#I recorded it and watched it the next day | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ridingtorohan · 23 hours ago

Note

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

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Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

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weltraum-vaquero · 2 days ago

Text

cariño (eres un amor)

Jayce Talis x GN Reader

Synopsis: Jayce wakes up with feverish, and with a sore throat.

Tags: SFW, established relationship, fluff, tenderness, Jayce being a big baby about being sick, comfort, Jayce being a human furnace

Word count: 2.3k

Notes: Just another little something to tide you guys over while I work on my bigger projects. I don’t usually do fluff, but I hope it’s not terribly obvious and that you’ll enjoy this little sickfic!

It’s about three AM when the heaping mountain of warmth beside you clears his throat, and shifts around sluggishly. The mattress creaks uncomfortably under his moving weight as he moves to the opposite side of your shared bed.

You can hear plastic soles sliding against the floor when he slips into his fuzzy pink slippers (an old Christmas gift from you — mainly a joke, but now an indispensable part of his cozy wardrobe), and, with a suppressed little huff, moves to stand.

“Uh oh.”

His voice is raspy when he mutters it, and you hear him stumbling, and vaguely see him bracing himself against the nearest wall when you turn to look.

You rush to flick on the bedside lamp.

“Jayce?”

He’s set a hand over his throat, breathing labored, and his loose T-shirt is soaked through with sweat — between his shoulder blades, under his arms, even at his collarbone.

“I don’t… feel so good.” He croaks.

You’re up on your feet before he can finish saying it, rushing to his side to offer your help. He watches you with dizzy, weary eyes, and by the time you reach his side, you realize he’s trembling a little.

“You don’t look good either,” you mutter, brushing your fingers to his clammy forehead.

Hot. Too hot.

“Hey.” He fake pouts, cracking a tired smile at his own attempt at a joke a moment later.

“You’re burning up a nasty fever, Jayce,” you conclude. It must be getting to his muscles, too, because his thighs are shaking a little. “What do you need, hm?”

“Was gonna go pee,” he says. You cannot, for the life of you, get used to how worn his voice sounds — like he’s just chewed and swallowed a handful of gravel. “And, uh, probably chug water from the sink. I’m so thirsty.”

“Let’s get you to the bathroom, and I’ll get you a big glass of water and make you tea in the meantime. Chamomile?”

He nods. “And an aspirin?”

“And an aspirin.”

His smile turns sappy.

“I love you so much.”

—

He manages to get himself back to the bedroom without you. By the time you get there with a tray of everything you’ve promised and more, he’s pathetically crawling under the sheets like he’s just lost a physical fight, curling up like a kicked puppy once he reaches the pillow.

“Got you some toast, too.” You tell him, setting the small tray on the night stand and sitting next to his curled up form.

Even his hair’s damp with sweat, you realize when you brush a gentle hand through it.

“Not hungry,” Jayce mutters.

“I know, but you shouldn’t take the aspirin on an empty stomach. Do you wanna sit up?”

“Uuughhhh… okay.” Jayce groans like he has been cursed with the world’s most terrible predicament. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Which is often,” you tease, propping up his pillow against the headboard to help him sit up a little better. You give him his water first — he sounds like he needs it.

He grips the glass with two hands, unusual for Jayce, strength personified. Brings the glass to his lips with shaky hands before he exhales with bliss and starts chugging the damn thing.

He’s done with it in record time.

“Mmh. Thank you.” You take it from him, set it on the nightstand, before you take the tray and set it in his lap. Full, steaming teacup, a sad plate with an even sadder toast and an aspirin right next to it. “Breakfast of champions,” Jayce mutters, more to himself than to you, before he takes the toast.

At about three bites in, he looks at you with wide eyes.

“Shit, the gala. It’s—“ he stops to cough into his sleeve, “in two days…” Jayce looks down at himself, drenched in sweat, then at you. “And you have work tomorrow—“

“Viktor will have to take one for the team,” you counter. Another coughing fit takes him, you hold the tray steady for him as he does, and cradle the side of his face when he starts to calm. “And I’d rather have a shitty day at work than not be there when you need it most, Jayce.”

”I’m sorry,” he mutters anyway.

“You didn’t ask for this,” you assure. Jayce closes his eyes and leans into the cup of your palm like a tired pup. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s just get you taken care of first.”

He nods weakly, before he pulls the blanket up a little higher over himself, settles into the pillows a little deeper and makes quick work of what remains of the toast. He takes his aspirin with the tea, which, judging by his sour expression when he sips some, is way too hot for his liking.

“Do you want me to blow on it for you?” you offer.

“ ‘m not a baby.”

“You are my baby.”

That makes him crack a wide, boyish grin — and it makes your heart soar.

“Okay,” he mutters, before he lets you have it and sinks further into the sheets, until it reaches well above his lips, and it’s just his droopy, tired eyes peeking at you.

You hold the cup with one hand, and the other comes to pet his sweat-damp scalp. He’s running hot, terribly so, but after a minute or so, you swear you can feel him starting to tremble under your palm.

It starts at just his neck first, but you can see the way it shakes him even under the thick blanket, can see the way it makes him nuzzle and hide further down.

“C-can you get… another blanket?” He asks. “‘m starting to get really cold.”

And if there is one thing Jayce cannot stand, it’s being cold and damp. You know, because he’s always rushing to towel himself dry after his warm showers, you know, because he runs from any snowfall like it could make him melt. You know, because Ximena misses two fingers because of frostbite. You know Jayce was there when it happened. You know.

“That and a dry shirt,” you promise with a kiss to his clammy forehead. It leaves your lips a little sticky, but you don’t mind.

You’ve set the tea on the nightstand before he can finish asking, and you make your way to your shared closet fast. In one of the drawers, you find a thick fuzzy blanket, usually only reserved for the occasional power outage during winter. Which, granted, it is winter, Jayce’s least favorite season, but the heat is cranked up comfortably, as it always is. You can see his eyes smiling when he spots it in your arms, and smiling wider when you pick one of his loose, big shirts next. Whatever’s in reach first just so happens to be one with a drawing of his favorite cartoon dog and red hearts — a little V-day gift from last year.

With both at your side, you sit down next to him and wait for him to finish his tea. Both hands cupped around it to soak up the warmth, Jayce sips on it in silence, as the both of you watch the street light outside your window, and the thick snowflakes visible in the flickering light below.

“At least I won’t have to wade through that to go to work tomorrow,” he muses.

“Well, I will.”

“Ha.” Jayce grins, curling up closer to his near empty mug in anticipated joy. He’s still watching the snow outside when he says it. “Sucker.”

If he weren’t in such a precarious state right now, you’d be blowing a raspberry on whatever’s closest til he begged for mercy. Right now, you settle for a smaller, gentler form of retaliation— peeling his blanket up and off of him when he least expects it.

“Okay. Let’s get your shirt changed.”

He frowns and makes a displeased little sound at that, but dutifully sits up regardless, and tiredly pulls the shirt up and above his head. To little avail, he also tries to dab himself dry using the damp shirt where he’s sweatiest — at the back of his neck and his underarms, before he tosses it near the laundry basket in your bedroom and turns to you.

“Arms up,” you tell him. “I’ve got you.”

It should be illegal to look this good while feverish and dazed. You can’t help the eyeful of him you get, not when his skin’s sweat slick and glistening, fuzz stuck to himself between his pecs and right below, the fuzz on the rolls of his tummy.

The second it’s on, Jayce wastes no time disappearing under the blanket once more, and you take the hint. The second, fluffy one is quickly unfolded and draped over him as well, before you climb atop him and begin to tuck him in nice and tight, the way he likes it when he gets like this.

Except — Jayce won’t stop staring.

He looks at you with pleading, puppy dog eyes and finally a pout when you don’t seem to take the hint.

“What is it?” You ask. You bring up one of your hands to cradle his soft, sleepy face, brushing through the scruff at his jaw. “D’you want a kiss?”

“Not just a kiss…”

He tilts his head and flashes you one of those sickeningly sweet, winning smiles of his. And he’s right to do it, because you know he’s about to ask something very difficult from you.

“Cuddle me?”

If he weren’t a living, breathing pile of hot coal right now, you might have said yes.

“I barely make it out alive and unscorched out of sharing a blanket with you on a normal day,” you remind.

“Please?”

It should be worrying how effective his tone is, worn and sore as it’s gotten.

“You’re going to boil me alive under there.”

And that all seems pretty insignificant in spite of it all when he smiles drowsily and shrugs with a little hum.

“Mm. With love.” His raspy voice cracks on the second word.

It’s with much annoyance that you realize that if Jayce begged nicely enough, you would gladly do just about most things on this wretched earth. And that unfortunately includes this certain death sentence.

“Alright.”

From under the blankets, Jayce gives a tired, but victorious little yes.

You hardly make it far when you lift the blankets to join him. The heat is below overwhelming, even by his standards, envelops you suffocatingly, before warmth personified practically pounces on you. Jayce crawls to you the moment he can, nestling up against your side like he weighs nothing (except that he very much does, but it’s a familiar, comforting heaviness), before he drapes himself on top of you. Head on your chest, tired arm slung over your middle, the leg that’s closest to the mattress stays stretched out next to yours, and the other one he brings closer to himself, almost in a fetal position, his thigh atop your hips.

It’s already too much, but Jayce cuddles closer, rubs his face against you like an enamored little pet. If he had a tail it’d be wagging, or if he had the means for it, he’d be purring — either way, you can’t help a smile of your own, in spite of how smothered you are. You cradle the back of his head closer, until you can comfortably rest your cheek atop his hair.

Until… he shifts, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudging your jaw.

“And my kiss?” Jayce croaks.

He will be the death of you.

And yet, you’re very content with the notion as you pull back to look at him. You find him lazily lying on your chest, face tipped towards you in expectation, eyes lidded with sleepiness but still trained on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Where do you want it, baby?”

“Mmm…” Jayce lets his eyes drift shut and sniffles a little. “Dealer’s choice.”

You go for the space between his brows — messed up from sleep and how he’s been rubbing his face against you, instead of neatly tamed into place with his beloved brow wax.

You can hear his smile widen the second your lips brush his skin. And you don’t get to smooch him properly, before he’s already asking: “Another?”

You indulge. One more at his brow bone. One at his cheekbone. One on his closed eyelids, lashes tickling your lip, one at the strong bridge of his nose, one at the tip of it, a last one—

“Hey, no.” Jayce hides his face before you make it to his lips. “Don’t risk it.”

You can’t help a little laugh. This is where he draws the line?

“If there’s anything to catch, I’ve most likely caught it already,” you assure. “Unless you don’t want a kiss.”

That gets to him.

“Hmmm… I do want one,” he replies before you can hope to taunt him any further. He ponders it for just a moment, before he’s already tilting his face back up towards you in invitation, nose brushing under your cheek. “Okay. Please?”

You give him what he wants. A tender little nudge of your soft lips to his smiling ones, a swipe of your tongue at his bottom lip. Jayce purrs with delight at that, voice coming out in a low, gravelly hum, before he licks back, not ravenously, much more like a kitten. Basking in your comfort, in your presence.

When you pull back, Jayce inhales a fragile little breath before his eyes flutter open just barely.

“Are you a little warmer now?” You ask.

He nods. “And you?”

You chuckle. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find my bones in the morning. The rest of me will probably melt off and soak into the mattress.”

“So dramatic.”

“I learned from the best.”

#jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis x reader #jayce arcane x reader #arcane jayce x reader #my writing #arcane x reader

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im-so-normal-iswear · 1 day ago

Note

Hello! It's me the one who requested reader sleepwalking. Can I be sleepwalk anon?

Sorry I didn't know you were overwhelmed by my request yesterday, I was reading the rules carefully and I was like— "ah ok so meaning they can write 4 or more characters, imma request!"

You can do the main sss hedgehog boys for sleepwalking reader or just sonic and shadow, is that makes you comfortable.

Again, sorry for making you overwhelmed!

A/n: yeah, sorry, it's my fault for not making it clear to begin with.

Triple S x reader who sleepwalks

Sonic:

Sonic has a habit of staying up late, so it’s no surprise he’s awake when you begin your sleepwalking. He’s lounging on the couch, watching a movie, when you shuffle out of your room, arms slightly outstretched, your face completely blank.

At first, Sonic thinks you’re just messing with him. Talking to you as if any other normal day. But you don’t respond. Instead, you march straight past him and bump into the coffee table.

Sonic’s grin falters when you mutter something incoherent under your breath, rubbing your knee absently before walking into the wall.

“Wait… are you sleepwalking?” Sonic whispers to himself.

He jumps up and jogs over to you. "Uh, Y/N? You good there, buddy?" He waves a hand in front of your face, but you only mutter again, turning sharply and walking toward the kitchen.

"Alright, this is either going to be really funny or a disaster waiting to happen," though hes not gonna stop you now as hes genuinely curious, so he just continues following you.

He watches in silent amusement as you open the fridge, stare at its contents for a solid thirty seconds, then grab an apple, only to drop it immediately and shuffle away. You make a beeline for the sink, turn on the faucet, and start washing the counter.

"Okay, yeah, this is gold," Sonic mutters, pulling out his phone to record the scene.

When you bump into the kitchen table, mutter again, and sit down in the middle of the floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Sonic finally intervenes. He gently steers you back to your room, all the while stifling laughter.

The next morning, you wake up to sonic all up next to you, shoving his phone in your face as you groggily watch the video of yourself sleepwalking, complete with Sonic’s commentary.

"And here we have the rare Sleepwalking Y/N in their natural habitat. Truly majestic. Ten out of ten entertainment."

Silver:

Silver is a light sleeper, so when he hears footsteps at three in the morning, he immediately bolts upright. He’s halfway to activating his psychokinesis when he realizes it’s just you, wandering around aimlessly.

At first, he’s worried. Very worried. Did you have a nightmare? Are you okay? But then he notices your vacant expression and the way you keep bumping into furniture without reacting.

"Wait… are they sleepwalking?"

He watches as you stumble toward the bookshelf, run your hand along it like you’re looking for something, and then pull out a random book. You open it, flip a few pages, and then hold it upside down, muttering something under your breath.

Silver doesn’t know whether to laugh or try to wake you up. Instead, he decides to quietly follow you, just to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. He uses his powers to move objects out of your way as you shuffle around the room. When you trip over your own feet and fall onto the couch, Silver gently places a pillow under your head with his powers, smiling softly.

"You’re so weird," he mutters, sitting down to keep watch.

When you eventually get up and start wandering again, Silver patiently just follows you around the house. Waking up to Silvers sheepish explanation on what happened.

"You were, uh, walking around and muttering stuff," he says. "I didn’t want to wake you up, so I just made sure you didn’t, you know, fall down the stairs or something."

Shadow:

Shadow is not amused. He’s a heavy sleeper, but even he can’t ignore the sound of you knocking over a lamp at three in the morning. He storms out of his room, fully prepared to scold whoever’s causing the commotion, only to freeze when he sees you standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at the floor like it personally offended you.

"Y/N," he says sharply, but you don’t respond. Instead, you turn and start walking toward him, your steps uneven and your expression blank.

"Y/N?" he tries again, still no answer.

You brush past him, muttering something incoherent, and head straight for the couch. You sit down, pick up a throw pillow, and hug it like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Shadow, upon peicing together your sleep walking, stares at you for a long moment, his arms crossed. He debates whether or not to wake you up but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he sits down in a nearby chair and watches you closely, making sure you don’t do anything dangerous.

When you eventually get up and start wandering again, Shadow follows you with a deep scowl. When you try to open the front door, he steps in front of you, his arms crossed.

"You’re not going outside," he says firmly, even though he knows you can’t hear him.

The next morning, he confronts you over breakfast.

"Do you have any idea how much noise you made last night?" he asks, glaring daggers at you.

When you look at him in confusion, he sighs and explains. "You were sleepwalking. You almost walked straight out the door at three in the morning."

In short terms bro is done with you /j

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myveryownfanfiction · 2 days ago

Text

Rickmas day 22: shivering certainty

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

Tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @deepperplexity, @smilingformoney

warnings: swearing, mention of death, hans fakes his death

A chill went down my spine as I stood next to the get away car. The boys would be piling into the ambulance by now but all time had stopped as I watched someone fall from the top of the building. My eyes were trained on the body, watching as it landed. Shaking, I climbed into the car and started it up. I dialed the phone as I drove, being careful to stay away from police cars and blockades.

“pick up. Pick up dammit.” I muttered as the phone continued to ring. Hanging up in frustration I tried again. “Hans you fucking ass. Pick up the damn phone. Prove to me it isn’t you. Prove it isn’t you who took a dive.” The ringing continued in my ear as I refused to hang up a second time. “Son of a bitch!” I screamed as I pulled over in front of a hotel. It wasn’t the rendezvous point but I needed a second. I slammed the phone down as tears fell down my cheeks. The radio kicked in as I laid my head on the wheel.

“The hostage situation at nakatomi plaza has finally ended. Police confirmed that the man who fell from the 30th floor was in fact the leader of the situation, Hans Gruber. It is reported that he died from injuries sustained in the fall. Also found dead were a large number of terrorists as well as one of the hostages. Another hostage has reportedly gone into premature labor due to stress she experienced throughout the night. One member of the terrorist group was taken into custody in the parking garage.” The reporter said as I lifted my head.

“Theo.” I whispered, fresh tears streaming down my face. Wiping them away with the back of my hand, I threw the car back into drive and took off down the highway. I passed by nakatomi plaza and saw them loading stretchers covered with sheets into the back of an ambulance. I bit my lip to stop from crying again as I continued to the rendezvous point. There wasn’t any point in going there now but if Theo was in custody, I had to grab the go bags. If there were police there I could keep driving until I reached the final point. I sighed as I noticed a large police presence at the motel we’d picked. Theo hadn’t wasted any time talking. Picking up the phone, I dialed the only other number I had memorized.

“Hans?” My breath hitched as Simon answered the phone.

“sorry Simon.” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Hans…uh Hans didn’t…”

“shit.” Simon cursed. “Get to the airfield. We’re taking off as soon as you get here.”

“copy.” I said before hanging up. I floored it and made it to the hanger in record time. Slamming on the breaks, the tires squealed as I stopped next to the plane. I got out and grabbed what I could from the car. “Simon! A little help!” I yelled. Simon appeared in the doorway and ran down to grab the rest of the bags.

“but them in the cabin. They’ll never check there should we get stopped.” I nodded as I climbed into the plane. I tossed the bags into the passenger seat before turning around and freezing.

“hello darling.” Hans said, smiling before taking a drink. I blinked at him. “Miss me?”

“Hans? You…but you…fell…” I stammered. “Thirty stories…” Hans came over and hugged me.

“I know sweetheart. I know.” He pressed a kiss to my head. Simon climbed in as Hans led me to a seat.

“you didn’t tell them?” Simon grumbled as he readied the plane for take off. Hans shrugged with a smirk. “Dumbass.”

“And ruin the surprise?” He teased. “Just get us out of here safely baby brother. We have some catching up to do.” Hans said as he led me to the bed in the back of the plane, kissing my head softly as I tried to wrap my head around everything.

“but you died.” I stuttered, looking at Hans. He kissed me softly before gently pushing me on the bed.

“I know darling. It was a decoy.” He soothed, caging me in with another kiss. “Let me prove it to you.” I nodded as I laid back, letting hans climb on top of me as he proved he survived.

#Hans gruber #Hans gruber x reader #Hans gruber fanfic #hans gruber fanfiction #hans gruber imagine #Alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #alan rickman fanfic #alan rickman fanfiction #alan rickman imagine #rickmas #rickmas2024

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incorporealbombchelle · 11 hours ago

Text

Friend Of The Family: Epilogue

When I wake up, the lights in Mr. Reed's bedroom have been turned off, the scented candle on the nightstand blown out. I'm sleep-warmed and a little hazy as I reach a hand around the bed next to me. Cold. Empty. Where is he? Rolling opposite, toward the edge of the bed, I fish my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. 4:09 a.m. Dad should be up in a couple hours.

I gather my clothes and hurriedly make my way into the guest bathroom, turning on the shower and ridding myself of last night's underwear. Taking a minute to scan my body in the mirror, I realize how tired I look - because I am, and I already know I'm probably going to be asleep most of the day. My thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of the phone on the vanity.

Reed: You're up early. Toast, coffee? x

Memories of last night's rendezvous fill my mind and a deep blush takes my features as I tap back : yeah down in a sec 💕

After my shower, I slip into a pair of pink flannel pajama pants and a tank top and make my way down to the kitchen, where Mr. Reed has set out my breakfast, but is nowhere to be found.

Me: thx 4 breakfast, btw where r u?

Reed: End of the hall, past the bust, door on the right. x

I take a sip of the coffee, -he remembered how I like it- and abandon the toast to find him. The hallway is dimly lit but bright light flows from under the door at the end and I let myself in.

"Hello?"

"(y/n), welcome."

He sits at a desk near the door scattered with a few different piles of books, journals, tinkering with something. I take a look around the room. It's a maze of dark shelves filled with all manner of books, records, magazines, and in the center, a large desk, on which sits a nearly burned down candlestick and behind which are two doors, one green and the other purple. There are a couple rows of what look to be pews, and a long, seemingly wine-stained Persian aisle runner, and while I'm all for meticulously curated decor, I can't quite place this room's purpose.

Taking a couple steps further in, I look around a bit more. Portraits of different religious figureheads line a wall and I notice a vinyl player off to one side of the room. "So is this like, your office or...?"

"Office. Sanctuary. Man-Cave. Whatever you like." He doesn't look up.

"Huh. Cozy. And why have I been summoned here at nearly 5am?"

"You woke up at nearly 5am, I heard your dainty little footsteps, and I figured that maybe... you'd like to open a gift, what do you say?"

"I say...yes, please" I beam, closing the door behind me and wandering behind his seat at the desk. He has a journal of barely legible scrawl open and I watch over his shoulder as Mr. Reed carves details into a small wooden figurine. Resting a hand over either of his shoulders, I set my chin on his head and he relaxes his arms, setting down the figure and carving knife. "Right. Take a seat just there," he gestures to the pews, "hold out your hands and close your eyes, please." He taps the tops of my hands and I do as he says.

Taking my seat and closing my eyes, I hear Mr. Reed shuffling through the room behind me and then feel him settling into the pew just beside me.

"Don't look yet, dear."

"I'm not, I swear," I laugh, feeling a weight settle into my palms, and run the tips of my fingers along the edge of it... thin... large.... square....

"Go on, then. Open."

I open my eyes and it dawns on me. It has to be a vinyl. Has to be. There's no way it's not.

I cautiously peel back one edge of the wrapping paper to see a gilded block letter 'Y' over a blue background. No fucking way. I quickly rip away the rest of the wrapping paper and in my hands sits the vinyl record cover of Lana's Born To Die : Paradise Edition... and in the left bottom corner, in gold looping script.... it's signed. My eyes go wide. I have to blink a few times to make sure this is really happening. Holding the record up to the light, the metallic script shifts and glimmers. It is real. She... she signed this. She held this. I scoff in shock, feeling tears sting the corners of my eyes.

"Well? Do you like it?"

"Thank you...so much... holy shit. How did you even get this?"

"Well, you'll remember that before the world shut down, at the height of her popularity, she used to do signings, meet-and-greets, that sort of thing... I've been to...many."

"I thought you didn't leave the house anymore?"

"Not for things like...groceries, or clothing, stupid things, but... for her, on occasion... I make an exception."

He smirks, proud of himself, and I can tell this is of the same sentimental value to him as it is to me.

"Mr. Reed, are you sure you want me to have this? You said it was one of your favorites... I can't take something like this from you..."

"Let me give you something I love, that we both do. That is what this is all about, after all."

"But I didn't get you anything-"

"Wrong. I'd say, (y/n), that your mere presence here, your personality, as pretentious, contrarian and apathetic as it's been, has been a great gift to me. So thank you, for the gift of allowing me to know you."

I attempt to blink away tears of joy but they come regardless and he wraps an arm around my shoulder as I wipe them away, "Merry Christmas, (y/n)." A kiss to the top of my head.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Reed."

He tips my chin up. Our eyes meet, and he leans in.

As we kiss, I feel one of his hands rest on the back of my neck and it occurs to me that this may be one of the last times I get to be with him like this before Dad and I head back to the city, and the Oxbridge winter break concludes.

Mr. Reed's tongue tastes like black coffee, and he smells of cardamom and clove. He takes the record from my hands, setting it aside and pulls away for a moment. "I'll miss this. You, being here..."

"After this...When will we see eachother again, in person I mean?"

"Well, they do still allow you a summer holiday, yes?"

"Yes..."

"I don't see why you wouldn't be able to fly in..."

"But it costs-"

"I'd pay for it. Happily. You are worth at least the price of a Heathrow-Boulder plane ticket, or maybe even the other way around..." he takes one of my hands in his, quirking an eyebrow at me.

"You'd come to see me?"

"If I absolutely have to, I don't see why not. Bit of nostalgia never hurt. "

"But what about in the meantime?"

"We have phones, (y/n), E-mail addresses. I watched E-mail come into existence, and it hasn't failed me yet. I've known lovers who stayed in touch over oceans with much less than you and I have at our disposal." He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle and I bury my face in his chest to keep from crying. I couldn't have estimated how strongly I'd react to the idea of leaving.

Mr. Reed wraps his arms tightly around me, a hand drawing soothing circles into my back. "Come now, that's alright. Everything will be alright, (y/n). You have my word. You'll see me sooner than you know."

I sniffle, breathing deep as I look up at him. "Okay. Yeah. I-I'm sorry I just, I really like being with you and-"

"I know. I feel the same. We'll have tomorrow," his voices drops to a whisper "We have tonight..."

He's right and after a couple minutes, we move back to the kitchen to prepare a Christmas Eve breakfast for Dad.

Christmas comes and Christmas goes.

I recieve a green leatherbound journal from Dad, 'To the next great American novelist: never stop.'

He and Mr. Reed unknowingly gift eachother the exact same grey cashmere sweater, and on the morning of the 26th, we share a tearful goodbye.

Upon my return to the Oxford dormitories, I unpack the Christmas cookies and Lana Record he gave me. I feel myself tear up just looking at them and send a message over Whatsapp: miss you 🥺

Seconds later : And I you. Have you unpacked your things yet? x

Me: no, just the presents from you and from Dad.

Reed: You may want to do so, left a little something at the bottom of your suitcase for exactly this occasion. x

Me: what is it?

Reed: Unpack. x

I tear into the suitcase hastily, tossing clothes, books and toiletries around the room with total abandon until-

I see it.

There, at the bottom of my suitcase; an immaculately folded checkered cardigan.

#em.fic #hugh grant #mr reed #mr. reed #mr reed x reader #fanfiction #mr. reed x reader #fanfic #epilogue.1

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solxamber · 47 minutes ago

Note

hii i'm here for the holiday event ! (and to all your works too ofc)

[ Pomefiore, 6, fluff/comedy ]

happy holidays to you btw!! 🫶 either genre is fine if only one is allowed -

i got so excited when i saw pomefiore

Unfiltered || Vil Schoenheit

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "Say that again" ; Genre: Comedy

Vil was always poised, elegant, and in control of every situation. Except, apparently, when sedated.

You sat beside him in his private recovery room, watching as the usually composed Pomefiore housewarden mumbled nonsense with a wad of gauze stuffed in his cheek. His flawless hair was slightly askew, and his glassy eyes blinked up at you with uncharacteristic awe.

“You’re so… so pretty,” he slurred, reaching out to gently pat your face like you were a particularly mesmerizing painting.

You stifled a laugh, catching his hand. “Thanks, Vil. How are you feeling?”

“Like… like a cloud,” he muttered, frowning. “A very beautiful cloud. Not like Epel. Epel’s a mean little apple.”

From the corner, Epel huffed indignantly. “I’m literally right here.”

“Shh,” Vil whispered, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m talking to my beloved.”

Your cheeks flushed as Epel snorted and promptly decided this was the best day of his life. “Vil, you’re drugged out of your mind. You’re going to regret this later.”

Vil’s face morphed into something resembling horror. “Regret? No. Never. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Oh?” You raised a brow, smirking. “Care to say that again?”

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he repeated, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

You leaned closer, voice dripping with playful teasing. “Say it one more time for the people in the back?”

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said earnestly, reaching up to hold your face between his hands. His fingers squished your cheeks, making you look like a fish.

Epel choked on laughter, scrambling for his phone. “I gotta record this.”

“Shut up, Epel,” you hissed, batting his phone away. “Vil, you’re gonna make me cry over here.”

“I love you,” Vil said suddenly, his expression somehow both dreamy and sincere.

Your heart skipped a beat. “I… I love you too.”

“Say it again,” he demanded, his eyes wide and glassy.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Vil—”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“One more time.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, glancing at Epel, who looked like he was about to combust from holding in laughter. “I love you, Vil.”

“Good.” He gave a sleepy smile and promptly passed out, head lolling to the side.

The next day, when Vil was back to his usual, regal self, you wasted no time.

“So,” you began, arms crossed as you leaned against the vanity in his room. “Do you remember anything about yesterday?”

“Of course,” Vil said coolly, dabbing at his lip balm. “I behaved with my usual grace, even under anesthesia.”

“Oh, really?” Your smirk widened. “Because I distinctly remember you calling me the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Vil froze, his hand hovering mid-air. “...Did I?”

“And making me say ‘I love you’ five times before you passed out.”

The lip balm clattered to the counter. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You whipped out your phone and hit play. The recording was loud and clear: “Say it again. Say it again. One more time.”

Epel’s laugh could be heard faintly in the background.

Vil buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, patting his shoulder. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me too, Vil.”

“...Say that again,” he muttered, his ears turning red.

“Nice try.”

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #vil

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captainunderpantsmutual · 21 hours ago

Text

Fixed some stuff

Evil George and George's Story

"George's eyes widen in terror as a chilling laugh echoes through the room. A spectral figure, a twisted reflection of himself, hovers over him. 'George,' the spectral figure hisses, its voice a cold whisper, 'how could you?'"

"George's heart pounds in his chest as he tries to sit up, but his body feels heavy as if rooted to the mattress. 'What do you want from me?' he gasps, his voice barely a whisper. 'Why are you in my bed?'"

"The spectral figure's laugh, a hollow, mirthless sound, fills the room. 'You know nobody can see me,' it taunts. 'You know that nobody can hear me, George. You're the only one.'"

"Sweat beads on George's forehead as he struggles to break free. His body feels paralyzed, his mind racing with fear. 'Please stop this,' he pleads, his voice trembling. 'Not tonight.'"

"The spectral figure leans closer, its icy touch brushing against George's cheek. 'Does it hurt?' it asks, its voice dripping with malice. 'Yes, it hurts!' George cries out, his voice filled with pain and terror. He tries to push the figure away, but his limbs are useless."

"Desperate, George screams, 'Look, just stop touching my face!' His voice echoes through the empty room, a desperate plea for help that no one can hear. 'You know I'm you, right...' He moves away."

"George is shocked to see evil George. 'Evil George! I thought we talked about this,' he says, finally able to move. He moves back against the cold wall, which is black because the lights are off."

"Evil George comes closer. 'You can say you thought you killed off my idea, right...' He smiles evilly. 'George, have you thought why you've been sick lately?' He laughs."

"George looks down at the bed sheet, shaking, and doesn't say anything."

"It was me, George," he said as he tied a rope around George.

"You can't escape. “You'll never leave this world."

George woke up, thinking about it all day. The next day, he brushed his teeth and got ready for school. He probably thought it was just a dream, but there's no way it could be possible. It's probably just a daydream or whatever.

At school

"Hey buddy, are you alright? You look tired. Did you not get any sleep?" Harold asked.

"I'm okay, Harold, just homework," George replied, but he was lying.

Harold sensed that something was off, but he didn't think it was a big deal.

"Well, my mother is getting me a therapist. She thinks I'm a crazy dude," George confessed.

“What do you mean?” Harold questioned

“Look, Harold, I can't explain. It is not something I can explain, how or what I'm seeing.”

“George, what are you seeing? I noticed you stop at the window,” he shook George.

George was staring at an evil version of himself burning a paper that was a drawing of him.

“Do you see that, Harold?”

“No, dude, there's nobody outside.”

No, I just saw myself," George stepped back. "Get away from me!" He felt his evil self getting closer.

Most of his classmates stopped in the hallway, watching him.

Harold went to George. "George, are you okay? Nobody is there," he said as he went to cover him. "Guys, stop recording him. This is not right. He's going through something. It's just wrong!"

George got called to the office.

Mr. Krupp looks at George.

Harold, worried, said, "Look, it wasn't a prank. He's acting weird, Krupp."

Krupp sighs. "George, look, if you're having this episode, you might have to move schools or be homeschooled."

George is zoning out and not talking at all.

Harold, shocked, asked, “Episode! What is he going through?”

Krupp guessed it was a mental disorder, but he was wrong. Harold didn't know Krupp was wrong, but George snaps out.

“Stop saying I'm crazy. He's real. He's hurting me!” George says

In the lab

Melvin laughing to himself in his lab

“There's no way George is losing his mind, Harold”

It could have been his life, or could it? Melvin said to Harold

End of Part 1.

Evil George and George story

"George's heart pounds in his chest as he tries to sit up, but his body feels heavy, as if rooted to the mattress. 'What do you want from me?' he gasps, his voice barely a whisper. 'Why are you in my bed?'"

"The spectral figure's laugh, a hollow, mirthless sound, fills the room. 'You know nobody can see me,' it taunts. 'You know that nobody can hear me, George. You're the only one.'"

"Sweat beads on George's forehead as he struggles to break free. His body feels paralyzed, his mind racing with fear. 'Please stop this,' he pleads, his voice trembling. 'Not tonight.'"

"Desperate, George screams, 'Look, just stop touching my face!' His voice echoes through the empty room, a desperate plea for help that no one can hear. 'You know I'm you, right...' He moves away."

"George is shocked to see evil George. 'Evil George! I thought we talked about this,' he says, finally able to move. He moves back against the cold wall, which is black because the lights are off."

"Evil George comes closer. 'You can say you thought you killed off my idea, right...' He smiles evilly. 'George, have you thought why you've been sick lately?' He laughs."

"George looks down at the bed sheet, shaking, and doesn't say anything."

"It was me, George," he said as he tied a rope around George.

"You can't escape. “You'll never leave this world."

At school

"Hey buddy, are you alright? You look tired. Did you not get any sleep?" Harold asked.

"I'm okay, Harold, just homework," George replied, but he was lying.

Harold sensed that something was off, but he didn't think it was a big deal.

"Well, my mother is getting me a therapist. She thinks I'm a crazy dude," George confessed.

“What do you mean?” Harold questioned

“Look, Harold, I can't explain. It is not something I can explain, how or what I'm seeing.”

“George, what are you seeing? I noticed you stop at the window,” he shook George.

George was staring at an evil version of himself burning a paper that was a drawing of him.

“Do you see that, Harold?”

“No, dude, there's nobody outside.”

No, I just saw myself," George stepped back. "Get away from me!" He felt his evil self getting closer.

Most of his classmates stopped in the hallway, watching him.

Harold went to George. "George, are you okay? Nobody is there," he said as he went to cover him. "Guys, stop recording him. This is not right. He's going through something. It's just wrong!"

George got called to the office.

Mr. Krupp looks at George.

Harold, worried, said, "Look, it wasn't a prank. He's actually acting weird, Krupp."

Krupp sighs. "George, look, if you're having this episode, you might have to move schools or be homeschooled."

George is zoning out and not talking at all.

Harold, shocked, asked, “Episode! What is he going through?”

Krupp guessed it was a mental disorder, but he was wrong. Harold didn't know Krupp was wrong, but George snaps out.

“Stop saying I'm crazy. He's real. He's hurting me!” George says

In the lab

Melvin laughing to himself in his lab

“There no way George is losing his mind Harold”

It could have been his life, or could it? Melvin said to Harold