can you make a Gilbert blythe fic where he and reader are courting and he takes her with him to Avonlea to meet bash and Delphine? Tyyy
Love this Idea! Much love <3
Where the Road Softens
Gilbert Blythe x fem!reader
warnings: Period typical language and setting (1890s), Gental love, slow burn, established relationship (courting), Emotional intimacy, Canon themes of loss and family, Mention of racism, fluff, soft domestic summary: Courting Gilbert Blythe was never loud or hurried. It was letters, careful glances, and the kind of affection that grows quietly. When he brings you, an assured Charlottetown girl, to Avonlea to meet Bash and Delphine, you begin to realize that love does not always ask you to become smaller. Sometimes, it asks you to stay.
Charlottetown had taught you how to walk quickly.
Not because you were impatient, but because the city moved whether you wished it to or not. Carriages rattled along the streets, merchants called out their wares, skirts brushed past one another without apology. You had grown used to it, grown sharp around the edges, some might say. A Charlottetown girl needed to be.
Gilbert Blythe noticed this about you almost immediately.
He noticed it in the way you held yourself when he offered his arm, how you accepted without hesitation, but with a brief, thoughtful glance, as though deciding something important. He noticed it in the way you spoke your mind plainly, without fuss or flirtation, and yet still smiled as though you found the world worth engaging with.
It was this balance that had drawn him in. And now, after months of letters and careful visits, of walks that never strayed too far from propriety and conversations that often did, you were courting.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But deliberately.
“You’ll find Avonlea much quieter than Charlottetown,” Gilbert said as the carriage turned onto the country road. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
You looked out over the fields, the green stretching wide and unbroken. “I think,” you replied, “it may be exactly what I need.”
He smiled, relief softening his shoulders. Gilbert had been anxious about bringing you into this part of his life. Bash and Delphine were not simply friends; they were family, forged through hardship and choice rather than blood. He wanted you to see them not as an obligation, but as a privilege.
When the house finally came into view, Bash was waiting on the porch, Delphine balanced against his shoulder. She was small, wrapped in a soft blanket, one tiny hand curled into Bash’s shirt. Her dark eyes blinked slowly as she took in the unfamiliar face.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” you said, then softened when you looked at Delphine. “And her.”
Bash’s grin widened. “That’s Delphine. She doesn’t say much yet, but she’s a good judge of character.”
As if on cue, Delphine’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his shirt. You reached out instinctively, letting her wrap one small hand around your finger. Bash watched closely and nodded, satisfied.
“So,” Bash said, after introductions were made and tea was poured, “this is the young woman who has my friend writing letters like a schoolboy.”
Gilbert cleared his throat. You laughed, unoffended.
“I’m honored,” you said, meeting Bash’s gaze easily. “Though I assure you, I didn’t realize I was inspiring poetry.”
The afternoon unfolded gently. You listened more than you spoke at first, absorbing stories of travel and loss, of starting anew in a place that did not always welcome you, of learning what it meant to raise a child without your love. When you did speak, it was with care, not pity, but interest. Looking at Delphine like someone who already understood responsibility.
Gilbert noticed everything.
You asked Bash about his work, and he didn't miss the way Gilbert watched you, pride quietly blooming in his chest.
Later, when the sun dipped low and the air cooled, Gilbert brought you to see his apple trees.
“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice low, “that this might feel… too small for you.”
You stopped walking and turned to him fully. “Gilbert Blythe,” you said, “I am not frightened of quiet places. Only of feeling unseen.”
He met your gaze then, earnest and steady. “You would never be unseen by me.”
The words were simple. They were not a declaration, not yet. But they were honest, and honesty, you had learned, was the truest form of devotion.
That evening, as Bash pressed leftovers into your hands and clapped Gilbert on the shoulder with knowing warmth, you realized something quietly remarkable.
Charlottetown had taught you how to move.
But Avonlea, with its open skies and chosen family, was teaching you how to stay.
And beside Gilbert Blythe, that felt like its own kind of courage.
