pairing: neteyam x f! human!reader (initially. you'll see)
synopsis: a human girl grows up alongside the Sully children, forging a slow-burn bond with her best friend, neteyam. this story explores belonging, yearning, and loyalty as they navigate identity, danger, and a bond neither can deny.
word count: 2.3k
content warnings: use of y/n, friends-to-lovers trope, slow-burn trope, angst, yearning, mentions of blood/injury, childhood loss and grief, jealousy, emotional tension, danger/near-death scenes, and mentions of cultural/physical differences (i promise there are scenes with fluff too).
EEEEKKKK! hello! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶
let me know if you want to be added to a taglist—here is Part 1, i am very excited to share with you all!
i have been working on this since 2023 when ATWOW first released. with the new trailer out, i’ve finally found inspiration to finish it ㅤᵕ̈
so without further ado, i will now share with you all—Enjoy!
. . .
word bank: pup - short / sa’nok - mother / ‘evenge - child / nga - you / seykxel - strong (emotionally, spiritually, not physically) / sivako - you can do it, courage / ngatsyíp - little one / nena (spanish) - darling, honey
It starts at the age of 6…
“I think you’ll like his children just as much as you like Jake,” Your dad says to you, his figure crouching beside your small frame.
You stand in front of the big, metal door of the building.
Your eyebrows scrunch in question, round eyes full of curiosity. “What if they don’t like me?” Your voice is small, unsure—brown orbs flickering with doubt.
Your dad's face softens and he offers an encouraging smile.
“What’s there not to like?” He taps your nose playfully as the words leave his mouth. “Come on, now.” He stands from position. “Spider is waiting—”
“I don’t want Spider, I want Jake,” You interrupt—a pouty expression paints your face. You see Spider everyday here at home.
Your dad deadpans at the suggestion of Jake, as he originally planned for Spider to introduce you.
Spider’s foster parents have let him roam outside past the gates plenty of times. Your dad, on the other hand, is a little more… restrictive protective over the matter. He just worries, it’s his job.
He gives you another encouraging smile when he hears your whiny tone. “Nena...” He begins reluctantly, his hand scratching the back of his head. The word—a term of endearment he adopted for you in honor of your mom and her culture—helps calm you briefly.
Your dad pauses, thinking hard. His face scrunches like he’s trying to solve a puzzle before he takes a knee again to match your height.
“How about I take you instead?” He asks softly, cautiously, well aware of how stubborn you are when it comes to Jake. He can only pray to Eywa that the heartening smile he sends your way has you agree.
Your face lights up for a second—but then your pout returns, stronger than ever.
“No, I want Jake!”
. . .
“Remember, nena! Never take the mask off, okay?” Your dad’s voice echoes in the hallway, scurrying to keep up, distracted by the monitors and screens as you pass through the lab room.
“She’s stepped foot outside before, Norm.” You practically hear Jake’s voice in your ear, your small frame enveloped in his larger arms. His hand finds the handle to the exit.
“Maybe it’ll be better if I come with y—”
Jake swings the door open, turning on his heels with you still in his arms. “They need you here, Norm,” he persists with a roll of his eyes. Your father grimaces, reluctant.
“Besides, she’ll be right outside with me, and she’ll love meeting the kids!”
Before your father could protest, the door shuts behind the both of you.
. . .
“She’s more pup than Spider.”
You’re small, and human, and definitely no speaker of this language the blue-skinned child spoke.
Still, having a dad who studies this language, you make it work. You understand that pup means short. It isn’t hard to put the puzzle pieces together.
You assume the Na’vi boy circling you finds it funny to pick at your height. You know you’re right when Spider laughs and the Na’vi girl next to him hisses at the words that roll off her brother’s tongue mockingly, his naturally taller body still moving around you in delight.
“Lo’ak.” Her yellow eyes shoot daggers at the boy. That must be his name.
“Penis face,” you retort.
Again, Spider laughs—only harder this time.
Lo’ak’s face scrunches up, confused. His sister mirrors his expression. He doesn’t have a chance to reply, not understanding at all what you said to him.
But your brazen tone is enough for him to know you were not going to let his last comment slide.
Jake was initially amused by the interaction, but upon hearing your words, he instantly takes your small frame into his arms, interrupting the two of you.
“Y/N,” Jake attempts to scold, but his stern demeanor fails to convince you of his disapproval. You know he thinks it’s funny by the smile he tries to hide.
“That isn’t a nice thing to say,” he tells you, recomposing himself, and resumes with a look of disapproval.
Jake remembers calling out to Norm and referring to your dad as penis face, which you actually learned from him. The vivid memory betrays him when it prompts a stifled chuckle to rumble through his chest, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
And so, you meet Lo’ak and Kiri first, at the small age of six. They're only slighty younger, as you were born right before the Pandoran War, like Spider. Despite this, your frame is much smaller compared to their naturally larger and bluer build.
Your introduction to the youngest Sully kids presents you with few glimpses of the Pandoran forest as you usually meet no further than the withered fences that still slightly guard Hell’s Gate, the place you call home.
Jake trusts your father to look after his young ones when they're around. The two youngest Sully children often spend their time with you in the lab for the first couple months of your newly formed friendships. They find fun in the little things you are far too familiar with and bored of.
Still, you never take their company for granted. Your life is a lot more fun with their presence in your life. You aren’t afraid to say that to them, and often if not, are very open to showing your gratitude and fondness for them through small acts of physical affection—casually sharing hugs, sometimes attacking them mostly Lo'ak from behind, usually ending in a piggyback ride.
As small children, differences in your language with the Sullys doesn’t stop your horseplay or what your dad calls “shenanigans” in the lab. And your dad isn't very happy about the shenanigans.
Then, at age 7…
You stare at the large, what you understand to be lifeless, N’avi body encased in a big tank of water. It seems so large, especially next to your small frame.
You mindlessly tap on the glass, intrigued by the sight in front of you.
“Kiri’s sa’nok?” You repeat your dad’s words after he explains to you the “complicated situation”—is what he calls it—involving Kiri and her real mom. Her birth mom, your dad tells you.
As a scientist, and now leader of the Avatar Program, your father prepares to introduce Grace’s encased Avatar form to Kiri here in the lab.
“Yes, ‘evenge.”
Your dad is too preoccupied with one of the monitors in the lab to notice the confusion that paints your face. You know he’s used the word before, but you can’t remember.
“’Evenge?” You repeat.
“Child,” he translates absentmindedly, still focusing his attention on the monitor.
If you weren’t so distracted by the unfamiliar Na’vi word, your heart normally would have ached at the mention of a mother—a figure in your life you always wished for.
You frown at your father’s behavior, too busy to pay any regard to you.
Lo’ak and Kiri should have arrived with Jake by now. For a couple of days, your father has placed emphasis on the importance of today. For him, Jake, and especially Kiri.
He also spoke to you about how maybe he could take you out to the forest to introduce you to “the foreign flora and life within the beautiful Pandoran forest” (again, his words) you so badly grew a wish to see.
“If there’s time.”
You hate when he says that.
You don’t like that sentence one bit. He says it all the time, and he’s said it to you too many times in the past couple of weeks to even count.
Your eyes wander around the lab, scanning every little object, screen, and monitor you haven’t already taken the time to observe before.
You grow impatient as your dad keeps talking, something about one of the plants in the forest. You tune his voice out, too distracted by the view the window beside the exit offers you.
You turn your head to catch a glimpse of your distracted dad, who continues to ramble and give you his back as he does. You quietly slip past the window, your eyes jumping to him from time to time.
Then your eyes lock on the encased mask in the clear compartment against the wall, right next to the exit.
. . .
You somehow make it to the fence successfully without your dad noticing your absence. Still, you don’t waste any time in figuring out how far you can get before he does. So you embark on finding Kiri and Lo’ak on your own terms. They shouldn’t be too deep into the forest anyway, right? They should be close by now.
You knew the perfect spot to wait for them.
Just a couple of steps outside the fences of your home, there’s an open area of higher ground with a very tall tree. You always spotted Kiri and Lo’ak at this spot. They’ve passed it plenty of times whenever they were making their way to the labs.
It isn’t too far.
Upon reaching the fences, you look over your shoulder once more, turning back to make sure your dad is still inside the lab.
With no one in sight, absolutely no witness (freedom, you feel like), you don’t think twice about setting foot in the foreign, forbidden forest. Your small feet take you only as far as a couple of meters before you go stumbling down from an area of higher ground. You yelp in pain before a large tree halts your hurtling with a crash.
You huff and dust yourself off before standing on your feet again, disoriented for a moment.
You were too focused before, with trying to slip away. But now, you finally pay mind to your surroundings.
Sounds of chirps and humming insects fill your ears. The Pandoran trees you grew so used to seeing from afar, have you looking now in awe. They’re way too tall to see fully from where you stand at the base of the trunk. Their height easily towers over plants you’ve never seen before. Only in the textbooks your dad owns. They’re more colorful than you could have ever imagined. You listen closely to the noises of critters, along with the sound of the breeze moving through the branches and leaves.
Small, enchanting species fly and pass you by. Your round eyes, full of wander and awe, follow the small creatures that pass the thing that catches your attention next.
It’s a very large, deep-colored purple mushroom. Maybe five times your size, and your eyes are quick to find more than just one of them—numerous planted in the area that you tumbled into.
Your dad always reminds you of the dangers of Pandora. Still your wondrous eyes and curious hands don’t think twice about reaching out to touch one of the towering mushrooms.
Almost.
Your fascination is cut short by a blaring, shrieking sound.
It’s deafening—alerting. It precipitates you to cover your ears with your hands, panic now painting your face as terror begins to set in.
You spin around, trying to find where that horrible, screaming sound is coming from—a large plant you have never seen before. It’s maybe twice the size of the mushrooms, with a tubular plant body.
You lower your hands, panic giving way to realization.
You don’t even realize it, but your reflexes are not fast enough for you to react to the sudden release of very large needles coming from that same plant—flying directly in your direction, as if targeted.
You barely miss them.
With one swift motion, a pair of arms instantaneously sweep you off your feet before you’re suddenly swinging through the forest for a fleeting moment.
You’re then gently placed on your feet, and you can finally see what is going on.
Before you stands a Na’vi boy.
Your eyes find his feet first as they travel up to meet his studying gaze. He looks at you intently, almost observing.
His slightly taller figure prompts him to look down at you, a frown tugging on the corners of his mouth. He looks almost…
Annoyed? You really couldn’t tell.
But he notices confusion in your eyes, almost mistaking it for fear, and his gaze softens.
His expression changes into one of understanding—his eyes watching you with a lightness now.
You notice he isn’t much taller or older looking than Lo’ak, so you guess he’s most likely around your age.
He blinks at you a couple of times, almost as if contemplating his next move, the brewing of ideas illustrated on his face.
He doesn’t give you a chance to speak a word before he grabs you by the shoulders gently, twirling you around as his golden eyes examine your small frame for any injuries.
He proceeds with pulling you by the wrist, instructing to follow right behind him.
It isn’t long before he has you reaching the proximity of your home. You know because you’ve now passed the spot you always greet Kiri and Lo’ak at. Then you’re back in the deep, tall unfamiliarity of the forest.
The arrival to your home should be any second now, probably with a worried father. Probably. A worried father who will more than likely punish you. Hopefully not.
“What’s your name?” Your eyes are glued to the grip he has on your wrist, but your voice holds benevolence—careful with figuring out the right way to speak to the unknown Na’vi boy whom rescued your reckless, little human life.
He saved you.
You assume he doesn’t understand what you asked when he doesn't say anything back—proceeding with leading the path. He seems set on getting you home.
He spares you a glance and small smile when he looks back at you over his shoulder.
“Y/N." Is all he says to you, and looks straight ahead to guide you properly with caution.
Your hand flies to your chest. “That’s me! So you do understand what I’m saying?” You cheer at his response with so much enthusiasm.
Before you can ask him how he knows your name, the doddering fences of your home come into view and a small frown transforms your face.
The very little time you’ve spent in the forest has been so much more fun than your entire life in the lab. With the obvious exception of Lo’ak and Kiri’s company (you adore your besties).
The Na’vi boy releases his hold on your wrist ahead of reaching your destination.
He gives you a short-lived grin, proud to have brought you home safely. But he’s quick to notice the switch in your expression, his face slightly faltering to match yours.
A little past the worn-down fences, a small figure appears from behind the exit, followed by a crashing slam of the metal doors garnering the attention of both of you.
“Y/N! Is that you!?” You recognize your father’s voice. Oh, he’s definitely mad, and you’re totally grounded for life. He keeps calling out to you from a distance as he squints his eyes for a clearer view.
You direct your attention back to the Na’vi boy who stands between you and the forest.
“Nga seykxel. Sivako, ngatsyíp (You are strong. Courage, little one),” he says gently and offers you a smile. His hand reaches out to pat your head, almost encouragingly.
You see the way his yellow eyes focus behind you, so you turn back to look over your shoulder and see what he’s gazing at. You realize your dad is dashing in your direction, seemingly and understandably in a panic.
You whip your head to turn back to the Na’vi boy once more, only to find that he’s already gone—leaving you only with the rustling sounds of the forest trees along with the scolds of your angry father.
next parts will follow ages 8-19! thanks for reading!
let me know if you want to be added to a taglist for the next part! i hope you all anticipate~
. . .
Part 1 / Pt. 2 / Pt. 3 / Pt. 4 / Pt. 5 / Pt. 6 [final]
Sylus stops at the mouth of the alley. He stares into the heavy darkness, listening. He thought he heard someone swearing under their breath. If it’s another one of the bastards that tried to gang up on him just minutes ago, he’s going to be pissed.
With an outstretched hand, tendrils of his Evol dive into the depths of the abyss, shoving past and under dumpsters and discarded boxes to find the source of the sound. A yowl screams out with the distinct sound of cans being knocked over. They wrap around the source and draw it out into the orange lamplight.
A cat wriggles and hisses as it tries to futilely claw out of his Evol’s grasp. He hmphs. Of course, it makes sense for a cat to be out here. The N109 Zone is probably chock full of strays and-
He frowns and draws it closer. It tries swiping at his face, but he barely flinches back. The side of its body is stained in deep crimson. Fur matted down with blood. Fresh blood, too. It’s still dripping, landing on the sidewalk in persistent drips.
“Did you get into a fight?” He knows his question won’t receive an answer, but the cat does struggle less once he’s asked it. Perhaps it’s just growing weaker with blood loss.
He sighs. He can’t leave it here in the alley; it would be dead in the next few hours if he did. And clearly it won’t let him touch it, given the way it bares its fangs at him with a sharp hiss and a swipe of its claws.
He pulls off his coat and holds it open. The tendrils deposit the cat quickly within his arms, where he wraps it securely in the leather before it can squirm away. “You’ve still got spirit,” he hums, half-amused, as he continues on his way. “Hopefully you’ll live through the night.”
-
“Uh, Boss? What’cha got there?” Kieran trails just behind him, trying to peer around his arm to see the bundle wrapped up in them.
Luke is on his other side, doing just the same. “Why is it moving like that?”
“It’s a cat.” The Twins look at each other. “Call a vet. Have them send over a doctor to look at it.”
“Sure thing, Boss,” Luke says with a half-finger salute.
“And get some fish from the kitchen.”
“Right away, Boss,” Kieran mirrors his brother.
They break away from him to go about their tasks. He can hear their hushed conversation asking each other what they think happened. The cat manages to free a paw and claw at his hand. The scratch is deep enough to draw blood. It fades away into flecks of red and black a moment later. He sighs as he pulls open the door to his office. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”
The door shuts, his hold loosens, and the cat is squirming out as fast as possible. It jumps wildly onto the couch, staining the dark leather with blood and whatever god awful garbage stuck to its paws from that alleyway.
Now that he’s back home, he can see its injuries much better. It seems like there’s a hole in its side, too large and too perfectly round to be from an animal’s tooth or claws. Sylus frowns deeper. Did this cat get shot? Was it a poor attempt at pest control? Humans have been known to have a poor track record with strays and ferals, and the residents of the N109 Zone aren’t known to hesitate to remove what annoys them.
There’s a knock at the door behind him. The cat sits up straighter, like it’s ready to bolt the second it opens. He quirks a challenging brow at it. Who will win this fight, he wonders.
He turns the knob without looking away. The door opens up enough for someone to slip inside. He turns to address Kieran, and the cat makes a break for it.
It collides into a wall of smoke.
“Here’s the fish, Boss. Vet’s on their way.”
He pays no attention to the yowling and hissing of the cat as he examines the container in his hand. It’s certainly a bit fancy for a stray. Hopefully it’ll be enough to calm it down.
The door closes with a hum of dismissal. The wall vanishes, leaving only a worn-out cat and a scratched up rug behind. It looks up at him with narrowed eyes.
“Hungry?” He hooks a finger around the pull tab and removes the lid on the can. Immediately, the overbearing scent of fish fills the room. He sets it down a foot or so away from the cat, steps back, and watches.
It continues to stare at him for a minute. It’s almost unsettling. Like there’s something more behind its eyes that he’s not privy to.
Soon enough, though, the hunger must be too much for the little thing. It slowly stands up. He watches it carefully as it limps over to the fish. Its back leg doesn’t appear to be damaged; maybe it just hurts to move too much with how close it is to the hole in its side. The cat lowers itself down on its stomach, shoulders hunched, prepared to run at any given moment, and gives the can a distrusting sniff.
The first bite feels like a major success. If it can fight and it can eat, maybe it really can pull through this.
-
The cat glares at him from across the room. Its tail flicks angrily from side to side. And there is no way in hell he can take it seriously.
If the cone around its neck didn’t remove any and all intimidation, its shaved fur certainly did.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat look so pissed!” Luke cackles. He’s sitting on the floor. For the last few days, he’s been trying to “be one with the cat” in order to get close enough to pet it. He’s got bandages all over his hands to show for it.
“Do you think it knows it would’ve died without that surgery?” Kieran asks. He’s sitting on the couch behind his brother, arms crossed. Of all three of them, the cat seems to like him the best. Though, the bar really is in hell.
Sylus shakes his head. “Do you think it would be so angry if it did?”
“Hmm, good point.”
“Oh!” Luke suddenly jumps up, startling the cat, and runs over to a bag by the door. “I almost forgot I got these! There’s gotta be something in here it likes.”
He hauls the bag over and drops it onto the nice mahogany desk of their leader. Sylus doesn’t say anything, merely watches as Luke pulls out various items. Two kinds of brushes, little catnip mice toys, feathers dangling from a stick, at least three kinds of treats-
Kieran laughs. “When did you get all of this stuff?” He’s suddenly by Luke’s side, picking up one of the dangle toys and bouncing it in front of Mephisto, resting on his perch nearby. The crow squawks indignantly.
Luke shrugs with a proud expression. “I have my ways. Here, let’s try these!” He grabs one of the treat bags and tears it open. He returns to his place on the floor. The cat stares up at him with interest. “Want this?”
Its tail slows down slightly, a smidge less irritated than before. Luke nearly squeals with excitement when it leans forward to smell the morsel in his hand.
A sharp ringtone startles it. It backs away, tucking itself into the corner of its makeshift bed made out of spare blankets far too expensive for a cat to be laying on like it does.
Sylus lifts his phone to his ear. “Speak.”
The Twins both turn to watch. He listens silently to the man on the other end. It seems the boss of the men who ambushed him the other night is trying to cover his ass, offering up apologies and ‘I had no idea’s and ‘How can I make it up to you?’s. He hums noncommittally into the receiver as he stands up and heads for the door. He nods to the Twins, a silent message for them to follow. The crow flies and lands on his shoulder as he leaves. Luke sets the treat down on the carpet. Kieran nudges him. The door shuts behind them.
The cat stares at the door for a minute longer. It listens carefully to the footsteps of its captors. Once it can’t hear them anymore, it waits a few more minutes…
Fucking finally.
-
Sylus's steps slow to a stop just inside the room. The cone lay abandoned on the couch. All the furniture and rugs are destroyed, clawed up and torn apart. The culprit is sitting on the desk. It stares at him blankly.
The door closes with a click. He walks over to the couch, leaning over the back to pick up the abandoned cone. He turns it over. There's no scratches, no bite marks, and the cord that holds it shut has been tied with a different knot than the vet used.
He looks back over at the cat. Its tail twitches anxiously beside it.
Trouble. Just like he suspected. Though, not quite like this.
"As long as you aren't licking at your stitches," he concedes. He steps over to the desk and drops the cone on top, near the cat. "Hm. You need more pain medication, don't you?"
"Mreow."
"Oh, so you do know how to speak nicely." He rounds the desk. The cat turns to face him the whole time. At least it doesn't try to scratch him as he opens the top drawer and pulls out an orange bottle. He struggles momentarily to get just one of the small pills, resorting to dumping some into the cap just to make it easier on himself, and holds it out to the cat. It hesitantly leans out to sniff it. "Don't most animals like to have their meds hidden?"
It makes a little sound, as though trying to chastise him for his misconception. He holds the pill patiently. Waits with all the patience of someone willing to let the world disintegrate around them. He almost holds his breath when it takes the pill from his fingers and retreats to eat it safely.
Progress. Good progress, for how short the cat's been here. Eating out of his hand is a good sign, for how odd the rest of its behavior is.
-
"Ah, shit, wait!"
The cat runs down the hall. Two sets of footsteps chase after it, hissing pleas for it to come back and be a good kitty. They cartoonishly skid to a stop when it runs through another open door.
Luke turns slowly to Kieran. Both of them are horrified for what comes next.
After a quick round of rock, paper, scissors, Kieran is the one forced to crack open the door further.
Sylus is sitting up on his bed, back against the headboard. His eyes are closed, chest rising and falling in a normal pattern. Fast asleep. A frown is set deep on his face.
Kieran looks around the room. It's huge, has a lot of hiding spots, and seems to be completely devoid of the cat. Did it slip by somehow? Did it actually go into a different room? He glances at Mephisto, who seems far too busy preening its faux feathers to care about his plight.
Fearing the consequences of lingering any longer, Kieran slowly backs away and closes the door as quietly as possible. He shrugs at his brother. Luke is just as confused as he is, gesturing in a silent conversation.
Deciding they were both somehow, somehow tricked, they continue their hunt further down the hall…
The cat pokes its head out from behind its cover. Honestly, it didn't mean to get trapped in here. It was just trying to lose the two goons on its tail.
The presence on the bed doesn't do a lot to put it at ease. The man confuses it with his callousness. One minute, he's manhandling it with his Evol, and the next he's giving it food and making sure its wounds are taken care of. It's not that he's mean, as far as the cat can tell. He's nice to those guys, anyway, humoring their weird little ideas and eccentricities.
Mephisto hops down beside it. The cat's back curls, fur all standing on end as it hisses at the metal bird. He seems just as unfazed by the warning as the man is.
"Leave it."
The command startles the cat, putting it on higher alert as it whips around to hiss at the man. He pays it no mind. Mephisto caws irritatedly as he flies back up to his perch.
“You aren’t supposed to be running around.” Sylus glances at the cat. "Do you want to leave?" he asks in a low murmur, words slurred slightly with sleep. He waits for a response. Waits for any sort of tell that would let him know to open the door for the cat. But nothing comes.
The cat's fur is still standing up as it cautiously makes its way over. It stops at the side of the bed, adjusting its body as it gauges the distance it needs to jump to make it onto the thick mattress. Sylus chuckles tiredly. "You can't jump that, kitten. Want some help?"
It puts its paw on the overhanging bedding, standing on its back legs. Then, it meets his eyes. "Mreoww."
He waves his hand. Red and black Evol lift the cat onto the bed before fading. It's a little unsteady on the softer surface, but it catches its balance soon enough. It takes a single step away from the edge, then lays down.
He hums, but he doesn't say anything more. If the cat wants to stay there for the rest of the day, so be it. The Twins won't come looking for it again in here, and Mephisto isn't going to snitch to them of all people.
He shuts his eyes again, ignores the cat staring at him, and falls asleep.
Slowly, the cat's fur smoothes down. It allows itself to curl up into a more comfortable position. It keeps an eye on him until it can't anymore, as sleep claims it, too.
-
Every day for the next couple weeks, this continued.
For the first few days, Sylus would head off to bed, leaving the door cracked open behind him. The cat would come in a while later. If he was awake, he'd use his Evol to lift it up. If he wasn't, well, it meowed persistently until he was.
Sylus soon set up a pet stair beside the bed. This way, it could climb up without having to wake him. With that, it also began following him in right as he went to bed. He'd been pleasantly surprised the first time, when he opened the door and it slipped in quickly through his legs, ran up the stairs and stared at him. When he woke up at sundown, he noticed that it was just a couple inches closer than before.
Every few days, it shifted closer and closer, until it was within arm's reach. Though, he never tried reaching out to pet it. It was clear by their interactions at night that it was not ready for that sort of attention, no matter how desperately Luke tried to just pat its head once. Like a silent agreement, he would offer it protection in the day while they both slept and leave it to its own devices at night.
-
“Cat seems to be feeling a lot better, huh?” Kieran follows the feline around the room as it wanders gracefully along shelf after shelf of lethal weapons.
“Shouldn’t we get it down from there?” Luke wonders. His phone is lifted, taking photos of the cat, just as he’d been doing for all the time it’s been living in the base.
Sylus looks up to watch with them, the gun in his own hand going ignored.
The cat walks slowly. Its focus is solely on the guns on display, observing each one like it’s a museum. He watches as it comes to a stop in front of one - one he himself altered and upgraded. It stares. Paws lightly at it. It’s not loaded, there’s no danger, but there is an intense interest he’s never seen a cat have before. Like it’s thinking, trying to work something out with knowledge it shouldn’t have.
A camera shutter startles it from its focus. It turns its head toward the Twins and meows annoyedly at them.
Sylus shakes his head. “Leave it be. Start gathering product for our client.”
Luke slips his phone into his pocket with a half-salute. Both of them look a moment longer at the cat, staring down at them with a twitching tail, before getting back to work. They pack enhanced rifles into a sturdy case, fitting them into foam cutouts in layers. Big metal clasps hold the case shut. Each rifle glows dimly with protocore energy. Mostly red, some blue, a couple yellow. Sylus looks over one, turning it over in his hands, checking the quality. From the corner of his eye, the cat keeps watch, tail flicking back and forth all the while.
-
“I’m so sorry again for my men’s ambush, Mr. Qin.” The man bows solemnly, hands rubbing together. He’s shorter than Sylus, but he’s bulky, with thick arms and a barrel chest. His smile is disarming. Eyes too bright and kind. When he straightens out again, he’s rubbing his wrist, as though realigning the joint. “My child ran away, you see. I sent them out looking for them, but they saw you and decided not to waste the opportunity.”
Sylus quirks an eyebrow. “Did you men have a reason to try taking my life?”
The man laughs, quite undisturbed by the question. “To prove their capabilities, no doubt. You are quite famous for your strength, after all, and those young men did not understand the consequences to come from failing. To be sure, in their minds, they must have believed themselves so capable as to not fail.”
“Must have.”
With a nod, one of his henchmen steps forward with a bulky case. He deposits it in front of the Onychinus leader, clicking it open where it rests on his desk. Stacks of protocores, gleaming in a rainbow of colors, fill the case to the brim. They aren’t run of the mill either; a case of this size with this many authentically powerful crystals would take the Hunter’s Association years to amass. Yet here they are, for the taking.
“You should know these are worth more than the weapons you requested.”
“But of course! Consider it a gift of good will, and a hope for future business between our groups.”
There’s a scratch at the door. Soft, yet recognizable to Sylus, who flicks a finger and opens the door a crack. Just as always, the cat squeezes through. But this time, it pauses when it sees Sylus’s client. When he looks at the client, he looks just as caught as the cat.
The air becomes tense and stifling. No sound to be heard as the cat moves silently and quickly across the floor. The man and his lackeys watch, wide-eyed, as the cat leaps up into Sylus’s lap. It’s the first time it’s ever found a place there. For all these weeks, it has always kept a careful distance from everyone, even the Twins and their persistent desire to pet it. Now, out of nowhere, it chooses to cross that boundary it set entirely?
It lays down, front paws tucked under itself, large eyes with slit-pupils staring at the man on the other side of the desk.
The man’s jaw tightens. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He’s on a thin wire; Sylus can feel the rage beginning to leak off of his being. Even without looking into his soul, he can see the truth behind that easy-going mask he wears; the blackened heart rotting inside. When he finally looks back up at Sylus, he forces a strained grin and chokes out a sharp laugh without mirth.
“Mr. Qin, I believe you said you had no involvement in my child’s disappearance.”
Sylus’s brow furrows, an intimidating warning. “I stand by that.”
The man’s cheek twitches. “You do? Ha!” His hands fall to his sides, hands clenched in tight fists. “Then the little fuck has been pulling you along like a fool. Hiding away as a cat this whole fucking time, haven’t you?”
He feels the cat tense in his lap. It sits stock-still. Even its tail is stiff. Like one small move would pull the pin to set everything off. He doesn’t even notice himself sitting up straighter in return. Doesn’t realize he’s as tense until his finger begins tapping at the arm of his chair, ready for what could happen next.
“Tell you what, Mr. Qin. Hand them over and I’ll send over three more boxes just like that,” he offers through grit teeth, nodding to the case on his desk.
“I think if they’d wanted to go with you, they’d have done so already,” he rebuts. “Considering they could have run back home weeks ago, it seems to me their choice is already clear.”
His jaw shifts. Teeth grinding, smile starting to sour into an ugly grimace. “Mr. Qin-”
“The deal’s off,” Sylus interrupts sharply. The man blinks, wide-eyed in shock. “If you refuse to respect my guests in my own home-”
“THEY’RE MY CHILD!” he roars.
“In my home.” He gestures. Luke and Kieran step out from behind him, grabbing the cases of guns and settling them behind his chair, safely out of reach. He tilts his head. Shadows cast over his eyes until they’re embers in the dark. “Why would you send trigger-happy men to retrieve them?”
The man is silent. Fuming. Steam would be pouring from his ears if it could. His fists shake by his side with force, aching to hurt something - someone.
A large, protective hand rests gently over the cat’s back. Barely even touching.
“Get out.”
The man stays still. His guards stand rigid.
Sylus tsks. Red and black tendrils of mist erupt from his hand. They shoot out, grabbing hold of the man and his guards, contorting their legs and arms and bodies like dolls. Sickening cracks, gut-wrenching screams. Their bodies puppeteered out the door, down the hall.
He uncovers the cat. “Make sure they leave without a fuss,” he commands, nodding at the case on the desk. “Take that with you.”
The Twins shut and lock the case back up, whispering questions to themselves as they glance back on their way out. They don’t fully understand what happened. To them, it just sounds like this guy was a crazy pet-dad whose cat got out.
The cat slowly stands from his lap. He watches as it hops on top of his desk, turning back around to face him as it sits. Its tail still shifts anxiously. Paws shift nervously against the wood, as though it’s trying to knead it.
Sylus’s lips quirk into a slight smirk. “Jig’s up, kitten.”
It looks away from him. Fur begins to recede and shift. Limbs elongate and the body sits upright. In a matter of seconds, where once a cat sat, sits a person. You rub your arm, still looking away. He shifts to uncross his legs and you flinch. He slowly finishes the action with a sigh. All of your attitude, your defiance, locked away from the presence of your father alone. He can only imagine how such cruelty against you began. Every scenario makes him wish he’d done worse when “escorting” him out.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promises.
You glance at him. “I used you.”
He nods. “I knew something was strange weeks ago,” he admits. You look at him wide-eyed and he chuckles. “Ever since your cone was removed and I gave you medicine. You removed it yourself, didn’t you?”
“... It was uncomfortable.”
He grins, but continues with an edge of softness, “You used me for your own protection. And given what I just witnessed, I’d say it was well justified.”
You let out a soft breath. Your shoulders relax slightly, adjusting to his kindness. It was nothing you didn’t already witness in your time here, with you in your cat form and the two kids he keeps around, but it’s still quite foreign. “I would have left sooner, but then you kept getting phone calls from my dad. I was scared he’d still be looking for me, so I stayed… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You have no reason to.” He glances at the time. When he stands, he moves carefully, but you don’t flinch away. He holds out a hand, an offering. “I’d imagine you’re getting tired of eating cat food every day. I’ll have my chef prepare something for you. Anything you’d like.”
You look down at his open palm. Then up at his face. There’s nothing guarded or threatening, outside of his height and aura. And the promise of real food - your stomach growls at the thought alone.
You put your hand in his. His touch is soft and gentle. He helps you down from his desk and leads you out of the room, down familiar halls. “What about after?” you ask uncertainly.
He shrugs a shoulder, like he’d already thought of every outcome before you even thought of the question. “That’s up to you, kitten. You’re welcome to stay here, or you can leave. Either way, I’ll make sure you remain protected.”
It’s like a weight lifts off your shoulders. Freedom and protection rolled into one. You’re no longer confined to your home, in fear for your very life. You can go anywhere, do anything, and know, no matter how far, you’ll be safe. You hold on tighter to his hand, catching up to walk directly by his side. “Y/N.”
“Hm?”
“That’s my name.”
He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
That night, a familiar cat curls up tightly in his lap, fast asleep and purring loudly.
Life is short why not take a chance and join a band? Masc!reader intended
Minor spoilers for NANA
Joining | Nana
Actually joining the band wasn’t hard especially because when you met Nana there was no band💀
You guys met at the train station when she first moved to Tokyo
You already lived in Tokyo and were just returning from a trip when you saw her
It was like an instant click she caught your eye
“Hey, do you happen to sing by any chance?”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t worry about that just know I can play guitar pretty damn good if I do say so myself!”
She was tired from the long ass ride and didn’t know anyone in Tokyo aside from Ren
Went back to your place and played for her
“I’ll think about it.”
Nana isn’t a very emotional or open person so she tends to keep secrets but over time if you guys get that close she’ll vent to you
If you smoke she’ll always ask you for your lighter
Older sister younger brother energy
Opposites | Hachi
Nana paid you an abrupt visit to tell you about her new place and totally not just for you to fix the AC
Checking the place out you laid eyes on an inverted version of Nana
“Hi, I’m Nana Komatsu!”
“Just call her Hachi.”
“Nana!”
“Nice to meet you, Hachi?”
She’s had a crush on just about every BLAST member , so, of course she has had a crush on you before
If you wear makeup or paint your nails she would love to do it for you
Amazing cook and if you ever wanted anything she’d happily make it for you
She rlly just wants to be needed
Definitely went to you for relationship advice with Nobu
You tend to just appear places so you were one of the first people to know about her pregnancy and went to the hospital with her
You stayed outside though to avoid ppl thinking you were the father 💀
You def don’t help with her shopping addiction
Shopping sprees constantly that’s why your broke as shit
“Should I get the soft blue or purple skirt?”
“Both.”
After the Takumi drama you guys would stay in contact and when Nobu wasn’t at your place she’d come to watch you practice alone
You’d support her decision because it’s her life in the end
Formation | Nobuō
The unforgiving aggression spewing from your ringing phone at the dead of night
Some random number was calling you and for whatever reason you answered, confident that it wasn’t a scam caller
“Hello?”
“It’s Nana, come over.”
“I’m not into late night favours if you get what I mean.”
“That’s not what I’m calling for, just get over here!”
Reluctantly wandering the dark streets of Tokyo you made your way over to Nana’s apartment, you’d only been there once to help with the AC where you learned of the other Nana or Hachi
Opening the door to reveal the two residents and a blonde man standing with his guitar in hand
“Took you long enough. Anyways, like I said Nobuo I already have a guitarist so go home.”
“Well we could always play together I have nothing against dual guitars!”
“You aren’t helping.”
“Good.”
You and Nobu got along great your guitars and personalities blending perfectly
He talks with you about everything especially when he and Hachi get together
If you’re shorter than/same height him he’d be happy to have another short guy in the band
If you’re taller he’d be happy if you didn’t make fun of his height though he does tend to light heartedly joke abt it
He likes to go to you for fashion inspiration and vice versa
Drunk karaoke
You would help him with song writing
You guys would be around the same age too so besties
You guys get along the best in the band
The bass | Shin
After the whole Nobu moving to Tokyo fiasco all you guys need is a bassist and drummer
Nobu sending you a picture of Hachi’s little drawing of the 3 of you on the band poster
You met up with them at the studio to practice with Shinichi on bass
For such a young kid he was pretty good player (granted your only like 6-7 years older)
Being confused right alongside him when everyone stopped playing
You, Shin, and Nobu are like the 3 musketeers
You- Oldest, Nobuo - Middle, Shin - Youngest
Shin snatched your clothes on a daily basis much like he does with Nobu
Unlike Nobu, you don’t care
He stays over at your place more than you’d like to admit
He basically lives there
He would definitely go to you about the Reira/Layla situation
Has mini fashion shows in your room with a fake runway and everything
You guys play games together on your console
He relaxes and is actually a kid when he hangs out with you
Has you paint his nails
He has moments when he storms off if you bring up a certain subject but he never stays mad for long and shows up at your door
Likes to go eat at new places with you especially if you’re paying for it
“I’m gonna get the chocolate croissants, one of those fancy hot chocolates, and..oh! You’re paying for this right?”
“Um..”
Bit a of spoiler kinda but later in the manga when he got arrested you’d be the only one to visit him
Completion | Yasu
You definitely shat yourself when you first met Yasu
He’s the responsible one in the band so he’s like a father figure to you especially if you didn’t have one
You two probably get to the studio first before anyone else
He’d always let you talk/rant to him if you ever needed to
Would be surprised if you remembered his birthday and got him a gift
If you smoke he’d go on smoke breaks with you
If you don’t smoke he’d make sure to hold his cigarette away from you/out of your face
Would teach you various card games
If you didn’t want to watch a movie alone he’d watch it with you
Any legal troubles go to him
Scratch that ANY troubles go to him
“Man you’re like a wise monk.”
“..because I’m bald?”
“No, because you’re wise..and because you’re bald.”
okay wow i made myself cry while writing this, i need someone to take care of me like this on my bad days:( i did some research on fibromyalgia and tried to make it as accurate as i could based off of what i learned, i apologize if it’s not.
pairing(s): Finnick Odair x Chronically ill!Reader - request was from someone with fibromyalgia and i based it off that but i think it can be read by anyone with chronic pain
warnings: Y/N experiencing intense pain, finnick and Y/N take a bath together, slight angst, tooth rotting fluff
word count: 1.37k
When the world narrows to pain, he becomes the place where it softens—where love steadies, and warmth waits between each crashing wave.
The pain doesn’t start sharp. Not at first.
It begins as a dull throb in your knees, the kind you can ignore if you just breathe through it. Then it spreads—slow and insistent like ink in water—seeping into your shoulders, your spine, your hands. The weight of your body becomes too much. Your skin starts to burn where your shirt touches it. Even your eyelashes feel heavy.
You curl onto your side, limbs trembling, every movement sending bolts of fire through muscles that feel like they’ve been crushed under invisible stones. You’ve had flare-ups before. Hundreds. But somehow it still surprises you how completely it can consume you.
How helpless it can make you feel.
You bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. The ceiling above you blurs as your eyes sting, but you don’t make a sound. You’ve learned how to be quiet. How to endure. How to exist inside the pain without letting it spill over.
But it’s not just you anymore.
The door creaks open, and soft footsteps cross the floor. You know the sound of his gait by heart—familiar, confident, always sure in its purpose. You don’t even have to look.
Finnick.
He kneels by the bed without saying anything. You feel the mattress dip slightly as he places one hand on the blanket near your waist—not touching you yet, just a silent offering.
“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “How bad is it?”
You don’t want to answer. You hate this part. You hate the sound of your own voice when you’re like this—small, hoarse, not yours. But you know you don’t have to be strong with him.
You never do.
“Everything hurts,” you whisper. “It started in my knees this morning… now it’s everywhere.”
Finnick’s face softens, even though you can’t quite meet his eyes. His fingers move slowly, carefully, drawing a slow line along the edge of the blanket. “Bad flare, then.”
You nod, blinking back another wave of tears. You hate crying in front of him, not because you think he minds, but because you don’t want your body’s betrayal to become his weight too.
But he’s already moving.
“I’m gonna help you get in the bath, okay?” he says softly. “I’ve already drawn it. Lavender oil. Just like you like.”
You let out a small, broken sound. “You always know.”
He smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Of course I do. I watch you. I love you.”
He says it so easily, like it’s not something you ever doubted, even when your body makes you feel unworthy of that kind of love. Like your pain doesn’t scare him.
Finnick shifts the blanket back and moves with a slow, practiced grace. He doesn’t rush you. He never does. He just helps—first with sitting up, one arm around your back and one under your knees. Then with the slow walk to the bathroom, his body curved protectively around yours.
You lean heavily on him, each step agonizing, but he steadies you like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.
And he’ll do it a hundred more.
The steam from the bath curls into the air like ghostly fingers. The scent of lavender hits you first—soft, soothing, familiar. He’s placed a small candle on the sink, and the flame flickers low, casting golden light across the tiles.
Finnick helps you sit on the edge of the tub and slowly begins to undress you, his fingers careful, never pulling or tugging. He treats your body like something sacred, even when it feels like it’s failing you.
When he slides your shirt off, you gasp—more from the pain than the chill. His eyes flicker to your face immediately.
“Too fast?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just sore. Like I got dragged through coral.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You scoff lightly, but the warmth in your chest flares stronger than the ache in your back. “You’re biased.”
“Completely,” he grins. “Hop in with me?”
You nod. “Please.”
He helps you into the bath first, lowering you in inch by inch. The warmth of the water soaks through your bones, easing the worst of the stiffness. You exhale shakily, and your head tips back against the edge of the tub.
When he slides in behind you, the bath ripples. His arms wrap around your middle, pulling you gently against his chest. You melt into him—into the warmth, into his steady breath, into the kind of quiet that isn’t lonely.
His chin rests atop your head.
You sit like that for what feels like forever. The water hums around you. His fingers trace slow, absent-minded circles on your stomach, sometimes drawing shapes, sometimes just resting flat against you.
“I hate when it gets this bad,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says.
“I feel like a burden.”
He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear. “You’re not.”
“I know you say that, but—”
“No,” he cuts in softly, not unkind. “You are not a burden. You are the love of my life. You are soft and brave and stronger than anyone I know. Your pain doesn’t make you less lovable. It makes me want to hold you closer.”
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He lets the truth of what he said settle around you like a second skin.
After the bath, he lifts you from the tub and wraps you in the softest towel he could find—one he bought from a traveling merchant after months of searching for something gentle enough for your flare days. You’d made fun of him at the time, called it ridiculous. But now, with the terry cloth cocooned around you, you feel your throat tighten with quiet gratitude.
He dries you slowly, carefully, then helps you into a loose nightshirt and carries you back to bed. He tucks a warm heat pack beneath your lower back, adjusts the pillows behind you, and presses a glass of water to your lips.
“Drink a little,” he says. “You always forget when it hurts.”
You sip, wincing, then settle back.
Finnick sits beside you on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. “Massage?”
You nod once. “Please.”
He warms oil between his palms before sliding his hands under your shirt, palms gliding gently over your lower back. His thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles, never applying too much pressure, just enough to coax the tension from your muscles.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall into it—the scent of lavender and the sound of his breath and the feel of his hands grounding you.
“You’re so good to me,” you whisper.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You deserve good.”
You laugh, a fragile sound. “I don’t always believe that.”
“Then I’ll keep telling you until you do.”
His hands move up your spine, slow and steady. You feel each breath of his against your back, every soft exhale a promise.
Eventually, the worst of the pain recedes into a quiet throb. Still there, still humming beneath your skin, but not screaming anymore. You sink into the mattress, boneless and heavy, the warmth of his body a balm.
He lies down beside you and pulls the blankets over both of you. You curl into him, your face pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
He brushes his fingers through your hair. “Sleep, love.”
“I’m afraid it’ll hurt worse when I wake up.”
“Then I’ll be here when you do,” he says simply. “And we’ll fight it together.”
You let out a slow breath and nod, your hand finding his beneath the covers. He squeezes gently.
As your eyes drift closed, you think—not for the first time—how lucky you are to have found someone who doesn’t flinch from your pain. Who doesn’t run. Who doesn’t try to fix you, but instead chooses to stay.
Finnick kisses your forehead one last time. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too,” you murmur back, the words curling into the space between you like another blanket.
Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.
A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.
Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."
"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."
The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.
But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.
You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.
You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.
You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.
Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.
Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.
The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.
Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.
You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.
-----
“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain.
The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.
When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring.
The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.
The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.
“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.
Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”
“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.
As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.
"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”
Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.
He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.
He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.
The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”
Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.
And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.
Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”
Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.
Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.
-----
Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.
You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.
At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.
You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.
The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.
And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.
And now, it was all coming to an end.
Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.
The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.
He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.
“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.
He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”
“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.
“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”
Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”
“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”
Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”
Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”
He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.
"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.
"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"
Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”
He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”
“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”
Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”
“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.
“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."
But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.
Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.
And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.
"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.
"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.
He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.
It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.
"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.
But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.
"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.
"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.
Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."
"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."
You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.
"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.
You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.
And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.
What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock.
pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k
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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?"
Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes.
The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat.
Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions.
It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest.
When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face.
He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers.
You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register.
You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug.
Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks.
His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone.
"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-"
As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy.
He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus.
"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this."
"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?"
"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins.
"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop."
"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?"
He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath.
Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice.
The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh.
"I do," You murmur, sympathetic.
Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this.
"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose.
"That's when you find it."
Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right.
Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside.
You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze.
His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles.
Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest.
"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days."
"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration."
"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again."
Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you.
"And what is it I'm doing?"
"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to."
"I am not-"
Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down.
"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count."
Your mouth forms a hard line.
"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-"
"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that."
You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach.
"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-"
"It is a necessary risk."
Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.
"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…"
He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going.
The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his.
Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him.
Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was.
All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn.
Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together.
You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background.
"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear."
And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal.
His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron.
For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula.
"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away."
"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on."
His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity.
It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again.
Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy.
Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles.
Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning.
It's far too late to still rely on daydreams.
You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love.
"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-"
Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet —
A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back.
Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving."
Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately.
Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale.
"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-"
"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me."
Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones.
Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion?
Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench.
Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —
"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please."
"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?"
Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears.
And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die."
The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears.
Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness.
It's a reminder that you're right.
The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time.
Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions.
So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him.
You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.
And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands.
He knows this body is… wilting.
Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him.
More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last?
How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted.
Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped.
You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology.
If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do.
None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus.
His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying.
It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to.
Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once.
Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.
His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful.
No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change.
You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline.
It's something Viktor picks up on.
You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him.
You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you.
He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can.
His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral.
It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice.
But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned.
Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring.
So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him.
It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop.
Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt.
Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it.
The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before.
Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth.
Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it.
Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull.
Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve.
You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead.
"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back.
You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special?
His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck.
The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone.
You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks.
Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand.
The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you.
When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens.
Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his.
Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration.
With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead.
Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like.
Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone.
The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together.
Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat.
Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair.
You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold.
Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight.
But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation.
The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun.
He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his.
"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things."
Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids.
Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway.
Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different.
He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough.
"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to."
Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?"
His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired.
"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…"
You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting?
You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw.
"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?"
The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap.
"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession."
You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his.
You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression.
"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate."
"Oh? Enlighten me."
A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears.
"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late."
"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?"
Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance."
This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate.
A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious."
The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day.
He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly.
The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you.
"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe."
Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress.
Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you.
For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd.
"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'"
I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums.
He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time.
Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional.
"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene."
Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you.
Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget.
You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm —
"Vik-"
"I need to have your trust."
Your eyes widen.
"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-"
"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you."
A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open.
Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking —
"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please."
It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it.
You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you."
Viktor softens.
There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you.
"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark."
The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close.
Viktor's foreign body shudders against his will; your fingertips trace down his chest, tingling, sparking, akin to little specks of light burning into his second-skin. The sound of your muddled voice barely registers. His head tosses back with a slight thud, hair fanned out as a halo. He allows your knees to bracket his waist, and keeps his arms sprawled above him — despite the aching in his dead heart to just touch you. The pulsing of the arcane beneath his system is hardly under control yet.
It would be a risk he's willing to take, a necessary step to learn, if it were anyone else besides you.
And Viktor does feel — so much, in fact, but it isn't anything explainable. The festering in his core, threatening to come up through his throat. The whirring, the throbbing of every muscle, rich with glowing rivers of purple. Shining with a mixture of magic and energy and his own blood.
He's only distantly aware of your hand when it reaches his stomach, examining the juncture between cool metal and unholy flesh. Gears and bolts mimic the outline of ribs. Your touches are curious, distinctly gentle. Picking up on old habits, and trying not to break him, still. Then, your palm reaches up; it boldly cradles his cheek, brushes his pallid skin. And this, he can sense.
It's familiar, human. Excruciatingly soft when your thumb brushes the space on his cheek, just above his beauty mark. It puts an easy feeling back in his chest, something he almost began to believe he'd forgotten. As warm as a shimmering sun, as molten as liquid gold.
Nothing else matters but this moment, but you, and him. There is no outcome, across each expansive universe and every edge of the arcane, where the two of you would not meet again like this. You were meant to. Born and reborn to.
Your gaze finds his, soft eyes glancing down at him, your expression crossed between pain and relief. You eclipse all of his vision: light fuzzy at your edges, your face a hazy memory that he'd still see with his eyes closed. You're a reminder of what it means to be alive.
Viktor doesn't envy you. You've told him of nightmares, before. Dreams you had before this, of your mind putting yourself through the tragedy of watching him die ages before you truly had to. It must be difficult to see him like this, despite your best attempts to hide any uncertainty.
Your hand shakes. He can feel it trembling, unsteady on his cheek. And every molecule in Viktor's system explodes, laced with the yearning to remember — to let hazy lovesickness swell within his palms and his new figments. To pull you closer, in an effort to convince himself you won't be taken away.
Every echo of you is innate. Your voice, your name, your fingerprints. Your presence has the Hexcore — or what's become of him, what has embodied the Hexcore — blissfully, endlessly silent. The way you look at him, soft and brutally innocent, puts a chasmic, vivid hole in his center. Gods, you still look at him the same, just as you did when the two of you were young and innocent. The rot in him tells him he isn't worthy of it.
Viktor's eyes swirl like kaleidoscopes. Drops of crimson swirling in pure water. Your brows pinch, a sight he finds frustrating and pretty, as you silently examine him. Emotions curl in your lungs, tearing and hungry and knife-like; stricken with attachment, or perhaps blaming yourself, Viktor figures.
Exhaustion runs heavy in your expression, reminding him of looking into a mirror. He knows this look. You haven't slept. Haven't given yourself any form of a break, it seems.
So, he takes a chance.
Your hand brushes some stray, messy strands of hair from his forehead, just as Viktor guides his weak arm to reach for you. You don't tense, don't move. He can hear your breathing, thinks he can still feel his. There isn't an ounce of fear in the way you look at him. You have always looked at him like he holds the world in his hands. And now, perhaps he does.
His hand finds your cheek, same as yours. Copying, following. Thin, delicate, purple-hued fingers trace the edge of your face clumsily, still learning how to touch. Still afraid the line between hurt and healing might be blurred, and you are the one person left that he can't let get caught in the crossfire. You lean into his palm, trusting, and let go of a breath that makes your shoulders shake with the weight of it.
Viktor thinks of crying, despite the press and pull in his chest that convinces him he shouldn't be able to. He can feel you. It isn't like the few touches he's experienced so far, or the aching, anomalous strength he's been forced to get used to. It contradicts the very constructs of everything he thought made sense.
Your skin is so soft, sickly familiar. Viktor holds your face shakily, afraid to move. He can feel your individual atoms. Innumerable sparks just beneath his touch, galaxies upon universes of stars in your name, that beg to be grasped, possessed, cured. He cradles you with all of the devotion of a prophet, with all of the tenderness of a past friend: an almost-destiny, a saved seat at the edge of something more.
Would clumsily pulling you in, and pressing his lips to yours feel wrong, or tangible — like nothing, or like everything?
"Vik?"
Your tone, sweeter than honeysuckle, sweeter than anything he might deserve, brings his vision back into focus. He blinks. Gaze never tearing away from his, your fingertips drop to thread the hard edge of his collarbone. A silent plea, can you feel this? You find each curve of his bones and his body easily, the details already memorized. Viktor senses the ghost of you, your touch gentle, something like home.
"I'm not sure," Viktor finally answers; and the scientist, Hexgate creator, still-ambitious part of himself is hardly satisfied with that answer. His voice is quiet, distant. As though he isn't there, despite the lingering, familiar tenderness to his tone.
The fried synapses in his brain can't yet separate a caress from a threat, he just perceives the lingering energy. He believes you could be the one to teach him the difference.
This time, you let your palm press flat to his chest. There's a hum that attempts to mimic a heartbeat, a lack of coolness or heat. The action presses your form closer to his, guides you to lean part of your weight on him to bring your faces far too close. Sharing in the same reflection. Allowing each breath to be measured, along with every hesitation.
What should he start with? Should he embrace you, holding you tight and close like you're sacrificial? Should he grab your hand in his, press his palm to your skin to measure your heartbeat? Lace his smallest finger with yours, to make you a promise like he used to?
He can't promise you peace, nor the life you deserve, but if you came for him now, was it not a swear to follow him anywhere?
There are still so many things left to feel, and every red thread has always begun and ended with you.
Can you feel anything?
Viktor guides a hand over yours, keeps it to his chest selfishly; he meets your gaze, he hums, "Are you eager to find out?"
Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.
Word Count: 11.8k
Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),
A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.
With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.
The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say.
—
“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”
“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”
Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”
“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”
“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.
“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”
“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed.
“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”
Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.
“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”
“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.
“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.
The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”
“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.
“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”
Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”
“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”
“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”
“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by.
That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise.
A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?”
A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.
“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”
“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”
“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”
“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”
“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”
“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.
“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."
“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”
“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.
“How do you know—”
“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”
“Oh?”
She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”
“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.
“Brother?”
Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion.
“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”
“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.”
“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”
“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”
“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”
“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”
“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”
“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”
Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more.
He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct.
“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.
He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.
“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”
The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.
—
“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”
“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”
The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.
“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”
“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”
The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.”
“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”
“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”
She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.
“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room.
“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it.
“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”
“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”
“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process.
The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.
“Do you need a hand?”
“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”
“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”
“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”
Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”
A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”
“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”
“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.
“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”
“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”
“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”
Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.
“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”
“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Benedict.”
“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”
The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”
“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”
“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”
He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”
Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—”
“Benedict.”
“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”
“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”
“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”
“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”
“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”
“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”
“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”
“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”
“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”
“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”
She froze.
“Ah, what was that?”
“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”
“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”
“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”
She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”
“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”
“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”
“How do you mean?”
She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”
“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”
“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”
“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”
“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”
“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”
“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”
“I—of course not!”
“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”
“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”
She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”
He paused, clearly taken aback.
“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.”
“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”
“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”
“That seems awfully specific—”
“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”
She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?
Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.
—
Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal.
The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.
“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”
She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Did he give you a name?”
“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”
She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”
Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display.
“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”
“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter.
She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”
Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”
The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.
“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”
“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”
Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door.
“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”
“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”
She blinked.
“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”
Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”
“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”
“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”
“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”
“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”
The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.
“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”
“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”
Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”
“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”
“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”
It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon.
“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”
A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—”
“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”
Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”
“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.
“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”
“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.
“And if I do not care for tea?”
“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”
“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”
Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”
They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.
“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.
“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.
“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”
“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”
“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.
“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”
“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”
“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”
“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”
“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”
Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”
“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”
“And a sponge cake is…?”
“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”
“And Harry?”
“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”
“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”
“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”
“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”
“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”
Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”
“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”
Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”
“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”
“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask.
“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”
Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say.
“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”
He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”
“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”
“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”
“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”
“You know of Lady Whistledown?”
“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”
“Only read the good bits, I take it?”
“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”
“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”
“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”
She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.
—
It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.
The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish.
Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.
“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly.
“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”
“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.
“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”
“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”
Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”
“A park is a park.”
“Have you been before?”
“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”
“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”
She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”
“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”
“Paste your lips together?” She offered.
Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”
“Horse racing?”
He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”
“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.
“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck.
“You are serious?”
“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”
She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”
“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”
“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.
“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”
After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.
“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”
“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”
“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”
“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water.
“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face.
“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out.
“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”
“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward.
“The winner?”
“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”
“So you lost?”
“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”
“I lost?” She scoffed.
“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”
“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”
“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”
“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”
“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”
“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”
“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”
She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”
“Surely it was not the leaves—”
“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”
“Was I inhuman before?”
“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”
“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”
“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”
Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above.
“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”
“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”
“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”
This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”
“How freeing that must be,” she said.
“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”
“Why me?”
His head quirked. “I do not understand?”
“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”
“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”
“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”
“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”
“I-I don’t understand—”
“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”
Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”
“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”
“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”
“(Y/N)…”
“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”
“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”
“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”
“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”
“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”
“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”
“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”
“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”
“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”
“But I could help—”
“I do not need your help!”
“You obviously do!”
She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”
“You know that is not what I meant—”
“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”
“No—(Y/N)—”
“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”
“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”
“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”
—
“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.
“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother.
“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”
“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”
She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”
“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.
“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”
The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”
“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”
“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”
“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”
“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”
“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”
She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”
“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”
“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”
“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”
“And abandon our legacy?”
“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—”
“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”
Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”
“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?”
It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.
“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”
“She insulted me!”
“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”
“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”
Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain.
Rain.
Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting.
In theory, anyway, it seemed.
So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in.
A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?
She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.
“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”
“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”
—
His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise.
At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.
“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.
“A caller? In this weather?”
“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”
“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.
“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”
Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.
“(Y/N)…”
“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”
“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”
His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”
“For what?” He asked genuinely.
“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”
“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”
She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”
Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”
“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—”
“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”
“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”
Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”
“I do not wish to impose.”
“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”
“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”
“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”
“I could never ask you for that—”
“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified.
“Benedict…”
The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”
So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience.
If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this.
“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.
“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”
“I should not have done that…”
“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”
His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”
“But you cannot stay here…?”
She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”
He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“Leave town, leave the country—”
“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”
“I will pay your way.”
She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”
“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”
She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him.
“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.
“France?”
“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”
“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”
“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”
“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”
“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again.
“And you…?”
“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”
She nodded, understanding.
“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Even if you are vexed with me?”
“Especially if I am vexed with you.”
She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.
“Sounds perfect.”
—
A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while.
They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.
“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”
“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”
“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”
“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”
“I am sure he will appreciate it.”
(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter.
Could it be?
“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”
“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray.
“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”
“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”
“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”
“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.
“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”
“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”
“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”
“Smart man,” she hummed.
“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.
“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”
“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”
“That is the only reason?”
Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”
Her heart fluttered again.
“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.
“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.
“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”
“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”
“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”
“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”
“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have.
“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”
“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”
“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”
“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”
She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?
"Leaves?"
"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."
His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.
Hi, I loved loved loved your Bridgerton sis imagine, I love the bond she has with Benedict!! Could you write something about her falling in love with Prince Friedrich and some sisterly rivalry because Daphne is trying to make Simon jealous with him? Thank you!!
A Prince's Heart
A/N: thank you for the request, absolutely loved it! Hoping to write more like this in the future. Hope you enjoy! <3
Characters: bridgerton!sister x Prince Friedrich, Benedict Bridgerton, Daphne Bridgerton
Word count: 2184
Warnings: non
The ballroom in front of you was a shimmering sea of silks and satins, the opulence of the evening mirrored in every glittering crystal chandelier. The scent of roses and delicate perfumes filled the air, merged with the sound of laughter and the orchestra playing an upbeat song. Your heart fluttered as you stood near the entrance, trying to steady your nervous breath. This was a grand occasion for many, one that could change the course of many young women’s lives, including your own.
Your eyes scanned the room, catching sight of your siblings scattered about. Anthony was deep in conversation with Lady Danbury, while Colin and Eloise appeared to be in the midst of a lively debate. But it was Benedict who caught your eye, his warm smile offering a sense of calm in the bustling room. Your elder brother had always been your confidant, your anchor in the unpredictable sea of social expectations thrown at the both of you.
"Y/N," Benedict called, making his way toward you, linking your arm with his and starting to parade you around the room. "Are you enjoying the evening, dear sister?"
"As much as one can in these circumstances," you replied, a hint of mischief in your tone.
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Well, if anyone can find joy in such an event, it would be you."
Before you could respond, the room suddenly fell silent except for a few whispers and murmurs, and your attention was drawn to the grand staircase. There he was, the grand guest of the evening, Prince Friedrich, descending the stairs with an air of regal grace. Your breath caught in your throat.
The prince was a vision to see, his presence inevitably commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Your eyes met as he gazed upon the ton, and for a moment, it felt as though the world around you had disappeared.
The first time you had met the prince he was introduced to your sister Daphne, as she was the diamond of the season and you just happened to be with her and your mother, so you were greeted, too.
Despite what a lot of the Mama’s and their daughters thought, the prince wasn’t just all looks and riches. He was witty and intelligent and had the ability to make the people around him laugh sincerely and with ease. The way he included you into the conversation and not only asked about Daphne’s interests, but also about yours, never felt forced or just him being polite.
It felt like he had a sincere interest in getting to know you.
"Y/N, isn't he magnificent?” You were violently jolted back to reality by the excited voice of Daphne.
"Indeed," you replied cautiously, fixing your posture. "He is quite remarkable."
Daphne’s eyes sparkled with a hint of something more—determination, perhaps. “He certainly is. It’s no wonder the Queen is so fond of him. He would make a wonderful match for any young lady this season.”
You nodded, sensing the underlying tension in her words. “Indeed. He is quite the catch.”
Daphne’s smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know, he is interested in finding a suitable match, and as we were just presented this season and introduced to him, it is only natural for us to be among his considerations.”
You met her gaze, recognizing the competitive edge in her tone. “Of course, Daphne. But I think he is looking for more than just suitability. He seeks a genuine connection.”
“Which is why it is important to make a strong impression,” Daphne replied, her tone sharpening slightly at your underlying accusation. “He must see who is the best match for him.”
You felt a pang of frustration, not just at her words, but at the realization that she would use the prince to make Simon jealous. “Daphne, I understand your desire to capture his attention, but is it truly fair towards him… and Simon?”
She raised an eyebrow, her expression cool and composed. “Maybe I do care for the prince sincerely. I intend to make him mine, you know.” She straightened her posture. “Also, Simon has been most infuriating lately, and I believe a bit of jealousy might do him some good." Your heart sank. Of course, Daphne would use the prince to make the Duke of Hastings jealous. It was a clever plan, one that would undoubtedly succeed.
You sighed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I know you, Daphne. I know how much you care for Simon. But Friedrich deserves honesty, not to be a pawn in your game.”
Daphne’s eyes softened, but her resolve remained. “So what about you, Y/N? What are your intentions with the prince?”
You took a deep breath, meeting her gaze with determination. “I think I feel a connection with him that I cannot ignore, Daphne.”
For a moment, silence hung between you, the weight of unspoken words and sisterly rivalry heavy in the air. Then, Daphne’s expression softened slightly, a hint of understanding in her eyes. “I see. Perhaps we both have more at stake than we realize.”
As you watched your sister move toward the prince, clasping her giant feathery fan, a pang of something you couldn't quite identify surged within you. Was it envy? Regret? Or something deeper?
"Are you all right?" Benedict's concerned voice broke through your thoughts. You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. "Just thinking."
"About Prince Friedrich, perhaps?" he teased gently, nudging you softly. You met his gaze, your eyes betraying the turmoil within. "Perhaps."
Benedict's expression softened. "You have always been honest with yourself, Y/N. If you think you like him, you must not let Daphne's games deter you."
You sighed slightly, your eyes following Daphne as she easily engaged the prince in conversation, fanning her feather fan lowly to draw his attention to her cleavage.
"It's not that simple, Ben. Daphne has always been the one to capture attention. And now, with her being the diamond of the season and her mind set on Prince Friedrich..."
"I don’t know about Daphne’s motives, but I can sense you have genuine feelings for the prince. You should listen to your heart and not be content with living in your sisters shadow." Benedict interrupted your self-pity. “You deserve happiness, too.”
His words resonated with you, filling you with a resolve you hadn't realized you possessed. Perhaps Benedict was right. Perhaps you owed it to yourself to not let Daphne use him for her scheme and to see if this connection with Prince Friedrich was more than just your imagination and if there was something, where it might lead.
As the evening wore on, you found yourself following the prince with your eyes, waiting for a moment where he wasn’t engaged in some conversation. Just as you were about to give up your mission, Fortuna settled the matter and your paths crossed near the refreshment table.
"Miss Bridgerton," he greeted, his soft voice sending shivers down your spine, making you spin around.
"Your Highness," you replied quickly, offering a curtsy. "I trust you are enjoying the evening?"
"I am now," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Might I have the pleasure of engaging you in a dance?"
You hesitated suddenly, glancing over to see Daphne watching you both with a keen interest. But then your gaze shifted to Benedict, silently rooting for you, and you knew what you had to do, despite your anxiety and racing thoughts.
"It would be my honor, Your Highness," you said, placing your hand in the one he held out for you.
The ballroom's splendid grandeur faded as Prince Friedrich escorted you to the dance floor. His hold on your hand and waist was warm and steady, his presence both calming and exhilarating at the same time. The small orchestra began a waltz, and you started to move in unison, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you.
"Miss Bridgerton," he began, his voice soft yet clear over the music, "I must confess, I have been eager to speak with you all evening."
You looked up into his eyes, surprised by the sincerity in his gaze. "And I, Your Highness, have been equally curious about you."
"Please," he said with a charming smile, "call me Friedrich."
"Friedrich," you repeated in a whisper, the name feeling both foreign and wonderfully familiar on your lips. "It's a beautiful name."
"Thank you, Y/N," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me, do you enjoy these grand events?" You hesitated, considering your answer. "I do, to an extent. They are lovely, but I sometimes feel lost among the crowds and the expectations the ton has."
He nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "I understand. These gatherings can be quite overwhelming. It is rare to find genuine connection amidst all the pomp and circumstance."
"Indeed," you agreed, feeling a growing ease in his company. "But I find solace in the familiar faces of my family. My brother Benedict, in particular, always knows how to bring a smile to my face."
"Family is a great comfort," Friedrich said thoughtfully. "I admire the close bond your family shares. It is something I have longed for."
Your heart softened at his words, seeing a vulnerability in him that was surely hidden behind his princely façade most of the time. "You are always welcome among us, Friedrich. We Bridgertons have a habit of adopting those we care about."
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "That is a generous offer, Y/N. I may take you up on that."
As the music swirled around you, the conversation grew more personal, the connection between you deepening with each passing moment. But you also became acutely aware of Daphne watching from the sidelines, her expression unreadable. You knew she had her own motives, her own desires, but in this moment, they seemed distant, overshadowed by the prince's presence.
"May I ask, Friedrich, how do you like London?" you inquired.
"It feels like a mix of duty and desire," he admitted. "I didn’t time to see much of London, to be honest. As you know, my aunt, the Queen, believes it is time I find a suitable match. But I was hoping to find someone with whom I can share more than just royal obligations."
You felt a flutter in your chest at his words and mustered up your strength to ask further. "And have you had any luck in the search so far?"
His eyes bore into yours, filled with an intensity that made you catch your breath. "Perhaps," he said softly. "There is indeed someone who has captured my attention."
Your cheeks flushed under his gaze, hope blossoming in your heart. "And, if I may ask, what is it that you seek in a potential partner, Friedrich?"
"Someone genuine, kind, and unafraid to be themselves," he said, his voice earnest. "Someone like you, Y/N." The admission left you momentarily speechless, your heart racing and head spinning.
"I have to admit you seem different from the others," Friedrich said, his tone contemplative. "There is a sincerity about you that is rare to find these days."
You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I could say the same about you, Friedrich. You are not what I expected."
He cocked his head in confusion. "And what did you expect?"
You paused, searching for the right words. "Someone distant, untouchable. But you... you are kind, genuine."
Friedrich's gaze softened, and he took a step closer. "It takes courage to be yourself in a world that often demands otherwise."
Your breath hitched as he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "To be honest I find myself drawn to you in ways I cannot explain," he confessed.
Your heart soared at his words, the honesty in his eyes mirroring your own feelings. "I… feel the same, Friedrich."
The moment was charged with unspoken emotion, a promise of something deeper, something real. The music swelled, and as the final notes played, Friedrich led you to the edge of the dance floor. He didn't release your hand immediately, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles.
"I would very much like to see you again, Y/N," he said, his eyes searching yours.
You smiled, feeling a sense of hope and excitement you hadn't felt in a long time. "I would like that too, Friedrich." The prince smiled contently, offering you a polite bow as he handed you over to Benedict, who nodded at Friedrich in response.
You curtsied as a goodbye and when you came up again, you were greeted by Benedict’s raised eyebrow and a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Friedrich, hm.”, Benedict mocked you in a loving way. You felt your cheeks flush, but returned his smile, feeling a newfound sense of confidence and purpose.
The night had brought unexpected revelations and the promise of new beginnings. As you watched Prince Friedrich mingle with the guests, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you were ready to face them. For now, you had hope, and perhaps something more—a chance at love.
Greg house imagine where reader has depression and she's going through a really depressive episode and she's a pro at hiding it but House notices and then just fluff or something. (I don't know sorry I just feel it would help me haha sorry)
Gregory House X Reader – I See It
A/N – I went with a much more clinical definition of depression this time; I hope it works. Anon, if you’d like a different take on this, with more fluff or whatever, I’m willing to do a re-write, just message again and I’ll work it out.
Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.
Warning: physical assault - reader gets slaped on the face
Series Masterlist
Your gaze reveals the precious truths
The beauty that you see within
The bravery that I once never possessed
Your love is strength
Your love is pure
Your love is everything
-Arthur Talbot
You set your quill back into the ink jar and lean back in your chair, letting the ink dry. It's well into the night. Your father and aunt now sound asleep in their respective bedrooms. You find that late nights like these are the best times to write. It's when the world is quiet and you can indulge in your guilty pleasure of writing poetry. You're sure that if your father were to ever find out about this, he'd cast you out.
So your secret remains. Some parts of you felt like you should at least tell Benedict, for he's your closest, and dearest friend. However, you thought best not to. If the ton were to find out, it would be the end of you and you could never be one to drag Benedict down with you.
You can never do that to the man you love.
____________________________
You're in the sitting room watching as stands at Benedict at his easel, Colin and Greggory play chess, and Daphne coos over Auggie. Benedict works on his still life as you sit close by.
He frowns, taking a step back from his painting, "This is wrong. It's-Something's missing."
You lean closer to get a glance at his work, "Benedict, it looks beautiful."
"Are you sure?" he asks with an unsure look on his face.
You stand up and take a better look at the canvas, "Don't you artists always say beauty is in the eye of the beholder?" you look at Benedict with a smirk and then back at the canvas, "What you may find as unattractive, Benedict, someone else might find alluring and lovely."
You pat his arm and then plop yourself back into the chair you previously occupied. You go back to your reading completely unaware that Benedict is looking at you with absolute love in his eyes.
He hears someone clear their throat and he looks away to see Anthony staring at him expectantly, "I'm sorry, brother. Did you say something?"
"We're all going for a promenade. I believe we've all been inside for long enough."
You stand up, "I shall take my leave then, Bridgertons."
"Or you can join us?" Benedict immediately asks with hopeful grin.
You softly shake your head, "I don't want to intrude."
"Nonsense," Kate says as she enters the room, "We're always happy to have you, Y/N," she joins her husband's side.
"Well, I can't reject you, Viscountess Bridgerton," you give Kate a smile and Benedict is confused, "So you have no problem rejecting me?"
You laugh, "I'm only jesting, Benedict. I'd love to accompany you and your family for a promenade."
"Wonderful, let's get to it then," Anthony says, trying to gather his siblings together.
_________________________
You're following Benedict's younger siblings whilst said man was walking beside you. You're walking in silence, but it isn't awkward. Silence in Benedict's presence is never awkward, but rather comforting.
"I've realized something, Y/N."
"Yes?"
Benedict keeps his eyes on you as you two continue to follow his younger siblings, "You've always been very supportive of my artistic prospects, but I don't believe I've given the same curtesy to you and your poetic writings. I recall you enjoyed writing them when we were younger."
It warms your heart knowing that Benedict remembers of the times you'd write whilst he'd paint or draw. You let out long and deep sigh. Looking ahead, you reply, "Yes, well, I've given up those dreams, I'm afraid. You know how my father is about my indulgence with poetry. I have to be very careful. Even reading it and reciting it to the ton is risky. Luckily, my father is inebriated a majority of the time he's out and about."
"Well if you ever decide to return to writing poetry, you have my full support."
You nod, "Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate it."
"Y/N," you turn to your right to see Daphne now walking beside you, pushing Auggie in his pram.
"Yes, Your Grace?" you stop and answer her with a teasing smirk. You're older than Daphne by a few years, but just two years younger than Benedict. You've always seen Daphne as a younger sister, being that you are an only child. Occasionally the teasing will produce itself between you two.
"Would you like to join us for dinner?"
You can't help but laugh, "Of course, but I've been spending my entire day with you already. Won't you all get tired of me?"
"We'd never tire of you, Y/N," Benedict replies with earnest and it brings a warm smile to your place.
"Be that as it may, I believe the Viscount should have the final word?"
Anthony, Kate, and Violet catch up to you as you're all looking at Anthony. He looks at you all in confusion, "Something the matter?"
Daphne speaks up, "I invited Y/N to stay for dinner if that's alright, brother?"
He shoots you a grin, "Of course. Miss L/N is always welcome. You're practically family, yes?" he shoots Benedict a wink and you're not sure why.
"Well thank you for the invitation," you look down at your dress, "But perhaps, I should at least change. This dress isn't particularly dinner attire."
"What do you mean? You look beautiful as always," Benedict states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
The Bridgertons all give each other knowing looks. That's when the Dowager Viscountess speaks up, "Benedict, darling, Y/N is right. After the promenade, we should allow her to freshen up before dinner."
Kate removes herself from Anthony and loops arms with you, "Let us continue our promenade, Y/N."
"Of course!" you giggle with your friend as you continue on the trail.
Benedict moves to follow, but Anthony pats his brother on the shoulder, "You've spent hours with her, brother. Let her take a break from you clinging to her all the time."
Benedict looks at his older brother in offense, "I don't cling to her...do I?"
"A bit, darling," Violet says and Daphne nods in agreement.
He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, "I'm too obvious, aren't I?"
Daphne shakes her head, "No, I don't think so. If you were, she'd have said something, yes? Or maybe would have run for the hills?" she asks with a smirk to her elder brothers, before continuing to push Augie down the path.
_________________
When you arrive back home to change, you ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Burnett, if your aunt is home.
"No, Miss, she's gone to meet with Lady Danbury," the older woman replies.
You nod, "Thank you, Mrs. Burnett," you gather your dress and make your way to your room upstairs.
You freeze when you see the door ajar and you know for a fact you closed it before leaving earlier.
You slowly push the door open and your heart drops when you see your father surrounded by pages and pages of poems. Poems that are supposed to be written by a man.
You gulp and slowly approach him as he sits at your writing desk, "Papa?"
His eyes meet yours in a cold and intimidating stare, "Not only have you still been indulging in poetry, but you're writing it? Under a man's name?"
"What were you doing in my room?"
"THIS IS MY HOUSE! I CAN BE ANYWHERE I PLEASE!"
You take some cautionary steps towards him, "Papa, you've had too much to drink."
"No!" he abruptly stands at your desk, causing you to jump ack in surprise. His chest is heaving as he tightly grips pages of your work, "If anyone finds out about this-"
"They won't! I've hid this from everyone for months!"
"You need to marry," he says with definitive authority.
You look at him with a confused expression, "What do you mean?"
"I can't take your defiance any longer!"
"Defiance?"
Your father walks around your desk so it's no longer a wall between you and he. He points a warning finger at you, "If you don't find a husband within a month's time, I'm marrying you off to your cousin, Albert."
Your jaw drops, "Cousin Albert?! He's absolutely horrendous! He's a rake and a gambler-"
"And looking for a wife!" he exclaims as he cuts you off, "When you were younger, your Uncle Wallace tried to convince me to have you two promised to each other once you came out to society. I regret not taking the opportunity now seeing how you've grown up."
You clench your fists in anger, "Mama wouldn't stand for this! She-
THWACK!
Your words are stuck in your throat, your cheek stinging after your father slaps you. His eyes are red and wild as he spits out, "Mama is dead! She is not here anymore! This is my house! You are to find a husband in a month or you are to marry Albert. Be grateful I'm not sending you away right this moment."
You're holding your cheek now, trying to soothe the pain. Your heart hurts for yourself and your mama. You know she'd hate the man your papa has become.
Without another word, you're rushing out of your room and bounding down the stairs.
Your aunt had just arrived back and you rush past her without a glance. She follows you in concern, "Y/N? What happened?! What's wrong? Y/N!" she yells after you as you run down the street back towards the Bridgerton household.
Summary: After your father finds out you've been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month's time.
Ever since you were little, you found solace in poetry. Your mother highly encouraged your governess to have you read any and every poetry book that was ever made. The imagery and feelings it produced was something you never experienced before.
After your mother died, your father forbade you from reading poetry. He forbade you for ever mentioning your mother again. Their love was strong and true. As a result, it caused your father deep heartache. He became cold, heartless, and cruel. A drunkard and a gambler. Fortunately, his sister, your aunt, had moved in and became lady of the house. She became your mother figure, but she could only do so much.
She snuck you poetry books when she could. The words now being the only part of your mother you had to connect to.
Because of this love, you began to write poetry yourself. You only ever shared it to your aunt and friend, Kate Bridgerton nee Sharma, another lover of stories and poetry. Both having expressed their hopes of you publishing your writing some day.
"Maybe some day," you'd always say.
What they didn't know was that you did publish your poems. You went under a man's pseudonym, Arthur Talbot. His poetry books were becoming popular among the ton and it brought you joy and a sense of thrill whenever someone mentioned his name to you.
You'd recite your his poetry readings held at Lady Danbury's often. Everyone was always in awe of how the words poured out of you with intense and deep emotion.
But the one who was most taken with them and you, was none other than Benedict Bridgerton.
_______________________
The small group break out into applause and you curtsy. Lady Danbury walks up to you with a proud grin on her face, "Another splendid performance, Miss L/N. I can tell you deeply resonate with Talbot. "
You bow, "Thank you, Lady Danbury. His words mean a lot to me. It's as if he and I are one." You hold back a laugh as you express your gratitude to the hostess.
"Well, I think this calls for a break," the older woman turns to face her guests, "Everyone please enjoy some refreshments."
People begin to disperse, leaving the sitting room for other parts of the Danbury estate.
You're standing off to the side, watching those around you, when your dear friend, Benedict, approaches you. You smile wide at him, "Ben!"
"Another splendid performance, Miss L/N," he lifts his glass to you.
You chuckle, "Thank you. But I think Arthur Talbot deserves just as much praise. They're his words after all."
Benedict nods, "Yes, but you perform his words so beautifully."
You look away, feeling a heat crawl up your cheeks. Benedict clears his throat, "I take it you still have no marriage prospects since you haven't mentioned anyone courting you."
You look back up at him and snort, "Ben, this is my fourth year in society. I highly doubt I'll ever find a man willing to marry me at this point." You cast your eyes down to play with a thread on your skirt, "No one wants to be married to someone who has gambling drunkard father. Doesn't matter if he's a Lord or not."
"If my brother, Anthony, managed to find love and a wife, you will to, Y/N."
You scoff, "How dare you put me in the same category as Anthony."
"I agree," you turn to see said brother and Kate, approaching you, arm in arm, "You're much better than my husband," Kate says with a smirk.
"Still disgustingly in love, I see," you arch a playful look at your friend.
"Very much so, I'm afraid."
Anthony unhook his arm from Kate's and moves towards Benedict, "Come, brother. Let us let the ladies socialize." He takes Benedict's glass and downs it in a gulp.
The younger brother frowns, "I was drinking that."
"Then we shall grab another and drinks for the ladies," he pats his brother's shoulder and Benedict groans, following his brother out of the room.
You and Kate take a seat on the couch and catch up while the men grab drinks.
_____________________
"So, have you finally decided to court Miss L/N?" the eldest Bridgerton asks.
"We are friends, Anthony. Nothing more."
"So you don't love her anymore?" Anthony asks with a curious gaze, taking a sip of brandy.
"...I didn't say that. Besides, you originally didn't want me involved with her because of her father. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, well, we are the not the sins of our parents. Miss L/N is a lovely woman. She's smart, well-read, not to mention she laughs with you even when your jokes aren't funny."
Benedict's brows furrow, "I am funny!"
Anthony takes another sip of his drink and sighs, "What I mean to say is that I think you two would be a fine match. Besides, it's not like any other man is interested in her."
Benedict immediately clenches his jaw and takes a leering step towards his older brother, "Don't talk about her like that."
Stunned by the sudden change of his brother, Anthony takes a cautious step back, "I meant no harm, brother, but is it not true? It's been years since she's stepped into society and very few men have made an effort to court her."
Benedict lets out a deep breath and apologizes, "I'm sorry."
Anthony clears his throat, "All I'm saying is that you've had several chances to be with her. If you don't take the opportunity, you may lose her."
_________________________
"I apologize for missing another one of your recitals," Kate says, grabbing your hand and intertwining her fingers with yours. Ever since she married Anthony, you two have become acquainted due to your paths crossing whenever you came to see Benedict.
You shrug, "You've heard it all before, Kate. Just another one of Talbot's poems."
"You're quite smitten with this poet, it seems."
You laugh, "I can't help it! His words are as if he speaks to my soul!"
"Maybe I should write to this Talbot and see if he'd like to ever attend a Bridgerton ball."
You shake your head, "Oh no. Please, don't. People say never to meet your heroes, so I don't think I would want to meet him."
Kate shrugs, "As you wish."
Anthony and Benedict come back with drinks in hand. Anthony hands Kate a glass and Benedict hands you one.
"Thank you, Ben," you give him a grateful smile and he smiles back, "Of course."
He sits in the chair beside you and you two fall into discussion about the poem you recited, all the while Kate and Anthony give each other knowing looks.
warnings: classism, anxious/slightly insecure reader, use of "young lady" and feminine descriptors
a/n: the second part of Language of Flowers is here! Thank you so much for all the love on the first part and I hope you enjoy the second one just as much! I set it up to have more parts in the future so if anyone is interested in that, let me know!!
The eyes of the ton were as insufferable as ever. One would have thought that a lady in simpler attire would attract less attention than those in large adornments or hair pieces, but today appeared the opposite indeed. Sure, when you were personally delivering large floral orders to people’s estates, you had eyes on you, but you could ignore them then. Then, you knew you would not be in their line of vision for long and you could rest assured with the guarantee that no one would remember past that moment. Now, however, now you were out walking in your simple attire with a lord. A lord of one of the most illustrious families no less. You had tried to convince Benedict to take the less occupied back roads, but he insisted that his desired destination would be faster reached should you take the main road. Not wanting to make a scene in public, you were left to be made a spectacle.
The looks you were receiving were not lost on Benedict, but he chose to keep his head up high, nodding and smiling when someone was about to pull an ugly face. Perhaps the ton were weary as to why someone of his status was walking with a working class young lady, but frankly, he was too happy that he had gotten you on this walk in the first place to even consider how wild it might appear on the surface. He nearly reached out to grab your hand when he saw the Cowpers were approaching from the modiste, but realised just in time how much worse the physical affection might be and refrained, choosing to wipe some imaginary dust off of his trousers instead.
“Something else will catch their attention by morning, do not fret,” he whispered with his head tilted in your direction but looking over your head rather than at you in an effort to look less obvious.
You had been so caught up in the whirlwind of emotions that were entrapped in him appearing at the shop and your parents sending you away that you had not had the time to think about presentation at all. You had heard girls lamenting to each other about their lacklustre presentations to the Queen and you could imagine that it felt something similar to this. All eyes on you, no one truly seeing you, yet everyone so quick to make a passing judgement.
“Had I cared about the opinions of others, I would not have asked for your time. But I am here because I care not about them, but about you. Keep your head high, we are almost there,” Benedict whispered once again. While his words were nice, they did little to soothe your anxiety. Nonetheless, you raised your chin up higher, realising you had been staring at the cobblestone more than what was in front of you. You soon found yourself quickly approaching a luscious green field that left you wondering how Benedict had ever found it. It was much closer to the shops than his estate, and with the ton spending most of their months in the country, you questioned how his discovery of this place might have come about. “We have arrived,” Benedict commented with a small smile on his face, waving his arm out to the side in demonstration.
“However did you find this place?” You questioned.
“Being a child in a clan of eight means a lot of time to make daring escapes during family shopping trips,” he smiles, mischievous as you ever saw. The smile gives the impression that he looked back on those memories fondly, as you did with memories of you and your sisters. Maybe you had never had big family shopping trips into town, but the moral of the story lies in the bonds strengthened with those you were with. You started to believe you might have more in common than you previously imagined.
“I figured we could sit and admire the view. Talk for a little, if it suits you,” Benedict looked over at you, gesturing to a place clear of any wandering eyes where you could lean against the sturdy tree trunk and watch the breeze create waves over the pond.
“It suits me very well,” you nodded, a small smile etching its way onto your face as he sat down first, offering his hand as to assist you in doing the same.
“I’d say the way the sun hits suits you very nicely as well,” he complimented, “you’re practically glowing”.
“A fan of flattery are we Mr. Bridgerton?” you asked, teasingly but trying not to show it.
“Only when I feel it necessary”.
Though you were promised conversation, Benedict did not want to force it, so the two of you sat in silence, taking in the sights and sounds of this hidden paradise. The silence was not uncomfortable, mind you, but rather a space in which the two of you could gather all of your thoughts. The grass waved to and fro in the light breeze, catching glimmers of sunlight in every direction. It looked as though someone had sprinkled fairy dust and every sparkle was destined to catch your eye. The tree you were leaning on had a small hole in the trunk, and you quickly caught two squirrels dashing in and out of it, dancing on the tree branches above you.
“This place is-”
“I wanted to ask-” you realised you had started speaking at the same time. You nodded at Benedict, silently urging him to continue first.
“I wanted to ask why you were so adamant about disliking me upon our first visit”.
You paused. You knew this question was going to appear sooner or later and yet you did not have a precise answer. Not one that felt worthy enough of your anger anyway. It was not unlike you to get an idea stuck in your head and run with it, so unchanging that you had to apologise many a time to family members for such unwavering anger. It always felt silly a few days later, as it did now, to have held onto an unsupported emotion for so long, but you liked admitting your faults just as much as you liked giving Benedict the time of day when you first met. Surely your idea was not so drastic this time, as you had met many men of the ton and of the working class who held women in low regard, instantly annoying you, but you also knew that this time you were angered more because of his brother than because of him. You had just happened to meet him first.
You decided it would be easier to just tell Benedict as such, and he sat there quietly during your entire speech. He did not interrupt, did not interject, did not even look away while you were explaining. It made you feel even sillier that he was listening so attentively to a situation you grew more and more embarrassed about. Ending your spiel, you placed your head in your hands, leaning your elbows against your knees as to become as small as possible. Benedict was quick to remedy this, gently grabbing your wrist and pulling your arm away from your face. He looked at you with a goofy smile before reaching for an inner pocket in his jacket.
“So your problem lies not with me, but with my brother?”
“I do not believe I actually have a problem with any of you. Not a reasonable one anyway; I was merely already agitated and the situation you laid before me sounded so similar to ones I had heard before that I clumped you all together. This is not to dismiss the derogatory nature that men in the ton and of the working class have I just-”
“I believe I understand,” Benedict cut you off, but only so you would not have to repeat your feelings in order to feel that you had explained them properly. “Now that we are at least a little on the same page, I did not want you to think that I had left you out of my gifting endeavours entirely,” he pulled something out of his inner pocket and you immediately noticed a delicate pale pink ribbon tying little cards together. “I couldn’t entirely fight the urge to gift flowers, even though you work with them constantly, so I figured some longer lasting ones might be nicer”. He handed you the stack of cards and you gingerly unwrapped the bow from the front in order to get a better look. Now it was Benedict’s turn to become embarrassed, as he feared you may not like or appreciate them. You came from a family of florists, of course it was a low blow to gift you something related to your trade. This was a terrible idea and he should have never-
“These are…beautiful,” you sighed, shifting through the cards with soft eyes. He had painted multiple flowers with their meanings listed under them in the fashion of miniatures. They were incredibly detailed and gorgeous that you could not imagine the amount of effort it took not only for him to create each flower but find their meaning as well. “You are an artist, I take it”.
“I…dabble”.
“Do not be modest Mr. Bridgerton. If this is dabbling I would love to see what your proper art looks like,” you smiled up at him and felt all worry about his gift choices melt away. You liked them and that is all that mattered.
“My mother is quite well versed in the language of flowers, so I figured I would use what talent I have for you”.
“My little sister, Abigail, keeps our flower book on her shelf so it is quite nice that now I can have one of my own. No matter how versed one might be, there is always the fear that one might forget, so these will prove quite useful I think.”
Everything was going perfectly in Benedict’s mind. You liked his gift, you enjoyed the space you were in, you were smiling. You carefully tied the cards back together with the pale ribbon, turning them over and over again in your hand as if you couldn’t believe someone had taken the time to gift you such a thing. In truth you couldn’t; your family were certainly not the wealthiest in England, so gifts were small or hard to come by. They only really happened during holidays and birthdays, but half the time you ended up sharing with your sisters. Not that you were complaining, you loved your sisters dearly and were grateful for anything you received, but being able to have something to call your own was magical.
A quick glance at Benedict’s pocket watch caused the whole scene to come crashing down, however, as he jumped up and informed you that he was late for a family event. You urged him to go, thanking him for the gift and the time, assuming this would be the end of your time together indefinitely. Benedict seemed to have other ideas.
“There is a party. Two nights from now and I would love if you would come with me”.
“Should you not be worried about bringing me?”
“Whatever for?” Your question seemed lost on him.
“Bringing someone of a lower status to a ton party would surely cause scandal, would it not?”
“No, see, this is a party where everyone is invited. All types of people mingling together for an evening, doing whatever the night calls them to do. It is truly wonderful and it would be even more wonderful if you would attend. It would be after shop hours, so you would not have to worry about leaving your family to fend for themselves,” he teased and you laughed, “and I could come pick you up, make sure you arrive safely and all”.
“If you are sure,” to which Benedict nodded enthusiastically, “then I suppose I shall”.
His smile grew wide as he lightly grabbed your hand and kissed the back of it before starting the walk in the opposite direction back towards Mayfair. You were still wary of what had taken place, and the promise you just made, but you supposed if one of you was certain enough about it that it would be fine. Or at least you hoped.
people who asked to be tagged: @easybrainrot34, @imgondeletedis, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog
warnings: classism, use of "miss" and "y/n", stubborn mc
a/n: class differences in historical fiction have my heart and what better man to write them for than benedict! hope you enjoy and requests are open!
pt.2
For all your years helping run your family’s flower shop, you could not remember a day as memorable as this. You were in the back of the shop, cutting stems and bunching bundles of similar flowers together when you heard your little sister gasp from her spot in the doorway. Though gentlemen callers were not entirely uncommon, as flowers were a typical house gift when men went to call on their chosen lady, this one seemed to have caught her by surprise.
“Who’s there Abigail?” you asked without turning around. “Abigail?” you asked again when she did not respond. It only took one look at the familiar chestnut head of hair to understand why your sister had gone as silent as Mayfair during the ton’s visits to the country. There stood a Bridgerton. Abigail had been obsessed with them ever since she got one of the printer apprentices to give her a copy of the gossip column the ton had been infatuated with. Anything that was ever written about them, Abigail had saved and regaled you when you were both in bed after a day’s work.
“Y/N! I believe your expertise might be required,” your father called from the front of the shop, where he stood with parchment and a pencil, jotting down people’s requests.
Abigail had not moved from her spot in the doorway, effectively blocking you out. “Abigail, I need to get through,” you waved a hand in front of her face but she did not move. She was utterly and entirely captivated, so you resorted to picking her up by her waist and moving her to the side. The perks of her being your little sister meant that moving her came easier to you than moving you did to her.
“I was summoned?” You looked at your father who nodded at the man standing in front of him. “Yes sir, how can I help you today?”
“I am here to buy flowers for a lady-”
“What a novelty,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at the sheet your father had been working on moments before.
“Pardon?” The man asked, clearly not expecting to be cut off in such a manner.
“Apologies, good sir, you were saying?”
“I am buying flowers for a lady. You see, my brother has crossed his wife and wants to apologise, but has no time for such an errand so he has sent me-”
“He has truly no space to make time for apologising to his wife?” You interrupted again.
“Do you interrupt every customer in this manner?”
“Only the ones with ridiculous stories,” you countered.
“I can assure you, despite how ridiculous it might sound, I speak nothing but the truth,” he looked at you, hoping you would change your mind. When you said nothing, he continued, “Now, I mentioned to your father earlier that I would like to gather flowers that mean an apology or makes it clear that the sender knows they have done some wrong-”
“Ah, so you are keen on the language of flowers? I take it this has happened before then?” You interrupted yet again, raising a brow.
“Apologies for my sister, my lord, she has been working long hours lately,” your older sister Jeanine stepped in. She gave you a harsh look as she finished her sentence, nonverbally telling you to scoot out of the way. You huffed and pushed the sheet of paper with the man’s order on it towards her before making your way to the back of the shop to finish the arrangements from before.
It took Abigail no time at all to meet you back there, desperate to know how your interaction went. When you disappointed her with the fact that you had absolutely no thrilling news to report back, she smacked your arm and grabbed some flowers from the vases in the corner, complaining that you should have done a better job.
“Well perhaps if he was not exactly like all other men who enter this shop then I would have something interesting to share with you,” you responded, grabbing some baby’s breath to add in.
Jeanine came to greet you both with the sheet of parchment in hand, “something with an apology and sorrow but also suggesting forgiveness,” she muttered, looking at the selection in front of her.
“White roses, forget-me-nots, and pink tulips,” you commented without looking at her.
“If only you could do your job that easily in front of the customers”.
“If the customers were not all so alike and insufferable perhaps I could”.
“That poor Bridgerton did nothing to you and you know it,” Jeanine tried.
“He irked me, is that not enough?”
“Not when we are trying to keep a business afloat, no,” Jeanine replied as she stepped back onto the main floor to have Mr. Bridgerton pick the colour of ribbon with which the bouquet would be tied together. “Now there you are Mr. Bridgerton, and if I could grab a first name to keep our records in order and for possible future transactions?” Jeanine asked as she handed over the bouquet.
“Do I truly look so similar to my brothers that you cannot tell us apart?” Mr. Bridgerton jested, at least you hoped he was jesting.
“It is that arrogance that irritates me to be sure,” you muttered to Abigail.
“It is merely a formality my lord,” Jeanine laughed lightly as she looked at him expectantly.
“Benedict then, Benedict Bridgerton,” he placed the pound notes on the counter and picked up the bouquet, wishing Jeanine a pleasant day before scurrying away.
So the annoyance finally had a name.
A few days had passed, and it felt like you had pushed the interaction successfully out of your mind, when the universe decided to spite you once again. You had already been at the front of the shop this morning, but you wished to do nothing other than sink to the floor or send one of your sisters in your place.
“So we meet again,” Benedict announced, overly joyful.
“Well you did just walk into the shop my family happens to own-”
“I was hoping to make your acquaintance once again-”
“At least one of us seems happy about it,” you conversed over each other, making it appear as if the dialogue had no point of breath.
“I firstly wished to inform you that the flowers worked wonders and greatly aided my brother in his apology-”
“Wonderful, now if that is all there is quite the queue forming behind you-”
“And that I have a plan to get you to change your mind,” Benedict finished his thought and it struck you silent. You must have done two or three big, slow blinks before what he said fully sank in, leaving you only more confused. “I must say, it is much easier to think when you are not constantly fighting back at me,” he smiled and you wanted to reach over the counter and smack that smile clean off his face.
“Change my mind? On the flowers? I thought you said they were a great success?”
“Oh no, not about the flowers,” he waved his finger back and forth in front of you, “about me”.
“About you?” You questioned with raised brows, a scoff of disbelief escaping past your lips.
“Yes. I noticed the other day we left off on quite the wrong foot and I would like to change your mind”.
“And why do you think that is Mr. Bridgerton?” you bent your elbows a little and leaned closer into him from your spot over the counter.
“Well I was not entirely sure, but I figured if I could get 10 minutes alone with you, your opinion of me would be much improved”.
“Has anyone ever told you they do not like you Mr. Bridgerton? Has anyone, especially someone below your status, been honest enough with you to display how they truly feel about you? You might consider that notion and find the root of our problem there. I know you do not care much for your high society Mr. Bridgerton,” you noticed his ears prick up, so to quickly shut him down, “and do not think too deeply about my knowing of you for Lady Whistledown has printed much more than I cared to know, but as soon as someone is off with you, you suddenly become interested. Your ego is much too inflated to reason with the fact that some people just might not like you, present company included, and you cannot stand it”.
Now it was Benedict’s turn to blink slowly, as your speech had halted all his energy to a standstill. “Good day, Mr. Bridgerton,” you shooed him out of the shop with your hand, waving forward the next customer who had been waiting very awkwardly a few paces behind this encounter. You sighed deeply, mentally resetting yourself back to your more demure customer service appearance.
Mr. Bridgerton had not been back for at least two weeks, not that you were counting of course, and though you claimed you were not thinking about him, you hated to admit how much that man had taken of your mental space. It did not help that Abigail was insistent that you two were fated to meet again somehow, even though you had explicitly told her you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. Jeanine was upset that you had lost a valuable customer, but the money that he could have possibly brought in was the last thing on your mind. The season was usually a high reward time for your family’s shop anyway, you were sure one lord would not be such a loss.
On an afternoon that felt uncomfortably reminiscent of your first meeting, the bell above the front door rang as you were arranging a bouquet in the back. Abigail gasped from her spot in the doorway, and you did not even want to turn around and guess what caught her breath this time. “Oh my god,” Jeanine muttered, joining Abigail in the doorway as a pair of frantic feet made their way to your father at the counter. “Good afternoon, I should like to ask for a moment alone with Miss Y/N”.
You nearly dropped the flowers in your hands and stood staring at the wall while the heads of both your sisters whipped around to look at you, mouths dropped and eyes wide. Your father did not really know how to comprehend the situation, to be honest none of you did, but one nod from him and Abigail was grabbing the flowers out of your hands while Jeanine pushed you forward through the entryway. Your feet were cement, standing in front of the man that definitely had not been occupying your mind for days on end, his arms stuffed with different boxes and trinkets.
As if taking advantage of the silence, Benedict started, “I come bearing gifts. It occurred to me that I had no idea what your preferences were and with the safe answer of flowers obviously gone I got,” he dropped some of the goods on the counter, “these”. There were chocolates and pieces of jewellery and perfumes and accessories. You stared in awe at the collection before you, admiring the beauty of them all before you snapped back into reality. Benedict Bridgerton had come to spoil you in an attempt to win you over and you could not stand for it.
“If you think gifts are going to magically change my mind then you are-”
“Oh they are not for you. Well not exclusively anyway, I believed some of them to be for your family”.
It took your sisters absolutely no time at all to rush over to the counter, rummaging through all the items present and claiming their picks before your mother and father came to join you on either side. With a quick scolding from your mother and a muttered thank you to Benedict, your sisters were off, resuming their position in the doorway. “I hope I am not interrupting any major, I just wished to spend the afternoon with your daughter,” Benedict glanced between your parents, silently asking for permission.
“Well I do not see why not,” your mother replied, putting a hand on your shoulder.
“Mother!” You hissed, surprised she would respond in the affirmative so quickly.
“What? It is not like you get out of here much anyway!” Your father piped up, making you tilt your chin down in embarrassment and kick his shin under the counter. Benedict stifled a laugh, and you could sense his eyes on you as you kept your head down. “The pleasure is all yours,” your father looked at Benedict as he and your mother stepped back, laughing between themselves.
“I figured a walk would do us both some good,” Benedict put his hands behind his back as you looked up at him, suddenly very aware of how much he towered over you.
“What makes you think I have the time to just step out and walk around with you? In case you were not aware, I am currently working-”
“Oh for god’s sake! Just go!” Jeanine yelled from the back, her and Abigail having given the two of you some privacy. You huffed, crossing your arms in front of you and mentally squaring up Benedict before rolling your eyes. “I suppose one afternoon wouldn’t hurt, but if you try anything I swear-”
His hands shot up in defence, “You have my word, nothing nefarious will take place. I simply want to walk”.
“A walk it is then,” you nodded, making your way around the counter and into the main section of the shop.
“I promise, you will not regret this,” Benedict commented, clearly happy with himself as he opened the door for you to walk through.
“Let’s not go making promises we’re not certain we can keep”.
Summary: You were always told heroes and villains had no place in your home.
Not when there’s an increase in crime, not when there’s monsters on the loose in Hosu and certainly not when the man in your home raises a hand to you.
All it takes is one impulsive decision to change your life forever.
content: shigaraki tomura x female reader, slow burn, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, reader has a quirk, graphic depictions of violence, past abuse, past sa, angst, pstd, eventual smut, found family LoV, mdni
wc: 3.1k | chapter 2 | m. list | read on ao3
It’s been raining all day.
The cold droplets make your cheeks feel numb as you run along the sidewalk. The sky is a murky gray and your lungs are burning in a desperate attempt to regain air in them. There is blood on your clothes and none of it belongs to you.
You don't know how long you’ve been at this but you know you cannot stop. There would be consequences if you stopped.
Your body would have to give out first.
You chance a glance behind you and see there is no chase, there are no sirens and no angry mob following you but your body keeps moving.
You decide to take a sharp right turn into an upcoming alley and use that moment to catch your breath. Your chest heaves as you desperately inhale. The rain has soaked you to the bone and you just know that you’ll have a stuffy nose in the morning. Adrenaline is what you assume is keeping you going at this point — with the rate of your heart beating you're sure it’ll beat right out of your chest and leave you here in this dingy alley alone.
Even through the patter of the rain you could hear the footsteps of multiple people shuffling your way.
You’re sure they’ve found you. Damn it, you shouldn’t have stopped.
You look around the alley and run to the grimy dumpster further down, hiding behind it and willing yourself to calm your breathing.
Closing your eyes, you place a cold hand over your own mouth, praying it will quiet your own ragged breaths.
“C’mon, guys, let's be reasonable.” It's the voice of a man and it is not familiar.
He seems to be stepping closer, slowly. You creep closer to the wall and hope the footsteps cease.
They do.
“Reasonable would be having your head for the shit you pulled on us, Giran.” A different voice, hostile. You're starting to think these people have nothing to do with you.
The guy, Giran, sounds weary, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m always good on my word.”
There’s another voice piping up now, denying his words, insisting that they were scammed. Between the rain and the men talking over each other it feels impossible to understand. You decide it's best to just wait this out, you’re sure they will finish soon and you can go back to figuring out your next move.
“Bullshit!” Someone yells and it startles you, pulling your attention back to the scene unfolding behind you.
The sound of a gunshot rings through the alley and you jolt in surprise, reflexively covering your ears as your heart stops in your chest. What the fuck was happening right now. Whatever Giran was going to say doesn’t make it far.
“Oh shit,” one voice panicks, “what the fuck did you do, dude!”
“You said we would get him back!”
“Not kill him, you fucking idiot!”
Your nerves are on fire as you hear the pair run off, leaving Giran groaning in pain and bloody.
You move fast, rushing from your place behind the dumpster to the wounded man. Giran was slumped against a wall, hand clutching his abdomen and breathing heavily. You don’t know what's compelling you to do this, so you blame it on the adrenaline still pumping through your veins. No one deserves to die here.
“Hey!” You yell out, an attempt to get his attention and keep him from slipping into unconsciousness. His brows lifted as his eyes met yours and you’re just glad this stranger is still breathing. “Let me help you.”
He only looks at you and you’re sure he’s fighting with all he has to hang on. You’re probably a sight to see yourself — clothes drenched in a mixture of blood and rain and eyes wild with panic.
You reach for his hand covering the bloody wound and he only presses tighter.
“Trust me.” You plead, meeting his eyes in desperation before trying again. Giran nods, moving his own hand and allowing you a chance to see the injury for yourself — blood was everywhere and given the rain you had no clear view. You shoot him a pointed look once more before going for his shirt, lifting it and exposing his stomach and bloody wound. You could work with this.
Your hands were freezing cold, but you willed yourself through it, bringing both to hover over his abdomen and focusing. Giran watched the soft green glow emit from your hands and wash over his wounded abdomen, his wound healing from the inside out. Raindrops drip from your hair and down your nose, yet you focus until the injury is gone, as if it had never been there in the first place.
Giran sighed, resting his head on the brick wall behind him, muscles relaxing and breath stabilizing.
“You’re a healer.” He speaks, voice hoarse and winded.
You nod, bringing your hands back and looking at the grovel below, “yeah, something like that.”
A silence falls over the both of you, the rain continuing to seep its cold into your bones. It's almost time to face your reality again. Time to get up and move.
“What are you doing out here, kid?'' Giran speaks again, voice gaining more clarity as he stabilizes from the events before.
What are you doing out here? Where even is here? You weren’t paying attention while you ran — there was only the urge to get away and get away as fast as you could.
“I...” you look down at your clothes clinging to your form and drooping lower than they should due to the onslaught of rain. Not even the rain could wash away the blood staining the cotton material. Whatever may have gotten on your face could be washed away, but you’re unsure. “I don’t know.” You finish, chancing a glance at Giran.
He looks to you before taking a moment to stand, finally gaining composure and taking a slow breath.
You follow suit, ready to go the other way, never see this man you saved again.
“I owe you one, kid,” Giran starts again, adjusting his glasses, and you begin to protest. He cuts you off, “Those crooks almost killed me. Really, at least let me get you someplace warm.” he insists and you stare for a moment, you were unsure of your next move anyway.
You nod, “alright.”
—---------
Giran takes you to an underground bar. One where the lighting is low and there aren't many people around. You’ve never been to a bar before, but you’re sure this one had bad news written all over it.
Even so, you don't feel afraid. The bar had a bathroom where you could dry off better and there was even spare clothes in the lost and found. You were finally able to get the rain soaked clothes off and wipe away the red staining your face as well. It was miles better than what you had before.
Now you were sat across from Giran as he lit his cigarette, taking a drag and exhaling it to the side.
The harsh smell of nicotine flooded the area and you bit back the scrunch of your nose as you stuffed your face with chips from the bar. Once your adrenaline settled, the feeling of hunger was overwhelming.
“So,” you're midbite when Giran speaks, breaking the silence, “what were you doing out there, kid?”
You force your food down and ponder your answer. There was no reason you shouldn’t trust Giran right now, but—
The splatter of blood crosses your mind, accompanied by a memory of glass breaking that makes you shiver and you decide that no, you couldn’t share this.
“I…” you can’t meet his eyes, “I got lost.”
Giran taps the ashes from his cigarette and sucks his teeth. “Lost, huh?” He raises a brow, “where are you from, then? You were covered in blood, and not all of that belonged to me, so what’s your deal – are you some kind of hero?”
You vehemently shake your head, “no, no. I’m not a hero.” You anxiously pick at the loose sem in the sweater, “I’m nobody. Not anymore.”
“You’re a healer, people would kill for a quirk like that.” He takes another drag, blowing the smoke and pointing to you, “what is it you were running from?”
There were tears welling in your eyes and you wished this conversation could be over. The reality of the situation setting in. “I hurt someone. Bad.”
“Can’t be that bad since you can heal ‘em, right?”
You’re quiet. Flashes of what occurred hours ago flooding your memory. It feels so far away. So foggy. “No. No, I didn’t heal them.” Your fists tighten in your lap. “I hurt them and then I left. I ran away and now I’ll never go back.”
Giran looks you over for a bit before tapping the excess ash from his cigarette. “Well, since you need somewhere to go and you have a pretty sick quirk, I think I have the perfect place for you.”
—---------
The dark corridors Giran leads you through feel endless and you can’t help but wonder if he’s leading you into a trap of some kind. You thought the bar before was shady, but wherever the hell he was taking you seems to be much worse.
There was no elaboration on where you were going, just an absent trust me and promises that you would be safe and taken care of here. Promises that no one would look for you or find you here. You sigh, out of options and desperate. He had no reason to lie to you, but it still gave you an uneasy feeling.
“This guy,” Giran’s voice catches your attention, “Can seem like kind of a brat, but he’s good on his word.”
It’s as if he could feel your restless thoughts and you only purse your lips, glancing at him and then back forward, noting a large metal door coming into view.
You can't fight the lump of dread in your stomach but you try to put on a brave face as the screech of the heavy metal door fills the corridor. It led to another bar — this one looking more… normal. Empty, quiet and even quaint.
The only occupants being a shadow-like figure of a man, dark cloudy whisps covering his face and hands and another, younger man dressed in all black and sporting what looked like a pale blue hand covering his face like a mask.
“Giran,” the man spoke, voice raspy and sharp. He couldn’t have been much older than you, maybe younger. “What have you brought us today?”
The man in question smiled, gold tooth glimmering in the low light of the bar. “Something special.”
You couldn’t see much of the man’s face beyond the hand, but you could see the glint of interest in his red eyes.
“Is that so…” he turns his attention to you, “what’s your name?”
His gaze gives you goosebumps and you turn to Giran, seeking some kind of reassurance, but the boy speaks again, “Don’t look at him. I’m the one talking to you.”
It shakes you, but you snap your attention back to him and tell him your name.
“And why are you here?”
You don’t know. You have no idea why Giran brought you here and you don’t even know who this guy is. How could you hope to answer that with no information?
Giran steps in before you can make a retort, “she’s here because I think you could get a lot of use out of her, Shigaraki.”
Shigaraki’s gaze never leaves yours. “Oh, yeah? What’s your quirk?”
You bite your lower lip, you didn’t expect this to be an interview of some kind. Shigaraki looks impatient, tapping a finger on the bar beside him. You swallow your nerves and speak, “My quirk is called Vitality – I can heal others and myself.”
“That’s a rare find, Giran, even for you.” Shigaraki crossed his arms, interest successfully piqued.
Giran huffs a laugh, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag. “Yeah, well, she kind of found me.”
You steal a look at Giran, the smoke leaving his lips as he speaks. Shigaraki doesn’t say anything, his silence seemingly urging Giran to continue. “This one here saved my life yesterday. Some hothead shot me and she rushed in and healed me. I’m good as new.”
Shigaraki scoffs, tone sardonic and cruel, “Wow, how heroic of you.”
It feels like you’ve made the wrong choice, like the idea of saving someone was foolish and wrong. You acted on instinct — no one deserved to die there.
“So, what’s your deal, then? The heroes would kill to have you on their side. Why are you here?”
“I don’t care about the heroes,” it’s the truth, you want nothing to do with their flashy shows of power and silly displays of heroism. “I couldn’t care less for it.”
You see Shigaraki’s eyes narrow through the fingers of the hand on his face. “So you’re one of Stain’s followers, then?”
Who? You didn’t keep up with that kind of stuff. You vaguely remember seeing the news articles about some crazed villain, but you have had your own villain to deal with. Nothing else mattered.
This was beginning to frustrate you. All the questions, all the prying — who cares about any of this stuff? You don’t even know where you are!
“I’m not familiar with him. I don’t care for any of it.” You couldn’t help but hear the question ring in your head again.
Why are you here?
“I don’t,” you start up again, voice catching in your throat. “I don’t have a home to go back to.”
The memory of glass breaking and blood splattering crosses your mind, running away in the rain clouds your thoughts, yet you continue, “I don't know what lies ahead for me, I don't have a future anymore. I just happened to stumble upon Giran.”
Shigaraki is quiet for a moment. You have to force yourself to refrain from squirming under his gaze.
“Show me.”
Your eyes snap to his, “What?”
“Show me your quirk.'' His voice is firm and unwavering. You’re looking at him to see if you could find any injury or even bruises but from your distance you cannot. It's not until Shigaraki pulls the already loose collar of his shirt down over his shoulder and you see it. There’s a large bandage on his shoulder and your steps falter a bit – not expecting him to expose so much skin so easily.
You swallow, uneasiness buzzing through your veins as you watch him remove the bandage and expose a gash on his shoulder. It looks recent, but you can't tell from this distance, so you move towards him.
The closer you get, the more you notice the finer details of the man. His ashen hair looks soft up close and his dark shirt does little to hide the lithe muscle underneath. It’s like walking into the cage of a wild tiger, sitting and waiting for its perfect moment to grab you.
He notices your hesitation and sucks his teeth, “I don’t have all day.”
You swallow your nerves and continue on. The closer you get, the more clearly you can see the scars on his neck as well. Not as bad as the gash on his shoulder, but still noticeable. You try not to steal too long of a glance and reach out, slowly — ready to heal him.
The wound doesn’t seem to be very deep so you only use one hand, a seafoam green glow emitting and covering his injury.
Shigaraki inhales slowly, feeling the relieving effects of your quirk healing him from the inside out. It doesn’t take long, the wound was already in the process of recovering before so this was more minor than you thought. You pull away once you were sure his shoulder was back to normal, taking a cautious step back from the man before you.
His attention is on Giran as he rolls his shoulder, flexing out all the previous tension and sighing in relief.
“Something like this isn’t easy to come by, Giran. What’s your price?”
Price, he says. Like you’re cattle, as if you’re some kind of product to be shipped off and traded. It makes you feel low.
Giran shrugs, smile pliant on his face and cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth. “No price. I told you – I owe this kid my life. Just make sure she’s safe and fed and we’ll call it even.”
Shigaraki still seems to be skeptical because he stands to his feet and you take another step back from him. His form is tense and you have to fight the urge to run to the door behind Giran. Shigaraki is taller, even with his slouched posture, and the sinking feeling in your stomach only grows as you anxiously watch for his next move.
You vaguely register the man engulfed in dark clouds calling Shigaraki’s name — a warning in his tone.
Giran raises a hand, smile never faltering. “Seriously. Eye for an eye.” He cocks his head, “But I’m not opposed to additional payment, if that’s what you want.”
It's a joke, one that the man before you does not find funny. He stands up straighter, “Whatever. Fine, we’ll take her in.”
You’re unsure if this is something you should celebrate or ease your way out of, but Giran seems to take it well. An honest smile gracing his features as he looks back to you, “You hear that, kid? You're in.”
Shigaraki turned to the shadowlike man behind the counter, “Kurogiri, prepare a room for her.”
Kurogiri nods and makes his way from behind the bar, you assume you should follow, but this was… a lot to take in. If they were to take you in then you wont ask too many questions. As long as you could lay low and keep to yourself then things would be fine. This wouldn’t have to be forever, just long enough to get yourself together and make your next moves.
You find solace in that thought as you walk past Giran — sending you an amiable wave as you trail behind Kurogiri.
Shigaraki stays behind in the bar and you’re thankful, his demeanor doesn’t seem like one you would like to be around for long periods of time.
There’s a brief moment when you're passing Shigaraki. His eyes meet yours and you notice the shine in them, a glimmer of covet curiosity so quick you almost miss it.
And you can’t help but wonder what exactly is it you’ve just gotten yourself into.
Note: Y/M/M/N = your mother's maiden name, assuming reader's mother took her father's last name (yes this is awkward, I wasn't sure how else to do it, sorry)
The summer warmth dissipated just as you thought you might drown from the amount of homework being assigned in each of your classes, and with it went your hopes for the Quidditch season. Zacharias had been running the team ragged, which only served to emphasize how poorly everyone played. It was sabotage so effective, Yvette suggested in jest that perhaps he was a plant from Slytherin to secure the cup.
Transfiguration remained the most difficult class, even with Professor Snape teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even with the advice from Draco Malfoy last term lingering in your ears.
You stared daggers at the owl perched in front of you. It stared back, indifferent and aloof. All around you, everyone else had already turned their own owls into opera glasses, and time was running short. The owl blinked at you, and began preening.
The wood of your wand had warmed in your grip, the anxiety you felt pouring into sweat on your palms. You adjusted your grip and prepared to cast. It would work this time. The owl’s huge eyes mimicked closely the shape of opera glasses, you could see the connection. The owl was not vicious. You had enough wand power, you had enough power.
This would work.
“Strigiforma,” you commanded. The magic pulsed out of your wand and-
The owl’s eyes enlarged, swelling its head.
Professor McGonagall tsked as she strolled by. “Reparifarge,” she said and the owl returned to normal. “Try again.” She hovered over you as you prepared to cast again.
As if it wasn’t hard enough without an audience.
“Ahem,” you cleared your throat, and rolled your shoulders back. “Strigiforma.”
Once again, magic flowed from your wand in a sliver and swirled around the poor creature. You watched, mortified, as it transformed down into a single drinking glass.
Professor McGonagall de-transfigured the owl again, and said, “And yet you managed to perform the Aguamenti charm.” You opened your mouth to protest. “It does not matter how I know, Miss Y/L/N. Keep trying, and see me after class.”
Donna looked over at you through an ornate set of opera glasses. She grinned, “Don’t take it too hard, Y/N, you had to be bad at something.”
You grimaced. “But did I though? Did I really?”
Class wore on. You continued trying to turn the owl into opera glasses, though the closest you got were a pair of half-moon spectacles like Dumbledore wore. You shooed your friends off to lunch when the bell rang, no need for them to witness your shame and go hungry.
Professor McGonagall was waiting for you at her desk. As you approached, she folded her hands in front of her and gave you a long appraising look.
“It should come to no surprise to you,” she began, “that I have noticed your continual struggle with this subject. The O.W.L. examination will be rigorous, and I am sorry to say I have not properly prepared you.”
You raised an eyebrow and prepared to protest.
She raised a slender hand. “I should have done this sooner, and for that I apologize. I am planning to meet with the Headmaster to discuss finding you a suitable tutor for this year, until I see a significant improvement. Now, I understand you have joined your house’s Quidditch team?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“We will do our best to ensure this does not interfere with your extra-curriculars. Expect a note from Professor Dumbledore within the week. You may go.”
“Yes, Professor.” You made a bee-line for the door, then paused. “Thank you.” She nodded graciously once then returned to her desk.
Herbert, Donna and Yvette had all laughed when you told them what Professor McGonagall had said.
“’Continual struggle’?” Yvette hissed through her nose. “That woman is brutal.”
You sulked after them down to Hagrid’s, chomping on an apple tart Donna had been kind enough to swipe for you. Care of Magical Creatures had proven to be the only bearable class what with the pressure of O.W.L.s looming down on you for every other subject.
Donna snorted. “Do you know who’ll tutor you?”
“Not a clue,” you said dully. “Only person good enough I can think of is Hermione Granger.” You remembered being paired with her in DA, and shuddered. “If Dumbledore wanted to torture me I suppose he could arrange it.”
“You don’t like Hermione?”
“She’s fine, just a bit of a know-it-all I guess.”
Yvette gave you a look. “Oh, but Malfoy was fine.”
“First of all, I was tutoring him - totally different. And it’s not like she doesn’t know what she’s doing, it’s just she does everything by the book and it works for her. I’ve done everything by the book, and it’s almost never worked for me.” That was only partially true, though, wasn’t it? Draco’s advice from last year had helped, a little anyway.
Hagrid was waiting at the edge of the forest, hands on his hips, ruddy cheeks set in a grin. His hippogriff (heaven only knew how he’d convinced Dumbledore to keep a pet hippogriff) Witherwings pawed at the ground next to him. The four of you were the first to arrive.
You bowed low to the beast. “Handsome as ever I see, Witherwings.”
The hippogriff nodded his head gracefully. He still liked you.
“There’s my favorite fifth years,” Hagrid drawled. He seemed to take great pleasure in greeting you this way at the start of every year.
“Afternoon, Professor,” Herbert said mid-bow. “What’ve we got today?”
Hagrid clapped his hands together excitedly. A few other students had gathered, including Luna who waved dreamily at you. “Today we’ll be relocating a branch of Bowtruckles whose Wiggentree has started to die. Go ahead and grab a pouch o’woodlice from the basket while we wait for everyone else.”
Once the rest of the class arrived, Hagrid led everyone into the forest. Tendrils of mist curled through the trees, slicing through whatever warmth the sun had bestowed upon you. You knew which tree it was as soon as you saw it. A massive rowan tree sat in the middle of a mushroom circle, the gnarled roots of it black as ash, leafless.
Someone spoke up, “Why’s the tree dying?”
A somber look passed over Hagrid’s face. “A good question.” He did not elaborate.
The Bowtruckles were hard to spot, their natural camouflage made them look like new branches of the tree itself, but once you saw one you could make out no less than fifty. Their movements were slow, catatonic even, and their spindly fingers had started to turn that ashy brown of the Wiggentree’s roots.
You sucked in a breath. Had they been slowly withering all summer?
Hagrid directed each of you to try and get a few of the stick-like beasties to follow you with the woodlice to a newly planted magical rowan further in.
A few were tempted by them, so you lured them up to sit on your shoulder, feeding them one or two every several feet. Donna was not having as much luck; one had made a mad grab for the pouch in an unexpected burst of energy while another snuck around to try and desperately reach for her wand tucked into her back pocket. She looked at you pleadingly.
“Don’t worry,” you said, lowering your wand and letting the two Bowtruckles grab on to be carried. “You had to be bad at something.”
“I resent your tone.” Donna let them have a few woodlice. “I am bad at many things.”
The two Bowtruckles on your shoulder joined the ones clinging to your wand. They all sat there, contented by the healthy wand wood. A few others tried the same thing.
The new Wiggentree was barely big enough for every Bowtruckle to perch comfortably in its branches, but they flocked to it desperately. Hagrid’s eyes turned a little misty watching them squabble over their preferred branches and settle into their new home tree.
With all the Bowtruckles successfully relocated, Hagrid led the class back through the forest to where Witherwings had been waiting.
“Next week,” he shouted over the bell tolling from the castle, “we’ll check up on ‘em, and talk about why their old tree had died, if I can find the reason meself. Now off with ye!”
By mid week, the expected summons from Professor Dumbledore still hadn’t come, and you were starting to hope that both he and McGonagall had forgotten about the whole thing.
During your free period before Potions, while Donna and Yvette had Divination, you joined Herbert in the library to finish up an essay on the many uses of moonstone, but you found yourself distracted by what Draco Malfoy had said in the owlery.
You tapped your quill against your palm and frowned. What did he expect you to do, exactly? If Helga Hufflepuff hadn’t wanted a password, who were you to even try to change that? This would require no small amount of research.
Herbert fixed you with a stare. “You look like you’re chewing on something. Care to share?”
“Just thinking about the other night, is all.” You threw a look over your shoulder to see who was close. “About what Malfoy said.”
“Shh!” Madame Pince’s shushing cut across the room.
“Ah,” he said in a lowered voice. “That old chestnut.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to add a password to a room that’s a thousand years old.”
He thought for a moment and shrugged. “What if it didn’t have to be a password?”
“What do you mean? He said password.”
“Well,” he smirked, “first don’t worry too much about following his directions to the letter, this is Malfoy we’re talking about. And he asked about a password, but he said line of defense. That’s a bit broader at least.”
“Hmm. That is something.”
“You want me to spell this out for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“What we need is a good old fashioned trap.”
“Go on.”
“Something that won’t affect anyone who’s supposed to be there, nothing they’d even notice. But something that’d spring on anybody trespassing.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, “I can see the logic in that. Any ideas?”
He smiled sardonically. “That is where my genius runs out, unfortunately. And it’s time for Potions.”
You still hadn’t gotten used to the Potions classroom in the middle of the dungeons being comfortable, but Professor Slughorn was chipper as ever during his lesson on Strengthening Solution, and caught you on your way out.
“I wonder if I may have a word, Miss Y/L/N?” he said. His voice was smooth and kindly. “Are you related at all to a Ms. Y/M/M/N?”
“I am,” you said, surprised. “She’s my mum.”
He smiled genially. “I thought that may be the case, the two of you look so alike. Talented witch, your mother, I remember when she was in school. I wonder if you’d join me for dinner in my rooms on Friday - I’ve put together a little party. A few people you may have met before, and I hope,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “a Mr. Potter may be in attendance.”
“Oh! Um, well. I,” you paused. He looked so hopeful. “I would be delighted. Is there anything I can bring?” Your mum had trained you well to never appear at someone’s home empty handed.
Professor Slughorn chortled. “No, no, that’s very kind of you of course. I’ve got it all covered. Look forward to delicious food and stimulating conversation.” He patted his belly and winked amicably. “I know I do.”
When you explained why you’d been held back to your friends, Herbert gave you a strange look.
“I want to go to dinner with Slughorn and Potter,” he said. “But I guess my mum wasn’t cool enough when she was in school.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Yvette said, “it seems like you were only invited because of your mum.”
You frowned. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it.”
“And Donna and I are muggleborn,” she continued. “He never asked us about who we were related to.”
“I’m sorry, would you like me to apologize for being related to someone he taught years ago?” you asked, incredulous. “What’s happening?”
Donna put a hand on Yvette’s arm. “No, that would be like asking us to apologize for being muggleborn.”
Yvette deflated. “I think I’m just jealous, is all.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t really want to go. But I’ll put in a good word for all of you. I’ll tell him all about your dueling talent, Donna’s affinity for transfiguration, and Herb’s perfect rendition of Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits.”
Herbert laughed. “Don’t forget about my Patronus. Only took me one try.”
You laughed too, “Right right, how could I forget?”
Friday morning, you sat yourself down to breakfast, crossing your fingers you wouldn’t have to follow through with Transfiguration tutoring. Alas, Ernie was already seated, but as soon as he spotted you, he held up a roll of parchment and wiggled it in the air.
You groaned and took it from him. Your heart sank as you read the slanted writing.
Miss Y/L/N,
I have arranged a tutor for you. Kindly meet Professor McGonagall outside my office at 5 P.M. for details.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
With any luck, this could turn into an excuse to miss Professor Slughorn’s dinner party.
Professor McGonagall was waiting for you in the seventh floor corridor in the West Wing, standing perfectly poised in front of the massive gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s tower.
Her expression gave nothing away, but she acknowledged your presence with a polite nod. Then she turned to the gargoyle and spoke the password. “Acid pops,” she said.
You had only ever been in Dumbledore’s office once, in your first year when Professor Sprout had all but begged him to let you jump ahead a year in Herbology. It looked almost exactly the same, four years later.
The Headmaster himself was seated casually at his desk, peering at you over his characteristic half-moon glasses, and smiling, welcoming you in.
You returned a nervous smile of your own, and tried not to stare at his withered hand.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he greeted you, “please, sit.” You obeyed silently. “Surviving your O.W.L. year, I take it?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“No need to be nervous, this isn’t a punishment.” His eyes twinkled. He was up to something, you were sure of it. “Your tutor should be here any moment. In fact,” a small device on his desk began to spin around like a top, “Minerva, would you be so kind as to show him in.”
Professor McGonagall nodded her head once more, and went to retrieve whoever had arrived.
Professor Dumbledore continued to appraise you. “I have heard, of course, of your experience with Herbology, and your affinity for magical creatures. I am, therefore, not surprised you have had some trouble with Transfiguration. I have found that students with your skill set often dislike transfiguring living creatures, find it repugnant, even.”
You gave a cautious nod. That could be the problem, maybe.
“Ah, excellent,” he said, now looking at someone behind you. You turned to look and your stomach curled. “Thank you for coming.”
Draco Malfoy glared down at you.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” you said.
At the same time, he huffed, “Of course.”
Before he could say anything else, you turned back to Dumbledore. “Please, Professor, anyone, anyone but him.”
Dumbledore feigned surprise. “Miss Y/L/N, I was under the impression the two of you were friends. Is that no longer the case?”
You sputtered - the Slytherin common room, that must’ve been how he’d gotten that idea.
Draco didn’t argue; he only sat down next to you. Instinctively, your arm pulled itself off your chairs armrest, away from him. Dumbledore clocked the movement, eyes still twinkling.
The Headmaster ignored your protests and explained, “Mr. Malfoy received excellent marks on his Transfiguration O.W.L., and Professor Sprout reported how well the two of you worked together last year.” Draco shifted uncomfortably at the praise. “I have already checked your schedules, and I believe this should not interfere with either of your Quidditch schedules.”
Draco turned to you sharply. Apparently he hadn’t heard you’d made the team. You still refused to look at him.
Professor McGonagall chimed in, “I have provided a rough curriculum to Mr. Malfoy, as well as some spells from previous years I believe will be helpful.”
“Thank you, Minerva. Does Monday work for the both of you?”
Draco nodded sharply.
You replied sourly, “It does.”
Dumbledore let your tone slide. “Then I’ll expect a report from either of you by the end of next week, on your meeting schedule and any other concerns I, or Professor McGonagall may be able to address. I imagine you will require a quiet place to study, as I hear the library can be rather barmy.” You marked his inflection - was he unofficially recommending the Room of Requirement for this use? He certainly must know you were aware of it, your name had been on the DA list.
Draco frowned. He must’ve caught it as well. “Yes, sir,” he said in his typical icy tone that gave nothing away.
Dumbledore smiled again. “Then, now that that’s all good and settled, Miss Y/N, I believe you have made a commitment for dinner? You may go, give Professor Slughorn my regards.”
You nodded again and rose, ready to be anywhere but this office. Finally, you locked eyes with Draco. His lip lifted subtly in a small sneer. Pivoting on your toes, you fled before either of you could say anything more than had already been said.
You cursed the whole way to Slughorn’s rooms.
What was Dumbledore playing at? You’d joked about Hermione tutoring you if he’d wanted to torture you, but this? This was never something you’d considered a possibility. And Draco had agreed. Obviously he couldn’t have known who he’d be helping, but that he’d agree to help anyone. Dumbledore must’ve offered him something he couldn’t pass up.
You bit your tongue to stop it’s grumbling before you knocked on the door.
Professor Slughorn opened it in the blink of an eye. He wore a decadent smoking jacket embroidered with shiny golden stars and a matching cap. You were almost surprised there was no lit cigar in his hand, but rather two mugs of Butterbeer, one of which he offered you as he shepherded you inside.
Standing by a roaring fireplace, two students you recognized as Slytherins glanced up from their conversation and looked you up and down. The boy, Blaise Zabini, you knew had worked his way into Malfoy’s little group. The look did not last more than a moment before they deemed you inconsequential and resumed their own conversation.
Ginny had been cornered by some massive Gryffindor you didn’t know from the DA, so you made a bee-line to her.
She looked up gratefully and said very quickly, “Oh look my friend Y/N I have to go talk to her now thank you goodbye,” before stepping nimbly out of his grasp. She took you by the arm and steered you around.
“What was all that about?” you asked.
“That,” she whispered, “is Cormac McLaggen. He is very upset he was passed over for Quidditch and he keeps asking me to talk to Harry. Like I could get him to change his mind if I wanted to. And Dean hates that he keeps talking to me.”
“And how are things with Dean?”
“Oh, they’re,” she sighed, “they’re alright. We’ve had a few spats but we’re working through it.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
She laughed. “Right.”
A few others trickled in after you: Neville, a Ravenclaw you didn’t recognize, and Hermione (who mentioned twice that she was late because of prefect duties). Once everyone Professor Slughorn had been expecting arrived, he invited all of you to sit down for dinner.
A dark wooden dining table appeared where nothing had been before. He chuckled lightly at the couple surprised looks the conjuration had caused, clearly pleased with his party trick. The table was already laden with a full Sunday roast - Yorkshire pudding, roasted potatoes, three different variations of a horseradish sauce and a basket of steaming rolls surrounded the massive beef roast. The smell of it made you homesick.
Professor Slughorn bid you all sit down, and you clung to Ginny, who did her best to maneuver away from McLaggen and sat next to Neville. McLaggen then tried to snag a chair by Hermione, but the Ravenclaw beat him to it. Stymied, he slouched into a seat between the two Slytherin students.
Your host barely let you fill up your plates with food before launching into a litany of questions about school, family histories, and career goals. He started going around the table clockwise; you tried to sink lower and lower into your chair and then -
“Y/N, how is your mother’s shop doing these days?”
Everyone at the table turned their attention towards you.
You nodded and put down the potato you’d speared with a fork. “It’s doing well, she’d started to plan to expand last year, but with things as they are…”
“Of course, of course. I’m glad to hear it, she was one of my favorite students when she went here. Slytherin, right?”
Blaise snorted. “Your mother was in Slytherin, and now she owns a garden shop?” The Slytherin girl next to McLaggen laughed too.
You smothered a look of disdain, and substituted a winning smile. “That’s what she wanted. To build a successful business from the ground up, and she did. I wonder if you’ll be able to achieve whatever it is you desire.”
Slughorn chimed in, “Ho, ho - a good wit too, from her no doubt. You mustn’t blame Mr. Zabini, his family is used to a more gilded kind of success than us common folk.” He tossed a wink Blaise’s way, who smiled thinly at the attempt to break the tension. He waved a hand, “Anyway, Neville, how is your grandmother?”
Dinner dragged on for another hour, before Professor Slughorn ran out of questions and dessert was served, and then another half an hour of poking the same chunk of ice cream around a bowl before Ginny gave you a look and you both excused yourselves.
In the hallway, the moment the door closed, the both of you burst out laughing.
“That was maybe the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been,” you said, breathless.
“Oh, but did you see Zabini’s face? That was worth the whole thing.”
In the common room, you sat your friends down to deliver the news, that Draco Malfoy would be tutoring you for the forseeable future at Dumbledore’s request.
No one but Herbert said a thing.
“Well, at least one good thing may come of this,” he quipped.
Exasperated, you asked, “Like what?”
“Now you’ll have the opportunity to ask him what the hell he wants you to do about the common room.”
You slept exceptionally poorly the next three nights, tossing and turning, trying to figure a way out of tutoring with the biggest git at Hogwarts again. Who could’ve known that one ill-conceived attempt at kindness could ruin two school years in a row?
You fell through every stage of grief - denial that it had not been a bad dream, anger at Dumbledore, bargaining with whatever force governed the universe as we know it, and depression as you faced the Room of Requirement on Monday evening. Draco must’ve already arrived and gotten settled, the door wouldn’t have appeared so quickly if the room was empty.
It was not too late to run. To beg Herbert for a Puking Pastille you knew he had leftover from last year.
No. If someone was going to run, it was going to be Draco Malfoy, running from you. Whenever you got around to chewing him out.
You pushed open the door.
The inside was not what you’d been expecting. Where you’d imagined a cold, clinical classroom designed to impart knowledge and nothing else, was a sitting room, nice but not too grand, with a few crushed velvet armchairs and a large coffee table suitable for note-taking in front of a cozy fireplace, where a kettle was already about to whistle.
Above you, a sneakoscope dangled from the ceiling, eerily still.
Draco looked up from his place on one of the armchairs, book open upon a knee. He still looked tired around the eyes.
“Y/N, good. The water’s almost ready.” A lovely floral tea pot and two tea cups appeared on a tray on the table.
You blinked. “You’re making tea?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not poisoned?”
“I’m not an animal, Y/N.”
“And you’re making it? There’s no house elves hiding in the corner ready to do it for you?”
He finally huffed. “If I wanted a house elf to make my tea I’d have to tell them about this arrangement. Now are you going to sit down or do you have more insipid questions?”
Satisfied that this was not an assassination attempt, you did sit down across from him and set your school bag on the floor. Even in the cushy chair, in front of the crackling fire, you couldn’t relax. You sat forward in the chair, hands rubbing your knees.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“What?” you asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Go ahead… with what?”
He snapped the book shut and poured the boiling water into the teapot. “You want to know why I’m doing this - Dumbledore asked me to - when my time is so precious to me - which it is - and you’re the last person I’d want to help - not technically true and I didn’t know Dumbledore had you in mind when I agreed.”
“But why did you agree in the first place?”
“I figure it may keep me out of trouble.”
“Uh huh.” You took a long pause, debating. “And if it’s not me, who is the last person you’d help?”
He grinned wolfishly, “Potter, obviously.”
“Ah.” You should’ve known. Even in light of every sin he undoubtedly counted against you, you’d never be as despicable as Harry Potter, The Chosen One. You wondered if it was terrible that, for a moment, you were grateful for that years-long grudge of theirs.
You took the tea he offered and sipped on it silently. It was fragrant and floral, jasmine, maybe.
His grey eyes watched you carefully, looking for something. What, you couldn’t say. “And how was your dinner meeting then? With the Slug Club?”
You grimaced. “Is that what we’re calling it? Yikes. It was fine, I guess. I met a friend of yours, one Blaise Zabini. Delightful conversationalist.”
“You never said you had family in Slytherin.”
“You never asked.”
“Hmm.” Then he reached around and retrieved a cardboard box with holes in the top.
You grinned, you couldn’t stop yourself. “Is that a hedgehog?” you asked.
An eyebrow twitched up. “It is.”
“So this was on McGonagall’s list then.”
“McGonagall’s list,” he scoffed, “I could’ve come up with. I’ll get to that later. Maybe. But let’s stick with what you can already almost do for now.”
You frowned. “But she said-“
“I know what she said.”
“But, Draco if this isn’t on the O.W.L.-“
“You still need to learn it.”
You crossed your arms and huffed. “Will you just listen to-“
“No.” He pulled a squirming hedgehog out of the box and set it on the coffee table. “Now turn this into a pin cushion.”
You whipped out your wand, furious, leveled it at the hedgehog, and hesitated. What if you couldn’t do it? What if, even with help, you remained incapable of this one thing?
“Y/N,” he said impatiently.
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there.”
“No, you aren’t. Just cast the spell.”
“But-“
“Cast the spell.”
“Draco-“
“Y/N. Do it. Now.”
You did. But not on the hedgehog. Draco Malfoy, all hundred-eighty and some odd centimeters of him shrunk down into a pin cushion you could fit in your palms. You picked him up in shaking hands.
“Oh my god. Shit.”
Dumbledore was going to find out, and then after congratulating you on how well you’d transfigured a whole person he’d expel you and you’d be gardening for your mother without magic for the rest of your lift. Which wouldn’t last long if Draco’s family ever found out what’d happened to their silver haired progeny.
No, no. McGonagall fixed bad transfigurations all the time. If you could do this you could do that - simple.
You put the Draco-cushion on the coffee table and picked up your wand again. The hedgehog gave him a sniff then retreated to the behind his box.
“Ahem,” you cleared your throat, still steadying your hands. “R-reparifarge.” Nothing happened. You smacked your wand against your other hand a few times, white sparks flying from the tip with every thwak. “Reparifarge!”
The pin cushion began to spin and stretch until it was roughly the size Draco Malfoy had been before, then with a sharp pop, the material of the pin cushion changed back into skin and clothes and Draco blinked several times.
He looked around, confused by how he’d moved from the chair to the coffee table in less than an instant. Then he looked at you, your ashen face, and guessed it. “Did you turn me into a pincushion?” he asked, quietly.
The calmness in his voice unnerved you. Heat flooded into your cheeks, you pressed your fingers into them trying to calm the blush.
“Yes, b-but I fixed you. Do you feel alright?”
He gave himself a once over, patting down his legs for leftover pins. “I’m fine, I think.” He smiled that scheming smile again, and you leaned back in your chair. “Now, not only have you just committed an actual crime, that was also pretty advanced magic.”
“Well, you were being a bit prickly.”
He laughed at that. It was cold and sharp and over before it began, but it was an actual laugh. “So it should be child’s play now to transfigure this.” He set the hedgehog in front of you again and moved back to his armchair.
Too shaken to argue, you obeyed and tried again on the hedgehog. When you were, once again, unsuccessful, Draco scrubbed a hand down his face and slumped down in the chair.
“This is going to take a lot of work,” he remarked.
At the end of the hour, the wrist of your wand hand was sore. If Draco was frustrated, he was doing an excellent job of not letting it show as he bid you goodnight in a civil tone. It was almost too civil.
You parted ways down opposite sides of the hall, the paths to the kitchens and the dungeon evidentially being different. But when you reached the stairs, a gentle itching began on the back of your neck, and you indulged it.
You turned around, and, stepping softly, crept back to peer around the corner. You felt silly, surely he was already halfway to his common room by now.
But he wasn’t. He had also circled back, and was re-entering the Room of Requirement.
The ends of his cloak disappeared inside and you were on the move. The door closed, and no sooner had you reached out to touch it, it disappeared under your fingers.
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