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doodlejoltik · 1 month

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the unwinnable game

[~2.7k words. Read it here or on Ao3]

Zugzwang (from German 'compulsion to move'; pronounced [ˈtsuːktsvaŋ]) is a situation found in chess and other turn-based games wherein one player is put at a disadvantage because of their obligation to make a move.

Centuries after their battle atop Mt Coronet, Rei confronts Volo in a nondescript forest, somewhere on Pasio. But the answers he's seeking aren't so easily given.

aka. a continuation of that one dialogue cliffhanger in the Mysterious Stones chapter because I'm extremely normal about these two

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“There's something you'd like to say, isn't there… Rei?”

Volo turns around and Rei musters up the bravest expression he can.

Now that he's here, he doesn't know what to say first; all his planned questions bounce around his head, clamouring for dominance. Why are you here? How? Since when? You have a Togepi and a Togekiss? Why a tournament? What do you know about the mysterious stones?

Were we ever really friends?

That is, it takes an embarrassingly long time for Rei to respond. In the end, what he says isn’t a question at all. “That Togepi in the ruins was yours.”

Volo only shrugs. He's got a languid smile on his face. “It might've been. She likes running around.”

Internally, Rei is relieved. So he hasn't been seeing things. But he doesn't let it show on his face, and crosses his arms. “Why’d you hide from everyone for months, and only show yourself now?”

“Now, I wouldn't call it hiding,” Volo replies, waving his finger. “This is a big island, and I've made a good few acquaintances here on Pasio already! Perhaps our paths simply didn't cross.”

With the number of times Rei has visited the ruins for mysterious stone research, the odds of that are vanishingly unlikely. “But why didn't you even try? It's not like I've been keeping a low profile.” Of course, the reason is probably something like I tried to end the world and it would be awkward. And that's what Rei needs Volo to say.

The Arc Phone sits heavily in his belt satchel, recording every word.

“Oh, I was just preoccupied. The ruins here are simply fascinating! Even though they're replicas, teasing apart all the ancient cultures used in their construction is such a fruitful area of study. You know me.”

Yeah, I know you. “Find anything interesting about Arceus?” Rei snarks.

“Not particularly!” Volo shakes his head, looking disappointed. Then he perks up, and continues, “Now, Dialga and Giratina however…”

“Oh?” Rei seethes quietly. Of course he had been watching. Why hadn't Giratina said anything?

“It’s curious, isn’t it, how they have seen fit to partner themselves with new wielders?” Volo smiles. “And Palkia too, I’ve heard.”

“It is interesting,” Rei forces out, adjusting his scarf. He recalls Volo's last parting line about Arceus, all those months ago. “Nice to know that they've bonded willingly with people in this time,” he says pointedly.

Ignoring Rei's tone, Volo continues, “That man, Cyrus, who controls Palkia. What a character, wouldn't you say?”

Rei has a lot of thoughts about the Sinnohans’ decision to allow Cyrus - a man who has literally tried to remake the world and not disavowed said goal - to keep the embodiment of Space with him. He'd thought Adaman and Irida had to be joking, at first. What would the Captain think if she saw what her descendant had turned the Galaxy Team into…

“I suppose you see yourself in him.” Rei says flatly.

It's only the two of them here, in the middle of a forest, in the dead of night, so Volo should have no reason to be evasive. And yet -

“Hardly,” Volo laughs off. “Intellectual curiosity, nothing more.”

This is going nowhere. Does Volo seriously think he can fool him again? Probably not - every remark is undoubtedly purposeful, but with just enough plausible deniability to appear innocent. So maybe he just wants to mess with him. Great.

A different strategy, maybe. He’ll surely make a mistake at some point if Rei keeps pushing. “This… tournament that you proposed,” Rei says. “I suppose you're participating?”

“Naturally!” Volo says cheerfully. “Battles on Pasio are done in teams, are they not? Perhaps you'd like to-”

“No.” Rei glares at him. Oh, now, that was going too far. Going to shut that line of conversation immediately.

“So hostile,” Volo sighs. “A united Hisuian contingent would've been a sight to see. Well, the clan leaders should be more receptive, at least.”

“Not if I can help it,” Rei says, crossing his arms. He’s well aware of how childish it sounds, but the thought of his friends falling for Volo’s innocent merchant act, again, is too horrible to consider. Mentally, he rapidly revises his priorities - he has to meet with Adaman and Irida as soon as possible and explain everything. Tomorrow, ideally. Does he have the energy for that? It’s something like one in the morning, right now. He's dead on his feet. But he’ll make it happen. He has to, before Volo does.

But what if he’s already too late? When had Rei last spoken to them? The dance competition, that wasn’t that long ago, right? At least a week, maybe more, his mind supplies. He'd just been so busy… and surely they would have told him if they'd met Volo.

This little anxious spiral must be evident on Rei’s face somehow, because Volo chuckles, stepping closer. “The world doesn't revolve around you, Rei. Not here.”

“You don’t get to act all high and mighty,” Rei snaps. “Not when you’re pulling everyone along on your own strings. I suppose you think you make the world go ‘round.”

But Volo has a point, no matter how much he hates to admit it. Rei’s been assuming he was someone significant to this whole saga. The appearance of the mysterious stones coincided with his and Akari’s arrival to Pasio, after all, so was he really wrong for thinking that?

And Arceus spoke to him first. That had to mean something.

“On the contrary, I simply meant that we’re all on equal ground,” Volo says. For the first time, goes unspoken.

“I’ll still beat you,” Rei vows. He’d done it before, he could do it again. No matter if he was still favoured by Arceus or not. “Because my bonds with my Pokemon, and my friends, are real. And you don’t know what that feels like.” Though intended to be a sharp jab at Volo, instead, a deep bitterness colours those final words.

Volo’s expression twists into something briefly unreadable before it settles into a polite half-smile. “You’re quick to assume the worst of me.”

“Quick?” Rei barks out a harsh laugh. “No, it was exactly the opposite.” He’d been strung along so thoroughly, accepting every strange behaviour as simply one of Volo’s little oddities. Only up at the Celestica Ruins did those allowances start to crumble – and by then, it was too late.

Volo’s look at Rei is one of intrigue. The way Rei's seen him examining ancient ruins, like he's something Volo wants to observe, or study.

And Rei has had it. Enough dancing around the subject, trying to draw it out of Volo; clearly it’s never going to happen. “Is this all just a game to you? You tried to destroy the world! You want me to think you care about anyone?”

Volo raises an eyebrow. “That's a bold claim. Surely if that had happened, it would've ended up in the history books, somewhere.”

Well – okay. The only person who knew what happened was the Professor, sort of. And Cogita. Arceus knows how she found out. But Professor Laventon didn't know half of it, even, Rei had just incoherently vented everything emotional and hurting at him, swore him to secrecy, and then hoped that he'd never have to unpack that again.

Clearly Arceus had other designs.

“We were friends.” Rei’s voice cracks a bit, there; he hates how true it is. “I thought we were friends. But you were going to kill me for standing in your way!”

Volo frowns. “Now, why would I do that?” He takes a few paces towards Rei and smiles, purposefully, grin stretching tight across his face. “I wouldn't want to lose my favourite customer, after all!”

Stumbling backwards to regain the distance, Rei exclaims, “I’ve bought maybe one thing from you. Stop calling me that!”

“Recipient of free samples, semantics,” Volo shrugs, entirely unaffected, and Rei wars with the competing urges to punch him or bolt into the treeline.

“Play dumb all you want,” Rei hisses, “but you’ve already shown your hand. I could tell them everything. You won’t be able to fool anyone ever again.” Least of all me.

Volo tilts his head with a smirk. “Well then, why are you here?” he asks, calling Rei’s bluff.

And though he can’t know that the Arc Phone is listening in Rei’s satchel, Rei realises that his motivations must be laughably transparent. Maybe Volo thinks Akari, or Cynthia, is watching the whole thing from the treeline. The specifics of it don’t matter, really. Rei’s been outplayed from the very beginning.

Volo makes a little movement with his hand. There's a sudden rustle of movement behind Rei, and he whips around, hand on Decidueye's Pokeball -

But it's just Volo's Togepi, who warbles in alarm and quickly toddles past him.

“What would people rather believe in?” Volo says lightly. “The accusations of a boy who jumps at shadows?” He bends down to pick up Togepi. “Or in the innocence of their friend?”

In Volo's arms, Togepi lets out an adorable squeak.

Over the Pokeball on his belt, Rei’s hand is trembling with misfired adrenaline. He carefully drops his hand to his side and raises his head up high. “Cynthia trusts me. I’ve been here for months, and we’ve worked together on the mysterious stones since they were first found.”

“And so?” Volo shrugs. “A working relationship is hardly worth much. I thought you would've known better, with what Kamado did…”

Rei flinches.

The worst part about it all was that no matter what ulterior motives Volo might have had, back then, when he’d been thrown out into the wild with barely a few days’ worth of supplies – Volo had been there for him when nobody else was.

Volo had seen Rei fall apart and put himself back together with forced cheer. And so, he knew exactly where the cracks were, where to strike with his words to disassemble Rei all over again.

Of course Rei knows Cynthia is responsible, and smart, and has been nothing but friendly to him – but he doesn't really know her, does he? And Volo is her ancestor. Which is pretty obvious, honestly. She’d probably like him immediately.

Just like everyone else did. Including Rei.

“Besides, you're not the only one who's been making friends in high places,” Volo adds smoothly. “I’ve heard that Bettie’s word is quite well regarded.”

So now that Rei had wised up to Volo's true nature, he'd gone and found himself new people to use. “You’ve always been like this, then,” Rei huffs. None of it had been real; their entire ‘friendship’ had been predicated on Rei's usefulness. “They deserve to know the truth about you.”

“Truth? Or your own opinion?” Volo scoffs. “You think so highly of yourself, Rei, but you're not the beloved Hero of Hisui here. No…” he smiles. “You're entirely ordinary. Do remember, it was everyone in that stadium who heard Arceus' voice.”

Admittedly, that stings. He'd thought - maybe - that Arceus was finally telling him why He'd brought Rei here. What he was supposed to do in this strange new land. But he'd failed, unable to clearly hear Arceus’ voice.

Rei spares a thought for the Arc Phone, once a vessel for divine inspiration, now reduced to recording mortals’ petty feuds. His messages to Arceus have been left on read for months. He's probably allowed to be a bit petty, at this point.

Volo continues, “Imagine! Any one of us could become Arceus’ champion.” Togepi makes a little noise. “Yes, even you,” he says indulgently, lifting her up to face him, and she goes cross-eyed following his waving finger.

It's horribly cute, the sort of thing Rei would've been charmed by before. And it's clear Volo is no longer taking Rei seriously at all.

What starts out as a wavering thought suddenly asserts itself with startling clarity. “I don't need anything from you,” Rei realises. He'd told himself he was here for evidence, something concrete he could hold against Volo, and that was true. But beyond that, he'd been after something entirely more personal.

He can walk away.

“I don't need anything from you,” he repeats, with force this time.

Volo turns his attention away from Togepi, and this of all things is what finally seems to make him genuinely confused. “Leaving so soon, Rei?”

Rei doesn't elaborate. He turns on his heel to stalk through the forest back to civilisation. Now, because if he says anything more he doesn't know if he'll ever bring himself to stop. Because he's asking for something he'll never get.

Volo's saying something. He doesn't care to catch all the words, though some of it filters through - “challenge”, “tournament”, and “rivals” among them. The general shape of the message is clear. They'll meet again; Rei's powerless to stop that. But as best he can, he'll shake off whatever lingering grip Volo still has on him.

He doesn't stop walking as the trodden earth turns to paved cobbles under his feet, and he makes it all the way up his building's winding stairs to the little studio apartment that he's been given. Home, for now. Collapsing onto the lone armchair, he takes the Arc Phone out of his satchel and turns off the recording. Thank Arceus for divinely bestowed infinite storage, he supposes.

Rei knows that if he were to listen to it, there'd be nothing of use. Only hidden barbs and Rei’s own ugly, wounded anger. It feels fitting to delete it, to banish the whole encounter to memory, and perhaps eventually, less than that.

He doesn't, and instead tucks it away in a folder several layers deep.

Maybe Professor Laventon wrote about the whole disaster in his private diaries. Rei knows he has them, bless the man. He'd once stumbled into the Professor's office late at night, after an exhausting, terrifying escape from an Alpha, ready to tell Laventon off for sending him there – and startled the Professor fiercely, who quickly shut the manuscript he was writing with a blush. So even if Rei had sworn him to secrecy, he might have confided in the written word.

That's something he can set Cynthia on digging up, then. Even just the suggestion that Laventon, the First Pokemon Professor, had such personal writings, would probably send her into an unstoppable research frenzy. That much about her, at least, he knows. If it still existed in this era, Cynthia would almost certainly find it.

And maybe he doesn't need evidence. Not for the people who matter, anyway.

Akari’s only a few doors away, their apartments close neighbours just like back in Jubilife Village. If he wanted, he could wander over there once the sun rose, have her fantastic tamago rice, and tell her everything.

Is he ready to take that step into thin air? To trust that he'll be believed, in something that's infinitely more convoluted and improbable than the simple plea – “I don't know why the sky is red, it's not my fault, I only ever did what you told me to” –

Well. Volo might've been the last one to break his trust, but he was in no way the first.

Can he make good on those words that he’d levelled so confidently against Volo? That his bonds with his friends are real?

Akari had never doubted. And Adaman and Irida had gone against Kamado's will, risking the standing of their people, just to help him. He would be doing them a disservice if he didn't at least try.

And in this dangerous game, it might be the only winning move.

Even as he makes this decision, he feels the pull of sleep. It's offensively late, or early, in the morning now, depending on perspective, and all of this is Tomorrow Rei’s problem.

There's no energy left to even stumble to bed. Rei falls asleep right there in the lumpy armchair, hand loosely gripped around the Arc Phone, Adaman and Irida’s Poryphone numbers on the screen, ready and waiting.

And, though Rei will certainly wake up sore with a crick in his neck come the morning…

For the first time in a long while, his dreams are not restless.

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bigfemboyenergy · 2 months

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The Worst Crossover To Ever ‘Cross Over’ Pt.2

See, Danny isn’t terribly surprised with his predicament. And by that, he means that he is wholly unsurprised that he has to fake who he is. A fourteen year old kid working, in this day and age? Unlikely, he thinks. So he decides to pretend to be fifteen, what an easy fix. But that doesn’t help with Sonic’s side of the problem. Sure, Sonic gets confused for a kid, but..how old is he?

As soon as the thought surfaces, Danny opens his mouth to speak, turning to look at Sonic as they walk around, searching for a somewhat acceptable abandoned building or something similar to hide out in for now. “Uh, how old are you, exactly?” Danny asks, with little hesitation. Sonic shrugs; “Old enough to legally drink in some countries- why, worried about something?” Danny feels his face turn a bit white. Wow, his appearance does not match his age. With a nervous smile, Danny responds with, “Yeah, dunno if you could get a job looking like that. I’m fourteen, and even I look older than you.” Sonic coughs awkwardly. “I’m gonna have to work on that, aren’t I? What an unlucky day it is,” he says, with a yawn. Shelving that problem in order to focus on the most important one, the two continue to wander the streets, looking for something to temporarily call “home”.

It isn’t too long before they find a suitable place. Dark, dreary, just like everywhere else; but it’s far more exaggerated, and even dirtier than the rest of the city. Some old graffiti here and there, a broken window or two. Not too shabby on the inside, still has running water and an AC. It makes Danny wonder just how old this building is and just how long it’s been since it was last lived in.

Sonic inspects every nook and cranny of the building, as if checking for safety violations. It appears to be an old office building, with kitchen necessities in what might’ve been a break room, and running water in the bathrooms. He investigates alone, namely for “Danny’s safety”, he says, but it makes one think. The amount of spiders he’s killed seems to point to a different conclusion..but that’s of no matter.

After looking at every floor, Sonic finally decides which one they’ll be staying on. Something that’s just a cut above the rest, and also safe enough- the third floor, out of four. He waves Danny over to the cleanest spot in the spacious, main room, calling out, “Let’s sleep over here for now, since we kinda can’t clean anything yet. It looks a lot nicer here, away from the nasty corners.” Danny nods, agreeing in silence. It looks like they have a lot of work to do, as they both flop on the floor and try to sleep.

Danny, however, struggles to sleep. In an entirely new city, an empty building, with someone who he’s just been freshly acquainted with, trying to sleep on the cold, hard floor? That’s no easy feat, and he acknowledges this. So he comes to the most logical conclusion: why not check out the city from above, via Phantom form? In silence, he nods in agreement with his own thought, intrigued by his new possibilities. He’ll fly out and survey the town, enjoy the sunrise, if he’s awake for that long- try to make this place feel a little bit like home. Familiarize himself with it, perhaps. It sounds like a good plan, no? So he acts.

He whispers to himself, after assuring that Sonic is asleep, “Going ghost!” He transforms in silence. A little reminder of who he is, the whispers of who he was only hours ago, come to him via his reference of his beginnings. It gives him a feeling of determination, a want to explore. A desire to protect this new friend he’s found, and the strangers of a place he’s newly discovered. Slowly slipping through the floor, intangibly, he floats out of the building, making himself invisible so as not to spook anyone else who may be out at night.

In the night sky, he soars through the clouds as he takes in the layout of the city. It’s large, dark, and..full of crime, which makes a lot of sense in such a poverty-stricken area, but.. it has an air of abnormality. Suddenly, he hears some horrible sounds. Shrill, shrieking laughter booms out from a warehouse a few blocks away, his ears wishing for the silence of seconds before to return. Although he doesn’t truly want to approach, his obsession to protect those in need draws him to the source of the sound. The closer he gets, the more off everything seems. And..are those furries on the top of that building? What have I gotten myself into, he thinks, with an accompanying facepalm. Oh, boy.

Back in the cold, dreary office building, Sonic wakes up, restless. He feels terrible..he turns towards Danny, wanting to check on him, before quickly finding out that he’s not even present. What a fantastic day this has been. Sonic feels his heart pumping, ready for a run. He has to find Danny, to make sure he’s okay. Unless..he left of his own accord? Shit, what if he actually is weirded out by me..he said something about the unusualness of a guy like me showing up, didn’t he?! Sonic struggles to decide what to do. He knows Danny could be in need, he knows he’s young. And, from what he’s gathered, he’s a bit odd too, but if he needs help, of course Sonic should jump on in for him! They’re “partners in crime” now, aren’t they?

Despite his conscience screaming at him to go, he still struggles to make the choice. What if Danny really didn’t mean anything he said? But..he listens to that loud, desperate part of him. He doesn’t want to lose the only person he’s found here. If he can save or help this kid, someone who accepts him in this strange new place, that’s just what he’ll do.

So, against his “better judgement”, he rushes off, speeding around the town to find Danny. If anything, he should be where it’s quietest or where it’s loudest, since both are eeriest. As Sonic zooms off, going incredibly fast so as not to be seen clearly, he is particularly careful to check suspicious, disturbing areas.

Not long after he began his run, he finds Danny. But it’s quite the weird situation to be in.. cause Danny’s colors are inverted now? Amd there’s this weird bat guy a few buildings away, with some friends, too.. and a fucking..clown?! What is this shit, bad writing??!

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glitterghost · 4 months

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Belle (2023) 🌹

#belle 2023 #max gold #iceland #listen i just want to talk abt this for a second #i watched belle recently and yes it is a take on beauty and the beast #and yes it had so much more potential than it delivered BUT #im not mad at it at all?#i enjoyed it and it the scenery? stab my through the heart with that beautiful landscape #also it just feels like a quiet movie if that makes sense?#its got this like subtle quality to it and idk how to explain it #i wanted more and things could have been MORE but im sitting here making a post about it bc i cant find anything else on here about it #its classified as horror and im not 100% torn on that label for it but i get why they did that #anyway if you want a slightly darker/grittier take on the story then maybe give this one a shot?#and really its just so pretty to look at #and there are no fix it type fics to make it the more i want but thats okay i am okay #movies

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altschmerzes · 5 months

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ao3 tagging conundrums they will never end

#gav gab #contemplating in the hypothetical how i would go about tagging a fic that prominently featured two characters #who have a platonic/queerplatonic relationship #kissing (as in like. making out)#as per standard tagging conventions #i feel like i'd use ampersand relationship tagging and then make it clear what's going on here in the additional tags/summary #but that feels like it has the potential to be slightly controversial #THEN AGAIN. PEOPLE ARE OUT HERE MIS-TAGGING THEIR STRAIGHT UP SHIP FIC SO #I AM PERHAPS OVERTHINKING THIS A BIT #anyways. yes this is a thing i'm contemplating doing #do i know which characters yet? no. i just know i'm gonna.#turns out it rules and now i'm gonna write about it

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luvuomi · 1 month

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an excerpt from my unnamed & heavily unfinished lyney fic:

Thin, frail hands reached out to grab hold of the brass knob that was cold to the touch, slowly twisting and pushing open the grand doors. Their deafening sound disrupts the unperturbed silence of the other room. At first, Lyney is hesitant to continue further in. The lack of human presence indirectly urged him to turn back and find Lynette.

However, as his curious eyes wander across the hall that appears to stretch on for what seemed like several miles, he unknowingly finds himself walking forward. The plush carpet below softening his footsteps as he gazes in awe at the room’s emanate opulence: pedestals where pristine ceramic vases sat upon holding flowers, modest paintings of pleasant fields or mountains of solitude, and the array of tall windows that filter in ample sunlight through draping curtains.

Though he walks a good distance away from such novel furnishings, he continues to remain careful for the unknown fear that he may accidentally knock something over. Forget damaging—he may as well leave a stain on this place with his own breath.

Wavering footsteps eventually recede to a halt as his eyes catch sight of a particular painting.

Gilded in gold, it depicts a woman elegantly sitting upon a throne. Her black gloved hands rest leisurely upon her lap, contrasting her straight and refined posture. Rose gold hair styled in a loose braid that falls seamlessly down her shoulder, complimenting her poised sea-green eyes. Though she displayed a cordial smile akin to that of a loving mother, something about her gaze unsettled Lyney. Like it held a glint of rancor that most would not perceive.

Stationed beside this painting, was another more distinguishable portrait. It portrayed yet another woman of equal eminence, if not more. But even at a mere glance, it was obvious she held more eccentricities about her. She sat upon the throne as though it were any other seat: one leg crossed over the other and cheek languidly resting upon her hand, further emphasizing her impartial demeanor. Layered black and white hair that extends almost down to her shoulders on one side and—her eyes.

They are not ones Lyney has ever seen before. Black as a moonless night with striking red pupils shaped like “X’s.” Compared to the previous woman, this one evidently held a more daunting presence, even within the confines of a painting. Yet despite such looming authority, something about her held more sincerity. For what exactly, Lyney has no clue.

All he knows is that should he ever come face to face with such a woman, he would undoubtedly take her words as they are, without question.

Gradually peeling his eyes away from the paintings, Lyney’s gaze then landed upon another item of interest, one that stood at the center of the room and that he’s surprisingly failed to notice until now—a grand piano.

Approaching the instrument, Lyney’s eyes examine its spotless condition. Free of any marks or scratches as his fingers gently grazed along the black and white keys before taking a seat. He plays one note, and then another, the soft sound managing to echo throughout the entire hall. He definitely shouldn’t be touching this, his mind tells him. Though his actions speak otherwise. Slowly positioning his hands on the keys, Lyney begins to play.

It’s a melancholic tune that plays, but one so cathartic it brings the world to a standstill. He was never one to find great enjoyment in playing such an instrument. Lynette had often told him to put such talents to greater use, perhaps performing in the grandest of stages like the Opera Epiclese, but Lyney never indulged those possibilities.

Such an opportunity should only be granted to those who have a true passion for playing a beautiful instrument like the piano. Not someone like him who only used it as a means to get by.

“What are you doing?” A stringent voice cuts through the somber melody, immediately making Lyney’s hands flinch away from the keys and head dart at the person standing a few feet away. Their expression mirrored their tone of voice: cold and apathetic. Had they been here this entire time?

Upon receiving no response, their eyes narrow at him. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Lyney!” He blurts out immediately, shooting up from his seat that almost knocks over the stool behind him. He winces a bit at the commotion he’s now caused. “I mean–my name. My name is Lyney…”

“...Lyney?” The person repeats, voice dripping with doubt and ready to suspect him of hiding his true identity. But then there’s a pause and Lyney watches as their face morphs from a look of ponder to a scowl before they speak again. “Oh. So you’re the one “Father” talked about bringing in.”

#── ꒰📍꒱ؘ 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘬 .ᐟ #woohoo new tag for my random writing vomits!#im thinking of potentially documenting my journey of writing this fic on here by posting random snippets/previews of stuff i come up …#*with #during the whole process that is trying to figure out how the hell this story will play out #hypothetically speaking this excerpt comes from the unofficial chapter two part of the series #i thankfully have a few things established already both character + world building wise annd one example is that in this story …#the house of the hearth serves as both a palace of sorts and an orphanage meaning yes this is a royal au but are we surprised fr #instead of just being director of the orphanage they are also rulers themsleves of a kingdom i have yet to determine #previews acensions works similar to how it was hinted at in arle’s animation short but changed under the new director #the details of which i’m still in the process of brainstorming! hmm other random details to include: its a lyney x reader fic obv #an enemies to lovers dynamic lots of potential angst and drama yippee #that’s about all i can say for now because well..thats all i have atm😭so here’s to day 1 of yuomi’s lyney fic journey~

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boundinparchment · 8 months

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i will admit: I’m still frothing at the mouth but I just have no thoughts than wishing we knew how to build arguments to constructively improve fandom instead of resulting in drama. But drama is fun and no one gets paid for this shit, etc etc.

fandom history should be something everyone pokes their head into regarding reader fics. the entire genre and anything from second POV was shit on for decades; you didn’t make reader inserts in certain fandoms, you made OCs because those were more acceptable. Purges were done not only to remove porn but anything that didn’t meet an arbitrary standard. Some fics are lost to time to until a platform comes back properly (here’s hoping Luna makes a comeback one day).

this genre wouldn’t exist if not for the people dedicated to longfic reader inserts. The people who gave a reader character agency and a backstory and a personality in order to create a scenario. Maybe you relate. Maybe you don’t. But the writer wants to tell a story and we’re giving you a front row seat.

there should be room for discussion about growth and how the genre can improve and how writers can be better informed. it’s important to recognize your own internal bias or the bias you might be inflicting thinking that’ll garner attention. tag your stuff and label it appropriately, research what you don’t understand, and be willing to learn.

Coming from fandoms where the above purges and hate happened and no one made reader inserts because it was forbidden or at the very least, frowned upon? Shocking. To this day, it’s still a learning curve.

It’s a fun way to tell a story and that’s all anyone is trying to do.

#yes there are inherent problems with reader fics when it comes to race and body and culture #people literally out here making content for themselves and others and creating the representation that media doesn’t provide and I love th #and I love that in the sense of: we have a platform to do that; people want to share that part of themselves; different perspectives shared #and we need More of That #and we need less of people spitting and looking down and telling us how to write #How we shouldn’t do X Y and Z because it’s a reader character who needs to be relatable #I’m tapping the sign that says ‘don’t like don’t read you have the agency to leave’#and I think there’s such room for growth if people embraced the potential of the genre and stopped policing it #and let people play in the sandbox #Mao you said it best and I’m leaving it at that because I just…yeah this genre and its writers ARE THE BACKBONE

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yellow-faerie · 2 years

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Before you take the prompts down, maybe 30 for the Tyelpe and Gil Galad Brothers AU?

I like this, I like this prompt a lot.

From this prompt list.

30 - "Oh, thank all that is good that I found you, did - ow! Why did you do that?"

When the battle was raging in Nargothrond, Celebrimbor had to keep an eye on both Gil-Galad and his younger cousin.

Of course, he managed to lose both.

And when he'd found Finduilas, pinned to that tree, and quite dead, he had feared the worst for his little brother.

"Lord Celebrimbor!" Someone calls as Celebrimbor is helping one of Orodreth's advisors organise the what refugee stragglers they have managed to find and group together.

Analoth is a young elf, born on these shores around the same time as Finduilas, and had been her lady-in-waiting since both of them could walk. She had not taken the news of Finduilas' death well so it is a surprise to Celebrimbor that she looks quite so...alive.

"Lord, I have seen another group of refugees, coming up from the south. They must have been hiding in the woods." Her eyes have a fiery hope in them. "They might have Prince Ereinion with them."

Celebrimbor's whole heart clenches at the mention of his brother but he manages to keep his face straight. Best not to show anything until there is something more substantial than a hope.

Analoth's face falls slightly. "Is this not good news?" She asks, sounding hurt that Celebrimbor had not taken the news as well as she had hoped.

"No, no it is. Anymore people who survived is a blessing." He turns back to Fanaril, who's gone on to make the necessary annotations to their map while he talked.

"I'm going with Analoth to help scout out this new group. We can finish this later."

"Right, my lord." They roll up the paper and tuck it safely in their bag. "Safe journeying."

Celebrimbor nods and turns back to Analoth. "Show me where they are."

"Not far. I saw them while looking for wild mushrooms. Mushrooms are hardy and I thought some might have survived the orcs destruction. I found a good patch not far away and I saw them coming but I didn't want to wander too far unless...unless it was a trick of the Enemy."

"That was wise," Celebrimbor says, checking that his sword is easy to remove from the scabbard on his back. "On both counts: the mushrooms was a stroke of genius I wouldn't have thought of. When we return, please spread the word to keep an eye out for them."

"Of course."

Celebrimbor lets out a soft sigh and smiles imperceptibly. It's by no means a fix for Analoth's grief but Celebrimbor hopes that keeping busy will help her as it's always seemed to help him.

Analoth starts beside him suddenly and speeds up. "Ah, there's my basket! We're here."

She snatches her mushrooms from the ground and straightens up, looking around. The forest is blackened and still on fire in some places but it is not difficult to see far here.

"Analoth, I cannot see anyone."

She slumps down. "Oh. I swore I could..." She sighs and rubs at her eyes like she's about to cry. "...I guess it was one of the Enemy's tricks."

"But you did good," Celebrimbor says softly, reaching out to gently rub comforting circles into her shoulder. "You managed not to fall for it."

"Yeah." She doesn't sound very happy about it. "I guess...I don't know what I guess."

"Let's go back to the camp, alright? We'll take your mushrooms and I'm sure someone can make something warm to eat out of them."

It takes a little bit more coaxing but Celebrimbor manages to steer her back around and they stumble through the blackened remains of the forest to where their small group of refugees have found a place to huddle.

"Ana!" Someone calls as they get closer and Analoth's older sister appears from the crowd.

"Mina?" Analoth says in surprise and is wrapped in a tight hug by Minloth. Celebrimbor steps away to let them have their reunion and looks instead for Fanaril.

Obviously, while they were away looking for Analoth's hallucination, an actual group of refugees appeared which meant-

His eyes fall upon a familiar head of silvery-gold hair, still tied back with the silver hair pins Celebrimbor had made him for his last begetting day.

Gil-Galad is sitting on a fallen log, swinging his legs and looking a little lost as people swirl around him with greetings for each other.

Celebrimbor passes a few people he knows on his way over but he spares them little more than a smile.

"Gil?" He asks softly and his little brother turns around sharply. Celebrimbor can feel muscles he hadn't known were tensed, relax, and he smiles.

"Oh, thank all that is good that I found you," he says, crouching down in front of him. "Did-" he starts but does not get to finish as Gil-Galad aims a really hard kick against his shin. "Ow! Why did you do that?"

"You left me!" Gil-Galad says, crossing his arms. There are furious tears glittering in his eyes. "You promised Atya that you would protect me and you left me."

Celebrimbor hates how much his voice must break when he speaks again. "Oh Gil, I'm-"

"No!" Gil-Galad looks a little surprised by the force of his words but carries on all the same, "I was scared and it was so loud and busy and I had no idea where you were. You're my brother, you're meant to be there for me, you were meant-"

He cuts off abruptly with a hiccup and he starts crying.

Celebrimbor gently takes his hands in his, wanting to just pull him straight into a hug but not sure whether that would really be appreciated right now.

"Gil," he says and his brother looks up at him, "I'm sorry."

There is a moment where Gil-Galad just stares at him, searching his face for something that Celebrimbor can't quite work out, and just as Celebrimbor thinks that his apology is going to be rejected, Gil-Galad sobs and pushes himself right into Celebrimbor's arms.

"Please don't leave again Tyelpë," he mumbles into the front of Celebrimbor's shirt. Celebrimbor rests his cheek against his brother's hair, still fluffy from childhood even as he gets into his adolescence.

"I shan't. Not if I can help it Hánya."

It's more than his promise to Finrod in a back corridor of Nargothrond. It's more than a half-conversation had with his father in the night. It's more than a hundred words said.

It's simply that Celebrimbor loves his brother with all his heart and he would kneel here, in this thick mud among the burned remains of one of Beleriand's great forests forever if it would bring even an ounce of happiness to him.

"I give you my word," he finishes, in barely a whisper, and he knows the seriousness of such oaths.

#does this parentage provide so much angst potential?#Yes #Gil-Galad #Celebrimbor #OC: Analoth #OC: Fanaril #OC: Minloth #Silmarillion #Tolkien #Fanfiction #The Curious Case of the Parentage of Ereinion Gil-Galad #Gil-Galad Curufinrodion #Fae's Stuff #Fae's Fic #Prompt #Prompt List 3 #Ask #ibrithir-was-here

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raksh-writes · 5 months

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Me, unironically watching the prequels, because Ive been having Anakin brain-worms since watching Obi-wan Kenobi and Ahsoka a few days ago: *chuckles* Im in danger...

#Raksh posts #goodness help me if I come out of this months long dry desert of inspiration writing star wars fic 🙈#Ive been Gnawing at the bit since seeing Hayden's Anakin again in the shows #Especially since his appearence on Ahsoka Im like--!!!!!#full potential Anakin!!!#gimme gimme gimme #chewing on glass here for more oh my god #and then I read a fic where Anakin was left on tatooine and became a natural with the force and freed the slaves and Im like #I need more of that too yes pls #Im Not gonna venture into writing star wars fic I know better #Id need to do so much research jskdnrnfkrk #buuuuut.... well #the brain wors are definitely here oof #Ive liked so many gifsets too #I'll add them to the queue sometime -- or spam soms reblogs one day who knows #Im really chewing on glass over here and honestly #good to feel it again #even if just these little sparks ^^

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leatherbookmark · 1 year

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i got curious and checked how my old babygirls (enstars lads) are doing and. well since the game got its English version and the wiki doesn't have any translations online, i don't know how they're doing, but I looked at their cards and they're so cute. miss them lots (but not enough to play again, Oh No)

#i kinda wanna know how things are rn but... yeah i can't #i can only hope theyre still alive and unharmed but fuck you never know with akira #i doubt anyone here knows enst but i wonder how obvious my tastes are... could anyone guess who was my best boy/otp? lol #wait no im xi/yao maining now. is there a ship in enst thats similar to them....? I DONT KNOW #is there a ship in md/zs thats similar to my enst otp... I ALSO DONT KNOW #anyway i was also pathetically lonely in my enst tastes because iirc no one else looked at rei and saw his INCREDIBLE pathetic little man #potential. only a cool sexy dude with depression and like yes but PRECISELY because of that its so satisfying when he's a loser #does anyone get my vision? no. such is the fate #i make a new ao3 account almost every new life-consuming fandom because im always ashamed of my old shit and dont want to be Perceived #but my old fics are still there and i gave them a reread the other day and they werent That horrible lol #anyway.#i should stop now before i get emotionally invested. in this house we dont trust akira. we hiss at him actually #shrimp thoughts

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orcelito · 2 years

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oh god discacc is now the 5th longest akeshu fic on ao3

oh god

#speculation nation #discacc shit #WHY HAVE I DONE THIS TO MYSELF #I CAN NEVER SHUT UP AND SO I AM APPROACHING 500K WORDS OF A SINGLE PROJECT #place number 4 is complete and not that far ahead of me so i'll definitely be claiming that number 4 spot at some point lol #spot 3 is marigolds. which is over 100k words ahead of me so who knows if i'll ever catch up lmao #number 2 i could potentially catch up to its current count but from the projected chapter count it's got a WAYS to go #discacc is probably gonna be over 600k words. possibly over 700k words #a MILLION words tho??? Probably Not.#so yea im never taking that number 1 spot bc that belongs to a CRAZY long fic and im not gonna do that to myself lmfao #i'd be content with keeping 4th place. until the next insane motherfucker (like me) comes up and usurps me #god i cant believe how long this shit has gotten #like i said it at the start that the plan was to have a fucking beast of a fic. and i sure have been delivering huh lol #looks at my own 467k word fic and contemplates my own mental health. obviously not good lol #that one meme of 'could a mentally ill person make THIS?' yes yes they could. they have. It's Here #anyways im gonna try to pass out now. love y'all

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lokh · 2 years

Text

kyojuro makes me want to write the opposite of a fix it fic

#i think this means i might find him interesting not that i. really hate him A kakijkjanbdhj #or he has the potential to be. interesting. if i ruin his life first #the thing is that Once More i do Not go here so im probably never gonna write it!#this will just be a fun little exercise for me =) ejdnjfj #the reason i will never write it is because i refuse to engage with the manga or anime beyond what i already have #so frankly i dont have a good grasp on. well. anything!#and thats unacceptable! so here i am #the conceit was reading too many ''corruption arcs'' that werent rly #corruption arcs. because again you do have to ruin his life first #case in point: in my hypothetical scenario we start by killing senjuro. sorry senjuro!#right i missed that part. the conceit waa What would it take for kyojuro to say yes #what ive ended up doing after a day of thinking is making him fly off the deep end and STILL not be a demon #because i also had something to say about the manga. lmaozjbxbjcjx so i went against the thing i wanted #to see in the first place...#right i said i read too many but the truth is ive only read a few and i think the problem is #they were all obviously. written with renkaza endgame. like ok fair.#but if it did for real happen. ykno there is definitely fic out there centered on a corruption arc without a ship lens #but again i dont actually seem to Like kyojuro AJBAHDHXH i dont really want to read ......#oh god. is this another dirk strider situation. where im like i HATE this guy #all while rotating him in my head 24/7.......#anyway in this hypothetical kyo actually hates akazas guts but its still somehow renkaza in my heart <3 #no they dont get together no they dont fuck not even out of hate. no this is. hm. its a hannibal situation LMAOSJNNDNX

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arminsumi · 8 months

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I WANT TO KISS YOU / キスしたい

↳ GOJO さとる + fem!reader

you and Satoru falling in love despite a language barrier.

2.9k

Chapter index

Summary : you've come to visit Japan to meet these two boys you met online. Though Satoru can't speak English and you can't speak Japanese, the two of you still fall in love. Very cute. Very cheesy. Oh no... wait is there a tension between you and his best friend, too? Oh boy...

Warnings : romantic tension with Suguru / potential love triangle, cat scratch

Note : i think of this fic a lot and i found the continuation hiding out in my drafts sooo here 👍

🍒 More from Jay : Gojo works / Gojo fave works / JJK works

Satoru blinks awake to see your face. His heart beats harder.

結局昨日は夢ではなかったのか？ Yesterday was not a dream after all?

He's not an early bird at all, but from the first day of your visit he magically woke up early as if his soul was too excited to sleep when it knew you were right there, in the flesh. No screen. Just you.

When the first day starts, it feels like you've always been together. Was there ever a screen separating the two of you? And were you really going to disappear behind one again in just a month?

今のところ、彼女はここに留まるように感じ��います。彼女が訪問を終えて出発するとき、私は空港で赤ん坊のように泣くことになると思います。 For now, she feels like she's here to stay. I think I'm going to cry like a baby at the airport when she leaves after her visit.

Morning routines are carried out. The sky is cloudy at first, threatening rain, and by the time you three cluster into the kitchen to make breakfast together, it starts raining.

You and Satoru banter like two cats. Suguru's morning rasp is very strong.

"Satoru... uh... sugar?" you ask, preparing to make yourself a second one and automatically making Satoru another one, since he looks still very bleary-eyed even after spending an hour freshening up in the bathroom.

"...? Yes?" he tilts his head, then you raise the sugar cube jar. "Yes. Uh... four. Thank you."

Suguru's blushing because of the cute tension between you and his best friend. It fills the whole kitchen, which already felt full with their two bodies and a third one now. Everyone keeps bumping elbows and yet not complaining about it, in fact it's enjoyable to be squished together. Maybe because you three waited so long to be together in person, you don't mind it. There's a silent, ever-present comedy in the air about the tight proximity.

You hum happily, tossing in one, two, three... four? That's a lot of sugar. "Suguru, tell Satoru he mustn't have so much sugar all the time. It's not good for his health."

Suguru laughs. "I try to tell him that every day. But his sweet tooth is incurable."

"His dentist must hate him." you smirk at Satoru, who's been looking at you blushingly after hearing his name mentioned.

彼女の声が今では一番好きな音だと思います。 I think her voice is my favorite sound now.

もう一度私の名前を言ってください。 Please say my name again.

"Satoru? Coffee?" you interrupt his lovey-dovey thoughts and he suddenly reanimates himself, because for a moment there he zoned out and just stared at you with those pretty eyes.

"Mmm... thanks." he takes the coffee from you with a noticeable timidness that you can't quite explain. There's a lot about him that's indescribable, you're having a small internal crisis; aren't you supposed to be fluent in English? And yet you can't even begin to describe just how sweet and gentle Satoru behaves. The most you can do is use metaphors that barely justify him.

"Suguru, tell her... her voice is nice, and also sorry for cuddling you in my sleep (and that she can definitely kick me away at night if it bothers her.) Also!" (the three of you head into the living room, and Suguru habitually trips over the cat who stalks under his feet too quietly to notice) "Also tell her... if it rains today, does she still want to go out? Because if we go out in the rain, she might get sick. And I don't want her to get sick on her trip. Not that I'd mind taking care of you, Y/n, of course."

Suguru lets out a long sigh and pulls a funny face. You smile amusedly.

"...It's too early to be a translator..." he grumbles in English after Satoru overloads him.

"What? C'mon tell her everything I said!"

"Let me have my coffee first. How about the two of you write to each other?" he suggests, putting the rim of the cup to his lips and sipping languidly.

"Eh, fine." Satoru pouts, and stalks off into his bedroom to get his phone.

Then, when he's in his bedroom, his chest flutters for some reason when he sees your suitcase standing there opened and emptied into the free cupboard space. He takes his phone, smiles at the homely feeling of seeing your belongings in his room, and leaves.

"Oh..." he has a sudden idea, and remembers the magnetic drawing board that's hanging in the kitchen. He and Suguru usually use it for writing reminders to each other, like get milk or you're an idiot or sometimes it has doodles of Mint the cat with sunglasses on.

So he returns to you with this magnetic drawing board, and points at it meaningfully, then holds one finger up and bows his head as he begins writing very slowly.

Suguru's checking the weather forecast and muttering sour complaints under his breath to you. "Of course it would rain for three days just when you arrive... at least by the weekend it will be clear and sunny..."

"Mmm... it's alright. A little rain never hurt nobody." you respond.

"I like your optimism." Suguru compliments flippantly at first, but then continues; "It's really uplifting. I think Satoru said something about you being a joy once, he said it really poetically but I can't recall it now."

"Aw..." you dip your head beneath your coffee cup, hiding the bashful expression on your face, which Suguru chuckles at.

And then, for a long moment, you just stare and watch Satoru writing on the board. You're completely captured in this moment, completely captivated in his enveloping presence as he sits next to you. He has slow, meticulous wrist movements. His knees press together, like he's worried that he'll invade your personal space if he sits too comfortably close to you. Funny, considering he cuddled you all night and you had no complaints about it.

He's writing very simply and neatly, just like how he texts you. You're a bit baffled by the characters he's using, though he's trying his best to avoid using any kanji knowing that you don't know a lot of it. He's sure you can figure things out by slowly pronouncing each hiragana character, or at least he hopes.

"Here." he hands you the magnetic drawing board, and then raises from the couch to go feed the cat.

"Minto-Minto... " he calls after the cat and makes a small cute sound to lure her out.

You're trying to read each hiragana character, eyes squinting a bit.

Suguru leans in close to you. He just takes a look, but the proximity for some reason gives both of you butterflies.

"Ooh... that's cute." Suguru comments after reading what Satoru wrote. His voice reaches deep in your tummy.

"Hm... I'll spell it out and... figure it out... anyways, why did you name your cat Mint?"

"Oh... well. There's two reasons. So the first..." he sets down his coffee, like he's about to tell you a great story, "Is because Satoru watched this show called Tokyo Mew Mew growing up, and he liked the character Minto. So he calls her Minto. And then I agreed on calling her that, but I call her Mint, because I hate mint the herb."

"You — haha, wait what? You call her Mint because you hate mint?"

"Yes. I hate mint, both the herb and the cat. She hates me too, clearly." Suguru raises his hand to remind you of how the cat scratched him the night before.

"Such a cute Hello Kitty sticker..." you tease.

"Thank you. Only the manliest men wear Hello Kitty Bandaids."

"How did she scratch you anyways...?"

"Oh, she likes to hang out in the washing machine if Satoru accidentally leaves it open. And when I try take her out of her comfy spot, she scratches me."

You sympathize, "Poor thing."

"What, the cat or me?" Suguru laughs.

"The cat." you lie teasingly.

"Wow! And here I thought you were being sympathetic!" he raises his brows.

You giggle and look at him, eyes finally making contact — ooh no that's bad bad bad, better break it immediately. So the two of you look away like you've both just indulged in a taboo intimacy. His stomach flips.

"Minto has been fed. She gave me cuddles." Satoru comes back into the room, and you admire the feeling he brings with him.

"No scratches?" Suguru asks.

"No, obviously, she loves me more than you." Satoru cheeks.

"Fuck you, haha."

Satoru makes his voice lower and leans to Suguru, "(Did she figure out what I wrote yet?)"

"Y/n did you figure out what he wrote?" Suguru asks.

"I'm trying so hard. What does this part mean...?"

Suguru shakes his head and puts his hands up. "Like I said, I'm not Mr Translator in the mornings."

"But you've had your coffee! Please, just this part..." you beg, and he can't deny that sweet begging. He easily folds for it, just like when Satoru begs for anything.

"Okay, where — this? Uh... Satoru your handwriting isn't usually this neat, is it...? That part means... 'voice'."

"Oh... ohhh!" you suddenly realize, and then the boys swoon over you when you pronounce the characters out loud to yourself.

"Uh... I think I know what it means..." you feel your cheeks warm up from the crown to your jawline.

あなたのこえがすき。 a-na-ta-no-ko-e-ga-su-ki.

"I like your voice, too." you respond to Satoru, and he half-gets it and gives you a thumbs up.

"Thanks."

You look at each other and then promptly look away with shy smiles.

"You two are cute." Suguru comments.

"Ahah... ahah shut up... hey, the sky has cleared up." you point out.

"Ooh... it cleared up 'cuz Satoru walked back into the room."

You awe at what he said.

"?"

"Nothing."

"Hey, Translator — (stop talking about me behind my back!)"

Suguru chuckles, "I wasn't! I was just — never mind. Let's get ready to head out."

And so you head into Satoru's bedroom to get ready, and Suguru heads into his bedroom, and Satoru himself goes into the cramped bathroom. Poor boy. He's really too tall for that archway, he bumped his head again.

彼女に花を買ってあげるべきでしょうか？それともちょっと多すぎますか？ Should I buy her flowers? Or is it a bit too much?

（なんてことだ）、なぜこのシャツには穴が開いているのでしょう？ (Oh my god), why does this shirt have holes?

The door slides open, he steps out of the bathroom half-dressed, and intends to quickly slip into Suguru's bedroom to borrow a shirt instead of awkwardly knocking on his bedroom door and disturbing you.

But oh, you know what? The cheesiest possible thing happens instead. The universe likes making Satoru's life a little more fun in odd times. So the two of you encounter each other in the hallway; you're fully clothed and he's got just pants and socks on.

He stutters once, swallows awkwardly, and even more awkwardly places his hand on your head as if to say sorry for this inconvenience.

But you laugh in response to the funny situation.

ああ、またあの美しい笑い声。 Ah, that beautiful laugh again.

"Sorry." he mutters, and disappears to go get a shirt from Suguru.

"It's okay." you reply.

The image of your pretty smile is burned in his head.

You can hear him telling Suguru something in the other room, and then you hear Suguru's muffled laugh as a response.

"(Don't laugh! I'm embarrassed! She's seen me shirtless now! No one's seen me shirtless except you!)"

"(You're such a virgin.)"

"(Say that again, I dare you.)"

"(Sorry, I don't understand you. I don't speak virgin, only English and Japanese.)"

You're wondering why Satoru sounds so embarrassed and annoyed, and then he groans down the hallway. It feels like you're their roommate, it's funny.

"Hi."

The two of you encounter each other in the hall again. This time he has a shirt, yes. And this time Suguru is there, too, and he's holding back an amused smile. He fluffs Satoru's hair as a way of embarrassing him more.

So Satoru leaves, and he leaves in such a way that it's super comedic, making you and Suguru laugh. Ooh, what a laugh that boy has; his Addam's apple shifts up and down deliciously.

"Ah... Suguru? I need help with the washing machine..."

"Yes...?"

"...this kid on the plane who sat next to me, he spilled strawberry juice all over my shirt and now it's sticky."

"But at least it smells like strawberries, right?" he jokes. "You can put it in the washing machine, I'll be doing the laundry in a second anyways..." there is a small moment of eye contact shared, then Suguru looks down, and frowns at something he sees, "(SATORU YOU LEFT YOUR SOCK ON THE FLOOR AGAIN!)"

"(Haha, sorry.)" you hear Satoru half-heartedly apologize from the other room.

So Suguru picks up the sock like an annoyed mother and goes to lecture Satoru.

"(You're embarrassing me in front of our guest. For the love of god, don't leave your goofy ass socks on the floor. What if she slips on them?)"

"(You're such a mother, Suguru.)"

You're calmly and casually going to put your juice-stained shirt in the washing machine like Suguru said, but then...

(the boys are talking and there's just this hilariously dramatic scream from the laundry room)

"DID THE CAT SCRATCH YOU?"

"(Did the cat scratch her?)"

"Ow, y-yeah!" you whine.

Suguru's the first one at the crime scene, and he picks up the cat and proceeds to lecture the cat as if it understands Japanese. It licks its lips and nubby nose and has an evil stare. You giggle.

"I'm so sorry... come, uh — (Suguru, we still have Hello Kitty adhesives somewhere, right?)" Satoru instinctually holds your hand that got scratched.

And he holds it so tenderly and caringly that it makes your whole chest quake for him.

彼女の手の傷はとても小さなものですが、それでも私は心臓がチクチクするのを感じました。 Although the wound on her hand was very small, I still felt my heart tingle.

He leads you to his bedroom, picking up some adhesives and antiseptic on the way, and sits with you on the unmade beds. You watch his fingers nimbly peeling the plastic off the adhesive, admiring how swiftly and perfectly he does even the littlest things. He has such a great attention to detail, it makes you self-conscious; is he thinking of you with the same attention to detail as everything else? Yes... he is.

He dabs some antiseptic on your small scratch, and then gently wraps and pats the Hello Kitty adhesive around it. You're pretty sure he's the one who bought them. Oh, if only you could ask him, but where even is your phone? Lost in a void somewhere, probably.

"Thank you, Satoru."

His eyes light up. His heart thumps. Why did those small, simple words have such a great effect on him?

"Mhm." he hums in acknowledgement. "You're welcome."

あなたの傷がもっと良くなるようにキスしたいです。 I want to kiss your wounds to make them better.

A second after thinking this and looking at your hand, he brings it to his lips and presses a very delicate kiss to the edge of your wrist, where the small cut spanned up to the base of your palm. Can you even call it a kiss? It's more like his lips graze your skin, hovering timidly.

And for some reason... the atmosphere becomes very intimate. Is it because of the place where he kissed you? The inner wrist has never occurred to you to be an intimate spot, and yet you're feeling as if he just kissed you on the lips.

You hear him audibly swallow, like he's conscious of this, too. The both of you become very aware of the tension in the atmosphere.

And then he looks apologetic, as if he overstepped a boundary. So you mutter a small, whispery "thanks..." which lifts his heart up into his throat and reassures him that you don't mind the intimacy.

"Mmm..." he blinks at you, pursing his lips.

His eyes linger on your lips for a moment, and it feels like he's about to... well you know his body just wants to... he sort of...

"Hey, how's the wounded patient?" Suguru interrupts, and you and Satoru spring apart like you're elastic bands that just got released after being stretched.

"Ahah, I'm okay. It's not a bad scratch." you lift your hand, "I'll cherish this Hello Kitty Bandaid forever, thank you."

"Yeah, Satoru bought 'em so you can thank him."

"I knewww he bought them, haha! So expected... cutiepie." you admire Satoru, and he's pretty sure that the last thing you said is some cute nickname, so he smirks.

"Okay, well... anyways, let's head out before the sun rises too high and it gets too hot to walk."

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

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apocalypticdemon · 1 year

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If my brain could focus on learning one new hobby at a time that'd be great!

#rn i have like 4 hobbies i switch between #and its writing crocheting embroidery and drawing in no particular order #but i also have oil paints to crack open and learn (you need ventilation (ie open windows) and its Cold here so i have to wait)#and i need to do more embroidery bc i have so many ifeas #*ideas #and i do some mini painting on rare occasion #so tell me. tell me brain. why do we want to learn book binding. why. stop it. we dont have a printer. stop it.#i mean. i have reasons.#but i fear that I'd get halfway through a project or two and never follow through after gathering all the necessary items #bc thats $$$ and im potentially looking at being in grad school soon. do i really want to invest in a new hobby like this #esp with little to no guaranteed time to actually do it?#(yes. yes i do want it. however. is it wise. that is the question)#(to my immense shame it is bc i want to bind some of my favorite fics and have them on my shelf.)#(i need to cut back on screen time and i fear losing the digital copy sometime to deletion or hardware fuckups)#(cant have that with a book. so.) (however. again. time and money constraints are important and i cant just follow every whim)#(even though i want to)

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murdockparker · 2 months

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Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say.

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed.

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by.

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise.

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?”

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?”

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion.

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.”

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more.

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct.

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.”

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room.

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it.

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process.

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—”

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze.

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.”

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal.

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display.

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter.

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door.

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon.

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—”

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask.

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say.

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish.

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly.

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered.

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck.

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water.

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face.

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out.

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward.

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed.

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above.

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said.

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—”

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother.

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—”

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?”

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain.

Rain.

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting.

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in.

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise.

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…”

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely.

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—”

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified.

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience.

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this.

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him.

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again.

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while.

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter.

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray.

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have.

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #this is a doozy and i am sorry #but only a little bit!!!

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forbidden-sunlight · 4 months

Text

yandere!Alastor with Violet Evergarden!reader scenario: A Wendigo's Violent Love

Warning: aged-up!reader [in early to late twenties], violence, spoilers for episodes 7 and 8 in the first season of the 2024 show, possessive and obsessive behavior, Alastor is in denial, physical abuse, implication of friends to enemies.

There may be possible triggers in this story.

If you do not feel comfortable venturing any further, please hit the back button on your phone or computer and read something much more pleasant than a possible series of unfortunate events.

Hey guys, welcome to another Hazbin Hotel fic! I know I had said that I was going to be on a break until the 8th or 14th in my last post, but I had gotten a burst of inspiration after watching the season finale and wrote this after discussing the idea with @riddle-simp and collaborated with @witch-of-the-writing-desk. It's because of these two that I managed to write 2k in a single day, so please give a big round of applause to these amazing individuals.

So with that being said, sit back, relax, and let's see what's going on in tonight's broadcast with Hell's one and only Radio Demon!

Part Two

Alastor could not believe what had happened on the rooftop. No, he refused to believe that he was nearly killed by a hair. To almost die for his friends, a fucking altruist of all things. Sorry to disappoint, but this is not how his story will end here. He thought viciously, tugging at his hair as memories rushed through his mind. He needed more. He needed his freedom. Yet this deal is restricting his powers from reaching their fullest potential, and it almost killed him. Yes, there has to be another way to get out of it. But more importantly….he needed to stop these feelings bubbling inside of him. These feelings he felt towards you.

You, a simple groundskeeper who had forgotten what it meant to be a human and served as a weapon in war. You, who did not use technology like him yet still found a way to connect with the rest of the hotel’s wayward souls.

He hates it and he wants you gone, out of sight and out of mind, because these feelings have put him in more danger than necessary. When he finds the backdoor of his deal, how to unclip his wings, he will be the one pulling all of the strings and claim the power that he rightfully deserves. He is the Radio Demon, the Great Alastor! Nothing else matters to him!

He made his decision right in the dilapidated radio station to never get attached to you or anyone else again. To only focus on himself and no one else. He is in Hell for a reason, after all. He cackled, feeling the thrum of his power rising in unison with his conviction. Yes. He thought. Yes, he’s Alastor! The cold, ruthless overlord who always has room for more voices on his broadcast. Not some soft-hearted twit who would die for someone!

But what he did not realize at the time, just right underneath the hatch, you had heard everything.

Despite your injuries and losing both of your arms to angelic steel, you had used your strength to trek through the debris and look for him. Now knowing that he despised you, knowing that he sees you as nothing more than a weapon to use for his convenience….well, you could not blame him. You were a weapon when you were alive. You were feared, you were hated, and you did not care at the time. So why did it hurt so much when he said that? You did not know, except it was better to keep your distance from him.

So you left the Radio Demon alone, staggering away to join the others.

Vaggie was somehow able to find Sir Pentious’ blueprints for your prosthetics in a fireproof trunk beneath the rubble, and put in a call to Carmilla Carmine to see if she could make them with angelic steel instead of adamantine. Of course, the angelic arms dealer took a look at them first before agreeing to it, but not before telling Vaggie she must ask for your consent to do the procedure and what you wanted to add or remove. You gave your input, and the procedure was scheduled for the following week. Although you could not help with the construction of the hotel, you did assist Charlie by putting together an eulogy and memorial service for Sir Pentious. The princess was not sure when it would be held, hopefully when the hotel was finished.

You understood, softly promising to be by her side for support, even if you had to be pushed in a wheelchair. Sir Pentious had been a good person, an inventor and a gentleman who was nothing but kind and respectful to you. Even though you offered to pay him for doing repairs on your arms in the past, he brushed it off and instead asked you to join him for tea. He…you hoped he found peace.

On the day of your procedure, you asked the overlord a question that had been plaguing your mind since the war. “Madam Carmilla, I am a weapon. I was raised to be one, to be used and tossed aside when my usefulness had expired. So…why is it that I am bothered by what Alastor said…on that day?” You did not dare to elaborate on what he exactly said to her, just that he said that he did not want to see you anymore. Be gone from his sight and mind.

She stared at you for a long moment before she replied coolly, “So I have heard from Vaggie. But I do not share her thoughts. A weapon is lifeless. You are a person. An emotionally stunted one, but someone is living, breathing, and who can still be hurt by what others say about them even if they can’t see it. You are upset because of what Alastor said….and in my humble opinion, whatever you feel towards him, discard it. There is nothing to gain by being close to him.” She then turned away, pulling on a pair of gloves over her hands as one of her daughters placed a mask over her face. “Are you ready to begin? This is your last chance, and I cannot promise it won’t hurt.”

“I am.” You said. “Thank you for answering my question.”

Carmilla nodded, and proceeded to give out instructions to you and the rest of the staff in the operating room. You complied, not wanting any more time to be wasted on your behalf. At least now you knew why you were upset. It was because you cared about Alastor. Cared….yes, that is the appropriate word. You had to distance yourself from him. It is what he wanted, so you must respect his decision as the manager of the Hazbin Hotel.

Yes, it is better this way.

That was the last thought that crossed your mind before a mask was placed over your face, and everything fell into darkness.

Alastor did not understand. You were doing what he wanted you to do. He did not want to see or talk to you unless it was necessary. So why was it making him angry? When he congratulated you on a successful recovery from your procedure, complimented your progress in physical therapy per Carmilla’s instructions, or how lovely the eulogy you wrote for Sir Pentious' memorial service, you showed no reaction. You simply stared at him with a hollow expression before thanking him, excusing yourself with a bow of your head.

He should be elated. No, he is pleased. He is satisfied that his relationship with you has not gone by being professional. Why, you even pull away as soon as he lays a finger on you~! So why does it bother him that you recoil from his touch? No. He…cannot accept it. He cannot accept this. He needed to speak to you. Discreetly.

However, now that this new and improved Hazbin Hotel stood in place of the old one, everything is much bigger with the additional square footage; meaning there would be more ground to cover if Alastor is to ever find you, even if you do not wish to see him.

Niffty, bless her little deranged mind, pointed him in the direction of the greenhouse. Of course, it was much bigger than the old one. But he still saw the old stained glass windows of the Moriningstar family crest lined up on the south side, allowing red light to come through and shine down on seedling trays with new shoots poking out of the inky soil. The clean, fragrant scent of herbs permeated the air as he walked through the rows of berries, juicy melons, and other culinary delights. He did not think this place would already be thriving when you were the only one who tended to it, as the hotel’s groundskeeper. However…this is you. You, who is able to accomplish anything once you put your mind to it.

He found you hiding just beyond the apple trees, kneeling beside a bush of glistening roses, armed with pruning shears and an apron over your clothes. A watering can sat on the grass by your side. Your back was facing him…which allowed him the element of surprise. Grinning, he leaned forward, stretching his gloved fingers to lightly caress the petals of the rose you were about to snip off.

“Oh, my apologies dear. My hand slipped!”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, emotionless [Eye Color] irises holding a steady gaze before turning away. “It’s all right. There are others that I can place at Sir Pentious’ memorial site.” You said, raising the shears to carefully cut another rose with a small snip. “Thank you for your concern.”

The static around him buzzed, swelling in synchronization with his boiling anger towards you. “I see.” He hissed. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you.”

“It is all right.” Snip. “If there is nothing else, please allow me to finish this so that I can go on break. Niffty will not be happy if I am not out of here within ten minutes.”

“I’m afraid we must discuss something, [First Name].” He pressed on, irritated at your uncharacteristic rudeness. “That is why I am here. So please turn around and look at me.”

You did. You placed the shears down, twisted your body around so that you looked at him straight in the eye. “Yes?” You said. “What do you need?”

He smiled, the static around him coming to a screeching halt and he was much calmer. Finally, He thought. You were looking at him, instead of avoiding his gaze. “I understand that since you have been cleared to return to work, you’ve been quite busy~! However! What I do not understand is why you have been ignoring me.” He leaned forward, feeling his eyes transform into radio dials. “You do not greet me as much as you have before, we haven’t had tea together, nor have we taken a stroll in Cannibal Colony~! So…why are you acting like I am a complete stranger to you?”

“Because I know the truth.”

Any and every thought he could have possibly said to her at this moment evaporated upon hearing your answer. “Pardon? I’m sorry but I didn’t catch that.” His voice leaked through the rising static. He felt his antlers grow, expanding past his ears with cr-crik, crick noises. Like the roots of a tree.

“I know the truth. I know that you are angry over what happened in the war, how everyone saw you flee from your battle against Adam. I know you wish to unclip your wings and that you utterly despise me. So I am doing what you wish for. To maintain a professional relationship as the groundskeeper and the manager of the Hazbin Hotel. Our goal is to redeem sinners. There’s nothing beyond business between us.” You said with a calm and expressionless composure. “I went there that day, to the radio station. I had gone there to look for you, to make sure you were all right when I heard your words. But know this,” A sudden sheen of ice glazed over your eyes. “If you bring harm to Charlie or anyone in this hotel, I will kill you where you stand.”

The last thread of patience in his psyche split in half. Before he could stop himself, Alastor pinned you against the ground, his hands on your shoulders and glaring at you, trying to intimate you with his true form, to scare you into silence as he had done with Husk…but you held your gaze.

“It’s terrible manners to eavesdrop on someone, my dear.”

“And it isn’t wise to attack someone when you are not even at your full strength.”

In a flash you immediately flipped him over, straddling his hips as you held down his wrists over his head with one hand. The other held a garden spade to his throat and he was burning. That was when he realized you weren’t wearing your gloves, thus the angelic steel is the reason why his skin is on fire.

“Calm yourself, Alastor.” You said. “There is no reason to be angry when I am doing what you want me to do. Nor to act as you are doing right now. I advise you to take slow, deep breaths and count to five backwards.”

“Release me.”

“Not until you have calmed down.” The way you replied so calmly, so…lifelessly, made Alastor angry. Angrier than he has felt in a long, long time. Not since his prey had escaped the forest and he did not get to eat them. Not since his mother died, leaving him alone in the world except for a drunken asshole who wasn’t worthy of being his father. Make these feelings stop NOW

“Come to my office in exactly twenty minutes for an evaluation about your conduct at work. Do not be late.”

That was the last thing he said to you before he sunk into the grass as an inky shadow, slithering back towards the greenhouse’s entrance towards his room. He couldn’t believe it. How could you have known everything? How could he not have sensed your presence? Was he that weak? No. No, he assumed he was alone and clearly he had not been. You were an anomaly. You were raised as a weapon; to spy, to kill, to search and destroy upon the command of your master.

So why does it still bother him? Why does his head feel like it is about to split in half as he goes over the conversation over and over in his mind? Why is his heart falling into the pit of his stomach at remembering your promise to kill him if he harmed anyone here in the hotel? Why does he have this urge to know how you truly feel towards him? Do you still care for him? Do you love him?

In twenty minutes, he needed to know the truth…or else he would go insane.

What Alastor did not realize though, as he holed up himself in his quarters until the allotted time to meet with you, Husk had seen the whole thing from the door.

He was going to drag you to lunch because Niffty had gotten pissed that you were skipping meals again…and thank fuck Alastor did not see him. Husk, the drunken gambler and former overlord, almost flew over to you with a worried look, grumbling under his breath. Once he saw that you were all right and did not have visible bruises or injuries courtesy of a certain someone, he grabbed you by the hand, leading out of the greenhouse. He was not going to let Alastor hurt you again.

He might be a dumbass, can’t fight worth shit…but you are important to him, and he’ll protect you even if it means putting himself in the line of fire again.

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#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #yandere alastor x reader #alastor x reader #yandere x reader #forbidden-sunlight #yandere male #yandere #ns.fw #cw physical abuse #tw physical abuse #tw possessive behavior #cw possessiveness #hazbin hotel spoilers #violet evergarden!reader #character!reader

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