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comic-book-jawns · 3 months

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Signs

Kara knows the looks she would get if she were to say she feels protective of Lena Luthor.

On account of not only her boss’s last name but also her boss being a 23-year-old billionaire CEO and Kara a 26-year-old English major who failed to find a job in her field, clearly.

Not that Kara can scoff at what she makes as her assistant, more than enough to be called a corporate sell-out.

The point is Kara knows how it sounds. Alex’s eye rolls paint a more than sufficient picture. But she just… she doesn’t care.

And, yes, she knows that’s an easy claim to make without actually putting herself on the line. In her defense, she tried.

Her second week on the job when she heard two fellow assistants badmouthing her boss over coffee at the lobby cafe. And while she hadn’t been looking for brownie points, of course, she could only assume she’d earned them when Lena had called her into her office at the end of the day.

Boy, had she been wrong.

In fact, it was how she’d realized the curt tone her boss had been using up to that point had actually been her idea of friendly.

“Your duty is to L-Corp, not to me.”

“But I’m your assistant.”

“Yes, because I need assistance. Not a cheerleader.”

Kara’s face had burned as she murmured her apologies and assurances that it wouldn’t happen again, and she was already backing toward the door when Lena dismissed her.

She’d been fortunate enough to make it inside the elevator before the tears started, and that was where her luck had run out.

A tan hand caught the doors just as before they could close, and Kara had scrambled to wipe her face as she was met with a warm smile that promptly turned to a frown.

“Kara? What’s wrong?”

In her state, she hadn’t registered until later that it was remarkable the CFO she’d been introduced to along with the rest of the exec board on her first day remembered her name.

She’d also been unable to do more than mumble nonsense about getting her period early, which had sort of been an achievement actually given how terrible she is at lying on the spot — to her sister’s perpetual chagrin when they were teenagers.

Not that Sam bought her excuse. Kara wasn’t that naive. Though her sincerity as she wished Kara well had been unmistakable. And then, she’d abruptly let the elevator doors go without getting in.

The next morning, when Kara walked into Noonan’s to pick up Lena’s coffee, she’d been promptly steered off course, by a hand gripping her upper arm like she was misbehaving child, toward a table for two in the back.

“Can I get anything else for you, Ms. Luthor?”

Her boss had glanced up from her phone long enough to offer a polite hint of a smile to the barista.

“No, thank you, Nia.”

Kara remembered feeling like she could hear her friend vibrating as she bounced back to the counter.

“You know Nia?”

“I know how to read a name tag.”

In hindsight, Kara knows the dryness of Lena’s tone had been playful. But in the moment, it had just felt like salt on the wound of Lena jabbing at her phone again.

“Right. Of course.”

Kara was busy smoothing the non-existent pleats on her khakis when Lena had looked up.

“I’m sorry.”

And there was that nagging instinct again when she’d met Lena’s uncharacteristically troubled gaze as she placed her phone on the table, face down, and stiffly gestured to the drink, cinnamon sugar twist on a plate and chair opposite her.

“Please sit, Ms. Danvers.”

They’d proceed to sit in silence for probably 20 seconds at most. But Kara had never been known for her patience... especially when there was food in front to her.

“Ms. Luthor, you don’t—”

“I do. I need to apologize for how I behaved last night.”

And, yeah, Kara had known her boss wasn’t exactly wrong. That she would have said the same in her place. But Kara was — well, frankly she wasn’t used to being apologized to.

Alex’s go-to apology is also a cinnamon sugar twist — in lieu of the actual apology.

“I don’t need to explain.”

There was a sheepish twist to her lips, a blink-and-you-miss-it slip of youth.

“But I am truly sorry.”

Kara had thought of her sister’s words from the night before: this is what you signed up for working for a Luthor.

And she’d smiled.

“Thank you, Ms. Luthor.”

“Lena, please.”

That had gotten Kara to blink. Even with their age difference, she hadn’t thought anything of the formality. After all, she hadn’t heard anyone address the CEO any other way. Not to her face.

“To you. It’s Lena to you.”

But Kara isn’t one for formalities for the sake of them, either. So she’d eagerly stuck out her hand.

“Kara.”

That was the first time she had made Lena smile, bemused as she’d returned the handshake.

It was also the first time she’d eaten breakfast on the L-Corp dime. But it wouldn’t be the last.

“Coffee and a donut is not embezzlement, Kara.”

Lena had gleaned from Nia that Kara always put her own order on her personal card, and was quite on set on it not happening again, apparently having assumed Kara understood that Lena didn’t expect her to fend for herself while she was doing her a favor.

“What about two donuts?”

That was the first time she had made Lena laugh. But also not the last.

And looking out for Lena? That’s not gonna be a one-time thing either.

***

“Lena, you’re needed in the lab. I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

If Kara’s face wasn’t enough, the heat that instantly pools in her stomach at her assistant confidently interrupting a board meeting and calling her by her first name in front of a room of old men who don’t is quite the parry to the anxiety threatening to tear her at the seams.

Not much more than it usually is in these necessary evils. But usually she has Sam at her side, ready and more than willing to jump in when Lena asks.

“So what’s the fire?” In fact, Lena’s breathing is nearing her baseline semblance of normal as the elevator doors close. “It’s not an actual fire, is it?”

She’s only half-joking. They have a containment system, of course. But that would really be the last thing she needs right now.

Kara’s smile has her unclenching her hands, even as her breathing stutters a little.

“No. It’s nothing, actually. It just looked like you needed a breather.”

And then they’re clenching with a vengeance as she ironically exhales harshly through her nose.

She may not have gotten to where she is two weeks out from 24 without her brother going insane. But she didn’t get here by being coddled either.

Which is what she’s about to explain, Luthor genes overriding the fact that it’s Kara she’s talking to.

Until movement catches her eye. A hand. Kara’s hand rubbing in a circle over her buttoned-up chest.

“Please, right?”

Lena stops breathing altogether.

“I’ve noticed the only times Sam speaks up in board meetings are when she’s spoken to… or when you do that.”

It’s true. If by that, Kara means Lena’s purposefully poor imitation of the sign. Hell, half the time she doesn’t even do it over her chest. Brushing exposed cleavage would rather counteract the subtlety.

“And I, umm - I had a speech delay when I - after my parents died.”

Lena breathes in sharply, like she had when Sam called her out over lunch yesterday for not knowing when Kara’s birthday is.

“I used Sign exclusively until I was four.”

Kara’s voice is quiet but steady. Her cheeks are rosier than usual, though, when the elevator chimes and she faces forward.

Lena doesn’t.

“Sometimes I still do when it gets too…”

“Yeah.”

Kara glances back at her, eyebrows raised slightly. As if she’s surprised by the admission. Despite how they got on the topic in the first place.

And then the doors start to open, and Kara darts forward, fingers hovering over the close button.

“Do you want to go back up?”

Lena shakes her head.

#supergirl #supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl fic #supercorp fanfic #supercorp fic #supercorp ficlet #kara x lena #lena x kara #kara danvers #lena luthor #pride month #pride 2024

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mythicmanuscripts · 2 months

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BETROTHED TO JACE [ X READER]

So because of the two Jace asks I've done recently, the idea of being betrothed to a plushy very inexperienced and easy to fluster Jace has been stuck in my head so I've decided I'm just gonna babble about it here in some sort of weird mix between an imagine and a blurb.

There's no actual sex mentioned below the cut but definitely some sexual undertones and suggestive themes. And if you like what you see here, come check out the rest of my blog :))

I already have a whole blurb taking about inexperienced Jace so I'm not gonna spend too much time on that, but feel free to search my Jace tag if you want to see that.

Anyway, it's sufficient to just say that Jacaerys made a point to not do more than hold hands with a woman until he is married, both because he wanted to show utmost respect to his future wife and also because he just didnt like the idea of doing all those things with someone he didnt love?

So when you are promised to Jace and you meet him for the first time, he's SO nervous. The first time you speak with him, he can't even meet your eye. He's just in a constant state of shock and awe that not only is he now betrothed but he's betrothed to someone he finds so so attractive and seems so sweet and knows exactly what to say and someone grab a chair the poor lad is gonna faint.

He's a little better the second time you speak with him, this time he manages a full conversation without spilling his cup of wine all over the table, so he would call that a success. You really start to see his personality, to see how sweet and kind he is and you realise how all his quietness and shyness is really just him being so so desperate to make a good impression and make you happy with him.

From your third meeting onwards, you make it your mission to see just how flustered you can make him. You can tell he likes you, and how he very clearly wants to do more than just talk but he's far too much of a gentleman to do that.

You start out really simple, just giving him a little peck on the cheek as a greeting. And well... he blushed a deep red and stumbled over his words, trying to find a way to say thank you and that he enjoyed that and ending up just sounding like he lost the English language for a minute.

So naturally you give him more pecks every time you two are alone and every single time he blushes and thanks you. One day he even manages to ask if he can give you a peck back. When you agree, his smile lasts the rest of the day.

As the wedding date gets closer and closer, you and Jace spend more time together and of course he is the perfect gentleman. But, he's also losing his mind because you keep on giving him soft kisses and calling him handsome and one time you even gave his hair a little tug and Jace wants more so bad but he would never ever ask for that before the wedding.

So instead, Jace spends entire evenings talking with you, getting comfortable with giving you soft slow kisses and being so sad when it's time to sneak back to his chambers because he immediately misses you.

For the very last dinner before the wedding, you and Jace are seated opposite each other. Every now and then you touch Jace's leg with your foot, even on his thigh. Jace chokes on his wine. You keep it up the entire dinner, and then retire to your chambers before Jace leaves the table.

You don't expect to see him again until the wedding the next day, but to your surprise someone knocks on your door a few hours later and it's Jace. You're confused, asking him what's going on and he kinda just... kisses you with so much passion and it's so messy and he's whining into your mouth and your teeth clash and when you pull away, his pupils are blown and he's mumbling pleas, whining and throwing his head back and saying he can't take any more of this teasing and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Which... that's the most attractive thing you've ever seen. The poor thing has just been so flustered for so long and he has no idea what to do with himself anymore and so here he is, in his betrothed chambers the night before the wedding with a tent in his breeches and begging for something, anything.

You don't have sex that night, but you do help Jace and well... you have to make him bite down on a pillow eventually because he's so loud you genuinely worry that others might hear him.

#sub!jacaerys #sub!jace #jacaerys smut #jacaerys x reader #jace velaryon #jace targaryen #jacaerys targaryen #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

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familyabolisher · 1 year

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hi if u don’t mind me asking, could u please elaborate on your thoughts on the critique of contemporary anti-intellectualism (specifically on social media)? i’m legitimately curious and enjoy a lot of ur analysis and commentary i mean this in good faith :)

Broadly speaking, the philosophical concept of anti-intellectualism tends to critically describe the ideological + rhetorical relegation of intellectual production to an elitist practice fundamentally at odds with the interests of the layman; and, crucially, the treatment of these categories as fixities. I disagree with the propositions of that philosophical discourse as well, but that’s not always the form that the discourse takes on this website. On here, ‘anti-intellectualism’ is more of a vague catch-all used to describe anything from people who express frustration with the literary canon & mainstream schooling in ways that don’t coddle the sensibilities of people with literature degrees to people who come out with outright fascistic views on provocative art; it attempts to corral what are in fact very disparate positions and perspectives under the umbrella of insufficient ‘intellect,’ often shorthanded to ‘reading comprehension’ or ‘media literacy’ (or ‘[in]curiosity,’ a new favourite) without any materialist investigation into what we mean when we talk about intellect and literacy and a lack thereof or whether this is a politically expedient description of the dynamic[s] in question.

When I say materialism, I mean it in the Marxist sense, ie. as a counter to idealism—because what’s being described here is a fundamentally idealist (and therefore useless) position. The discourse of anti-intellectualism as it exists on this website relies on idealist propositions—people lack curiosity, they lack interest, they are ‘lazy,’ they are ‘illiterate’ where ‘illiterate’ is not a value-neutral statement about one’s relationship to a socially constituted ‘literacy’ but communicating a moral indictment, at its worst they are ‘stupid,’ ‘idiots’—these descriptors rely on an assumption of immutable internal properties rather than providing a materialist description for why things are the way that they are. These aren’t actionable descriptors; at best they’re evasive because they circumvent serious interrogation of the conditions they’re describing, at worst they’re harbingers of an inclination towards eugenicist rhetoric. The discourse casts those who are ‘illiterate’—which in this capacity means those who fail to perform conventional literacy, who lack a traditional education, who don’t demonstrate sufficient interest in classic literature—or the more unkind ‘stupid’ (which, frankly, is what people want to say when they say ‘illiterate’ or ‘incurious’ anyway, lmao) as socially disposable and places the onus of changing one’s behaviour (so as to not be cast as illiterate/incurious/stupid) on them rather than asking what conditions have produced XYZ discourse of social disposability and responding with compassion and ethical diligence; I hope I don’t have to explain why this is eugenicist.

The discourse also lacks an ability to coherently describe what is meant by the ‘intellectualism’ in question—after all, merely appealing to ‘intellectualism’ is a similarly idealist rhetorical move if you don’t have the material grounding to back it up—and indeed tends to dismiss legitimate critiques of intellectual + cultural production as ‘anti-intellectual.’ People love to talk about ‘literacy,’ but don’t like expounding on what they’re actually describing when they do so—the selection of traits and actions that come together to constitute a correct demonstration of ‘literacy’ are built on the bedrock of eg. an ability to thrive within the school system (a mechanism of social control and stratification), fluently speak the dominant language by which this ‘literacy’ is being assessed (in online spaces like Tumblr this is usually English), and engage with the ‘right’ texts in the ‘right’ ways where ‘right’ means ‘invested with legitimacy and authority by the governing body of the academy.’ Literacy is used as a metric of assimilation into hegemonic society by which immigrant and working-class children are made rhetorically disposable unless they demonstrate their ability to integrate into the hegemonic culture (linked post talks about immigrant families being rendered ‘illiterate’ as a tactic of racism in France, but the same applies to the US, UK, etc); similarly, disabled people who for whatever reason will never achieve the level of ‘literacy’ required to not have Tumblr users doing vagueposts about how you deserve a eugenicist death for watching a kids’ show are by this discourse rendered socially disposable, affirming the paradigms which already make up their experience under a social system which reifies ableism in order to sustain itself. (This includes, by the way, the genre of posts making fun of the idea that someone with ADHD could ever struggle with reading theory.) ‘Literacy’ as the ability to understand and respond to a text is difficult and dispersed according to disparate levels of social access, and a lack of what we call literacy is incredibly shameful; any movement towards liberation (and specifically liberatory pedagogy) worth its salt needs to challenge the stigma against illiteracy, but this website’s iteration of ‘anti-intellectualism’ discourse seems to only want to reaffirm it.

Similarly, the discourse dismisses out of hand efforts to give a materialist critique of the academy and the body of texts that make up the ‘canon’—I’m thinking of a post I saw literally this morning positing a hypothetical individual’s disinterest in reading canonical (“classic”) literature as an “anti-intellectual” practice which marked them as an “idiot.” (Obviously, cf. above comments re. ‘stupidity,’ ‘idiocy’ as eugenicist constructions.) People who will outright call themselves Marxists seem to get incredibly uncomfortable at the suggestion that there are individuals for whom the literary canon is not even slightly interesting and who will never in their lives engage with it or desire to engage with it, and this fact does not delegitimise their place in revolutionary thinking and organising (frankly, in many areas, it strengthens it); they seem determined to continue to defer to the canon as a signifier of authority and therefore value, rather than acknowledging its role as a marker of class and classed affects and a rubric by which civility (cf. linked post above) could be enforced. (I believe the introduction to Chris Baldick’s The Social Mission of English Criticism touches on this dimension of literary studies as a civilising mission of sorts, as well as expounding on the ways in which ‘literary studies’ as we presently understand it is a nineteenth-century phenomenon responding to the predictable nineteenth-century crises and contradictions.) People will defer to, for example, Dumas, Baldwin, Morrison, to contravene the idea that the literary canon is made up of ‘straight white men,’ without appreciating that this is a hugely condescending way to talk about their work, that this collapses three very different writers into the singular category of ‘Black canonical writer’ and thus stymies engagement with their work at any level other than that of 'Black canonical literature' (why else put Dumas and Morrison in the same sentence, unless as a cheap rhetorical ‘gotcha’? I like both but they’re completely different writers lmfao), and that this excises from the sphere of legitimacy those Black writers who don’t make it into the authorising space of the canon; and, of course, reaffirms the canon’s authenticity and dismisses out of hand the critique of loyalty to hegemony that the ‘straight white men’ aphorism rightly imposes.

The discourse operates on a unilateral scale by which the more ‘literacy’ (ie. ability to speak the language of the literati) one has, the greater their moral worth, and a lack of said ‘literacy’ indicates the inverse. This overlooks the ways in which the practice of literary criticism wholly in line with what these people would call ‘intellectualism’ has historically been wielded as a tactic of reactionary conservatism; one only has to look at the academic output of Harold Bloom for examples of this. People will often pay lipservice to the hegemony of the academy and the practices by which only certain individuals are allowed access to intellectual production (stratified along classed + racialised lines, of course), but fail to really internalise this idea in understanding that the critical practices they afford a significant degree of legitimacy are inextricable from the academy from which they emerged, and that we can and should be imagining alternative forms of pedagogy and criticism taking place away from sites which restrict access based on allegiance to capital. Part of my communism means believing in the abolition of the university; this is not an ‘anti-intellectual’ position but a straightforwardly materialist one.

A final core problem with the 'anti-intellectualism' discourse is that it's obscurantist. As I explained above, it posits the problem with eg. poor engagement with theoretical concepts, challenging art, etc., to be one of 'intellect' and 'curiosity,' idealist rather than materialist states. In practice, the reasons behind what gets cast as 'anti-intellectualism' are very disparate. Sometimes, we're talking about a situation wherein (as I explained above) someone lacks 'literacy'; sometimes we're talking about the reason for someone's refusal to engage with and interpret art with care and deference being one of bigotry (eg. racist dismissals of non-white artists' work, misogynistic devaluing of women's work, etc.); sometimes we're talking about a reactive discomfort with marginalised people communicating difficult concepts online as a 'know-your-place' response (eg. backlash against 'jargon' on here is almost always attacking posts from/about marginalised people talking about their oppression, with the attacks coming from people who have failed to properly understand that oppression; I've been called a jargonistic elitist for talking about antisemitism, I've seen similar things happen to mutuals who talk about racism and transmisogyny). All of these are incredibly different situations that require incredibly different responses; the person who doesn't care to engage with a text in a way that an English undergrad might because doing so doesn't interest them or they lack the requisite skill level is not comparable to the person who doesn't care to engage with a text because they don't respect the work of a person of colour enough to do so. Collapsing these things under the aegis of 'anti-intellectualism' lacks explanatory power and fails to provide a sufficient actionable response.

Ultimately, the discourse is made up of a lot of people who are very high on their own capabilities when it comes to literary analysis (which, as others have pointed out, seems to be the only arena where all this ever takes place, despite the conventional understanding of ‘media literacy’ referring as much to a discerning eye for propaganda and misinformation as an ability to churn out a cute little essay on Don Quixote) and have managed to find an acceptable outlet for their dislike of anyone who lacks the same, and have provided retroactive justification in the form of the claim that not only is [a specific form of] literary analysis [legible through deference to the authority of the literary canon & the scholarship of the nineteenth century and onward surrounding it] possible for everyone, it is in fact necessary in order to access the full breadth of one’s humanity such that an absence thereof reveals an individual as subhuman and thus socially disposable. A failure to be sufficiently literate is only ever a choice and a personal failing, which is how this discourse escapes accountability for the obviously bigoted presumptions upon which it rests. In this, all materialism is done away with; compassion is done away with, as it becomes possible to describe the multiplicity of reasons why someone cannot or does not demonstrate ‘literacy’ in X, Y or Z ways in the sum total of a couple of adjectives; nothing productive comes of this discourse but a reassertion of the conditions of hegemony in intellectual practice and the bolstering of the smugness of a few people at the expense of alienating everyone else.

As I’ve said countless times before, the way to counteract what we might perceive as ‘incuriosity’ or disinterest in challenging texts is to talk about these challenging texts and our approaches to them as often as we can, to make the pedagogical practices that are usually kept behind the walls of the academy as widely accessible as possible (and to adjust our pedagogy beyond the confines of ideological hegemony that the academy imposes), and to encourage a culture by which people feel empowered to share their thoughts, discuss, ask questions, and explore without being made to feel ashamed for not understanding something. The people who cry ‘anti-intellectualism’ because they saw someone on Tiktok express a disinterest in reading Jane Eyre are accomplishing none of this.

#ask

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masivechaos · 1 year

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TANGLED FEELINGS

legolas x fem! reader

Request: yes / no

Synopsis: One thing you liked about Legolas was the way he braided his hair, so when you asked him to braid yours, your feelings also end up tangled.

Warning/content: kissing, my English, poorly proofread

a.n.: 1.4k words- first time writing for legolas so it might be out of character, give me the time to find the best way to write him. i love the hair braiding trope and wanted to write my own version of it!

masterlist/ lord of the rings masterlist / navigation / taglist

── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.──

Escorting Frodo to destroy the ring was a difficult task but you were willing to help. Whilst you were exhausted from the daily numerous hours of walking and fighting and being constantly on your guard, it was also an opportunity to meet new people.

During the long moments of wandering, you were able to study every member of the fellowship. From Gimli’s regular mumbling to Sam’s awkward demarch when you were going through rocky mountains or even Pippin and Merry’s loud singing when it was time to rest. But what you cared the most about was Legolas.

As much as you tried to deny it for a long time, you had fallen for the elvish man. Your attention always ended up locked on him and one of the things you remarked the most was his hair. Of course, everybody would pay attention to his long blonde- almost white- locks but what stayed on your mind was the braids that kept his hair elegant even after a fight and the ability he had to so easily make them when they ended up undone due to the agitated day that just happened.

One calm evening, when everyone was resting on their own side, you approached the elf. You let yourself fall to the ground next to him without saying a word. Legolas turned his head and offered you a gentle smile that warmed your heart.

“How do you manage to do that?” you finally asked, breaking the silence lingering between the two of you.

Legolas raised an eyebrow, not expecting such a conversation starter “Manage to do what?”

“These,” you said as you pointed at his braids.

He let out a chuckle “Two thousand years of practice,” he laughed, leading to a laugh falling from your own lips.

“Could you braid mine?” you asked with such a smile he couldn’t decline even though you noted the surprised expression that crossed his face for a split second. You sat between Legolas’ legs, on a rock that was just sufficiently shorter than the one he was resting on.

You let his fingers brush your neck and ears as he gathered the hair he needed and you tried to stop the shivers from running down your spine. Enjoying this moment of proximity with the elf, you close your eyes, relaxing under his hands.

You didn’t know how much time it took him but it was definitely too short for you. “There you go,” he smiled warmly. You turned around to look at him and you couldn’t ignore the faint blush on his pale cheeks.

“How do I look?”

“Great. You look great.” And he had to stop himself from saying more.

Happy with your new hairstyle, you joined your two other comrades, Aragorn and Gimli since the other members of the fellowship were already taken by sleep.

They both shared a look when they saw you (and Legolas coming from behind you with a flustered face) with a smile on their lips. “What?” you asked confused. Aragorn let out a ‘nothing’ with an amused tone before taking a sip of his drink.

You furrowed your brows, not understanding their reactions but decided to ignore them and started to chat with your friends. The night was filled with laughter and for the first time in a while you felt like you could finally rest, however you couldn’t escape observing the glances shared between Aragorn and Gimli.

You took advantage of the moment when Legolas and Aragorn left you to survey the surrounding area, since a few suspicious sounds had been heard, to ask the Dwarf for some explanation.

“What is going on?” you asked and it came out a bit more exasperated than what you wanted.

Gimli laughed as he took a puff of his pipe “I should be the one askin’ ya”

“Why?”

Gimli glanced at you with mischief in his eyes “Your hair…”

You smiled at this, remembering the feeling of Legolas' fingers tangled in your hair “Yes? Legolas braided it.”

“Do you know about braids?”

Surprised by this question, you raised an eyebrow “No, that’s why he braided them”

Gimli shifted a little closer to you “One thing me and the pointy-eared elf have in common’s our culture ‘bout braids. For elves and dwarves, who braid your hair is important. It’s either your family or…” he trailed off with a smirk on his lips.

“Or?”

“The person you court.” Your smile faded and your eyes widened, Gimli laughed at your reaction “You don’t like him?” he said knowing very well your heart fancied the elven man.

You thought about it. Of course you liked him. You loved him even, he was occupying every parcel of your brain. You had met him before forming the fellowship, crossing paths with him during some of his or your adventures. You wanted to impress him all the time, you wanted him to be proud of you, you would always try your best during fights or even when it came to making food when Sam wasn’t.

Suddenly, you were scared. What if you ruined it all? The last thing you wanted him to be was uncomfortable. Too many thoughts ran in your mind and you only escaped the grasp of your own mind when Gimli coughed.

“I- I do but he doesn’t. He only braided my hair because I asked him to…” you said with an ounce of disappointment. You didn’t think your feelings could be reciprocated, he was Legolas, a prince, cultured, brave and strong and you… you were you. Even at your best, you didn’t deserve him.

“Why d’ya think he did it, huh?” he said with a knowing smile before the elf and the dùnedain came back. “Aragorn, won’t ya come with me?” he asked as he got up. The interested quickly looked at you and understood, following Gimli. An awkward silence settled between you and Legolas. He could feel something was off with you.

“I’m so sorry,” you finally said and received a confused look from Legolas.

“Why?”

“I didn’t know about the braids,” you swallowed, how much you wished he had done it with the intention of courting you. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to do it and now that I know the meaning behind it, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Stupid, stupid me you thought. You regretted not knowing more about him, about the elves, about the other races than yours. But you hadn’t lived for two thousand years like him, how could you possibly know just as much?

To your surprise, Legolas’ lips extended into a smile “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I did it knowing very well what were my intentions,” he said so confidently you could only believe him.

“You…?”

Legolas chuckled at your sudden shyness and hummed “Mmh, but you maybe want me to be a bit more clear with my feelings for you, I may be good with my words when it comes to you I’m unsure of what to say and nervous. And if I can’t express verbally how my heart feels around you, I can show you.”

Apprehensively, you nodded. Legolas slowly got closer to you, his nose bumped into yours and he chuckled “Sorry,” he whispered as his smile brightened. Your face mirrored his expression and, carefully, you brushed your lips against his. He kissed you and got lost in the feeling. He was finally yours, after weeks and weeks of observing you. Since he first saw you, he wanted you. And there, he could hold you, he could kiss you.

When Legolas pulled away, he rested his forehead on yours. You let out a breath and looked at him shyly. All your doubts and fears were gone now “So… Can I braid your hair?”

“No,” he said and he chuckled when your eyes widened “You’re way too bad at it.” You giggled, relieved. Legolas kissed your lips once more “But I can teach you,” he whispered with a smile on the corner of his mouth.

Your ears turned warm and you hid your face in his chest “Please do.”

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotr x reader #legolas x reader #legolas #legolas greenleaf #the lord of the rings #legolas x you #legolas x y/n

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 19 days

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The BRF had too much to sort out after QEll's death, it was overwhelming and H&M were the last things on their minds. They might've evenhoped that the brats will at least soften a little but it got worse. I always thought that the BRF thought treating H with kids gloves might make him come to his senses and they gave him all the time he needed but that was a wrong plan.

They didn't want additional dramas because let's be real - the overseas outsiders will never listen. Remember how M said service is universal and the Queen doesn't own the word royal? People hated her so much when she did that! I feel like the BRF uses this tactic of letting the public see through H&M rather than them doing exposé because they want to always take the high road. Could be the reason why they never cleared any rumors about anything including the children because for them, the public is smart enough to see what's happening and come to their own conclusions while H&M treat the public like we're stupid.

Also I wouldn't be surprised if they start suing the BRF if they strip the titles or do anything more because even the Duke of Windsor wasn't stripped of his titles when he was a very clear threat and traitor to the UK. We might think this is dumb but they both have done many dumb things that doesn't make sense just to satisfy their big egos. The family just doesn't want to have anything to do with them and like you said, they're probably happy with the Sussex surname because PP's family name is saved from this ugly mess.

Also Charles the Weak had always had his darling boy's back that if anything comes out, it might put him in trouble as well like the bullying case. I truly believe stern actions will only come when William becomes King because people respect him more and have always had more faith in him to move forward with the correct thing instead of being an emotional snob. Unfair to him but Charles is useless like that.

I'm sorry for this long rant and my command of English, it's my 5th language so I don't have very good grasp of it 😅 Thank you for reading and looking forward for your response! ☺️

Ask from August 21st

A theory on the BRF's handling of the Sussexes.

I don't really have much to add here except that the reason why the Sussexes got away with it was because The Queen believed the decisions made, and the terms agreed to, at the Sandringham Summit were sufficient. She (or Charles or the courtiers) didn't think the agreement needed enforcing other than the part where they demanded the Sussexes decide by March 2021 if they were going to come back or stay.

Granted, COVID helped to passively enforce some of the Sandringham Summit terms, and probably by the time things adjusted to the new normal, the BRF had other, more important things to worry about (like Philip's and The Queen's health).

And once the Sussexes made their decision (aka the only part of the Sandringham Summit that The Queen was enforcing), that's when they started making their mistakes started. Their first big mistake was accusing the BRF of using Philip's health to squash their interview with Oprah. Their second big mistake was doing the Oprah interview. Their third big mistake was telling all those lies in the interview and forgetting that fact-checkers (and the internet) exists.

I think the BRF understood immediately that the Oprah interview was a mistake for Harry and Meghan when they saw all the people (American and British) supporting them and defending them, before and after they published "recollections may vary."

And thus, Napoleon Bonaparte: "Never interrupt an enemy when they're making a mistake."

Or a proverb, if history isn't your thing: "Give someone enough rope, and they will hang themselves."

#brf #sussexes #sandringham summit #pr shenanigans

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srbachchan · 4 months

Text

DAY 5948

Jalsa, Mumbai May 31-June 1, 2024 Fri/Sat 12:14 AM

🪔 ,

June 01 .. birthday greetings to Ef Barun Sen .. and Ef Manish Singh Rajpoot .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

Belated birthday greetings to Ef Amit Agrawal from Seattle USA 🇺🇸 .. for May 31 .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

and all the wishes for the birthdays from the Ef family .. love ❤️

so each day is a learning .. what I learnt today stays .. and is replicated to others , and in particular family and the dear ..

I learn today ..

aaahh .. never mind ..

it be not of interest or importance to share to the other .. there is ever the reason for it .. and it be that , better to get the sharing of another that is greatly more proficient and valued than what you may have picked up .. and that is and has been the practice, at least for me .. I may be of the opinion that my learning could be of value to another .. but what if his or her learning is sufficiently more interesting than mine .. to assume that yours is the best is my fallacy .. and fear in many ways .. to be put down is an embarrassment .. ever .. you think you know all but there are millions of others better than you .. you m ay be the strongest physical presence in your environ, until you turn a corner on the street and discover that there are several others stronger than you .. your boast goes to roast .. !!

so ..

come to me .. yes , come .. but -

wait .. wait .. wait .. !!

I am never the best ..

and wait .. wait .. waaaiiittttt .. could be the utterance from AAA in film coming out of an Easter egg , giberiging :

'the whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere .. !!'

but it was just ad. libbed at the recording by me .. not making any sense .. Manmohan Ji just allowed me to say any junk at my request .. just so it looks like a proficient English speaking Anthony, when indeed he is not .. and merely just rattling off some BUMFF .. !

AND ..

you shall be surprised and shocked as am I , that it was mere junk spoken by me .. but the Ef Bushra on a research of the film Amar Akbar Anthony by the interview given by Man ji to an English journalist or writer found this :

The song ‘My name is Anthony Gonsalves’ begins with these lines spoken by Anthony when he emerges from the Easter egg – “You see, the whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the hemoglobin in the atmosphere because you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.” It is an almost exact quotation from a speech in the Parliament of the United Kingdom given by British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli in 1878. Disraeli (who was referring to William Ewart Gladstone) used the word “inebriated” rather than “intoxicated.”

wooooaaaahhhh !!! 😳

AND .. hang on ..

I had some days ago either a letter or a WhatsApp message from a cinema fan and a very proficient scientist, I think from the US, an Indian doing research on space , that the words :

'juxtapositioned by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere'

is a scientific fact .. that indeed there is this factor and a reality, scientifically proven, of 'haemoglobin in the atmosphere, being juxtapositioned,' or something like this .. and his purpose of writing to me was ..

how did mr B know of this fact years before it was researched ..

🤣

NO NO NO sir .. I knew nothing .. they were just funny sounding words that were invented at the time of the song recording live by me, spontaneously, without any pre prep or meaning, and enacted in the song , my name is Anthony Gonsalves ... !!!!

OHHH .. BABY .. !!!

I must search that mail or letter .. to give the correct interpretation of this scientist ..

so where did we start today ..?

aaah yes .. learning ..

told you .. never a dull day ..🤨

Love night and dreams 😴

Amitabh Bachchan

... such a common phenomena 👆🏼 in the days of the cassette generation

🤣

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homunculus-argument · 1 year

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You know those things that you grow up figuring is just how things are, and then you discover that apparently that may not be all that universal? I've started thinking about finnish people's relationship with rules and laws. Because finnish people, by and large, are rigidly, downright aggressively obedient to written rules and instructions, but not for the kind of reasons that people I have talked with tend to initially assume.

Finns don't follow and obey rules out of any kind of fear, respect, or reverence to a specific authority, ruler or leader. They follow the rules because they are rules. Who the authority who set them is, and why they were set, is practically irrelevant. Finns don't really do cult-of-personality leader worship, having respect for any specific, particular authority is not required. You just follow whoever's officially in charge now, even if you'll call them a cunt to their face while you do it.

Finland has never had a native king. Rulers and authorities in high seats have never been a part of the people, you don't define yourself by whose leadership you side with. You just know that there's some authority somewhere, who probably doesn't speak your language and has never seen your land, and certainly doesn't give a shit about the peasants of this region. But there is an authority, and rules that are enforced by the said authority, and that is sufficient.

And it isn't out of some naivé belief that any ruler at all is benign or good. Finns just hate each other more than they hate you. A finn's nearest enemy is their closest neighbour, and when you fucking hate your neighbour and know they hate you too, the closest thing to a fair authority is a neutral court system that doesn't give a shit about either of you, but would much prefer to have two working, living peasants than one that got stabbed to death and one that has to be executed for stabbing a guy.

While english doesn't have the word at all, the finnish language independently developed an exact equivalent to the german schadenfreude, mirth over someone else's misfortune. Finns obey laws and rules not because they'd automatically believe that the law itself is good, but out of a crabs-in-a-bucket -mentality, an attitude of "if I have to do as I'm told then fuck you, so do you." Someone else's fortune is always your misfortune, so fucking someone else over just for the sake of it is it's own reward.

And if you're wondering about how you've seen finns peacefully playing patty cake with each other on Tumblr, that's some Jungle Book water truce kind of shit I've never seen anywhere else on the internet. All the other finnish internet circles I've seen are some straight-up old school 4chan levels of hostility, there's middle-aged moms calling each others' children slurs in facebook and Suomi24 as we speak. Finnish reddit is somewhat less hostile, as there the moderators serve in place of a foreign king who doesn't give a shit about either of you.

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alicedusstuff · 6 months

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English version

Just wanted to write a little because it's been a while since I've done so. And I thought of the bone king; so… here's a little something ^^

______________________________________________________________

At first, nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything was even more than normal when he opened his eyes. The Bone King knew who he was. He knew what he had to do, he knew what was happening. Everything had come to his mind as if he were in those dreams where you don't know you're dreaming. Where you know that you are you and that you continue to act in accordance with the laws of the world that you inhabit, without worrying about anything.

Then, his eyes met the faux-bronze pupils of that shadow-furred monkey, and the world shook like a dream world would when too strong an emotion was about to jolt you out of your dream. This intrigued him. He had approached the stranger to understand what was happening, despite his mind screaming at him to stop moving forward, and memories he didn't know he had. Memories that were starting to pound his skull. His insides told him that if the world continued to shake like this, if his reality shattered, he would be no more. Still, the Bone King ignored this instinct, because he found it ridiculous. He was an invincible king. Nothing could defeat him, and his threat could not be summed up as a trembling monkey demon feigning bravery to protect a kid the king had planned to get out of his way quickly. He stopped right in front of the demon. He heard her voice, a little more confident than her posture was. The king's world shook again. He heard two voices screaming in his head as his vision flickered between blue and gold, before the latter returned to normal.

“Macaque”

The voices in the king's head had shouted in different tones.

The king then decided to take Macaque with him. It was an abrupt decision. Something he had chosen in the moment. The desire was too strong, and the confusion too curious. No matter how strange his memories were still, or how his mind seemed to have conflicting thoughts towards the monkey demon. He was sure of one thing. Macaque was his. He had to be since his mind seemed so perplexed about him. Macaque was a warrior and a champion. Macaque was the best of warriors. One like those the king deserves. The shadow monkey was his warrior far too deadly, and that made the king frown. He had to train him later, try to toughen him up.

After that, it took a while for Macaque to obey the bone king. The shadow demon had tried to flee, plot against his king, and rally the bone king's minion to his cause. Each attempt had ended in failure that Macaque had regretted each time. His proud little look quickly disappeared under the tremors, and his arrogant smile was now hidden by his scarf, which he pulled up to his nose, to escape the cold and all that it meant. He lost his confidence, answered his king's questions more often, and remained eternally trembling in Wukong's presence. Macaque changed from what the king remembered.

The more he did it, the less reality shook, and that was enough to assure the king that he was going on the right path. On rare occasions, the ice demon that followed him everywhere seemed to give the bone king a strange impression. It wasn't enough to shake the world, as it was with Macaque; but it left the bone king with an unpleasant feeling, and put him in a bad mood for the day. At those times, he sent the fake mayor elsewhere, or ordered him to go find Macaque for an even more unsatisfactory training session. Nevertheless ; and the king knew it, Macaque was the only one who was sufficiently at his level to hold out against him one on one for so long. And if the bone king was sometimes displeased enough that Macaque, during his unpredictable bursts of motivation, managed to make him flinch for a moment, to the point of causing the king to be more harsh towards Macaque, the shadow monkey would never know.

Today however was strange. The Bone King didn't know if the uneasy feeling he felt had to do with Macaque. For some time now, the shadow monkey had been getting closer, he had stopped fleeing from him. Now he was watching her from afar. He always stayed within sight, but did his best to keep the king from paying attention to him. Then he went back to hide for a few hours, and came back to see the king. The times when the two monkeys crossed paths were more frequent, and Macaque seemed to be more willing to initiate contact. It was strange…

New and familiar.

And today, the bone king was almost impatiently waiting for his weak little warrior to come within sight.

He saw her in the corridors. Macaque didn't seem to pay attention to the bone king. The king could see that the demon was preoccupied. By what ? He didn't know, but he figured it must be something to do with him. Him, or the strange kid who ran away from him and came from time to time to confront him before fleeing when Macaque noticed that he was in danger.

-Macaque.

The person concerned jumped violently when he felt his wrist being caught in the king's hand. The Bone King hadn't noticed that he had run to catch up with Macaque. Had he run? But how could he have arrived so quickly alongside the other? He could have teleported. Would he have done it unconsciously? Everything was too strange today.

-My king? You… do you need me?

Macaque's voice had faltered at first, but he brilliantly managed to show the king a half smile despite the trembling of his limbs and the worry in his eyes. A memory was superimposed on the scene. It was too fleeting for the king to retain it, however. The memory was something joyful. Sweeter than this strange moment. The Bone King took it as such, and he felt his tail hit the ground behind him. There was a little silence. Macaque's tail tightened a little on his leg as time passed without the king doing anything to release him. He would have problems, wouldn't he? He had noticed the movement of the king's tail, and it worried him to wonder what amused the king so much? What kind of sadistic thing could have crossed his mind? He never knew if it was the thoughts of the bone lady or Wukong that took priority in Wukong's behavior. When the king needed contact, Macaque knew it was Wukong, and when the king seemed to displease him more than usual, he knew it was the lady. Some days were more bearable than others. Macaque knew full well that the fact that one or the other took control of the bone king's mood changed nothing for him. Both beings hated him to the point.

-You've been acting strange lately.

Macaque's heart raced at the king's observation, and his tail tightened a little tighter against him. He didn't dare move, but his thoughts were racing. Had the king noticed something? So that was how long he had before Wukong and the lady noticed that Macaque had placed a seal on them. He had been stupid to think MK's plan would work. If Macaque could have easily left a magic seal on MK, without the latter noticing it; that would not be the case with the bone king. Obviously the latter would notice the shadow magic on him. Yet Macaque had been so active in being present to hide the fact that the seal was on the king. He had tried so hard.

“Sorry MK… it was a failure. »

Macaque thought as the king frowned a little more.

-It’s as if…

“Get it over with!” »

Macaque screamed internally as fear tore at him. He was totally in trouble.

However, the bone king does not finish his sentence. His world was starting to shake again. The memories came together before him. The face of someone smiling at him and telling someone he loved them. The memory of gentle caresses. The feeling of being supported in his cause, the memory of a rabbit so adorable in his frozen hands before his attention was drawn to a man with a bun, and a stern look, who seemed to be worried about him. Wukong's vision seemed to flicker between Macaque and the memories that burned his retina and melted his mind. Around him, the world was becoming blurry, as if it were going to disappear. Then, his heart jumped, when Macaque's face was covered in blood, Painful memories. Blood and flames on once-shining lands. A face destroyed by tears and blood; a little rabbit who died while crying for him. The feeling of injustice in the mix of memories he didn't even remember.

-something… whispers the bone king.

-Wukong?

The bone king did not correct Macaque. He was too focused on fighting his own thoughts, trying to even understand them. And Macaque's voice seemed to mingle with the memories. Be part of it. He seemed genuinely worried. The bone king's hand left Macaque's wrist to squeeze his shoulders.

-I… I always… I always wanted…

The Bone King searched for words as two states of thought screamed their worldview into his mind. His vision was swaying, and he clung to Macaque like one clings to a lifebuoy. The Bone King never knew what he said to finish his sentence. He doesn't even know if he even said anything. He just knows that Macaque looked at him with immense shock before his gaze softened,

and let fear not give way to worry. Concern for the king. The shadow monkey was still trembling when his hands approached the king's face, and he was still trembling when he silently asked the king to bend down to kiss his forehead.

-Don't cry, my king.

The bone king did not know to whom Macaque was speaking. The six-eared monkey often called him his king, but thought of someone else. But this time, he wasn't sure who this moment of comfort was for. The mode turned white on contact. Silence fell in his mind, his vision stopped disrupting his memories, and calm returned. He was himself again. Macaque still had his forehead pressed to that of the king, his eyes closed, his hands on his cheeks. The bone king is not sure when he knelt in front of Macaque to allow the latter to grant him this simple contact.

He also did nothing to push Macaque away, or to let him know that he was feeling better. Macaque had stopped shaking. Something so rare about the shadow monkey, and part of the king didn't want it to stop. He stayed like that for a minute, just enjoying Macaque's presence.

-My king? I did what you asked.

Macaque was the one who broke contact. This immediately soured the king's mood. Had he not sent this puppet far away? Oh ! That's right… he asked her to place a spy in this strange child's group. The Bone King immediately forgot what had just happened, and focused on the present moment. It's true. He should stop this kid and his friends from coming to bother him. They weren't a threat, but they were getting annoying. It was good to know that he could finally know when they would come to bother him, and act accordingly.

-That's good. Coldly congratulates the Bone King before turning his attention back to Macaque.

The latter was tense again in his presence. But the Bone King could still feel his world wavering slightly. It was annoying. But this day in general was strange.

-You.

-Yes? Macaque is quick to respond.

-Out of my sight.

Macaque did not hesitate. He fled immediately. The ice demon followed Macaque with his gaze until the latter disappeared, then he returned his attention to his king.

-Are you sure of yourself, my king?

The Bone King frowned.

-You think I'm not capable of knowing what I want?

-No! No, of course my king. I was just wondering if it was safe to let this simian get away with it. He could warn the group.

-Hm. Watch him.

The Bone King didn't miss how the fake mayor's smile had widened a little too much. He didn't like it. But he couldn't stay with Macaque here, now. The ice demon flew away, and the king groaned, placing a hand on his face.

-Strange…

#lmk macaque #lmk shadowpeach #lmk sun wukong #just a draft #bone king au #lmk mayor #lmk lady bone demon

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haleswallows · 4 months

Text

I'm so happy to post more Tim & Uncle Frighty!

Teaser:

Fright Knight levels an unimpressed glare. Truly, the glowing eyes are unfair. Tim could never look so intimidating with just a look.

“I believe you are familiar with the definition of insanity.”

“Sure, I am. Would you prefer Merriam-Webster or Oxford English?” Tim quips with a smirk. The glare intensifies and he can't help but laugh.

“You are a menace of the same caliber as the High King.” Even without breathing, Fright Knight manages to huff.

“That's a compliment. You like Phantom.” It's said to his chest, Tim scrubbing a wet wipe over his front. “Can you grab my – thank you.”

Fright Knight easily grabs the snagged cape and brings it to Tim. He might be jealous of the ease the spirit does it. But well, Tim's kind of over being jealous of superpowers.

“You wish to return to your duties.” Fright Knight presses a finger to the gauze over Tim's palm, holding it in place so he can tape it one-handed.

“Yeah, Spoiler needs company on a stake-out.” He says it around tearing the tape with his teeth. “Just need to stop over at my place to grab a new grapnel and glove. Maybe some caff too.”

“I propose a trade.” The tone is an edge snootier than usual. Tim tilts his head, but doesn't look up from starting to tape his toes together. “The sacrifice is not sufficient. I shall transport you to the Nest in return you consume solid nourishment before your return to patrol.”

Tim's attention snaps to the helm and gapes. Fright Knight has the gall to look smug. “Not sufficient, my ass! That's inconsistent. I have records of over two hundred summons with just a drop of blood in return to being flown all over Gotham!”

“It is my summoning pendant. It is my prerogative that sets the conditions of the gate.”

The logic works, but only just. He squints at Fright Knight as he shoves his boot back on. “Counter offer, transport and I promise I’ll cook after patrol.”

Fright Knight tilts his helm. It’s an animalistic gesture, and Tim finds it endearing. “Transport, and you consume a small meal in addition to a proper meal after retiring for the evening.”

“How is that a counter offer? You’re making more demands!” He scrambles to his feet. The tape definitely helps a lot with the toe. Tim pokes Fright Knight’s breastplate. “I’m a CEO, and you suck at negotiating. Transport, I cook after patrol.”

“A proper counter offer demands a revision. You did not change your offer.” Fright Knight swats his hand away. Tim meets his glare, hands on his hips. Absolutely does not hiss when he jostles his hand.

Trying to win a staring contest with the Lord of Fear is a fool’s errand, especially when he doesn’t need to blink. Tim tries it anyways. He takes the loss poorly and swipes his cape back from the spirit. “Fine! I’ll eat something.”

#dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp fic #tim drake #fright knight #my writing

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dedalvs · 1 year

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can you make a translator for firish i want to use it in my rps i have with friends

I've actually gotten this question a couple times, which is great! But this type of thing just isn't possible with a conlang. It has nothing to do with the quality of the conlang or the level of completion (i.e. the amount of vocabulary, how much of the grammar has been recorded, etc.), and I'll tell you specifically why.

First, you may have seen "translators" for various languages online like LingoJam. LingoJam not only has translators for a bunch of different languages, but allows you to make your own translators. The way these work, though, is you write down a word in one language and write its translation into another—something like:

English > Spanish

I > yo

am > soy

to > a

the > el

store > tienda

going > yendo

That is, you put in one to one correspondences, and that's what it has to work with. Once you're done, if you ask for a translation, it looks up the words and sees what's available and it spits back what it has, in order. If we had this very minimal English to Spanish dictionary (which is 100% accurate, by the way! That is, all of these English words can be translated as all of these Spanish words), you could ask LingoJam to translate the following into Spanish...

I am going to the store.

...and you would get...

Yo soy yendo a el tienda.

Now, if you speak Spanish, you'll see all the places this went wrong. (Short version: You don't always need subjects pronouns in Spanish; you use a different helping verb for "to be x'ing" in Spanish; you rarely actually use this "to be x'ing" construction in Spanish; the present tense is sufficient; though el means "the", it's the wrong gender for tienda—analogous to saying "an store" as opposed to "a store" in English.) And you can actually avoid this in LingoJam by adding phrases on top of single words:

English > Spanish

the store > la tienda

I am going > voy

But you can imagine how much work that would be...

The reason why things like LingoJam are so popular, though, is because imagine if you knew nothing about Spanish. Typing in "I am going to the store" and having it instantly spit out "Yo soy yendo a el tienda" is pretty darn satisfying! If you don't know it's wrong but you're happy with it, what's the problem?

Now, a language like Spanish is huge, so it's easier to get accurate Spanish translations online than it is to get accurate Korean translations online—and it's easier to get accurate Korean translations online than accurate Tigrinya translations online, etc. The reason for that takes us to Google Translate.

I think most people know that with LingoJam, you get what you pay for. Google Translate, on the other hand, is much more sophisticated, and much more accurate. It's not 100%, but it's pretty darn good—for widely spoken languages. This is why.

Way back when, Syfy facilitated a chat between me and the folks at Google Translate because they wanted to see if Google and I could work together to create a translator for a couple of my Defiance languages at TED in 2013. After all, we had a full two weeks. We could bang something like that out in two weeks, right? (lol no)

I learned then how Google Translate works. Google Translate doesn't actually know anything about the specific grammar of a language—maybe a couple language specific tweaks, but it's not as if you can go under the hood and find a full grammar of Spanish that tells you when to use the subjunctive, what all the conjugations are, etc. Instead, what Google Translate has is a database (i.e. Google, along with Google Books, Google Scholar, etc.) with tons of, presumably, fluent documents written in the various target languages offered on Google Translate. They also have faithful translations of those documents—not all, but a percentage. Google Translate uses that information to predict what a given sentence in one language will turn into in another.

In order to do this successfully, Google Translate needs BILLIONS of documents to troll. And it has that. It has BILLIONS of articles written in Spanish and translated to English. That's why the English to Spanish translation is as good as it is.

Now, having said that, anyone who's bilingual in English and Spanish knows that Google Translate isn't perfect. Sometimes it's pretty good, but sometimes it produces a lot of clunky, unnatural, or even incorrect translations. This is because there isn't a human back there calling the shots.

But that's its best translator. Now imagine translating between English and Samoan (one of the other languages it offers). There are EXPONENTIALLY more online articles in Spanish than Samoan. Consequently, the translations you get between English and Samoan on Google Translate are absolutely no guarantee.

And bear in mind, there's a kind of minimum threshold they work with before adding a language to Google Translate. If Samoan is on there and not Fijian, it's because there's that much more Samoan online than Fijian.

Now let's go back to conlangs. What Google Translate wants is BILLIONS of articles written online in the target language. Forget how complete the grammar of a conlang is, whether you can find that description online, or how many thousands of words the conlang has. How many fluent articles are there written in that conlang that are online? How many can one person to? How about a team of people? And how many conlangs have that?

This is why Google Translate has Esperanto and nothing else. Esperanto has been around for 136 years, and in that time there have been a good number of people who have learned to speak it fluently, and have written things (poems, articles, books) that are now online. It is as much as Spanish? Certainly not, but it is enough to hit Google Translate's minimum threshold, and so it's available.

Assuming you have a conlang with a full grammar and a good amount of vocab, if it were popular, it might have enough available material for Google Translate to work with 125 years from now. But at the moment, it's not possible. That says nothing about the language: It's about how Google Translate works.

And bear in mind, Google Translate is, at the moment, our best non-human translator.

If predictive-AI gets good enough that it can learn the grammar of a language, then it may be possible to produce a translator for a new conlang. That, though, is not the goal of Google Translate. Maybe ChatGPT and things like it will get there one day, but even that isn't a dedicated language learning AI. We need an AI that doesn't work with billions of fluent articles, but works with two books: a complete grammar and a dictionary. If an AI can one day work with those two tiny (by comparison) resources and actually produce translations that are as good as or better than Google Translate, then we'll be at a "translation-on-demand" place that will be good enough to feed a new conlang to. At that point, it will simply be a matter of producing a grammar and lexicon of sufficient size for the AI to do its thing.

So, no, right now we can't do a Ts'íts'àsh translator. :( We can go over things like the sound system and basic grammar and you can create your own words to work with it... A lot more work, but hey, we don't have to churn our own butter or milk our own cows anymore! We've got time!

#conlang #language #linguistics #translation #google #google translate #ai #elemental #pixar elemental #firish #tsitsash #ts'its'ash #ts'íts'àsh #syfy #defiance #spanish #translator

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

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

wc ; 6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can say that again."

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

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

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest caves in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. "I'm tired."

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

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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