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dreamwritesimagines · 1 year

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Garden of Secrets [19] - Peach Blossoms

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Affection can be difficult to put into words.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of sex, mentions of violence, slow burn.

Word Count: 5100

Series Masterlist

You still hadn’t quite gotten used to your new home. Especially at night it was very hard to actually tell where you were but after a couple of minutes and occasional stumbles in the dark, you had finally reached the completely empty kitchen. Finding the ingredients that you wanted was another challenge you hadn’t considered, yet after snooping around and opening quite literally every cabinet, you managed to find them and get to work.

The middle of the night was not the ideal time to bake cookies but it was the better alternative to tossing and turning in the bed.

You added the flour into the huge bowl before mixing it with the eggs and sugar, humming a song to yourself. Teddy was going to be so happy tomorrow when you took these to him, you were sure of it and considering tomorrow -well, technically today- you would meet him and Josie, Bess and Andrew for a picnic, you wouldn’t have to wait so long.

“What are you doing?”

You jolted in your spot and looked over your shoulder to see Benedict staring at you as if he was questioning whether you were indeed there or not.

“Baking,” you said, holding up the bowl. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Yeah I—you know we have a staff, right?”

You tilted your head. “Yes?” you said. “I see them every day.”

“So you could’ve just asked them to do it instead of coming down here in the middle of the night?”

“No I don’t mind,” you said. “I’m making these for Teddy and he likes it better when I bake them, not anyone else.”

Benedict pulled his brows together, still staring at you.

“How do you know how to make anything?”

“Huh?”

“I mean—” he motioned at you. “This is a kitchen.”

“Yes?”

“How do you know how to make something in a kitchen?”

You blinked a couple of times before a laughter spilled from your lips. “Are you serious?”

“Daphne doesn’t even know how to start heat on stove.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” you muttered. “Dear God, that’s how you all grew up then? You just snapped your fingers and people made things for you, always?”

He looked like he had no idea how to answer that and you repressed a smile at the confusion etched in his handsome features, then put the butter into the mix and held out the bowl.

“Here, take this.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to stay here you may as well make yourself useful,” you said. “I’ll give you some of the cookies as a thank you.”

He eyed the bowl as if it could come alive and attack him anytime. “I don’t know how to do it.”

“You mix paints, don’t you?” you asked. “It’s just a larger, that is all.”

He carefully took the bowl from you and looked inside, then dipped his head a little to smell it, then lifted his head again to look at you.

“Wait, it smells good even before the oven?”

You stifled a laugh and nodded. “Mm hm.”

“And I just mix it?”

“Yeah, while I chop the chocolate,” you said as you grabbed the knife and put the block of chocolate on the cutting wood. He leaned back, trailing the spoon in the bowl and keeping his gaze on you as you started chopping chocolate.

“Nightmares again?” he asked softly and you clicked your tongue, your whole focus is on the chocolate as you shrugged your shoulders.

“It’s not important.”

“It is though,” he said, “I told you, you can always come to—”

“It’s nothing,” you cut him off. “I can handle it.”

“But you don’t have to,” Benedict said. “Not alone at least.”

Your hand froze for a moment as that burning reached your eyes but you quickly blinked back the tears, returning to what you were doing again. A silence fell upon the kitchen before he cleared his throat.

“So, did your mother teach you how to bake?”

You scoffed. “My mother didn’t teach me anything except—”

How to dodge a slap.

“Um, Josie taught me,” you said. “My mother wasn’t exactly…she didn’t like us to be around her in the kitchen.”

Or anywhere really.

“And we didn’t have any maids or a cook or anything,” you said and threw him a look over your shoulder. “Which by the way, if you are changing your mind because of my financial situation growing up, it’s kind of too late. We’re already married.”

He let out an incredulous chuckle. “Right, because that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Obviously,” you said with a grin and motioned at him to bring you the bowl. He did as you asked and you took it from him to place it on the counter, then put the chocolate pieces into it to start mixing it.

“So what was it like?” he asked, leaning back to the side counter and you raised your brows.

“Growing up poor you mean?”

He took a deep breath, as if trying to decide whether he was supposed to answer that or not.

“Growing up…knowing how to bake?” he tried and you scoffed a laughter.

“You can say it, it’s alright,” you said as you stopped mixing the dough before putting the bowl aside. You grabbed a small portion of the dough and started rolling it in your hands.

“The ones Josie used to make me were a bit different,” you said. “Smaller in portion and no chocolate, of course. Too expensive.”

“I’m sorry.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Don’t be,” you said and put the small portion of dough on the baking tray, then got some in your hand again to roll it. “Are you going to help me, or…?”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s not that hard, I assure you.”

He came closer to you and took a look at what you were doing, then reached into the bowl to take some of the dough into his hand as well.

“Very well then,” he said. “This is interesting.”

“You’ve never done this before huh?”

“Ever,” he said, shaking his head before putting the small piece of the tray. “How was it? Growing up like that?”

You thought for a moment, then heaved a sigh.

“You…you get used to not having things,” you said. “Especially if you’re born into it. But it doesn’t—just because you get used to it doesn’t mean it’s easy. Adaptability doesn’t lead to happiness, no matter what all those novels tell you. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.”

“Nor safe?” he asked and you raised your head from the tray to look at him, furrowing your brows in confusion. He shot you a hesitant smile.

“The knife was a clue.”

“Oh,” you said and let out a small laugh. “It’s just a precaution. One can never be too careful, Josie says.”

“She’s right I suppose,” he murmured and you took another piece, then rolled it in your hand and offered it to him.

“Here.”

“What?”

“Eat it.”

Benedict raised his brows. “Alright, I know you’re looking forward to be a widow as soon as possible—”

“Don’t say that!” you protested and he motioned at the cookie dough in your hand.

“But this is no way to poison me, at least show me the curtsy of being subtle.”

“I’m not trying to poison you.”

“You’re offering me raw cookie dough.”

“And it’s delicious.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You said it yourself it smelt good!”

“Soap smells good too but I don’t eat it,” he replied and you shook your head.

“You honestly have never tried raw cookie dough?”

“I’m not falling for this,” he shook his head. “I’m not even a great artist yet, I can’t die now.”

“Benedict.”

“Hm?” he asked, trying to repress a smile and you took a bite of the raw dough, the sweet taste coating your tongue before you swallowed it, then held out the rest to Benedict.

“I know you think this proves something but I watched you chomp down an actual asparagus. Raw.”

“That was a game,” you said. “I’m a highly competitive person—just try it.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh and took the dough from you to take a bite, but then his whole face lit up at the taste, making you laugh.

“See?”

“Are you serious?” he asked you and looked at the tray, “Can we maybe just not put them in the oven and eat them like this instead?”

“We are putting them in the oven,” you said, still smiling. “But hey, this is just yet another situation where I’m right. I hope you’re keeping a record.”

He gave you a grin. “Should I?”

“Obviously,” you said with a smile and grabbed the tray. “Open the oven for me, will you? Before you convince me to eat all these without baking them.”

The picnic next day was quite lovely. You had also met the Bridgertons there and soon enough everyone was scattered along the park. Colin had pulled Benedict aside somewhere else and Anthony kept stealing glances at Charlotte who was playing with Teddy, Gregory, Hyacinth and her own siblings, chasing them around much to their delightful laughter. Josie and Bess were walking around the park while Andrew sat beside you, and reached into the basket to grab a cookie.

“You are an angel.”

“Far from it.”

“A demon with good baking skills,” he corrected himself and you let out a laugh.

“Mm, sounds about right.”

He threw it in the air and caught it with his mouth.

“Jo says you haven’t been gardening lately,” he said while still chewing and you shifted your weight in your spot, then waved a hand in the air.

“I just didn’t get the time.”

He wiggled his brows. “Is your husband really that good in bed.”

“Andrew!”

“What?” he said, chuckling as you slapped his arm. “It’s just a question, don’t look so scandalized.”

“It has nothing to do with Benedict,” you lied through your teeth and he hummed.

“So what exactly are you doing then, to keep you so busy?”

“Things.”

“Please, that lovesick look on your face—”

“Lovesick look?” you exclaimed, “I do not have a lovesick look on my face.”

“You absolutely do, you should see yourself,” he said, making you pull back for a moment, still frowning.

If anything, this just meant you and Benedict were getting better at pretending in front of people, that was it. And it was good news of course, because the more people believed in it, the less they would question it.

“Don’t worry,” Andrew said, pulling you out of your thoughts. “He looks at you just as lovesick.”

You scoffed. “I think you spend too much time around Bess, and you know how she gets.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“Hold that thought,” you cut him off as soon as your eyes caught the sight of Felix and you raised a hand so that he could see you as well. He immediately smiled brightly and made his way to you.

“Aw he looks quite cute.”

“Does he now?” you suppressed a smirk and turned to Felix when he reached you.

“Mrs. Bridgerton.”

“Felix, I told you to call me Y/N,” you said. “Andrew, this is Felix, a very promising artist. Felix, this is Lord Andrew Walcott, my brother-in-law.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“You as well, Lord Walcott.”

“Get a cookie and sit with us,” you said, holding up the basket and Felix grabbed a cookie, then bit into it as he sat down.

“Wow,” he said. “My compliments to your cook.”

“I made them.”

He blinked a couple of times. “You?”

“Mm hm.”

“Not to worry, it’s not poisoned,” Andrew said and you elbowed him. “So you’re an artist?”

“Y/N is being kind,” Felix said with a shy smile and Andrew raised his brows.

“I’ve literally never seen that happen, so I doubt it.”

“I’m not being kind,” you said. “I think you can do it as long as you want to. That’s not being kind, that’s being realistic.”

Felix averted his eyes down as if he was embarrassed, then glanced up at you again through his thick lashes.

“Yet I cannot paint you?”

“Not me,” you said, shaking your head and Andrew looked between you two.

“What is that about?”

“I wanted to paint her, but she said no,” Felix said and motioned at you. “And I think you and Benedict would make a perfect Aphrodite and Adonis in a painting.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, no. Wait, did you ask Benedict that?”

“Mm hm.”

“And?”

“He said he’s not interested in posing but painting,” he said. “And he reminded me that you already said no.”

“You know people would kill each other over it if we were in Renaissance times?” Andrew asked you. “A promising artist offering to paint you as Aphrodite, that’s how you become immortal.”

Felix snapped his fingers. “I was thinking the same thing!”

“And I’m not interested in being immortal,” you said and saw Colin making his way to you while Benedict ran a hand through his hair, then followed him.

“What is happening?” you asked Colin when he reached you and Benedict sat down next to you.

“Hi Felix. Andrew.”

“Adonis.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Andrew grinned and Colin motioned at you.

“I need your help.”

“About?”

“What we talked of the other day, apparently,” Benedict said. “Colin, just go talk to her, alright?”

You looked through the crowd before your eyes fell on Miss Marina, then you turned to Colin who heaved a sigh.

“I would have if you two didn’t get in my head!” Colin said. “Now I’m wondering whether I should approach her with a—with an intellectual conversation starter.”

Felix tilted his head as Benedict leaned back.

“Isn’t that expecting too much from yourself?”

“Shut it Ben—Y/N, you must help me.”

“On romance?” your voice went high pitched for a moment. “Have you gone insane?”

“Not at all. I need your advice.”

“Why would you come to me,” you started, “me of all people for an advice on romance?”

“Well…”

“You two are in love?” Andrew said helpfully and Colin nodded.

“Exactly. I need a lady’s opinion on how to approach the issue at hand.”

“Why is this happening?” you asked to no one in particular. “Is it because I smile too much?”

Colin tilted his head. “Oh, you can smile?”

“Am I not smiling right now?” you deadpanned with a completely straight face and Benedict repressed a laugh.

“Go ask Daph to help you.”

“Daphne is busy with her suitor, and you know Eloise would never help.”

“Go ask Penelope then, you two are friends.”

“I don’t think—perhaps you should go speak to her beforehand,” Colin told you and you made a face.

“What on earth am I supposed to do Colin, just walk over there and yell ‘Ta daa!’ when you start walking to us?”

Andrew bit down a smile while Felix grabbed another cookie.

“Just approach her,” you said. “She obviously likes you enough to have multiple conversations with you.”

“That’s a terrible advice,” Colin made a face. “Give me another one,”

You threw your head back and ran a hand over your face.

“Alright, here’s what you should do,” you said. “Listen to me carefully.”

“Alright.”

“Just focus on what you feel for her, like really think about it,” you said. “Then take a deep breath, and go to the nearest church—”

“Church?” Benedict and Andrew asked at the same time and you nodded.

“Yes, go to a church, sneak downstairs; that’s where they keep the wine, drink as much of it as you can, then go home and sleep.”

Benedict held back a chuckle. “Why do I feel like you speak from experience?”

“Josie and I did that once,” you said and turned to Colin who heaved a sigh.

“Let’s not get distracted here.”

“Colin, approaching a lady who likes you should not be that hard.”

“But we don’t know if she likes me,” he insisted. “Benedict was certain you didn’t like him and look at you two, married now. Looks can be deceiving.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you swallowed thickly, then cleared your throat.

“Is she trying to get away from you while you make a conversation, or attempts to keep the conversation going?”

“Attempts to keep it going.”

“Congratulations, she likes you.”

Benedict pulled his brows together. “You kept trying to get away from me while I made conversation.”

“Yet we’re married now, life is full of miracles.”

“I’ve always known you would get married,” Andrew said and Benedict shot him a look of disbelief.

“Really?”

“Yeah! I just assumed she would become a widow incredibly fast but look at you Benedict, alive and kicking.”

“One can hope, the day is still young,” Colin pointed out and Benedict glared at him.

“Those are some big words coming from a man who cannot even talk to the lady he likes,” he retorted and held up his hand to show him his wedding ring. “I don’t seem to have that problem.”

You let out a laugh and high fived him. “No you don’t.”

“Why thank you darling.”

Colin shook his head as your heart skipped a beat at the term of endearment. “It feels like yesterday you were pacing in the drawing room throwing a fit over what Y/N would think after Whistledown wrote about you and Kitty Morris.”

You repressed the laughter bubbling in your throat and pressed a hand over your chest in an exaggerated manner. “Aw, that’s quite sweet. I hate her by the way.”

“Who’s that?” Felix asked and Benedict shrugged.

“No one important,” he said and turned to Colin, “And it makes perfect sense I was worried because as you can see, my wife hates her.”

“Yes I do.”

“And we’re going home together after this, yet another thing that’s different between you and me, brother.”

“We’re going to the bookshop first,” you added and Benedict nodded.

“We’re going to the bookshop first and then home together,” he corrected himself and Colin rolled his eyes.

“Are you finished?”

“Not even close, you started this,” he said. “And I’m merely sharing my wisdom with you.”

“Your wisdom?” Colin scoffed and Benedict shot him an arrogant grin.

“Marriage makes you wise, everyone knows that.”

You let out a noise of disbelief. “Debatable.”

“No he’s telling the truth,” Andrew said. “The moment you leave the chapel, a wisdom is bestowed upon you. Or in my and Jo’s case, the moment a blacksmith in Gretna Green pronounces you husband and wife.”

You frowned. “This is you being wise?”

“There you go,” Benedict motioned at Andrew and a sadness crossed Felix’s eyes for a moment.

“I heard some say marriage is the death of spirit.”

“Depends on who you marry,” Andrew said. “I married my best friend.”

You and Andrew exchanged glances and you bit down a smile, but of course the literal meaning of his words wasn’t noticed by anyone else.

“And Benedict here married the human equivalent of a razor blade,” Andrew motioned at you and you made a face.

“You two are not wise at all,” you pointed at him and Benedict, and turned to Colin. “Honestly, don’t listen to them. Just go over there, she has been stealing glances at you for a while now.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Colin asked, holding his breath and you nodded.

“Yeah. You’re wasting your time here listening to these two, just go and work your magic.”

“If you have any,” Benedict added and Colin narrowed his eyes at him.

“I like your wife better than I like you,” he said and took a deep breath, then fixed his waistcoat and walked away from you to Miss Marina. You could see the look Penelope stole at him and a sadness flashed over her face, making you raise your brows but before you could even ask anything, Charlotte made her way to you, still breathing hard and her hair a mess from running around.

“Hello everyone!”

“Hi Lottie.”

“We’re going to take the young ones to the play on the other side of the park,” she motioned in the opposite direction, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Do you want to come along?”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and Tony.”

Benedict shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth but you shook your head.

“No, you go ahead,” you said, making Benedict turn to you.

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” you said and motioned at your maid. “Paula, would you mind keeping an eye on Teddy?”

“Of course my lady.”

“We should be back in half an hour I think!” Charlotte chirped and walked away from you and Benedict tilted his head.

“What was that about?”

You looked between Charlotte who was smiling brightly at Anthony as she told him something in a very excited manner, waving her hands around, unaware of the soft look in his eyes and you turned your gaze to Benedict.

“I’m not in the mood to see a play,” you said and popped a cookie in your mouth, then grinned at Andrew. “So Andrew. Tell us about your adventures in Spain, will you?”

After the picnic you had dropped by the bookshop and then gone home with Benedict as planned, but you were so tired that you could barely keep your eyes open during dinner. The hot weather always had a way of making you feel more tired than you were supposed to, and soon after dinner you had excused yourself and gone straight to bed, thinking you would wake up because of the nightmares in the middle of the night anyway.

But for once, nightmares weren’t what woke you up.

It was the fire burning through your veins.

You opened your eyes with a gasp, still feeling Benedict’s lips on your neck and it took you a couple of seconds to realize that it was all a dream. The disappointment that crashed upon you was so sudden that you dug your nails into your palms, trying your hardest to focus.

Yet, you had a feeling it wouldn’t work.

Dreaming of consummating your marriage wasn’t supposed to send such a powerful rush of desire through you, especially considering what you had heard about it but you could still feel his kisses on your lips, his touch on your skin, between your—

No no no.

You were not going to think about that now that you were awake.

You pushed the covers off of you and took a deep breath before getting up from the bed. Your heart was still beating in your ears and you stole a look at the closed door connecting your room to Benedict’s, but then shook your head at yourself.

It wasn’t as if you could just go there and ask to consummate your marriage.

That would be just…inconsiderate of you.

Besides, what was it Benedict had told you? Sometimes the act itself would lead to people falling in love, and you were not going to risk that, no matter how much desire clouded your brain and made you feel lightheaded.

Benedict was attractive, and this was simply a dream that was apparently fueled by that fact.

You dug your palms into your eyes before you lowered your hands, then threw your shoulders back. You desperately needed to get some fresh air and perhaps a walk, so you approached the door and opened it to step outside to the hall, but as soon as you did, you caught the sight of Benedict opening the door to his own room.

“Y/N?”

Oh God damn it.

Seeing him like this, in his night shirt and pants -no doubt having just returned from his studio on the other side of the house- was absolutely not helpful to the situation. The dream flashed before your eyes, making your breath hitch in your throat but you cleared your throat, willing yourself to concentrate.

“Uh…hello.”

His blue eyes searched your face, a frown pulling his brows together.

“Nightmares?”

Quite the opposite.

“Yeah—no,” you said and paused for a moment. “Today was a bit tiring and I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Are you alright? You look breathless.”

“Do I?” your voice came out as a squeak and he stepped closer to you, then pressed a hand over your forehead, making your eyes close for a moment before you bit inside your cheek and looked up at him.

“And you feel hot, is it sun exhaustion again?”

Oh that was just the perfect excuse.

“Yeah!” you said and cleared your throat again. “I mean not exhaustion so to speak but I feel… yeah. It’s because of the heat today, uh huh.”

“Should we send for the doctor?”

Your eyes widened.

“No!” you exclaimed. “God no, I just need some fresh air. That is all.”

“Are you sure? Because the last time it happened—”

“Do you want to come to the garden with me?” you cut him off, the words leaving your lips before you had a chance to stop them and Benedict looked almost surprised.

“I mean if you want to,” you added quickly. “You know, since we ran into each other, what are the odds?”

“…We live in the same house.”

“It’s a big house,” you muttered, feeling your face heat up even more and motioned at the stairs. “I’m just going to go now, you can come with if you want.”

You walked past him in a haste, desperate to do something other than staying here like a babbling fool but you heard Benedict rush after you.

“Wait, I’m coming with.”

“Great, that’s completely your choice,” you flailed your arms and made your way downstairs as he quickly caught up with you and you both passed the foyer and walked out of the front door.

The chill weather was like a soothing remedy to the burning in your cheeks. You looked up at the glimmering stars in the dark sky, then approached one of the many flower beds and sat down on the ground. Benedict sat beside you and you leaned back on your palms, keeping your gaze on the stars, the noises of crickets echoing through the huge garden.

Perhaps you could—

If it were to be anything like the dream you’d just had, perhaps you could just try it. Yes you had heard it from many people consummation was not pleasant at all, but some people seemed to think otherwise.

Including your aunt.

You made a face and shook your head slightly, heaving a deep sigh.

“You can tell me, you know?” Benedict’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you turned to him.

“Hm?”

“Whatever it is bothering you, you can tell me.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” you said quickly and he raised his brows.

“Really? So you’re awake in the middle of the night because…?”

“Why are you awake in the middle of the night?” you asked back and he motioned at the house.

“I was painting.”

“How is that going?”

“Eh,” Benedict said. “There’s some flaw I can’t quite put my finger on just yet.”

“Is it you being critical or is there an actual flaw?”

“There’s an actual flaw I’m sure,” Benedict said and snapped his fingers. “Reminds me, you said you wanted to see downtown, right?”

You nodded.

“I just got an invitation for a party there towards the end of the week, a friend is throwing it. We could go if you’d like?”

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Do you want to?”

“Of course I do!”

“Alright then,” he said with a chuckle. “It should be fun.”

You took a deep breath, your heart still beating in your ears as your gaze drifted down to his lips, then you turned your head to look at the flower bed in front of you, absentmindedly reaching out to rip a slightly yellow leaf from the stem.

“So I was thinking,” you said, your stomach doing a flip and Benedict hummed.

“About what?”

“Perhaps we, um…” you stammered, turning to him again but as soon as you casted a glance on his handsome face, your heart leaped to your throat, nervousness filling your whole system. You could swear you were getting lightheaded from the sudden rush, how would one even bring marriage consummation up?

Not to mention—

You were sure you wouldn’t fall in love but it could cloud your judgement, Benedict had told you people actually fell in love after the act sometimes. Not only that, but there was also the issue of you obviously not knowing of the act itself as much as you thought before, judging by what you had seen back at that party.

And it was very obvious Benedict had a lot of experience with it, unlike you.

“I was thinking that,” you started but changed your mind in the middle of the sentence. “It would upset me if you died.”

Benedict gawked at you, blinking a couple of times. “I’m sorry?”

Jesus Christ, you were absolutely a babbling fool tonight after that dream.

“Because, you know,” you motioned with your hands, your mind working nonstop to find the right words. “Andrew said something today and it made me think, and being a widow was my original plan as you remember.”

“Mm hm, I remember it very well.”

“But things change and I know you were joking back at the kitchen but I felt like you should know,” you said, stumbling over your words. “Hypothetically speaking, and also objectively speaking of course, if you died it would—” you swallowed thickly. “It would upset me terribly.”

Well, that was the underestimation of the goddamn century.

Even the thought of Benedict not being with you was enough to squeeze at your heart and you bit at your tongue, desperate to get rid of the thoughts of it before motioning at him.

“So yes, make sure not to do that.”

Benedict tilted his head. “Make sure not to die?”

“Was my request not clear?” you asked back, impatience laced in your tone and Benedict bit down a smile.

“It was,” he said, trying to adapt a serious expression. “It absolutely was. I’ll um…I’ll try my best?”

“Much appreciated,” you said, your heart still pacing in your chest, that restlessness making you fidget before you took a deep breath.

“Now that we cleared that out, I’ll try to get some sleep,” you said and jumped on your feet in an attempt to stop your own nonsense. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Y/N, what—?” he started but you had already started walking away from him and you took a deep breath when you reached the front door again.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered at yourself and stepped inside, then made your way upstairs to your room, your cheeks still burning.

Chapter 20

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

804 notes · View notes

aizawasnumberonefan · 10 months

Text

here have this garbage brain rot i wrote because i’m lonely

not proofread, not really thought through, just bakugo cuddle hours

“HEY!”

“What.” you reply, clearly annoyed. You sit up in bed and yawn, squinting at your phone to see who called you. “Denks, you know it’s like four in the morning and I have a midterm tomorrow right? What could possibly be so important that you’re risking my A in economics?”

Kaminari giggles over the line and you can practically see his flushed face, swaying and drunk at whatever party he’s at. “Well fuck you too.” He giggles and ends the call.

For a brief moment, you consider laying back down and going back to sleep before groaning and calling him back.

“Yeeeees?” Denki replies and you can hear the amused grin on his face as well as the booming music in the background.

“What, what do you need? A ride? Some food? Spit it out.” Normally you wouldn’t cop an attitude with him but considering the circumstances, you feel perfectly justified to as you slide out of bed to put on shoes.

“Kacchan got too drunk and Ei wanted me to call you cuz he said I’m a-“ you hear grappling before Kirishima’s voice speaks. “Sorry, he got away from me for a second. I was about to call you: Bakubro is drunk and needs a ride home. I would be able to give him one but I think Sparky is going to be a handful tonight.” He states, after which you hear an offended “heyyy!” from Denki in the back.

“Yeah of course, just send me the address and I’ll be there in five. But you owe me a coffee in the morning as a thank you before my midterm.”

You pull up in front of the house, hearing the music and the people from a block away. You spot Kirishima, Denki, and Bakugo standing on the lawn, the two latter using Kiri as support to stand. With Kirishima waving, Katsuki walks (stumbles) over to your car, leaning down to peer through the passenger side window.

“Hey princess.” He slurs with that signature smirk of his.

“Get in, dumbass.” You reach across the seat to push open the door and he stumbles before clumsily getting in.

The two of you had been in the same friend group for years, even before college, so you didn’t mind seeing him at his least inhibited and vice versa. The person you were a few years ago would be humiliated to be seen in pajamas with messy hair, literally fresh out of bed, but she had long since disappeared. The fact that you had a crush on Katsuki is old news. You’d told him your feelings and were rejected. It was rough for a while but you found your way back together as friends.

“Give me the aux.” Bakugo snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Absolutely not. Last time I let you pick music while you were drunk we listened to We Are The Champions by Queen on repeat for the rest of the night.”

“You suck.”

“You swallow.” You quip back with a smile.

Your friendship had become much closer than it had been before your confession, and part of you is grateful for that, but some deeply repressed part of your mind still dreams about life with him. All broad shoulders, tan skin, freckles along his pretty face and shoulders. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was mistakenly sent to Earth instead of heaven. Fortunately, you know all the nuances that make him, him. How he gets smiley and cocky most while drunk, how he still gets the steps to the macarena mixed up, how he refuses to admit that he likes his hair messed with but gets goosebumps every time you play with it, and how he sprawls out while spending time with those he cares about so that he can be touching his friends as much as possible. His tall, muscular frame and semi-permanent scowl implies that he is a different person than who he is while with you and the group.

“Are we going home?” He asks, words slurring together.

“We aren’t going to the North Pole.”

“Can I stay at yours tonight? You always take good care of meee.” He says, playing with the air conditioning.

“You can if you don’t play with the AC.” You reply, smiling as you grab his hand to put it back in his lap.

After a battle to drag Katsuki up the stairs, he’s finally face down on your sofa. You grab your hangover kit for him for when he wakes up, but as you go to set it down on the coffee table, he grips your wrist.

“Wanna stay with you tonight. Pleeeeeeeease?” He asks, vermillion eyes peering up at you from under the mop of blond hair.

“With me?”

He rolls over onto his back, his cheeks still flushed and appearance still a little rumpled after the party. “Your bed is cozier.”

“Only if you promise not to puke.”

A drunken “mhm” is murmured as he gets up, swaying slightly as he makes his way to your bedroom.

You make sure he’s cleaned up and has taken the appropriate medicine to ease his pain in the morning before letting him climb into the other side of your bed.

“Comfy?” You ask from the bathroom, brushing your teeth in the mirror.

“Mmmmmm.” Katsuki utters, his face buried in your pillow. He moves his head to the side to see you as you make your way to the bed. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” You reply, sliding into bed, instinctually scooting into his arms as you had during shared naps so many times before.

“You’re pretty.” He mumbles into your hair.

You let out an abrupt laugh, caught off guard. “You’re drunk.” You know that you weren’t dolled up, that you’d rolled out of bed, literally, before seeing him.

“Nuh uh,” Katsuki insists, leaning up over you on one arm. “You’re pretty.”

“Kats, you’re drunk. Lay back down and let’s sleep off that hangover of yours, okay?”

Pouting, he lets himself back down and pulls you tight to him. He gets a flush to his cheeks when drunk, but thankfully that means that you can’t tell when he’s blushing from being around you as well.

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m1d-45 · 1 year

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Okay last little idea and I'll leave you be for a bit

Xiao actually responding to the names the creator gives him. Little Friend, Pretty Bird, ect. No matter how far away you are, if you call those names, he has to stop himself from turning into a bird and flying away at that very moment. Those pet names are as much his name as any other he's kept.

-sibling anon

me when xiao

in his time with you in his adeptal form, xiao has never told you his name.

and yet, he still hears you.

if he’s in the area and the wind brings him the softest call of “you here, little friend?” he morphs in an instant, instinct taking over as he flies to your summons. he ducks through the trees, landing gracefully in your outstretched hand, meeting your wide smile with a chirp.

“there you are,” you mumble, and he ruffles his wings in an approximation of standing straighter. he is here. for you.

he’s commonly perched on your index finger, or your thumb if he’s eating from your palm. you only feed him simple almonds, yet it tastes of a delightful meal, energy coursing through his body. he’s careful not to nick your skin in his eagerness, but nobody could blame his enthusiasm if they knew what he felt.

by sitting in your hand, he is rested. by staying at your side, he is healed. he still upkeeps his duties, ever vigilant, but he’s quicker now, spurred on by something—someone—to return to. his place is at your side, and he hates keeping you waiting.

even when he has to.

xiao crossed his arms over his chest, staring off at liyue’s plains while he waited for the traveller to finish talking with… whoever. he honestly wasn’t paying attention. all he was there for was the lost adeptal artifact that the commissioner had promised he had, and then he would be on his way.

the man said something with a tilt to his tone. the traveller laughed. xiao grit his teeth.

“friend? little buddy? where are you?”

the call pulled at his soul as every other name he held, and he itched to answer.

paimon made a comment, an ooh! tossed somewhere in the middle, and xiao snapped.

“can we wrap it up? this is not a proper use of an adeptus’ time.”

the man swiftly apologized, handing over the totem, and xiao all but snatched it from his hand. a ‘farewell’ may or may not have slipped from him in time for the traveller to hear, he wasn’t sure. all he knew was that one moment he was dropping the totem off at his room at the inn, and the next he was leaping off the balcony, shifting mid-air to fly towards you.

he let out a loud cry when he spotted you, tucking in his wings to dive. you saw him and held out your hand, a motion so familiar that the actions to land were muscle memory.

he flared his wings, slowing his fall, flapping once, twice, before settling on your index finger. your thumb reached up, as it always did, and he leaned into it, repressing a coo at the feeling of it smoothing over his back.

“there you are, my pretty bird. where were you?”

a shiver rolls down his small body at your words, and he hides behind your thumb. you had many names for him—little friend, blue bird, simply blue—but pretty bird?

your pretty bird?

he’s hot in a way he can’t identify, a melting mix of emotions filling his chest. pride, admiration, adoration, even, all blurring into a messy film that covered his mind.

you turned towards your camp, keeping the hand with him perched close to you. “doesn’t matter. you’re here now, pretty bird. i missed you, you know.”

and you missed him?

xiao’s known for a while that the one on the throne wasn’t truly his god, but now he’s wondering if you were. the swell of confusing feelings was proof enough; were you anybody else, mortal or immortal, god or adepti, he’d have surely struck you down for your behavior long ago. cooing over him as if he were a mere household pet, feeding him scraps of crushed fruit, calling him such names as ‘pretty bird’- he’d have morphed back the second he was strong enough, held his blade to your throat and called you insolent and ungrateful. he’d leave you with a scar, and yet here he was, apologizing for the one he did leave in any way he could.

you carefully poured some almonds pieces in your palm, and he shifted to your thumb as you sat. were you anybody else, you would be dead. but your eyes are still open, carefully watching him, and your heart still beats blood. he can feel your pulse through his claws, sometimes, and often finds his own slowing down to match it.

you had an adeptus eating from the palm of your hand, and yet you were none the wiser. you simply propped your head in your free hand, a gentle smile on your face.

“my pretty bird,” you said quietly, and xiao’s eyes closed of their own volition.

yours.

#m1d : [chats]#m1d : [secrets]#sibling anon #bird!xiao shenanigans #< sorry for high jacking your post for this king #to stew anon: i saw your ask regarding bird xiao but the topic makes me uncomfortable. while i agree with your last point everything prior #is off the table. not your fault btw i never gave anything to suggest otherwise #anyway here’s another 800 words abt bird xiao in hopefully ‘good enough’ compensation #hey FUCK tumblr for continuing to delete the last paragraph of my fics #wholeheartedly #GOD fuck this fuck everything lesson learned NEVER DO JACK SHIT IN THE DRAFTS #tumblr is hell and i’m not good enough at navigating to get our #i’m fuckin sobbing- on my hands and knees disoriented and confused

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romanarose · 1 month

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If You Wanna be Wild: Chapter 7

Co-written with @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction my beloved Fen, who I could not do this without. Thank you for being my emotional sounding board, my dear friend, my wonderful cowriter and helpful beta reader. I adore you.

Javier Peña x Latina!sex worker!informant!Reader x Santiago Garcia

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Summary: Everything falls apart and evryone is alone.

Content and warnings for whole fic, not chapter by chapter unless something is added: Sex work, drug trade, some drug use/pressured used, sex workers and the mistreatment/stigma surrounding them specifically in the 70’s (my blog is sex worker positive) but ima put potential dub con depending how you look at it as a sex worker who works with dangerous men, some action surrounding reader and the guys and the drug trade, SMUT HEAVY, corruption kink (were corrupting santi here, he’s young, 25), no loss of virginity tho, threesomes, some slight m/m smut but that’s not the focus here, but as you know this blog is an lgbt blog so I’m always open to gay shit. Talk of war and some PTSD but I won't be going a whole lot into it. Covert/emotional incest in the past, Santi's mommy issues, m/m dynamics, internalized bi/homophobia

Reader speaks Spanish and has hair. I've decided Candy is just latina bc she's a sex worker in Colombia so this is what I'm doing. Reader also has curly hair and dark skin.

ADDITIONAL WARNINGS!:mentions of rape an violence, what happened to Helena, smut, repressed feelings, angst.

Almost everything was written by Fen <3

2.7k words

Support writers! Reblog and comment!

**************

There was no making up. There was no Javi bringing Santi food as an apology, there was no talking.

When Santi walked into the office on Monday, he saw the fucking desks rearranged, Javier’s and Santi’s on other sides of the room instead of pushed face to face. Santi quickly rushed to the bathroom where he panic vomited and had an anxiety attack, resulting in him being 45 minutes late. Javi didn’t say anything about it.

Where Santi couldn’t eat, Javi couldn’t stop eating, munching down food and taking frequent trips to the vending machine. His doctor was going to kill him. Santi could barely function, even coming in late or leaving early which was a cardinal sin in his book. Still, none of it stopped him from seeing Candy. Occasionally Candy asked about him because all month Javi hadn’t been to see her either. Santi couldn’t get much answer either.

They worked, but mostly separately. Javi had even been trying to find somewhere else to work, but there weren’t exactly free rooms in the precinct. They talked occasionally but only about Lorea… making Santi desperately lonely. He had his family and he loved his tias, but they weren’t Javi. It was the day of the rally for the beatification of Laura Montoya, which forced them to be in close proximity as they dressed in plain clothes and scouted the area for any sign of the Lorea family. Not wanting to look too much like officers on alert, Santi tried making conversation, none of which was working with Javi, only getting few word answers.

The boy was going to drive him absolutely batshit insane if he didn’t stop talking. It was bad enough he kept asking. ‘Should we get food’ or ‘it’s nice out today’, but his voice mixed with the crowds and noise and music and chatter or the rally, people shouting about whoever it was they were here for, politicians trying to stop them and constantly flashbacks of that night of the ball… Then Santi had to go and say

“She misses you.”

“You mentioned her name one more fucking time and I’ll-”

“You’ll fucking what?” Santi snapped, his nerves had twisted, hardened suddenly by rage.

His anger took Javi by surprise, he’d never heard him speak like that to anyone let alone him.

Santi took his pause as indignation. “I mentioned Candy once. Once. And that’s only because you haven’t seen her, or called her or anything!” He hissed. “She’s worried about you actually, she-”

It was Javi’s turn to snap.

He grabbed the younger man by the back of his collar and pulled him into a side alley, using his own momentum against him and slamming him up against the brick wall.

Sant let out a little huff of air as his back collided, gritting his jaw as pain raced along his back.

The action had been forceful, but not enough to cause discomfort for most people. However, a rough, uneven lump of mortar had poked oddly against the scar at the nape of his neck, sending a tingle down his back.

Javi rammed the heel of his hand into the wall next to Santi’s head, using his height to his full advantage as he leaned over him like he was interrogating a suspect instead of a colleague. A friend.

Santi breathed hard, his frown pinching his eyebrows together, and Javi would say he even looked cute if he wasn’t so bloody annoying, so obsessed with getting under his skin. Unable to let anything go, constantly digging at him in his self-righteous attitude, just needing to push, and push, and push, and…

Cute. The thought caught him off guard. When had he started to think of Santiago as cute?

“What the fuck are you doing Peña?” He growled, puffing his chest out, but not pushing back.

Javi shook his head slightly, trying to break his racing mind, trying to get back to reality. “Candy, look, you can’t just-”

“She’s an adult Javi, I can-”

“You’re going to get her killed!” His voice raised at the end, louder and more desperate than he had intended, with just the slightest waver. He hoped Santi didn’t hear it, but he probably did. Nothing got past him. “Do you understand?” Santi glared at him, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Those stupid large doe eyes looking painfully dark and enticing. “You’re flaunting her. Taking her to the ball and, and-”

Santi scoffed. “That’s none of your business, I asked her, I-”

“You’re gonna get her gutted and dumped on the side of the road!” Javier screamed, haunting flashbacks to Helena’s beaten and raped body, wrapping his coat around her and having to carry her out, not sure if she was dying or not. “You know how easy it would be for Lorea to do something? This isn’t even a put two and two together situation, Pope, it’s you waving a four right in his fucking face! And what do you think is gonna happen when he takes her, huh? When he beats her and rapes her an tortures her to get information on YOU!”

Santi swallows, his face still hard, but that little bob of his Adam’s apple draws Javier’s eye, but he doesn't respond. Javier lowers his voice, fist still gripping Santi’s jacket.

“She’s not gonna give you up, she’s not gonna help them hurt you. She’s gonna end up dead. You’re gonna…” He closed his eyes for a moment, took a small breath. It was easier not to look at him, not to have to stare at his soft eyes and plump lips. “You’re gonna end up dead too, Pope. I can’t… I’ve seen it, okay?”

Javier screwed up his face, opening his eyes so that he could look at Santi man to man. Implore him to see reason.

“I’m not telling you to stop seeing her, I’m just saying.... I’ve seen shit happen to girls in her line of work. To officers like you that are still wet behind the ears to this kind of thing-” The second it was out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.

“I’m not a fucking child, Peña.” Santi hissed, pressing forward and getting up in Javier’s face. “I know that’s what everyone at the station seems to think and all their little Virgin Maria mierda. I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck if all they see is that.” He pushes firmly on Javier’s chest, almost smacking as he punctuates his sentence. “But I thought you’d know better! I was black ops special agent, I spend years of my life in almost every goddamn continent doing retcon, assassinations, covert operations and rescuing women and children and getting SHOT! I’m not-”

“I’m not saying you’re a child-”

“You are! You are!” Santiago growls, smacking Javi’s chest repeatedly. He doesn’t care that he does sound like a child in that moment, arguing relentlessly on semantics. His emotions are bubbling over and muddying his head. “You’re saying that you know best. That your word is law. Despite all you do to endanger Candy!”

“I do n-”

“You do! You think you’re above it all, you’re just as bad, you pretend to care but you-”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Garcia!”

“Make me!”

He doesn’t think.

There’s always times he doesn’t think. When he gets too lost in whatever emotion he’s letting overwhelm him. Sometimes rage. Sometimes guilt. Usually negative either way. That’s where Santi is a good partner, keeping a cool and level head while Javi plays bad cop.

Usually ends up with him throwing a punch, not a kiss.

Santi knew ‘make me’ was childish. Knew it was playground nonsense reserved for kids still in single digits. But if everyone was going to keep calling him that, keep pretending that he wasn’t the only actual goddamned adult in the room then-

Then…

Javier’s lips on his steal his breath away, rob him of every thought that has ever run through his mind. And, for once, it’s blissfully quiet. The anxieties pushed away for the peace of a lover's kiss.

Javi presses closer, pushing Santiago further into the wall and cupping his face with his warm hand as he kisses him, body to body, warmth to warmth. Darting out his tongue to just trace Santi’s bottom lip and groans when he parts them immediately, no hesitation, and lets him lick into his mouth.

The angle’s a little awkward, Javier’s body trapping Santi’s hand between their chests. But Santiago’s fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as his kisses leave him breathless and desperate for more.

Javier’s leg bumps into his and Santi moves a step, moaning softly and then whining as his thigh presses against his half hard cock, a sharp spike of pleasure running up his spine and-

His thoughts all come crashing down. What the fuck, what the fuck was he doing? His mother’s voice rang in his head, screaming his name.

He could get arrested for this, thrown in jail, worse. He was going to burn in hell.

Santi pulled back quickly, disentangling himself from Javier so quickly that both men nearly fell. He turned, not giving the older man a second look, and ran out of the alley into the crowded street.

He didn’t even hear Javier call his name.

“Are you okay, baby?” You asked, your naked body covering Santiago while giving him tender kisses, scooting yourself up and down his cock. You loved to tease him, get him whimpering and watch as all those troublesome thoughts left his pretty little head. He was too pretty to be so worried all the time.

He’d been stressed on and off about Javi, occasionally bringing it up, but you think he stopped when he realized it upset you. You were really good at pretending to care when old professors droned on and on about academic works or when men talked about themselves or complained about their wives and mothers again and again and again. You could’ve faked not being upset when Santi, but you didn’t fake anything with him. Javi’s absence hurt your feelings. You were worried about him, and you were angry at him for abandoning you and hurting Santi. For continuing to hurt his feelings. Bitch.

But honestly… you just miss him. A lot. It would take more than a poster to patch this, he’d have to make things right with Santi too, but you’d forgive him. You just wanted him back, and you wanted Santi happy again. He was already thin enough, and as your body slid up and down the sweaty length of him, you could feel he’d lost weight.

Santi moaned loudly, gripping onto your hips as you bounced on his length, his eyes rolling back in his head as your heat engulfs him over and over. Pulling him deeper and deeper.

The fat tip of his cock presses deliriously, perfectly rubbing over your walls with every slick slide. Stretching you so wonderfully like he was made for you. He was, he really, really was. Something was bothering him today, and he was finding solace in you. You were happy to give it to him. Pushing all other thoughts out of your head.

He whines, babbling nonsensically with his eyes closed, “please, please, please,” He rocks up against you, letting his body override his brain as you fuck him into the mattress. “Please, gonna come, please, need you so much,” he gasps, almost sobbing from pleasure.

You stroke his cheek and pick up your pace, even if he hasn’t said you could tell how close he was. The way his stomach muscles tense, how his eyes are screwed shut and head thrown back into the pillow, “it’s okay, it’s okay, you can come, give it all to me.”

He shakes his head rapidly, “no, please,” he moans, “need you, need mommy to come, please.”

His whines change in pitch, the little sounds getting higher and higher as he reaches the point of no return. His mouth hangs open, his skin flushed and sweaty, and heat floods to your core.

You brace yourself with your left hand on his leg behind you as you ride him, leaning back ever so slightly to change the angle just enough that he continuously hits perfectly inside, stretching you to your limit.

Santi sobs, the position change sending a buzz up his spine, pressing on the thick length of his cock to a surprisingly maddening degree. His whole body pulsed, stealing the air from his lungs.

He bucks up once, his eyes fluttering open in surprise as he comes, his length pulsating. He empties himself deep inside you, his orgasm stretching onwards and overtaking every possible thought.

You smile as you watch him, happy to see him so blissed out. You ride him throughout his high, trying to prolong his sensations as long as possible. He deserved it.

He sighs, shivering with aftershocks as he comes back to himself and looks up at you. You open your mouth to speak, the words on the tip of your tongue.

Santi grabs you by the hips, urging you up and off him and pulling your aching pussy onto his face. He lets out a small groan at the mess he made, his cum leaking out of your folds before he runs the tip of his tongue through them.

You bite back a moan, grabbing onto his hair for stability as his mustache brushes against your clit.

His mouth feels like heaven as he lick and swirls around your clit, his movements soft but certain, quickly pushing you towards your peak.

Instinctively you buck your hips, grinding down on his mouth to chase your high. He rocks you against him, urging you tp move and fuck his eager tongue.

“Santi…” you whine as you come hard against him, pulling fiercely on his hair.

He continues licking, moaning against you as he drinks down every drop of your release.

You breathe heavily, boneless for a moment before slowly moving away to lay down next to him.

He pouts a little as you settle. “I wasn’t finished.” He smiles cheekily, your cum shining all over the bottom half of his face,

You giggle, and gently swat his arm and cuddle up next to him. Santi didn’t need instruction, scooting his back to your chest. In your arms, where he belonged. You loved being like this with him, but somehow it always felt like something was missing. You loved when Javi used to hold you, protecting you with a strong arm around your body, but again, you felt like something was missing, in your arms this time instead of around you.

You kiss the scar on his spine. “Good boy, Santito.”

It happened so fast. Santi teanses and you barely have a second to register how he turns to you, his eyes widen in panic, his skin turning ashen before he’s up, out of bed and pulling on his clothes so fast that it shouldn’t have been possible. What the fuck? Did you do something wrong?

“Santi?” you start, trying to keep your voice soft but unable to hide the fear that has overcome your words.Why is he leaving? What did you do wrong? Did you mess up things with Santi too, the one good thing left? You barely sit up before he’s shoving a handful of dollars at you, practically just throwing them in your direction and the bed.

“Here.” His voice is quiet, distant. Like he’s not really there. A stark comparison to his panicked, edgy movements. He doesn’t even bother tying his shoes, simply shoving his feet inside them and stumbling towards the door.

“Wait, Sant-”

He slams the door on his way out.

Leaving your bed cold, and you alone.

It was supposed to be sex, talking. Build a nice repour. That was it. You were good at it too, making old ugly men think you were infatuated, but yourself detached from even the most charming and attractive. Something happened with Javi and Santi, a line that became blurred, friendship and genuine attraction and care. Now they were gone.

You hate yourself for how hard you cry.

***************

thank you so much to everyone whose stuck around while i sort my SHIT OUT (its never ending)

If you like me writing javi, i wrote a drable today too, and if you wanna see a totally insane version of santi, come to rooms on fire!

be sure to give @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction a follow, he's amazing and my everything. they are pumping out AMAZING works rn for the moon knight bingo.

I appriciate you all very very much, please let know your thoughts in the comment!!!

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whumpbby · 4 months

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Tbh i really hate when ppl act as if Jiang Cheng was "rotten from the start" and never actually cared about Wei Wuxian as a brother. Like, in the latter's case we can see he cares very much but that care is very much mixed in with many negative feelings, it's like when you love someone but they hurt you but you still love them, you want things to go back to the way they were before but they can't and they won't. On the former it's pretty much canon that he was an ok if high strung young man and losing everyone he ever loved in very close proximity to each other is what made him be the way he is today, he's not evil (he'd be hotter if he was) he's just angry and bitter for very valid reasons

I think it takes an extreme case of Protagonist Bias to think that. And not even following the actual protagonist's thought process - just being biased on their account in some sort of a projection. Kids these days got to used to having their bad guys colour-coded.

People are so desperate to cast a villain to the Happy Couple they will grasp at any straw to justify their opinion. They will ignore every piece of text that explains in detail why things are happening and why he's acting the way he is - even to the point of ignoring the protagonist explaining what happened and how. They will literally ignore the protagonist they're wanting to stan just so that they can have their villain. Wei Wuxian needs to be massively nerfed and woobifed for the whole shitshow to start making sense. Literally, a man with no agency! Poor helpless victim! The poorest little baby, no one suffered as he did!:(

Meanwile, Jiang Cheng's biggest sin in the novel?

He's not nice.

That's it. He tried to protect Wei Wuxian from his mother. He did all he could to bring Wei Wuxian home after the war against his best interests. He walked away from Lan Zhan being a dick when he could have easily caused him problems. He only ever fought Wei Wuxian when it was either staged or he was attacked first (in the much brought up ancestral shrine scene that people don't seem to have actually read).

But he's not nice about it. He's not even stoicly stiff like the ever-amazing Lan Wangji (who only ever cared about one thing in his life, and it's the man he wanted to fuck roughly in the bushes-_-).

It was barely a decade from having his whole extended family horrifically murdered, so obviously he should be fine by this point. (We can ignore the main plot of the decade-in the making-revenge-plot, that's not important, that's not a theme at all!) At least he should learn to repress his trauma! Because that ended great for the protagonist, right?:)

You need an intense case of lack of comprehension to miss the fact that, until the very moment of the Core Reveal, every bit of information Jiang Cheng had available to him pointed directly to Wei Wuxian being at fault for the tragedy his life became. The only doubt cast upon that conclusion was the spark of love that he could not kill. JC trusted Wei Wuxian for as long as he could. He trusted him - against a myriad of signs that he maybe shouldn't have - until the man killed his brother in law.

That's where any sane person would stop and reconsider.

And yet he was still willing to be convinced otherwise - until his sister died in his arms.

Like, this is what it took for JC to snap.

If someone says that Jiang Cheng was "rotten from the start" that only tells me they have skipped the whole fourth of the book that tells us in detail why Jiang Cheng wasn't a bad kid and how much he loved his family and Wei Wuxian. It tells me that they are here only for the romance and can't see anything else, certainly not character development (why would they? Wanxian don't develop throughout the story in any impactful way except of "oh, hey, we can be together and not care about anyone else - just like we did it before, but now with fucking included!"). It's like people who don't read books cannot comprehend the fact the author thought about this shit and put it there on purpose. It's not something that just happened to fill the pages between the Romance bits for the word count. That's, like, the actual meat of the story? These people have the critical thought capacity of a fucking tiktoker-_-

The author is telling us: look at these kids that were raised in a broken family and how it affects them as teens and young adults. How it affected their relationships with the people they love and demolished their self-worth. Look how a broken family can leave it's children scarred for life!

The idiots online: one is an innocent angel that never did anything wrong and the other an evil, selfish and hateful brat, got'cha! I am very smart!

-__-

#i said what i said #mdzs #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #getting tired of people who can't comprehend plot more complicated than a 4-panel cartoon going 'you didn't read the novel!'#as if that means their shitty takes have any relationship with reality #there we go

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months

Text

Wasted 6

Warnings: drug dealing/use, violence, noncon, and the usual. Proceed with caution.

Feedback is always welcome. Love you and thanks for the wonderful responses so far.♥♥♥♥

The other girl in this one is from Black Light

Part of The Club AU

The lights flash in tandem with the poppy beats. Bodies writhe, voices bubble, and alcohol flows. You’re bumped by a dancer nearby but ignore them as you let the drink in your hand spill over the rim. It’s the first time you’ve been wholly uninterested in a cocktail. It’s your bait, and if need be, your cover.

Your eyes search, finding little out of the ordinary. It won’t be easy to spot him, you’re sure. There’s couples all around, drinks carelessly left on tables or swishing in hand. There’s no shortage of sexual tension or drunkenness here.

The bartender signals and draws your attention. There’s a small girl flitting around behind the bar with him; not his usual accomplice. You couldn’t help but pity the bandage around his finger that had him slow in mixing. You have your own troubles.

You slip your phone out and text your new partner-in-crime. You’re not entirely sure she’ll do much but she’s oddly loyal and rather endearing. She has the kind of I don’t give a shitness that you admire. Not your own repressed stoicism but a genuine lack of caution.

You stare at the phone for a minute, waiting for the small icon to show if she’s read the message. It doesn’t change and you sigh as you lower the screen. It might take her a moment.

You wave through the crowd, hands wander, grope, and you dodge a few stumbling men here and there. You turn back, not sure what you’re looking for. Your plan is starting to seem less tenable as your anger succumbs to practicality.

You look at your phone again. Still no answer.

Well there is a last ditch idea. A trap you can only hope works. You put your cup on a table nearby. You give a bit of a sway trying to act tipsy before you drag your hand away. You pretend to dance and forget about it, hoping to retreat to some corner where you can watch for predators.

As you shimmy your hips and peek over your shoulder, you bump into a stealthy figure moving in the opposite direction. You bounce off of them and catch your balance, keeping your cool as you face the bullish man. Long dark hair beneath a ballcap, a black bomber jacket, and a gleam in his eye that turns your blood to ice.

‘It's alright, baby, you'll feel it soon.’

An echo slithers in your brain, itching in your ears as you wince. You stare at the man, brows drawing together. You smell vodka and feel a cold splash of deja vu. You know him. You blink as the memory of the bar flickers in your mind.

“Hey,” you point at him, “you owe me a drink.”

Your own words slap you with another strike of familiarity. He tilts his head and chuckles, waiving away your pointing finger. You retract your hand, lightning zipping from his touch. Your heart hammers.

“Fucker!” You bark and lunge for him, “it was you–”

He catches your wrists before you can latch onto his jacket. He squeezes until your bones ache and he pulls you off kilter. You try to stomp his feet as fire scours your insides. A dull pulsing awakens in your core.

“Come back for more,” he taunts as he backs you up, “what’s say we go somewhere classier than the dumpster?”

“Get off of me,” you sneer, twisting your arms helplessly.

You hit another couple and a girl squeals as her partner growls in your direction. The stranger, your accoster, snaps at him to back off. His order is potent.

“Fuck off me!” You try to yank free. “Fuck OFF!”

“You keep fighting and I’ll have to bash you harder,” he warns as he angles you through the crowd, keeping you on your heels as you try not to topple, “I’m gonna take me time tonight.”

He flings you forward and you stagger backwards, arms swinging for a stronghold as you barrel down the hallway. You hit the wall and slip to one knee. Your phone flies against the opposite wall and you look up at the man advancing on you.

“Scream,” he speaks above the music, “do whatever the fuck you want. They’re not gonna hear you.”

He grabs you by the throat before you can fend him off. He lifts you to your feet and you punch his shoulders as he turns you, your back colliding with a door that swings inward. He pushes you inside and spins with you, pinning you against the inside of the door.

The wall quakes with the sheer force of the booming music. Your voice is swallowed up as you holler and curse at the man and his grabbing hand. He won’t stop , swiping, scratching, and groping at you, pulling up the tattered hem of your denim skirt.

“You bastard!” You shriek and you scratch at his neck, kicking around his legs as he keeps his hand around your throat, “let me go–”

“You’re giving me mixed signals there, baby,” he leans in to snarl in your ear, “coming back to find me if you didn’t want some fun…” he pushes his hand against your jaw until it’s forced shut. “If it makes it easier, I got some molly you can pop.”

“Gooorffffffyyssslllllll,” the gibberish can barely rasp through your clench teeth as your ‘go fuck yourself’ is lost to the cacophony.

“Don’t say I didn’t offer you a good time,” he shoves his other hand against your panties, poking his middle finger between your folds, “be a good girl and you won’t wake up with the garbage.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #the club #wasted #drabble #series #mcu #marvel #winter soldier

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 16 days

Text

chapter 5: a lament for all things lost

Find the master list here!

CW: Shadowheart being a bitch, overwhelming bad feelings and emotional manipulation

W/C: 3,173

A/N: I am on a ROLL people!

After an unsuccessful hunt, Astarion had given in to the pleas of his distracted mind for rest, though he was hard pressed to find any. He laid awake the rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning with the blaze of his desire and weight of his guilt. After so many long years of numb, performative intimacy, he was unaware he still possessed the ability to feel arousal. It caught him completely off guard, feeding the roiling cacophony of his emotions.

The feeling had been pleasant, wanted even, when he disassociated it from his body’s natural reaction to the many forced liaisons of his past, but - therein lay the issue. Lust, pleasure, physical intimacy: it was all steeped in profound disgust and loathing learned over two centuries of abuse. He felt ashamed for watching you unknowingly, guilty for taking pleasure in it and, worst yet, revolted by his own body’s response. It had not truly been his body since Cazador turned him, and he found himself woefully unprepared to take accountability for his actions and their consequences.

Lost in the morass of his increasingly loud distress, he hardly noticed when the darkness gave way to dawn. It was not until he heard groggy voices and the telltale clanging of cookware being handled without care that he realized just how much time had passed. He groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face, hunger pains making themselves known at the mixed scents of his companions wafting along the gentle breeze.

Before long, he caught your sweet fragrance in the mix and focused in on it, ears pricked for the soft sound of your voice. You declared today to be a day of rest, claiming that everyone needed to gather their strength for the coming fight with the goblins.

He heard Shadowheart’s derisive snort.

“You just need a day to recover from volunteering yourself as the leech’s dinner.”

You did not deign to respond to her, but she must have seen something wounded in your expression, and it only fueled her line of teasing.

“Lover’s quarrel? Already?” He could hear the mocking smile in her voice and was grateful for his absence from the conversation, lest he slit her throat then and there for her cruel jest.

“We’re not lovers,” you snapped gratingly, “and I was not his dinner. No doubt he found another, more filling meal.”

He recognized his own words from his first feeding as Shadowheart continued to bait you with her snide comments.

“Sounds as though you’re green with envy, friend.”

He heard a dish clatter to the ground and her indignant shout alongside the placating words of the rest of the group, gently coaxing you to ease your grip on her throat.

“Lay off the wine, friend,” he heard you snarl. He smirked with undignified pride.

You presumably stood, addressing the rest of the group.

“We are all exhausted and spread thin by the never ending bloodshed and horror we have been burdened with. By all means, if you wish to join the slain tomorrow, be my guest and ignore my wisdom. But, if you wish to live, to fight another day, you will heed my words and rest. Does anyone else dare question my orders?”

He could almost see the seething expression contorting your delicate features in his mind’s eye.

“Good,” he heard you growl into the answering silence. “Now that’s settled, I’m off to find some peace away from you lot of squabbling children.”

He listened to the grumbled complaints and scandalized murmurs of the rest of the group as the sound of your bare feet across the packed earth receded until it was out of earshot.

“How unlike our vampire trollop to leave his favorite lady companion wanting,” Shadowheart sniffed before she, too, left his hearing radius.

He repressed a pained whimper, the vacuous cavity of his chest constricting with grief and renewed self-loathing at her words.

I will never be anything more than Cazador’s painted whore.

He could no longer smell your comforting aroma on the breeze. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion wandered along the riverbank in the dappled light of late afternoon, thoughts consumed by the ever growing storm of his hatred, fury and terror. He chose to embrace his vampiric nature for the time being and neglected his habit of breathing, the lack of your sweet, floral scent causing a cavernous emptiness to yawn within him.

He passed the oak tree from which he spied on your bathing the previous night and winced. He really should find you and apologize for his deplorable behavior, let alone confess his sin, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet. The swirling vortex of his mind disallowed his focus to reach anything beyond self-deprecation.

As he meandered aimlessly, he registered the melodious sound of a string instrument somewhere in the distance and chose to follow it. Some ways away, he found you sitting in the shade of a massive elm, plucking the haunting melody he’d heard you humming last night. Your voice accompanied the music, rich and sad, singing in a language he did not recognize. It evoked a wistfulness in him for a life he never had, and he stood back to listen to your song.

The final verse came to a close, and he was struck with a vague sense of unease at repeating his actions from the night prior, so he cleared his throat and made his presence known. You startled, looking warily in his direction until you realized who it was, then rolled your eyes in exasperation.

“Sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard the music whilst I was out for a stroll, and found myself captivated. That was stunning,” he murmured, “and terribly sad.”

You shot a cold glare at him before heaving a heavy sigh and relenting.

“It was a lament for all things lost to the passage of time.”

“Such as…” he prompted.

“Life, love… innocence,” you finished in a small whisper.

He felt a pang of deep sorrow reverberate in his chest.

“And the language?” he asked, unwilling to broach the clearly sore subject. You had not pressed him until it had become absolutely necessary, so he thought it only fair to afford you the same respect.

“Olde Elvish,” you answered plaintively.

“I wasn’t aware bardic schools taught Olde Elvish,” he responded, surprised. “I thought it extinct.”

“My mother used to sing it when I was a babe. It always moved me to tears, and one night, after my father’s untimely passing, I picked up her lyre and began to pluck the tune from memory. She taught me all she knew from that night onward,” you sniffled. “I never studied formally as a bard. Everything I know was handed down from generations of musically inclined Weave wielders.”

“I…” he floundered, at a loss for words. A feat not easily accomplished when it came to him, you continued to prove an exception to the masses.

“Why are you here, Astarion?” you groused, looking at him shrewdly as you swiped a thumb beneath your eyes.

“May I?” he gestured at the space next to you, asking for invitation to sit.

“Answer me first,” you bit out.

“I… I wish to apologize for my ghastly behavior yesterday evening.” He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the wave of cowardly discomfort at his honesty. “You must understand, I have been conditioned to fear closeness, vulnerability. All it’s ever gotten me is a knife in the back.”

He opened his eyes at your watery sigh to see you patting the space beside yourself. He joined you graciously, extending his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the sprawling elm.

“And you must understand that I do not mean to repeat the mistakes of all those before me. None of us do. We are in this fight together, whether we like it or not, so we must learn to trust one another.”

Ever the pragmatist, he could see the toll being a leader had taken in your eyes, along with the weary burden of words left unspoken. He had a feeling you knew just what it felt like to be fundamentally deceived, and his chest constricted with empathy. Another foreign feeling only you had thus far been able to rouse in him. He felt compelled to continue his track of truthfulness, and decided to tell you about his hunt gone awry.

“There is something more I must tell you…” he began uncertainly.

You gave him an expectant stare.

“I… happened upon you washing. Last night. When I went to hunt.” The words came out stilted, feeling weighty and wrong in his mouth.

A charming flush bloomed across your delicate face, scarlet tipping your ears and working its way down your bosom. Your eyes and mouth were round with embarrassment, and for a moment he feared that he had made a terrible error in judgment.

And then you cackled, wild and full, and he found himself helpless to do anything other than chuckle along with you. You flashed a blinding smile at him and raised an inquisitive brow.

“Oh? And did you enjoy the show?”

At the reminder of his arousal, the scalding sensation of shame erupted over him in a vicious surge.

“What does it matter?” he snapped, a remorseful sigh escaping him at your affronted expression.

“This is what I mean, Astarion!” you shouted, gesticulating furiously, “You flirt, you tease, you share your burdens with me, and then you brutally shut me out! Every time! What is it that you want from me, because I’m quite tired of the neverending headache of your mood swings!”

“It’s not as if you’re any better!” he yelled in answer, temporarily losing his grip on the brewing storm of vitriol in his mind.

You reeled back as though struck.

“Bloody unbelievable,” you muttered, tucking your lyre under an arm and abruptly standing to leave. “I’ll never get any fucking peace.”

His hand shot out to grab yours, fear of losing the sanctuary you provided making his movements instinctive. You whipped around, expression murderous and preparing to scream.

“Wait,” he exhaled shakily, “Just…wait. Give me a moment to compose myself.”

You shook his hand loose, but remained in place, glaring at him.

“Forgive me,” he whimpered, staring at his knees. The proverbial floodgates burst in spectacular fashion, and he was quickly overwhelmed by the torrent of negative emotions that bled from them. He shook with the might of the onslaught, startled by the salty tang of his own tears. It only made him tremble more hysterically, a surely pitiful sight.

To his utmost surprise, you set your lyre down and knelt next to him, taking his face in your hands. He squeezed his eyes shut in discomfort, another whimper escaping him.

“Please don’t touch me,” he whispered, voice scratchy and quivering.

You withdrew your hands instantly, instead quietly asking, “What would you like me to do?”

“Will you play that song for me?” he asked in a pathetic warble.

“The Lament for That Which Is Lost?”

He nodded imperceptibly, and was immediately rewarded by the soft, sad strum of the lyre. As your voice joined in, he allowed the deluge of feeling to swallow him. He was lost in a sea of emotion, finding his many old acquaintances: shame, dread, rage, envy, hatred, terror, bitterness, apathy. Worst of all was the grief that wracked his body with violent sobs, guilt and regret for the countless wrongs he’d committed, anguish for all the wrongs committed against him.

However, he also encountered many of the new feelings you inspired within him: delight, sorrow, compassion, jealousy, warmth, guilt, desire. While not altogether positive, the feelings you’d introduced him to were a welcome reprieve from the centuries’ worth of misery he’d become accustomed to, and he grabbed onto them like a life raft as he waited out the crux of the storm. ______________________________________________________________

Slowly, ever so slowly, he came back to the present moment and focused on the hypnotic sound of your voice. He knew not what the words meant, but he didn’t need to in order to feel the devastating sense of loss that they carried. Your soft lilt reverberated in his chest, and he took a deep breath in, filling himself with the sweet, musky aroma of your skin. It helped to ease the tide of his agony back into submission, and he opened his eyes to watch the last of your performance.

He found himself enraptured by the beauty of you, eyes closed and immersed in the music much as he had been, the tracks of your own tears carrying smudges of kohl in spidery lines down your face. You were the kind of beautiful that he would have brought back to Cazador were the circumstances different, and it caused his chest to twinge with resentment. You sung the last line and plucked the closing chord, voice wavering slightly as a final tear began its slow descent over the planes of your face.

When you opened your puffy eyes, you gazed directly into his. It felt as if you were looking into the darkest parts of his soul, and he fought the urge to shy away from you. In an act of uncharacteristic bravado, he swung his legs around to sit on his knees facing you. He gently removed the lyre from your grasp and leaned it against the trunk of the great tree.

He reached out tentatively with both hands, holding your face the way you’d held his the night before. Your cheeks blazed in his palms, and an involuntary shiver ran up your spine at his cool touch. You blinked slowly as his thumbs swept the remainder of your tears away, smudging the wispy tracks of kohl in the process. A throaty chuckle escaped him as he took in the smeared stains of oily blackness on your skin, and you leaned forward to be closer to the sound.

“Your laugh is music to my ears,” you whispered, eyes full of tender promise.

He inhaled sharply and gravitated toward you, running a delicate thumb over the swell of your bottom lip, delighted when they parted in a breathy gasp. He could feel the damp warmth of your soft, panting breaths against his face as he leaned closer still, the saccharine scent of jasmine blossoms and orange peel and you so heavy in the air around him that he could taste it.

Just as the space between his body and yours shrunk to an infinitesimal degree, the sharp pain of his hunger returned with a vengeance, and he could not hide his grimace, nor the wince of discomfort that escaped his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, concern laced in the tilt of your brows, small hands coming to encircle his wrists.

The moment broken, you leaned back, removing his hands from your face. It was all he could do not to follow your scent and bury his fangs in your throat.

“The hunger,” he groaned, “it’s inescapable.”

“When did you last eat?” you whispered, eyes round with worry.

“The night I drank from you,” he gasped, the pain wracking him with a shudder that forced his eyes shut.

“Feed from me,” you murmured, his eyes snapping open in exalted bewilderment, sure he’d misheard you.

“What was that?”

“Feed from me,” you said again, louder this time.

He salivated at the memory of your blood across his tongue, wanting nothing more than to be filled with your life’s essence, to be emboldened by it. Then, he remembered the coming battle.

“I can’t,” he bemoaned, “You need your strength for tomorrow.”

“As do you,” you responded, gaze resolute.

“Are you sure? Here… now?” he asked once more, voice wavering equivocally with the fog of hunger hanging over his mind.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded in assent.

No sooner had the words left your lips than Astarion’s mouth was at your throat. He hadn’t even given you time to brush your hair aside and bare your neck to him, so starved as he was. With a harsh cry, his fangs pierced the tender skin over your jugular, tongue immediately darting out to lap at the blood spilling from the wound.

He paced himself this time around, both for want to savor his meal as well as that of your safety. He could tell when the initial daze from the bite wore off, your blood taking on a richer, more full-bodied flavor. It almost had a fattiness to it, and it quenched his thirst in a way nothing else had ever been capable of.

Before long, he could feel your body trembling like a leaf in the wind. He hadn’t drunk enough for bloodlessness to be the cause, though he worried nonetheless. It would be so like him to push past the discomfort and hurt you, taking from you the way he had been taken from…but there was work yet to be done in the way of gaining your trust. He was about to pull away when he tasted it - the syrupy flavor of your desire. A low sigh pushed its way past your lips, a sound inaudible to all but his keen ears.

Now, this I can work with. This I can exploit.

He continued to drink, the honeyed taste of you heavy on his tongue. He paid close attention to the way your body responded, quiet whimpers and little shivers steadily giving you away. Your hands clawed at the earth beneath you, pulling up clumps of grass and clods of dirt with their ferocity.

Inevitably, your shivers of delight became shivers of cold, shock setting in and ruining the atmosphere. Hunger mitigated, Astarion begrudgingly pulled back, replacing his mouth with the pressure of his hand to staunch the bleeding. You retrieved the amulet from your pocket with a shaky grasp, whispering the incantation into your cupped palms. Its magic washed over you in an instant, heat and color returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you, my sweet,” he murmured, making a show of licking the last of you from his lips.

You averted your eyes bashfully, lively flush deepening.

“Don’t mention it, dear Star,” you mumbled, eyes widening at your slip.

After a moment of shocked disbelief, a devious grin split his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, darling. Could you repeat yourself for me?”

“I said ‘don’t mention it’,” you spoke up.

“Not that, the last bit,” he replied, expression smug when he caught the sheepish look on your face.

“Dear Star,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes.

“That is indeed what I thought I’d heard. Rather sentimental of you for a ‘headache’, is it not?” he purred, referencing your earlier words.

“I’m plenty sentimental, Rogue, and you know it well.”

“Of course, my dear. I only kid,” he intoned, softening his smile as you lifted your face.

He watched as your embarrassment faded and you returned his smile, something hopeful hidden in the depths of your eyes.

I’ve got you right where I want you, darling.

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asakiooi · 2 months

Text

His Tower Illuminated Under the Moon

TW/CW: Implied past dubious consent/Non-con by named npc. There’s also implied sex but nothing too graphic. Other than that, the rest is fluff with angst in between.

This is based off of RRRR (Romanceable Rasmodius Redux Revamp) canon, so it will not make sense to those who strictly use vanilla and SVE.

You reassured him that you wanted this. That you desired him and that you held him dear in your heart as he held you.

Magnus wanted this too.

He just wasn’t sure if he could truly accept this dream.

His hand held your own tightly, palm to palm, finger to finger. The warmth spread from your intertwined limbs, wrinkling out the sheets from underneath. This feeling ran foreign in Magnus’ mind despite having lived for over a millennium.

Never before with his ex-wife or the woman with the same hair color as a fern, had he felt this way. The gentle caress of your free hand snapped him out of his thoughts. It was these touches of yours that turned Magnus into a desperate man thirsting for your attention. He felt so utterly pathetic for doing something like this to you, his feelings of layered repression over the centuries releasing into you this very night that felt special.

He had hoped the day would end nicely with sending you back home instead, and yet when you looked into his eyes like you had seen the stars itself, he felt besotted.

After all of what you promised to him over the course of this blooming relationship, your sincerity entangled with endearment, how could he not love you?

Magnus hesitantly moved his hips forward after realizing he had been staring for too long. His eyes trailed on your flushed face to study any forms of discomfort, the fear of bringing you harm did not rest well in his mind. Magnus could almost attempt to remain controlled and focused, yet at the same time he did not want to miss the ecstasy of your raw feelings that you always tried to express.

It was something he had hoped to see before becoming one with you. Slowly and slowly… he looked at you again.

The cogs of his thoughts stuttered silently as he found your eyes that reflected back into his soul, a smile adorned in your expression of wholeheartedness.

His heartbeat quickened when he realized you were taking in all of his entirety. Magnus felt he would be devoured in one by your gaze alone.

He wouldn’t have minded.

Without warning, you brought his head down to yours in a slow motion. The feeling of your two breaths mixing in together intoxicated him.

You both stared at each other lovingly, a moment of still affection before he could resume again. A playful smile lingered on your face and when he realized he was doing the same, he took the initiative to press a kiss onto your lips.

It was different.

The feeling of becoming one with you was thick and sweet. Magnus felt drunk in this savoriness that had been brewed under the moonlight together with you.

All of the tastes formed in this moment alone made up for the centuries he spent in solitude.

It was unlike the times he would lie on the bed motionless.

Back to when it was just him and his ex-wife with tomes scattered about. Back to when he was prohibited from reaching out to her with affection.

Oh.

It was so,

So,

Different.

It hurt him.

He could almost feel something in his eyes forming.

The ugly and blurred memories with that fern haired woman flashed into his mind. Magnus felt so foolish for thinking he could mean something to her at that time.

The revolting pit of emptiness sunk into his stomach after he hesitantly, uncertainly let himself be laid onto his own bed that night.

…

Yet here you were, squeezing his hand with reassurance and affirmations. You rooted out that vile string of sorrow that plagued him day and night. You whispered melodies of love and sincerity laced with the intent of having him all, despite his aversion to himself. It made him feel so special.

Like he was worth being with.

Magnus lowered his head to your side, a view you couldn’t see.

He let out a shaky sigh and squeezed your hand in return, the crickets filling in the gapped silence.

“I love you.”

It was wonderful.

“You are beautiful.”

Magnus hoped you would stay.

“You are the light of my life.”

It felt so good to him.

And he hoped you felt the same.

#sdv wizard #sdv rasmodius #m. rasmodius #magnus rasmodius #rasmodius #rrrr #rasmodius x reader #fuck Caroline all my homies hate Caroline #Romanceable Rasmodius redux revamped

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blackfliesinbluesugar · 1 year

Text

Corrupted!Atreus/Atreus Odinson au MasterPost

Art by my favourite friend of all time @p-lomm (because i unfortunately have horrendous spine-shaking artblock)

> Odin, through methods you can feel free to make up yourself, becomes aware that Loki is destined to kill him come Ragnarök. He wants to kill the boy outright of course, maybe even risk doing so as Týr, but learns about Atreus' faculty for dead languages and decides to put it off for now to prioritize his goal regarding the rift.

> Just as he did in the game, Atreus goes to Asgard. Once there, Odin plays it up as the nice replacement dad to try and warm the boy up to him but it's clearly got minimal success. Atreus is friendly and insisting that he trusts him, but he's not the best liar. He's also slightly withholding/stalling help on the Mask due to that distrust. Odin panics, even though the boy is helping him, because if Atreus asks to go home he'll lose the control he now has over him. But if he forces Atreus to stay, all of that effort to build rapport will be wasted. He needs to make a course of action, and fast.

> Freya during their marriage taught him some level of conscious-affecting magic, and he learned more by observing her and the studying he did into Baldur's spell. He's done mind manipulation magic on others on a much lower scale than this, but he knows the process on how to intensify the effects. He wants to force loyalty onto Atreus so that the boy won't hesitate to help and won't betray him when Ragnarök comes. Creating an entirely new lifetime of memories is much more difficult than tinkering with what's already there, so he takes the neural pathway Atreus has to Kratos and basically slams his face over Kratos'. He keeps things vague, but essentially has Atreus believing Odin is his father, thus making Baldur his brother, and still retaining the fuzzy memory of Kratos snapping Baldur's neck.

> Successfully making Atreus loyal to him and antagonistic toward Kratos, Atreus faces a slight personality shift. He's still slightly awkward, clumsy and unintentionally rude, but after fully comitting to the Loki identity he's also snootier and more holier-than-thou, believing himself special because Odin grants him more attention than his brothers. He essentially reverts to his brief corruption arc in GoW4.

> Heimdall and Thor are obviously not pleased, but are forbidden from intefering with the spell or hurting Loki. Loki takes their clear dislike of him as brothers being jealous of the youngest having clear favouritism and is overjoyed at the idea of being envied. He gives them as much shit as they give him. Heimdall, who genuinely is jealous and doesn't understand why the allfather would manufacture a new son when he constantly vies for his affection and attention, tries to subtly sabotage the spell by planting ideas in Loki's head of his old life. This mixes Loki up and upsets him, and he sometimes struggles with what's real.

> Loki is banned from interacting with Thrúd, Skjöldr, or any other children his age. Nearly all of his free time is spent dedicated to training, studying or working on the mask, which he does ardently pursue to make his 'father' happy but which is waylayed by his grip on his powers being more tenuous now he's forgotten or muddled up a lot of the past learning process. He likes to carry the mask around with him, typically on his waist, to show it off as a proof of how much trust is placed in him, the way Heimdall does with Gjallarhorn.

> The faulty perception of himself, as it did in GoW4, makes Atreus sick. His mind is in conflict with itself on who he is, repressed memories fighting the implanted ones. He has frequent nightmares and dizzy spells, especially when someone (usually Heimdall) presses on the subject more. Some days he spends bedbound by it.

> More to be added when I remember it. To be frank, most of this was conceptualized in my head and not externalized into text before this point, so it's still a little muddled. But here's the baseline!

Might add (or possibly remove) friend art if she wakes up and gives me explicit permission. 🗿 Time zones. Love you Plom.

Extra info of note-

Appearance = Loki is of course typically in his Asgardian armour get-up, but he can occasionally be found in more of a tunic-type attire (like Heimdall or Skjöldir) when he's just chillin'. He keeps the mask either in his hands (when actively working with it) or on his belt (when just strolling around, like a show-off.) When he eventually collects the second piece, he can sometimes be found actually wearing it. He has green eyes, not blue, as is seen in the Asgard scenes, and he lets his hair grow out ever so slightly in his time there instead of habitually cutting it close as he did prior to resemble Kratos (hc).

Personality = As expressed before, he's a far sight brattier than in canon, and we both know that's saying a lot. He actually does somewhat like Thor, especially since he misattributes both of his children's deaths to Kratos and not Modi's to himself, thus being more sympathetic on that front. He's a lot more jaded about violence just as he was during his original corruption in GoW4, seeing death in a very callous way and being brutal in sparring matches. Alongside disliking the Kratos of memory, he also hates Freya for perceiving her role in his 'brother's' death, though no amount of mindfuck can give him any love for Baldur. Still, even originally he at least could empathize with the cursed man, and those feelings transfer over. Banned as he is from those his age he does still see them around, and while Thrúd keeps to the order of silence on what has happened to him she lets him strike up conversation. Witnessing what's happened to him builds her distrust in her grandfather. Also he thinks he's her uncle now, which is pretty weird.

Sickness = Mostly characteristic of how it was in the first game, with dizzy and fainting spells and the occasional bronchitis-style choking up blood. Odin gives him remedies he claims are medicine for an illness the boy has had since birth, which are actually laced with seidr to keep the spell strong in a subtle way. Loki typically feels more sick after having them, but trusts his 'father' completely.

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