#i have this AU that exclusively exists in my head

[myonmukyuu]

One-sided Nana => Ayumu

Prompt:

#i have this AU that exclusively exists in my head #where setsuna disbands the idol club but never joins back #and she just admires ayumu from the sidelines #and ayumu doesnt even know her #parasocial nanapomu... #it's really juicy i want to take it further some day #love live #setsuna yuki #ayumu uehara #nana nakagawa #my art #nanapomu #setsuayu

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

OKAY here is the completely nonserious percy jackson npmd au thats been taking up space in my brain for weeks now because it simply needs somewhere to go:

New campers-

Stephanie Lauter:

I'm not overcomplicating this one: Steph is a daughter of Aphrodite

Solomon Lauter saw the hottest woman at some party where he was campaigning, and he’s is nothing if not ‘passionate’ and successful (by design) so it worked out

As far as Steph knows until her teens her mom ran off on her dad when she was a baby, and that’s fine, she doesn't give a shit, she’s never looked into it

Until, when she’s sixteen (because somehow she’s made it this long) Grace Chasity starts a rumor, her dad sends her to Abstinence Camp and the monster in the woods chases her right into camp halfblood

She gets claimed pretty promptly and Is Not A Fan

She’s thinks it’s pretty sexist and conceited and stupid and problematic for a whileeeee and refuses to look into it any more than ‘pink and pretty and misogynistic’ which like, doesn’t go well for her but she’s nothing if not stubborn

She’s fluent in French because of her mom but she doesn’t know that until she gets to camp and is genuinely so pissed off that the one school subject she thought she was good at isn’t even on her own merit

She’s got some vague appearance manipulation stuff, and once she realizes she does she exclusively uses it to change her hair color and make her eyeliner look good

She’s probably like camp way more if she knew about it earlier but the combo of her had having kept it from her and who her mom is and all the stupid games/worship expectations piss her off and she bails on most of the events/training/campfires out of spite

She definitely uses some close up weapon like a dagger or short sword

Grace Chastity:

Grace is a daughter of Ares 

(Her finding this out goes very poorly)

Im ngl i feel like somehow Ares ended up with Mark Chastity, I refuse to examine this thought but i think Mark Chastity had his first gay experience and woke up the next morning with a baby there somehow because Ares thought it would be hilarious and wanted to see what would happen

She gets chased to camp with Steph from Abstinence Camp and is fucking livid, the whole thing is insanely scareligious and ridiculous and everyone there is going to hell and she is so heated that Ares, once again thinking it’s really funny and slightly proud, claims her on the spot

Grace Chastity is out here with her sacreligious two gay dads

She really resents specifically who her dad is because in her head she is made for peace and love and spreading the word of god, she hates the idea of war or violence on principal, so she spends a lot of time at the strawberry fields or Pegusus stables because she does really like the flying horses :)

She refuses to take place in any camp activities or training and all her siblings hate her

At a certain point she’s able to harness a level of odikinesis (enhancing feelings of hatred and war) and it doesn’t go well

Chiron honestly is forcing her to stick around because he’s REALLY so very nervous about how the fuck it would go to have Grace loose on the mortal world right after she finds everything else

Her weapon is an axe

Obviously

AND THEN we’ve got the established campers-

Peter Spankoffski:

Okay so forgive me for my special little blorbo-fication of my guy but:

Pete’s a son of Nyx

He super fucking shouldn’t be, there aren’t demi-god children of Nyx, just monsters and minor gods, but him and Ted were kind of just… thought experiments? Like she was bored and very curious so she took a really shitty human and had a child with him (Ted) and then, in what Nyx’s head was barely any time at all but in human years was straight up 18 years, has another one (Pete)

Ted raises Pete for a couple years, but children of Nyx in general are just bad omens, and human children of Nyx who probably shouldn’t exist are no exception, so they get hunted down by monsters hard

Ted dies or disappears by the time Pete’s ten or eleven and he ends up at a camp

He’s a year round camper and lives in the hermes cabin because obviously Nyx doesn’t have a cabin (look okay i know that percy fixed that, but that bit of lore where any unclaimed or minor god children live at the hermes cabin is so fucked up and rife with angst and hurt/comfort potential is too much for me to resist so this is a universe where percy jackson does not exist)

His luck is horrible, like it’s a magical demigod ability how horrible his luck is and he’s well on his way to systematically having broken every single one of his bones one by one, they know him so well in the apollo cabin

NO ONE (and I mean NO ONE) likes him and he’s considered a camp wide jinx so he takes one for the team and personally exempts himself from any team events like capture the flag because no one is willing to have him on their side

A lot of newer campers generally assume he’s an Athena kid because he really enjoys learning/strategy/by-the-book stuff because it’s a lot easier than trying to get involved with the more dangerous athletic shit 

Because his mom is the goddess of night he’s very into outer space

His weapon is a bow and arrow, but he’s pretty good with most range weapons/anything that he can calculate aim for 

Ruth Fleming:

Ruth is a daughter of Demeter and she’s pissed about it

Her dad told her about being a demigod a couple years before she went to camp but he didn’t know who her mom was so she got very very into greek mythos and shit and was convinced she was a daughter of Athena or Aphrodite or someone else nine-year-old-girl-cool and was fucking devestated when it was the goddess of farming

Like, she’ll do all the things she’s expected to (helping in the strawberry fields, weeding, etc..) but she’s going to complain about it

She doesn’t even have any cool powers to go with it!!! it’s so unfair >:( 

She’s also involved with the camp’s theater department and is convinced it’s rigged against her because of who her mom is in favor of Apollo and Dionysus kids (in fairness…. it probably is) which is why she’s always stuck on tech 

She’s definitely got a crush of Richie’s dad

She’s a summer only camper for sure, monsters don’t hunt her down for any reason in particular or en mass so she can get away with it and fight off the ones that do, but she does kind of take offense to the fact that even monsters don't want her (even if they’d just kill her) 

Her childhood greek mythology obsession carries over so she knows every dumb little detail about every myth and will bring it up unprompted

Her main weapon is just a celestial bronze sword but i feel like when she first got to camp at 12 she bribed a child of Iris to change the color of it so it looks like… rose gold lmao

Richie Lipschitz:

Richie is a son of Dionysus

And sure, okay, I know what you're thinking: that doesn’t really fit…?

But to that I say oh boy it does, just not for Richie

For his twin brother Trevor however– 

Richie is kind of like the black sheep of his cabin, not that there is many of them, because his brother is perfectly cookie cutter what a Dionysis kid should be (he’s a theater kid, he throws good parties, he’s generally popular) and Richie is not

They both started camp at probably 10-ish, a little earlier than traditional because there were two of them which drew more monsters

His eyes are violet though which he thinks is very cool so he dyes his hair purple to match them

He sorta-kinda has chlorokinesis, specifically for grape and strawberry vines, which a. he also thinks is very cool, and b. he uses as an excuse to get out of training so he can hang out with Ruth

He's also really good at swimming and trying to work up the courage to ask his dad if he'd possibly be able to grant him the ability to turn into a dolphin but just like... only when he wanted tot and he could turn back

He really wishes his was an Apollo kid (though, obviously he’d never say that out loud) because of the artistic stuff, so he sort of just tries to gaslight everyone that because his dad is the god of the Arts that includes physical art like drawing so obviously that’s why he’s good at it

He’s a summer-only camper too but for the dumbest reason; their parents gave the twins a choice, but Trevor wanted to be able to go back to school to do school plays and Richie can’t watch anime at camp so they chose summer only

His weapon is just a normal sword but he’s campaigning to get a child of Hephaestus to make him a Katana

(They’re all three kind of outcasts in terms of their own godly parents, because Ruth and Richie don’t really fit the mold of ‘normal child of [blank]’ and Pete’s kind of just generally disliked because of his parentage, so they all sort of came together as friends out of necessity but now they’re just actually buddies and they hang out)

anyway who knows if ill do anything with this but its FUN and id love to talk about it forever they're just little demigod losers I love them

#npmd #percy jackon and the olympians #stephanie lauter #grace chasity #peter spankoffski #ruth fleming #richie lipschitz #im THINKIN ABOUT THEM #id love to write something with them but we'll see if I can think of a full plot #pjo #nerdy prudes must die #starkid

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Muddled Waters 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your boss has a dangerous secret.

Character: Nick Fowler (mob au)

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

You skewer candied cherries on a long toothpick and balance them over a martini glass. The deep blue drink with a layer of foam is perfectly aligned with the crystal brim. You stand straight as you top off the last of the drinks, a new batch for the waiting customers.

You put the small silver measuring cup aside and nearly cry out as the silhouette hovering in the corner of your vision moves. You touch your chest in surprise as you face Nick with a bashful smile. You didn’t even know he was around that day. Lately, he’s been absent more than not.

“Oh, hi,” you laugh at yourself, “I didn’t hear you...”

“I have a bad habit of that,” he grins, “some have compared me to a cat.”

You tilt your head, “some? You mean, me?”

He shrugs, “was that you?

“Maybe,” you turn and carefully move the stemmed glasses to a tray.

“New flavour?” He nears and stands close. You can smell his cedar cologne.

“Blueberry,” you explain, “bit sweet for my tastes but it fits the season.”

“Ah, sounds interesting,” he reaches and takes one of the glasses and you gasp.

“Nick!” You turn to him and he grins as he sips, the foam clinging to his top lip. He hums as he removes the toothpick from across the rim and nibbles off one of the cherries.

“Tasty,” he commends.

“Why-- Now I’ll to make another.”

“They can wait. It’s more than worth it,” he assures, still standing close as he slurps.

You work in the warmth of his looming proximity. He’s never had much of a personal bubble. Working behind a bar, you’ve grown used to being crowded. You measure and pour and muddle. You garnish and set the drink to replace the one your boss took.

“Right, ready,” you declare.

“Here, let me get those,” he slides the tray across the counter before you can react.

“No, you don’t have to--”

“I want to. Boss man’s gotta do some work around here,” he scoffs and lifts the tray. “You take a load off, sweetheart, I need those hands well-rested. No one else has that magic touch.”

You tisk and shake your head. He can be ridiculous. You won’t complain, he’s the least uptight boss you’ve had. The place isn’t too bad. Upscale with well-tipping patronage. It’s not your typical bar. Most of your work is done behind a wall as the customers drink in private rooms or in the common room where refined jazz wafts through the dim air. The whole place drips of exclusivity.

You clean up and wipe the counter before you wash your hands. Another order appears on the screen. Customers order on a sleek touchscreen, unbothered by servers amid their hushed conversations. You assume they are the types with private jets and luxurious yachts. Of course, they’re too special to drink like normal people.

You start up the next order. Spiced apple cider. A classic though it’s not often ordered. Two to put up. You mix the drinks in mason jars with thick handles. You finish them each with a cinnamon stick.

“Ready to go?” Nick has you squeaking again.

“God,” you throw your hands up and laugh, “how do you keep doing that?”

“Hey, not my fault. You’re in the zone. You know, you get all squinty,” he makes a face, “it’s like the whole world doesn’t exist. Makes me feel a bit small.”

“Mm, well, I guess you’re right. I should pay more attention to my surroundings,” you lift the mugs, “I got these, Nick.”

“It’s no problem, one of my buddies,” he wraps his hands around the jars, “been a while since I’ve seen him.”

“Oh, okay then,” you let him take the cups.

“Take it easy. You do too much.”

You smile tightly and lean on the counter. He goes and you turn around to tidy again. You can be precise. You like a clean station. You’ve worked with too many people who leave the bartop littered in lime peel and broken toothpicks. You can’t make a good drink if you’re working in filth.

But it isn’t just your work. You try not to let the personal seep in but you can’t help who you are. Things should be just so. Books should be lined up and sorted alphabetically and the dishes should be stacked neatly, and the carpet can’t be crooked.

You exhale and run your hands over your apron. Most people might envy your boss for his high company and exorbitant wealth, you just covet his coolness. He’s never bothered by much.

“Sweetheart,” he enters, this time with fair warning. You look up at his pet name. He always calls you that. “What’s that chocolate one you did last time?” He snaps his fingers, “you know, it was kinda creamy--”

“Brandy Alexander,” you answer, “yeah, uh, we’re out of dark creme de cacao. I put it on the inventory.”

“Inventory,” he nods and his blue eyes flick away guiltily, “yeah, I was supposed to do that.”

You cross your arms, “yeah, you were.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I swear, I thought of it,” he crinkles his nose, “but it must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Mhmm,” you sniff, “well, you have been busy. I didn’t even know you were in town.”

He looks up and his cheek dimples. His gaze falls back on you, “lots of running around. Sorry, sweetheart, if it was up to me, I’d be right here, tasting all your delights.”

You nearly snort but instead just furrow your brow.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you shrug and turn away, the screen showing another order. “Sometimes... the way you say things...”

He chuckles and leans his elbow on the counter, “I do like to choke on my own foot.”

“You know, I said before, I could make time for inventory. I don’t mind making orders--”

“Don’t bother,” he cuts your offer short, “I know people. I can take care of it. I’ll make a few calls tonight.” He stays as he is, angled against the counter as he watches you. He rests his chin on his knuckles and you glance over as you squeeze a lime dry.

“What?” You ask as you measure out the juice.

“How’d you learn to do all this?” He asks.

“I took a few courses, worked a few dives,” you say, “did a gig on a cruise ship. You know, you figure it out.”

“And you enjoy it?” He says, “I mean, I can tell you do.”

“It keeps my hands moving and my head from racing,” you explain as you mix the drink in a shaker.

“Sounds amazing,” he stands straight, “sooner or later, I need to find something to keep me busy. Something that doesn’t make me crazy.”

You garnish and he swipes up the glass before you can stop him.

“Well, you might just have a calling as a waiter,” you say sarcastically as you wipe your hands on a towel.

“I don’t know about that,” he grins, “I’m not much for taking orders.”

#nick fowler #the 355 #dark nick fowler #dark!nick fowler #nick fowler x reader #drabbles #series #au #sweet and spicy #muddled waters

[eoieopda]

the one where hoseok comes home

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x gn!Reader Type: Drabble // Fluff // Established Relationship AU Rating: PG-13 — Minors DNI w/ my content, regardless! CW: None 💕 Summary: It’s October 2024 and your life finally — finally — resumes its orbit. WC: .5k A/N: Deviating from my WIPs (ope) because I needed a fix-it fic for, like, reality? Nobody requested this lil baby blurb, unless you count… me. Dedicated to (m)y jihope-biased emotional support moot, @here2bbtstrash

You’d learned more in eighteen months than you had in over eighteen years of formal education.

The first lesson came on your second morning alone: hotteok tastes better when it’s made for you. Even if the cook gets distracted by the background music they themselves are generating. Even if the edges are crispier than they should be, and the centers are a bit gooey, or there’s pre-packaged mix dusting over your previously clean countertops. Even if that hotteok is cold by the time you stop kissing and start eating, you know now that few things in life are sweeter.

He is, of course, but the point still stands.

Showers, you’d learned, are colder when you take them alone. This was a surprise you grappled with for weeks and a confounding reality you still struggle to square. A scientific mystery, then and now.

All of the hot water was yours — exclusively — to use as you pleased. You didn’t have to scramble, soap-covered and squealing, for the prime spot under the shower head. Cold air didn’t nip at your damp skin when you lost territory because you didn’t have to compete for any in the first place. Still, without whole-chested laughter to echo off the walls, not much existed to separate your body from cold porcelain.

The absence of personal space isn’t something you intend to ever take for granted again.

Of all the things you’d realized in your uncharacteristically quiet apartment, one thing hit a little harder:

Love looks different every day.

Sometimes, it comes at an odd angle. It’s spending all thirty minutes of a daily allowance with a phone propped against a faucet. It’s staring up at someone’s chin, watching fondly as they brush their teeth, and smiling when they remember — without being told — to put the cap back on the toothpaste.

Other times, it looks like an Excel spreadsheet of pop culture news, fastidiously collected and organized so that no groundbreaking celebrity gossip goes unreported. It’s incredulous eyes and a scandalized mouth hanging open, interjecting occasionally with, “Wa, jinjja?”

Every now and then, it looks like handwritten letters with thick, black redactions applied after the fact with a far heavier hand. Though you couldn’t tell where in the Republic they came from, you knew — without question — that government censorship does not apply to hastily doodled hearts.

Today, however, love doesn’t look like much of anything because its hands are covering your eyes.

It sounds like clean spoons clattering back into the dishwasher you’d been emptying, entirely unaware that the door down the hall had opened and shut out of earshot. It smells like army-issued shampoo and Thai milk tea from that little spot near the train station, where surprise journeys home occur two days ahead of schedule. And it feels like the ground shifting beneath your fluffy house slippers; the Earth now back on its axis and ready to resume spinning like it should.

Tonight, love will taste like hotteok for dinner — and you won’t have to make it yourself.

#jade’s drabbles #bts #bts drabble #hobi drabble #jhs #jung hoseok #hobi #hoseok drabble #hoseok x reader #hoseok x you #hoseok x y/n #hobi x you #hobi x y/n #hobi x reader #hoseok fluff #hobi fluff #bts fluff #btshoneyhive #micdropnet #re: the one where hoseok comes home

[inchidentally]

was originally writing this as tags on this photoset of Carlos but god no I need to write it out properly bc god knows carcar carloscar fans need more in our tags <3<3

also part blame falls on @wisteriagoesvroom as a carloscar enabler in chief !!!

AU where Carlos is already with Ferrari when Oscar was with Prema and they cross paths in Italy at the same facility while both filming media…

the Prema boys can't resist sneaking over to the next room to watch the big boys at Ferrari - maybe get an autograph or a picture! and Oscar has to suddenly grip his hoodie in front of himself when he sees Carlos looking like THAT. and then Carlos spots the pretty pink thing with the sweet mouth huddled with his friends, and the devastating fucker actually winks at Oscar. Robert and Logan look like their eyes are about to fall out of their heads and Fred is suppressing spasms of laughter but all of them freeze when Carlos saunters over to them, still wearing that second-skin hi vis top that clings all the way down to the grooves of his groin.

and maybe Carlos casually introduces himself to them and poses for selfies. but as the boys are scolded back to their own room for filming, maybe Carlos wraps a big tanned hand around Oscar's wrist and ohhhh my Carlos' fingers overlap so deep around the fine bones. his voice casually offers to take Oscar for dinner that night bc he's heard a lot about this impressive kid and he always likes to scope out the guys he'll be racing against one day. but his eyes are saying that he'd like to get to know the intimate skin of Oscar's thighs where they meet his ass.

Carlos goes so far as to meet Oscar at the shared accommodation and with a huge effort Oscar keeps the other boys from going all googly eyed out the window. Carlos is dressed in just a linen button down and dark trousers and it makes Oscar self-conscious about having borrowed a blazer from one of the race engineers to wear over his only pair of nice pants and a white collared shirt he's had since school. Carlos' Ferrari is as cool as he is and Oscar feels at ease finally in gushing about it all the way to the restaurant. Carlos seems to maybe be laughing a little bit at him but Oscar doesn't mind. and when Carlos says maybe he'll have something just as nice one day soon, Oscar lifts his chin and returns that 'maybe he'll have something even nicer'. it's clearly the right thing to say because Carlos tips his head back and actually cackles. he says "I knew I was going to like you, guapito" and slaps a huge hairy hand over Oscar's upper thigh.

Oscar had expected to be taken to a nice, cozy trattoria or some obnoxiously exclusive spot with celebrities "off duty" that Carlos would probably ignore. he wasn't expecting a small table in the intimate outdoor garden terrace of a restaurant that doesn't even have a sign out front. there's a heavenly breeze that didn't seem to exist outside the magic of the six tables placed comfortably apart from each other. the entire space is sinking into a pinky-orange dusk with only lanterns and candlelight illuminating everyone's faces.

Carlos is actually even funnier than he seems in the videos Oscar's been watching since he was probably too young to have a crush on someone Carlos' age. he's also crazy smart and can keep pace with Oscar in discussions about aerodynamics and the stuff that he knows a lot of other drivers don't want to be bothered about. he's also intimidatingly cultured and well-traveled and yes, unavoidably part of exceptionally elite society. there are strong divergences in their experiences both in and outside of racing but Oscar tilts his chin up with pride and refuses to feel embarrassed about chasing sponsorship money. he can see Carlos assessing him in those moments and his smile looks warm, not condescending.

two other things Oscar discovers about Carlos: he has no understanding of personal space, and he's got an iron constitution when it comes to potent wine. Oscar had tried to keep up so that he didn't seem like a total baby but still had to alternate his sips with water. Carlos had chuckled and stroked the hot open flat of his hand over each of Oscar's red cheeks, mumbling something in Italian to the waiter and they both grinned at Oscar knowingly.

the delicious food and heavy scent of earth carrying over from the countryside make Oscar feel sleepy and slightly dreamy as night settles around them. at some point, their chairs had scooted closer together and Oscar leaned more and more into Carlos' casual touch. Carlos' eyes are fully black in the dim light and the flame of the candle on their table is the only light reflected in them. his hand had gripped the back of Oscar's neck jokingly but he'd kept it there, massaging slightly. Oscar had hummed and then the fingers slipped up to cup the base of Oscar's skull, rubbing circles over the soft, closely cropped hairs.

Oscar can't even blame the wine he'd given up trying to enjoy an hour ago when he steadies himself with a hand on Carlos' thigh and pushes a closed-mouth kiss against Carlos' lips. he can't stop the whine when Carlos pulls away after a moment, leaning back in to whisper "not here" into his ear.

and maybe Carlos hastily pays up and guides Oscar with a big warm hand curled around where Oscar's waist dips narrow and lean. and maybe Carlos turns the car in the opposite direction of Oscar's accommodation, throwing a questioning look at him, to which Oscar replies by sinking lower into his seat and cupping himself lazily where he's been thickening up for the better part of an hour. Carlos swears heavily under his breath and speeds up to get to his apartment.

and Carlos crowds Oscar inside, carefully not putting his hands anywhere untoward as they climb the public stairs but never taking them off of him either. Carlos is on him the second he turns the lock on the door, pryng Oscar's mouth open with the kinds of kisses Oscar remembers seeing on his mom's favorite shows but that he didn't think existed in real life. how could anyone feel confident in taking someone else's mouth like that?

Carlos may not be much taller but he's broad and strong and muscles Oscar to the bedroom with ease. Oscar probably gets a surge of panic over wanting to make sure he gets at least one fantasy lived out in case Carlos doesn't like his body or changes his mind or gets a call from some supermodel who wants to come over and he boots Oscar out.

so he pulls away and actually begs to be allowed to blow Carlos, not even caring that his voice broke on the 'ple-ase'. and that's how Carlos ends up hastily throwing an accent pillow down on the floor for Oscar to kneel on while Carlos leans back on his arms on the bed with one hand curled in Oscar's hair, urging him on. it's seeing Oscar's arm moving furtively out of sight and realizing that Oscar's getting off just from energetically but inexpertly blowing him that gets Carlos to climax. he apologizes because he hadn't even warned him, but the sight of Oscar shuddering through his own orgasm and moaning with his open mouth overfilling with Carlos is honestly worth the rudeness.

reasoning that someone Oscar's age has practically no refractory period, Carlos hauls him up onto the bed and strips them both. he grips Oscar behind both knees and lays into abusing the flesh of his inner thighs that have been on his mind since that afternoon. he pushes Oscar's legs up even higher to get his teeth and tongue on the exact crease of thigh and cheek and works each side until the skin is red raw from his stubble. Oscar is making these small, broken-off noises that are driving Carlos crazy and he drops both legs to work his way up to Oscar's beautiful pecs. he assumes no one has ever paid attention to this area before now because Oscar nearly bucks him off the bed with how intensely he reacts.

and Carlos has probably gotten hard again so he swipes his lube from the bedside table and jerks them both off one-handed while worrying one of Oscar's nipples red and sore. Oscar comes again and Carlos has to kneel up and finish all over Oscar's pale, pink chest. some of it hits Oscar's chin where some of Carlos' come had already started to dry from before.

and maybe there's a moment after they've both recovered enough to think where Oscar is about to awkwardly as for a cab or maybe a ride back but Carlos gets ahead of it and tells him to text his friends and Carlos will drive him back in the morning.

and Carlos smirks when Oscar hovers his fingers over his phone, clearly unsure of how to phrase it. "go ahead and tell them all about it, it'll drive them crazy"

and Oscar smiles to himself as he types out who he's with and why and what they've done and then gazes up at Carlos who is holding Oscar's chin between thumb and forefinger, wiping down his face with a warm cloth.

"you're going to be bad news for me, Oscar. I can tell.”

there is a seriousness behind it that Oscar is too young and inexperienced to hear. instead he smirks and digs a knee into Carlos' side.

"you bet I am"

#carloscar #carcar #my writing

[yuujispinkhair]

Separation Anxiety (Chapter 12)

Put your lips on my scars and teach me to love

When a ritual separates Sukuna from Yuuji, Sukuna is delighted to find that besides having his own body, there is also another gift handed to him: The brat has lost all his memories and is now the perfect little plaything to take home and manipulate. At least, that's the plan. But the King of Curses isn't prepared for the feelings that come along with being human again. And another complication is how cute the brat is when he has no idea who Sukuna is and, instead of hating him, treats him with genuine love and affection. So, without realizing it, Sukuna suddenly finds himself on a journey of learning how to be loved and how to love.

++ Masterpost ++

Pairing: Sukuna x Yuuji Genre: Memory Loss AU, fluff, smut, light angst Word Count: 4.5k Playlist: Separation Anxiety Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of violence, dub-con (Yuuji has lost his memories, and Sukuna lies to him about being boyfriends). All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

Chapter 12

If I told you where I've been, would you still call me baby? (Dark Star by Jaymes Young)

Watching movies together has become a nightly habit for Sukuna and Yuuji, and at this point, Sukuna has stopped lying to himself and admits that he enjoys those evenings on the couch. Especially when it means Yuuji is leaning on him and resting his head on Sukuna's shoulder.

It feels like they are in their own world, where only they and Uraume exist, and nothing outside of it matters. It's the most at peace Sukuna has ever felt.

He tightens his hold on Yuuji, pulling him closer, smiling to himself when his brat sighs softly. Just like every night, Yuuji dozes off halfway through the second movie. And just like every night, Sukuna gently picks him up and carries him to their bedroom, where he places him carefully on the bed like his most precious treasure.

Yuuji smiles sleepily, hands reaching out to tug at Sukuna's shirt and pulling him on top of him, needy for cuddles.

"Mmmmh, come here, baby."

Sukuna laughs softly but gives him what he needs, joining him on the bed and wrapping Yuuji in his embrace. The boy has already drifted off to sleep again and is snoring softly against Sukuna's chest while Sukuna brings a large hand to Yuuji's hair, petting it tenderly. His long fingers run absentmindedly through the soft pink strands as he lies awake and stares at the bedroom ceiling, deep in thought.

Yuuji isn't aware of how much things have changed between them. He was fooled by Sukuna's cruel plan all this time. Blindly believing every word Sukuna had told him, every lie he had constructed so masterfully. No, Yuuji isn't aware. He doesn't know how much changed. He doesn't know how Sukuna stopped telling lies at some point and instead spoke the truth when he muttered words of love and devotion. He doesn't know that, initially, this was all just a game. A little cruel game that Sukuna wanted to play with his former vessel, whom he thought he loathed more than anything in this world.

Sukuna can't help but frown as he gazes at Yuuji's sleeping face. He regrets what he did. Not just since the separation ritual. He regrets his whole attitude towards Yuuji from the very first moment they met. He should have treated Yuuji differently, should have appreciated him, should have tried to forge a bond between them. Maybe then he wouldn't have to lose sleep now and worry about what will happen if Yuuji ever gets his memories back.

What would happen if you remember again, my love? Would you still want me to hold you? Would you still love me? Or would you hate me?

Sukuna lets his gaze travel appreciatively through the luxurious room. Uraume booked him and Yuuji a table at the most exclusive restaurant in Tokyo, and Sukuna has to agree that their menu is exquisite, and he is quite pleased with the luxurious interior that was designed to resemble a modern version of a Heian-era temple.

It's a beautiful place, a place most guests feast their eyes on, but Sukuna finds his gaze always wandering back to the beautiful boy sitting across from him.

Golden eyes look at him, and Sukuna smiles at Yuuji.

He reaches across the table to take Yuuji's hand and interlace their fingers. What used to be an act, something Sukuna had to consciously force himself to do in order to play his role, has now become something he does instinctively. Something he wants to do. Something he craves. He feels an urge to touch Yuuji, hold him, and be affectionate with him.

His lips twitch at the realization of how natural all of this feels. Who would have thought that someone like him would ever feel this way? That he would finally get to experience this profoundly human emotion after all this time.

He laughs good-naturedly when Yuuji feeds him dessert with a spoon, and Yuuji joins in with his loud, happy laughter that fills the room with its warmth. They must look like two lovesick fools, so smitten with each other, only having eyes for the other, hearts beating in the same rhythm, souls connected almost as if they are still sharing one body.

Sukuna sits back and takes a sip from the sake in front of him, letting his gaze once again wander through the room. A room that looks very similar to places he used to visit in his former life. A life that was so much different from the life he lives now.

A life that was very lonely.

He isn't lonely anymore. And he never thought he could have something like this. A relationship, a deep connection to someone, the feeling of being loved and to love. He never even thought he would want it. But now he cannot imagine not having this.

Suddenly, the world is a different place. It is no longer a place that Sukuna wants to rule and destroy and bend to his will. It is no longer a place that makes him angry and want to lash out because all it did to him was be cruel, too. Sukuna feels at peace with the world now. It is just a background scenery, nothing more. His real world is sitting across from him with a big smile on his face and a happy sparkle in his golden eyes.

Itadori Yuuji changed him, and he didn't use any force to do it, no violence, no open display of power. The one person who managed to make Sukuna surrender didn't achieve it with violence but with love.

And now Sukuna takes in the beauty of the fairy lights decorating the cherry trees on their way home. He looks at the woman in the ice cream parlor with benevolence, grateful that she makes such exquisite ice cream that Yuuji loves so much. He gazes upon the big advertising poster for a new movie with a warm smile because Yuuji tells him he is already so excited about it and that he really wants to go to the movie theatre with Sukuna to watch it.

The world is a different place. And Sukuna is a different man.

He isn't interested in ruling anymore. He just wants this: A happy and peaceful life with Yuuji by his side. Maybe this is the secret to finding true enlightenment. Maybe it was always about this.

If his life is just this, then Sukuna will be satisfied with it. He doesn't need more than this. He doesn't need to be a King. He doesn't need to be a God. He is happy being just a man in a sea of so many others if it means he can keep this happiness. If it means he can live a happy life with Yuuji by his side.

Megumi's POV:

Today's mission was an easy one. A cursed spirit in a school gym. Just a single one, and not a very powerful one at that. Megumi exorcised it in a few minutes. This leaves him enough time to stop at the small coffee shop on his way to where his driver is waiting for him. Some caffeine will be good for him.

Sleep still doesn't come easy to him, even after all those months after Itadori's sudden disappearance. Megumi is still in a state of constant sleep deprivation. A large cup of black coffee is exactly what he needs now.

The coffee shop is a lovely place. Modern but comfy with small booths with lots of cushions and little plants on the tables. There are movie posters on the pastel pink walls and a large shelf with manga to borrow and read in one of the comfy armchairs. Megumi catches himself thinking that Itadori would love a place like this. His heart clenches painfully at the thought. It still stings to think about his friend.

Megumi gulps against the lump in his throat and tries to focus on his surroundings. It's best to distract himself. The day was so good so far. He doesn't want to mess this up.

He's looking intently at a display of sweet treats. Various cupcakes, cookies, and donuts in pastel colors. Blue, green, yellow, and, of course, pink. It's everywhere. So much pink. This isn't helping.

Megumi is grateful when it's finally his turn, and he gets his black coffee in a to-go cup. He grabs the cup and puts the money on the counter. In the background, he faintly hears the jingle of the small bell at the door.

And then something else.

Cheerful, loud laughter. Megumi's eyes widen. It sounds so painfully familiar.

He turns around, his gaze instantly darting towards the entrance of the coffee shop. A flash of even more pink catches his eyes as his gaze settles on the source of the loud laughter, and Megumi feels hot and cold at the same time.

Pink hair, a bright smile that lights up the whole room, tan skin, muscular stature, hands that gesture wildly, and that loud, genuine laugh.

No! It can't be!

Megumi forgets to breathe. All the sounds of the coffee shop fade into the background, and all he hears is his own heartbeat and the laughter of the pink-haired boy standing in the doorway.

Itadori.

It's him. There's no doubt about it.

He says something to an elderly woman for whom he is currently holding the door open. His eyes sparkle with laughter as she nods at him and laughs, too. His whole being is exceeding warmth and kindness. Like the sun. That's how Megumi always saw him.

And then this sun suddenly set and never rose again, when all those months ago, Itadori disappeared from one day to the next.

They never found out what had happened. It was assumed that it had something to do with Sukuna. Remains of a ritual were discovered. Ancient writings, blood splattered everywhere, torn body parts strewn over the dirty floor, and traces of potent magic still in the air.

The most likely theory was that Sukuna had tried to break free from the cage that was Itadori's body. But to this day, no sign of Sukuna or Itadori had been found. The human remains found were those of a non-sorcerer.

But the higher-ups had celebrated, putting it down as the defeat of the King of Curses, assuming that Sukuna and Itadori must have died in a backfiring separation ritual. The official version was that their bodies must have dissolved completely, destroyed by Sukuna's own power.

Gojo, Kugisaki, and Megumi had never believed it. They had searched for Itadori for weeks. But he was gone without a single trace. The weeks passed, and they found nothing.

After a while, they stopped searching for him every night as exhaustion took over. So it became every other night, then once a week, and so on. Megumi still lies awake at night, though, asking himself over and over again what has happened.

Out of all the scenarios he had imagined, running into a very alive and very smiling and seemingly happy Itadori in a pastel-colored coffee shop hadn't been one of them.

For a split second, anger starts to lace through Megumi's surprise. Itadori is in perfect health, laughing and joking around with a random grandma he just ran into while getting coffee! All the while, his friends have been worried sick, have cried about him, and lost their sleep over him, and he is here living his best life!

But Megumi shakes his head as if physically chasing away those stupid thoughts.

No. That can't be right. That isn't the way Itadori is. He would never intentionally hurt us.

The rational part of Megumi's brain is still stronger than the short emotional outburst. He knows Itadori. Even when Itadori had one of those moments in the past where he wanted to isolate himself to protect them from Sukuna, he still made sure his friends knew he was still alive. He wouldn't do something as cruel as faking his own death.

There must be some other explanation!

Without realizing it, Megumi's feet have carried him over to the door. He stops in front of his friend, who still hasn't acknowledged his presence.

"Itadori."

The pink-haired boy's head whips around, and he stares at Megumi with big eyes.

Megumi is prepared for a squeal and a hug. Or maybe a panicked look and some stammered apology.

What he isn't prepared for is the absolute confusion on Itadori's face and the soft,

"Oh… do we know each other?"

Megumi draws in a sharp breath.

What the fuck?

Blood is rushing in his ears as he tries to process what's happening. His rising panic must show on his face because Itadori lifts a hand to scratch his back and smiles sheepishly at him. A gesture that is so painfully familiar that it makes Megumi's eyes fill with tears. Before he can say anything, Itadori quickly explains,

"Shit, I'm sorry! I guess if you know my name, we really know each other. But…well, you see, the problem is, I was in a car accident and lost my memories. I can't remember anyone. I'm really sorry!"

Car accident? Lost his memory?

Megumi's mind is reeling. Itadori definitely wasn't in a car accident. It must have been the ritual that caused this! Memory loss makes a lot of sense, actually. That's why Itadori didn't come back to them! He simply didn't remember. It's a perfectly logical explanation!

Megumi realizes something else, too, at that moment: The marks under Itadori's eyes are gone.

Where is Sukuna? Is he free? But no, that doesn't make sense. Surely, if the King of Curses had managed to break free, he would have already wreaked havoc on the city. He would have burned Tokyo down. Would have come to the Jujutsu Academy and slaughtered them all.

Does that mean that Sukuna is really dead?

Megumi relaxes. The tension leaves his body, and a hint of a smile lifts the corners of his lips. He still has a lot of questions, and Itadori clearly needs help, but things will be ok again now that Megumi found him! He can bring Itadori home. Maybe Shoko Ieiri can get Itadori's memory back. And even if not, Itadori will be safe again. He will be ok again! Everything will be ok!

The relief that washes over Megumi makes him almost sob.

"Don't be sorry, Itadori. That's hardly your fault. I'm sorry to hear you lost your memories. But yes, we are friends. I'm Fushiguro Megumi, and we used to attend college together."

Itadori's smile is back.

"Oh! So we were former classmates? That's so cool! I am so glad you ran into me, Megumi!"

Megumi's smile grows. He feels so light all of a sudden. All the worries of the last months begin to fade away. He just has to keep talking to Itadori and find out more about what he did all those previous months. He looks in good health and happy, so to Megumi's big relief, his friend seems to have fared well even without his memories.

"What have you been doing all those months? How did you get by?"

"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry! My boyfriend took care of me."

Megumi blinks.

Boyfriend?

The relief he felt a moment ago slips through his fingers. Something is very wrong here.

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yes, he helped me so much! I am so grateful for him. He is amazing! But you must know him too, right Megumi? I probably talked a lot about him back when we were in class together, right?"

Big honey-colored eyes look expectedly at Megumi, and Megumi's mouth opens and closes without a word coming out.

Itadori laughs and tries again,

"His name is Sukuna. Does that ring a bell?"

Megumi feels as if someone punched him in the guts. He stumbles back a step, eyes wide as he stares at Itadori. The coffee-to-go cup he had been holding drops to the floor, making a black pool of hot liquid spread over the floor between them, as if Megumi's shadows are trying to swallow them both.

Yes, the name certainly rings a bell.

Sukuna's POV:

Sukuna is sitting on the couch, immersed in a book, when the soft ping of the elevator drifts to his ears. A smile tugs at his lips as he closes the book and puts it aside. Yuuji went to their favorite coffee shop to get coffee and cupcakes. They always sell those particularly delicious cherry cupcakes on Tuesdays.

He gets up, already anticipating the joyful call of his name, and seeing Yuuji burst through the door with a broad smile on his face.

But something is different today.

The call of his name never comes. Instead, too-fast footsteps approach the living room, and then a distressed-looking Yuuji appears in the doorway, his eyes wide, face unusually pale. There are no coffee cups or cupcakes in his hands.

Sukuna feels cold seep into his veins.

"Yuuji, what's wrong?"

Wide golden eyes stare at him.

"There is this guy I met. Megumi. He told me all this crazy stuff about you and me and that things aren't the way I think they are. That you aren't who you said you are and that we…that we… He wanted me to come with him and said he would bring me to my friends and a doctor who would help me. I pushed him away and ran, but… Sukuna, what is going on?"

And just like that, Sukuna's whole world crumbles down around him.

They found him. They found Yuuji.

Sukuna can feel the presence of the Ten Shadows user. He must have followed Yuuji to their apartment complex. Yuuji's old life finally caught up with him. And Sukuna is drowning in dread.

It's over.

Their little parallel world where only Sukuna and Yuuji existed. Their little alternate universe where they weren't the King of Curses and his former vessel but just two lovers. It is all gone.

This happy, little world crumbled down like a dream that vanishes after waking up. And maybe it was just that all along. Just a dream. Too good to be true.

Too good for Sukuna to have.

He stares at Yuuji as the thoughts race through his mind.

Sukuna always lived by one principle: Do what he desires. Take what he wants.

He could do that now, too. He could kill Megumi and make sure no one ever finds out about Sukuna and Yuuji. He could spin another web of lies to feed to Yuuji. And if things got bad, he could even just lock Yuuji in here, keep him a prisoner, force him to be Sukuna's until his last breath.

But is that what he truly wants?

Sukuna feels his head spin.

Does he want to force Yuuji to "love" him? Would it even still be love? After everything Sukuna learned in the last months, he knows it doesn't work that way. Love is something that needs to be given freely. And what would it say about him if he decides to take Yuuji officially as a prisoner now when the boy knows that there is another life waiting for him outside this golden cage?

Just a few days ago, Sukuna thought that he wanted to care for Yuuji, that he wanted to protect him, love him, and cherish him. Isn't it such an irony? He wants to laugh at his own foolery. Because now that he is faced with Yuuji's past, with Yuuji's life that is still waiting for him, he cannot silence that little voice in his mind that whispers to him:

What are you trying to protect Yuuji from? Aren't you the one he needs protection from? Aren't you the monster in this story, Sukuna?

He huffs.

Yes, he is the monster. And on the other side of the door is Fushiguro Megumi, who always cared so much about Yuuji. The one who always protected him. The one who always took Yuuji's side no matter what. The one who, as far as Sukuna could tell, loved Yuuji genuinely.

And now, it is once again Fushiguro Megumi who comes to Yuuji's rescue.

Maybe things would be different if any other sorcerer was the one who ran into Yuuji. Maybe Sukuna would just follow his desire and get rid of them, and claim Yuuji back without any hesitation. But out of all the people who Yuuji could have run into, of course, it had to be Megumi!

And it forces Sukuna to stare at the cruel truth.

He is the monster in this story. He spent years tormenting Yuuji, hurting him, insulting him, and making his life hell. Even the reason why Yuuji is here in his apartment right now was born out of Sukuna's cruel desire to break the boy.

He claims to love Yuuji. And maybe a few months ago, Sukuna would have believed that love meant digging his fingers possessively into Yuuji's skin and making him stay no matter the cost. A few months ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to just take what he wanted.

But now he knows differently.

Love is about sacrifice. Love is selfless. Love is about wanting what's best for the one you love even if it hurts yourself. Sukuna learned from the best, after all, didn't he? The one who taught him love was Yuuji. Yuuji, who is so selfless in the way he loves. Yuuji, who gives instead of takes. Yuuji who loves and loves and loves.

Oh, how he corrupted Sukuna's way of thinking. It becomes so clear now.

Sukuna knows he cannot claim to love Yuuji if he forces him to stay. This wouldn't be love. It would just be his selfish desire again. It would just be him taking what he wants with no regard for anyone else's feelings or well-being.

He knows what he must do, and he knows it will destroy him. But maybe this is the most genuine act of love Sukuna will ever commit.

He laughs softly, a gruff sound, the typical mask of arrogance and cruelty slipping onto his face as he cocks his head and forces himself to smirk his most malicious smirk at the boy before him.

"Then you know how it is now, brat. Such a shame that my little playtime with you is over."

His chest feels too tight when he sees those beloved golden eyes widen in shock.

"B…but Kuna… that can't be. Please tell me it is a lie… Why… why are you acting like this?"

"Don't you see it, you stupid little boy? This is the real me. Everything else was just a lie. You should believe Fushiguro."

He wants to go on, wants to stab Yuuji's heart with his cruel words just so Yuuji will leave. But he sees the tears gathering in Yuuji's eyes, the shock and pain spreading over his pretty face, and Sukuna staggers.

Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble out of his mouth. He wants to say more, wants to be cruel, wants to lash out and hurt and break. But he cannot do it.

The irony makes Sukuna's head spin. He always found it easy to suppress his feelings. He oftentimes even convinced himself that he was feeling nothing at all. It should be easy to lash out at Yuuji, to hurt him, to break him with his words, to make him run from Sukuna. But now he finds himself gulping down the other cruel things he planned to say.

It's terrifying. Terrifying how Yuuji changed him. How Yuuji broke through his walls and turned Sukuna into such a… such a mess.

Sukuna presses his lips together, closing his eyes for a moment before he looks at Yuuji again. This time without his mask of cruelty. Just sadness in his eyes, raw emotions darting over his face as he adds in a much softer voice,

"Let's call Uraume to help you pack."

He cannot hurt Yuuji by pretending he doesn't care. But he can still make sure to send the boy away. He can still make sure Yuuji can find the life he deserves with the people who are good for him.

Yuuji takes a sharp breath, beautiful golden eyes wide open in shock.

"What?"

"Pack your things. You will leave with Megumi. Let him take you to your other friends."

The tears in Yuuji's eyes spill over as he stares wide-eyed at Sukuna, hands balled into fists, shaking helplessly.

"But… what do you mean? Kuna, what does this mean? Are you throwing me out?"

There's an ache in Sukuna's chest. It isn't the dull, empty feeling he experienced after their separation. It's hot and burning, throbbing painfully in his heart. He grinds his teeth.

Yes, that is exactly what I am doing, my love. For your own good.

Blue eyes fix Yuuji with a haunted expression. Sukuna's fingers claw into the doorframe, feeling the wood splinter under his brutal grip, the splinters digging sharply into his skin, piercing it, making him bleed.

"Everything Megumi said is true. I am a monster. I am the King of Curses, your enemy, your worst nightmare. You used to be my vessel. I was like a parasite, residing inside your body, inside your soul. I tormented you, taunted you, and took every joy from you. I hurt your friends. I hurt you. I made fun of you when you begged me to help you. I even killed you once. So, what are you still doing here? You should run!"

Yuuji's lips are trembling while the tears run down his cheeks slowly. His eyes glitter like liquid gold. He doesn't attack Sukuna, doesn't try to punch him, doesn't scream at him, or look at him with hate burning in his eyes. Instead, his voice sounds shaky and broken when he whispers,

"Please don't throw me out, Kuna."

Yuuji's refusal to leave twists like a knife in Sukuna's heart.

"You stupid brat. Didn't you listen to a single thing I told you?"

Yuuji's eyes are wild, burning into Sukuna's, so indignant, so fierce.

"I don't care! It sounds crazy! And I want to stay with you! I love you, and I am happy here! I don't remember my past, but it feels like you are the best thing that has happened to me. Please don't make me leave!"

A bitter laugh falls from Sukuna's lips, and he shakes his head.

"No. I am the worst thing that has ever happened to you."

"No, you aren't."

Yuuji crosses his arms in front of his chest, determined golden gaze boring into Sukuna's. Sweet, stubborn brat. Why is he like that? Why does he have to make this even harder than it already is?

"It's true, brat. I wanted to take everything away from you, everything you ever loved and cared about. I wanted to make you my little obedient slave. My pet. Like a little puppy. It was a cruel game to entertain myself."

"No, it wasn't. I know what we have isn't a lie, Kuna! I'm not that dumb! I know you love me, too. Please, whatever it is, we can solve it! This whole stuff you and Megumi are saying sounds absolutely insane! I don't believe it!"

He is trembling, eyes wide and terrified, but he doesn't budge. He stares at Sukuna with that oh-so-typical stubbornness.

My brat.

Sukuna sighs, gulping hard as he takes the first step towards Yuuji. If Yuuji refuses to leave willingly, Sukuna will make him go by force.

Every step feels heavy like the floor is mud that tries to drag him under. But Sukuna reaches Yuuji and cups his cheek tenderly, strokes his soft skin one last time, and breathes a tender kiss to his warm, tear-stained cheek.

"Just go, Yuuji.. please."

It is not like Sukuna to beg. He was always strong, always the one whom others begged. But here he is, begging Yuuji to leave. Begging him to find a better life.

"Go to Megumi. He is good for you. Let him tell you everything. Go, brat, and don't look back."

Before Yuuji can utter another reply, Sukuna shoves him into the waiting elevator. Using so much force that the unexpecting boy is caught off guard and stumbles backward, losing his balance and landing on the floor of the marble elevator, from where he stares at Sukuna with wide golden eyes full of tears.

Sukuna can't look away from those mesmerizing eyes even as the door slides closed. He looks deeply into them, committing them to his memory. He is still staring in the same direction, sapphire eyes looking unseeingly at the closed metal door when Uraume rushes to his side.

"Uraume, we need a new security code for the elevator. Please take care of that."

He brushes past his loyal servant, slowly making his way to the living room. He can still taste the salt of Yuuji's tears on his lips.

Finally, a new chapter! I am so sorry for the long wait!! I had to get into the right mindset to work on this chapter since I knew it would be a tragic one. Right when Sukuna finally learned how to love, it got snatched away from him. Even when he first began to love Yuuji, he was still selfish in the way he loved, but now he pushed Yuuji away in a selfless act of love and it made me cry so much aaahhh. I hope Sukuna's reactions made sense. I wanted to show how conflicted he was and how this usually so controlled character became a big emotional mess. I hope it made sense.

I know this chapter probably makes a lot of people sad or anxious, but please know that this story will have a HAPPY END!! There will be pain in the next chapters, of course, but in the end, Yuuji and Sukuna will be happy together, I promise.

Thank you so much for reading and sticking to this story, even though it took me so long to update it!! It means a lot to me!!

Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

#sukuita #sukuna x yuuji #sukuna #ryomen sukuna

[seasonsbloom]

all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

synopsis ; modern!au. you have been in love with your best friend's older brother for years. on Christmas eve, things finally come to a head.

wc ; 6k

warnings ; explicit lanugage, some allusions to reader having a shitty family, christmas angst, pining, one mention of margaret thatcher

note: i'm not british (english isn't even my first language) so pls excuse any inaccuracies in any slang etc etc... also this was supposed to be a smutty thing and no instead it's exclusively tooth-rotting fluff so I'd like to apologize.... merry Christmas??? if anybody does want a steamy part two... well, hit me up I guess!

i stole the title from britney spears' my only wish (this year)!

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. They've got it all - the stockings above the merrily crackling fireplace, the Christmas crackers twinkling on a long table, the boughs of holly climbing up doorways. It's like a Selfridges on the 21st of December just vomited all over the place.

"Seriously," you say, blinking in a mixture of awe and fear, "how big is this thing?"

Eloise, much more accustomed to her family's display of wealth and Bridgerton harmony, shrugs without looking away from her phone screen. "No idea. Benedict is like 6 feet, and that thing is twice his size, so, like… 12 feet? I don't know, it's Christmas. You do the math."

She turns away, still glued to an Instagram page plastered with pink graphics informing about various social issues in carefully-designed typography, and leaves you standing alone in the entrance hall. If you didn't like the Bridgertons so much, you'd be the first to say their Christmas tree is obnoxious. It's a ridiculous thing, wide enough to commandeer half the room. It's covered top to bottom in tinsel, dark blue ornaments dangling from every branch and reflecting the light until the thing looks less than a tree and more like a hallucination one might have two hours into an LSD trip.

The London townhouse you've crashed at more than once after a night on the town gone to shambles is impressive enough, but the Brdigerton's ancestral home in the countryside is a whole other beast. From the sprawling gardens to the sheer endless rooms, from the stucco ceilings to the servant stairs, from the life-size portraits of nineteenth-century family members to the white marble busts, you half expect a tourist group to round the corner at any moment. You're pretty sure you saw a hedge maze on your way in.

Sure, you've known your college best friend Eloise Bridgerton was loaded, but you didn't expect this. Then again, her sister is married to a Duke and shows up on the Sun's front page semi-regularly, so maybe this one was on you.

"So what do we think? Sufficiently Christmas-y or too much?"

You sink your teeth into the tail-end of a scream, letting out a strangled sound instead. Benedict Bridgerton really is six foot tall, and fuck him for that. Couldn't he at least have been some sensible height? Five reasonable feet and seven nice inches? Has he got to be perfect? Has he got to be the six feet you've been dreaming about for the past four years in increasingly more frenzied fashions? 

He stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, with his hair tousled and his face relaxed into the same friendly, good-natured smile he always gives you.

"Uh… What?" Immediately, you curse your lack of eloquence. And earlier on the ride over, you'd sworn to yourself that, for once, you wouldn't act like an actual idiot in front of him.

Benedict, grinning, points forward. "The tree."

"Oh." You crane your neck back to look at the star mounted to the top, floating somewhere above the marble railing hugging the walkway to the second floor. "Well. It's very… big."

Benedict chuckles. "Yeah, I agree. I did tell Mom it was excessive, but she insisted. I'm pretty sure Hyacinth would mutiny if she ordered anything under ten feet."

You hum, faintly wondering what it must feel like to get a tree, let alone one big enough to get put up in front of the Rockefeller center. "Hyacinth can be pretty persuasive," you acquiesce, thinking with a shudder of the time the prepubescent girl stared you down until you gave her your brand-new Charlotte Tillbury lipstick. Sort of like being bullied out of your lunch money.

"You can say that again." 

Benedict falls silent, and for a moment, you just stand there, side by side, staring up at the tree. Dean Martin drifts over from the dining room. Your stomach is on the most terrifying rollercoaster ride of its life. 

Then, out of nowhere, Benedict says, "You're wet, by the way."

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

He nods down toward the floor. "Your shoes, I mean. You're soaking the rug."

You follow the line of his eyes down to your boots, still caked in the snow and sludge you drudged up on the way up the ten-mile-long driveway. A grey puddle has accumulated around you.

"Bugger," you mutter. "Eloise did say I could leave the shoes on…."

A conspiratorial grin crosses Benedict's face. He says, "Remember when you and El caught me smoking that joint in the study? I won't tell if you won't."

This is the thing: Worse than Benedict's six feet, worse than his messy hair and blue eyes and dimples, worse than all of that, is that he's actually nice. A genuinely good guy who talks to you like you're more than just his little sister's best friend, more than the annoying girl that gets invited to family holidays because her home life isn't the best, who moons over him at every turn. That's the thing that keeps you hoping, stubbornly, stupidly.

"Maybe you should go change for dinner," he suggests. "I'll take your suitcase up for you."

"You don't have to!" you protest, even as he's already bending over to retrieve it, even as you're secretly glad you won't have to try and lug that thing up all those stairs yourself.

"It's fine." Benedict waves you away, then tests the weight of the suitcase. "Jesus. I thought you were only staying for three days. What the hell did you pack in here?"

The sight of your bedroom floor at home, every inch covered with discarded clothes and toiletries and last-minute Christmas present purchases, overcomes you like a war flashback. "Uh… Books," you say, falling into step beside him as you climb the stairs together. "I brought a lot of books."

If Benedict knows you're one of the worst liars in England, he doesn't let it on. Instead, he hums Wham! 's greatest hit while ascending the stairs two steps at a time. You try your best not to stare at his butt when he overtakes you and focus instead on the plush velvet carpet and the actual footsteps you leave on it, cringing.

You follow him down a long corridor, past decorative Chinese-style vases filled with out-of-season greenhouse flowers. "This is your room," Benedict says, pushing the door at the end of the hall, somewhat separate from the others, open with his hip. "Eloise is just down the hall."

Like everything else in Aubrey Hall, the room is so tasteful you're scared to touch anything. Held exclusively in shades of pastels, in the softest blues, pinks, and creams, a huge four-poster bed is pushed to one wall, flanked on both sides by nightstands. The opposite side of the room is covered in floor-to-ceiling French windows that offer a spectacular view of the grounds, powdered with snow. Somebody lit a fire in here too, and above the mantle…

"Oh, God," you squeak, staring at a huge oil painting depicting perhaps the most miserable-looking man you have ever seen. Margaret Thatcher and her iron lady posturings have nothing on this bloke.

"Right, that's Uncle Barnaby." Benedict deposits your suitcase on a stuffed armchair. "Us kids just call him Uncle Fester."

"Yeah," you say slowly. "That checks out."

Benedict laughs. "Sorry, you got stuck in this one. All the other guest rooms are in the West wing, and Mom figured you'd be more comfortable not being that far away from everybody else."

The West wing. You get the sudden, spectacular image of yourself in an ankle-length lace nightgown wandering down stone hallways with nothing to light the way but a single, flickering candle. If you can fantasize about Gothic romances set in your own home, you decide, you should start thinking about downsizing.

"Right." Benedict runs a hand through his hair, and you track the movement, watching the muscles rippling in his forearm. He's wearing a grey cashmere sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight could make a stronger woman swoon. "I'll let you get settled in."

You don't want him to leave. All your time spent with Benedict is stolen, clipped, bookended by family dinners, or movie nights with his sister. The closest you've ever gotten to him was when you all crowded into the back of a cab on your way to a club, his thigh pressed against your own and his arm awkwardly angled somewhere behind your neck. Just half an inch of space between you, but your ribcage cracked open like somebody wedged a crowbar in there.

"Where are you sleeping?" It's a desperate attempt to prolong the moment, to keep him in this room alone with you for just a little longer, and you regret the question the moment it's out. Either he now thinks you're a stalker or, even worse, that you're secretly trying to draw up a layout plan of the estate to prepare for your inevitable heist. You wouldn't be surprised if there were several million pounds in cash stashed in a vault somewhere in Aubrey Hall, and rent in London has reached astronomic heights. Who could blame you for indulging?

But Benedict doesn't look concerned. Instead, he pauses just a step or two from you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and answers, "I'm right next door. Just knock if you need help with anything."

For a split second, Benedict's hand finds the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing through the thick knit sweater and painting a shiver down your back. It goes through you like a bolt of lightning.

Then he draws back as if nothing happened, gives you a crooked, curling smile, and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

You drop down onto the mattress with a groan, bury your face in the 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and pretend you're not actively trying to strangle yourself. 

"Well," you mumble, voice muffled by the pillowcase, "Happy Christmas to me."

+

Christmas dinner with the Bridgertons is a bizarre experience. Everybody talks over each other, Hyacinth and Gregory chuck spoonfuls of peas at each other, Colin spills a whole ladle of gravy across the tablecloth, Anthony and his wife Kate spend half the meal whispering to each other and the other half stealing kisses, Eloise starts debating politics with Simon (who isn't half as stuffy as you expected a duke to be) at the top of her lungs, and Benedict drinks at least five glasses of sparkling wine before his mother takes the bottle from him.

You watch the whole thing with a feeling in your stomach like a bullet wound.

After a dessert of indefinable mush Hyacinth swore up and down was her homemade plum pudding, you move to a large sitting room. There is a second tree in here, this one a little less obnoxious and covered in homemade ornaments, the exploits of eight children and countless pre-Christmas arts and crafts sessions. The crackling fire paints flushes into the family's cheeks and gives the whole room a homey, rustic atmosphere that seems at odds with the overall elegance of the house.

Everybody is allowed to open one present. You think you see the instantaneous regret on Violet Bridgerton's face when her youngest son unpacks his new portable speakers with a whoop of joy loud enough to bust several eardrums. Watching the pandemonium unfold before you, you sit squished into a corner of the sofa beside Eloise, your hands trapped under your thighs, and try not to feel out of place.

Maybe this was a mistake, you think to yourself. Maybe you shouldn't have intruded on a family holiday as you are, regardless of Eloise's invitation. It must have been a pity thing anyway, what with you saying you were just going to stay in London for Christmas, in your shitty flat with the broken radiator and the leaking pipes. You pretty much guilt-tripped her into that by mentioning the frozen curry you were planning to get from the Tesco frozen section, now that you think about it, and God, you were definitely forcing yourself on them, weren't you, and they were all just way too nice to mention it and…

"Here," Violet's voice tears you from the downward rollercoaster ride about to plunge neck-deep into the pond of anxiety. "Merry Christmas."

She places a flat present in your lap, wrapped in deer-print paper. 

"Oh," you say softly, and your chest feels tight like somebody is pulling a cord taut around it, "you didn't have to…."

"It's just a little thing." Violet has the kind of smile so warm you suspect it could melt ice cubes within seconds. "We're so happy to have you for Christmas."

You feel self-conscious as you unwrap the present, aware of all eyes on you. The paper reveals a picture frame, simple yet tasteful dark wood that feels smooth and supple against your skin. Behind the glass is a watercolor painting, a study of a tulip. The pink petals seem almost life-like in their detail as if a drop of dew should drip off the edge and roll down the picture any moment. You can practically feel it, wet and cold against your fingertip.

"Eloise said you're very fond of flowers. I thought you might find a place for it in your room."

For a head-spinning, gut-wrenching moment, you think you're going to cry. "I… thank you," you choke out. "It's… lovely."

Violet smiles and pats your hand. "It wouldn't be Christmas without a present. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you?"

They move on to Colin, who tears at his wrapping paper with such eagerness he gets a papercut, but you feel stuck. There is a lump in your throat, and you clutch the picture too tightly. Somehow, you realize, you did think they'd forget you. Only that's not really right. To forget you, they'd have to think about you first, and you can't imagine any of the Bridgertons wasting a single thought on you, apart maybe from Eloise. Sure, you spend more time at their house than in your own flat, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? It's not like your own family misses you much this Christmas. You've gotten more than used to being invisible.

"I want this one," Benedict says and, to your horror, lifts one of the presents you left there earlier. "I like the sustainable vibe."

Feeling obliged to get presents for everyone, you'd spent yesterday running through a department store for at least three hours. Mostly it's boxes of chocolates and a book for Eloise, stuff that diminished your already meager savings more acutely than you'd planned for. And then it had come time to choose something for Benedict, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time agonizing over possible presents. By the time you'd made it home, only to realize you'd forgotten to get wrapping paper, all the stores were closed. So you'd wrapped everything in the newspaper the ancient couple living next door hadn't picked up off their welcome mat yet. They're in Cardiff visiting her sister for the holiday, and you're supposed to be watering their plants while they're gone. Which is a task that might be a bit hard to accomplish, seeing as you're currently several hours outside of London. 

"Oh, that's… that's mine," you pipe up, then immediately clear your throat. You've somehow managed to sound like a cartoon mouse. An especially squeaky, pathetic cartoon mouse.

Benedict glances at you, gives you a smile he most certainly inherited from his mother, and says, "Perfect."

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

He has a similar approach to unwrapping presents as his younger brother, but at least he doesn't injure himself in the process. As you watch him, your heart beats somewhere in your throat. Suddenly you're right back where Violet picked you up, on the verge of anxiety about to perform one of history's most spectacular dives.

It might be dramatic to say that your whole life depends on whether your best friend's older brother likes the gift you picked out for him, but apparently, that's where you are now. In the most pathetic turn of events of all time, you're pretty sure the trajectory of your future hinges on this moment.

The improvised wrapping paper floats to the carpet like that plastic bag Katy Perry immortalized in her magnum opus Firework. For a moment, Benedict says nothing, staring at the gift in his hand.

"I can… If you don't like it, I can just return it," you say, even as you start frantically searching your memory for where in the world you put that receipt. Your heart is pumping blood through your veins at a pace that makes you dizzy. "It's not a big deal. It's fine, it was…."

Benedict holds the box of watercolours in front of his chest like some sacred artefact. He opens the lid and peers inside, examining the different shades wordlessly. Then he closes it, looks up, and right at you. A beat passes with him just looking at you, with your heart fluttering its feathery wings against the cage of your teeth, with you squirming in the spot. And then Benedict smiles, wide and bright and honest. "I love it," he says, "thank you. It's fantastic."

Your chest caves in.

"Oh," you whisper, half deaf over the rushing of blood in your ears. "Okay. Cool."

For a second, it looks like Benedict will say something else, like there are words forming on the tip of his tongue, and you feel like you're clinging to a cliff's edge by the tips of your nails. But then Hyacinth pulls the box from his hands to look at the paint, to run her fingers over the shades, and the moment passes.

If somebody asked you later, you wouldn't be able to tell them how the rest of the unwrapping goes. It's all a blur, a mirage of different exclamation and laughter and more or less well-thought-out presents that passes in front of you like a supercut, all of it accompanied by a playlist consisting mainly of Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé. You stay in your spot on the couch, still sitting on your hands, trying not to think about the way Benedict looked at you. Trying not to dream.

When the younger kids rope Colin and Anthony into a game of charades that requires an exorbitant amount of physical movement, you help the others clean up the abandoned shambles of the dinner table. Benedict is doing the dishes in the kitchen when you enter carrying a pale of plates so high you see nothing but the dried gravy Jackson Pollock sprinkled all across the edges.

"Careful." Benedict's fingers brush yours as he takes the plates from you and places them gingerly on the countertop.

"Thanks," you mutter, then spend just one second staring at the broad expanse of his back, holding your hands uselessly in front of you, before turning back toward the dining room, intent on finding something else to occupy yourself with.

Benedict's voice stops you. "Do you want to help me?"

You whirl on your heel embarrassingly fast, clearing your throat when you find him smiling at you. "Uhm. Sure."

He nods toward a dish towel on a rack and asks, "I wash, you dry?"

"Yeah. Sounds amazing." For a second, you genuinely consider slamming your head into one of the kitchen cabinets. Since when has drying dishes ever sounded amazing?

Benedict gives no indication that he thinks you might be the weirdest girl he's ever met, though, so you take that as consolation. He's rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue button-down again, his arms elbow-deep in the sudsy water of the sink, and you pretend not to notice the droplets running down his skin. Outside the window, snow falls in thick ribbons, covering more of the grounds. The faint sound of the Bridgertons enjoying themselves drifts into the kitchen's silence.

You accept the pan he was washing and start running your towel over it. A wet stain soaks into your dress where you press the Teflon-coated edge to your stomach.

"We can put the plates in the dishwasher later," Benedict says, filling the silence gaping like a canyon. "But I think the big stuff we should do by hand. Pots and pans and all that."

Unsure how to answer, you nod. Your mind is whirling, reeling, somersaulting. For so long, you've wanted to be alone with Benedict, have imagined it, dreamed it, conjured it up in your mind. And now here you are, and you can't seem to open your mouth. And it's not even like you have nothing to say, quite the opposite. You have so much to say you don't know where to start.

Like: You look great in that shirt. I hope you like my present. I think you're a great artist. If the Torys keep passing that PM cap around instead of letting us vote, I'm going to scream. I think capybaras are criminally underrated, and I'm glad they're having their moment on social media. How do you feel about turnips? I might have been half in love with you since the first time I met you.

Benedict, putting an end to your spiral, says, "It can be a lot, right?"

"Sorry?"

"The whole thing." He jerks his head in the direction of the dining room, an indulgent smile on his face that tells you all you need to know about Benedict's feelings for his family. "The whole Bridgerton Christmas chaos."

You shrug, lowering your head so he can't see your face, can't see whatever emotion might betray you. "I like it."

"Even Hyacinth's plum pudding? I think that could pass for a murder weapon."

"Yeah," you say, and find that your voice is much too sincere. "Even that. It's not… I've never had this." You cut yourself off immediately, not even sure why you said it in the first place. It's much too easy to be honest with Benedict, and it scares you in ways you can't describe.

"What do you mean?"

It feels like an impossible task to look at him, so you don't. You're too afraid of what you'll find - pity, maybe, or incomprehension. How could someone like Benedict possibly ever understand?

If you turn on a TV around Christmas time and watch a commercial or a movie, if you walk down a shopping street and look at the advertisements playing on screens or smiling from posters, if you pick up a holiday-themed novel, there is a certain feeling being sold to you: of warmth and joy and community. Of smiling grandparents and colorful sweaters. Of presents heaping like molehills beneath gleaming trees. Of roasts and mashed potatoes and peas and carrots and Christmas puddings and beaming families devouring them in perfect harmony. It's the same feeling you encountered right here in this house, in the perfect rooms populated with perfect Bridgertons. In those images, people are always happy.

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

"It's not…." You hesitate. "In my family," you say finally, and hope your voice sounds steadier than it feels, "it's never been good. It was just a lot of yelling, and… I've never had this. The laughing together and enjoying each other's company and all that stuff. The love. And I… I look at it, and I can tell, you see? That it's just so normal to you guys, I think maybe you don't even notice it. But I do. And it just… it doesn't really seem fair."

You don't wait for an answer, instead turning away from him in a way you hope makes it clear that this is not an avenue of conversation you want to pursue. It's like you've just stripped yourself bare in front of him, exposed yourself to his ridicule and his gaze under the unforgiving kitchen lights. It's like you have handed him a map to the innermost parts of yourself. All those ugly, pathetic parts you've spent your life hiding.

Benedict seems to understand because the next thing he says is, "Thank you again for the present."

For a beat, you close your eyes. There, you think. You've got what you wanted. He's ignoring it. He's looking away.

You chance a glance at his side profile, at the furrow between his brows as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of charred carrot sticking to the pot. "You're welcome," you answer. "I'm glad you didn't think it was shitty."

"Why would I think that? It's perfect." When you chuckle, shrug, when the self-deprecating note sneaks into the sound, Benedict ceases his scrubbing to look at you. "I mean it. It's really special."

"It's not even…." You hesitate, wondering if maybe you're fishing for compliments here. Whatever, the validation feels nice, and Benedict seems willing to give it to you, even if he probably finds you annoying. "It's not even a very creative gift. All things considered, you know?"

Everybody knows Benedict likes painting, even though there was some botched stint with the Academy a few years back. He eventually dropped out, but you don't think his aspirations changed.

He shrugs and turns back to the pot. "It is to me. My family all seem to think I'm not serious about the whole art thing, so it's nice to be acknowledged. It doesn't happen that often."

You pause to glance at him. Thrown into relief by the golden spill of the light, bracketed on one side by the winter night, for a moment, he's so pretty you feel your stomach clench. 

"But you're so…" You break off, swallowing. Your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof. "Everybody sees you."

"What do you mean?" Benedict looks at you with real confusion scrunching up his face, and you feel almost stupid.

Helplessly, you shrug, dry the last drops of water off the pan, and put it down on the counter. "Just… People always notice you, you know? When you enter a room or when you go somewhere. I just thought… I thought you must feel really acknowledged. Like all of the time. I don't know."

Your heart is beating so furiously that you wonder if he can hear it. Embarrassment leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as the words escape you. Now he really should file a restraining order, you think. It would be perfectly justified, with you exposing just how much attention you've been paying to everything he does. God, you're a freak, aren't you?

When he smiles at you, there's something sad to the expression. "I've noticed," he says, forming the words carefully, "that what most people acknowledge about me is my family. But that's not the same as acknowledging me. That's not the same as seeing me."

For a moment, you imagine what it must be like. There was such warmth in that room earlier, such joy and love, but there were so many people, too. All of them loud and charming and lovely. All of them wonderful. All of them captivating in their own way. How easy must it be to get swallowed up by the sheer force of all of them? How easy must it be to feel passed over as the second of eight children, always surpassed by somebody else? Always somebody cleverer or funnier or more lovable? Sometimes, you think, it must be a lonely thing to never be alone. Sometimes, you think, he must feel invisible.

"I do," you say, and your face feels hot, your voice sounds far away, your palms are sweaty. "I see you."

Something in Benedict's gaze changes, something transforms, and then he whispers your name, holds it in his mouth like something precious. "I think you…." He swallows, and his eyes rake over your face as if he's searching for something, as if he's hoping for something, and finally, he pushes on, his voice as uncertain as you feel, "I think there's so much more here than you realize. Because I do, too. I see you. And I know you're lonely, and I know you're scared, maybe even as scared as I am, but I think... I think maybe you don't have to be."

It's like being on a frozen lake, right in the middle, side by side, moving step by step, nothing solid in the world but his hand in yours.

He takes a step closer to you at the same time that you move forward, his hip bumping yours, his gaze on your mouth, his knuckles knocking against yours, your breaths hitched, your hands shaking, your head spinning…

"I've got more dishes," Kate chirps, stepping into the kitchen. Immediately, you and Benedict jump apart. You busy yourself with drying the pot furiously as he accepts the new pile of tableware, eyes on anything but you. Then, completely ignoring her brother-in-law, Kate wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you away. "I'm supposed to tell you guests don't have to do dishes. And that's coming from the hostess herself."

If Kate noticed anything off between you two, she doesn't comment. But you could swear you see her casting a long, searching look at you when she deposits you on the couch.

You spend a little longer enjoying the overall Christmas charm of the night. You and Eloise pull apart a cracker together, put the paper crowns on each other's heads, and sit on the rug by the fireplace for hours, chatting, ignoring the general mess around you. When Violet starts making people sing Christmas songs whether they want to or not, you excuse yourself. You've been hiding yawns in the crook of your elbow for the past half hour anyway.

On his way back in from the bathroom, Benedict almost bumps into you in the doorway.

"Oh," he says, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder, and then you both say sorry simultaneously. By now, the eggnog and the absolute shame of whatever passed between you in the kitchen have caught up to you and you giggle like a school girl, staring at the bit of skin exposed where his shirt is unbuttoned.

"Off to bed?" Benedict asks. His voice is gentle enough that, for a moment, the yearning resonates somewhere in your bones.

You nod. "I'm tired."

"Okay." It might be wishful thinking, but he sounds almost disappointed to your ears. "Sleep well, yeah?"

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

"Hey, Ben!" You glance over your shoulder to find Hyacinth grinning at the two of you with something in her eyes you can only describe as the glint of the devil. A dawning sense of horror sends a shiver down your spine. "You're, like, right under the mistletoe, you realize that, yeah?"

Following the line pointed out by her finger with your eyes, you feel the dread pooling in your stomach. And lo and behold, above your eyes, fixed to the doorway, is an unassuming twig of mistletoe.

Have you mentioned that you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie? One with an exceptionally uncreative screenwriter?

When you finally tear your wide eyes away from the mistletoe, feeling helpless, you find Benedict already looking at you. "Ignore her," he says, smiling the smile of the long-suffering. "Hyacinth just wants to stir up trouble. It's fine, nobody's going to make us…."

"Well." From her perch on the arm of Anthony's chair, a saint-like expression on her face, Kate looks once from you to Benedict. "It is tradition."

And then, to your horror, she winks at you. Your stomach plummets down to your feet.

Benedict stares at Kate like she just told him she thinks the moon landing was faked. "I… I don't think…."

Anthony, after exchanging some private glance probably only decipherable to spouses, shrugs and leans back in his chair. "I agree," he says. "It is tradition."

"And a very nice tradition, too," Daphne affirms, crossing her legs and taking a dainty sip from her wine glass. No wonder not even the gossip columns ever have anything bad to say about her. She's perfect. "It would be a shame to let that opportunity go to waste."

With a look on his face you can describe only as aghast, Benedict turns to you. “I… uhm… Is it… okay?"

If you lived in the nineteenth century, you'd be asking a servant to bring you your smelling salts by now. Slowly, you nod, even though you're so dizzy, you're not sure you don't completely mess up the movement. "It… it's fine, yeah," you agree.

Benedict's hand finds the side of your face. You're so aware of all the eyes on you that, for a moment, you think you might be sick all over Benedict's shoes. He's so close you can feel his breath on your face and smell his cologne. Your toes are going numb.

"You sure?" he mumbles, leaning even closer, only an inch separating you. He has very kind eyes. If you said no now, you know he wouldn't even be mad.

Beyond words, beyond any thought past oh god I can't believe this is really happening oh dear god he's about to kiss me, you just nod. 

"Oh, for god's sake!" That's Simon. "Just kiss the girl and be done with it, Benedict."

So he does. It's little more than a quick press of dry mouth to dry mouth, but your heart almost beats out of your chest. You feel his fingers tighten against the side of your face, feel his slightly-chapped lips, taste the eggnog and the chocolate and the wine. Then, when he pulls away, just for a beat, he lingers, his exhale a gasp, and for that instant, it's like you're the last two people on the planet, like he's the only thing that matters, like nothing existed before you and nothing will after you're gone. Suspended in time.

"Great!" Eloise calls, throwing her hands into the air. "First, Colin starts going out with Penelope, and now Benedict is snogging you. Will you people ever leave my friends alone?"

A collective burst of laughter travels through the room, and then the chattering returns, the paused music resumes, and you stand there, unsure what to do with yourself, unsure how to continue on when it feels like the whole world just shifted an inch to the left and nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore.

Benedict's hand is solid against the small of your back. "Will you… will you stay a little longer?" he asks, his voice hesitant.

It doesn't sound like he just means tonight. You don't think he just means tonight.

You swallow, exhale a shaky breath. And then you say, keeping your eyes on nothing but him, "Yeah. I'll stay."

Benedict beams. It's a sight that lights up his whole face, rivaling that ridiculous Christmas tree out in the Bridgerton's entrance hall. "Lovely," he says. For a beat, his eyes flicker back to your mouth, but then he just grins. "Merry Christmas."

You can't help it - you laugh. There's relief in the sound, the kind you haven't felt in a long, long time. Here, with the fire crackling and Gregory and Francesca delivering what could perhaps be the worst rendition of All I Want for Christmas Is You the world has ever known, it feels a little like maybe, just maybe, being seen isn't half as scary as you thought it was.

"Yeah," you agree and slide your fingers into the spaces between his. "Merry Christmas, Benedict."

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. But, God, are you happy you were wrong.

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fluff #christmas #mine #f:atl

[le-trash-prince]

KimKenta vampire hunter x vampire AU that I promised to post about

Kim is the hunter, Kenta is the vampire

Tony is the vampire overlord, and when he’s taken down, Kenta is captured by the X-Hunter team.

Babe and Pete left before they could be turned

In his youth, Kenta viewed it as a blessing to be turned by Tony

Way is also a vampire but he’s been in disguise as a human (insert worldbuilding here that makes this feasible)

Also Way got seemingly mortally wounded in the fight with Tony but Pete has been slowly nursing him back to life

Kenta agrees to help track down other vampires and is partnered up with Kim, who is also there to keep an eye on him.

Currently he feeds exclusively from blood bags (unless he’s specifically fighting someone and Kim gives him permission, but that’s further down the line)

I’m torn between him having always fed from blood bags because Tony didn’t think he deserved fresh blood, or Tony consistently forced him to feed from humans because I want to traumatize him with irredeemable guilt 🤔

Either way he does NOT want to eat people

This co-exists with the fact that Kim’s blood is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever smelled

At first, Kim treats Kenta with distrust but not with fear—he doesn’t think Kenta is good enough to get the jump on him, so he doesn’t see reason to be afraid. But he views his job as keeping Kenta in line, so he's not about to let Kenta fuck off by himself (and if they pull some death note "sharing a bed while handcuffed together" shit oh well)

He does slowly start to think well of Kenta as they get to know each other

One day, they're chasing down a vampire and split up to head the vampire off. But an innocent human gets caught up in the fight, and Kenta gets hurt trying to protect them, but he still can't keep them safe. The vampire escapes because Kenta stops to try and save the human—even though it means he's drowning in the smell of blood, trying his hardest to staunch the wound and to hold himself back from that feral instinct to feed.

By the time Kim finds him, Kenta is shaking and crying "I didn't- it wasn't me I swear, I didn't do it, I didn't do it, Kim, help me I can't-"

And Kim believes him because even though Kenta is covered in blood, it's obvious that he hasn't fed.

Kim has to pull Kenta's hands away ("no, no, I can still-" "Kenta. They're gone.") and when he guides him upright, Kenta sways and stumbles, and that’s when Kim realizes Kenta is wounded too—that he needs to feed in order to heal, and yet he still held himself back.

Kim tells Kenta to feed from him because they’re out in the middle of nowhere with no other option.

Kenta begs him “Please don’t make me, not from you.”

And Kim just laughs, “Is my blood really that bad?”

Kenta whines into his neck. “I’ll hurt you,” he keens.

Kim tugs at his hair, pulling Kenta’s head up so he can look him in the face, and he presses a thumb down against Kenta’s plush lower lip, making him open his mouth so Kim can brush against his fangs—“You really think you could hurt me?”—he circles his thumb against Kenta’s tongue, watching in fascination as Kenta whimpers and drools helplessly—“You think you can do anything I don’t want you to do?”

And when Kenta feeds from him, it’s not the vampire seducing the human—it’s the human using his blood to control his vampire.

Anyways those are just some of my thoughts please enjoy

#do i wish i could write this? yes. do i have the mental stamina to do so? absolutely not #but i still want to share #pit babe #pit babe the series #kimkenta #kentakim #kim pit babe #kenta pit babe #pit babe HCs #pit babe au

[welldwller]

Rui (but its an au i have that exclusively exists in my head)

#project sekai #rui kamishiro #pjsk #wonderlands x showtime #prsk #kamishiro rui #project sekai fanart

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

Natural Satellite [ch 6]

An In Stars and Time AU. In chapter six, the gang faces the King. (Spoiler warning thru Act 4)

It’s been a while since you actually fought the King. Why bother? It’s not like there’s anything waiting on the other side. Just a soppy little coda that doesn’t even resolve anything. No closure. No catharsis. No point. But Isa insisted, about the dagger. He practically begged you. If you go back on your word now, he’ll probably get a lot less cooperative. Which would be inconvenient. And you can’t think of any other way to skip the fight without letting the King kill everyone. (You could bear it, when they wouldn’t remember. But you can’t do it anymore. Not to Isa.) (It hurts to die.) The King is moaning again, whining about his stupid embarrassing ambitions. Ooohh, maybe the real victim is me actually! Maybe you guys should just lay down and die! It might have a little more appeal as a musical number. Give the fight a little razzle-dazzle. But it isn’t. It’s just a huge loser, crying. You zone out.

Watching Siffrin sleep makes Isa’s chest clench. Sif was always a tiny little guy, but they look even smaller in sleep. Hat off, guard down. Hugging their knees to their chest like they’re trying to disappear completely. They might even look peaceful, if not for the dark circles hollowing their eyes. And for the way they keep twitching and flinching, like even their dreams aren’t safe.

Sif circled the tree six times before choosing their spot, fastidious as a housecat. If Isa wasn’t totally spineless, he might have asked if they wanted to rest their head in his lap. N-Not because he wanted them to!!! Or… well. Not exclusively. Mostly it was just because Sif looked so tired. Like it’d been a million years since they last got a sound night’s sleep. And also because it kinda made Isabeau want to cry, watching Sif look around warily before laying his head down on a tree root.

It probably wouldn’t offend them just to ask. Just a simple, Hey, Sif? You look pretty uncomfortable… and I’m just sitting here, so… it really wouldn’t get in my way if you—if you wanted—if you might be more comfortable resting your head on something a little less, um, made of wood? Like, I dunno… a chunk of moss, or a stack of leaves, or... or even j-just my…

But—nope! Haha! Nnnnope!! There’s no point, anyway. Sif would just say no, and then Isa would have to sit here, watching them, knowing that they’d rather stretch out on a bed of nails than entrust their sleep to him.

It’s probably for the best. Being Sif’s pillow would be distracting. (Like, really really really distracting.) And Isa’s got enough on his mind as it is.

If the time loops aren’t a divine blessing to help Mira beat the King, then what are they for? They must be related to Sif, or else he wouldn’t have been stuck here all alone for all this time. But then why would that change now? Why would it happen in the first place?

There’s a stifled squeak. Siffrin, whimpering in his sleep.

Isa’s palms itch. Of course he knows better than to wake Sif up. At this point, it seems pretty clear that restless sleep is still miles better than no sleep at all. Still, he can’t suppress the instinct to reach out, to pet and fuss and soothe. And… maybe Sif wouldn’t mind?

But he’s kidding himself. He already saw how Sif reacted when he tried. Siffrin is quicker and sharper than anyone, but when Isa reached out, they froze like a rabbit. Paralyzed. Afraid.

…Isa did that. He did that to them.

“Stop,” Isabeau whispers to himself, out loud. He needs to focus. Sif just gave him a lot to think about, and his notes won’t stick around for long. He has all these scattered shards, twisty little splinters of a larger picture that must exist. But it feels like all he’s got are edge pieces. Like he’s still missing something central, fundamental.

He just needs a little more data.

* * *

Sure enough, that article is right where Isabeau remembered: tacked to the wall on the first floor, surrounded by hand-drawn sketches and still-lifes.

None of the articles include anything particularly helpful (e.g., say, a list of weaknesses, or an explanation of how the King’s power actually works). Mostly it’s just about how he showed up out of nowhere, and how nobody really knows where he came from. But they do have plenty to say about his fashion sense.

Siffrin frowns at the photo. “Those patterns…”

"On his chest and gauntlets, you mean?" Isa asks, curious. They're not particularly eye-catching. Just a bunch of big diamonds.

"It's just a weird losange," Bonnie huffs. They’ve never had much interest in fashion. "What's so weird about that?

Siffrin just shakes their head. “Those are stars.”

* * *

Sif moves differently now. Isa couldn’t tell back in Dormont, but in the House, it’s unmistakable There’s a leonine grace; a predatory gleam. Sif weaves through the halls like a shark that’s scented blood. Cold, efficient. Utterly without fear. When they sense him, the Sadnesses scatter like minnows. They cower in corners and blunder into walls, blind in their terror.

He doesn’t slow down until they get to the library, where they hesitate in front of one of the shelves, running a finger down the sparkly, rhinestone-studded spine of a book. They don’t open it. But they don’t have to. Isa remembers this part. Mira read it to them just two loops ago. It was a diary, someone’s memory of the day that everyone forgot an entire country. Just thinking about trying to remember gives Isa the beginnings of a headache. And Sif—

Sif asked him to say it anyway.

They looked so serious. Desperate. Like they were hungry for something they couldn’t even name.

The picture tilts. A new variable, sliding into place.

…Oh, Isa thinks to himself. Okay. It’s starting to come together.

* * *

The King’s shadow darkens the entire House, but nowhere more than the third floor. His hair curls around every doorway like the twisting vines of some pallid, lightless plant that only grows deep underground. The air hums with Craft. It makes Isa’s skin prickle, makes the hair on his arms stand up straight. No matter where you go, you can always hear the clamor of the King’s sobs, a wrenching, discordant wail that sounds like it’s being wrung out of him with a wine key. It’s overpowering. Inescapable. Isa doesn’t scare easily—not in a fight, at least—and even he can feel the dread seeping into his blood. Some primal, animal corner of his brain is telling him to run. Run. Run. You’re in danger. You’re not a hunter here. You’re prey.

And just a few steps in front of him, Sif is leading the charge with an impatient little scowl. He looks distracted. Bored. Like they’re waiting in a too-long line at the market.

They know the way, too. Right turn, left turn, pick up the key and track back. A quick stop in Mira’s room, then north for another key. In the corner of his eye, Isa can see Madame Odile eyeing them suspiciously. Siffrin doesn’t seem to notice.

And then they’re at the King.

Isabeau promised not to get in the way this time, and he’s not about to break a promise. He keeps his mouth shut while Siffrin steps forward.

“Where are you from?”

The King looks straight at them. When he brushes his hair aside, Isa can see his eyes burn white. Silver-white, like Siffrin’s. “.....What about you, bright one..... Where are you from?”

Siffrin flinches.

The King laughs.

* * *

* * *

* * *

It’s been a while since you actually fought the King. Why bother? It’s not like there’s anything waiting on the other side. Just a soppy little coda that doesn’t resolve anything. No closure. No catharsis. No point. It doesn’t even tie up any loose ends. Isa’s stupid confession is foreshadowed for the whole script—now that you know what to look for, it’s honestly a little heavy-handed—and by the time the curtain falls, nothing has changed. Chekhov’s gun lies cold on the mantle. At a certain point, it’s just bad writing.

But Isa insisted, about the dagger. He practically begged you. If you go back on your word now, he’ll probably get a lot less cooperative. Which would be inconvenient. And you can’t think of any other way to skip the fight without letting the King kill everyone. (You could bear it, when they wouldn’t remember. But you can’t do it anymore. Not to Isa.)

(It hurts to die.)

The King is moaning again, whining about his stupid embarrassing ambitions. Ooohh, maybe the real victim is me actually! Maybe you guys should just lay down and die! It might have a little more appeal as a musical number. Give the fight a little razzle-dazzle. But it isn’t. It’s just a huge loser, crying.

You zone out.

* * *

You beat the King, obviously. It’s easy now. Buff. Attack. Block. Attack. Bomb. Attack. You’re never even in any real danger, so does it really have to take so long?

The others cheer, after you finish him off. You remember to cheer, too. In the corner of your eye, you can feel Isa’s gaze on you. You do not look back.

* * *

How many times have you been on this rooftop? Probably the number doesn’t matter. All that matters is that nothing ever worked, and nothing ever changed.

There’s too much in your head. You can feel thoughts ticking, tickling, prickling. Where the expanse of possibility should stretch endlessly into the horizon, there’s only history. Hindsight. Nowhere to go but back.

You look at Euphrasie.

Your whole nervous system clenches in on itself. Your blood cold and turgid; your windpipe crusted shut with blackened sugar. Your lips itch. Your throat burns. You Cannot Talk To Her Again.

Your hands twitch toward your dagger.

…But you promised.

“Isa,” you mumble, shuffling toward his corner of the rooftop. “Can I… talk to you?”

“Huh? Yeah, of course! Always!”

“No, I mean. Um. Alone?”

In the background, Odile whistles. You very graciously ignore her.

“Oh!” Isa squeaks. “Y-Yeah, I— Yeah, of course!”

You wonder idly whether he knows that you know what he wanted to tell you, back when that was still something he cared about. Probably he doesn’t. You have a history of obliviousness, apparently. But Isabeau does too.

It doesn’t matter. That’s not what you need to talk to him about.

* * *

You are keenly aware of your family’s eyes on you as Isabeau trails you down the steps and around the corner. You might feel embarrassed, if you didn’t know for a fact that this entire timeline was about to be wiped from existence.

“I can’t talk to her,” you announce, once you’ve decided that you’re out of range.

Isa blinks at you. “Um? To…”

“The Head Housemaiden.”

“...Huh?”

Oh. That’s right. You never explained this part. Probably because you didn’t want to be here. “You know how, even if we beat the King, I still loop back?”

Isa nods.

You nod at Euphrasie. “This is where it happens.”

“Wait, she—” Isabeau looks over his shoulder and then back, goggle-eyed. “Don’t tell me Mira’s mom kills us????”

You can’t suppress a snort. “Um. No. Not like that. I talk to her, and then it’s over.”

“Wa-a-ait,” Isa says slowly. “You mean… Do you mean without dying???”

You shrug.

“But… But wouldn’t that mean—”

“No.”

“But if we could loop back without—”

“No.” He doesn’t understand. Nothing hurts worse than talking to Euphrasie.

Isabeau hesitates. “But… But if she can—”

“I can’t talk to her again.” Just thinking about how hopeful you felt, the first few times—

But that was a long time ago.

Isabeau studies your face. You expect him to press you, but—he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says instead. He exhales slowly, brushes off his hands. “Okay! Then, um, what would you normally do here?”

For just a second, your eye flicks toward your dagger.

“Ah,” Isa says. “Okay, well. Thanks for… not doing that.” He takes a breath, lets it out. “So… what do you wanna do instead?”

“…You could stab me?”

“Sif.”

Yeah, you didn’t really think he was going to go for it. “I could jump off?” You’ve never tried that before. It might be nice to feel something new!

“No???”

You scowl at him. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“...You really can’t talk to her?”

You nod. You really really can’t.

“Could I talk to her?” he asks hopefully.

You shake your head. You know you’re being difficult, but—no. He can’t! And it wouldn’t work, probably, anyway. That’s not how it’s ever worked.

Isabeau heaves a breath. “Okay. Then we just… find another way, right?”

You shrug.

“But we couldn’t figure that out last time,” his eyes flicking toward your shoulder. “We’d have to try something… else, I guess. Um. Do you… have any ideas? About why it didn’t work, or… what we could try instead?”

You think about it. You liked feeling his hand on your shoulder, you think. You think you liked it. But your cloak is thick and sturdy. You could barely even feel him. “Maybe because I couldn’t feel it on my skin?”

“Oh,” Isa whispers. “Um. D-Do you think so?”

Another shrug. What do you know? The only time touch made you loop was—

(—shut up shut up THAT NEVER HAPPENED.)

Isabeau swallows. He wraps one hand around his arm, clutching tight enough to bunch the fabric of his sleeve. “Um…”

You huff a breath. “Sorry. Never mind. It was stupid.”

“N-No!! It’s not that!! It’s just that you’re… kinda all covered up? Except your—um.” He looks away. “Your… f-face.”

…Oh.

You shouldn’t think about it and you are thinking about it, now, irrevocably. Isa’s hand on your cheek. His very warm, very large hand, cradling the side of your face. Fingers brushing your cheekbone, your temple. If you asked him, with your face burning under his touch, to tell you what he’d promised to confess, would he finally do it?

But you can’t risk it. Not here, not now. There are no more second chances. Isabeau’s already trapped here with you. Haven’t you hurt him enough?

“...Sif?”

Carefully, you peel off your gloves.

“Ohh,” Isa breathes. “Are you… D-Did you wanna…”

“I want to stab myself,” you snap, before reining yourself in. “Sorry. No. I just mean, I don’t mind stabbing myself.” It doesn’t take too long, and it always works. And it’s… yours. Not just something happening to you. “But if you wanted to try something else…”

Isa’s hand flits closer. But he doesn’t grab yours. He just—holds it out to you, palm-up. There’s an appealing flush darkening his ears, sweat beading on his brow. It’s silly, really. There’s no reason to be nervous about something like you; something that’s not even a person. But he is. It’s… interesting.

You know that you should feel sorry. You know it should embarrass you. But there’s something appealing about seeing him like this. Disarmed, unarmored. Over-exposed as a shucked oyster. It makes you feel sort of… powerful.

(Disgusting.)

You meet him in the middle. Reach out and trace a line from the tip of his longest finger to the soft skin of his wrist, where his pulse thrums through it. You pretend not to notice the way that he shudders.

“Soft,” you mumble. You’d expected his hands to be tougher, scarred and callused like yours. Especially since he fights with his fists. But you were right about one thing. He is very, very warm.

“I.” His voice comes out choked and strangled. “—have a good skincare routine?”

You snort. The pad of your thumb circles his palm, just to make his breath hitch. You can feel his pulse quicken and that’s interesting, too, so you do it again before uncurling your hand and laying your palm flat against his.

Isa pulls in a shuddering breath. You can see him steeling himself, gathering his courage before he slots his fingers into the spaces between yours and then you’re—holding hands. You’re holding hands. It feels almost familiar. Has someone held your hand before? When you try to remember, the thought twists away.

“Um,” Isa says hoarsely. “So. D-Do you feel—um—loop-y?”

You think about it. “I think you’re being too careful.”

His eyes widen.

“I think it won’t work if you don’t surprise me,” you explain. “Like. Catch me off guard.”

“O-Oh,” he whispers. “Really?”

You nod.

You’re aware that you’re pushing him. Pushing his boundaries; shoving through his comfort zone and out the other side. But that’s because you don’t want to be here.

There’s a reason you stopped coming here. Started asking your questions and ending the loop, instead of beating the King at all. You’re tired of this. Tired of hearing the same fumbling aborted confession. Tired of watching Isa decide that maybe he’d rather not know you, after all. That he’d rather be safe than be yours.

You want to push him. You want to scare him, a little. Make him suffer, make him squirm. It’s only fair, isn’t it? He’s been toying with you for a hundred loops.

(...You’re disgusting.)

Isa scuffs his feet, shifts his weight. “Um. Um… Do you… have any ideas?”

You raise an eyebrow. “If I tell you, it’s not really a surprise, Isa.”

“Haha, yeah!!!!!! I guess you’re right!!!” He looks down at your joined hands and swallows. “And. And you’re sure we can’t just—“

You glare at him and he actually squeaks. It’s cute. No it isn’t, it’s cruel. You’re playing with him, like a kid pulling the wings off a butterfly. Sadistic.

“Okay, okay, okay. No Housemaiden. S-So it just has to be… something you’d never expect…” He falters. “…Promise you won’t get mad?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. It probably depends on what he does.

“Y-Yeah, of course. Of course. And you really won’t—um—I mean—because I could do all the talking…“

“She does all the talking.”

“Okay!!” he squeaks. “S-Sorry!! Then I’ll just—um. L-Let me just try…”

Tentative, slow, he wraps his fingers around your wrist. You have maybe half a second to process what’s happening before he raises your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your palm, right where it meets your wrist. Sparks under your skin. Lightning on your tongue. You’ve never been more aware of your own nerve endings.

You blink up at him, heat-dazzled, only to find his face burning. Eyes glossy with shame, and—something else. His gaze is locked on the place where he ends and you start but when he senses you staring he catches your eye and it’s— Oh, Stars. Oh, Change or Expressions or Gems, it’s— He’s so desperate. He’s so ashamed. He wants you so much.

(—Not you. Not you. He doesn’t want you, he wants the role you were playing. But it’s hard to remember when he’s so beautiful, and so close. And so hungry. You can see it in the ember of his eyes, burning for you. But he can’t, he shouldn’t, it’s wrong; you’re disgusting and wrong and you know but he’s—he’s looking at you like he can actually see you. Like he could see you and still want you.)

There’s a shift in his stance. Isa, tilting closer, squeezing his eyes shut. He draws your wrist toward his mouth and you realize with terror that he’s going to do it again—except that he can’t, because if he does it again, you can’t be sure what kind of sound you’ll make and the pressure building in your throat feels dangerously like a whimper, and—and if you whimper, then he’ll know; he’ll know that you—he’ll know that you—

[ f e e l   a   t u g   a t   y o ur   s t o m a c h ]

And you wake up in a field.

If you wanna get updates as soon as I post em, feel free to follow the series on ao3!

#isat spoilers #act 4 spoilers #in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat isabeau #isafrin

[casuallyferal]

It's been announced that Elon is reflecting on making X membership exclusive, ie where you pay to have an X membership.

With the upcoming death of X, I find myself having meta thoughts about my fandoms, the art community, and where they intersect; and, how much those things radically-and-completely changed after the death of Tumblr -- and still haven't recovered.

(this does relate to Cross!Sans' recent win I prommy just give me a minute)

...

To start off with an example:

Some folks still remember the mass death of Tumblr.

It's hard to describe it to people who didn't see it.

There were actual casualties. Y'all remember that, too? The deaths?

Most of them were because for many people, their ~5-10 years of portfolio disappeared overnight with no recovery. Even for folks who had backups, the little things that mattered most, like reblog-chains, had been compromised. I remember reading a vent post that stuck w/ me of a college applicant sobbing because their blog was going to be their portfolio to apply, and the needed morning, it was gone. They lived through an abusive home and lost their out. They stopped posting after that.

There are keystone works that now only exist in our minds.

Cornerstones of both fandom and people's real lives were erased by a mega corp afraid of organic Human sensuality, the artist's familiar muse. A kiss, a shirtless photo, a man lounging in the sun, didn't matter. Gone with no explanatory messages. Everything was very unstable about the rules for a disturbingly long time with ghost-edits to the sitewide rules, and vague lettering. If you posted a single dangly bit, you're out. If you posted male or female nypples at any point, you're out. The rules now aren't the rules that were for a little while, long enough to carve up careers and sink fandoms.

As a case study:

Try to understand that if you're a new arrival into an old fandom from the Before Times, like say Undertale,

... you arrived into a fandom carved into quarters.

Everything we cared about and definitive blogs & art pieces vanished. I was temporarily surprised that Cross!Sans won the AU contest instead of the longtime fandom favorites like G!Sans.

For years, he was our fandom mascot.

I had a harrowing realization and began doomscrolling to confirm that nobody can find 👌the showstopping sensuality 👌😩 of G!Sans. It's gone.

G-o-n-e gone, can't find it anywhere, like that mfker into his smoke.

Our fandom values and cultural pillars that we built ourselves were deleted off-site by some Suits.

Everything the young people inherited was bleached-out and fucking sanitized by a corporation. We had no choice but to tolerate that, even as self aware as we were about it.

...this cultural-drift was not because of natural evolution, but because we weren't sterile enough to "make the cut;" and now, it's definitive with a clear before/after gap.

...

I'm of the opinion that the online art community has never really recovered from these repeat events.

It's never been the same:

I see a lot less WIPs unless it's teasing a piece.

I see less reckless abbandon in artwork. There's less scribbles.

There's less breath on the canvas.

People tightened their shit up into hyper polished presentation-pieces.

There's less shitposting in general. People used to post doodles and silly faces and polished pieces were in between.

I think this new media relationship comes from a place of collective hurt. I think many of us realized all society gives a fuck about is money money money money for something that for many of us is a necessary biproduct of being alive. The people who couldn't handle that never came back. They Told Us So when they left, and coincidentally, never came back -- or came back different.

❕ (brief cw cp)

As necessary aside, I'm not lumping in the CP -- it's that every platform has CP, and addressing CP head-on on a platform like Tumblr also meant having regulations that corporate with legal, consensual sensuality, and that's not feasible without endorsing that exists... AND, is deeply influential to many artists. Tumblr wasn't willing to do that.

Tumblr wasn't willing to accept ads from orgs that are okay with that, either.

❕ (cw over)

I feel like this keeps happening... Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter/X... because it comes from a cultural climate of fear towards the veritable Human qualities, some raw, beastial, or even vestigial, of which is the Creative's foundational wellspring. What inspires is often transgressive, and there's no room for such things on a corporate level due to the sterile inhumanity of present day economics. If it's not palettable enough that it can be sold to stockholders with polished floors and dry-cleaned suits, we're a weed between the concrete.

Get too tall and we're seen as a disordered presentation of society instead of just... just, Human. Raw, beastial, vestigially Human.

...

At the end of the day,

our inherently-self-expressive Human potential keeps getting butchered alive by fear of sex & sensuality and love, and the bitter taste of culturally dominant hatespeech; to really spit on the situation, the biggest driver behind both of those is economic. There's a desire knit into the social fabric to squeeeeeeze every fkn penny possible out of an inherently involuntary part of the Creative's experience.

For many, creating freely is a necessary part of a Creative's self-regulation, regardless of whether it's just a hobby or a career path. Creatives create things. We have to or we wilt. It is counter-intuitive to the nature of Wall Street, as it stands, and so it will never favor us -- let alone begin to understand that, without overhaul.

For me, painting is like breathing, I have to do it or I become ill.

...

...It's like... they bottled our air.

Dammed our wellsprings and sell our own work back to us in plastic jugs. Elusive, ominous "they," vague because it's a lottery for whoever plays "them" next; executioner with hanging-rope in hand to strange the creative experience.

There's nothing sacred left when it's all about making money.

...so, where's next?

(: Might as well grit our teeth about it and stay organized. Mastodon, I think? Dreamwidth also? Misskey? Where have you heard? Where do I go, now?

I miss the reblog-artfights and having Tumblr friends before it was deleted by a suit, and I don't want to lose that.

#I dunno. I had thoughts. #twitter #x platform #art #art community #meta #rant #rant post #vent #undertale #undertale au #sans undertale #cross sans #sanssweep #crossweep #g sans #g!sans #cross!sans #error sans #corporate greed #small artist #anti capitalism #mastodon #lmao so many relevant tags fuck sake #was this even coherent idfk #dreamwidth #misskey

[perpetualexistence]

Sea Monster AU: First Meetings

I'm still getting a heehoo giddy feeling with all the interest for this AU! I haven't even properly written things yet and you're all being very welcoming! I'm seeing likes from people I've been following in the TD fandom! I got my first reblog from someone else who understands the joys of big monsters and monster x human tropes! Aaa! It sparks joy in me.

I promise to use this joy exclusively to give Noah a Bad Time. He's one of my favorites, so he must suffer. That's the rules. (Don't worry, Alejandro will get to suffer too, we just haven't gotten that far yet.)

I'm going to start with how the two meet and their relationship up until Alejandro decides to reveal his true colors. So no real content warnings for this part except for manipulation and intimidation, especially regarding size. Given the premise, and the fact that Alejandro is Alejandro, this is going to be true of most of this AU.

Now let's see if I can properly use the Read More button to get into the juicy deets.

<- Start/Prev | Next ->

Noah lives in a small town on the coast of Lake Wawanawka. In days long past the town was a major shipping port. It was fighting with a rival city for dominance in the region. A massive storm set the town back, and now it only exists as a place to stay that's cheaper than the big city up the coast. The town government has been trying to revitalize the town by turning it into a tourist trap, but that's only resulted in tourists trashing the place at night while they spend most of their time and money in the big city. Still, money is money, so the townspeople have little choice but to put up with it.

Noah's recently been accepted to the one community college in town that's kind of helping to keep the town afloat. He plans to coast through an associate's degree with ridiculously easy classes. Then he's going to use his intelligence to get a scholarship to a private university and will never look back on this town. Only exception would be to come visit his family, though at this point only a few of his older sisters still live at home. Some have already left the nest just like he plans to.

Noah doesn't have many friends, so he tends to go off on his own. He's managed to find one spot on the beach that's inaccessible to most. It requires a tight squeeze through rocks. It's the one thing his wiry frame is good for. Tourists don't know about it so they can't ruin it. Townspeople who do know about it typically don't bother. He's taken measures to make it look as unappealing as possible. Can't have people taking away his best spot to get away from a rowdy house and read in peace.

That is, until a particularly bad storm hits. He returns to his reading cove, ready to complain as he has to either deal with or ignore the debris that's sure to be littering the place. It's while he's kicking away debris that his foot comes across something soft, small, and....tan? He moves the debris away to see something that would look like an eel if not for the top half being a human that looked around his age.

He reacts calmly when this thing groans and looks directly at him asking "¿Qué pasó?" He takes a second to breathe, and think rationally about what he's seeing in front of him.

He certainly doesn't scream like a bitch, fall on his ass, and attempt to crab walk away.

Once Noah actually calms down and accept the fact that this is not a psychotic break on his part, he and who he learns is Alejandro get to talking. Fortunately in English. Alejandro reveals that he swam too close to the surface and got swept in the storm. He doesn't know where he's ended up. He took a really nasty blow to the head too because he doesn't even quite remember where he came from. Alejandro would greatly appreciate if Noah could tell him where he is.

Noah's got some questions about all this. Ignoring the fact that merfolk apparently exist (a phrase he never thought he'd utter), Alejandro's an eel. Literally. Eels aren't native to Canada. So there's no possible way he could be from Lake Wawanakwa. Noah suspects he's an electric eel, which would place him somewhere in South America. When he points this out, he swears he sees a spark of electricity in Alejandro's tail. It confirms Noah's suspicions. It also confirms that Noah's not about to touch Alejandro with his bare hands. Alejandro commends him for being smart enough to help jog his memory. He remembers humans referring to the name 'Peru' in the waters he comes from.

He reveals that magic does exist in this world, as is evident by his very existence. There must have been magic in the storm that brought him here. Sadly, he doesn't know how he can use it to get himself back home. Not that it matters much, he can adapt to living here. Still, he begs for Noah not to tell anyone else that he's here. Noah has been so kind to him, but Alejandro isn't quite so sure how other humans will react to seeing him.

Noah's still quite suspicious about Alejandro. But the alternative is either A) a townsperson finds Alejandro, sees him as their ticket out of this town, and does who knows what to him for fame and money. Or B) a tourist finds Alejandro, and either does like the townsperson, or flips out and calls the cops, leading to who knows what kind of military experimentation assuming the cops don't just shoot him on sight.

So curse Noah's bleeding heart, he tells Alejandro that if he's going to stay in shallower waters, he'll be better off staying here. He warns him about the tourists and the townspeople. If he's going into deeper waters, then he's going to have to watch out for the fishermen, the cargo ships, and the ferries that go across the lake. Alejandro just grins and promises to repay Noah's hospitality in full one day.

And thus, Noah begins to meet Alejandro in secret. Mainly because he refuses to concede his favorite reading spot. Noah does some research on electric eels, and comes prepared with rubber gloves any time he wants to get close with Alejandro just in case. Alejandro isn't always there, but when he is he insists on interacting with Noah. He gets interested in the books he sees Noah reading and reveals that he doesn't know how to read. Noah can't just allow for that, so he teaches the Peruvian how to read English. He tries to teach him how to write too, but that's more difficult given the size difference and Alejandro constantly being wet. Noah will take to reading aloud to Alejandro, and when Alejandro learns how to read, he takes to slithering his way in between Noah and his book so he can read along, taking care not to touch Noah's skin.

Their relationship continues to grow as they talk about their respective lives. Noah tells him about humans, and Alejandro will tell him things about merfolk. When Alejandro goes to deeper waters, he comes back and describes the old shipwrecks he's found closer to the bottom of the lake with a certain wonder in his eyes. He'll even start to bring little treasures back from them, first for himself, but eventually for Noah as well. They get to make fun of tourists together and watch them from afar. Noah's dog Ark comes in at one point, and Ark loves Alejandro. Alejandro doesn't feel the same way about Ark and complains about the slobber. At a different point, a stray cat makes its way to the beach and Alejandro learns that he loves cats. And that cats don't feel the same way about him. To them he smells like a fish and looks like a snake, so they'll either try to claw at him or flee on sight. This saddens the Alejandro. He vows to one day successfully pet a cat.

Then, things take a turn seemingly out of the blue. Alejandro reveals that he has a surprise he wants to show Noah. It's a skill he'd lost for a while due to the nature of his arrival. He's been practicing it in private, but he thinks he's finally recovered it fully! He begs for Noah to indulge his theatrics by covering his eyes. It will be the last time he asks like this. He promises. Noah rolls his eyes, but begrudgingly agrees to do so.

Noah hears a lot of shifting. Of rocks. Of waves. He hears something scraping the ground around him. He feels the air around him grow charged. The hair all across his body is standing on its end. He can't help but remember those initial doubts he had about Alejandro.

"You may open them now." a familiar voice rumbles. The accent is as thick as ever. It's louder than a tiny body should be able to produce. It's coming from the wrong direction.

It had been so nice to be wrong. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can keep being wrong. Schrödinger's idyllic beach life. He's smart, and he has a friend with no strings attached. He's smart, and he knows patience is not one of Alejandro's virtues.

Noah opens his eyes to gaze at the massive beast staring down at him.

Were his teeth always so sharp? Alejandro spoke of hunting, which implied he needed teeth sharp enough to rip into flesh. Noah had never really paid attention until he was looking at a full set of teeth, each the size of his hand. They grinned in a facsimile of a warm and inviting smile he was accustomed to.

Noah forced his gaze further upward to check if Alejandro's smile met his eyes. He recognized those eyes. When Alejandro had first started bringing his treasures, he would talk about them nonstop. Noah had tried to grab one of them to get a closer look. Alejandro had immediately retreated to the water, holding onto his treasure as if his own life depended on it. He'd felt an odd sense of something he later recognized as jealousy. Which was strange because it was jealousy over an object. But it was an object that had commanded Alejandro's full attention, full protection, full possession.

What a fool he'd been to feel jealous of something he was now the target of.

"What do you think?" Alejandro asked like a dog that had just brought home a dead cat and was now begging for praise. He closed the distance between them by bending down and slithering back to meet closer to Noah's level.

Noah's throat closed. He felt his face betray him as his ears and cheeks began to flush red. This is fear and a confused and conflated mixture of adrenaline and oxytocin brought forward by an intense situation, nothing more.His feet remained loyal. He backpedaled, only to be stopped by a soft wall that hadn't been there a second ago. He pressed a hand against the wall while maintaining eye contact with Alejandro. That was what you did with wild animals wasn't it? Certain ones at least. He didn't if it would work with eels. An electric eel will wrap itself around its prey, ensuring that there are at least two points of contact for maximum effectiveness. Once established, it will send a shock to incapacitate its prey before consuming it. If he wheels through facts he picked up about eels to prepare himself for this situation, he doesn't have to acknowledge that the wall that dwarfed him from behind was a hand.

"Noah, por favor." Alejandro purred. "We're amigos. I haven't forgotten the times we've spent together. They've been delightful! And so very informative."

Noah had been too concerned about protecting Alejandro from humans. He taught him how to read. He warned him where the people frequented. He taught him how modern ships run on electricity. Alejandro shared that he wished he could have met the ships he'd visited before something else had sent them to the bottom of the lake. All of these red flags only served as the pins and needles holding Noah in place.

"And more importantly, I made a promise to you! A Burromuerto never breaks their promises. Not even to humans." Alejandro suddenly tilted his hand forward, forcing Noah to stumble backwards into a cupped palm. He pulled Noah closer until his face engulfed the entirety of Noah's vision. He let out a breathy sigh right onto Noah. "It truly is a shame that you're a human in my new hunting grounds. I could allow you to simply stay if you weren't. I have no doubt you would enjoy literally ripping apart los estúpidos turistos with me just as you enjoy verbally ripping them apart."

Noah felt an index finger ruffle the top of his hair. On instinct, he moved his hand up to smack it away. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd just done, but Alejandro only chuckled. "See what I mean?" he continued. "But, sadly for both of us, I can't let it be known that I let a human go without a fight. I have a reputation to uphold. However, I will reward your hospitality with something I will never offer to another human again. Porque eres tan precioso para mí."

Alejandro carefully placed a thumb under Noah's chin to keep his gaze focused on the former. His claw rested against Noah's right cheek. The sharp tip faced away from him, but that could change at a moment's notice. "You have the privilege of convincing me why you deserve to live."

And Noah knew he would have to choose his next words very carefully.

#total drama #td au #sea monster au #giant/tiny #td alenoah #alenoah #td noah #td alejandro #wrote a little ficlet at the end whoops #writing #perp writing #no beta we die like men #horror au #total drama horror au #td horror au

[oogalaboogalabich]

Vampire spawn Gale AU concept. Thinkin of making a comic.

Outline 1: Artor Morlin of Waterdeep gets his claws into local Orb Boy.

Gale does The Stupid at a more believable age. Like his late teens. He gets orbed way earlier as a result. He responds with impulsivity and recklessness rather than isolation and it gets him noticed by the local vampire lord.

Gale got caught up with Artor Morlin, who took an interest in his orb, and turned him into a personal experiment to see if undeath would do anything to allow him to harness it vicariously through gale.

He was subjected to several years of only semi non-consentual torture, of being trained into a proper fighter since his magic aggravated the orb and made it harder to contain and feed.

Turns out martial arts does well for calming and lestening the demands of the netherise magic. And he ends up as deft with his hands as he is with his tongue.

Hes best with the bo staff, like in canon. But almost exclusively fights melee. Avoiding magic unless its super nessesary. hes fallen a touch out of practice but his natural propensity is still there, boostin him up like late stage capitalist nepotism.

But as it turns out artor knows a ticking time bomb when he sees one. he cant kill gale without going to some complex and extreme measures to minimize damage.

He cant allow the lad to remain in the city. And he cant exactly have a rogue spawn running about with his name attached to it. And he doesnt allow other full vampires to exist in his city outside of an invitation for a BRIEF visit. His nearly 7 centuries of reasonably successful business accumen was a testament to the necessity of that last rule. What other vampire on the sword coast could claim even half his age?

There was really only one option.

at least the only option that wouldnt make him sad for a while. In the "my pet died" way. and fortunately it left him without any monetary cost worth mentioning.

"Youre...freeing me?"

"No. I am ensuring the survival of my city."

"Truss it up as much as you please master, i could not possibly express better gratitude for your generocity.

"Yes well...youve been a good sport about it all i suppose. You're expensive but," he shuffles a ship across his map a few feet and tips over another. He doesnt remove the downed ship from the board. It was still afloat, out there. Waiting to be pilfered. "You dont cause trouble. More than i can say for the other brats."

(Something something filler filler. Snippy gale comment)

"Careful now, Dekarios. I can still banish you short a limb."

(Filler filler-gale rambles about being glad he got to learn so much under his tutilage. Implies a physical relationship that was eh then he goes entirely off subject about fish or sirens or something entirely off topic. Autism gale autisms at morlin)

Artor blinks and shakes his head, holding up a hand to silence him

"Gods Enough" he didnt look too upset however "i shant miss your gulls screeching, dekarios."

"You understand that when you wake, you are to leave my city. Should you return without my express leave, i will do what my advisors suggested. I will drag you out to sea, sink you with your jaw cracked open, and let the waters eat you from the inside out"

"I understand master."

"Very well. Lets get this over with. Kneel-"

A tentacle bursts through the wall and dekarios vanished. Its over in seconds.

Artor stares at the desolation of his office and pinches his brow as a stray tile falls from celing to floor.

"What are the chances this will all work itself out if i just..." he makes a sweeping/ pushing gesture with his hands.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #vampires #vampire #bg3 au #au fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #pirates #pirate au #sort of

[hurt-over-comfort]

Story & OC introduction!

Hello! So, after far too long of a wait, I have finished this OC introduction post! 

In the future I’ll think about how to organize this better, maybe as a google docs or maybe as a separate website, but for now this is as good as I can make it. 

It might be quite long given the sheer amount of OC’s introduced so I kept the descriptions to a minimum - I’d love to expand on that later once I decide what’s the best way to do it. Also, all asks about characters and the stories are super welcome! I love talking about my blorbos.

This post focuses on introducing one of my two main stories and their casts, but all of these characters exist through different AUs. I will share more details about the second story soon, I haven't finished writing descriptions for that one yet : (

“JOINT VENTURE” AKA COLLEGE AU

My main squeeze, the story I think about most often and what I consider the ‘baseline’ for the character’s personalities. It's definitely a whumpy story, but I doesn't focus exclusively on whump.

In short, it’s a story of the destructive relationship between two college students and how their decision to partner up and make some cash haunts them. A story about addiction, desperation, control and loss of it, of all encompassing love and betrayal. It’s doomed, it’s tragic, it’s abusive, it’s gay!!! Content warnings for the story: sadism&masochism, torture, noncon.

I’d love to elaborate, but to not make this post any longer than it needs to be, here are the featured characters!

1. ALBERT

My main guy, nr one little guy inside my head. I love my Oc’s equally, except for Albert, whom I love the most. (I also hate him the most, so it equalizes.)

Albert is a rich kid fuck boy who everyone only pretends to like. He’s a rather bright chem-engineering student who spends most of his time getting drunk, high and having lots of party sex. It seems like life handed him a golden ticket - good looks, filthy rich parents, great education - and maybe that’s why he started acting out, because it all was going too well. And now it’s harder to pretend that everything is great, which makes him try even harder, become faker.

The only person who truly sees through him is Cedric and maybe that’s why he hates him so much. Only sometimes, he doesn’t hate him - sometimes he feels a wild yearning for any shred of Cedric’s validation or affection, and he buries that feeling so deeply that he’s not aware it’s even happening. He prefers denial - denial that everything is amazing, that he didn’t fuck up his life entirely, that Cedric is no one to him. It works until it doesn’t and for these times even the usual vices don’t stop him from spiraling. He hates it, or maybe he doesn’t, it’s hard to tell - He’s so dangerously masochistic that he might just be in love with being miserable.

2. CEDRIC

(OC of the lovely @whmp)

Albert’s roommate and the absolute bane of his existence. The person who hates him the most and conversely the only one that can put up with his antics. He’s spent so much time trying and failing to get away from Albert that now he just accepts him as any other inevitability of life. Vaguely aware of Albert’s feelings toward him and even less aware of his own feelings for him. 

A major control freak about everything in his life, from academics to personal relationships. Will claim he just want to be left alone but will get lonely if that actually happens. He’s aloof and quiet with a tendency to be outright mean and sarcastic when in a bad mood, sees people mostly as noisy distractions. Annoyingly aware of his own intelligence, definitely thinks he’s better than other people. In between studying and dealing with Albert he has a little business on the side - synthesizing drugs. 

3. NICKY

Cedric’s sweet boyfriend, a chronically online liberal arts major and Albert’s number one secret hater. He’s not the smartest, but he makes it up with his enthusiasm and a general aura of positivity. Will make you a delicious meal if asked, but will also go on twitter and argue for hours about the stupidest, most inconsequential things. In between watching anime and romanticizing every aspect of his life he loves to game with Cedric’s weirdo friend, Leo. 

4. LEO

(Also OC of @whmp)

An absolute social reject shut-in loser who spends most of his days browsing very questionable websites and forums. Doesn’t mind people, but doesn’t like them either - he’s so apathetic it’s hard to make him care about anything, really. That includes being likable, so he never tries to cover up his nature (he sees any relationship as a transaction anyway). Not hard to get along with if you can stand him, but you probably shouldn’t try because he’s not a good person. Not so secretly sadistic - maybe he loves it so much because violence and abuse is one of the only things that can make him feel anything. Awkward most of the time, especially for those incredibly rare times where he feels any attachment to a person. Stay away at all cost.

5. DARCY 

A wicked demon in the vague shape of a man (metaphorically). There is little humanity left in him, or maybe there was none there to begin with. Bastard son of a prominent cartel leader with high ambitions how to run things and 0 actual leadership power. He’s the clean up guy, tasked with disappearing the people that the cartel doesn’t need anymore. And before he buries them in the desert somewhere, why shouldn’t he have some fun with them? They can have a lovely evening or two and when whatever is left of them is dropped into a shallow grave Darcy will have already moved on. 

6. CECILE 

Albert’s accomplished older sister. They talk sometimes, and she worries about him a lot, but their relationship is rather strained. Her life is a constant juggle between her demanding job and family life, and maybe if she keeps it up she’ll have no time to think about the life she could have had. About the people she had lost. 

7. WILLOW

Willow used to be a best friend of Cecile back when they were younger. They’d sneak off at night and go onto the grassy fields, setting up a picnic to enjoy it just as the sun rises. They’d talk for hours while laying on their back and staring at the sky, hands so close their fingers could touch if any of them would be a little braver. They were close and wanted to be so, so much closer, but you can’t get everything you want in life, right?

---

That's it for now! Very excited to be sharing all of this with you! The picrew used is the amazing sushicore!

Here is also a little sneak peek at some of the characters of my second story while I work on writing descriptions for them!

#whump #whump art #oc introduction #story introduction #whump oc #my blorbos #i really love these goobers and im very excited to show them at last #like this took me forever #but its done! #jdraws #oc #albert #cedric #leo #nicky #darcy #cecile #willow

[it-happened-one-fic]

Dead of the Night - Diluc (Part 3)

Author Notes: The third part of my Halloween/October fic series for Genshin Impact! Much of what applied to the first part applies to this part as well. I wrote and edited this Vampire! AU series exclusively to "Is this Love" by Whitesnake which did kind of influence how this series came together. As per usual, Reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-Neutral Reader/ Vampire! AU/ pining/ romance/ some drama/ fluff with a touch of angst

Word Count: 1611

{Part 1}, {Part 2}, {Part 3: You're Here!}, {Part 4}

Also available on AO3 (link deleted due to glitches)

Trigger Warning: Reader does get attacked by a vampire, but all is well.

The rest of that night had passed largely in a blur after I got home. I’d almost immediately collapsed into my bed and fallen asleep as exhaustion from everything I’d just experienced kicked in.

The next day came with the ever-present patter of raindrops falling from the cloudy sky. The sun almost seemed like it did not exist as people rushed around the city trying to get all of their work done so that they could hide away indoors from both the rain and vampires that they feared were in their midst.

In my case, the day largely seemed to go by in a blur, with me pondering the events of last night. I’d been attacked by a vampire, gotten saved by Diluc, and found out that more had changed since my childhood than I ever could have realized. 

Not only was Diluc no longer rambunctious and constantly getting into trouble, but now he was also a vampire. An undead creature of the night that lived off of others’ blood. 

Perhaps stranger still was that he had somehow maintained that sort of gentleness that he’d always had. 

Gentleness that was now hidden behind a cold exterior, but that came through in moments like when he would walk me home just to ensure I was safe, or like how he made sure that everyone in Angel’s Share was always comfortable.

A rhythmic knock on my door roused me from my thoughts and brought a frown to my face as I glanced at the clock. It was getting late for visitors considering the time of year, but stranger things had happened. In fact, they’d even happened recently…..

As I opened the door to peer out onto the usually cheerful street that was now dreary with the prolonged rain, I was greeted by Kaeya.

The cavalry captain was smiling, but it was not one of his relaxed ones. Rather, it was one that he used when working that I seldom saw directed at me. One of those crafty ones that could hide any number of things.

“So, I hear you’ve learned of Diluc’s little secret?” My eyes widened at his words, but I pushed my door open a little wider and gestured for him to enter. 

Even if I didn’t necessarily care for the slippery tone of his voice, this wasn’t a conversation to be had outside where others could hear. Especially since I was fairly certain that Kaeya was not talking about some harmless secret but rather the one relating to Diluc’s immortality.

“You knew?” I turned to face him as I shut the door back, eyeing him closely and looking for any signs of his all-too-frequent acting. But I needed to be careful, just in case we weren’t discussing the same ‘secret’ that I thought we were.

Kaeya’s lone visible eye glistened as he crossed his arms, totally relaxed, as he replied in a perfectly innocent tone that had me frowning exasperatedly, “Surprised that I knew of Diluc’s exciting but lifeless nightlife?”

His tone was not one of judgment. In fact, there was even a smile on his face as I shook my head at him. Frowning at him as I crossed my arms, “You know good and well that asking him about that timeframe is like asking a wall how it's doing. He won’t talk about it, and I respect that. For all I know, it could have been traumatizing. Especially if he did get turned into a vampire then.”

I walked past him, letting him follow me down the hallway and into a sitting area. At least he had confirmed that he was talking about Diluc being a vampire. I shook my head at his words, though, “I don’t think I would’ve been surprised either way, really…. Do you know when it happened?”

He flopped down in a chair, perfectly relaxed as he crossed his legs, “Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”

 I met Kaeya’s gaze, cautiously gauging him for a reaction but he simply nodded. Smiling slightly at my words before answering, “Snezhnaya. It was while he was there. That’s all I know.”

Kaeya’s singular visible eye slid to the side so that he was staring at me, a crafty smile still on his face, “But like I said… You should ask him about that.”

No sooner had those words left his mouth in a characteristically paradoxical tone, than yet another knock sounded on my door. Causing me to narrow my eyes at Kaeya, who just continued to smile at me like he had a terribly amusing secret.

I frowned suspiciously at the calvary captain one more time before taking off down the hallway and peeking out my door.

The moon was already hanging in the sky, which wasn’t really surprising since it had been late when Kaeya had gotten here. The moon may have already been visible, and I just hadn’t noticed. 

What was surprising, though, was the sight of the red-haired man standing just outside my door, who looked at me expectantly as soon as I opened the door.

“Diluc?” I peered out at him in confusion until I recalled Kaeya’s words, and their full meaning hit me just as Diluc himself explained the situation with a tired-sounding voice.

“Kaeya called me here. He said we needed to explain the situation to you….” He sighed, but met my gaze as he frowned slightly, “He hasn’t said anything strange to you, has he?”

I slowly shook my head as I recalled what all Kaeya had said. He hadn’t said anything strange per se… But he had just confirmed my suspicions about when Diluc had been turned, and I wasn’t entirely sure about how telling Diluc that might go over.

So instead of outing my friend, I opted to instead open my door a little further and step to the side, “Come on in. He’s still here, so you can talk to him if you like?”

Diluc’s eyes went wide at my words, and for a brief moment, I didn’t know why. After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t ever been inside my house before when I’d been young.

But then I recalled it, one of the whispered pieces of information I’d been given when I was young as a means to protect myself should I ever encounter a vampire: “Vampires can’t come into your home unless you invite them. So always be careful about who you invite in.”

As soon as I recalled those words, Diluc’s reaction made complete sense. He was no doubt surprised that I was so willing to invite him into my home. But in truth, I was still getting used to the idea of him being a vampire, and I’d completely forgotten those instructions up until now. 

And even if I had remembered them, I would have invited him to come in anyway. 

For better or worse, he was Diluc. And that meant I trusted him, even if he was something I’d been warned about ever since my youth.

He tilted his head slightly as he stepped through my door, keeping his eyes on me as he entered, “Thank you.” 

With only those words, he turned and walked down the hallway, almost like he didn’t know what else to say.

It was a thought that made me smile to myself. Diluc always had been a bit awkward when it came to anything that might even appear as a compliment or kind act if one squinted at it.

While I didn’t think hardly a thing of letting him come in, evidently enough, he did.

Kaeya awaited both of us with a smile, sitting forward almost eagerly as we both came in, “I still say you should get a cape and really just go for the whole look of being a vampire.” 

His jab at Diluc came almost immediately and had the redhead scowling as he came to a stop in the room, crossing his arms at Kaeya. 

But the redhead didn’t say anything to his brother. Instead, he looked towards me, “What all did he tell you?”

“I haven’t said a word,” Kaeya leaned innocently back in his chair, glancing my way with a subtle smile that promised that he would keep telling me about the events of Snezhnaya a secret. 

Diluc continued to ignore him in favor of staring at me as I slipped by him to take a seat. Almost as if he were petulantly giving his brother the silent treatment.

“He hasn’t been here much longer than you have, so we haven’t talked much… But what is this all about?” I sat as I glanced between the two brothers. Not entirely nervous, but not totally calm either.

When the two were young, seeing them together usually meant there was a scheme of some sort in the works, and the same could be said now. Even if they didn’t like to admit it, the two still worked together well.

“Why, to talk about Diluc’s special constitution. That’s all,” Kaeya leaned forward with a grin, propping his chin in his hand as he looked at me before his gaze slid over towards where Diluc was still standing.

“You may as well sit. I’m sure Y/n has many questions for us,” With those words, Kaeya gestured to the spot next to me on the loveseat, and, after narrowing his eyes slightly at his brother, Diluc joined me.

And all of a sudden, it was almost like nothing had ever changed, and the three of us were just good friends getting together to chat.

It's just that now we were going to be talking about Diluc being undead and what all that entailed.

 For some reason.

@vera-deville

#Genshin Impact imagines #Diluc x reader #diluc ragvindr #Genshin Impact #gender neutral reader #Vampire!Diluc #Vampire AU #pining #romance #vampires #touch of angst #featuring Kaeya! #Halloween #October #Diluc x you #Diluc x y/n #Genshin Impact x you #Genshin Impact x reader #Genshin impact x y/n #Genshin x you #Genshin x y/n #Genshin x reader #mywritings #fanfiction #it-happened-one-fic #fic series #fluff #fluff with angst #Mondstadt

[chdarling]

hi CH! this is a bit random but I was wondering about the process behind making the trailers for TLE. for example re future TLE trailers, do you already know which shows or movies you're gonna take clips from, or do you just have a general idea for a vibe? When watching something do you sometimes make a mental note of a scene that you think would fit that vibe? Thank you for everything that you do!

Hi there! I would say for the most part, no, I don’t typically know which clips I’m going to use. Basically, I find that crafting the trailers is just a slightly different translation of the same source material that fuels my writing, which is to say the images that plague my brain lol. I already have all the trailer songs picked out for each book and the AU (because of course I do), and when I listen to those songs, I can pretty much see the trailer in my mind shot for shot, sourced from the same internal movie that plays in my head when I’m writing scenes in TLE. This is a highly entertaining experience for me, and when I lose motivation for writing, I will often play all five trailer songs back to back and watch the trailers in my head and then I’m like “Yeah! This looks so exciting! I wanna watch this series!!!” And then I have to face the brutal realization that in order to do that I have to find that right words to describe those images, and that’s kind of a bummer but it usually works to motivate me for a little lmao.

Anyway, when making the trailers, it’s that same experience, except instead of finding the right words to mould around an image, I have to find the image itself, which is actually so much harder because I’m relying exclusively on films that already exist, and not the ones that live in my brain. (Good lord, if I had the patience and talent to learn to draw and animate…that’d be great.)

All this to say! No, I don’t know what clips I’m going to use for future trailers, but yes, I absolutely take notes when watching things because sometimes I’ll see clips that match the images in my head and I’m like aha! Gotta jot that down and add it to my little hoarder file of moving images I can decoupage together so I can continue to desperately try to get as close as possible to this vivid internal experience that I want everyone else to have too just so I can talk about it lolll 🙃🙃🙃

#ch answers #tle