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fayes-fics · 8 months

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A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.”

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.”

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic.

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade.

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision.

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him.

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction.

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.”

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman.

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first.

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now….

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his.

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together.

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly.

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk.

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member.

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip.

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!”

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense.

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race.

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside.

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently.

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing.

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body.

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever.

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

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pinkie-pop · 4 months

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"I Must Confess, I Am Not What I Seem."

Featuring: Gender-Neutral reader, Furina, Isekaied!Reader, SAGAU, Imposter AU, Golden Blood AU

Word Count: 2.4k

Synopsis: There is a thin line that separates lies from truth, falsehoods from facts. You are a tightrope walker, it would seem.

Includes: Spoilers for 4.2, injury, religious themes

•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“I am a vast ocean confined into the shape of a small and shallow puddle. I am more than you could ever know, yet less than what I am truly meant to be. Does this not answer your question?” You say, golden ichor staining your white robes.

“I…I’m afraid it does not, Your Most Honorable Righteousness,” Clorinde looks down, uncharacteristically nervous. The weight of your title sits heavily upon her tongue—a Fontainion nickname someone coined eons ago.

“Then, allow me to state this in a way you can understand,” you say, now addressing not only her but the crowd around you—everyone gathered in the dueling grounds to watch your fight, now watching with bated breath upon this new development. “I bleed because I am human. Gold because I am a God. I am paradox itself—a godly soul contained in a human vessel. Are you starting to understand now?” Whispers begin to fill the street as everyone takes in what you just said. ‘The Creator has descended to Teyvat in a human body!’ They say. ‘Is such a thing even possible?’ They ask. ‘Of course,’ comes the response. ‘It’s happening right in front of us!’ ‘What’s going to happen to Fontaine?’ says a pragmatic one. ‘Our Champion Duelist nearly killed Them! We called Them an imposter!’ You listen in on the conversations, pleased with the way the rumors spin themselves. Now that the spark has been made, the fire will come next. They’ll weave together their own tales and explanations from your words; the rumors will exaggerate and grow until you no longer need to say a word. They will answer their own questions. Your work here is done.

Truth be told, you’re bluffing about all of this. When you first came to Fontaine, you had no idea what all the talk of being a divine imposter was about. You went along with it, believing yourself to be dreaming, not caring where the tides took you. You didn’t choose to duel for your honor because you knew your blood was golden (Of course not. How could you have known?), you only wanted this dream to be over.

The pain gave it away. This was all too real. You weren’t dreaming. You had been in real danger. The blade that pierced your chest could have gone straight into your heart, had you not leaped back in reflex. The thought makes you sick, but you do not show it. No, you have a role to play. You are no god, but if it means you won’t be hunted down or hanged for blasphemy, you are more than willing to pretend.

You cautiously raise a hand to your wound. It stings. You look down at your hand, coated in yellow. Dizziness overtakes you, and you fall to the ground.

But you do not hit the ground. Someone catches you.

And all fades to black.

•~•~•~•~•~•

When you come to, you spot familiar faces standing by your bedside. Clorinde, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Sigewinne, and Furina, too. The four pillars of Fontaine’s political system are all gathered by your bedside. The room you're in is luxurious, colored in a white and (you suspect, real) gold palette. The size and luxury of the room is imposing, reminiscent of a cathedral. You suppose this ‘Creator’ must be a big deal. You try to move, but searing pain shoots up from your wound. Right, you had already forgotten.

“Your Holiness, please be careful!” Says Sigewinne. “You don’t want to pop your stitches, do you? I'll help you sit up.”

“Many eyes watch my movements and recovery. Can I take this to mean you all have something to say?” You think you're getting the hang of talking like someone divine. You can only hope the ones around you buy it.

Neuvillette speaks first. “I am sorry to disturb you during what should be a peaceful rest, but we have some questions for you.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Wriothesley. “I'm only here to watch over Siegewinne.”

“Oh? Is that so? I had just assumed you were just as curious about Them as the rest of us. My mistake,” says Clorinde, voice dripping with sarcasm. Wriothesley scoffs but doesn't say anything.

“You spoke of questions,” you say, redirecting the conversation. “Yet all I hear is idle chatter.” Wriothesley and Clorinde both look away. Neuvillette clears his throat, but Furina speaks first.

“Is there…a reason you have decided to descend?” She asks, a hint of anxiety in her voice and her face painted with worry. You know what she's thinking without her even having to say anything. She's worried about the prophecy. You may as well ease her concerns.

“Must I have a reason to visit my own creations? I simply wished to see how things have changed.” Furina visibly relaxes, then, seeming to catch herself, straightens immediately. “Now that you have asked something of myself, I, too, have a query with which to exchange. Where are we?”

“Le Berceau Du Créateur—Fontaine’s largest temple and the place most appropriate for someone of your status,” says Neuvillette. You nod pensively, pretending you've heard of it.

“This is our grandest room, made specifically in the case that you were ever to visit Fontaine. I do hope it meets your preferences and standards.”

“Luxury means little to me, but this room has been made with care and dedication. That is enough.” Neuvillette relaxes ever so slightly.

Rather suddenly, Clorinde kneels in front of you. “Please, your Eminence, I cannot take it any longer. Punish me,” she says. You look at her with an expression you hope mimics apathy. Truthfully, a part of you does wish to punish her, to get some sort of sick satisfaction out of her misery, but you refrain from showing such intentions. You will not punish her. You will be a gracious and forgiving god. You will earn their respect and gratitude.

“I will do no such thing. If there is nothing else, I'd like to be alone now. I'm sure you understand,” you say, making eye contact with Clorinde. Everyone leaves, though Clorinde lingers the longest, a silent apology on her lips as she walks out the door.

•~•~•~•~•~•

You heal remarkably fast. It takes no more than a week for your injury to heal completely. Not even a scar remains. By now, word of your arrival has already spread across Tevyat, and countless letters and requests for visitation follow. You allow only the most important of guests into your temple, that is, only the “acolytes” (that is, playable characters). Truthfully, you dread each appointment. Pretending to be wise beyond your years, to ooze divinity, and to fool both mortals and Gods alike is…a lot of work, to say the least. But you have to keep up appearances. You don't want to get hurt again.

Today you have a meeting with The Seven. You can only hope that things go smoothly.

Not much happened during the meeting, but you did ask Furina to stay a while longer. The two of you proceed to the drawing room, where tea and snacks have already been served.

“You wanted to speak to me, Your Righteousness?” Furina asks, her cake and tea untouched, likely waiting for you to eat first. You pick up your teacup with a practiced elegance and take a sip. Furina is quick to follow your lead. Her nervous scramble to mirror your movements brings a small smile to your face.

“Furina,” you say, putting the teacup down. She straightens in her seat, hanging off your every word.

“Yes, Your Holiness,” she says, sitting on the edge of her seat.

“Soon, you will have a day where everything seems to go wrong. It will feel like everything you’ve built up will have fallen, broken, down at your feet. Take heart, for this is not the ending you fear. Your suffering has not been for naught. When the time comes for you to sit crying on your throne, please remember these words. The prophecy will not come to pass.”

•~•~•~•~•~•

“Hey, did you hear? Everyone’s been saying that The Creator has a favorite Acolyte!”

“They do? But I thought They were impartial.”

“It seems even the Gods play favorites…”

“It’s Focalors!”

“Who’s the lucky person?”

“Seriously? I suppose They have been staying in Fontaine a lot, but wasn’t it Fontaine that falsely charged Them in the first place?”

“I know, right? I mean, I like Lady Furina as much as the next guy but, she isn’t the most…”

“Shh! Hey, don’t finish that thought! You don’t want to get charged with blasphemy, do you? You can’t us insult Their favorite like that!”

“So? Do you think she’ll be made a consort?”

“Hey! What did I just say? We’re not talking about this anymore. I’m not going to get beheaded for gossip.”

“They have been meeting with her more often than anyone else… I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something between them…”

•~•~•~•~•~•

“Your Holiness, may I ask why you have me visit you so often?” Furina fiddles with her hands, staring down at her lap. You look at her curiously before answering.

“I feel at ease when I am with you,” comes your reply. “We have more in common than you think.”

“We have something in common?” Asks Furina, bewildered. “What is it?” You smile at her.

“Patience, Furina. All in due time.”

•~•~•~•~•~•

“Hey, did you hear? Have you heard the news? Lady Furina is a human!”

“I hear she was placed under a curse.”

“A human?! But she’s been alive for five hundred years!”

“But why would she pretend to be a god?”

“Beats me.”

“Of course not. Why would They play favorites with her if They knew she was human?”

“What about The Creator? Do you think They knew?”

“But how could They not have known? They are the God above Gods, after all.”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think They knew?”

•~•~•~•~•~•

“So this is what you meant,” Furina says, nibbling on a cake you had imported from Liyue. “When you said everything would work out, I mean.”

“Yes,” you reply, sipping from your teacup.

“Yes,” you say again. “It must have been so hard for you. I can only imagine the loneliness and suffering you’ve had to endure these past hundreds of years.” Furina looks to be on the verge of tears. You’ve wanted to say this to her for a long time. You allow her to lean into you as she releases five centuries worth of tears. When she finally stops, the front of your shirt is thoroughly soaked. You can't find it in yourself to mind.

“You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

“I must apologize for showing you something so unsightly,” she says, seemingly embarrassed.

You tell her you don't mind, though it seems to do little to ease her worries.

“Your Reverence, may I ask…why me?” You raise an eyebrow, prompting her to continue. “I mean, I’m nobody special. Not anymore, anyway. I’m not an Archon, I’ve quit the stage, I’m not even immortal…Why do you choose to waste your time with someone like me?”

“What? N-no, I–”

“Are you questioning my judgement?”

“I was joking, you know.”

“O-oh, I see—I mean, yes, of course you were! I was merely playing along, eheh…”

“Furina,” you say, placing your teacup in its saucer as Furina hastens to do the same. “Do you remember what I said to you the last time we met?”

“Just as I said back then, we have more in common than you may realize.”

“Of course, you said that you felt at ease when you were with me, but I still don’t understand why…”

“We have something in common? But what could it—No, you don’t mean…?”

“I-I can’t. It can’t possibly be true, I must have lost my mind for a moment.”

“Say it.”

“Forgive me, please. I don’t know what came over me, I-I—”

“Say it.”

“Say it.” Furina pauses, seeming to mull over her options. Her movements are skittish, her voice full of anxiety as she paces back and forth, muttering words of apology and justifications.

“You’re not…our God?” Her voice is little more than a whisper. You nod at her, and she collapses onto the couch. “B-but your blood! What about your blood?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, either. It used to be red, but it changed once I came to this world. I don’t know how or why.” Furina remains silent, seeming to mull over your words even as the world around her collapses.

“What about the vessels? The Traveler? You controlled them, didn't you? You controlled me!”

“That was my doing, but not my power."

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” You shrug, taking your fork to your slice of cake.

“Fake deep,” you say. “Most of what comes out of my mouth is total BS, but people nod along and act like it’s something profound because they believe I am a God.”

“What about your speech? All the cryptic wording and allegories?”

“Wisdom isn’t something you can just fake. The people aren’t stupid, they know when they’re being fed what isn’t food.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“And yet, they didn’t.”

“You can’t not be our God, surely the Archons would have noticed if–” Furina stands up, pacing back and fourth like a caged animal.

“But, but—!”

“Of course, you’re human! But you’re still our God! Did what you said about oceans and puddles really mean nothing at all?! Everyone said you’re an incarnation of The Creator. How can that be lies? You even said that you had lost all memories of Godhood; how can you know that it’s not true?” She raises some good points, but you know it’s nothing more than the ramblings of the desperate.You really hadn’t expected her to take it so hard. Perhaps you overestimated her. Furina throws herself back onto the couch and then sighs. She moves to sit upright and smooth out the creases in her outfit. “I suppose you would know more about this situation than I would, and I must apologize for my…outburst. You must understand, this is quite a shock to me.” You nod at her.

“I’m sorry, Furina. But I really am human, just like you.”

“But still,” she says. “How can you be so sure?”

“Furina,” you say hesitantly, looking at her as if you were about to say something unpleasant. “The Creator…doesn't exist.”

#yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #sagau x reader #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #yandere neuvillette #yandere wriothesley #yandere furina

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tagomago · 2 years

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one thing that really strikes me about anti-intellectualism is that it's just so. self-limiting and sad. like it's a good thing to learn and i feel like we've forgotten it. all this information at our fingertips and people are refusing to use it for the simplest things like when they don't understand one specific word in a text. if something is a tough read it's a moral failing of the author and not an opportunity to build on your own personal knowledge and experiences. it doesn't matter if you think picasso is a renaissance artist because who cares about art history anyway and besides, picasso was a creep, even though it would take a minute to look this up. like obviously there are issues with accessibility in say, access to academia, but some things are genuinely not going to take significant amounts of effort to look up and remember for future. yes it's not a bad thing to not know something already, but a refusal to learn? come on. learning - expanding your knowledge, getting to know more about the world or humanity or art or science or anything - serves you, not some elitist academic in the sky or whatever. whether that's just reading the first paragraph of the wikipedia page for pragmatism or taking three months to read crime and punishment, there's a sense of achievement in the end. and yeah to some extent it's a skill, but it's not a difficult thing to foster and build upon, and sitting around proclaiming how you refuse to learn anything, even the most basic and simple fun facts, due to whatever the excuse of the month is is just so insular. it's a truly wonderful and interesting and diverse world out there and we're letting it all pass us by

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nickeverdeen · 3 months

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how about headcannons for a sunshine reader with five? Like how would five react if they saw them sad for the first time even though they're always pretty happy?

I’m so sorry that it’s this short, I just don’t know much about this stuff even though I tried to look it up (sunshine reader)

————————————————————

Five x sunshine reader who cries in front of him for the first time

Five Hargreeves, known for his stoic and no-nonsense demeanor

Yet he finds himself in a completely new territory when faced with his sunshine-like lover shedding tears in front of him

Initially caught off guard, Five's sharp eyes soften, and he instinctively moves closer

His usual walls momentarily crumbling as he realizes the gravity of the moment

Five might not be the most emotionally expressive, but he has a subtle understanding of comfort

He wordlessly offers a handkerchief or tissue, his actions conveying a rare sense of tenderness

Despite his pragmatic nature, Five finds himself quietly asking:

"What's wrong?"

His tone, though still matter-of-fact, holds a touch of concern that is both surprising and genuine

As his sunshine love opens up about their emotions, Five listens attentively, absorbing every word

His ability to analyze situations extends to understanding the complexities of human emotions, and he navigates the conversation with a surprising degree of empathy

Five may not be one for grand gestures, but he subtly adjusts his approach, making an effort to be more attuned to his lover's emotional needs

Whether it's offering a comforting touch or just sitting in companionable silence, he adapts to the situation

Over time, Five's understanding deepens, and he learns to appreciate the strength it takes for his sunshine baby to express vulnerability

He becomes a reliable anchor for them, a source of support that contrasts with his usual aloof exterior

The first time his sunshine lover cries in front of him becomes a pivotal moment in their relationship, strengthening the connection between them

It marks a subtle shift in the dynamic, showcasing the depth of understanding that exists beyond the surface-level complexities of their lives

#request #headcanons #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #five hargreaves x you #five hargreaves x reader #five tua #five hargreeves x reader #tua five #number five x reader #five x reader #number five #sunshine reader

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pearl-tarotist · 9 months

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PAC: Your green flags ೃ⁀➷ In this PAC, related to self, I will look into your most positive (green) aspects: generally and in love.

PILE 1: Green flags:

-Generally:

You are confident and lucky enough to not fear the unpredictable and predictable changes in our lives. You are someone with a positive mindset that does not get easily disappointed with alterations.

You are able to learn easily from everything: mistakes, lessons, karma debts… You understand that everything is an opportunity to learn, to close cycles and to improve yourself and your life.

Furthermore, you are not scared to alter your life if it is for the best. Some people usually get trapped in the past, routine,and old relationships that are dead. You are not like those, you are not scared to be proactive and erase the people, actions or situations that could disappoint you.

Wheel of Fortune/ 5 of Shells.

-In love ❤️

In contra-position to your lightly approach to life and about letting every event pass trough you, when you are in love you are methodical. When in love, you want the best for your partner, and you will take a time-out before acting in love, you will plan every date and detail. You will think about who you want to go out with and about what you feel for your partner.

You will want deep conversations and you will commit to them, easily taking responsibility on your shoulders for the common good. You will create new opportunities for both of you, to be able to achieve what you want.

There's not a sense of passiveness in the way that there's in your general life. You allow yourself to learn the lessons of the events that the cycle of life throws at you but you won't accept it in your love life.

In your love life, you are in a position of power and command.

2 of Roses and The Magician

Tip Me / More Pacs

PILE 2: Green flags:

-Generally:

You have a really great approach to work and love/rest. One of your general green flags is that you are not someone that goes overboard with the things that happen in your life.

You are able to keep a 50/50 effort on things, what at long-term, is the cleverest thing to do.

On the best sense, you do also not involve yourself directly with things…you rise over pettiness, blame and guilt. You can separate yourself from your feelings and own perspective to gain a clear view of every situation. You are fair and just.

You are able to see the good and the bad, to be responsible but still keep some time for love and relationships, to be passionate but understand that every situation has clear limits.

You allow yourself to be free without hurting anybody. It's a beautiful sign to see.

Song: "Like we just met" by NCT DREAM.

3 of Gems, Judgement and Ace of Roses

-In love ❤️:

You are someone strong and compassionate. You are always open to understatement and to speak, you are emphatic and able to sacrifice some of your security for the adventure that love is.

You do sacrifices for the people you love even when it could be scary and hurtful, you are strong enough to keep the pressure of what being a partner to someone is.

I do believe that you do also have the talent to calm your partner with your words and attitude, you can calm their insecurities and fears. They do not have to doubt your love when you, so passionately and strongly, show it to them.

Strength and The Moon

Tip Me / More Pacs

PILE 3: Green flags:

-Generally:

You are someone mature and realistic. You are a good leader and you always treat everybody that helps you with respect and gratitude. People can trust you and be confident with the projects you are proposing as they will be well-put and efficient.

You are natural, sensible, pragmatic and committed. It feels like earth energy with a bit of water. You are open to interact with everybody, no matter their status or origins.

You do not easily obsess with things, and if you do, is realistic and you create a plan to achieve it long-term.

-In love ❤️

You are the most natural lover. Your own attitude and personality make your habits perfect for the place of a lover. You do naturally take care of people, and I think you do the perfect amount of physical touch…it feels super reassuring to your partner.

Your best green flag is that your love feels natural and not forced, as if you were the final piece of a puzzle. It's beautiful and it makes your partner feels as if they were in the right place.

Your partner will always know that you love them, that's your biggest green flag. You will always find a way to show it, or you are so transparent with your emotions that they just know.

9 of Roses, 6 of Shells, Ace of shells.

Tip Me / More Pacs

#tarot #tarot reading #tarot deck #pick a card reading #pick a pile #pac #love tarot #pick a card #pearl #green flag

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sillydestiny · 10 months

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The Unexpected Love

Cale x Reader

fluff

- Cale Henituse, known for his lazy and stoic behavior, would surprise everyone with his transformation as a boyfriend. Despite his initial reluctance to get involved in romantic relationships, once he commits, he becomes fiercely loyal and protective.

- As a boyfriend, Cale would show his love through his actions rather than grand gestures or extravagant displays of affection. He would be practical and down-to-earth in his approach, making sure to take care of your needs and wants.

- Cale may still have a mischievous side, but he would direct it towards light-hearted teasing and banter with you. He would enjoy playful exchanges and create a comfortable and relaxed atmosphere in the relationship.

- Cale values personal freedom and independence, and he would extend the same respect to you. He would understand the importance of personal space and allow you to pursue your own interests and hobbies without feeling suffocated.

- Despite his laid-back nature, Cale would be a reliable and trustworthy partner. He would keep his promises and be there for you when you need him the most. You can count on him to provide support and guidance during challenging times.

- Cale's protectiveness would manifest in subtle ways. He would always have an eye out for potential dangers or threats, and he would take precautions to ensure your safety without being overbearing.

- Communication might not be Cale's strong suit initially, but he would make an effort to open up and share his thoughts and feelings with you. He would appreciate honest and straightforward conversations, and he would listen attentively when you need to talk.

- Cale may not be the most physically affectionate person, but he would gradually become more comfortable with displays of affection in private. He would cherish intimate moments and enjoy the simple acts of holding hands or cuddling.

- Cale's pragmatic mindset would help him handle conflicts or disagreements in a calm and rational manner. He would strive for compromises and find practical solutions that benefit both of you.

- Cale's love for you would be genuine and deep-rooted. He may not always express it through flowery words or grand romantic gestures, but his actions would speak volumes. He would be your dependable partner, supporting you through thick and thin.

Overall, as a boyfriend, Cale Henituse would surprise you with his loyalty, practicality, and protectiveness,caring and devoted nature.

#trash of the count’s family x reader #cale henituse x reader #cale x reader #gn reader #manhua #tcf x reader #trash of the count’s family #totcf x reader #manhwa x reader #manhwa

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wintermoth · 6 months

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So I just saw The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and i gotta say, they did a damn good job.

But I'm not altogether happy with how much they changed the Games from how they played out in the book. I get needing to condense them for runtime and I get needing to change certain things like having cameras in the tunnels. The 10th Games were literally bursts of activity followed by hours upon hours of nothing because they couldn't see underground.

But it's the progression of events, the kill order & swapping of kills, and the omission of events which bothers me. Rest under the cut cos Long Post.

First of all: the Bloodbath. In the book, there is no Bloodbath. The kids literally grabbed supplies and hauled ASS to safety. You know. Like terrified children would. I personally think it was a mistake having the Bloodbath at all but I'm guessing some studio execs pulled rank on this one. >_>

Weaponizing the drones was something which...should've only worked once but whatever.

Coral getting properly fleshed out to be the main antagonist in the arena? Cool shit. They combined various aspects of other characters like Treech (7) and Teslee (3) into her. It gives us someone to root against and, narratively, I understand why they did it. She wasn't someone who'd trained her whole life like, say, Cato. She was just a kid who was doing what she thought she had to to get home. She was a bully, yeah, but not a villain.

Dill dying to the poison instead of her illness...um okay? This one I really don't get. IMO Lucy Gray seeing little Wovey die to the poison as she did in the books would've been much harder on her and the audience considering earlier events. Deadass, I think it was their way of dealing with the Reaper Problem - more on this in a minute Wovey's death was a cheap attempt at shock value and, surprise, no one was shocked. EVERYONE knew that container was bad news--audience, capitol, tributes--except perhaps Wovey herself. We'll blame the trauma.

And as for Lucy Gray herself, of her three book kills, one was removed entirely, and two were changed. The first being Dill instead of Wovey. The second being the way in which she killed Treerch. She was supposed to use a snake mutt as a weapon which she'd protected and hidden in her dress--which served as both a callback to her Reaping with the mayor's daughter.....and a premonition of what would eventually happen in the woods outside 12. And she was supposed to outwit/outmaneuver Reaper, which was removed entirely.

So, Reaper Ash. Big guy from District 11. The Thresh of these games. It's like they didn't know what to do with him. They dedicated his little screen time before the Games to making it clear he was 100% That Bitch and there were several lines (most from Lucky) indicating he was a strong contender. One of a handful of instances of Checkov's Gun, a rule of writing which states if you're going to call attention to a detail, it better fucking be important.

Allow me to summarize book events for those of you who don't know: The night before the Games, he apologizes to the surviving tributes for having to kill them and Jessup, who has rabies, spits in his eye. At the start of the Games, he was one of the few to run to get weapons at the start and was ready to fight, but everyone else was gone. So he heads out to hunt them down. Reaper was the only one proactively looking for a fight. Later, Reaper finds Dill down in the tunnels and carries her out into the open and lays her down in the sun because she's dying already and he's not going to kill her. He leaves her to her own devices and moves on. The next time we see him, he mercifully lets Lucy Gray flee from him. Afterwards, he strikes up an agreement with Lamina, the girl from 7, who's cleverly holed up high off the ground, and shows himself to pragmatic, fair, and good to his word.

Lamina warns him of oncoming tributes and he flees. When he eventually returns, he finds her and another murdered. Incensed, he begins assembling his morgue. During this, he uses part of a Capitol flag to make himself a cape, which makes him happy. The next day, he added Wovey to his morgue. When the Snakes are released into the arena, he is out of the line of fire, up in the stands, and survives.

By now, though, the rabies is really starting to affect him. He continues to obsessively add to and protect his morgue. On the last day, when Lucy Gray tries to add the third place tribute to it, he scares her off. But it's just them now and he doesn't even try to kill her. All he cares about is maintaining the morgue and keeping their bodies covered. He is eventually run ragged by Lucy Gray, who knows he's sick, and meets his end by drinking a poisoned puddle. He crawls to his morgue and dies. Lucy Gray wins.

In the movie, there's a Bloodbath and kids start killing each other, and he's right in there with them. We see him throw down ONLY to defend Dill. Then they just kinda....disappear. And they stay disappeared throughout everything which follows. None of his moments with the other tributes occur. When they emerge, Dill is significantly ahead of him--which tbh makes little sense since, as her protector, he reasonably should've gone out first to ensure it's safe--and dies by drinking poison. He is devastated and screams dramatically. He then begins to make his morgue and offend the capitol by disrespecting the flag before making a big dramatic speech to the cameras daring them to punish him. He apparently stays by his morgue for the rest of the day and when the snake mutts get dropped into the arena, he is keenly aware of the danger. He warns Wovey away, though she doesn't listen. He is almost immediately engulfed by the snakes. He holds still, sits up straight and tall, closes his eyes, then falls forward dead, followed swiftly by the remaining tributes except Lucy Gray.

So, that being said.

Book Reaper's story is a young man who expected to win and was prepared to do it, only for his degenerating mind to focus on protecting the dignity of the murdered children around him. His death was ignoble.

Movie Reaper's story is a young man who expected to win and was prepared to do it, but was also determined to protect his weak district partner with his life, and upon losing her, presents the Capitol both middle fingers. His death was ignoble.

I get why they cut the rabies plotline for the movie. It definitely saved time.....and it REALLY wouldn't look good if the filmmakers had both black guys die of rabies. Just saying. What bothers me about his movie story is just how unfulfilling it was. Going back to Checkov's Gun, he was supposed to be a Threat. And then he just. Wasn't. All for a over-dramatic and tbh unnecessary moment of glory.

so yeah that's my two cents.

anyway go see the movie.

#Hunger Games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #spoilers for tbosas #Lucy Gray Baird #Reaper Ash #Moon as something to say

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lazyyogi · 9 months

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Escape the Reactivity Trap

How to Overthrow Your Conditioning with Playfulness

The movement of daily life within human society unfolds as call-and-response playing out in various circumstances. Something happens and we react.

Most people believe that freedom and happiness means exerting specific control over our circumstances. In other words, getting what we want. Ultimately, however, all circumstances are temporary and limited. The happiness and freedom they offer, therefore, are just as temporary and limited.

We don't have full control over the events and circumstances of our lives. We have the right to put in any kind of effort to influence them but there is no right or guarantee to specific results.

If you genuinely want to experience happiness and freedom, then paying attention to the play of call-and-response is essential. Being at ease, lively, and clever in all situations from the moment you wake up to when you go to sleep becomes a path to authentic happiness and freedom. Our way of living and engaging with the world is an expression of the endless and, perhaps, divine reality within and beyond us.

Sound good? Let's talk about it pragmatically.

The key to making this shift lies in understanding the difference between a reaction and a response.

A reaction occurs when a person's conditioning triggers an action or viewpoint. Our conditioning is influenced by various factors such as preferences, judgments, imprints, identities, and past experiences. Often, we are only partially aware of these elements and focus more on the end result—the reaction itself.

Essentially, a reaction is the re-activation of past thoughts, perspectives, decisions, and beliefs, albeit adapted slightly to suit the present moment. It represents our conditioned self, limiting our freedom and making our choices predictable and trite.

On the other hand, a response is the flowering of freedom.

There are two ways to describe a response. The first description is perhaps the most relatable; I will call it the mindful response.

The mindful response is when a reaction unfolds within our awareness. The mindful part is that we are able to breathe and find the space to hear the wisdom of a reaction without believing or buying into it. This not only provides self-insight but it also allows the reaction's emotional charge to mature or release, depending on the circumstances. Then our matured and liberated emotion admixes with self-insight, synthesizing a response that is not limited by our past programming.

The mindful response is what it looks like to practice mindfulness in our daily life. Something happens and instead of acting out a reaction in the same old way, you allow the reaction to flow through you. Without the reaction's flustering influence, fresh insights blossom.

The second description is the playful response. Here, we encounter situations that would typically trigger a reaction, but instead, we remain unaffected. As we progress in spiritual practice, meditation, and self-work, we outgrow our triggers and conditioned responses. We discover the freedom to be as we are, crisply alive here and now, and our responses then arise from a non-conceptual intelligence that radiates from and through every cell in our body.

In this way, we can enjoy the play of our human experiences.

Breaking it down further, there are several key differences between a reaction and a response.

Identification: A reaction is tied to our deep conditioning, making us instinctively identify with it. As a result, we become defensive and threatened when our reactions are questioned. In contrast, a response is not viewed as a part of ourselves but rather as a creative output arising from the moment. This allows us to remain open to alternative views and change our understanding.

Timing: Reactions are instantaneous and reflexive, guiding us in situations that require quick action. On the other hand, a response grows from the internal alchemy of a momentary pause, enabling us to craft a thoughtful and bespoke reply.

Sophistication: Reactions are primitive and tend to be among the dumbest of possible replies to this moment. They sacrifice nuance in exchange for less processing and therefore increased speed. A response, however, combines self-awareness with non-judgmental insight, resulting in a more refined and wise approach.

How someone reacts does not define who they truly are as a living being. It merely reflects the conditioning they carry. Understanding this, we realize that a reaction is not more authentic than a response; quite the opposite.

Coming from an older and more primitive version of the world, dominated by fight-or-flight decision-making for survival, reactions continue to propagate in our modern era. From polarizing news media to viral videos, the lowest common denominator continues to dull the flavor of reality.

Given this knowledge, how would you choose to live?

#spirituality #psychology #mindfulness #yoga #meditation #buddhism #hinduism

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autistichalsin · 4 months

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Both Karlach and Halsin are buff capable adults with strong morality, but inside THEY ARE KIDS FULL OF JOY TO BE ALIVE IN THE WORLD FULL OF WONDERS as Oak Father Intended

So strong, so fragile, as life itself LET THEM LOVE LET THEM BE

GOD BUT THIS PART.

They're adults, traumatized, with both having experienced the worst the world can offer, having their freedom and autonomy denied to them, socially isolated. Both have the Outlander background. Both lost their families, both are war veterans.

Yet they both are still so full of love and joy. Halsin is unable to show it the way he wants to when we meet him, while Karlach never wavers from it, yet at the end they're both able to show who they are. How they love LIFE itself more than anything, how they're so full of kindness and compassion and love to protect the weak.

Karlach isn't certain she wants kids at first, but Halsin is- yet when you bring the idea up to her, she warms to it at once. She also teases the idea of getting a "really mean goat." You know who loves all life, all animals? Halsin.

If you bring Karlach to the love dryad and are asked where she'll be in 10 years, you can say "worshipping Selune"; Karlach responds that she's nice, but Karlach is more of a sunshine girl herself.

Sunshine.

What is Halsin's quest about again? Bringing something back to a certain cursed land?

... Right. SUNLIGHT. "If the sun shines on this place once more..."

Sunlight is essential for life. Essential for plants to grow. Halsin wants to infuse life and light back into the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and Karlach alludes to the god of sunlight as being perhaps the only one she'd consider becoming a follower of.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE? If Karlach asks Halsin for stories, he mentions how while everyone wants the most exciting chapters, he spends plenty of time hibernating in bear form. Karlach gets excited, saying "sleep AND adventure! Maybe I'll come back as a bear in some future life!"

IF THAT ISN'T SYMBOLISM, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS!

Both are protective of those who need it most. Both have a great deal of empathy. Karlach is more childish in many ways than Halsin, but this could help him let his playful side out more, while Halsin's maturity could help ground Karlach when she needs it. Karlach is always raring to go for a good fight, never straying from what needs to be done, while Halsin is more pragmatic and able to understand when a fight will accomplish nothing. They offset each other in so many good ways while retaining the same core personality- warm, loving, full of life and care and compassion.

Both are touch-starved; you can see how Halsin reacts to being hugged in the epilogue, stating that he always needs a hug and if he ever refuses one, to assume he's been replaced by a doppelganger, while Karlach went without for TEN YEARS. Both are socially isolated, Halsin having been made a sex slave, lost his family, endured the Shadow Curse, and then forced into a leadership role, while Karlach lost her family too, was dragged into hell to fight for ten years where none of her "comrades" would have been worth talking to, and now faces a terminal illness on top of that.

In all the party banters in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, it's KARLACH who shows the most concern for Halsin's mental state, who is horrified when he talks about what he witnessed and how it still affects him. A soft "poor man" in one, and a "stay strong, bear man, we're still here" in another. Karlach is able to see that just once, Halsin wants to be soothed the way he does for others. And similarly, it's Halsin to tell her he "will not try to soothe her with gilded words" but that he "is still here" for her when Karlach finally realizes the truth of her impending death, because Halsin can see that in that moment, Karlach doesn't want to be told it'll be okay; she wants to be told that she isn't alone, that her presence, for however short a time it'll linger, will be cherished by those close to her. Instinctively, they understand these needs the other has at their worst, darkest moments.

I just love them a lot, okay?

#halsin #halsin silverbough #karlach #karlach cliffgate #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #furioso

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yeyinde · 1 year

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SFW Alphabet | Captain John Price

(It takes a long time to chip away at the scar tissue that covers him, hide-thick. But when you do, when those walls fall, his head lifts, eyes shining bright like a pool of azure in the morning glow, full of love and affection, and now—finally, finally— catching sight of what was there all along, that he's what you deserve, it's all worth it. Every moment.)

—notes: so sorry this took forever!!

A—AFFECTION | how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?

B—BAD HABITS | what bad habits do they have?

It's subtle at first. A gradual build, a slow burn. Ever the pragmatic leader, he's always checking on everyone. Looking them over, eyes darting between everyone. It's normal. Expected. There is something reassuring in the weight of his gaze. No matter how bad things go, there is stability to be found in the cerulean that skims over you.

It's brief, fleeting. He trusts those he surrounds himself with more than anything, and he sits on the belief that if you were injured, you'd tell him.

But then changes. The quick seconds stretch a little longer each time. His gaze lingers, and you find yourself meeting his stare more often than not.

It grows from there. The deeper you fall into his orbit, the more it branches out. His gaze is accompanied by a touch—knuckles bushing over your forearm (“alright?”), his fingers curling over your wrist ("careful, love, watch the pothole;"). Small touches that begin to linger, blooming into more. His hand is steady on the base of your spine. fingers ghosting across the small of your back when he leads you somewhere, knuckles brushing when you walk side by side. The heat of his body when he stands close to you (that becomes progressively warmer the closer he gets). His eyes find you, instantly. Cutting across a crowded room.

It warms you when you notice. When you step away to go to the washroom and find him looking up periodically, searching for you.

His affection comes in shades that get darker and darker the closer you get to him, until you find yourself feeling almost naked, bare, without his eyes on you, his hand on your body.

Price has his vices—cigars, scotch; blame and anger.

The weight of the world rests solely on his shoulders, and while he trusts the men around him to do their job, he takes the losses harder. It’s he who failed. He carries it with him, tucked into the scar tissue and the tension lines in the creases of his forehead, and the corners of his eyes. The headaches from clenching his jaw so tight.

He's an intense man. A looming storm, always battle-ready. His anger simmers low in his veins, a constant buzz under his skin. It gets easier to reign in when he has an outlet for his rage, but he slips. He's animated and biting. He'll cut you to the core, and mean everything he says. There is no hold-barred in a true battle. Claymore at the ready, he'll dig into your vulnerable points (a finely crafted captain; a man made in death), until you're leaking hurt.

But he'll never get to that point with you. He holds himself back until his nails bite into his palm. He'll storm away first. Leave. He needs space to work through his emotions, and the last thing he ever wants is to be a man like his father—throwing dishes and hands—but he gets agitated, and he can't help himself. He feels the urge to break brimming in his joints.

He'll tell you he's leaving, and he expects you to understand why. There is a line there; a delicate precipice he walks each day.

He will never hurt you. Ever. But he doesn't trust himself as much as you do. He needs distance because all he can see on your face is his mum, and he hates that his words sound just like his father.

C—CUDDLE | do they like to cuddle? how do they like to cuddle the most?

D—DATE | ideal date

He likes to have you on him. Wants your head tucked under his chin, your hand on his chest, your leg thrown over his hip. He wants to keep you there forever, nestled to his side, nails carting through his chest hair. He wants to breathe you in and feel the weight of you, solid and steady, over him. Secure in his arms. Safe and sound.

Sometimes, he likes to be on top of you, keeping you warm and secure in the bracket of his being. Tucked away from the world where nothing can hurt you. His back will take the brunt of it all as he shields you from everything.

E—ENDING | if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

His favourite place would be this dingy little pub that plays classic rock and serves the best scotch in town. He'd bring you in the evening, tuck you into the corner where you both can sit together, and talk. He isn't a man who likes to chit-chat, but he likes the little ways you show your embarrassment whenever you have the full weight of his attention. You're smart and funny. He could listen to you talk for hours about nothing. It relaxes him.

He knows you probably had better—fancy french restaurants, sunset strolls by the sea—but this is the place where he feels he can truly let his guard slip just a little bit, and he wants to share that with you.

This is where he'd spent a great deal of time in his early career, nursing shot after shot until the demons were chased away in the malt that burned his lips, and stained his chin. It's where he picked himself up from his bootstraps and became the man he is today.

You won't know any of this, and he'd never tell you, but he thinks you somehow feel it. You ease into him. Words softer indoors. You share stories over chips, and he gets to enjoy the way the fairy lights outside catch your eyes.

For him, he prefers to bring you places of familiarity, of comfort. Small, intimate alcoves away from the worries of life. He likes to see your eyes grow a little hazy as you try his scotch, and misty when you choke on his cigar.

Direct. Blunt. There is no sense in dragging it out or mincing words. He's shattering your heart, of course, but it's a surgeon's cut. Precise and exact. You barely feel the blade when it slips into your flesh, but it's doused in finality. He's made his mind up, and there is no changing it.

F—FAMILY | do they want one?

G—GIFTS | how do they feel about gifts? how do they give them?

Yes. A big one. As big a one as you'll give him.

The idea of family has been ingrained in his head since he was young. A nuclear unit. A traditional British household. His ideals are much less rigid compared to his father's, but he's always been a man who craved kinship. He wants to bask in the extraordinary, the mundane, and the ugly with you and any number of children you'll allow him. It’s something he dreams and thinks about quite often.

If he had it his way, he'd fill up a house. Every room full. All bursting with life.

H—HUGS | how would they hug you? is it common for them to hug you?

Open moments of affection make him shift in his seat, a touch uncomfortable. He was raised a certain way, and often finds himself feeling undeserving of whatever is given to him. He's very subtle. Will stand somewhere, arms folded, lingering. He waits until it's just you and him. A private moment. He both does and doesn't want to be around when you open it.

Sometimes, he'll leave it somewhere for you to find. Other times, he stands in the background as you carefully pull it open. This, too, makes him a touch uncomfortable. The look on your face makes him feel shades softer than he has any right to be. You make him want to be a better man (and the greatest gift you've ever given him was the conviction in your voice when you tell him that he already is.)

In a casual setting, it would be one arm looped around your shoulders, tucking you into his side. The front of his body would be positioned away from you. It might seem distant and unfeeling, but he likes having you against him, and folded into the crease of his body where he can protect you the most.

Sometimes, he’ll break. After a long mission away, when he finally has a chance at peeling off the skin he wears that keeps the world in check, he’ll latch onto your wrist, and pull you close. One arm will brace against your back from hip to mid-back, and the other is looped tight around your shoulders. He locks you in completely, and crushes you to his chest. Not a silver of space will exist from where his heart beats beneath his fatigues, and where yours pounds from under your shirt.

(He is also quite a big fan of wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling your back to his chest as he leans over your shoulder in the morning, and brushes his teeth or helps you chop the veg.)

It takes a moment—a second for that part of his brain to begin to ebb into civilian normalcy, the one that is always (forever) locked in combat, one that he only gets to lock away when he’s with you; when he’s safe—and then he melts into you. A sigh leaves his chest and you feel the rattle of it through your bones as it travels through his esophagus, and out of his raw throat. It leaves his lips, stifled in the net of your hair.

Price will pull you in closer, closer still, and then draw a deep, deep breath. He’ll hold you for as along as he can.

(He is also quite a big fan of wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling your back to his chest as he leans over your shoulder in the morning, and brushes his teeth or helps you chop the veg.)

I—INJURY | how do they react if you get injured?

J—JEALOUSY | are they the jealous type? how do they deal with it?

Apoplectic fury. Enough to rattle the ground in the sheer magnitude of his anger.

Sometimes, he's good at stifling it. If it happened on the battlefield, when people's lives are at stake, he'll stem the geyser with responsibility. With purpose. No mistakes can be made out here. He has one focus, and that's getting everyone out safely. Other times, it erupts. It froths over in the hoarseness of his voice, words ripped out from deep within his chest. It's an aching cry, drenched in desperation. His rage is palpable. His eyes are burning sapphires, sharper than daggers. His fury is molten, but his resolve is ice-cold. Whoever did it, no matter who it was, will pay.

He stands tall, firm, amid it all; weathers the storm until it's finished.

But in the quiet of his own mind, his home, he crumbles.

He blames himself for it all. If only he was stronger, faster, smarter, better he could have saved you. No amount of absolution, no words nor evidence, will ever shake this guilt, but he won't wallow in it. Like all of the losses in his life, he sharpens them into weapons and wields them like a claymore. You can tell him you're fine, you're okay, but it is another weight added to the rest.

K—KISS | their favourite way to kiss you

He isn't a very jealous person. He's confident in himself, in your devotion to him. He knows you'd tell him if you were ever wavering.

But sometimes, he wonders if you're sure. If you're okay with a gruff, irritable man like him.

You deserve better than a man shaped by rough hands.

Seeing you with someone better makes him jealous, makes him seethe. He wants to give you distance, and trust, to let you decide what you want for yourself. But he can't.

He stands behind you, hands curled into the straps of his vest or on the lapels of his jacket, and stares them down.

"There a problem here?" He lowers his voice when he speaks. The muffled sound of a denotation in the distance. Eyes narrowed into slits. "No? Then fuck off."

It's childish, really. Stupid. But he likes the way you ease into him when you know he's standing behind you. When you turn, eyes wide and dark, and breathe out a shaky word of gratitude. It's become routine for him to pull you away into his office, and fuck you stupid. Until all you think about is him, and how good he makes you feel.

(Sometimes, he thinks you stage these little moments because you like his possessiveness, his jealousy, more than you let on.

And maybe he just likes to indulge you a little bit.)

L—LOVE CONFESSION | how did they confess their love?

His fingers thread through your hair, gripping a fistful at the base of your skull, and the other slung around your waist, locking you to him. No escape—not that you ever would, but he likes trapping you in the heft of his body. Likes when you squirm against him. When you push and push at his broad chest, and tremble when you realise how very negligible give there is. It makes him feel powerful in a way that is so different from orchestrating a successful recon, a mission. A man made of granite touching something soft.

Price kisses with finesse. A burning cigar left smouldering in an ashtray. He batters you into submission and kisses you like he's teaching you a lesson in discipline. In docility.

He doesn't relent until your knees quiver, and your lips and cheeks are rubbed raw, chafed by the coarse hair on his face. He locks you to him and takes his fill of you.

He leaves you feeling ruined, and conquered. And when he pulls back, taking in the heaves of your chest as you gulp for air, the redness of your lips, cheeks, and chin, and the dazed look in your eyes, you've never seen him quite so satisfied as you do then.

M—MEMORY | what are their best and worst memories?

Like everything about him, it's pointed. Concise.

He plays the long game—has to, really—and by the end of it all, of years dancing around each other until the steps become ingrained in your joints, saturated in muscle memory, he sneaks up on you. He takes you somewhere private. Tells you about his past, the scars he carries, his guilt, his failings, his shortcomings, his regrets, his selfishness—it almost feels like he's pushing you away, and giving you a laundry list of reasons to reject him. And in many ways, he is. He won't tell you about any of the good, only the bad. He'll lay his ugliness out to you, bereft of sympathy, and force you to reconcile the notion of good within him.

It doesn't work, of course. He might just see the residuum of artillery fire on his skin, but you see the grit of a man determined to sacrifice himself for it all.

You think it's a bittersweet moment when you accept, when you turn to him and say I love you, too, John.

There is winning the war and the celebration of your victory, but John is not a man who would ever forget the battles lost, and you see those shadows amid the happiness that simmers.

"Hope you know what you're gettin' yourself into," he says, as if he didn't give you every reason possible to say no, but you still said yes. "It ain't gonna be pretty, love."

And it isn't. It's ugly and brutal and full of empty promises and barren words spoken with the flavour of his vices, of things he'll never give up, and everything he wants but won't take. It's a lesson in patience and fortitude and tests your mettle every day, but you would never pick differently.

There is a stunning, ethereal beauty in the breaking of it all. In the way it shatters around you. You're cut up and scarred along with him, but it's a battle you fight together. One you win, hand-in-hand.

N—NIGHTMARE | do they have them? what are they about? reactions?

His best memory is getting out of Hereford. Of graduating and leaving home for the first time at eighteen. Everything was purged from that moment. He had a path, direction.

His worse memory is all the men he lost, the ones he promised to bring home when he was a novice, idealistic, in his youth; and all the widows he made along the way.

O—OPEN | how long did it take for them to open up to you?

He has them. Always. They sneak up on him in slow increments when he lets himself be lulled into the false sense of security that the comfort of your embrace brings.

They're always about the same thing. Isolation. He's locked in a room, shackled to a chair. All around him are bare walls. Empty. Grey. Nothing. He can hear sounds coming from just outside of the room. Yells, screams of agony, terror. They rise each night. Every dream sharpens the howls around him until they bleed with clarity.

They're the agonised shrieks of his men. His men. The ones he implicitly promised to help, to bring home.

He has to get up. He has to. Has to. The shackles fall. The chain clatter to the ground.

And—

He can't move. His legs are paralysed. Not from some phantom weight or some outside force, but from—

His commander stands above him, drenched in the blood of his comrades, and says: don't move. Let them die.

He tries to fight. To open his mouth. But he can't. Can't. He—

"Let them die."

(He does. He does. He—)

He wakes up with his heart in his throat, choking him. Cutting off the air from getting into his lungs. He presses his hand to his jaw just to feel his skin under his palm. Just to know he can. Freedom. He's not trapped.

You will find him hours later in his study or standing on the deck, smoking a cigar (two, three…), and drinking scotch. Black label. He's half finished.

His eyes are red when he looks up, bloodshot and blistered, and—

Vacant. Hollow. He offers a nod, says nothing.

(You don't think he can speak.)

He wants silence. Normalcy. You leave him for a moment, and bring back tea for two, and a book tucked under your arm. You sit with him, drinking your tea, and wait until the shadows dissolve from his eyes.

Until he's back.

His hand falls to yours. His thumb brushes over your pulse point. His skin is clammy. Cold. You let him touch you until the spasms in his joints cease.

"Sorry, love," he'll say.

You always shake your head. "Nothing to be sorry about, dear." Dear. Dear because it's soft and gentle and familial.

You hear his breath stutter in his chest. "Y'right?"

"Are you?"

It takes him a moment to answer. The heat of your skin bleeds into his.

He clears his throat. Then: "getting there. Sit with me for a moment longer, will you?"

You tuck a smile behind the pages of Ulysses. "Always."

A long time. Price is not a soft man on the battlefield. He is a leader, shouldering the lives of every man and woman who crosses paths with him. He might not remember every name at the start, but when the dust has settled, and the loss stack higher and higher. He carries them with him, tucked deep in the pockets of his heart. He's guarded, and distant. A protector, despite his insistence that he isn't. He doesn't want to burden you with his woes, his grievances. He keeps them, a rotten secret, as close to his chest as possible.

But he breaks slowly. The crushing of a geode. It happens when he loses someone he trained with, someone from his youth. It takes a tragedy for him to unfurl, to open up.

It is a little bit like chiselling a dam. The first splinter is a trickle of water. Then a rush. Then a spray. And finally deluge.

It's still held back by crumbling concrete, but he's open with you, now. When he comes home, he likes to lay his head in your lap, and tell you about all the things he couldn't do.

He isn't looking for sympathy—he never is. He just wants you to listen.

P—PAST | how has their past changed them, has it made them better or worse?

His past changed and shaped him in many ways. It’s the catalyst for him becoming the man he is today and instilled a strong sense of justice within him. However, it’s not a happy one, and it also moulded and cultivated that necessary darkness he carries in order to complete the mission given him to—no matter the cost.

Like many things, he takes it to the chin. Brutal, blunt.

It takes a lot to crumble him. He locks his vulnerable emotions in a brassbound box, and keeps it tucked inside a crevasse where it can't be seen, nor touched.

The spillover seeps into his veins where bubbles into anger, an old comfort for him. He's an apoplectic storm on the horizon. Sadness is bottled lightning; a livewire in a stagnant pond.

He uses it to push forward.

Q—QUIET | what are quiet moments like with them?

Price sits in his favourite velvet green armchair, a report spread out in front of him. A glass of scotch is on the table. A cigar pinched between his fingers. The game plays on the television, turned low but still loud enough to keep track of what was happening. Everton was losing. He huffs when he sees it, and mutters something about messaging Simon later to really rub it in.

You read, mark papers, play on your phone.

No words need to be uttered. The atmosphere is rich with tranquillity.

It's the cosiness of a warm home in the middle of winter. A hot cup of tea within reach, made perfectly and still billowing with steam. It's pressing your fingers to the pages of a well-loved book, and falling in the margins of a story you never grow tired of.

It is simplicity in its purest form.

His hand stretches over the end table, palm facing up. Your fingers slip in the gaps. It's not a perfect fit, but his worn, rough hands are the closest to home you've ever felt.

R—RAINY DAY | what are they like in the rain?

He gets a touch morose in the rain. A shade quieter, distant. Lost in thoughts of a time you're not privy to, a world when he was a boy on the verge of becoming a man. A man following in a path carved out of blood and grit. Soot and ash. Battles play in the recesses of his eyes; sapphire artillery smoke, gunpowder in hues of blue.

You wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your chest to his warm back, and listen, in silence, to the rain pelting the window until he's ready to come back to you.

Other times, he basks in the nostalgia of his childhood. Wet pavement, thick smog and petrichor. Says it reminds him of Hereford.

He got shot, he tells you, off-handedly, when he was a grunt in the mountains of Bulgaria, and ever since his leg acts up when it rains.

Swats at you when you tell him that's just old age.

S—SADNESS | how do they deal with sadness?

It takes a lot to crumble him. He locks his vulnerable emotions in a brassbound box, and keeps it tucked inside a crevasse where it can't be seen, nor touched.

The spillover seeps into his veins where bubbles into anger, an old comfort for him. He's an apoplectic storm on the horizon.

(Sadness is bottled lightning; a livewire in a stagnant pond.

He uses it to push forward.)

T—TIME | how long did it take you to get together?

Years. He's known about his attraction to you much earlier, and—of course—your attraction to him for just as long, but he’s a slow-burn. The equivalent of lighting a cigar and leaving it to smoulder on its own. He won’t act on his feelings until all the variables have been weighed, and measured; until he knows, unequivocally, what he wants from this.

And even then—he still holds out.

Pursuing this man isn’t easy. He won’t make it so. He’ll linger in the equinox of pushing you away and keeping you close; know he shouldn’t but he yearns.

U—UNMOVABLE | what opinion will never change, no matter what goes against them?

Sometimes, he has to do things that are considered questionable or morally dubious. He has to get blood on his hands; to him, this is just another facet of eventual peace. He doesn't regret any of his actions—can't, really, or he'll crumble under the weight of his guilt.

V— VICIOUS | what makes them vicious, do they try to hide it or overcome it?

Injustice makes him seethe—a lingering byproduct of his past, his childhood, when he was too weak, too brittle, too young, to do anything to help anyone. Seeing it now makes him brim with fury.

Betrayal, too. He's quick to anger, especially when the lives of his men, innocent people, and those he cares about are being threatened or stifled by politics and political gain. He has little patience for the process, and prefers to operate under his own moral compass.

He uses his viciousness on the battlefield to his advantage. He does not try to hide or overcome it.

At home, he tries to keep it locked away. He isn't a bully but his anger makes him quite cross a lot of the time. Irritated.

He's biting. Condescending. A gruff cut of a man with not just a chip on his shoulder, but a gorge. He fills the gap with duty and obligations, but it surprises you at just how surly he is sometimes. Snide comments, the Looks. It stacks up.

He isn't cruel, and outside of tense situations with enemies, it's quite funny. His biting sarcasm is toned down with a gruff sincerity.

When out on a date, or grocery shopping, expect to hear something mean slip from his lips if the person in front of you is walking too slow, or there are no more shopping carts.

It's often easier to hide your smile behind your hand, and give a weak apology on his behalf.

(But he's very typical of the English—they could serve him raw chicken on a plate, and he wouldn't say a word to the waitstaff until they came around again, finally noticing the squawking bird. He'd glance at his plate, and mutter: "a few more minutes, I reckon.")

W—WARRIOR | how do they feel about you fighting? would they fight for you, beside you, etc?

Price would be your biggest ally and your biggest opponent.

If it's your choice, then he would accept it. He understands the fire, the want to protect, to save. But if you didn't measure up, he would tell you. If you couldn't make it through the tough training regime, he'd be blunt and honest.

He would fight the world for you, and himself as well. He fights for you, really, every day.

He wants to fight beside you—to be there to offer that extra inch of protection, to be the stopgap between life or death, but he also knows you can't be a distraction. You can't be someone he worries about when he has others to bring home.

X—XTRA | a random headcanon for them

He doesn't like the silence. Doesn't like being alone with his thoughts for too long. They creep up on him in stagnancy.

Y—YEARN | how do they deal with yearning?

He compartmentalises it. Pushes it aside. It itches under his skin, but he's long since learned not to scratch at phantom wants.

When it becomes unbearable, he allows himself a small moment to simply gaze at something that reminds him of you. Abstract concepts that will never lead back to you—a family passing by, a weeping willow, lilacs in bloom, the bright moon in the inky black aether—but each one holds a special meaning to him, and makes him feel closer to you than ever before.

(Sometimes, he might crack. Might call you once, and only once, just to hear your voice. A random number a world away. You never answer, but he doesn't want you to. He knows he'll never be able to hang up if you did. He listens to your voicemail, saccharine and soft, and then he turns his phone off before the beep.)

Z—ZEN | what makes them calm?

—I absolutely want to stress that these are just my own personal thoughts and headcanons on Price. If you don't agree, that's perfectly fine! character interpretations are entirely subjective, and what I infer from a character will differ from people's perspectives. 🖤

You. Your head on his chest. Your hands on his skin. The weight of you pressing into his marrow.

And a clean cigar. A neat scotch. Comforts, vices. It's all the same to him.

#captain john price #this too so long #ugHHHHH #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x you #john price x reader #cod price #john price cod #captain price #captain john price x you #captain john price headcanons

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ofallthingsnasty · 7 months

Note

my birthday gift? can i- can i really ask for something i want? well… can i move upstairs, kento? i-i promise i’ll behave… please… i feel so scared here everytime you go to work… (for nanamin since you said you write for jjk! hehe)

tags: yandere, past kidnapping, telltale signs of stockholm (uh oh)

The hand loosening his tie stills.

His brows furrow, then his shoulder slacks. You know the gesture, Nanami is thinking about what to say.

Strained eyes find yours, searching your face - for what, you don’t know. Is it too much to ask for? The flowers had been nice this morning, as far as twisted birthday wishes from the man who has kept you in his home for months go, but you getting a shred of human decency back seems more thoughtful than an elegant bouquet full of your favorites. You know by now that there is no way out of this situation and it would be nice to make your life more bearable. Access to a proper kitchen. A couch. Maybe you could watch TV?

A sigh. It's not born from annoyance (it never is, annoyance isn't something he seems to feel when it comes to you and you pray it stays that way) but resignation, from a heavy burden only he bears.

He’s taking too long to answer, you realize and a tiny spark of worry flits through your gut.

There is nothing to fear, you tell yourself.

He can be reasonable, pragmatic. Not manipulated but guided towards a more favorable outcome if your needs and wants are sensible, humble.

Nanami isn't cruel. Somewhere in his mind, it all makes sense - and for the most part, you think you can follow him, can come to the same conclusions, to the most logical outcome.

Maybe you’re finally going stir-crazy enough that you’d call your abductor reasonable.

But he still knows something you don’t. This strange, silent man who comes home to you, clothes finely speckled with blood more often than not, lives in a different world from yours. Where someone leaves the house in a proper suit and a pinched face only to return late, with grip of steel on your shoulders and the smell of physical exertion on their clothes. Where it seems sane to kidnap someone unassuming like you and put them in a basement for safekeeping.

There is something going on beyond your scope - you’d be stupid not to sense it by now, but you are starting to think that he’d rather die than tell you.

“It’s not a matter of good behavior”, he finally says and his voice is guarded, cool. “It’s a matter of safety.” Safety. You’ve had this conversation many times, you think, this is just a different version of it.

His rejection leaves your eyes hot - you feel like a scolded child being denied one too many treats. Maybe you’re just greedy. Trying your luck on an already excellent day.

“But I’m scared-”, you push out quickly and let the words hang in the air, because they are true.

How many times have you thought about how long the water would last you down here if he ever bit off more than he could chew and never came home again (and you’re sure the day will come, you know it will), if anyone would ever go looking for you because you doubt a single person is aware of your presence.

He pinches the bridge of his nose before you can spiral further, but the damage is done.

“I am aware”, he says, exhausted. “And I understand-”

The tears that finally spill from your eyes interrupt him.

He looks at you for a moment as you try to straighten yourself back out, ashamed of your hot temper cooking over and leaving you to show weakness in front of the one man you shouldn't.

His brow softens ever so slightly as he watches you, every crease caused by his work smoothed over with tenderness for your miserable state. It's humiliating.

"I understand your predicament. And I'll see what can be done."

You nod. Through the tears and the burning air in your nose, you nod.

You know he means it. It's a promise when he says it like that - not a promise for you to finally get out of the dingy basement, but a promise to figure something out.

How much of your wish will come true will be up to his estimation but you allow yourself to feel a tiny glimmer of hope - and allow him to tuck you under his heavy arms as he unbottons his shirt ever so slightly, ending the conversation with the tiny gesture.

Yes, you’re definitely losing it to consider this exchange at least a partial success.

#tw.yandere #yandere jjk #yandere nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #mini birthday event #jjk x reader

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dustofthedailylife · 1 year

Text

"As The Youngsters Say"

HC // Alhaitham x (gn!) Reader [crack, fluff]

Alhaitham, despite being a Haravatat scholar and being fluent in over twenty languages, struggles to understand modern slang terms at times.

Flowery language eludes him already, as he acts strictly pragmatic and always tries to speak as concise as possible. To him, it's nothing but a waste of time; which is illogical. Why would he want to speak in an overcomplicated way, when he can get the same point across a better way in less time?

Slang falls into the same category for him. He doesn't understand why someone would need to make up new words or phrases that convey the same meaning as already existing words. To him, it just overcomplicates communication, that he is already trying to keep at a minimum with most people.

"So basically, the TL;DR was that I brainrotted about... why are you looking at me like that?" you interrupted yourself, wondering why Alhaitham looked at you with such a confused expression. "What you just said. What does it mean?" he inquired, looking a little bit distressed because he didn't understand what you were trying to say. "Huh? But I didn't say anything relevant yet-" "The acronym you just used. TLDR?" "Oh, that's short for 'too long, didn't read'" you explained. "But we're speaking, I didn't have the chance to read anything so, how could it be too long?" "It's not meant literally, it's-" "And what's a brainrot? I'm certain that your brain isn't rotting?" Archons help you...

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me!

#alhaitham x reader #genshin impact #astronetwrk #alhaitham #al haitham #genshin x reader #genshin crack #genshin fluff #genshin fanfic #genshin scenarios #genshin brainrot #genshin headcanon #genshin drabbles #🍁 dust brainrot #🍁 dust blurbs

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littlejuicebox · 3 months

Text

Midnight Chimes 4 / Ringleader

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader Warlock.

Word Count: 2,415

Summary/Setting: You and Astarion have met before, though you think it meant more to you than it did to him. You are an apothecary shop owner that has recently gained some mysterious Warlock powers; Astarion is, in your eyes, a rake that you wouldn’t trust as far as you can throw him. You two run into one another again after the nautiloid crash.

Preview:

It hadn’t really been you that found the three new party members, after all. It had been your patron. The blasted thing seemed to alternate between completely ignoring you and positively strong arming you into submission. And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby. But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job? Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Warnings: eventual smut and gore 18+ / in game spoilers / angst, trauma, fluff

A/N: Finally feeling (almost) 100% back to my normal, healthy self! Thank you for the good vibes and well wishes! <3

The warlock, the wizard, and the rogue.

This little group started off with the makings of some ridiculous fairytale your parents would have read to you before bed.

Though, despite your parents wishes, you hadn’t really been a child interested in fairytales and make believe. Your penchant for pragmatics had developed early on, and before long mama and papa had all but given up on their dreams of a perfect princess daughter. In her place stood some sort of mad scientist… at least in their eyes.

You hadn’t actually been mad. Not then, at least. Though you were starting to worry that between the parasite and your patron, you might truly be going crazy now. No doubt the two were at war, trying to determine who would wrestle ultimate control of your mind.

Should you simply choose between the lesser of two evils, when your fate already feels sealed as it is?

Gale and Astarion had blindly followed your lead the first day, and remained silent every time you decided to stop and change course, prodded in another direction by the celestial being playing with your psyche. This abrupt switch in traveling plans led you all to Lae’zel, where you convinced the tieflings to let her go, and Shadowheart, as she desperately tried to break open the door of some abandoned ruins.

Astarion had simply picked the lock of the ruins, earning him some clout among the others for his skill set and further suspicion from you. After all, why exactly did a man like Astarion have any need for a skill like that?

Subsequently, the five of you explored the dank, dilapidated building. After downing a handful of humanoids and some reanimated corpses, the group happened upon a strange, skeletal being named Withers. He said he would see you again soon.

After a relatively restless night in camp, you all happened upon the Grove on the second day of exploration. Some druid named Halsin is missing, though it turns out he may be the answer to your little predicament, Nettie tried to poison you (stupid, really, to try to poison an apothecary with one of the most basic tricks in the book), you saved a little tiefling thief from death, and then you met Wyll… all in a couple of hours.

The Blade of Frontiers is looking for some devil he’s supposed to kill; he’s also got a tadpole in his head, and like Gale, seems in relatively good spirits for such a grim situation. Those two seem suspiciously well-adjusted.

The entire journey thus far had only been two days long and exceedingly… well, odd.

It was certainly a much different experience from your day to day of brewing potions and tending the shop. You wanted nothing more than to return to the comforts of city life. But instead, you were forced to be the unwilling ringleader of this circus, despite your protests on the matter.

You are discussing your concerns about leadership with Gale as the group takes a short rest not far from the Grove. Wyll is gathering the last of his supplies and will meet up with all of you in mere moments.

“Oh, but you’re doing a fantastic job, Demetria!” Gale exclaims, somehow unfailingly supportive of a woman he barely knew.

Oh, how you wished to trust anyone half as much.

“You have such remarkable intuition. We wouldn’t have found Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Wyll, or all this great loot without you!” He continues, before gesturing to a handful of gold and scrolls while positively beaming.

The wizard clasps a friendly hand on your back and then scans the surrounding area. He smiles at you once more, “Now I plan to make myself useful and harvest some flora! If you plan to make use of that newly procured cauldron, I best give you materials to work with.”

You smile softly and nod at the wizard before he disappears into the shrubbery. Brewing potions was easy; you could craft all the basic ones by memory alone. But leading a group of people through the wilds based on some sort of fabled intuition and instinct? You weren’t so sure about that.

And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby.

But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job?

Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Astarion is perched on a fallen log, basking in the midday sun’s rays. He’s the picture of relaxation, as if this entire sordid affair is a holiday away from Baldur’s Gate.

Sure, the pale elf had been helpful in battle, and he seemed to have a strange knack for opening locks, but as far as participating in camp efforts went, he certainly left a lot to be desired. You should have guessed as much. With the princely attitude and haughty confidence, it was likely he was merely another spoiled, rich elf. He reminded you of…

Nevermind.

You look to Shadowheart, hoping to pursue a conversation with the woman, but she is a few feet away, resting on her knees in prayer. Lae’zel is also preoccupied as she meticulously sharpens her already deathly blade. You’ve spent almost all day trying to intentionally avoid Astarion and keep any conversation with him to a minimum. But as everyone else seems busy doing their own thing, you’re left with no choice but to take a few minutes of reprieve near the rogue.

You sigh and nestle yourself on the ground, unwilling to take the empty spot on the log next to Astarion; sitting like an animal in the dirt seemed the better option for your pride. As you lean back to stretch your aching muscles, the warm country breeze picks up, swirling around the elf’s silver curls. You are sitting downwind from the rogue, and the gust pushes a whiff of bergamot and rosemary in your direction.

You can’t help it. The fragrance angers you. Astarion hadn’t even written to you once, even to send a simple rejection or at least compliment your sample. He’d wasted your time on your last few hours of vacation three years ago. All for what, exactly?

He hadn’t even gotten to bed you, which had surely been his goal, in the end.

You glare at him, in all his world-endingly beautiful privilege, as he simply lounges about in the sun as if nothing is wrong.

“It seems you liked my perfume sample enough to procure a rip off of it, but not enough to write.” You state coolly, watching the pale elf as he snaps his eyes open to study you. You notice him thinking, no doubt calculating some sort of smooth response.

“You can save the piss-poor excuses, Astarion.” You sigh, now reaching into your pack, trying to find the small vial of perfume oil you’d had inside your robes when that ship snatched you up. You open the vial and take a deep breath, basking in the comfort of familiarity.

It smelled like home. Like your quaint little townhome, in Waterdeep. Too bad scents can’t transport you back in time… at least not literally.

There are a few beats of silence as Astarion watches you.

“I do apologize for not recognizing you before, and for not writing…” He begins, slowly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal, “I lost your card. I have a tendency to be… forgetful. And I lose things a lot. But, I did quite like the scent, as you can tell.”

You nod, acknowledging the apology but not willing to acquiesce any further. You cannot decipher if Astarion’s words are the truth or if they are simply honeyed lines meant to subdue you. Your pinky finger presses against the perfume bottle’s rim and you rub a bit of the fragranced liquid behind your ears.

The wind shifts, blowing your thick, dark hair forward around your face, obscuring your vision. You cap the small vial and then quickly tie your hair back. When you are able to see again, Astarion is almost gawking at you, scarlet eyes blown wide in surprise.

He shifts and recovers quickly, jerking his gaze away and running a hand through his windswept curls. When he speaks, his voice has a manufactured, airy nonchalance to it, “It is quite windy out here, isn’t it?”

You don’t respond, and he turns to face you once again. His jaw tenses for a moment, and then he leans back, assessing you once more. He tries another tactic.

“That is… another lovely scent that you’re wearing.” He murmurs, and this time, the genuine, hesitant intrigue in his voice catches you off guard.

“Thank you,” You begin, and despite yourself, you are flattered by his statement. You truly love when others notice and compliment the artistry of your craft. You shrug and offer the vial to Astarion. Perhaps a small olive branch is due, if the two of you are stuck tethered together for who knows how long.

The rogue takes the bottle and inhales the fragrance, and then he emits a noise that sounds something like a soft moan or groan. It’s a deep, uninhibited sound from the back of his throat, almost as if he’s absolutely losing himself in the scent. When he focuses on you again, there’s a relaxed look in his eyes paired with a soft, unguarded smile. It reminds you of the way he looked at you in your parent’s tavern.

“Delicious…” He murmurs, his tone dropping into that salacious one he’d used on you at the tavern all those years ago, when asking if you planned to murder someone with poisons. Something about the way he said the word while staring directly into your eyes, his pupils blown from the fragrance he’d just inhaled, made your face grow hot.

You aren’t interested in a rake, and you won’t be fooled again, you remind yourself. No matter how beautiful the bastard truly is.

You extend your hand out, motioning for the vial and he obliges with a disappointed tut.

“It’s a combination of lavender, sage, and vanilla.” You explain, tucking the precious vial back into your pack.

“And what else? There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s the same thing that was in the sample you gave me.” He responds, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

You laugh in genuine surprise, “Good nose. Are you trying to steal my recipe so that when you return to Baldur’s Gate, you can have an exact duplication instead of the lesser version you have now, Astarion?”

You are partly joking, partly serious.

The elf shakes his head, brows crinkling together in absent thought, “No… merely curious, I suppose. I’ve never smelt anything quite like your concoctions. I have to admit the memory of the scent from that night has… stayed with me. I would have written to you to tell you as much, if I could have. If I hadn’t… lost your card.”

You squint your eyes. There is something genuine in Astarion’s statement, despite the strange excuse about losing the card. Sure, he may have truly lost it. But then, he could have simply returned to the Drunken Dragon and asked your cousin for your address.

The next time you visited your family on holiday, after your conversation with the rake, your cousin indicated the elf hadn’t been by since that night. When you asked about Astarion every year, feigning nonchalance, your family always indicated he hadn’t been seen.

It was almost as if he were avoiding the Drunken Dragon altogether for those three years.

You’d ultimately assumed he moved away… or perhaps died, murdered by one of his jealous lovers.

“It’s dragonsblood… just a drop.” You admit, eyeing the silver-haired elf with suspicious curiosity.

A sudden bark of laughter escapes Astarion’s lips. And then his head tips back and he positively cackles in a mixture of amusement and delight. He seems to find this information exceptionally hilarious. Your brows stitch together in confusion as you watch the rogue chortle.

Sure, it was an unusual additive. But it wasn’t exactly hilarious, was it?

“Dragonsblood!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together in front of him as his eyes crinkle with mirth, “How… unique. You are quite the artist, Demetria.”

You feel the flush rise in your cheeks at the compliment while you murmur another thank you. Surely he’s flattering you, trying to ingratiate himself and hoping you’ll forgive his slight against you, isn’t he?

Astarion’s eyes flit between yours now, and he hums in thought, “You look… different. From my memory at the tavern.”

“Really? Well you didn’t actually remember me at all until the parasite helped you, so I’m not quite sure how reliable your memory of me is. You look the same as I remember.” You deadpan, instantly trying to deflect from his observation.

You know what he means… the ring hadn’t just affected your mind. It has permanently altered the color of your eyes into a strange purple, reminiscent of the cosmos itself. But you aren’t ready to share anything about your patron or the damn ring with anyone else just yet.

Astarion cocks his head, and he is about to say something more, but then Gale is bursting back through the brush. His eyes are wide with apprehension as he looks between you and the rogue. The concerned expression on your otherwise affable campmate causes everyone in the vicinity to quickly rise to their feet.

Gale grimaces as he addresses his new traveling companions with some level of unease, “I think you all might want to see this.”

And then he disappears back into the brush without another word. Part of you thinks you shouldn’t follow him, but you do anyway. After all, how could this possibly get stranger than it already is?

Your patron is laughing again. Poor little apothecary, you have no idea.

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