacrificing your passion for me. I would never wish that upon you. You must follow your dreams, and I am incredibly proud of you. You deserve this opportunity and so much more," she whispered, her forehead gently touching his.

Benedict, the always second in line, had never before heard such words of pride and admiration directed at him, particularly not with such genuine love.

Overwhelmed with emotion, he tentatively brushed his lips against hers, testing the waters. Helen responded fervently, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened.

They reluctantly broke apart, their lungs gasping for air, but Benedict couldn't resist the allure of her lips and chased after them, eliciting a joyful giggle from Helen as she playfully evaded him.

In that moment, she realized she was exactly where she needed to be, and she silently expressed her gratitude to every star in the universe for granting her such a remarkable husband.

"Come with me," Benedict whispered, his voice laced with longing. Helen furrowed her brows in confusion, and he gently ran his finger along the crease, smoothing away the lines of uncertainty.

“Come with me. I refuse to leave your side. We will find a place near my art school," he proposed, a hint of excitement in his eyes.

Helen's heart fluttered, and she couldn't contain her delight.

“Yes, yes, I would love that," she beamed. Perhaps, against all odds, Benedict had indeed discovered love, and Helen relished the idea of love blossoming within their marriage.

A year later

Impatience etched across her face, Helen straightened her posture and addressed Benedict with a sense of urgency. "Benedict, how much longer must we wait?"

"Stop fussing, my love. We are almost there," Benedict reassured her, his brush gliding across the canvas. "You must learn to be patient."

Helen couldn't help but fidget, her swollen belly a constant reminder of the precious life growing within her. "Tell that to your little one here. They keep kicking me," she said, gently rubbing her protruding belly.

A smile graced Benedict's face as he set aside his palette and brush, making his way towards his wife.

Helen stood before him in her nightgown, a vision of beauty, while Benedict wore a plain white shirt with the first four buttons unbuttoned, tucked into black trousers. The simplicity of their domesticity was a scene worth adoration.

"It's just that they want to express their love for their mama, just as papa loves their mama," Benedict mused, his hands caressing her belly as he leaned in to place a tender kiss on her forehead.

Leaning down to address the precious life within, he whispered, "Well, hello there. I hope you're doing well. Go easy on mama, for we already love you so dearly. We cannot wait to welcome you into our lives. With all my love, papa."

Helen ran a gentle hand through Benedict's hair, her voice barely above a whisper. "I love you, and I love them so very much."

In that moment, their hearts were filled with a love that knew no bounds. This was their happy ending, the beginning of a life they longed to share together, forevermore.

[bizwander]

The 24K Golden Rose Deliverable

The 24K Golden Rose Deliverable: A Review Worth Reading

Introduction

In a world where gift options abound, the 24K Golden Rose Deliverable stands out as a beacon of elegance and sentiment. As online markets flood with choices, it becomes increasingly important to discern the exceptional from the ordinary. This review aims to guide you through the facets of the 24K Golden Rose, providing insights into its craftsmanship, symbolism, and overall value.

Unboxing Experience

The journey begins with the unboxing experience. As the package is unwrapped, the 24K Golden Rose reveals itself in all its glory. The initial impressions set the tone for what promises to be a unique and luxurious encounter.

Design and Craftsmanship

Delving into the intricacies of design, the golden rose captivates with its meticulous craftsmanship. Each petal and stem tell a story of dedication to artistry, elevating it from a mere deliverable to a work of art.

Material Quality

A close examination of the material used in the 24K Golden Rose reaffirms its commitment to quality. The use of genuine gold ensures not only a stunning appearance but also long-term durability, making it a timeless keepsake.

Symbolism and Significance

Beyond its aesthetic appeal, the 24K Golden Rose carries profound symbolism. We explore the occasions and events where gifting this golden marvel becomes a gesture of profound significance.

User Experience

Personal experiences with the 24K Golden Rose attest to its user-friendly design. Whether displayed as an ornament or held as a token, the deliverable offers a delightful user experience.

Comparison with Similar Products

In a market flooded with choices, how does the 24K Golden Rose fare? A comparative analysis sheds light on its unique features, distinguishing it from similar products.

Customer Reviews and Testimonials

Real user feedback provides valuable insights. We gather perspectives from those who have experienced the 24K Golden Rose, shedding light on its strengths and potential areas for improvement.

Pricing and Value for Money

Is the 24K Golden Rose a worthwhile investment? We break down its pricing against the backdrop of its features, helping you gauge its value for money.

Maintenance and Care Tips

Ensuring the longevity of the 24K Golden Rose requires proper care. Practical tips guide users on maintaining its pristine appearance over time.

Occasions to Gift the 24K Golden Rose

When is the perfect time to present this golden treasure? We offer suggestions for occasions, accompanied by insights into customization options for specific events.

Social Media Buzz

Exploring the social media landscape reveals trends related to the 24K Golden Rose. User-generated content and hashtag campaigns contribute to its growing popularity.

Where to Buy

Authenticity is paramount when purchasing luxury items. We provide information on reputable sellers and official outlets, guiding you to secure your 24K Golden Rose from trusted sources.

FAQs About the 24K Golden Rose

Is the gold real?

Dive into the authenticity of the gold used in the 24K Golden Rose.

Can it be customized for special occasions?

Explore options for personalizing the deliverable for unique events.

How should I clean and maintain the golden rose?

Practical tips for ensuring the longevity of your cherished possession.

What makes the 24K Golden Rose stand out from other gifts?

Highlighting unique features that make it a standout choice.

Is there a warranty or guarantee provided with the purchase?

Understanding the after-sales support and assurance.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the 24K Golden Rose emerges not just as a deliverable but as a symbol of timeless elegance. From its exquisite design to its symbolic value, this review highlights the facets that make it a worthwhile addition to your collection or a thoughtful gift for someone special.

[psalm22-6]

Source: the Citrus College Clarion, 21 April 1988

Les Miserables, the enormously successful musical play based on the classic novel by Victor Hugo, is coming to Los Angeles. It promises to revitalize the interest of jaded theatergoers with a big stage, big story, big score production that harkens both to the past and the future. I recently saw the Broadway version during the Citrus Springtime New York Theater Tour. If the Los Angeles production approaches the overall quality of the New York show, it should enjoy a very long run. 

Les Miserables is the story, familiar to high school students nearly everywhere, [was it really?] of Jean Val Jean, [almost] a French citizen who goes to prison for stealing a loaf of bread, escapes and starts a new life only to be pursued by a relentless detective. 

Set during the French Revolution, [no] the story has a majestic historical sweep, depicting the plight of the lower classes in the midst of social upheaval. It offers a gleaming ray of hope, a dramatic commentary on the indomitable resiliency of the human spirit. 

The novel Les Miserables, at first thought seems an unlikely subject for a musical. Dark and somber [I mean yes but not how I would describe it at all], it portrays heartbreaking situations of imprisonment, poverty, injustice and oppression. 

However, as adapted for the stage by Frenchmen Alain Boubil [sic] and Claude-Michael Schonberg, Les Mis sets new standards for musical drama that lesser efforts can only dream of. 

The musical is remarkably faithful to the text. Almost all the intricacies and subtleties of both plot and characterization are kept intact; [how can you just say that if you’ve never read the book?] no small feat when transforming a historical saga to musical entertainment. 

The entire story is told in song, with the musical score by Schonberg and English lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer. The technique that Kretzmer uses, an original and stunningly creative method of setting such a complex story to verse, is brilliant. As for the musical score, I have some reservations. Not being schooled in opera, I was not particularly enthralled by the melodies which in many places seemed repetitive and monotone. 

I imagine that fans of opera will be entranced by the score, but as a Southern Californian raised on the unforgettable tunes of Gershwin and Porter, I was slightly disappointed to leave the theater without really remembering any one melody line as totally memorable. 

That minor complaint pales, however, when measured to the astonishment and genuine awe that I felt for the sets, costumes and makeup. Seemingly produced on an unlimited budget, the sets designed by John Napier were as spectacular and extravagant as anything ever seen since the days of Cecile B. Demille. 

The stage itself seemed as large as a soccer field and included a revolving center that was nearly full stage width. It was used with marvelous effect to symbolize the passage of time with its many slow revolutions. 

The enormous scale of the barricade set, nearly three stories tall, was truly breathtaking as it was slowly lowered onto the stage, a two-story jumble of logs, timbers, wagons and debris that served as a centerpiece for the peasant’s battle against the soldiers. 

The sewer scene was particularly imaginative, giving the illusion of rapidly swirling water without a drop actually used. 

The costumes by Andreane Neofitou were equally extravagant and theatrical. Their authenticity and variety made the passage of time and the growth of the characterizations completely believable. 

To appreciate the makeup, one had only to look at the program and realize that the entire cast bore very little resemblance to their stage characters. 

From a technical standpoint it is hard to imagine that it could have been done any better. 

The singing, dancing and acting were equally impressive. The entire cast maintained energy, conviction and utter professionalism throughout. It was an ensemble show and any faults that the cast had were invisible to my prying eyes. 

One performance deserves special mention. Gary Morris as Jean Val Jean gave a stunning performance, keeping the drama, tension and tenderness at the perfect level. The excellence of his voice, his control and projection, show why his talents are in great demand. 

One problem that American playgoers may have with Les Mis is its length. At three hours and 15 minutes running time, it is substantially longer than the comfortable endurance of many patrons. Les Mis is never boring but verges on being trying. Some judicial cuts could make this fine show even finer. 

Currently Les Mis is being staged in London, New York, Toykyo, Tel Aviv and Buda-pest. Productions are being scheduled for Los Angeles, Boston, Paris, Madrid, Ankara, Copenhagen, Toronto and South America. 

The play is an international success with a universal theme: man’s spirit will prevail. Doesn’t that alone make it worth the ticket price?  by Ron Secor Entertainment Editor

[awlumii]

Can I suggest the idea of Maguu Kenki!Kazuha?

Not exactly the same thing, of course— that would just be weird— but say he’s some ancient marionette who fell into disrepair years ago. He was probably created for the purpose of fighting in a war some centuries or millennia ago, and once it was over, his kind was discarded and left to fall apart because they had no purpose anymore. 

And then one day you, a Kshahrewar student and aspiring inventor, uncover him when stumbling across some ruins on a trip to Inazuma, lying slumped beneath an old maple tree. Out of curiosity, you begin to try and… study and fix him, sort of. Tinkering with some clockworks here and there, marvelling at the intricacy of this ancient machine. 

He probably wakes up halfway and you almost jump out of your skin because you did not expect this rundown marionette soldier to be able to move and speak of its own accord, but hey, that only spurs on your curiosity further. You lose track of time talking to this… being, and find him surprisingly pleasant company. You ask him about how he was made, who made him, where and when he came from; he answers your questions as best he can, but his memory is hazy after so many years and most of his long history is lost to the fog of his mind.

You ask him if he has a name. He says that he thinks he had one, once, but can’t remember it anymore. You offer to give him one, and he agrees. You decide to call him ‘Kazuha’ after the many leaves of the tree you found him under.

Soon, he grows tired, and your awareness is brought back to his rundown state. Despite some weak protests, you take the puppet to where you’re staying (don’t ask me how you snuck past the city residents; maybe something to do with your vision, if you ha ve one?), and let him stay in your home. Still fascinated by how he works, you continue talking into the night, all the while scrutinising the details of his limbs and facial features, and tinkering a little here and there where you can help. 

Time passes like this, and slowly he starts to remember a little more about his past, telling you when he does. You listen carefully and find yourself discovering a period of lost history, forgotten to the current people of Inazuma. He gives you information; you tinker with him a little more, and slowly, you start repairing him. It’s not amazing work— you could never even hope to mimic the original manner he was made in— but it’s something. He possibly teaches you a little about the ancient Isshin sword art that he was designed around, and shows you what he can of it.

As you spend more time with him, Kazuha starts feeling something curious in the power core sitting in his chest. It feels like it’s humming with electricity; but he doesn’t run on electricity, so that can’t be right. He’s a war machine, not made for things like love, and he can only wonder how this has happened.

…Then I don’t really know what happens. Maybe you take him to Yae, and she’s shocked to see that someone of that era has survived? Maybe you keep his existence a secret? Who knows. I just thought the concept was interesting, even if I might have explained it a little weirdly, so… there you go, I guess. Some free food for thought (yay!).

-🎻 anon

on a bit of a related note, i believe it was 📖 anon who came in with the idea of a cyborg kazuha to some extent.. i love this concept, of him being a non-human who discovers this foreign emotion that he wasn't initially built or created to feel, hehe

[ruiniel]

Past reason hunted

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Maeglin, Glorfindel, Idril

Relationship: Maeglin/Glorfindel

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Tags & Warnings: Multichapter, First Age, Gondolin, Bisexual Maeglin, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, Angst, Drama, Obsession, Denial of Feelings, Maeglin POV, Alternate universe - canon divergence

Summary:

Maeglin is a lord of Gondolin, and obsession haunts him.

I.

Maeglin loosens the dark collar of his work tunic, running fingers through his hair; the braids are too tight and the back of his head itches, and through the day his appearance had devolved from acceptable to a proper mess. In truth, administrative work leaves him more exhausted than a full day’s prospecting in the Echoriath or beating steel at the forge. Today, he tried attending both official duties and his craft in succession and so his current state—sweaty and disheveled, with oily grime under his nails, on his skin—probably leaves much to be desired, considering what is expected from a lord of his House. He remembers raised eyebrows and much marveling at Turgon’s appointment of him, at his trust, not for the deed itself but mainly for his budding sense of responsibility that forewarned a manner of competence. 

The intricacies of courtly matters frightened him at first. He, who’d known the direct manner of his parents and spent the most formative years either in their company or that of the few silent workers part of their household in Nan El-moth. He reached the white steps of Gondolin after a life of sheltered seclusion dotted with a few sparse trips into the far mountains, found unexpected pleasure in navigating these unfamiliar waters encased in white stone. It reminded him of the endless puzzles his father would bring back from Nogrod of Dwarvish design, or ones he’d devise himself when teaching his son the basics of critical and deductive thinking. It is a precarious balance, maintaining cordial, if flat relations with the other Houses and their lords, and collaboration thrives, though in the very depths of him, Maeglin likes them little.

The uncharitable thought persists even as a fit of polite coughing rises from across his desk.   

He raises his gaze, found out, knowing he’d drifted off, and glances at the lord of the House of the Golden Flower, seated there leisurely and facing him. There is a mild, patient expression on his face, his burnished hair catching the stubborn rays sifting through the narrow windows as he pages through the Anghabar expansion project Maeglin had proposed.

No, he holds no great love of the other Houses or their lords, though he never could pinpoint a specific reason; and The House of the Golden Flower he likes the least.

He admits it has less to do with its followers, and everything to do with his own inexplicable, but ever present antipathy of its leader. His mother always said he had vengeance in him, but Maeglin knows she would never conceive of him as being unfair and truthfully, he cannot understand what causes his animosity towards the Elf so casually sitting before him, shuffling through papers. 

He was the first one, upon Maeglin’s first confusing weeks in the city of his childhood fancy, to show him Gondolin, from its dizzying spires to its lower market squares, and, at Turgon’s request, had ensured his sister-son was included in all the circles and activities aimed at honing a prince of his House. Maeglin had known the silence of the trees and the free voices of capricious, untethered nature for much of his life, but beyond the folk in Nan El-moth and the conscientious lessons with his mother, he had little knowledge of his kin or the rules of social interaction and customs observed in a city like Gondolin. 

But Glorfindel dragged him through it all, with a kind word and a pat on the back, no less, which always irked him in its nauseating reassurance.

His nose crinkles as he bites back the unfair sneer such memories evoke.  

No, he cannot say why this very presence fills Maeglin with so much distress, from that honest face to the comfortable manner that confuses him because it is always sincere, and a part of him simply wants to snatch those papers from the lord’s hands and ask him to send his decision through a messenger; he cannot seem to stop his left leg from its incessant moving beneath the table. 

Perhaps it is precisely this approachable manner that feeds the well of Maeglin’s distaste, how the furrow of his brow forms a crease that adds a warm, golden solemnity to his face; how his lips curve into a smile like a slice of sun when he bears Maeglin’s gaze.

His mother told him in his younger years that he wields his glances like a blade, and he’s learned her statement bears some truth early in Gondolin while dealing with all too curious highborn lords and ladies turning to get a day’s gossip out of the recently arrived upstart prince. He knows few can meet his eyes without quivering, but of course, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower is not one of them. Both he and Idril saturate the very air with that same sharp light that makes Maeglin’s head spin, the mingle of silver and gold swimming in bright circles around their irises in a brilliance that is not of Middle-earth. Her name brings forth the image of her face, and only when Glorfindel raises an eyebrow does Maeglin realize he’d been staring; for how long, he thinks in horror, blinking away the sight of his hair pouring like a melt of sunrays over his green-clad shoulders, reminding Maeglin of her; a flame, trapped in his cold, poorly lit office. 

“We agree, then?”

“Yes,” Maeglin says, leaning back in his chair. “Twenty men,” he nearly bites his tongue, “generously allotted from your House, will be enough to support us in the coming expedition. Thank you again for offering and meeting our needs.” It is expected of him to say this, to be gracious, to meet his eyes; his blades are dulled on cornflowers.

When Maeglin submitted the request to Turgon during the last council, he specified the need for working hands if they were to expand the mines and extract the ore their city so heavily depends on now. Anghabar yields enough, but recent earthquakes have done damage, though luckily no lives were lost, and this was a chance to improve safety measures while enlarging the mines themselves. 

He watches the warm smile on his face as Glorfindel straightens in his chair. “Good!” he says, a smattering of that sickening good humor in his tone.

Finally, he leans forward; Maeglin swallows, but the good lord cannot notice as he signs the papers with fast, impatient swirls of his wrist. Maeglin stares at the healthy, amber sheen of his skin, dotted with sunburnt freckles, so alike Idril’s. “I might see you on the training grounds today, my prince?” 

When the Ice melts over. His mouth opens, and words come out. “I have no time set aside today, lord Glorfindel, but thank you for the reminder.”

The training grounds are not large enough to bear all their soldiers at once, thus days are split for usage between the various Houses. Today is Menelya, and the House of the Golden Flower trains with his; another choice from long ago, where the lord Glorfindel, in his kindness, insisted their people train together to ease collaboration. 

Glorfindel rises, tall and lithe and not bumping his head on the low wrought iron chandelier as Salgant does. “We shall see each other at the wedding, then, if not sooner,” he inclines his head, his eyes still friendly and blue among his freckles. 

Hatred twists his innards and Maeglin can but reply with a nod, eyes finding the papers as lord Glorfindel says the customary farewell, turns, and takes his leave. 

Maeglin is left with the misery of one reminded they are headed to their execution, a heartbeat that runs too fast, and the remains of a presence like the heavy bloom of midsummer.

Part II >>

[eddysocs]

Pit Of Vipers — Chapter Two (Quills And Potions, Knowledge In Motion)

Summary: Lisette buckles down for her first day of classes, excited for the opportunity to showcase her skills in Snape's Advanced Potions class while she embraces every moment of her last year as a Hogwarts student.

Word Count: 1,312

Warnings: None

Lissette inhaled deeply, taking in the comfortingly musty scent of Hogwarts Castle, feeling a familiar sense of awe and anticipation. The castle welcomed her with open arms, its stone walls exuding centuries of magical history, history she was aiming to be a part of. She had arrived early, as always, eager to settle into her dormitory and begin the new term.

As she made her way to the Slytherin common room, Lissette still marveled at seeing the familiar emerald and silver décor, the serpentine motifs that adorned the walls, and the low murmurs of conversation among her fellow housemates. It felt like a second home to her. She was going to miss it after graduation.

Finding her assigned bed, Lissette entered the room, greeted by the sight of four neatly made beds and a cozy common area. Her roommates were already there, engrossed in their own activities. Brynn, a tall and assertive girl with a knack for charms, was engrossed in a book, while Markus, a reserved boy with a penchant for transfiguration, was meticulously organizing his study materials. Jaxon, an outgoing and charismatic wizard known for his dueling skills, was leisurely flipping through a magazine.

Lissette wasted no time settling in, meticulously arranging her belongings and books on her designated shelf. Her eyes fell upon her favorite potion-making set, a gift from her parents. It was a reminder of the path she had chosen, and the advanced potions class she would be attending with Professor Snape.

As evening descended, the Slytherin first years gathered in the common room, eagerly discussing their first day of classes. Lissette smiled at their naïveté while perusing over her textbook, thinking back to her own first year and how she had been much the same. With a yawn, she let them continue their excited ramblings. She needed a good night's rest to prepare herself to be the best she could be starting tomorrow morning.

Lissette woke up feeling refreshed as she almost always did at the start of the term. She dressed in her neatly pressed Slytherin robes and made her way to the Great Hall for breakfast. The buzz of excitement filled the room as students from all houses chatted animatedly, their conversations blending into a symphony of voices eager —and perhaps also nervous— for the year to come.

Taking her spot at the Slytherin table at a seat in between Draco and her dorm mate Brynn, Lissette engaged in light conversation with her several of fellow housemates. They discussed their upcoming classes and shared snippets of gossip. Among them was an unconfirmed rumor that Professor Snape had assigned a particularly difficult potion as their first task of the term.

After breakfast, Lissette headed towards the dungeons, making her way to the Advanced Potions classroom. As she approached the heavy wooden door, she could hear the muffled sounds of students conversing inside.

Upon entering the room, she found herself facing Professor Snape, his intense gaze fixed upon the students as they filed into the class. His sharp features and billowing black robes commanded respect and demanded attention. Lissette took a seat that was directly in front of him, her heart pounding with anticipation.

Class began, and Professor Snape wasted no time delving into the intricacies of a potion called Elixir of Enigma. And the rumor she had heard earlier was true, as Snape had given only a mild background on the potion in question and they were meant to brew it from memory. A test on the first day. Lissette was ready.

Her focus was unwavering as she meticulously followed the instructions as she remembered them from her text, first organizing her ingredients; two unicorn tail hairs, 3 dragonfly wings, 4 dried mistletoe berries, 1 essence of moonlight (procured on a full moon, of course), 5 drops of phoenix tears, 1 cup of powdered moonstone, six sprigs of lavender and 2 cups of clear spring water. She’d spent the summer studying the potions in her textbook from front to back, brewing this one with extra care and attention.

She began by crushing the dried berries with a mortar and pestle, until they became a fine powder. Then, in her cauldron, she poured the clear spring water and the powdered moonstone, stirring it until it simmered over a low flame. Next she added the mistletoe berry powder, dragonfly wings and and unicorn tail hairs. It was supposed to brew for twenty minutes, stirring clockwise at five minute intervals.

As she kept her eye on the clock to know when to stir, she occasionally observed her fellow classmates as they tried their own hands at the Elixir of Enigma. It was a complicated potion, of that there was no doubt, but this was an advanced class for only the most promising seventh years, so come challenge was to be expected.

When her time was up, she proceeded to the next step, dropping the lavender sprigs in, very mindfully so as not to crush them and then let the concoction seep for the next ten minutes. As she waited this time, Snape made his way around the room, perusing each student's progress, frowning at some and merely grunting at others. She assumed the grunt was at least a sign of a modicum of approval, but she couldn’t be sure.

Her next move was to remove the cauldron from the heat and strain the mixture through a fine sieve, separating the liquid into a clean container. Into the liquid, she added the essence of moonlight and phoenix tears, stirring the mixture three times. After, she let it cool, which took most of the remaining class period, and she put the finished product into small vials for storage.

Being a potion meant to enhance one's cognitive abilities and unlock secrets of the mind, Lissette sampled one of the vials herself, showing her dedication to detail and her deep understanding of the subject matter by having no fear of any adverse effects. This impressed Snape, who regarded her with a rare nod of approval. She had passed her first test with flying colors.

Throughout the rest of her day, Lissette attended her other classes, including Charms, Transfiguration, and Ancient Runes. Her thirst for knowledge propelled her forward, absorbing every ounce of information imparted by the professors. She excelled in each subject, answering questions with confidence and displaying a keen intellect that set her apart from her peers.

As the day drew to a close, Lissette returned to the Slytherin common room, her mind buzzing with newfound knowledge. She found solace in the company of her fellow Slytherins, who chatted enthusiastically about their own experiences in the day's classes. Lissette listened intently, engaging in conversations about complex spells, magical theories, and the latest gossip circulating through the castle. This was shaping up to be a promising year indeed.

Amidst the lively discussions, the topic of the upcoming Quidditch match arose. Several Slytherins, including Draco, were excitedly planning their strategies for the match against Gryffindor. Lissette couldn't help but be intrigued by their enthusiasm, her competitive spirit yearning for a taste of the exhilarating sport.

While she did not consider herself an athlete, she joined in the conversation, offering her insights on the game and suggesting tactics that could potentially give Slytherin an advantage. With the sharing of ideas reverberating around the space, the atmosphere in the common room shifted, and Lissette felt a sense of camaraderie and acceptance among her housemates, even if she wasn’t a Quidditch player herself.

Eventually, Lissette's energy from the excitement filled day had waned and she excused herself from the animated discussions to retire to her dormitory. Settling at her desk, she opened her textbook for Advanced Potions, reviewing the day's lesson. She was certain she’d mastered the potion. The results would be in tomorrow and she needed to be well rested to keep up her momentum.

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Chapter One <- 💚 -> Chapter Three

Forever Tag: @arrthurpendragon, @baubeautyandthegeek, @foxesandmagic, @carmens-garden, @fawera, @themaradaniels, @that-demigirl, @iloveocs, @bossyladies, @b1rvt4, @getawaycardotmp3

Lissette Serpens: @dancingwith-sunflowers, @zalera8310, @psychchesters, @bowiesdaughter, @ofbadcharacters, @luucypevensie, @madebyleftovermuses, @freshmoneyalmondathlete, @adrianas-ocs-and-such, @dollvi3e, @intelligence-strength-heart-soul

[discoveryblogger]

A Walk Across The Ruins Of Nalanda

And there I stood..right at the main gate. On the path leading into the realms of the bygone era. The eyes were firmly fixed on the whirlpool of red bricks. The mind hopes to unravel the mysteries attached to the spot, once a sacred site of an uninterrupted transmission of knowledge over 800 years !!!. And the heart hoping against hope to turn back the sands of time, and become a part of the legends and folklores that inspire educationists and knowledge hunters to throng to the ancient site in probably one of the remotest parts of the modern world !!!

Being an ardent history lover and a necrophiliac by heart, the ruins of Nalanda had always tantalized my conscience, weaving a web of a relentless desire to explore and roam around the legendary site, and experience the marvel of the most ancient University of the Indian Subcontinent !! After all, the present-day ruins of Nalanda were a center of learning from the 5th century to 1200 AD.

A serene sight of the well-manicured gardens, merging with the ruins in red bricks, welcomed me as I set foot into the heart of the compound, now designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Sight !!! I hired a Govt approved guide to understand the intricacies attached, and extract some relevant meaning out of the pile of those red bricks of one of the first residential universities in the world !!

As we walked across the campus, my imaginative mind could not stop drawing a picture of what this place might have looked like in its heydays !!! An architectural masterpiece to say the least !!

Nalanda’s existence can be traced back to the 5th-6th century BC, as both Buddha and Mahavira are said to have visited and delivered lectures in the village !! Nalanda was perfectly placed on the trade route connecting the nearby town of Rajgir, the then capital of the mighty Magadh Empire. According to some sources, Emperor Ashoka built a great temple in the village during the 3rd century BC !!

But the noted history of Nalanda began under the glorious Gupta Empire. The foundation stones of the university are said to have been laid down by the 5th century Gupta Emperor, Kumaragupta I (415-455 AD). Many additional monasteries and temples were gradually constructed by his successors. Post the Gupta Empire, Harsha, the 7th century Emperor of Kannauj, is attributed to have taken important steps to maintain the University’s appeal !!

The guide further elaborated that during its zenith, the Mahavihara (University) contained up to 10,000 students and 2000 teachers !! The subjects taught ranged from Economics and Political Science to Metallurgy and Logic !! Such was Nalanda University’s aura and appeal that it saw students and scholars from Turkey, Korea, Japan, Persia, China, and Indonesia flock to its revered environs to grasp knowledge in its purest medium !!

We roamed around the campus soaking in the aura and coming across ruins of numerous hostels, temples, monasteries classrooms, and meditation halls. I even made my way inside a small room with a dark spot on the ceiling. “It used to be the kitchen”, told my guide !! “The students used to cook their meals during those days “, he further elaborated. The rice grains are still kept preserved at the Nalanda Museum, located right opposite the entrance.

I still remember the goosebumps I experienced the moment I stepped into a student’s room !! The stone bed and study temple can still be seen. There was a small circular pit at one corner of the study table, which is assumed to be an ink pot!! Standing in the middle, I could visualize the room lit with a lamp and a student engrossed in his studies !! Didn’t want to act as a hindrance to his concentration, so we decided to step out and continue with my exploration !!

“But how did it all end”, I enquired my guide. It's a question that had been burning inside me for the last few minutes. Since I started realizing the impact and the sheer importance the University held all around the world in those days. I wondered how could something of this nature could suddenly cease to exist.

I learned that the decline and the subsequent end of Nalanda University happened hand in hand with that Buddhism in those times. Since the 7th-8th century AD, the gradual rise of Hindu philosophy led to the waning of Buddhist following among the common Indian.

And the final blow came in the form of the Muslim invasion across Northern India during the 13th century. According to legends, around 1200 AD, a Muslim ruler by the name of Bakhtiyar Khilji, on his plundering spree, presumed the large University structures and the legendary Nalanda University Library to be a fort. He attacked the university and set the library on fire, gutting its believed collection of around 9 million books !!! The colossal library kept burning for months to come !!

It was evening by the time my tryst with the ancient Nalanda Mahavihara approached its highly unwanted end. As the slanting golden rays of the sun announced the fast-approaching twilight, I stood still in the middle..watching the red bricks erupt in a shade of honey glaze. Wanting to narrate the glorious stories from the past. Singing the lullabies of something mightier than power…Knowledge it is !!

[momentum-gorakhpur]

7 Remarkable Ways The Best IIT JEE Test Series Transform Your Prep

Preparing for the IIT JEE exams is no easy feat. It involves an enormous amount of effort and strategy is a part of it. Among the most crucial tools used in this preparation is a quality test series. A structured test series can easily make all the difference in the preparation and result in good scores. Here are seven marvelous ways the Best IIT JEE Test Series can transform your prep.

Simulates Actual Exam Test Experience

One of the most important advantages of a high-quality test series is that it simulates real exam conditions. The practice test in these test series mirrors the format, difficulty, and time constraints of the actual exam, thereby subjecting you to the pressure and pacing of the real IIT JEE. The simulation thus reduces anxiety, improves your overall performance in terms of your ability to manage time, and generally increases the soundness under which you sit for the exams.

Identifies Strengths and Weaknesses

The overall test series enables one to know about their respective strengths and weaknesses in the light of various subjects and topics in question. Holding regular tests as part of the test series, whether it is for JEE Advanced or not, furnishes one with detailed performance information. This may be compared with areas where one performs well and areas that require more focus. With the knowledge of these specific areas of gap, one can modify their strategy to prepare for the exam in a much more focused manner.

Improves Time Management Ability

Effective time management is highly essential to crack IIT JEE exams. The most comprehensive and wonderful IIT JEE Test Series offered by Momentum, therefore, will have timed mock tests under which you will learn how to manage your time effectively. Such tests will let you devise strategies for time management in terms of how much time you will take to answer questions in different sections, how you will deal with tricky questions, and how not to waste time. When such a good amount of practice has been carried out, skills like these will make a great difference on the day of the exams.

Provides Detailed Feedback

Ideally, in a test series, feedback is detailed. Post each test taken, detailed performance reports are rendered that point out one's accuracy, speed, and approach toward problems. This kind of feedback for a question such as those that appear in JEE Advanced is invaluable since it tells a student exactly where they were going wrong, where the strategy was wrong, and how the entire approach could change.

Promotes Confidence and Relieves Anxiety

Provided with a quality test series of IIT JEE, you become accustomed to practicing in a very disciplined way and reduce exam-related anxiety. Being equipped with the knowledge of test formats and repetitive exposure to tough questions makes a person more comfortable with the demands of the exam. The translated confidence works into better performance and the right mindset during the actual exams.

Develops Problem-Solving Ability

Specifically designed to test your problem-solving abilities, the JEE Advanced Test Series puts you through a vast range of question types and the corresponding intricacies of solving them, as appears in JEE Advanced. Regular practice with complex problems enhances your ability even to deal with tougher questions and find solutions under time constraints.

Offers Competitive Edge

A well-designed test series finally gives you the competitive edge. It gives you the real challenges of the IIT JEE exams. The amount of practice and preparation, you get, will truly allow you to compete with other aspirants. This will position you as a strong contender for top ranks because the performance would show you where you stand with your peers while keeping on track your improvement based on the feedbacks.

The best test series of IIT JEE, including ones for advanced JEE, offer supreme facilities that can alter the entire module of preparation. It simulates real exam conditions, discovers one's strengths and weaknesses, builds time management skills, provides in-depth feedback, boosts confidence, sharpens problem-solving skills, and provides an edge over the competitors to come out on top and win. Use high-quality test series in your preparation strategy and it will help you on your path towards success

[helloindiatourind]

Explore the Wonders of India: Your Guide to the Best Taj Mahal Tour

When it comes to experiencing the iconic beauty of India, nothing compares to the Best Taj Mahal Tour. This breathtaking monument, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, draws millions of visitors each year, and for good reason. Its stunning architecture and romantic history make it a must-see for anyone traveling to India. If you're planning your trip, consider booking with Hello India Tour for an unforgettable experience.

The Best Taj Mahal Tour offers not just a glimpse of this architectural marvel but also a deeper understanding of its historical context. With expert guides from Hello India Tour, you'll learn about the love story behind the Taj Mahal, built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal. The intricacies of its design, from the delicate inlay work to the symmetrical gardens, are best appreciated when explained by knowledgeable locals.

In addition to the Taj Mahal, many visitors want to explore the vibrant culture of Delhi. This is where the Old & New Delhi Private One Day Tour comes in. This tour takes you through the heart of the capital, showcasing both its historical and modern aspects. You'll visit sites like the Red Fort, Humayun’s Tomb, and India Gate, all while enjoying the comfort of a private vehicle provided by Hello India Tour. This personalized experience allows you to explore at your own pace, ensuring you don’t miss out on any highlights.

For those who want to catch the Taj Mahal at its most enchanting, the Sunrise Taj Mahal and Agra Tour by Car is a fantastic option. There’s something truly magical about witnessing the Taj Mahal bathed in the soft glow of dawn. Hello India Tour offers this experience, allowing you to avoid the crowds and enjoy a peaceful morning at one of the world’s most famous landmarks. After soaking in the beauty of the Taj, the tour continues with a visit to the Agra Fort, another UNESCO World Heritage Site rich in history and architectural splendor.

Whether you're a history buff, an architecture enthusiast, or just someone looking for a unique travel experience, the Best Taj Mahal Tour and its complementary Old & New Delhi Private One Day Tour will satisfy your wanderlust. With Hello India Tour, you can expect seamless logistics, expert guidance, and a genuine immersion into the culture and history of India.

Traveling with Hello India Tour means you’ll also enjoy a level of comfort and convenience that’s hard to beat. Their team ensures that every aspect of your journey is well-planned, from transportation to accommodations. You’ll be able to relax and enjoy your adventure, knowing that everything is taken care of.

In conclusion, if you're dreaming of visiting India, don’t miss out on the Best Taj Mahal Tour, the Old & New Delhi Private One Day Tour, and the Sunrise Taj Mahal and Agra Tour by Car. With Hello India Tour, you can explore these incredible sites in style and comfort. Make your travel plans today, and prepare for an unforgettable journey through the heart of India’s rich history and culture. Your adventure awaits!

[brotherseve]

Ahmedabad: Where Tradition Meets Modernity in Destination Weddings

Planning a destination wedding is an exciting adventure, but it can also be overwhelming. Choosing the right location is crucial, and Ahmedabad, with its vibrant culture, rich history, and stunning venues, offers the perfect backdrop for a truly unforgettable celebration. Destination Weddings in Ahmedabad blend the charm of traditional Indian rituals with modern amenities and hospitality, making it a top choice for couples seeking a unique and memorable experience.

Why Choose Ahmedabad for Your Destination Wedding?

Ahmedabad, the bustling commercial hub of Gujarat, offers a unique mix of ancient heritage and modern dynamism. This bustling metropolis is home to stunning architectural marvels, vibrant bazaars, and delectable Gujarati cuisine. Whether you envision a grand celebration at a heritage palace or a more intimate affair in a tranquil garden setting, Ahmedabad boasts an array of venues to suit every taste and budget.

Beyond the breathtaking locations, Ahmedabad is also renowned for its exceptional hospitality. Experienced Wedding Planners in Anand, a neighboring city, are well-versed in the art of curating dream weddings, ensuring that every detail is meticulously taken care of. From floral arrangements and catering to entertainment and photography, these professionals bring your wedding vision to life with impeccable execution.

Essential Services for Your Destination Wedding in Ahmedabad

When planning a destination wedding, it's essential to enlist the help of a seasoned Best Event Organizer in Gujarat who understands the intricacies of managing such a complex event. Here's a breakdown of key services:

Venue Selection:

Palaces & Heritage Hotels: Immerse your guests in the grandeur of the past with venues like the Vishala Palace or the The House of MG.

Modern Resorts: Enjoy contemporary luxury and scenic views at resorts like the Hyatt Regency Ahmedabad or the Grand Bhagwati.

Outdoor Venues: From lush gardens to rooftop terraces, Ahmedabad offers stunning outdoor spaces perfect for intimate ceremonies or large receptions.

Catering & Cuisine:

Authentic Gujarati Flavors: Indulge in the delectable flavors of Gujarati cuisine, including dhokla, undhiyu, and thepla.

Multicultural Options: Caterers can also prepare diverse menus to accommodate guests with different dietary preferences.

Theme-Based Catering: Enhance your wedding experience with themed food stalls or personalized menus that align with your event theme.

Entertainment & Decor:

Live Music & Entertainment: From traditional folk dancers to contemporary bands, Ahmedabad offers a wide range of entertainment options.

Floral Decor & Lighting: Transform your venue with stunning floral arrangements and creative lighting designs that set the perfect ambiance.

Theme-Based Decor: Create a cohesive visual narrative with themes like Bollywood, Rajasthani, or even modern minimalist.

Photography & Videography:

Professional Capture: Capture the essence of your wedding day with talented photographers and videographers who specialize in destination weddings.

Drone Photography & Videography: Add a unique perspective to your wedding album with breathtaking aerial shots of your chosen venue.

Photo Booths & Props: Keep your guests entertained and create lasting memories with interactive photo booths and fun props.

Accommodation & Travel:

Hotel Bookings & Airport Transfers: Your wedding planner can assist with booking comfortable accommodations for your guests and arranging convenient airport transfers.

Local Sightseeing & Activities: Organize post-wedding tours and activities for your guests to experience the best of Ahmedabad.

Wedding Planning & Coordination:

Expert Guidance: An experienced wedding planner will act as your guide, providing personalized recommendations and handling all the logistics.

Budget Management & Vendor Negotiation: Your planner will ensure that your wedding stays within your budget and negotiate favorable rates with vendors.

On-Site Coordination: Your planner will oversee every aspect of your wedding day, ensuring a seamless and stress-free experience.

Planning a destination wedding in Ahmedabad is an exciting journey filled with the promise of a truly unforgettable experience. With its diverse venues, vibrant culture, and delectable cuisine, Ahmedabad offers a unique backdrop for your special day. Brothers Events and Entertainments specializes in crafting exceptional destination weddings in Ahmedabad, ensuring every detail is meticulously taken care of. Our team of experienced wedding planners will work closely with you to realize your dream wedding, creating memories that will last a lifetime. Contact us today to begin planning your fairytale wedding in the heart of Gujarat.

[freakythecry]

@murdersin asked: ( join ) - our muses engage in mutual masturbation + ( worship ) - your muse worships my muse's body - musical nate to glitch, probably gushing about glitch's aspects and build

for what glitch did have put together , it was easy to see the intricacies the creators who had abandoned him put into each nook and cranny of the android’s design . surface level , it’s aesthetics were very well maintained , skin soft enough to be mistaken for flesh if not for the cold it emitted , facial features well carved out and human in appearance , and seemingly . . . all the exterior physical works . it appeared that mathias’ makers had made him to be a perfect humanoid android , something that could be treated and programmed into an immortal companion .

for glitch though , autonomy was a virtue that abandonment had given him . currently , he chose to use his free will to allow someone with a tender hand , who his optics could read and scan was infatuated with his inner and outer workings , to admire his form . the raven before him practically cooed and gawked at each feature , his hands poking and prodding at buttons with no programmed use , ports for NUMEROUS different plugins , the slots in which his joints and appendage met . glitch was NOT a stranger to human pleasures , having internet access ingrained into his servos left him in the position of having access to things that could easily have his fans whirring and wires warming ; and , right now he was no stranger to those familiar feelings .

glitch feels the artificial skin around his neck warming as the fans on his upper back started to buzz and fire up to accommodate for overheating . overall , the robot was a marvel , quite literally the first and only of his kind ; to be admired under a watchful eye made him almost sheepish , the hand at his robotic cock gives a small stutter in its movements when those fingers coast gently along a small bundle of wires at the base of his neck , a soft mechanical whizzing noise leaving it’s throat followed by a moan . the attention was well appreciated , the idly hands almost made him want to open his chest cavity so nate could get DEEPER , but snuggly embedded protocol keep him from doing so , keep him from forcing a shut down . the one thing that seemed incomplete on the android was his voice box , his speech sounding as if it came from a phonograph , a stutter ( a glitch ) persistent in it .

“ th-thank you for-for your delicate touch ! been a while since-since i’ve had one of those ! “

there’s a giggle to his tone , green optics training and scanning over nathan as he simultaneously ran a diagnostic check to ensure he didn’t run the risk of overheating . never having his fans fully finished with being wired , sometimes high octane moments prompted the possibility of . . . less fortune reboots .

“ are-are you enjoying yourself , nathan ? “