#jon bailey

I was saying on my Twitch stream this week that I wondered what Yarnaby sounded like if they were voiced by Jeff the Shark from Marvel Rivals.

So I threw this together. Enjoy. 💜

Poppy Playtime Store ▶ https://bit.ly/3u4dAL1 Yarnaby Plush Pre-Order ▶ https://bit.ly/40B9irD Tibbers Website ▶ http://Tibbers.co

Not only that, but there is a high possibility that Jon Bailey is his VA. Jon Bailey has voiced Soundwave, as well as other transformers characters.

Hardwood Floors/ A.B.

He doesn’t know I’m alive.

To say I fell in love with Anthony Bridgerton would be a drastic understatement; the mere sight of him leaves me feeling like my chest is caving in, my limbs feel weak, and if he meets my eyes (which he never does) I feel slightly faint. It doesn’t matter that I care for him—I’m a scullery maid, and maids don’t marry rich men like Anthony Bridgerton. Not even if you feel like you might die if you have to live the rest of your measly life in such a low position without him.

“I hope you’re going to do something about that.” Madame Pomphrey says, jostling my side with an elbow, and I almost slip and bust my ass on the hardwood floors I’m currently mopping.

“About what?” I inquire, but my face heats up. She’s caught me staring again—Anthony works in his study for possibly three hours or more a day, and that study’s door is cracked open with a slight view of the man himself hard at work. He doesn’t look up once—he doesn’t need to. If he knows I’ve mopped the same section of hallway twice now, he’s doing a hell of a good job pretending not to notice. Right now he’s bent over his desk writing furiously, brow furrowed, chestnut hair tumbling onto his forehead. He looks busy—he looks devastatingly handsome.

“You know what I’m talking about.” Madame sniffs, her voice a meager whisper as she saunters by me, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Madame Pomphrey, the head of the household only under Lady Bridgerton herself, serves not only as housekeeper, tutor, and friend of Lady Bridgerton, but she also happens to be my adoptive mother. She also happens to be actutely aware of my feelings for Anthony, and seems to be under the impression that he’d somehow love me back. “You have to actually talk to him if you want his attentions.” My mother continues, combing bright ginger-blonde hair up into an easy up-do, which she secures with pins she procured out of nowhere.

“And how do you expect me to do that?” I hiss, leaning against my mop’s handle, and cast my eyes quickly towards the door. The hall is big, but not so big that he couldn’t hear what we’re saying if he listened in hard enough. “He won’t even look at me.”

“I wouldn’t look at you either if I was him, what with you running around like a lovesick puppy and hiding whenever he steps into the room.” Madame scoffs, and pauses to look at me, her vibrant green eyes scanning me with barely hidden amusement. “Talk to him for once. He’s not a rude man. Certainly loves conversation, that’s for sure. Especially from women.” The knowing smirk on her mouth sends my heartbeat into a frenzy, and I feel my face warm at the implication.

“I’m not going to...” I pause, searching for the appropriate words. “...’talk’ to him. Like that, I mean.”

“I’m not sure I get what you’re suggesting.” Madame feigns confusion, but even I can see the obvious laughter shes supressing. “Once you’re done with this hallway, move to a different one. I’m quite sure two times around is enough cleaning for one floor.”

My face reddens and I nod, watching with a sinking stomach as she strides away, off to organize a party or yell at the maids or whatever Madame likes to do in her free time. My sigh is slow and heavy—I’m suddenly tired, and all this talk of Anthony and I and other women is making me queasy. With a resigned sniff I tuck my bright hair behind my ears and set about my task, unsure of how much longer I can keep up the charade before he does notice I’ve mopped this hall twice.

“Haven’t you mopped this hall twice?” An amused male voice calls out, and my entire body goes tense as a wire, my blood chilling to ice inside my veins. I cant move. “Eliza, isn’t it? Are you alright?”

Eliza. I think, tossing my own name around my head like a mental game of tennis. I eye the end of the hallway with a new sense of longing for the kitchens—If I ran now, would he bother to chase me? I’d probably have to fake my own death and run away, but well, I’m sure the circus is still accepting applications or however they accept—

“Miss,” Anthony continues, much closer now, and I almost jump out of my skin when his hand lands on my shoulder. He retracts his arm quickly, raising both eyebrows. “did I startle you?” He asks, and there’s unmistakable amusement dancing in his bright, pine colored eyes. My heart does a stupid whomp, my mouth feels dry, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out.

“I was just—” I begin, and swallow audibly. My cheeks feel hot. Am I sweating? “I wanted to make sure the floor was really clean. I’m—how do you know my name?” I blurt, unable to save my dumb babbling when I voice aloud the question that leaps into the forefront of my thoughts.

“Of course I know your name.” His expression is confused, and he glances around the hallway like someone might come save him from the insane girl standing before him. “We—you’ve lived at the Bridgerton home for a while. You’re Madame Pomphrey’s daughter, yes? Eliza?”

“Yes I’m Eliza.” I say, and as if it couldn’t get weirder, I add, “and you’re Anthony.” My heart must be showing in my eyes, because instead of running away from me, he suddenly smiles. It’s so brilliant, so beautiful, I literally think I might make good on that fainting spell I was promised.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Eliza.” He says, tilting his head as he looks at me, and I swear his eyes roam up and down my figure from head to toe as if actually assessing my entirety. And as if the ghost of some lady of high society has possessed me in this moment, I actually have the damned audacity to move to hold my hand out like he’s going to kiss it. Immediately I drop my arm back to my side, face reddening anew.

“You too, Anthony. My lord.” Good god, have I been calling him by his first name this whole time?

“Good day, Miss Eliza.” He grins, and to my combined shock and horror, reaches out to take my hand. Holding eye-contact, those dark eyes filled with what can only be mirth, he brushes his lips over my bare knuckles ever so gently before allowing me to take my hand back.

I watch as he nods his head to me, casting me one more agonizing up-down, before turning on his heel and striding away. I stare at the back at my hand, imagining that I can still feel the touch of his lips.

Good god.