Oda-sensei Receiving A Special Gift From The Live Action Team 🐌

Memories of that summer that may have existed

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Mutual Adoration

IM CRYING LOOK AT THIS OFFICIAL ART?1?-?1!—!-!

never ask nanami about his time at jujutsu high

THIS IS GOOD!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!!

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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Translation:

UNINTELLIGIBLE, that I'm telling you.

It's not easy birthing a child... It's not easy.

What are you going to do with your children? What will you give them?

Where is your husband?

Dick Grayson Dad of Pet. Haley it's so cute. 💙 Nightwing #78-#87 By: Taylor, Redondo and Lucas.

reblog if you feel shit about everything in your life but you’re still trying hard to be positive.

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem Cousin!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You could not leave him. Not when your very breath was the only thing that kept him tethered to this world. 

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1,433

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Arguing, Angry Jace, Desperate Jace, One curse word, Kind of hurt/comfort. 

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This was requested by @intheheartoftheking. I had a million different ideas for this, but the inspiration wasn’t there for any of them. So, I hope this is to your liking! Also, Varaxs is the name I gave the reader’s dragon! 

masterlist | read on ao3

Sea salt kisses your cheeks as the gentle roll of the tide rushes below you. The familiar scent of your dragon fluttered in the breeze as the Dragon Keepers brought your ivory mount out to you. Varaxs growled deeply, as if mimicking the waves that crashed against the inky cliffs of Dragonstone.

Chills danced up your spine as the cold seeped into your bones beneath your riding clothes. The weather wasn’t what had you so chilled, though.

Nervousness burns through your mind. Has your eyes darting from the dragon pit to the palace looming behind you. Every howl of the wind and every tumbling pebble falling from the rocks, kept you on high alert of discovery. There were more than enough troubles to keep your mind occupied, but should anyone catch you here before you could depart, your plan would be all for nothing. 

The Greens had sent an assassin to take Rhaenyra’s life in the dead of night. Ser Arryk was unsuccessful thanks to his brother’s valiant efforts, which cost him his life. But even if the Queen was unharmed, the usurper must still pay for the cowardly attempt on her life. 

Rhaenyra still hoped for peace, though, and such wishes had her stalling her hand. You, as her stepdaughter and loyal subject, could no longer rationalize doing nothing. 

And so, you were going to King’s Landing.  

You dare not give thought to what could befall you once you’re there. But if death or something worse awaited you, then it would have been worth it fighting for your queen. 

The wind seemed to pick up with his arrival. You didn’t notice until a loud cry of your name sounded over the currents. You spin around and see your betrothed, Jacaerys, dashing towards you. Trepidation and unease flowed through you as you caught sight of his vexed expression. You hadn’t told anyone of your plan, and you thought you had snuck away with no one noticing your absence. But of course, it was Jace who figured it out. 

He’s still in his princely attire, the Targaryen colors displayed proudly. The deep hues of black and red had always complimented him in the most alluring way. His boots kick up clouds of dust and sand as he comes to a stop in front of you. His lips pressed into a hard line, and his jaw clenched in irritation. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword like he always did, but the knuckles were white with the forceful hold he had on it. 

“Jacaerys.” You greet, meeting those serious, dark eyes you’ve lost yourself in more times than you could remember. 

“What are you doing?” He asks simply, but the sharpness of his voice made it clear this was no easy matter. His eyes burned into yours as he stood just inches from you. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” You questioned in return. Deciding to let him reveal what he knew before you told him the whole of your plan. 

He scoffs and swallows thickly. “I am not certain, but I am sure that it is something reckless and not something that my mother approved of.” 

Shifting your weight in the sand, you thought about how best to proceed. “I was anticipating no one finding out until I was already gone.”

“Did you think I would not notice your absence?” He asks incredulously, his brows rising in disbelief. 

You shrugged. “I hoped it would take you a little longer.” A leaden sigh leaves your lips while the restless waters below you rage on. The light reflecting off the water shines like a beacon around Jace, and you have to battle against the longing ache that spreads through your chest. 

“Someone needs to scout King’s Landing. Gather what information we can.” You explain praying to the seven that he’ll understand. 

His eyes widened as exasperation ignited in them. “Have you lost your mind?” He exclaims, shaking his head of dark curls. 

“Jace-” 

“No,” he insists. “You’re not going. You’re not going to fucking King’s Landing, where you very likely will be spotted.” His jaw is tight, and his eyes are just as troublesome as the waters crashing against the rocky shores of the island. 

“Someone has to do something!” You argue back, your raised voice causing Varaxs, waiting in the landing pit, to hiss with displeasure at your growing distress. 

“And if you are captured? Slain? What then?” He sneered, a sudden thickness lingering in his words. 

You lose yourself for a moment. Imagining all the horrors that could come upon you should anyone discover you even somewhat close to the capitol. Aemond held resentment towards you and your sisters for what occurred the night Luke took his eye. And Aegon was a mindless drunk, but no less cruel than his brother. But thinking of all their treachery just made you all the more determined to do everything in your power to see Rhaenyra on the throne. And Jace, good-hearted, compassionate Jace, as the heir.

“I have to do this, Jace. And if I meet my end, then it would be worth it to see Rhaenrya and you reclaim your birthright.”

Desperation colors his features, his sharp expression melting to one of concern and tenderness . Something that stokes the fires of your affection for him. 

“I forbid you.” He finally declares after a long moment of silence. 

“Forbid me?” Your own frustration at last rises to match his. “You are not my king yet. You’re not even my husband yet. So unless you intend to tie me up, I will be leaving now.” 

You turn on your heel to approach your mount. Fully planning on flying off to King’s Landing before his voice breaks. 

“You cannot leave me!” 

You halt in your place, your throat growing tight upon hearing the sheer panic coming from him. Your hands twitch at your sides as the wind dies down enough to allow you to hear the ragged breaths sounding from your betrothed. Hesitantly, not wanting to be met with his distraught expression, you turned back to face him. 

Raw desperation swam in his eyes. His lips, that had welcomed yours in so many devoting kisses, parted with pleading breaths. He closes the short distance between you; his hand captures yours before falling to rest against his heart. Heat flashes through you where your skin touches his. 

When he speaks, his words come out breathlessly. “It is no secret between us my devotion to you.” The strong fingers of his free hand, calloused from all his hours of training, fluttered over your cheek with a touch as light as goose down. “But even before our betrothal, you were my guiding light. In the wake of all the chaos, there was you.” His normally collected voice cracks. He clings to his hold on you as if terrified of you vanishing from his sight forever. “My entire heart craves only a fraction of yours. Even if only a piece of you loved me, that would be plenty, because that would mean at least a part of you was genuinely mine.”

“Jacaerys.” 

His gaze flickers down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “I cannot live in a world where you do not exist,” he professed. The air had been stolen from your lungs upon hearing his words. You were no fool to Jace’s affection; you returned it tenfold. But never had he confessed such adoration to you. 

“I cannot just do nothing.” You whispered, knowing he could hear you. 

He was nodding along with your words. “We will destroy them,” he vowed. “But we will do it together. You cannot not be so careless with your life, Issa jorrāelagon.” 

You do not wish to be labeled as rash or reckless, but the Greens must face retribution. For all the agony they’ve caused. You wish only to help your family win back the heritage that was stolen from them. One day, sit by Jace’s side as he rules with all the kindness and strength you know him to possess.

But he was right. 

You look down at his hand, holding yours to his heart. It beat as fiercely as dragon wings in the sky. Each pulse hammered in each nail of faith you had in him. “Together?” You coaxed meeting his eyes again and seeing determination mingling with his sheer devotion. 

“You and I will take back my mother’s throne.” He pledged, pressing a reverent kiss to your brow. “And one day I will take you as my queen, and we will rule together just as we are meant to.”

This was shorter than I wanted it to be, but I'm just glad I was finally able to finish it!

Issa jorrāelagon; My love