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fayes-fics · 5 months ago

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The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy.

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement.

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts.

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern. I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss.

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me.

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly.

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought.

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with.

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well?

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it.

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision.

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair.

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise.

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip.

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen.

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in.

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder.

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself.

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you.

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave.

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat.

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?”

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other.

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!”

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…”

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question.

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields.

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?”

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table.

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything.

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.”

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.”

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…”

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers.

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope.

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm.

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth.

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.”

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit.

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, laying prone, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want.

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?”

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion.

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…”

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody.

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval.

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida.

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no?

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water.

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear.

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms.

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you.

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

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Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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misswynters · 2 months ago

Text

A Noxian Christmas

featuring. viktor x reader

apart of the 2024 Christmas Special

Snow dusted the cobblestone streets outside as you glanced out the grand windows of your family’s Noxian estate. The sharp peaks of the towers were festooned with garlands, and the entire house smelled of spiced wine and roasted chestnuts. You had gone all out for this. This was Viktor’s first Christmas with you after all. Despite his initial hesitations, you had convinced him to leave his work behind for a few days and join you in Noxus. It would be a promising and quiet celebration without the chaos of Piltover’s politics. As always.

Viktor stood near the hearth, his golden cane leaning against the arm of a plush chair. He looked slightly out of place amidst the elegance of your home. His thin frame was draped in the dark wool sweater you’d insisted he wear. The warm glow of the fire lit his face as he fiddled with the buttons, muttering something about how “such extravagance” wasn’t necessary. Some might say it was over the top, but since you grew up with it, it was different. It was family tradition after all.

“You’re still adjusting,” you teased, stepping up behind him with a cup of mulled cider. “But trust me, you’ll thank me for getting you out of that freezing lab.”

He accepted the cup with a nod, though his sharp amber eyes scanned the room as if assessing its practicality. “It is different,” he admitted, gesturing toward the enormous tree dominating the center of the room. “I have never seen such a waste of resources in one place.”

“Viktor!” You nudged his shoulder, grinning. “It’s not a waste! It’s tradition. Besides, the tree is fake.” You couldn’t believe yours, viktor criticizing your home. In your own home during christmas season. It was despicable. Unheard of even. Maybe you were being quite dramatic. Though it earned you a small, envious smile.

After dinner which consisted of a quiet but rich meal of roasted duck and Noxian delicacies, you brought Viktor to the foyer where presents waited under the glittering tree. He froze at the sight of the neatly wrapped presents, his brow furrowing. There was quite a few that had his name on them. Some were huge and others were tiny.

“You didn’t need to do this,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.

“Probably not,” you admitted, sitting him down on the couch. “But I wanted to. Now, no arguments and open them.”

He sighed, but there was no real protest as he carefully undid the first present. It was a high-quality leatherbound notebook, its pages thick and unlined. Perfectly suitable for sketches and notes. His fingers ran over the cover, and you swore you saw his expression soften.

“I noticed you always run out of space in your current one,” you said.

“This is very thoughtful of you, my love. ” he said, his voice warm, if a little uncertain. “Thank you.”

“Keep going,” you urged, handing him the next one.

One by one, Viktor unwrapped the gifts: custom-fit gloves designed to protect his hands during lab work, an assortment of rare metals and components he could use for his inventions, and even a set of finely crafted gears engraved with his initials. With each gift, his protests about the extravagance softened, replaced by genuine curiosity and gratitude.

“You truly thought of everything, did you?” he said as he unwrapped a personalized toolkit. “I—this is too much.”

“It’s not too much,” you countered, sitting beside him and resting your head on his shoulder. “You give so much of yourself to your work, Viktor. To helping others. You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

He tilted his head, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “My love,” he said softly, his accent deepened as he called you by your nickname. “I am not used to such kindness.”

“Well, get used to it,” you teased, reaching for his hand. “This is what being with me consists of. Over-the-top holidays and way too many gifts, more than you can count.”

Viktor chuckled, a rare sound that made your chest swell with warmth. “I suppose I should prepare myself for more of these traditions,” he said, though his tone was teasing. “Will there always be so many sweets?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, gesturing toward the tray of pastries you’d brought in earlier. “And don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking another slice of that chocolate tart.”

He flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. “It was adequate.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “Adequate? That tart is a masterpiece, Viktor.”

“I suppose I might require another slice to confirm my theory,” he replied, his tone perfectly deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. The night continued with quiet laughter and more stories shared. Viktor, ever the curious, asked endless questions about your family’s traditions. You told him about the history of the decorations, the origins of the dishes, and even a few embarrassing childhood memories that left him smirking.

As the fire crackled and the snow fell steadily outside, you leaned into Viktor’s side, feeling his arm shift to make you more comfortable. “Thank you for letting me pamper you for once,” you said softly.

He glanced down at you, his amber eyes catching the glow of the firelight. “Thank you for showing me something new,” he said. “Perhaps… I could learn to enjoy these traditions.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, stifling a yawn. “Next year, we’ll make it even better.”

“Next year?” he asked, his tone laced with mock disbelief. “I will need a year to recover from this one.”

You laughed, swatting his arm gently. “Oh, please. You’ll miss it the moment you’re back in that freezing lab.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted quietly, his voice thoughtful. “Though I think it is not the place I will miss.”

You blinked, glancing up at him. The way he looked at you then with a rare, unguarded look. It made your heart stop for a second.

“Merry Christmas, Viktor,” you said softly.

He smiled, leaning his head against yours. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

taglist. @kaixvdenny @ekkosh @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @luneariaa @minagrayson @aliives @mammonsleftring @gxrextxgaidk @anna1-1 @bl-0-ndi-3

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childrenofcain-if · 25 days ago

Note

Oh my beautiful British royal M 😭 I love them so much, they've become one of my favourite Ros of all time ❤️

With my MC being an idiot sandwich (Gordon Ramsay hates to see them coming) of a cook, would M still appreciate the horrible dishes we cook for them 🥺

you woke up slowly, the world filtering in through the haze of sleep. a pale, golden light trickled in through the slatted blinds, painting the room in streaks of honey and shadow.

the first thing you noticed was warmth—the steady, undisturbed heat of another body beside yours. then came the sound: the faint rustle of sheets, the thrum of a radiator doing its best against the january chill. finally, your eyes fluttered open, and there they were.

M, still tangled in their dreams.

they laid on their side, their face half-buried in the pillow, their lips slightly parted in the vulnerability of sleep. you let your gaze wander, drinking in the details as though you were committing them to memory for some far-off day when their face might only exist in the corners of your mind.

their tawny brown skin glowed faintly in the morning light, warm and inviting as a hearth fire. thick brows arched naturally, perfectly framing their face, softening their otherwise regal features. long lashes, dark as ink, cast tiny shadows against their high cheekbones, delicate crescents that you found yourself wanting to trace with your fingertip. and their hair—oh, their hair: silky black even in their sleep, it spilled across the pillow in soft waves, catching the light in a way that made you think of ocean waters at midnight.

you couldn’t help but stare. how could you not? M, always so poised, so impossibly polished, looked achingly human like this. even now, with sleep slackening the angles of their jaw, the curve of their mouth, they carried a quiet elegance.

your gaze lingered on the faint rise and fall of their chest, the way their lips parted just slightly with each breath. it was a rare, unguarded moment, and you let yourself marvel at it, at them.

eventually, though, the tug of wanting to do something nice for your royal partner grew stronger than your desire to stay still. with a quiet sigh, you slipped out from under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed. M stirred slightly, their brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again as sleep reclaimed them.

the air was warm against your skin from the radiator as you padded barefoot across the floor, your eyes drawn to the details of their space.

philosophy dominated the collection on their shelves—aristotle, nietzsche, kant—but there were other titles too on history and poetry. a worn copy of ‘pride and prejudice,’ bookmarks riddling a lot of its pages. a cookbook with smudged pages and handwritten notes in the margins.

a stack of notebooks, their spines worn with use, sat on the desk by the window. you could imagine M bent over them, their umber brown eyes focused, their hand moving in careful strokes as they wrote in their cursive handwriting.

your gaze fell on a framed photograph perched on the right side of the desk, and you picked it up, smiling softly at the image. it was a family portrait of the whitlock-singhs.

their mother, crown princess victoria, stood at the center, her regal bearing softened by the warmth in her eyes. beside her was ranveer, M’s father, his hand resting on her shoulder, his smile wide and infectious. on either side of them were charlotte, M’s older sister, her chin tilted with confidence, and jesse, the youngest sibling, grinning like they held a secret.

and there, in the middle, was M, caught grinning almost as wide as jesse. it was a side of them you rarely saw—a pure, unfiltered joy that made the corner of your lips lift even more.

you then set the photograph back down and tiptoed toward the dorm’s attached bathroom.

it was colder in here, and you shivered as you splashed water on your face, brushing your teeth with one of the extra toothbrush M had stashed under the sink just for you. you found yourself almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you hushed up since you didn’t want M to wake up.

when you returned to the dorm room, M was still asleep, their form barely stirring beneath the covers. you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should slip back into bed, but you knew that this was probably the only rare one of times you’d wake up earlier than them and you just had to make breakfast for your partner this once.

the kitchen of the suite was as pristine as the rest of the dorm, its sleek countertops and gleaming appliances untouched by the impending doom you were about to unleash on them.

you opened the pantry, your fingers brushing against cans of soup, bags of rice, and then there it was: a can of baked beans.

yes, you were about to make the quintessentially british breakfast classic: beans on toast.

you’d noticed the recurring dish, of course, tucked on their plate in the dining hall during mornings despite their protests that they “absolutely do not like it that much.” but the familiarity in the way they ate it, the subtle contentment, had not escaped you.

you knew better. you knew them better.

you gathered the ingredients quickly: bread, beans, butter, some spices. then, on a whim, you searched the cupboards for tea leaves.

you remembered M’s story—how their father, ranveer, used to make masala chai on cold mornings, filling their paternal home in birmingham with the scent of spices and steam. it seemed like the kind of thing that would definitely be a good start to the day.

the kitchen was soon alive with sound and motion—the clatter of pots, the soft scrape of a knife as you buttered bread. you followed a recipe on your phone for the masala chai, measuring out spices before that quickly gave way to guesswork. cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, ginger.

but it turns out, you’d find ways to reach a newer low with your culinary skills—or the lack thereof.

you misjudged the measurements, poured too much milk, and somehow managed to spill the cinnamon sticks across the counter. the scent of cardamom then filled the air, mixing with the faintly burnt smell of beans you’d left unattended.

the chai boiled over, spilling onto the stovetop in a hiss of steam. you scrambled to clean it up, only to knock over the box of sugar in your haste. the bread, forgotten in the toaster, began to blacken, smoke curling up in ominous spirals.

by the time you finished, the kitchen looked like it had survived two world wars and a great depression. the fire alarm went off in a sudden, piercing wail, shattering the morning quiet. you froze, your heart leaping into your throat as the kitchen filled with a thin haze of smoke because of the charred bread.

before you could do anything, M burst into the room, half-dressed and disheveled, clutching a fire extinguisher like they’d just woken up from a dream where they were a firefighter.

“what the bloody hell is going on?” they demanded, their accent even more prominent in their panic.

you held out the plate of completely burnt beans on toast with a sheepish grin. “breakfast?”

their gaze shifted from the plate to the mess behind you—the scorched pot, the spilled sugar, the faintly smoking toaster. they arched a brow, their lips twitching as though they were trying really hard to look exasperated as they set the fire extinguisher down.

they wordlessly moved to turn off the stove with a practiced ease. they then waved a dish towel at the smoke detector until it stopped its shrieking before turning to you.

M stared at you for a long moment, then let out a breathless laugh, the sound both incredulous and amused. “you almost burned the place down trying to make beans on toast?”

“and masala chai,” you mumbled.

they shook their head, running a hand through their dark hair to make it a little less dishevelled. “you’re an absolute menace, love.”

but there was a softness in their eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

the charred remnants of your attempted breakfast lay discarded in the trash bin. M had asked you to clean everything up while they freshened up in the bathroom, and you had complied happily as you did not want to lay your sights on the bioweapon you’d created.

when M re-entered the kitchen, they looked slightly more composed, though still half-dressed, their dark hair damp from a quick rinse, and their face glowing with renewed energy.

but even like this—rumpled and unfinished—they looked like they’d stepped straight out of a portrait.

you, on the other hand, with your flour-dusted hands and the faint smell of singed toast clinging to your clothes, felt more like the before picture in one of those ‘before and after’ glow-up makeover shows.

“right,” M said, surveying the semi-clean kitchen with a raised brow. they rolled up the sleeves of their ralph lauren ivory quarter-zip, revealing forearms you definitely didn’t stare at for longer than a second. “let’s salvage this. i’m teaching you how to cook.”

“do i have a choice?” you muttered, your lips tugging into a reluctant smile.

“not if you plan to survive in this kitchen unsupervised,” they replied dryly.

M wasn’t just good at cooking—they were extraordinary at teaching. they explained things with a clarity that no cookbook or youtube tutorial could ever achieve. their movements were precise, graceful, like choreography, and you tried—emphasis on the ‘tried’—to mimic them. but for every moment of triumph, there were at least three close calls where M had to swoop in to save you from some imminent disaster.

they caught you when you tried to add oil to a pan that was already too hot, yanking the handle out of your hand just before the smoke billowing from it could turn into an inferno. they stopped you from using a knife incorrectly—“oh my days, don’t hold it like that unless you want to lose a finger or two”—and gently redirected your attempts to measure spices with a far more practiced hand.

“this,” they said, holding up a spice jar, “is cumin. you don’t just throw it in like it’s fairy dust. measure it. smell it. taste it if you must. but don’t—” they caught your hand mid-shake, their fingers wrapping around your wrist—“dump it all in like you’re salting a driveway.”

their touch remained a moment longer than necessary, their fingers warm against your skin. you tried to focus on the lesson, nodding shakily as they released you and went back to demonstrating.

despite their guidance, there were still mishaps. a nearly burnt slice of bread here, an accidental poke at yourself from the knife there. each mistake was met with a sigh and a gentle correction, M’s patience never wavering.

by the time you finished, the final product was… well, ‘edible’ felt like a stretch, but it was at least recognizable as food. the toast was unevenly browned, the beans slightly overcooked, but the chai, thankfully, had turned out well—mostly because M had taken over halfway through.

M stood back, surveying the meal with a critical eye.

“you know,” they said, “i never thought teaching you how to cook would be this hard. you’re good at everything else—what happened here?”

you shrugged, a little embarrassed, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “never had to cook growing up. we had private chefs for that. i didn’t exactly have it as a priority either since i was mostly focusing on my academics and extracurriculars.”

their lips quirked upward, amusement lighting their features. “that explains it. well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

you groaned, leaning against the counter. “what if all my cooking ends up like this? what if i accidentally poison someone? or worse, what if it’s so bad that even pigs won’t eat it?”

how could that be possibly worse than poisoning someone, M didn’t ask. they simply chuckled, shaking their head. then, before you could react, they stepped closer, brushing the edge of your lip with their thumb. it took you a moment to realize they were wiping away a smudge of burnt toast that you had to taste test, their touch lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

their umber brown gaze met yours, encouraging and affectionate, and when they smiled, it felt like the first sip of tea on a cold morning—comforting, slow, and impossibly warm.

“if it comes to that,” they assured, their voice low enough that it felt like the words were meant to be tucked away in the most intimate corner of your heart, “i’ll cook for you every day. if that’s what you’d like.”

your face burned, a wave of heat surging from your chest to your ears. in all the time that you’ve been alive, no one had ever said something like that to you before. you tried to muster a response, but all you managed was a nod and a small smile that you were sure looked ridiculous to an outsider looking onto the scene.

“um… thanks,” you mumbled, your voice small as you tried not to propose marriage to them right then and there.

they laughed softly, stepping back to set the table. “come on, let’s see if this breakfast of yours is as bad as you think.”

finally, the two of you sat down to eat. the product of your combined efforts sat between you—a plate of beans on toast that looked... decent enough, you suppose. the masala chai was the star of the show, thanks to M.

overall, the food wasn’t great, but it didn’t look like it’d immediately give you indigestion either—a victory, considering your earlier disaster.

you took a bite, only to wince at how bland it was.

“i swear i put spices in,” you muttered, poking at the toast with your fork as though it might reveal where all the seasonings went to hide under scrutiny.

M, to your utter shock, ate the meal without a single complaint. this was particularly astonishing given their well-documented distaste for most americanised version of indian or british food.

they always had something to say about the lack of proper seasoning, the over-reliance on processed ingredients. but now, here they were, eating your lackluster beans on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone dining at a michelin-star restaurant.

“not bad,” they said finally, setting down their fork.

you stared at them in disbelief. “you’re lying. it’s terrible. come on, you can be honest.”

“the fact that you even tried to make breakfast for me is more than enough,” they said as they leaned back on their chair. “yes, your culinary skills leave much to be desired, and no, i don’t think anybody is going to let you within ten feet of a restaurant kitchen anytime soon, but...” their smile softened, their eyes crinkling at the corners. “if all my meals were made with this much love, i’d eat whatever you make for me every day, meri jaan.”

you stared at them, your chest tight, your heart tripping over itself in an unsteady rhythm. the sincerity in their voice, the way they looked at you like you were something so precious to them—god, it was almost too much.

“though,” they added, a playful glint returning to their eyes, “i’ll definitely have to help you season the food next time. for both our sakes.”

you laughed, the sound breaking the moment’s intensity but not diminishing its warmth. and as you sat there, the morning sunlight streaming through the window, M across from you, their smile brighter than anything else in the room, you couldn’t help but think that maybe almost burning down the kitchen was worth it after all.

#MC doesn’t need their power to kill someone #they can simply give them a homecooked meal to eat 😋#M being a champ while keeping down whatever abomination MC made #i love them your honor #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: m whitlock singh #ro scenarios

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hauntedsprings · 5 months ago

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#haunted #ghost #haunted places #ghost stories #haunting #unexplained #real haunted places #shadow ghost #haunted graveyard #haunted cemetery #gothic art #goth aesthetic #halloween #spooky season #mystical #autumn #fall aesthetic

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nyutasomething · 1 month ago

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the dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slanting through the apartment windows as y/n tidied. theyd shoved a stack of old magazines aside when a small, leather-bound notebook slipped from the shelf, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood floor. curious, they picked it up. the cover was worn smooth with age, the leather softened and darkened with time. there was no title, just the faint impression of what might have once been gold lettering.

y/n opened the book carefully. the pages were yellowed and brittle, filled with elegant, looping handwriting in faded ink. it wasn't a journal but a recipe book. each entry was meticulously written, not just the ingredients and instructions, but also little notes scribbled in the margins – "simon loves this with extra cinnamon," or "perfect for a rainy tuesday."

flipping further, a small, faded photograph slipped from between the pages. it depicted a younger simon, beaming mischievously, perched on a kitchen counter next to a woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. y/n recognized the woman instantly from a few framed photos around the apartment – simon's mother. a pang of bittersweet sadness touched her heart. y/n knew simon rarely spoke about his mother, who had passed away many years ago. this notebook was a precious relic, a tangible connection to a part of simon's life he kept carefully tucked away.

a thought sparked in y/n's mind. what better way to honor simon's mother than to bring her recipes back to life? they carefully selected two recipes – "grandma rose's apple cake," with a note in the margin, "simon's absolute favorite," and "hearty chicken soup," annotated with "lerfect for chasing away the blues."

the apartment, usually quiet and orderly, filled with the comforting chaos of cooking. y/n hummed softly as they measured flour and spices, the scent of cinnamon and apples filling the air. they imagined simon's mother in this very kitchen, creating these same dishes with love and care.

as the apple cake cooled on the kitchen counter and the chicken soup simmered on the stove, y/n set the table. they placed the worn recipe book in the center, open to the page of "grandma rose's apple cake," the faded photograph of simon and his mother tucked inside. when simon arrived home, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. the aroma of familiar comfort food hung in the air, an aroma he hadn’t realized he’d missed so deeply. he picked up the notebook, his fingers tracing his mother's handwriting, a mixture of surprise and emotion swirling in his eyes. y/n watched him, her heart full, knowing she had stumbled upon something truly special. this wasn't just about a meal; it was about memory, love, and the enduring power of food to connect us to the ones we cherish.

my dear grandmother passed away on saturday, and the first memory that came to mind was of her baking sweet rolls for my sister and me, which we enjoyed with milk. It saddens me to realize I will never again taste those rolls. rip, my dear. i will always love you.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #simon riley hcs #simon riley headcanons

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gilbertscurls · 1 month ago

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The Christmas tree cast a warm glow over the living room, its twinkling lights reflecting off the ornaments you and Matt had carefully hung earlier in the week. The soft hum of holiday music played in the background, mingling with the comforting scent of pine and hot chocolate.

You sat cross-legged on the floor across from Matt, a small, neatly wrapped gift in your lap. His grin was easy and relaxed as he leaned back against the couch, holding a similarly sized package in his hands.

“So,” he said, nodding toward your gift, “who’s going first?”

“You,” you replied immediately, a playful glint in your eye. “I want to see if you can handle the suspense.”

Matt rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he held the gift out toward you, a mix of excitement and nervousness flickering across his face.

“Alright, open it,” he said, leaning forward slightly.

You carefully tore through the paper, revealing a small, leather-bound notebook. Running your fingers over the smooth cover, you noticed your initials embossed in the corner in tiny, elegant lettering.

“Open it,” Matt urged, his voice softer now.

Flipping it open, you saw that the first page had a note written in his familiar handwriting:

For all your thoughts, stories, and daydreams—because they deserve the best place to live.

Your heart swelled as you turned the pages, noticing that each one had a small doodle or quote in the corner. Some were funny, others sweet, but every single one reminded you of him.

“Matt,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “This is…”

“Thought you could use a special place for all your creative brilliance,” he said, his grin turning shy. “It’s kind of like a co-star to the stories in your head.”

You launched forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that made him laugh softly. “I love it. Thank you.”

When you pulled back, you handed him your gift, the small package suddenly feeling inadequate compared to the thoughtfulness of his. But as Matt unwrapped it, his expression lit up in a way that chased away your doubts.

He pulled out a slim photo frame, inside of which was a hand-drawn map of all the places you’d been together over the years—your favorite café, the park where you’d had your first date, the road trip destination where he’d accidentally locked the keys in the car. Tiny hearts marked each spot, and in the corner, you’d written: Everywhere we’ve been, everywhere we’ll go.

Matt stared at it for a moment, his fingers brushing over the glass. “You made this?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “I wanted to make something that showed how much those places—and you—mean to me.”

He looked up at you, his eyes shining with something soft and overwhelming. “This is… perfect,” he said, pulling you into a hug that was just as warm as the one you’d given him. “You always know exactly how to make me feel like the luckiest guy alive.”

You both sat there for a while, your gifts resting beside you, content in the quiet magic of the moment. It wasn’t the size or cost of the presents that mattered—it was how they reflected the little things you knew and loved about each other.

And as the clock ticked closer to Christmas, you realized that this, right here, was the best gift of all.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry, @shadowthesim

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yuuchama · 4 months ago

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♠️🖋❤️

"This is bad." Deuce struggled to raise his head, instead slumping his shoulders and staring down at the notes in front of him. The writing started out neat and tidy but gradually became illegible, eventually fumbling off the page and marking the desk with ink.

Ace tried not to draw attention to the fit of giggles he had been overcome with. He kept looking away and clearing his throat now that the lecture had ended. Looking straight at Deuce without laughing was an impossible task.

"Dude..." he snickered. "That's a wild black eye you've got there."

"Shut it, Ace. If you knew I fell asleep during class, you should've woken me up."

Deuce sighed and buried his face in his hands, which only made things funnier. His palm smeared whatever eye makeup hadn't already been smudged, making him look beat up. His hands appeared to be covered in soot and a quarter of his face was a blurry mess of makeup instead of the usual elegant spade design.

It took a minute for Deuce to realize what happened. It was hard to tell if any got on his black uniform sleeves. He gazed at his dirty hands with despair. "Dang it. I don't have anything to fix this. The housewarden's gonna have my head."

Doubled over and clenching his stomach, Ace wiped a tear from his eye. At least one half of their combo remembered to seal his makeup that morning. "Don't sweat it! I have something that can help, don't worry."

It was a suspicious offer, but a sign of hope. Deuce would do anything if it meant avoiding Riddle's wrath. "Seriously? You carry black makeup? Uh, why?"

"Just in case! You should be thanking me instead of asking all these questions. What if I decide to change my mind, hmm?" Ace reached into his pencil case and started rooting around. He put on a great show of being serious. With one hand wrapped around something inside, he motioned for Deuce to come closer.

"Lean this way and close your eyes. There's not much time before Trein's next lecture."

Deuce grunted. Ace was right, and he didn't want to tarnish his future honor student reputation any further. The chair squeaked against the floor as he pushed it and swung his legs over the side. "I'll leave this to you, then. You can use the handkerchief in my bag."

"Great."

Ace hummed as he worked. Removing the blurry mess with Deuce's handkerchief came first, holding nothing back as he scrubbed his dorm mate's skin raw. Then it was time to reapply everything.

He gripped Deuce's chin, angling it upwards towards the light. "Hold still."

"Do you even know how to draw a spade?" Deuce asked.

"Hah? Who doesn't? What do you take me for?"

"It's just... you're taking a really long time to do this. Professor Trein's gonna come back soon."

"You really want to say that to the guy helping you out right now?"

Deuce got the point and remained silent. Applying his makeup usually didn't sting this much. He hoped he wouldn't get poked in the eye or have something inappropriate drawn in the end. Ace wouldn't go that far, right?

After a few blows to dry his face with Ace's gross breath, Deuce could finally relax. Ace proclaimed, "There. All done!"

"You really drew a spade, right?"

"Quit suspecting me! 'Course I did!" Ace turned to the student behind them. "Hey, what's this thing on Deuce's face look like?"

The student, caught off guard, glanced up from their phone. "Huh? The spade?"

"Yes, exactly. Thank you."

Deuce wished he had his handkerchief back to wipe the smug grin off Ace's face. "Alright, thanks. I really appreciate it, you've saved me."

"No problem, anytime. I'll even do your makeup tomorrow if you want." Ace began tidying up his desk space, straightening his notebook and putting his tools back, while Deuce returned his chair to its original position.

Deuce froze mid-chair scoot and narrowed his eyes. "What is that."

Ace pretended not to hear him. Deuce rose a shaky finger to his eye, gently tapping the sore skin.

He lowered his voice to a threat. "Dude. I swear to the Seven, if you just drew on my face with permanent marker..."

There was no time for Ace to enjoy the mischief, he had to stifle his laughter into his shirt as Trein finally returned and the students went quiet. He walked to the front podium and put his books down. A "pfft" snuck out the instant Deuce whacked Ace's chair with his foot.

A peeved off Deuce clenched his pen and mouthed, "this isn't over."

#ace didn't even do that good of a job cleaning the old makeup off. deuce just has raw red skin and smeared makeup under sharpie marker now.#person who sent me an ask pls know that i've read it 10 times and i kick my feet and want to frame it thank you for the kind words!!#why is the spade emoji smaller than the other emoji. i can't fix that. who did this #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland fanfiction #ace trappola #deuce spade #twst fanfic #twst writing

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justferhere · 2 months ago

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The Notebook | Lysander × Fem!Reader

My Candy Love HSL • Lysander’s birthday

Lys has finished his notebook, and reader has the best surprise for him. Inspired in the end of The Diary of Bridget Jones.

Word Count: 774

Warnings: non, just fluff, creative/crafts lover reader, Lysander and reader have an established relationship, smoking

I wrote this in a insomnia episode and English is not my first language so sorry for mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

“C’mon, Rosaa…” I approached her with my best pleading smile. “I really, really need your help.”

Lys’ birthday was right around the corner, and I had exactly one week to prepare a gift. But what could I possibly give to my Victorian dream of a boyfriend, who outright refused anything expensive and didn’t even want me thinking about getting him a present? It had to be special, something meaningful, something him. I kept thinking and thinking and nothing was as perfect as I wanted.

“Candy, I promise you,” Rosa said, her tone as reassuring as ever, “anything you give him, he’ll love it. He’s not even the kind of guy who cares about gifts. Don’t overthink it. Take him to dinner or something like that.”

...

“A gift for Lys, huh…” Castiel leaned lazily against the wall, cigarette in hand, exhaling smoke as he pondered. “You’ve got yourself a tricky one. He’s not exactly... giftable.”

I groaned and sat on the cold floor, utterly defeated. It’s just a gift, Candy. How hard can it be?

Castiel glanced down at me and chuckled before ending his cigarette. “Look, I’ll give you an advice, artist to artist.” His expression softened as he knelt closer. “Make something yourself. Lys would appreciate something you poured your time and effort into, more than anything money can buy. Something unique from yourself. Something that says, ‘you.’”

...

Castiel really helped you out but there was still a little problem.

What could I make?

"Are you okay, my love?" Big hands hold my waist, his familiar voice broke through my thought. "Yeah, just thinking. How are you? Want to get lunch together?" His lips kissed my head.

God he was handsome, he had me like the sea dreaming about touching the stars.

"Of course I do,” he replied with a soft laugh. “But first, I need my amazing girlfriend’s talent for finding my notebook. I wanted to show a new song to Castiel before leaving."

That's it.

“Well, your highly skilled seeker is on the case!” I teased, standing on my tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his lips.

The own Lysander himself have gave me the best idea ever and I couldn't be more excited about it.

...

I dropped all the bags with all the materials I needed on my bed.

Lys' notebook was like his entire life. Of the most important things of his life, containing almost every intimate thought from his heart.

His notebook was almost over, a bit damaged from the time used. It's cover worn and its pages threatening to fall apart. He would need a new one soon and the gift couldn't come better.

I got to work.

Took paper, leather, gold sheets, glue, string and all my crafting tools to get to work. For the next days I spended my free time stitching pages, lining cardboard with the deep blue leather and designing the cover.

Gold metal ornaments on the corners and his initials engraved with my most delicate handwriting. I even added a ribbon bookmark with a tiny rabbit charm at the end. It was exactly as how I saw him. Elegance and beauty, secrets and mystery but also sweet and pure.

I wrapped it up, and packed it in my backpack.

...

The day finally came and my nerves couldn't be worse. And after 10 times I tried to take courage and give it to him, I decided to leave it in his locker and wait hidden to see his reaction. I held my breath as I watched him approach.

I was nearly dying.

He opened his locker and left his book a side when he realized the funny rabbit wrapping paper. A soft smile curved his lips, and he chuckled under his breath before carefully peeling it open.

Yeah, I was definitely going to die.

I wanted to go and take the notebook off his hands. Maybe I didn't stitched the pages correctly, or maybe I should have chosen the green leather...

Or maybe it was... perfect.

He was mesmerized. He held the notebook in his hands, his fingers tracing over the gold details and engraved initials. He examined every inch, his expression shifting from curiosity to awe. When he opened it, he found the dedication I had written on the first page:

"I give you my heart for you to keep your secrets safe in it."

He froze for a moment, rereading the words, before pressing the notebook to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Definitely the best gift he ever received, and the purest expression of love I could have ever given.

#amour sucre #my candy love #my candy love high school life #my candy love lysander #mcl lysander #lysander #lysandre

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srtruth · 1 month ago

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Christmas Kenmayu One-Shot

Note: This is a short story I wrote last year and posted it in a fic I have on ao3, but I fixed it, added more stuff and translated it. I hope you like it.

In Soul Society, Christmas was not actively celebrated, but thanks to the influence of humans, many were encouraged to participate in gift exchanges. It was December 25th, almost noon. Zaraki walked excitedly with a gift in his hand. He was sure that he would surprise the scientist with what he brought.

They had agreed to meet in a secluded location, one that guaranteed privacy. Mayuri had insisted that he did not want Zaraki to approach his division, in fact, he preferred to keep it free from the presence of any of the other captains, without exception.

Upon arriving, Zaraki saw him sitting on a bench, without his captain's haori or his characteristic headdress. He seemed distracted, looking in another direction while the shadow of the trees covered him up to his lap. Kenpachi hesitated, not knowing whether to sit next to him or remain standing. He did not want to interrupt that strange tranquility emanating from the man everyone considered a public danger. Finally, he decided to break the silence.

"What did you do on Christmas Eve?" he asked, scratching his neck, not having a better idea to start the conversation. Plus, he was eager to give the gift to him.

"Just work." Mayuri answered, not looking at him yet. From where Zaraki was, he could see how he twisted his lips in disgust, wondering if the scientist was really there for pleasure or for a minimal commitment. What Mayuri was observing was the weeds which moved with the breeze, and the snow that Toshiro had dropped the night before to give it a Christmas atmosphere, now slowly melting.

Although he didn't see it fall, Mayuri was glad that the snow had almost disappeared, leaving only a few blocks unmelted. He didn't understand why they were celebrating such a senseless act. When they saw their plants withered by the frost, they would realize that this act was anything but innocent.

Near him, a peach tree began to abort all its fruits, rolling to his feet when the wind finished releasing them. Without pulp, being only stones and barely covered by their green skin, the peaches were inedible, a further reflection of how harmful the artificial climate created during the celebration could be.

"Just that? Nothing else?" Zaraki insisted, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He wondered if he did anything other than just work, since Mayuri had made it clear that he wasn’t going to participate in the dinner organized by Ukitake the night before, but his lieutenant, Nemu, did, hanging out with Yachiru and the other girls. The dinner included a secret gift exchange, an activity organized by Rangiku.

Zaraki had received an excellent sake as a gift, something he was deeply grateful for and did not hesitate to drink that same night. He did not know who was responsible, but he was very grateful to that person. It had been his turn to leave a gift for Izuru, and although he was not someone used to these dynamics, in the end he chose to give him a notebook with an elegant and discreet engraving. Knowing his taste for writing and suggested by Yumichika, given his melancholic character and his excellent articles in the newsletter, it seemed like a good gift for Izuru.

During the exchange, there were all kinds of gifts. From afar, Zaraki watched with amusement as Hisagi's embarrassed expression opened his gift. Those around him began to shout with laughter.

"let him put it on! let him put it on!" They were grateful among applause and laughter.

As he approached, Zaraki managed to read the label on the box that read the name of a well-known sex shop. He didn't need any more clues to humorously imagine what could be inside.

Back to the present. Mayuri sighed, visibly annoyed by the questioning. For a moment it seemed like he would say something about how busy he was or how insignificant such festivities were to him, but instead he just replied half-heartedly. He spat everything out so they wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Nemu bought and made breaded and fried chicken. It was a short five-minute dinner. She gave me a pen, and I gave her clothes. Then I went back to the lab."

Of course, Mayuri said it all, so dry and direct that Kenpachi had no way to continue the conversation anymore. For his part, Mayuri also showed no interest in knowing what Kenpachi had done the night before.

Realizing that the conversation was going nowhere, Zaraki decided to change the focus. He placed the gift in front of Mayuri and said: "I brought you something... Uh..." he muttered, trying to remember the name of the holiday. "Bah, whatever. It's a gift, accept it if you want."

Finally, the scientist turned to look. He let out a slight sound of surprise, and his expression quickly changed from confusion to almost feline curiosity. Until that moment, he had been looking in another direction, so he had not seen what Zaraki was carrying in his hands.

In front of him was a good-sized flowerpot, but the flowerpot was not what impressed him; what really caught his attention was the plant inside. It had a straight stem, oval leaves ending in a point, and a bell-shaped flower whose colors degrade from green to dull purple. Its globose, black and shiny fruit completed the image of a well-cared-for and healthy species, reaching almost a meter in height (just over three feet).

Mayuri leaned forward, admiring the plant as Zaraki placed the pot on the ground. Without hesitation, the scientist bent down to examine it more closely, his hands delicately running over the leaves.

"An Atropa belladonna, and with fruits," he said in a tone that combined wonder and satisfaction. "How did you get it?"

It was obvious that he wanted the plant, but the gift put him in an awkward position. Not having anything to give back to Zaraki made him feel indebted, something that irritated him deeply.

"I'll tell you the story another time. Accept the gift," Zaraki ordered, crossing his arms and smiling with satisfaction at seeing the scientist's reaction.

Mayuri looked at him with a frown, struggling between his interest in the plant and his frustration. Finally, he clicked his tongue.

"What do you want in return? Ask for anything" he snapped, clearly uncomfortable.

Zaraki, surprised by the question, took a moment to react, quickly widening his smile. He wasn't going to pretend he didn't want anything in return and pretend humility, he wasn't going to waste this unprecedented opportunity. He laughed dully.

"anything I want?" he asked in a mocking tone, letting out a hoarse laugh as he leaned slightly towards the scientist, enjoying the situation.

"That's what I said. Or are you so stupid that you're overwhelmed by making a decision?" Mayuri asked impatiently, drumming his fingers on the clay flower pot. Not everyone had the opportunity to receive technology in his world... or at least that's what he thought someone more sensible would ask for. The other, in a hurry to answer and avoid further straining the scientist's patience, answered quickly.

"I would like to spend a good time with you, it would be the best gift for me," said Zaraki. He didn't mean it with any double intentions, but his nerves betrayed him, and he blurted out those words clumsily.

Mayuri raised an eyebrow, surprised by the comment, and replied with an evidently offended tone. "Of course" he made his throat reverberate as he said those words "my time is a gift that I don't give to just anyone. But don't think that I'm your concubine. What do you mean by 'have a good time'?"

As he spoke, he plucked and popped a fruit into his mouth, sweet as any other berry. He was visibly excited by the gift, imagining the possibilities of growing an even more poisonous specimen.

—I didn't mean it that way… Of course I want to, but no… —Zaraki stopped when he realized what he had just witnessed.

With wide eyes, he watched as Mayuri popped another fruit into his mouth. Sudden terror filled Kenpachi, who reacted quickly, tightly gripping the scientist’s cheeks and hand where he had another berry.

"Spit it out!" he demanded, squeezing Mayuri’s cheeks so hard that he groaned, the flesh of his mouth sinking painfully into his teeth.

Mayuri spat out the seeds in annoyance and abruptly pulled away from the grip, rubbing his cheeks as he glared at Zaraki angrily.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, stupid? Do you really think I’m going to get poisoned?" he snorted, adjusting his sore cheeks. "I’m immune to belladonna alkaloids. I’m immune to any poison or drug you can think of. And by the way, a single berry will not kill an adult, unless he has an unusually low sensitivity or tolerance."

Zaraki, still leaning over him, stared at him in disbelief as he tried to process what he had just heard. Both of them were still crouching by the flowerpot, the situation causing Kenpachi to let out a frustrated snort.

"You could have warned me, you fucking lunatic," he growled, finally relaxing.

Mayuri merely smiled and shrugged, being still surprised by his skills was a pleasure he would never tire of.

"…Everyone?" Kenpachi asked, still trying to process what he had just heard.

"Opioids can still sedate me a little, but only in high doses. I don't know if it's an advantage for you, but being immune to anesthesia has its peculiarities." His smile was big, Kenpachi didn't really know what advantages being immune to painkillers and sedatives would bring him, but Mayuri knew what he was doing.

"And how many berries does it take for it to take effect?" Zaraki asked curiously.

"Me? Even eating the whole plant wouldn’t be enough. For an average individual, three or four berries work as an aphrodisiac. Between four and eight cause hallucinations, and ten berries are already a lethal dose." Mayuri spoke with a mixture of enthusiasm and lightness, while absentmindedly playing with the flowers. "With genetic engineering, I could create even more poisonous specimens."

Zaraki frowned at the comment, but decided not to ask why someone would want to make a more dangerous plant. Instead, he watched as Mayuri, completely absorbed, brought another berry to his mouth.

"Stop eating the poor plant" Zaraki said, moving forward to take it away, still suspicious, but then an idea crossed his mind when he saw the scientist’s soft lips.

With a determined movement, he leaned towards Mayuri and, before he could react, he removed the berry from his mouth with a kiss.

The scientist, who was used to being a little surprised by the world, blinked a few times. Although he initially seemed to be desensitized to this type of demonstration, his expression changed to a mix of intrigue and acceptance, as if he wanted to see how far Zaraki would go.

"You say that if I eat three berries it would have an aphrodisiac effect on me?" Zaraki asked curiously, as he looked at the dark fruits of the plant.

"You don’t need such effects," Mayuri replied disdainfully, referring to Kenpachi’s obvious natural impetus.

In the end, Mayuri took Kenpachi to his division. Against all odds, Kenpachi got his way, receiving much more than he had probably bargained for this Christmas. Even though it was already December 26th, Mayuri ended up giving him a gift, a new eyepatch designed especially for him, a display of the scientific genius that the eccentric captain is so proud of.

Later, as the plant rested in a corner of Mayuri's room, still curious, he decided to demand the story that Zaraki promised to tell him about how he had obtained such a specimen, in addition to flowering and bearing fruit.

"So? Where did you get the plant?" Mayuri asked curiously.

Zaraki burst out laughing, thinking about the dishonest origin of his acquisition. "Well, first I heard from Yachiru that you were looking for poisonous plants. I got the courage and bought this botany book," he said, showing a small book with detailed images of dangerous flora. Mayuri looked at it with a mixture of interest and skepticism, while Zaraki continued with his story.

"One day, I went to the Fourth Division because… well, because I had some injuries. I won’t go into details. The thing is, while I was walking down one of the hallways, I saw this plant as a decoration. I recognized it immediately and thought, 'Why the hell would they have something like that in plain sight?'" Hiding something in plain sight was very clever, Mayuri thought, after all no one would expect a brute to read a botany book and recognize the plant. Zaraki had paused, smiling mischievously. "So, after they gave me the ointment, I rescued it from that place."

Mayuri let out a loud laugh, something rare for him. The idea of Kenpachi kidnapping a plant from the Fourth Division was hilarious to him. " 'Rescuing it', you say? How shameless!" he said with a laugh, imagining Zaraki secretly carrying the pot as if it were a war trophy.

The plant now rested in a prominent place in Mayuri's room, under the meticulous care of the mad scientist who, despite his peculiarities, knew how to appreciate the value of the nice and well thought-out gift.

It makes me laugh a lot to think about the kidnapping of the plant askksksks or ransom or robbery, whatever you want to call it. Thanks for reading.

#kenmayu #mayuken #mayuri kurotsuchi #kenpachi zaraki #bleach #bleach fanfic

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