#don’t be rude and stare he’s self conscious | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

suhkusa · 11 months ago

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TO THE TOP.

PAIRING. Sakusa Kiyoomi x f!Reader

SUMMARY. Sakusa Kiyoomi was ranked #1 in his class. Was, at least until you came along. After this revelation, he makes it a (personal) challenge to overtake you. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a genius at everything he does, but for once he finds it a challenge when it comes to you.

CW. hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, rivals to lovers except kiyoomi is the only one competing, idiots in love (but theyre actually geniuses), high school setting, ~3k words

A/N. Got inspired from a tiktok and came up with this word vom hope u enjoy

Everything came easy for Kiyoomi. Academically, at least.

While all his classmates found themselves struggling to take tests or study, it was as natural as breathing for Kiyoomi. There were some cons to being as incredibly intelligent as him, but he found himself drowning in the gratification of being #1.

At least until the 2nd semester of his third year. At least until you.

———

Class Rank: 2

Sakusa finds himself staring at the transcript in his hand, as if his ogling would have an effect in changing the number presented before him.

His eyes scan through his class history, looking for any clues as to how he might’ve dropped in ranking. But there was nothing. All A’s, and as many extra classes stuffed into each year as possible.

Kiyoomi’s home room was rowdy as students caught up with one another, as winter break had just ended. While in his own little world, his ears catch onto a couple of words his classmates threw around.

“I heard Sakusa isn’t the top in our class anymore, is that true?”

“Woah, hasn’t he been the top of our class since the 1st year? I wonder who was able to catch up,”

His eye twitched a bit at that one.

“It was that new girl, Y/N,”

The paper crumbled slightly under his grasp. Y/N?

The ring of the bell, signifying the start of class, caused him to slightly jump in his seat. Kiyoomi crumbles his transcript before tossing it in his bag, it’s going to change soon anyways.

He would just have to step up his game.

———

It was ironic really. The world really loved to test Sakusa Kiyoomi, and not only at his school subjects. Of course, you were his desk partner in his math class. Only he had the amazing luck of being seated next to his new self-declared rival.

Kiyoomi knows it’s rude to stare, but he can’t himself because you’re the number one student? You?!

Honestly, you don’t seem like the academic type. You seem too pretty to be caring about stuff like that. At first, he considers the fact that you could be using your looks to get people to do the dirty work for you. But he witnesses first-hand as you write down every math equation, answer every question correctly, and even check your work not once, but twice.

His hyperfixation on you is bad. So bad, he missed the whole introduction lesson and is trying to rapidly copy down what’s on the whiteboard as the teacher is erasing it. Fuck-

“Would you like to see my notes?”

Kiyoomi’s pencil comes to a halt as he looks back at you, your papers are being pushed towards him on the desk. He watches as your eyes widen, as if you suddenly became self conscious.

“I-Is there something on my face? You were staring at me so I wasn’t sure…”

Shit.

“No,” he tries to make up something, but what comes out of his mouth is stupid, “I was just looking past you,” it appears it’s sufficient though, as you nod in response.

“I see, well, did you want to see them?” you gestured to the notes between the two of you.

Kiyoomi tells himself that if you hadn’t offered, he wouldn’t have asked. But since you oh so kindly offered them up, who was he to say no? He doesn’t need them. He could always ask his cousin, though his handwriting resembles chicken scratch more than human writing.

“Sure,” he takes the papers and positions them in a way where he could just look between them and his own.

In his head, Kiyoomi is scolding himself over and over again for not paying attention. This cannot be a regular thing. If he was going to take back his rank, he needed to be on his A-Game.

His pencil slaps against his desk as he finishes, quickly sliding your papers back towards you.

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi offers.

He watches from his peripheral vision as you smile and give back an “Anytime,” before gathering your things and getting up to go to your next class.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what it was about you, but he could tell he was going to need to up his game. This was war.

———

By the second week of sitting by you, he decides you’re annoying. More annoying than the people who talk while the teacher is talking. Which, in his book, is hard to beat.

Maybe you weren’t as smart as he pinned you to be, since you kept helping Kiyoomi with his work when he did not need it.

Though, you were only able to backseat his work because you somehow finished before him. He’s used to being the only one who sits back and relaxes as the rest of his class struggles to complete the practice problems.

It’s weird though. Because as much as Sakusa hates your yapping, he doesn’t find himself putting an end to it. Instead your voice plays in the background as he completes his work.

He hates it, or at least that’s what he tells himself, the way you praise him like a little kid when he finally completes the work sheet.

“Nice job!” you smile at him, “but, how come you don’t check your work to make sure you’re right?”

“Because I’m always right,” he replies with a slight roll of his eyes.

You laugh at that, I’m not joking, he thinks.

“You’re funny, you know that?” you tell him.

Kiyoomi gives you a shrug, “Whatever,”

———

A month in, he begins to indulge in your shenanigans. But only because he had felt bad.

During the third week of sitting by each other, you had taken his short and dry responses personally. You halted your chatter and no longer offered to help like you usually did. The way the classroom felt quiet without your talking was eerie, so Sakusa reluctantly decided that he’d rather hear your voice instead of nothing at all.

So a month in is when your friendship, or whatever you called it, began with him.

“Why do you use erasable pens? Just use a pencil,” he questions you, eyes peering down at your pen.

You look taken aback as you respond, “I don’t know, is there something wrong with it?” you examine your pen, “I just found it on the floor and stuck with it,”

First of all, gross, remind him not to touch you or your belongings ever. “It’s just a hassle, sometimes it doesn’t erase,”

“Well, it hasn’t given me any problems, so!” you exclaim as you get back to write on your practice quiz. “This is kind of challenging, huh?”

“Nah,” he lies, “You’re just stupid,”

You laugh in his face, “Rude,” Kiyoomi watches as you glimpse at his paper before going back to yours, “That’s why you got the first problem wrong and I didn’t say anything,”

Sakusa can feel his eyebrows scrunch up, he’s quick as he glances at it and then yours. Fuck. He’s mumbling something under his breath and he begrudgingly erases the circle around his answer.

“Told ya,” you smile before moving onto the last problem, “you know, we should hangout or something,”

“No,” he’s quick to cut you off, catching you by surprise.

“Whaaat, it doesn’t have to be like that, weirdo,” it seems like you’re going back on what you meant, “Like to study,”

“Still, no,”

“C’mon, don’t knock it till you try it,” you nudge at him, and to be honest, if you were anyone else he might’ve punched you, “please, just once,”

You’re annoying and pushy. But he supposes that if saying yes to you would get you to leave him alone, he’d say, “Fine, whatever, it has to be my house, though. Your house is probably messy,”

Kiyoomi watches as your face slowly brightens before silently celebrating to yourself as you get your way with him once again.

———

“Wow,” you’re amazed as you walk through Sakusa’s house, “your house is so nice, do you have a maid to keep it clean or something?”

“No, just me,” he says before leading you into his room, “please don’t make a mess,”

“I won’t, I won’t,” you say before settling down on his rug, playing with the soft threads, “Okay, I was hoping to review the practice quiz, I know the teacher said I got it right but I feel like there were some parts that had me second guessing myself,”

You’re quick to open up your textbook and blab about whatever problem you were having trouble with. You actually came over to study. Kiyoomi was under the impression that once you got over to his house you’d make him do whatever silly shit you usually have in mind. But no, you actually respected his wishes. Which in turn, earned you some respect from him as well.

“So you’re number one, huh?” He asks, looking up from his textbook to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s surprising that all my credits from my old school carried over,” you mindlessly say as you continue to write on your sheet of paper.

The sound of the pencils scribbling on paper fills the room before you interrupt it, “You were rank one before I came, right?”

His pencil stills, “Mhm,” It was a touchy subject, though he never thought he’d hear it from you.

“I’m sorry,” you surprised him, “When I found out I took your ranking spot, I was nervous because people are serious about that stuff. And then, when I got seated by you and you stared me down, I thought you hated my guts,”

Well, you had it down to the T, but he wouldn’t tell you that.

“You don’t have to apologize, it’s out of your control,” you smile at his words.

“Thank you,”

It’s then, in his room, when he realizes he’s losing sight of his goal. To overtake your position. As he watched you look back down at your textbook, he found himself locking in as well.

He needed to get serious, now.

———

These hangouts, or study dates, or study hangouts, whatever, became basically practice. Always at his house, though. Since he couldn’t fathom the idea of how dirty your room might be.

“I don’t know how you balance volleyball and school, Omi,” you say from your position lying on his floor.

“Don’t call me that,”

You laugh before continuing, “All I do is school and I’m always exhausted. I had to quit my shifts at the cafe down the road because I would fall asleep before making it to my room,”

“Dangerous, Y/N,” he says, frantically writing down practice problem after practice problem.

Picking yourself off the ground, “Wow, you’re serious about this final, huh, Omi,”

He glares at you, causing you to laugh again, “Sorry, sorry,” your eyes meet his for a brief second before he looks back at his paper, “but you know it’s okay to take a break, right, that’s all you’ve been doing. We haven’t even gotten to try to compete for today’s Wordle yet,”

“Mhm,” is all he offers you.

You sigh in response to that, “Boring, so boring,” you say as you lay back down

“You can go home if you’re bored,”

“Ugh, rude,” you roll around to make yourself comfortable, “I would but sadly I like being in your presence,”

“Whatever you say,”

“Do you like being in mine?” you question, causing Sakusa to hesitate on the problem he was on.

“You’re tolerable,”

You find yourself cheesing, “That’s a yes in my book,”

———

Finals are coming up. There’s so much on your mind, that you finally decide to let one of the thoughts that have been driving you crazy go. The fact that you like Sakusa Kiyoomi.

It’s nerve wracking. Not only because you’re basically confessing your feelings, but also because he’s your only friend you’ve made since being here. A lot of people think he’s rude and condescending, but to you he’s different.

He lets you talk your head off about whatever your brain decides fits best. And while he gives you short responses, they show you that he’s listening and observant. He’s on your level regarding academics and can keep up to your train of thought. He just cares.

And while you hope he might feel the same despite only knowing you for the past couple of months, you chalk it up to fate as to whether or not your intuition is correct.

As you approach the gymnasium, you slow and quiet your steps as you hear familiar voices by the entrance.

“You’ve been hanging out with Y/N quite a bit, huh, cous’? Your mom told mines,” you assume is Komori based on his words.

“Yes. It’s not like that, though,” you recognize as Sakusa.

You assume he might be fronting since it is his cousin, and feelings are embarrassing at times.

“C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t like her, she’s like one of the prettiest girls in class and she’s smart. So like, your type,” Komori pushes. And while part of you likes that he said that, you soon take it back after Kiyoomi’s words.

“I don’t like her. I only put up with her because she’s so pushy and always hovers over me while I try to do my work. Plus, she took my ranking spot,”

The world feels silent for a second, the only sound audible to you is the sound of your heart slowly breaking.

“She’s just a nuance, honestly,”

Your feet are moving before you realize. Slowly backing away before running the opposite direction.

He doesn’t like you? You were right that he hates you because you’re number one? He let you into his house but only because you pushed him? Your thoughts are running faster than your own legs, you don’t even realize the drips of water slowly running down your cheeks.

If number one was what he wanted, then you were going to give it to him.

———

Kiyoomi finds it weird. Finds you weird. Well, he’s always found you weird, but particularly as of recent. But only because you’re quiet. And have been for the past couple of days.

At first, he assumes it’s because the finals had finally arrived and you wanted to focus on your work. Which, respect, because it also allowed him to focus on his own.

But even after the finals had passed, you were still quiet. You opted for doodling in your notebook instead of talking to him about a new video game you’ve hyper fixated on or this new show you started to watch.

It’s even weirder when the teacher is going around passing out the graded math finals, that he stops by your desk, letting out a whispered, “I’m disappointed in you, Y/N,”

Kiyoomi hears, and it calls his attention towards your paper before even his own. His eyes widened.

A big, fat, red 0 marked at the top of your quiz.

“Y/N-”

“Are you happy now, Number 1?” you ask, still looking down at your paper.

He’s about to ask you what the hell you’re talking about before the bells conveniently cut him off, allowing you to take off without a second glance back at him.

His mind is caught up on your words, Number 1. Kiyoomi has never brought up his disdain regarding the rankings to you, ever. Yes, it bothered him at first. But eventually he didn’t mind it, since the only person he’d ever allow to be above him is you.

Kiyoomi thinks back on any time he’s ever mentioned it before he remembers the one time he had ever verbally brought it up to anyone. But there was no way… unless.

Fuck, Sakusa thinks as the bright red 100 on his paper stares back at him. It mocked him, poking at his head uncomfortably. Without a second thought, he crumbles the paper before stuffing it into his bag. Kiyoomi had finally gotten back what he’s been working for this whole time, so why does he feel empty?

Kiyoomi realizes then that while you may have lost your Rank 1 position, he was the true loser. Because he didn’t have you.

———

He finds himself at your door before he even knows it. He’s giving an excuse of “she left her notebook,” to your parents as they direct him to where your room is.

When he finally walks in, he’s shocked. Your room is clean.

Even as you lay in your bed so peacefully, the space around you is clean, and he feels like it’s safe to walk in.

“Y/N,” is his first attempt at waking you up, before he’s walking closer to your bed, crouching down a bit to pat your back, “Y/N,” again.

It’s by the fourth or fifth time that he calls your name that you finally look up at him, and you look heavenly.

He’s always known you were pretty, but even more so now you were gorgeous, hair messy, eyes droopy with sleepiness. You were perfect.

Your eyes blink a couple times before you look like you’ve processed who is standing before you. Quickly sitting up, hands moving every which way to fix your appearance, “Omi- I mean Sakusa what are- what do you want?”

Ouch.

“You need to leave, I-I don’t want to see you,” your voice is beginning to tremble and it hurts him, “You finally got what you wanted, I don’t know what more you want,”

“You, I want you,”

Your face drops in disbelief, “No, you don’t. I heard you, what you said,”

“Y/N-”

“No, you hurt me, Kiyoomi. I like you,” you cry, “You can’t just say all of that and then show up out of nowhere claiming otherwise,”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he’s kneeling now, allowing him to be the same height as you as you sit in your bed, weeping, “I-I’m sorry,”

His rough thumb smoothes away your tears as they fall, “I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated- and that’s no excuse for what I said, I fucked up really bad,” with every word another sob breaks loose from you, “And I’m sorry,”

“At first, all I ever wanted was to be rank #1, but then you came along and changed everything… Then I realized that it wasn’t being #1 I wanted, it was you,” he continues, “and that’s scary, because my ranking was all I’ve known all these years,”

“But even so, you made it okay. I was okay with being #2, I was so caught up in you that I forgot I ever wanted to be #1 in the first place,” your eyes finally meet behind the thick tears in your lashes, “I like you, Y/N,”

He can tell you’re at a loss for words. And for once he can finally say he has out-talked you.

Until finally, you decide words aren’t sufficient in this situation. Before he knows it, you’re leaning forward, and your lips are on his. The kiss is short, but definitely more than a peck. But it felt infinite to Kiyoomi. He never wanted the moment to end, and found himself sad as you finally pulled away.

You stared him down for a brief second before tackling him down to the ground in a big hug, “I hate you, Omi,” you laugh angrily.

“Sure,” he smugly replies, watching as you smile into his shirt.

“My number one,” you sarcastically mutter as you fake pout at him.

He cringes, “Ugh, don’t. I feel guilty, why would you even do that? You’re crazy,”

“Because I don’t care about the ranking. I never did. Plus it somehow only dropped me to #2 since the rest of our class failed and I’ve taken too many extra classes,” you say, “I only cared about you,”

Kiyoomi smiles at you before crushing you in his hug.

Everything came easy for Kiyoomi. Especially now, his feelings for you.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #sakusa x reader #hq angst #sakusa angst #haikyuu x reader angst #sakusa fanfic #haikyuu fanfic #raeworks #sakusa x reader angst

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saffusthings · 2 months ago

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second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-four: dinner, but like, in a friend way

word count: 2.4k

warnings: none

twenty-three | twenty-four | twenty-five

The low hum of the engine filled the quiet street as Lando pulled up to her place, honking twice—impatient, as always—before she even had a chance to text him and ask why he was here on a Saturday afternoon.

She stepped outside, brow raised, dressed in a casual sweatshirt and well-worn jeans. Leaning down as he rolled down the window, the loose flyaways from her claw-clipped hair fluttered in the breeze.

“Did we have plans I forgot about?”

Lando grinned, reaching over to push open the passenger door. “Yeah. Get in.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion laced with amusement. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

She hesitated, still watching him suspiciously as she climbed in. “This isn’t a kidnapping situation, right? I feel like I should confirm.”

“Obviously not,” he said, faux-offended. “If I wanted to kidnap you, I’d do a much better job. You’d never even see me coming.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right, of course. How silly of me.”

Lando pulled out onto the road, the Monaco night glittering around them. The city lights blurred past, casting golden reflections across his face. He drove without his usual recklessness, which was enough to raise her suspicions again. No sharp turns, no unnecessary speeding, no sudden lane changes just to mess with her. Just steady, smooth driving.

“…Are you feeling alright?” she asked after a few minutes, glancing over at him.

“What?”

“You’re driving like a normal person.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m trying to be considerate, you muppet.”

“That’s new.”

“The muppet bit or the consideration bit?”

“The second one.”

“”Wow. Rude.”

She laughed, tucking her legs up onto the seat as she settled in. “So? Where are we going?”

“I promised to show you around, didn’t I?” Lando shot her a quick glance, lips twitching. “Figured I’d start with the best Chinese food in town.”

Her eyebrows shot up, surprised. “Oh? And you’re this confident it’s the best?”

Well, it’s got three Michelin stars, so…

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

They weaved through the streets of Monte Carlo, the city glowing in gold and deep navy hues. When Lando finally pulled up in front of the restaurant, she let out a breath, eyes widening slightly.

The building was stunning—sleek, sophisticated, with elegant gold-accented décor visible through the glass windows. Soft lighting spilled out onto the street, creating a warm glow against the night. It was effortlessly beautiful, modern yet steeped in quiet luxury.

The restaurant itself was a blend of sleek black and gold, polished marble, and soft ambient lighting that spilled onto the pavement outside. It looked like the kind of place where reservations were made months in advance.

“Holy shit.”

Lando smirked. “Told you.”

“This is—this place is for Chinese food?” she asked, staring at the building.

“The best.”

Her eyes darted to him, lips parting slightly before she let out a small laugh. “And this is what you call casual?”

“Obviously,” he deadpanned, stepping out of the car.

She turned to him, suddenly self-conscious about the hoodie and jeans she had thrown on. “Liam—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He was already stepping out of the car.

“Liam, I feel underdressed,” she insisted, still sitting in her seat.

He leaned down, peering at her through the open car door with that infuriatingly unreadable expression of his. “Not many people come here anyway.”

A lie.

She squinted at him, skeptical. But with a shake of her head, she got out of the car, and he led her inside.

Inside, the atmosphere was somehow even more stunning—deep emerald and gold tones, plush seating, and an air of quiet exclusivity. It smelled incredible, rich spices and crisp, fresh aromas mingling in the air. The table he led her to gave her a chance to admire the interior design up close – ornate yet modern, a delicate balance of traditional elegance and contemporary luxury. She barely had time to take it all in before she noticed something odd. The restaurant was… empty. Not a single patron in sight.

“Are we early or something?” she asked, glancing around.

Lando didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, something like that.”

No one else is allowed in, but sure. That works too.

In reality, Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo had taken it upon themselves to cover the entrance and exit, ensuring the place stayed clear for the night. Max Fewtrell had coordinated with the staff, and a generous tip had been paid to keep the doors locked to anyone but them. If that hadn’t worked, well… there was always the gun option. But Lando preferred tipping. It made things less complicated.

A waiter appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by some invisible force, guiding them to a private table set by the window. The skyline of Monte Carlo stretched beyond the glass, glowing under the night sky.

She sat down, still glancing around, unsure. “This is—”

“The best Chinese food in town,” Lando finished smoothly, already picking up the menu.

Lando glanced at her, watching the way she took everything in, eyes bright with curiosity. He liked showing her things—pieces of his world, places he had frequented. It felt… grounding, in a way he hadn’t expected.

They were barely seated when he grabbed the menu, skimming it for all of two seconds before setting it down.

“Alright, I already know what I’m getting. Are you good to order?”

She lifted an eyebrow, amused. “That was fast.”

“I have a system.”

She glanced down at the menu, scanning it. “Okay, so what’s your go-to?”

“Truffle dim sum, and—”

She snorted, looking incredulous. “Truffle dim sum? Wow. You really are fancy, huh?”

Lando shrugged, unbothered. “I have taste.”

She rolled her eyes but was still smiling. “What else?”

“Spring rolls. Obviously.”

She hummed, scanning the menu. “How many?”

“...Yes.”

She blinked at him, then burst out laughing. “Liam.”

“Seventeen.”

She simply stared at him, speechless.

“What?”

“You cannot order that many spring rolls.”

“Watch me.”

She shook her head, looking way too pleased with herself. Lando shrugged, lounging back in his seat. “Let’s call it a healthy appreciation.”

Her laugh caught in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep it from escaping. “You’re ridiculous.”

But even though she said it with affection, she couldn’t ignore the small knot of tension in her chest. There was something different about him tonight. Something that didn’t quite sit right. It wasn’t just the way he acted so confident. It was the sharpness in his eyes, the way he kept his distance in his own quiet, knowing way.

And for the first time in a while, he wasn’t thinking about work, or deals, or the person he had to be outside of moments like this. He could shed that skin, leave it at the door. Here, with her, he wasn’t the Reaper. Just Liam.

And Liam had very strong opinions about spring rolls.

As they settled into their booth, a phone rang on the table beside them—his phone.

The screen flashed with an unknown French number.

Lando didn’t even flinch. He glanced at it for a second, then swiped the screen off without answering. His focus stayed entirely on her, and for just a second, it was as if the call never interrupted them in the first place.

But before the mood could shift, his mind had already found something else focused on something else entirely. When the waiter returned, Lando leaned in, hands folded as though this was all just a normal dinner, a normal night.

Except nothing with Lando Norris was ever really normal.

Lando listened with half a smirk as she rambled on about something—he wasn’t even sure what anymore. A book she was reading? Some debate in class? Maybe it was about that stupid little café cat she claimed had a “deep, ancient soul” despite the fact that it was probably dumber than a box of rocks. It didn’t really matter.

What mattered was the way she talked, the way her hands moved animatedly, the way she stole one of his spring rolls off the plate with absolutely no remorse. He let her.

Somewhere between her ranting and the dim glow of candlelight flickering against her skin, the thought struck him.

When was the last time he went on a date?

This would be a nice place to take someone on a date. The ambiance, the exclusivity, the fact that they had an entire Michelin-star restaurant to themselves. He could picture it—soft laughter, shared plates, whispered conversations over expensive wine…

Not that this was a date.

Obviously.

But if it were—hypothetically—it wouldn’t be a bad one.

He shook the thought away, refocusing just as she finished whatever she was saying, looking at him excitedly. He wondered briefly how they’d gotten here, this level of familiarity– how someone so strange and unusual had fallen into the melodrama that was his life. He wondered when she went from someone he barely tolerated to someone he saw himself having dinner with. Usually, he preferred to have dinner alone in his office where he could work or unwind as he pleased without risking being disrupted by anyone else.

He found that perhaps having dinner with company wasn’t so bad after all. He could get used to this, perhaps once in a while.

This wasn’t a date, obviously. But still.

It was a nice place to take someone on a date. Dim lighting, good food, a quiet corner of the city where no one would bother them. And she looked—well. She always looked nice, but tonight, even in casual clothes, she looked like she belonged here in a way that made his chest feel tight.

Maybe that was why he had done all this in the first place. Not because he was trying to impress her, but because—

Because he just wanted to see her smile before he left.

He cleared his throat, suddenly restless. “M’leavin, by the way.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Just to Brazil, for a couple’a days. For a business trip,” he clarified. The words tasted foreign in his mouth. Business trip. He supposed that’s what it was, in a way. Not one he could ever explain to her, but still.

She groaned dramatically, slumping against the back of her chair. “That’s annoying.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because how am I supposed to study without you? It’s like you want me to fail.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah, that’s my master plan—sabotaging your law school dreams. Clearly.”

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “At least bring me back something to make up for it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re giving me homework?”

“Call it extra credit,” she quipped, propping her chin on her hand. “How about some Brazilian coffee? Or—wait! Something cool, something I can actually keep.”

“I’m going for business, not shopping.” His lips twitched. “You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.” She leaned back, eyeing him. “Since you are abandoning me, I want a souvenir. Something special. Coffee or—” she paused, thinking, “—actually, surprise me.”

He scoffed indignantly. “I’ll be busy– I do have things to do, you know.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “You can multitask.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but there was something warm in his chest, something unfamiliar yet not entirely unpleasant. He raised a brow. “You’re very demanding for someone who’s getting nothing.”

She gasped. “Liam.”

He bit back a grin at her scandalized expression.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, standing.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, looking like she’d won the lotto instead. Immediately after, she seemed to remember something, so she shrugged. “You know, school’s gonna suck without you anyway.”

His fingers drummed against the table. “School sucks regardless.”

“Yeah, but it sucks less when you’re there.”

It was casual, easy—just a throwaway comment—but something about the way she said it made him pause.

She rolled her eyes and stood as well, nudging his arm as they walked out of the restaurant together. The night air was cool, the streets quieter at this hour. They reached his car, but she hesitated before getting in.

“Give me your hand.”

“What? No, m’not doing that.”

She looked up at him, and something about the way the streetlights casted their swathed her in their light made her expression seem almost sad. But he blinked, and it was gone.

“Please?”

Fuckin’ hell.

With a resigned sigh, he extended his wrist. Then, without warning, she turned to him, pulling something from her own wrist—a bracelet, woven threads of charcoal grey and deep green, slightly frayed at the edges from wear.

“Here.”

He blinked, taken aback. “What’s this?”

She didn’t answer right away, just took his wrist, wrapping the bracelet around it with gentle fingers, tying a knot to secure it.

Something about the way she did it—focused, delicate, like it was something important—made his throat feel tight. He could feel the warmth of her fingertips against his skin, the briefest, softest grazes. Maybe he was imagining it, but each touch seemed to linger.

Lando stared at it.

“This is—”

“A souvenir,” she finally said, voice quieter now. “Something to remember me by.”

Lando stared down at it, feeling oddly… unsteady.

It was just a few threads. Nothing expensive, nothing particularly significant. But he knew she’d worn it for a long time. He glanced from the bracelet to her, caught off guard in a way that felt unfamiliar and unsettling. A stupid little thing, really—frayed edges, uneven knots—but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him something just because. He flexed his fingers, watching how the bracelet moved with him.

Then he looked at her.

She grinned. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

His jaw tightened for half a second before he gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then—so quick he almost missed it—she leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. Just a brief warmth, nothing more.

Lando barely managed to suppress whatever instinct made his breath hitch.

She pulled back like it was nothing, still smiling. “Safe travels, Liam.”

He forced a smirk, ignoring the way his fingers curled slightly against the table.

“You’ll , uh, be careful, yeah? Take care n’ all that?” His voice was lower than he meant it to be.

She smiled, bright and sure. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, opening the car door for her. She slid in, and as he rounded to the driver’s side, he caught himself glancing down at his wrist again. It was only a few threads, tied with a simple knot. And yet, for some reason, it felt heavier than anything he’d ever worn before.

a/n: how are we doing chat.

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rabidlittlestrawberry · 4 months ago

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Part 1 - Surprise

James wipes down the bar again, using it as an excuse to flex his muscles, to lean over the counter. There’s a girl perched on the corner, sucking up a daiquiri through a straw who has been eyeing him for the past hour.

He has yet to strike up a proper conversation, but it won’t be long. He has this down to a fine art. And there’s a dance to this, steps. He can’t skip ahead, no matter how much he wants to.

Sirius comes up behind him then, and starts mixing cocktails with ridiculous flare. Pouring ingredients from a height, juggling bottles. James knows what this means. And it couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Sirius throws the mixer without bothering to look back, and James catches it with barely a glance in its direction. Giving it one last shake before pouring it into the waiting glass. It’s a routine he and Sirius have perfected over the years, moving around each other without having to say a word, each anticipating the other’s movements.

The girl from the corner is really looking now. Eyebrows raised in obvious appreciation. James throws her a well placed wink as he sets the glass on fire in front of him, sliding it over to the waiting customer. Next time she needs a refill, he’ll strike up a conversation. He’ll have her number before the night is out.

When he turns back to the counter, there’s a boy in front of him. A young boy. Small and skinny and definitely not old enough to be in here. He’s looking up at James from behind huge, round glasses with a strangely intense stare, dark hair sticking up at an angle that James has nothing but sympathy for. Crazy bright green eyes shining out through skin only a little lighter than James’.

James looks him up and down, raising his eyebrows. “Sorry kid, not a chance. I don’t care how good your fake ID is.”

The kid has the nerve to smile, eyes crinkling up behind his glasses. He’s got a cheeky air to him that James can’t help but humour.

“I’m not here for alcohol,” he says.

“Well, then. You’re no use to us here, are you?” James says it with a smile, and the kid smiles in response, but there’s a flicker of something else. Not quite hurt, but at least a sting.

“Fine. Give me a coke, then.”

James hesitates a moment before he complies, grabbing a glass and taking the opportunity to study the boy again. “How did you even get in? You’re what? Thirteen?”

“Fourteen,” the kid frowns, having the nerve to look offended. As if that makes all the difference. “Almost fifteen.”

“Still not old enough to drink, I’m afraid.” A customer across the bar gestures at James for another. He’s a regular, so James starts to pour his usual, still looking at the kid.

“Your parents know you’re here?”

“Well. My mum is dead.” The words are blunt, matter of fact, but he can’t hide the brutal flash of pain behind his eyes. Fresh. Losing a parent never gets easier, but this isn’t a wound that’s had time to fade. It’s new.

“Ah, I’m sorry, kid. That’s tough. But drink isn’t the answer. Trust me.”

The boy frowns. Opens his mouth to respond, presumably but just then the girl from the corner walks up to him then, leaning over the bar and asking him for another with a smile. James grins right back, throwing her a little wink. Technically, he’s not allowed to give out his number, but he has no problem finding a way around that rule. Give them enough of a hint and they feel comfortable enough to make that move.

“Enjoy,” he says, lingering in a way that makes it obvious that he’d be open to more conversation.

The kid shuffles in his seat, and James wonders if it will be rude to get him kicked out. He really doesn’t belong here, and James suddenly feels self conscious of his owlish eyes watching James’ every move.

He’s sure he’s about to say something to the girl, when his gaze is pulled by a head of dark hair, and his breath catches in his throat. He almost drops the pint he’d been pouring, his grip slacking as his heart-rate kicks into overdrive.

Fuck, he looks good.

Black crop top artfully cut across his midriff, showing off a bellybutton ring that makes James’ mouth water. His eyes are ringed in silver liner, making the ice blue stand out against pale skin as he stares back at James.

“Hey, you,” James breathes, voice barely audible above the music. It’s incredible, how Regulus can always render him so completely useless without even a single word. James knows how to do this, to flirt, he’s good at it, even. But he’s been pulling out all his best moves on Regulus for years, and has gotten nothing in return. Less than nothing. It’s like flirting with a brick wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees bar girl lean forward again, a scrap of paper in her hand that James is sure is her number.

“This is for you,” she says, flashing him a smile, and he smiles back, taking the paper between his fingers and sliding it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” he grins, biting his lip. Wow, she really is pretty. He’ll have to give her a call later.

A cough from his left turns his gaze back to Regulus, who is watching the exchange with a bored, dispassionate expression, tapping his fingers against the bar as he waits for his drink.

“If you’re done flirting,” he says as the girl walks away. “I was hoping you would remember to do your job, and pour me a drink.”

James arranges his face into his most disarming smile, reaching for the gin before Regulus can begin to ask. “Aw, you know me. I’m never done flirting, love.”

Regulus’ expression does not so much as flicker. He stands still as a statue as James works, ignoring Sirius’ calls of Reggie and snatching up the glass as soon as James places it in front of him. He’s turned on his heel and is making his way back to his friends before James can utter another word.

Feeling a little dazed, James shakes his head, not quite able to take his eyes off Regulus’ retreating figure. His attention is pulled by the sound of laughter next to him. The kid. Right. He’s sipping his coke, laughing at James over the top of his glass.

“What?” James turns to him, still considering calling security, but he can’t help the smile that pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Nothing, nothing,” the boy replies, still smirking as he lowers his glass. “Your mouth’s still open, by the way.”

James snaps it shut, mildly embarrassed that this random kid has managed to see through him so quickly. Damn. Is he really that obvious?

“Alright kid, out with it. You aren’t here to drink overpriced soft drinks and make sarcastic comments about my dating life. What do you want? A job? Some friends? Something better to do with your time?”

The kid’s smile fades as quickly as it came, replaced with an intense sort of calm. A steadiness that doesn’t match his youthful appearance. That’s when James rememberers that the kid’s mum just died. Jesus. He really needs to be more sensitive, even to strange teenagers.

“You’re James Potter?” The kid says suddenly, and the scrutiny in his eyes is dialled up to eleven. James’ brain stutters, unable to process what he’d just heard.

“I — am. And who are you?”

“Harry.” He says simply, apparently not willing to offer any more information.

“Right,” James says, for lack of anything else to say. This conversation really doesn’t feel like it’s in his control anymore. The kid - Harry - takes a visible deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. James has no idea why, but his blood runs cold, stomach sinking. However the boy knows his full name, it surely can’t be good news.

“So, you know I said my mum died?” Great. Good start. James nods, not sure what he’s supposed to say. “Well. Um. She was kinda all I had. I got given to my aunt and uncle, but they’re um… they… well. They live in Surrey.”

That catches James off-guard. Before he knows it, his head is tipped back in a full blown laugh.

“Right,” he says, “gotcha. So…”

“So. I never knew my father. And I thought now might be the time.”

“Your … father?”

“Yeah,” he visibly swallows, “She, uh, she never told me who he was, not really. But I was going through her stuff, after the accident,” his voice breaking on that word, just a little, “and I found some things.”

“Right…” James starts, his mind swirling, feeling like he’s missing a puzzle piece here, his mind trying to put together pieces that don’t quite fit. It’s all very sad, but what on earth has this got to do with him?

“I have a picture of her here,” harry continues, reaching into his pocket. “I think you might have known her.” He reaches his hand over the bar, a piece of paper extended out. The picture looking back at him steals his breath from his lungs.

“Lily Evans?” Harry says unnecessarily, as if James would ever mistake the face staring out at him. Bright eyes just as he remembers them, reckless covering her whole face. She’s holding a baby in her arms and looking a little more tired than she used to, but her smile is exactly the same. In fact, she looks so similar that James concludes that she can’t have been much older than when he last saw her, when they were both seventeen.

James’ world spins, and he can’t feel anything past one single thought. Crowding his mind, pressing down on his lungs. Fuck.

Lily is dead. Lily is dead. Lily is dead.

He hasn’t seen her in years, since they’d dated at the end of school. They’d agreed to stay friends, but Lily had pretty much dropped off the face of the earth after that. And James had been busy travelling the world, and then there was university. It had been so long. He hadn’t seen her in… shit, it must be around fifteen ye—

His eyes snap up to the boy in front of him, mind racing. The ground lurches dangerously beneath him, and he has to hold onto the bar for support. Now that he sees it, he wonders how it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. Harry was basically a carbon copy of him, save for his eyes, which are all Lily.

He knows, the evidence is right there in front of his face. But still, he has to say something.

“How… um. How old did you say you were, again?”

“Fourteen. And a half.”

“Right. So, when you said you were looking for your dad?”

Harry nods, looking truly nervous for the first time all evening. Somehow, it makes him look even younger. “That would be you, I think. You’re um… I think you’re my dad.”

My dad.

Dad.

Shit.

James is going to have to sit down.

Read the next chapter here

#I hallucinated this on my train today #and I have way more ideas for it #no idea where this came from #and as usual I have not proof read #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #marauders #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #jegulus microfic #starchaser #dad james potter

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queenothegeeks · 1 year ago

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Awkward creator reader drabbles

This is based off a previous post about the reader being an awkward creator.

(Warning, this all based off of chaotic ideas me and a friend had while on call, and this is not beta read, so I apologize for any bad spelling or grammar)

Imagine, just, having tea with Zhongli, and he's just talking about wine or something boring idk, and he notices that you look a little zoned out, like, eyes glazed over, mind clearly elsewhere. While he’s worrying about The Creator not liking him or whatever, you are just trying to figure out how to process being in another world, with all these people that you know everything about, but at the same time, don’t know anything at all.

When you notice him looking at you weird and not talking anymore, you worry that you may have missed something important. So you just blurt out the first thing that came to mind, to fill the silence.

“It's kinda funny that you're working under Hu Tao. She’s like, a billion years younger than you. Also, you should cool it on the adventuring, you might throw your back out gramps.”

And then, realizing what you said, you just grab your now lukewarm (yes, he was talking for that long) cup of tea (or whatever else you want if you don’t drink tea) and take a long sip, trying to hide your red face.

(Bonus, you choked on your tea)

—————————————————————————————————

Imagine going to Fontaine, and just gawking at the scenery there. in order to find out about where in the timeline you are (and because you want to see some of your favourite characters) you decide to go to the opera house, and see if there's a trial going on, where you can ask Furina or Neuvillette about the wellbeing of Fontaine. Instead, you find a flier for Lyney and Lynette's magic show at a nearby theater. Deciding to go, you pay the ticket master, who looks in slight shock as the creator buys back row seats like a normal person (you were too scared to ask for a better seat while paying, so you just asked for the cheapest one)

Sitting down, you wait nervously for the show to start, all being completely ignorant of the panic and rumours backstage.

“The Creator’s here! At our show!?”

“Calm down, it's fine, we don’t even know if it’s true.”

And, just to stir the pot, a tall lady sits next to you. You feel like you should know her from somewhere, she just seems so… familiar.

Realizing you had been staring for quite a while, you turn your head back to the stage, waiting for the show to start. About midway through the show, you realize who it is you are sitting next to.

The Knave, fourth of the Fatui harbingers.

At the end of the performance, you shift in your seat, suddenly wayyyyyy more self-conscious than you were at the beginning of the show. Wanting to say everything and nothing at the same time, you decide it's best to shut your mouth for the time being. It’s probably not even her, why worry-

“Excuse my rudeness, would you happen to be the creator?”

She knew you were of course, hence why she chose to sit next to you, instead of the front row seat that was reserved for her, as it always was at one of her children's performances.

“I.. am… but you can call me y/n! I don’t really like fancy titles or anything! Would you be the Knave? Or do you prefer Arlecchino? ack-wait , sorry. I’ll shut up now, let's start fresh, what do you think of the show?”

You half say-half shout, flailing your hands around, and then shrink in your seat, trying to become as small as possible. Arlecchino chuckles.

“I think it was a lovely performance, as they always are. My children are very talented, you know.”

“Y-yeah! They're really great! I have to go! Great meeting you miss-Arlecchino-Knave-ma’am”

You say as you bolt out of the room, the embarrassment and social awkwardness you naturally possess driving your movements.

(Bonus, you tripped over your own feet and wanted the earth to swallow you whole)

@lorkai

#genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin #sagau #arlechinno genshin #zhongli #sagau brainrot #the brainrot is real

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

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Retrogradation

Warnings: non/dubcon, coercion and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Part of Roo’s Pajama Party (October 7-8)

Prompt: Retrogradation - a backward movement. (List of prompts here) + this look

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. I hope you enjoy this one and have a lovely weekend.

This isn’t how you saw things going. Nothing ever really goes how you expect. You think you’d be used to it by now. That after all the disappointment, you would give up hope. You tried that too but it still hurts.

You pull the blanket over the couch. You don’t anticipate a good sleep. The springs are broken and squeaky and the cushions not quite thick enough to pad the jabbing metal. You can’t complain, it’s somewhere to lay your head. That morning, you didn’t have even that.

You try to fluff up the slightly dingy pillow. You just as sad for your brother as for yourself. This isn’t anyway to live. Thin walls, noisy neighbours, and that constant stale smell that doesn’t go away. Even so, you won’t spurn his kindness. It’s all you have.

You can at least be grateful for the solitude. He left about an hour ago, said he’d be back in a few hours. You didn’t ask why. He’s an adult and you’re sure he has more to worry about than his errant sister.

Before you can recline, footsteps make their way steadily down the hall. You stop and listen, watching the crack beneath door. For a moment, you think it’s just your brother but the knock that follows assures you otherwise. He wouldn’t do that.

Hm. Maybe you should ignore it. If it’s his friend, they might assume that he’s not there. They knock again. It would be rude to not answer. What if it’s an emergency?

You get up and cross to the door. You pause for just a moment as you think about how short your pajamas are. How the top is a bit too loose so that the top button hangs a bit lower than it should. They won’t think about that.

You open the door and choke on your voice. You’re so stunned to see Mr. Smith there, you’re certain you’re dreaming. You must have fallen asleep and not even realised. You stare as his lashes flick to mirror your surprise.

“Eh, think I might have the wrong place,” he says. “Sorry, love.”

“That’s quite alright. It’s... do you remember me, Mr. Smith?”

“Oh, yes, I do recall,” his cheek twitches, “you moved on from the kiosk, yes?”

“I moved to the home store, sir,” you explain. He was a regular down at the south end location when you worked at the small coffee pop-up near the train station. “How are you doing?”

He looks back and forth evasively and fixes his glasses, “very good, love. As ever.” He turns back to you. “And you...” his eyes wander up the splintering door frame, “suppose serving medium roast to the masses doesn’t pay much.”

“It’s money. This... I’m...” you’re suddenly very self-conscious. Having to say it aloud is harder than you expect. “My brother’s letting me stay over. Just until I find a new place.”

“Oi? What happened then?” He asks with a tweaked brow.

“Evicted. They’re upgrading my flat to let at a higher price.”

“Hm, I don’t think that’s very legal.”

“I didn’t either,” you shrug. “Anyhow, I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.”

“Me too. Say, I know it’s not your neighbourhood but you wouldn’t happen to know where I might find a lad by the name of Alex?”

“Alex?” You echo and add your last name. “That’s my brother. How do you know him?”

His blue eyes flicker and he takes a deep breath. His cheek ticks again. He smooths his hand over his slicked back hair.

“Is he in?” He asks.

“Not at the moment. Can I help? I can tell him you stopped by.” You offer.

“Mm, well, it’s rather urgent. Any way you can tell me where he is?”

You frown, “I can give him a call but I don’t know where he’s off to.”

“That’ll do then.”

There’s a solemnness to his agreement. He hardly seems happy about your solution. It is rather late. You suppose he doesn’t want to be waiting around all night.

“Would you like to wait inside?” You ask.

His cheek dimples and gives a single nod, “alright then.”

You step back as he enters. You spin in search of your phone as the door clicks shut gently. You scoop up your phone and filter through for your brother’s number. You tap call and put the phone to your ear. Your keenly aware of Mr. Smith pacing by the door. It must be urgent with how restless he is.

No pick up. You try a second time to the same end. You leave a voice mail then text for good measure. You shrug as you face Mr. Smith.

“Sorry, sir, he’s not pickin’ up. Should I tell him you stopped by?”

“Mm, you think he’ll be back soon?”

“Well, he left a bit ago. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. If you want to stick around, I guess you can.”

“Sorry if I'm imposing. I don’t mean to.”

“No, it’s fine. Not my place,” you go to the couch and fold up the blanket and stack it on the pillow. You turn back to him once more. “Would you like a cuppa? I think Alex’as at least a few bags in the cupboard.”

“Thank you but I’m alright,” he waves you off. “Your brother... you’re close to him?”

“Erm, he’s my brother. We’ve not been very chummy since we were kids,” you shrug. You notice how his eyes flit around the room. You squint. “Are you looking for something?”

His blue eyes meet yours. His jaw ticks and a dire shadow fills his eyes. You squirm.

“You’ve any idea what business your brother’s mixed up with?” He asks.

You swallow and shake your head, “he works down at the garage, I think.”

“Oh, does he? And he lives here? Known some mechanics in my day, they take home a decent pay,” he says. “Yet he’s livin’ in a slum like this.”

“Well, er, I...” a trickle flows down your spine. “Mr. Smith, why are you looking for me brother?”

His eyes drop and he tilts his head. He sighs. He tucks his hands into his pockets before he looks at your again.

“He’s taken something from me.”

You stare at him. His tone, his posture, his very gaze, you know what he truly means. Alex has stolen from him. But what?

“Well, why don’t we have a look around and see if we can find it--” you suggest.

“That won’t do. It isn’t the sort of thing you just give back and call it even,” he says dully. His demeanour shifts with his timbre. He steps closer and you shy away. “And I’m not the sort to let that sort of thing go.”

You know Alex lies. You know better than to buy into his stories but you wanted to believe. You wanted to hope. Still, even after all is lost, you really, truly wanted it all to turn out.

“Oh,” you swallow.

“You see, he’s crossed me. I’m not a man to be crossed and this isn’t it about getting back what he stole. It’s about the principle of it all. About teaching him a lesson,” he comes close until you have nowhere to go. Until he is right in front of you and the couch is against your legs. “I really wish you hadn’t have been here, sweetheart.”

Your mouth falls open. His words are like a punch in the gut. You expect worse than that by the gleam in his eyes.

“Mr. Smith, please, you don’t have to--”

“You don’t get it. It’s not up to me,” he grabs you by the neck and you cry out.

You bat your lashes at him as your eyes glisten. You don’t fight. You can’t. No matter what you do, you lose. Whether it’s him, your landlord, or life in general.

He pushes you until you sit. His grip tightens for an instant than eases. He inhales through his nose so it flares out.

“Will you listen?” He asks. You lower your eyes and nod. He sees right through you. He already knows you’re weak. “Alright then, don’t pull nothing.”

He rescinds his hand. Your skin tingles where his fingers had dug in. He reaches to your top button, undoing it with both hands. You shudder and let out a squeak. He continues down the shirt and lets go. The fabric opens around your naked torso.

Your bottom lip quivers as you stare at the tailored weave of his pants. He brushes his fingertips along your hairline and down your cheek. You lock up as his touch continues down your neck and wanders along your chest. He fondles your naked tits as your top slumps down your shoulders.

“Get up.”

You stand as he backs up. He grabs your upper arms and turns you with him. He takes your place on the couch. He sits back and braces his thighs.

“Finish it. Everything off.”

You nod and keep your head down. You shrug off the shirt and untie your shorts. You shimmy them down and kick them away.

Your eyes are drawn up by his movement. You waver as you notice his open fly. He strokes himself above the rich brown fabric of his pants. You press your hands to your stomach and shudder.

“Get on me,” he orders.

You sway and dare to bring your eyes up to his face. You don’t understand. Mr. Smith was always so polite. He always tipped and wished you a good day. Why would he do this?

“Bad luck, that’s all it is,” he assures you. “Isn’t my fault, eh? Blame your thief of a brother.”

You gulp and step up. You bend and grab his shoulders. You feel as if you might collapse at any moment. He latches onto your hip with one hand and guides you down. You ease yourself down and wince as his tip brushes between your folds. You whimper.

He lines up with your entrance and pushes you down. You stretch around him as you whine. Your voice grows louder and louder with each inch. Your tears leak out and you puff through your teeth. You’re set alight by the shame that underlines your pain. You won’t even resist. Like everything in life, you just let it happen.

He takes your hand and lifts it to his cheek. He leans his jaw into your palm so his beard tickles you. He holds you like that as he rocks your hips. You roll against him, following his motion as you weep softly. He groans and bites his lip.

You hang your head as you give yourself over to him. You snivel as your core swirls with heat and your skin speckles hotly. You bring your free hand up to wipe your nose.

“Sir, does this—will this--” you can barely speak or think, “my brother...”

He growls and pulls your hand further, hooking your arm around his neck as he forces you closer.

“I’m still going to break his fucking hands,” he snarls. “But I think I’ll keep you too. Show him what it’s like to lose something.”

You sob and nod. He runs his hand away from yours and up your arm. He nudges your chin up as he keeps your hips moving.

He groans and grunts through shallow breaths, “don’t be sad, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Better than this heap.”

#raymond smith #dark raymond smith #dark!raymond smith #raymond smith x reader #the gentlemen #pajama party #sleepover #drabble

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after-witch · 7 months ago

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When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Title: When You Looked at Me, I Should Have Run [Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Your trip to Japan doesn’t go as planned, thanks to a monster in the forest.

Word count: 7400ish

notes: Yandere(ish); body horror, violence, vore and implied digestion, reader is transmasc

If there was one thing you could appreciate about getting lost in Japan, it was the fact that people were very willing to give you directions. So when the realization hit you--you have been unfortunately walking the wrong way for some time now--there is none of that stomach-churning dread that occurs back home, when asking someone for directions typically ends with someone telling you to “fucking looking it up on your phone.”

And sure, you didn’t exactly speak Japanese, but that’s what your secondhand “301 Phrases You’ll Need in Japan!” book was for! You’d also found that you could ask in English, and people didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, they didn’t say they minded, and that was what counted.

Sighing, you grab the book out of your tote bag and begin to flip through. A few people veer to the side from behind you after the sudden stop, but you pay them no mind, instead focusing on finding just the right phrase you need. When you do, you repeat it out loud what feels like a million times before tucking the book away.

The map comes out next, and you unfold it haphazardly, searching for the hiking trail you’ve been searching for all morning. It was supposed to be really scenic, but a little off the beaten path. Perfect for photos, plus you could tell your friends back home that you weren’t on one of the annoying overcrowded tourist paths, which was always a bonus.

Now, to find someone to help and--ah!

A young man leaning up against the alley wall of a charming little storefront would do. He’s dressed unusually, wearing a flowing shirt with a striped pattern, and he was maybe in an accident of some kind, with stitches on his face. But you don’t stare (well, maybe for a second); because that would be exceptionally rude, Japan or otherwise.

You smile, bowing (maybe too low, maybe too dramatically, but it was hard to get the angles right) and hold up your map. In very accented Japanese, you ask, “Can you help me find the…” And the word you had memorized from the book vanishes, so you tap the map, shaking the paper. “Mountain trail?” You complete in English.

The man blinks at you, saying nothing, which is a bit strange. A bit rude, you might say. Maybe you pronounced the words completely wrong. You fumble for the book, finding the page again, and hold it up for him to see. “Mountain trail?” You ask again, still in English.

The man blinks again.

You sigh, and point at the page where the phrase sits, not wanting to attempt a pronunciation in Japanese at the moment.

He leans in closer, too close, really, and his silver hair ghosts your shoulder. Mismatched eyes--contact lenses? He was really trendy!--scan up and down before he moves backward, staring at you again.

Then--

The man grins.

Widely. Unusually so, among the people you’ve met. But perhaps since he was younger, he was breaking social norms a bit. I mean, he already was, with his outfit--with his hair, long and impossibly silver. And those contacts!

His eyes roam over you--and you feel suddenly self-conscious of yourself, wearing a simple touristy t-shirt and trousers with hiking boots--and his finger finds the map even as his eyes never leave your face.

The finger slithers down the paper, and you force yourself to follow it (geez, why was he staring so rudely?) as it lands on a particular sidestreet marked with a hiking trail symbol. It’s not too far off, thankfully, and you could probably cut across a few streets to get there sooner.

He says something in Japanese, but you don’t know what. When you stare at him blankly, he grins again.

“Forest,” he says, in English. His grin gets even wider, somehow, and you swear one of his stitches twitches. “Fun.”

“Thank… you very much,” you murmur, in your accented Japanese, before giving the strange young man another exaggerated bow. You wave--a habit--and don’t bother folding the map before you leave, walking quicker than you might have, to avoid wasting anymore time on this trip.

The wave seems to amuse him, and he waves back, beaming.

A strange young man, sure. But just as helpful as anyone else you’ve met on your trip so far. And his hair was really pretty; it was a wonder nobody was so much as staring at him.

There is something in the forest.

There is something in the forest, wild and large.

There is something in the forest, wild and large--and it is following you.

You’re not sure exactly when it started; you weren’t paying much attention to the forest itself until it became too loud and obvious to ignore. There weren’t enough service bars on your phone to look it up, but it had to be some kind of bear, right? Japan did have bears--you think.

Maybe it was a deer. But deer would be too skittish, wouldn’t they? To follow you around in the woods, despite all the noise you were making. Unless it was one of those deer that was used to being fed by people, though if that was the case, wouldn’t it have made itself known by now? Begging for an apple and bowing, like the videos you saw online.

Probably not a deer. Maybe a bear. Or a fox or something else large and rumbly and, you think, eyeing you as a potential snack.

Whatever it was, it was staying hidden. In the brush and trees, with the occasional rustle and snapping branch to give away its position.

What do you do? Your mind tries to trace back to those Saturday evenings spent watching the occasional “When Animals Attack” documentary with your family. There were episodes on bees and mountain lions and sharks and bears, too, you’re sure… should you play dead? Make more noise? Run like hell?

How can you get help, in the middle of the woods?

There’s on one else on the trail. Your phone isn’t working. And you’re not entirely sure if you should retrace your steps or keep going on ahead, to make it lose interest. The choices are all too confusing, with the adrenaline steadily growing inside your body, and your heart beginning to beat altogether too fast.

A decision can’t be made, not like this, heart and brain buzzing too quick and too loud to be steady enough for a proper thought process.

In the end, though–

It doesn’t matter.

Your choice is made for you, when the animal retreats from the camouflage of the brush and steps right onto the trail. Its body takes up the entire trail, and it’s a wonder it was able to hide amongst the leaves and branches at all.

And–

And it’s not a bear, or a deer, or anything you’ve ever seen before.

The creature that has been following you for oh-so-many steps is deformed. A monster. Something you’ve never seen in your entire life and so entirely wrong in its construction that your brain doesn’t register it as being real for a few awful, agonizing moments.

What is it–

It--whatever it is--has too many limbs. That’s what stands out at first, because it’s the most bearable thing to look at--the limbs. There are at least 6, skin-colored arms sprouting from the torso on downward. Claws or… hands? Fuck, they look like hands; hands are at the end of each arm, fingers wiggling like worms.

The creature doesn’t just have too many limbs. There are too many mouths, all open and red, with white human-like teeth showing in the center. Opening and closing and there’s a sound being made, but you can’t register if it’s human speech. It couldn’t be, because this thing was not a human. The sight of it was making you crazy, that’s all, and that craziness traveled from your retinas to your ears.

The worst sight of all, and it’s the sight of this that finally unfreezes your legs, is the rippling underneath the skin. A solid mass worming its way around the body. Like there was something else underneath the flesh, waiting to burst out, slithering along like a gorged snake.

You couldn’t let it come closer. You wouldn’t let it.

So when your legs feel like they can move, when your breath gets sucked in with a terrible gasping that nearly chokes you, you bolt.

The creature comes after you. Of course it does. You ran like prey, and you feel like prey; you are prey, here, in the woods. You hear the creature now in full force, no longer meandering in the brush of the woods, but chasing you. The sound of too many feet hitting the ground, the sound of the air whipping by its many arms, and its breathing. Steady, loud, increasing as it gets closer.

Your own breath comes out ragged, desperate, wheezing. You weren’t made to run like this–or perhaps you were, and that’s the crux of this whole damn trip–but this creature was clearly meant to chase.

Regret on ever coming to the woods courses through you every time your feet pound against the ground, but regret wasn’t going to save you. Thoughts whir together--don’t let it catch me, how do I get out of here, will anyone be able to help me?--as you rush down the winding paths of the forest trail.

But there’s no one in sight, and there surely wouldn’t be anyone to help you if you went deeper into the woods. The only chance for salvation, if there was a chance at all, would be to head back towards the city. Monsters didn’t live in cities, didn’t thrive there. There’s an almost prickling fantasy that blurs through your mind: cross the threshold of the trail and it will stop instantly, like a fairy tale creature unable to cross a magic bridge.

You will be safe, if you can get back there.

But how to get there, with a beast at your back?

You’ve got to turn around, somehow. If you can turn around, you can go back the way you came, and get back to human civilization. If you get back to human civilization, where monsters are dreams and movie magic, you will live.

If you keep going into the woods, you’ll only get lost, you’ll be so deep that no one will hear you scream. If you even had the lung capacity to scream, after all this running. Would the lungs the monster tears through with its claws, its teeth, have anything left in them?

You can’t turn around the proper way. Your brain, frantic though it is, is steady enough to understand that fact. You’ll lose momentum if you try to pivot and go back the way you came, and who is to say if you’ll be fast enough to evade the monster at all?

But you want to live.

So you do what the signs at the beginning of the trail forbade you to do, and veer off the trail, pushing into the thicket of the forest. The branches snag on your clothes, and you’re glad you decided against wearing the fanny pack after all. You’re able to pull the fabric of your shirt and trousers free from the branches as they snap and rustle around you; a fanny pack would have been a death sentence.

And when you make your desperate foray into the thicket of the woods, something happens. Something that makes your blood run cold, despite the heat of your pumping muscles and the sweat beginning to drip down your back.

The creature stops running. Oh, just for a moment. You hear the racket of its limbs, of its power and size, cease. And you hear a little sound, a bit like a chuckle. That can’t be right, though. It must be catching its breath. Even monstrous creatures get tired.

It must have been a wheeze, that’s all. The alternative is far worse.

It doesn’t stay still for long. You hear its body pushing through the canopy of trees now, too.

It’s faster than you. And stronger than you.

But you keep running. Desperate, human, wanting to avoid the horrible fate at the end of its teeth and claws.

Your thighs and lungs and chest burn awfully as you hop over branches, run through canopies of leaves that slap your face as you go through them, the sting of micro-scratches registering as if you’re experiencing them as a third party.

What does a few scratches mean, if you get attacked by some--thing? No one will ever find your body, probably. Or it will be so unrecognizable that they’ll never identify you.

If you trip now, you’re done for. If you trip now, that thing will be on you, with its many mouths and many hands and many teeth.

If you trip now, that is.

Somehow, sheer dumb luck or some otherworldly being guiding your burning legs, you don’t trip until you reach the very edge of the woods, when the beautiful sight of the trail’s entrance is within arm’s reach.

“Fuck!”

You shout out, hands catching you before you hit the ground proper and hurting awfully in the process. Your palms sting, you’re sure there will be blood and scrapes. Like when you used to trip on the sidewalk as a kid and you wound up with gravel in your palms for the trouble.

That doesn’t matter though. What matters is that you can feel the weight of the creature behind you, can imagine it rearing up, can smell something--its breath, its body?--and you know you’re about to die.

This is it. A lifetime, all ended with–

Ding-ding-ding!

The ring of a bicycle bell turns out to be your saving grace. Someone pulling up to hike or maybe they heard your distress or who fucking cares, really, because at the sight of the bell, you hear the monster retreat back into the woods.

The person on the bike seems appropriately concerned at the state of you, sweat plasteirng your hair and clothes to your skin, your face red with exertion. They offer a hand and you don’t know what they’re saying because the thought of getting your translation book out right now is the furthest thing from your mind.

They murmur in concern at the scrapes on your hands. Those scrapes are nothing, compared to what was behind you; what should have happened, when you tripped. Child’s play, in more ways than one.

You let this stranger–your savior, really–guide you on jelly-like legs that carry you away from the forest, back towards the little town and what must be safety. Safety in numbers, safety in humanity, safety in the knowledge that the streets are filled with buildings, bikes, cars; the smell of automobile smoke and food stalls. The chatter of people, car horns, all of it a far cry from the wild woods and the wild creature behind you.

As you walk away on unsteady legs, you swear you hear another sound from the forest. you swear–but no, no, the rational part of your mind bubbles you safely away from it; oh, it can’t be real it can’t be real it can’t be real.

Because--

It sounds like laughter.

You don’t tell the police about the arms, and mouths, or the laughter. Only that you were chased by some kind of animal--you don’t know what--that was following you on the trail.

The police smile at your story, told to them in shakily typed app-translated Japanese, and one of them types into his own translation app that they will search the forest, but that it was probably an aggressive bear.

It was not a bear. You know this. You know this, and you let them placate you with assurances that they will put up signs, and send out a forest warden. Despite the awful knowledge that nests in your stomach like a rotten egg: this was not a goddamn bear.

It was a monster in those woods.

But who would believe you, if you tried to tell the truth?

–

The stranger with the silver hair and mismatched eyes spots you that afternoon, sitting at a local cafe with what must be a shaken, sullen expression. You’ve hardly touched the food you ordered, instead keeping your hands wrapped around your warm drink, focusing on the way it spreads through your fingers.

Not that he seems to mind your look or the clear tension surrounding you like miasma. In fact, he plops right into the chair across from you without even asking, all grins, and swipes one of the mini sandwiches you ordered for lunch.

The audacity. The over-familiarity. Honestly? You can’t help but find it refreshing, in this moment, your mind and body still shaken from the ordeal. It was better than the awkward distance between you and everyone else; it was like the monster in the forest had laid its scent on you, and everyone knew to keep a step back.

“Trail?” He asks, eyes glancing over your hair, cropped short and still sticking a little to your forehead from sweat. He smiles a little–at you, maybe. Or maybe he just likes to smile. “Fun?”

The word hits, but not too hard. Not as hard as it would have, if anyone else had asked it.

It’s not like he knew what happened. And maybe… maybe he would know something more? A local who knew the trail, who lived around here, might take you more seriously than the police. Especially since he was a little strange himself, he might be used to the idea of not being believed.

So you shake your head and offer up your phone to this perfect stranger, with the translated story from the police station still typed in. An animal, but you didn’t know what kind; a chase through the woods.

“Ah,” he says, after a while of staring unblinking at the screen. “No fun.” He smiles, when he shouldn’t. “Scared.”

“Yeah,” you admit, breathily, almost smiling yourself. A lighthearted confirmation for a terrifying experience. Something about this stranger makes you want to open up. Makes you want to trust him. It’s like he gets you, and considering the fact that you stuck out like a sore thumb in this small foreign town, you latched right onto it.

Then, leaning forward, you type the eager words into your app before asking them out loud: “Have you ever heard of there being a monster in that forest?”

You’re not sure if he knows enough English to register what you’ve said before reading the phone screen, but your words make his eyes widen.

So you continue, almost babbling a bit, describing it in more detail. You’re not sure how much he understands, how much he’s getting. Your fingers type frantically into the app, repeating a choppy version of what comes bubbling out of your lips, hoping it makes enough sense. App translators weren’t exactly known for their accuracy.

But you want to tell him, need to tell him, all about the way it moved, the odd breathy sounds that almost sounded like speech, and the rippling under the skin. The primal feeling of being prey in the woods, the same as any rabbit, any deer.

People are glancing over as you speak, as you show this stranger your phone and go on about the horrors of the forest; and you’re not entirely sure if it’s because he committed an awful social faux pas in plopping down at your table to casually or because of you. Your words, your clothes, the way you’re getting increasingly frantic as he actually listens to what you say and doesn’t tell you that you’re some crazy American tourist who might consider going back to your hotel and taking a nap.

He gets you, he gets this, you’re sure of it even before you’re finished with your story.

When you’re done, you can feel new beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck. During the course of your conversation, his wide-eyed expression has gone somber. Seriously. Like he knows exactly what you mean and it makes your chest clench in sick hope.

“Yes,” he says, finally; low, leaning forward. His voice is soft and earnest and you latch onto it in a sea of unfamiliarity. “I know about a monster.” He glances around, apparently now keenly aware of the stares, although they only make him grin. “I tell you… not here. At home.”

Home? His home? Maybe you shouldn’t--lord, stranger danger--but the stares only seem to intensify when he stands up, and you follow suit on instinct. It makes you feel naked, judged. Frayed-nerves don’t do anything but amplify the sensation.

This is stupid. You read enough travel articles before coming to know that you shouldn’t go to places with a stranger. Hell, you knew that before you searched “Japan travel tips” on your phone for the first time–how many times did your mother tell you to never be alone with a stranger, back when you were small and so very different?

But you were an adult now. More sure of yourself, in more ways than one. And this stranger, this strange young man, might be able to help you. If someone else knew about the monster, well; it might mean you weren’t out of your mind. It might mean you could leave Japan with this part of yourself intact.

It’s something of a relief when the stranger grabs your wrists and pulls you away from the cafe.

Your stomach flutters equally with that relief–and uncertainty.

His home, he explains in his own accented English, is at the edge of the forest. It’s enough to make you nearly trip over your own shoes, when he tells you. The stranger turns around, smiles, but he doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, either, holding it with a gentle firmness that makes you want to avoid pulling away.

“Scared?” His smile is small and almost private. Whether it’s just for you, or him, you’re not sure.

You swallow. And nod. A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, but you try to remember that there is strength in numbers.

He looks you up and down, and tugs you closer, so that you’re walking nearly side by side as he holds you close. The closeness is, you think, a comfort.

“The monster lives anywhere,” he says. There’s a blend of solemnity and humor to his tone that you can’t quite place. It might just be his accent, you tell yourself.

You tell yourself a lot of things. Like that he sidepasses the forest trail and takes you through a shortcut in the woods because it’s quicker, and safer.

Branches and leaves snap underfoot, and the dead silence of anything but the noise the pair of you make as you walk is all too familiar. The quiet is unusual, in a forest like this. There should be the sound of animals, the sound of scurrying, the steady hum of insects.

Silence in a forest means something is wrong.

You shouldn’t be here, your body tells you. Your heart begins to pound again, and you tug a little on your wrist--you should tell him that you don’t want to go to his home, after all. You’re fine with not knowing the truth about the monster.

You’re fine with not following this stranger into the woods, in a foreign country, after having just been chased by something mere hours ago.

If he notices your tug, your apprehension, then he says nothing. He only maintains his steady grip, his steady smile.

“The monster eats people,” he says again, with that awful casualness. There’s a thought in your mind--you, tripping, the monster over you, tearing you apart with its teeth. Nobody finding your body, or whatever was left of it.

Without warning, the stranger stops. His grip on your wrist loosens and you slowly pull it towards you, heart thudding in your chest.

He stopped, yes, but why? There’s no house here. Only the woods around you, without the comfort of the manmade trail as a guide. Not that the trail kept you safe the first time. And are you really at the edge of the forest? If anything, you walked deep into it, away from the trails, from the markers, from the tourist spots marked on the maps.

Oh.

Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is–

“How do you know so much about the monster?” You ask, quietly. There’s only so much room for proper thoughts in your brain, and the only one that worms its way to the top is a sensible, naive question. “Have you seen it before?”

He doesn’t answer. Not in words, English or otherwise. You wish he did. You wish he kept talking, and you kept talking, and you found yourself at some run-down shack where he lived off the grid.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, he tilts his head up, long hair almost slithering across his shoulders with the movement. As he does, he grins, the profile of it broad and then wide and then wider and then--

Then it’s so wide that it splits his face into two, revealing a mass of dark red colored flesh and teeth sharp enough to tear through your muscles. And oh, my, grandmother, what big teeth you have.

There are undoubtedly words within you, words that might express the primal shock and horror at what you're seeing. But all that comes out of your mouth is a squeak, a wheezing little sound that has him turning.

You wish he didn't turn. You wish all you saw was the profile of his split face, because as he turns it is no longer possible to recognize him as the young man from before. Except for that beautiful silver hair, cascading over his shoulders, beautiful and grotesque.

His body expands as he turns, and muscles beneath the skin rise as his height gets too tall, his arms grow too numerous, and you can't believe mere moments ago he was simply a quirky good looking stranger who was going to help you solve this traumatic tourist mystery.

It’s not enough that he has too many arms. It's not enough that he has too many teeth, and they are so sharp that you know without thinking that they are going to tear through your flesh and rip it like well-braised beef.

There is something underneath his skin. It was there before, and it’s there now, only you’re closer–and still–and its presence is not some shock to the system but a confirmation of an earlier, terrible scene.

Oh, yes, there is something under his skin, and it does not stay still. You can see it moving, like a worm or an alien. Only instead of bursting out of his chest it simply moves, rippling the flesh underneath. Is it separate from him? One and the same? Is this some solitary mass, or are there more–to go with the creature's many arms and many teeth?

How can this creature be anything but a monster, something other?

Unless--unless you're looking in his eyes.

(His, or its? You don’t know, and you never want to find out.)

But those eyes, those eyes are just as pretty and human as they were before.

His human eyes are staring right at you. Your mouth is agape, and you wish you had something other than domesticated teeth designed for chewing and not ripping apart. Because there's nothing you can do in the face of this but run.

You are prey, after all. The rabbit. The deer. The thing that scurries and squeaks.

So you do run. For the second time in so many hours, you run for your life.

Only now the sun is starting to set, and you are in a completely unfamiliar part of the forest, and you know the monster is real and that it wants you and that it played with you like a cat plays with its food.

Your breath comes out in sharp, short pants. There's something tingling in the adrenaline that courses through your veins, pumping straight from your brain to every extremity, making even the tips of your fingers feel numb and floating.

It’s like you're high from the fear.

"Why run?"

The monster calls after you, even as it gives chase. It doesn’t sound as winded now.

And fuck, his voice sounds exactly the same. Why couldn't he sound like a monster? Why couldn't he sound like some guttural beast with no connection to humanity?

Why does he sound like the helpful, if a bit strange, young man who sat with you in the café? Who cheerfully pointed out the spot on the map you ought to go? Who seemed kind, if odd, an unusual character you would surely tell everyone at home about once you got off the plane?

But the resemblance ends at his voice, at these little things. It ends at the glimmer of silver hair and the too-human eyes that you can no longer see as you try desperately to lose it in the forest. Swerving here and there, stumbling and half-leaping over obstacles, whipping through tree branches that claw at you in the dimming light.

You’re bleeding, you know it. You think the monster knows it, too.

"I like you," the voice says, light and breezy, from behind you. He says it in English and you wish he didn't, because it means he wants you to understand.

It’s better when you don’t understand the monsters that chase you.

Your foot trips on something, a branch or a log or the bone of a dead animal, and for the second time today, your body goes sailing through the air. This time, you land on the ground with a thump, half-crumpled.

You could lie down here. You could lie down and die; let it rip through your throat and hopefully it would kill you quick before consuming your flesh.

But you don't want to. You don't want to die and it's not fair and you're just supposed to be on a nice trip, the end result of an entire year's worth of paid time off accrual. But instead, you're panting and bleeding and being chased by something in the forest that wants to eat you and likes you in what may be equal measure.

So you force your exhausted arms to push up from the ground and you stumble into a run. Pitiful as it is. Pointless as it is.

Behind you, the creature laughs. Or the young man laughs. You're not sure which is which, or if they were different to begin with.

"I like you," it says again. There's something lighter in its tone now. Or maybe you're imagining it, high on adrenaline and lack of oxygen from all the panting. The tingling in your body hasn’t stopped, even as you stumble forward.

"I'll keep you," it--he? You don't know, fuck--says. "Always."

The silliest of thoughts worms its way through your fear-addled brain. Did he learn English just to communicate with you? Did all monsters speak different languages? Or did he shove his face into a tourist phrasebook in between chasing you and finding you in the cafe?

It's this silly thought that sticks in your ear as you go sailing to the ground again. Pushed, maybe. Or maybe you tripped on the bones of a dead fox, its flesh long eaten away by predators then maggots, in that order.

Palms stinging, knees burning. Blood bubbling through a tear in your trousers--cut on a sharp branch, you think.

Your thigh aches.

Your lungs ache.

Your chest aches.

Behind you, there is only the forest-noise of the monster chasing you. Arms and legs and the presence of it, pushing through branches and bushes like nothing. It could kill you like nothing, too. Maybe there are claws at the end of those hands, too many hands and too many fingers, and the world makes no more sense than it did a few hours ago.

Still, you don't want to die. Not here, not like this. So you push up with your burning, aching arms, and force yourself into a wobbling, weak standing position.

It halts when you stand. You don't turn to see, you don’t even register the cessation of the rush of brush and bramble--you just know.

One step forward, on wobbling legs. Legs that can’t run anymore, no matter what is chasing you.

“Oh,” says the monster. A soft, sweet sound.

Another step forward, and your knees buckle underneath you. Down you go.

“Oh,” it says again. You do register the lack of sound, now. Nothing but distant insects (you wish they were closer) and your own breathing, and a sort of rustling as the monster approaches you from behind.

”Cute,” it says. And oh, now, you can imagine its wide mouth, all those teeth, cradling the word like soft candy.

You stare, barely able to support your body on your arms, at the ground underneath you. This will be the last thing you see, you think. At least it’s kind of pretty--nature. Green and brown and there’s life here, some insects meandering along underneath you, uncaring as to whatever is going on up above.

Maybe they’ll get to eat what’s left of your body, when he’s finished. The circle of life, and all that.

But it won’t be the last thing you see. Because you’re turning--no, you’re being turned, four or five or six arms on you, cradling you in a sickeningly gentle way even as your weakened muscles strain against their hold.

Your lungs strain and your breath comes out in short, terrible pants. The soft, sad acceptance is a lot harder to keep up when you’re facing death head-on.

The last thing you’ll see will be this monster, above you, silver hair almost shimmering in the dimmed light of the forest. His mouth too wide, his limbs and teeth and scars too many, his human eyes boring into you with a glinting fascination. A sickly sweet sort of affection.

That something is still underneath the skin, too. Rippling. Like a tick burrowed underneath the flesh, straining, wanting to get out but being unable to do so.

His stretched mouth opens and there are so many fangs--you imagine the pain--imagine the teeth boring down into your chest or your neck, the tearing of your flesh.

But that isn’t how you die; that isn’t how he eats you.

Instead--instead--his mouth opens wide and you hear the grinding of flesh as he teeth retract further into his mouth, leaving only a gaping dark hole staring down at you. Above it, his nose, distorted; above that, those eyes, still human, still searching your gaze as he leans forward and your body is gently cradled into the open mouth and pushed down into the tight cavern of his throat.

He swallows you down, and pushes you forward into his throat, down his gullet, onward and onward. There are brief glimpses of the world outside just before you enter his mouth, and then everything goes dark.

But not because you’re dead. Oh, if only you were dead. Instead, you are alive–you are inside.

It’s wet, inside. Wet and warm, like an inside should be. But there’s a wrongness to it all. You were never meant to be pushed down a gullet, to be surrounded by this pulsating warm darkness that slickened your skin even as your mind began to constrict along with your lungs.

Too tight. Too warm. Too many limbs--and despite all those teeth, they did nothing to ease your passing, to tear through your arteries and let you bleed out before you were swallowed up.

You were swallowed whole, instead. Like Jonah and the whale. Like Pinnochio. Like other characters in other stories, and you can’t think of them now, with the buzz in your brain getting both louder and weaker all at the same time.

You don’t want to die–and not like this; the buzz in your brain constricts, something primal, telling you to GET.OUT.

And you try. You really do try, through pure instinct alone. An instinct you didn’t know you had until you were in this forest, inside of this beast. That animal instinct to free yourself from the jaws, the very stomach, of death.

Your arms, pressed up against your side by the pressure of the moist muscles around you, begin to flail. Your legs, too, constricted by the space you’re in–but moving. Squirming and kicking, trying to get some sort of purchase inside your living prison.

Strange, dim thoughts come as your body begins to squirm. They are the only thing keeping you human, separating you from the mouse clawing from inside a snake.

The thoughts–Being in here is like the time you wrapped yourself up in a sleeping bag and got stuck; being in here is like the first time you went down the tube slide at the playground as an adult, drunk at midnight, and almost got stuck.

Being in here is like all those times you thought you were going to suffocate inside something tight and warm and wrong–only this time, there is no triumphant roll as the sleeping bag unwraps, no sigh of relief as you wiggle your body back up the slide to freedom

There is only the wetness and warmness and the feeling of the monster around you. He hums–oh God, you can feel him humming, feel the way his body rumbles. He says something, too, you think. Something with a cadence that you’re so glad you can’t understand.

You have to get out. You have to get out, damn it.

There’s a sick sort of rhythm to it, and while your mind recoils from the slick feeling against your skin as you begin to trash, it also gives you hope. This is how you get out, how you get free. Somehow, squirming inside the beast that’s swallowed you–you’ll survive.

If only you could move more. If you could raise your arms and claw at the warm, wet interior, it might hurt enough to let you go. Throw you up or spit you out or maybe you could burrow your fingers so deep it rips the beast’s flesh open, like a bear gutting a salmon.

A salmon is perhaps what you most resemble now as your thrashing becomes a spasm, reflexive, increasingly jerky as the oxygen in your lungs begins to dwindle.

Get-out-get-out-get-out, your mind screams.

Your body does its best. Your breath comes shallow now, panting loud inside the tight space and its moving, living walls. It’s all too moist, too hot, too wrong.

Warm, damp limbs jerk and kick and get nowhere in particular for their troubles. The moving walls against you constrict and release, slowly, and you find your thrashing only helps move you down further.

Further into the body of the beast. Further away from the world outside, further away from everything that made you a living breathing tourist just looking for a pretty mountain trail to explore and winding up eaten alive for their troubles.

It was just an hour or so ago, wasn’t it, that you were sitting in the cafe? It seems like a lifetime, a distant memory, a dream. You cry out, the sound all warbled and wrong inside the tight cavern of his body.

You want out–you want to go home–but there’s nothing you can do but trash again, soft, bleating sounds pushing out of your increasingly constricted lungs.

“Oh.”

The monster speaks again, and the rumbling against you is softer, somehow. Cooing and low. And oh, Jesus–you feel him now. Feel his hands on the outside of what must be his belly, where you’ve wormed your way towards with every thrash.

The press of his hands against his skin from the outside is nearly unbearable, sending the wet-hot interior of the inside pressing against your cheek, smearing something slick against your skin, against your eye.

It stings against your lashes and you can’t see, can’t move your hands up enough to properly wipe it away. It makes you jerk again, makes your breath come in tighter, faster, less thoughtful and closer and closer to pure instinct.

Thoughts don’t come as easily. There’s only that desire to get out, to break free, to get away from the wet heat that surrounds you. There’s more slickness now, and a strange sort of acrid scent. A bitter, acidic scent in the air that stings your nostrils.

He presses against his belly again and you wail, and he coos, and there’s hardly any space left for you to thrash but you try as best you can.

One.

Two.

Three more times.

And then the world gets too woozy, too hazy. You can’t breathe in here. You can’t move, really, aside from the way your limbs still twitch on instinct. You can’t see, and the sounds are only the strange rushing, the warbled noises from the beast that are hard to distinguish.

The last thing you can sense with any sort of human distinctness is another side, slick and slithering, the sound of something inside the beast with you–oh God, you are not alone in here–and this last thought is when you stop being a person. When the thoughts cease to come as distinct lines from your brain and turn into a low, humming, dying thing.

The twitches that send your body spasming are not that of a person trying to escape, but of prey, finally subdued.

Undoubtedly, you were once a human being. A person who grew up and imagined a future, some distant thing you couldn’t conceive as a child but which grew more concrete with every passing year. Someone who wanted a girlfriend or boyfriend, and eventually got one. Someone who thought, yeah, maybe kids, some day, if you adopted.

Who imagined going to school and getting a job that paid decently enough; who did just that, working your ass off, spending all nighters drinking shitty dorm coffee before examples. All to get a degree to get an internship to get a desk job, so you could take nice vacations like this one, where you saved for a year and submitted your time-off request 6 months in advance and everyone at work told you to have fun and take plenty of pictures.

You were a person with hopes and dreams, with a family, with a past, with memories both clear and fuzzy. Sitting on the beach as a child and getting pinched by a crab you tried to place on top of your sand castle. Pushing another kid off the swing when he refused to give you a turn. Coming out to your parents and your dad making a joke about father-son fishing trips and your mom laughing too loud because she didn’t know what to say about having a daughter and now having a son.

All of that, and so much more besides--all of that and everything you ever were, everything you are, everything you will now never ever be, is lost inside a warm void of a body, a slithering, living cavity.

There’s no buzz in your brain now, no lungs to draw in desperate sucks of air. Nothing to register the monster sprawling out on the forest floor, satiated, thinking of how pretty you looked when you ran and the warm, full with the feeling of you inside him now.

He’ll rest here, dappled sunlight warming his skin, letting you digest; breaking you down with acid, absorbing your nutrients into his own body.

And you?

You’re dead and gone and there’s no comfort in knowing that Mahito will think of you for a long while, even after you’ve been digested. You were such nice prey, after all.

#mahito x reader #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #afterwitch writes #/slaps trunk #this baby can fit so many awkward tourist moments in it #darkfic

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 4 months ago

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In The Mood [Frankie x reader]

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Read on Ao3

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x you (gn!reader, no body descriptions)

Tags: boyfriend!Frankie, kissing, allusions to sex, just frankie being a wonderful attentive man who's perfect in every way, reader is lactose intolerant.

Summary: You're tired and stressed. Frankie is just the best kind of boyfriend. That's the plot.

Words: 1,302

A/N: Was suddenly struck with a want to write. @rambling-in-purple told me what to write. Thanks, babe.

Show some love: reblog and/or comment on a fic you like!

You see Frankie’s truck on the parking lot of your apartment building as you pull in. You don’t live together yet, but you have a key to his place, and he has one to yours, and it’s clear that he’s used it now. You sigh a little as you turn off the engine. This week isn’t over yet, but it’s been A Lot, and you’re tired and not really capable of giving much tonight. Not that Frankie demands anything, really: he’s easy-going and seems to get off on doing stuff for you, but just having someone in the same space as you after a day like this feels a little much. Even if it’s Frankie.

I’m not in the mood for sex tonight, that’s for damn sure, you think to yourself as you enter the building, and you immediately regret your unfair thoughts. Frankie has never pressured you or shown up just for sex.

You unlock the door and step in.

”Frankie?”

He shows up from the kitchen with a warm smile on his face, and comes to take your jacket from you, hanging it up before kissing you softly on the lips.

”Hi, sweetheart.”

”Hi. What are you doing here?”

His hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips, like he’s sealing in his kiss.

”I thought I’d make you dinner. Or get takeout, what do you think?”

What do you think? You don’t think at all, because you had been dreading having to cook when you got home, and now that that problem seems to have solved itself, you have to take a minute to recalibrate your stressed brain.

”Um, yeah, that would be great,” you manage with a smile as you take off your shoes, and leave your purse on the hallway table.

”Didn’t want to use whatever you have in your kitchen without your permission, though, otherwise I would’ve surprised you with dinner ready when you got home,” he tells you as he leads you to the living-room, and plops you down on the couch.

”I don’t think I have that much in the fridge,” you confess with a wry smile. Grocery shopping has been a little too much to ask for this week, you’ll deal with that in the weekend.

”I noticed.” Frankie shoots you a wry smile. ”I can make bolognese, if you’d like that?”

You hum, a little overwhelmed as you rub your forehead.

”You okay?” Frankie sits down next to you and puts his hand on your knee. ”Headache?”

”No, I... I’m sorry, but how did you even get the idea to come over?”

”Because you had a tough day,” he shrugs. ”Was I not supposed to?”

”How did you know I had a tough day?” you stare at him. Frankie looks a little confused, and leans back against the backrest as he regards you.

”Because you texted me?”

”I didn’t tell you I had a shit day?”

”No but... I guess I just read that into it?”

You take a moment to process his words. Frankie shrugs, a little self-conscious as you stare him down in disbelief.

”I don’t know, your tone was different and you were brief. And you said last week that this week is going to be hectic – ”

”You remembered that?” you cut him off rudely. ”How, Frankie?”

”Because I’m a normal, functioning adult without a brain tumour?” Now he’s mirroring your disbelief as he stares back at you.

”That is not normal.”

”Is too.”

”Is not.”

He sits upright and takes your hand.

”It’s normal to me, baby.”

Lifting your hand to his lips, he kisses it gently, twice, before placing it down on your lap. You start to smile, and lower your eyes.

”I’m sorry. I guess... I haven’t had anyone like that in my life before. Someone who actually pays attention to what I say.”

”That’s awful, I’m sorry.”

”Don’t be. I’m with one now.”

You raise your gaze to meet his soft, brown eyes, and you suddenly feel a little calmer.

”Thank you,” you tell him quietly. ”I really appreciate you being here.”

”Of course,” he smiles, and gathers you into his arms, squeezing you softly against his chest. ”Anytime.”

You hug him tightly and breathe a sigh of relief, inhale the scent of him before sighing again. Frankie kisses your head and hums when you slowly stroke your hand over his lower back.

Your stomach’s growling ruins the moment, and you chuckle.

”I’m quite hungry.”

”Okay, so what will it be? I can cook, or we can get takeout. My treat.”

”You know, I’m a little too tired to decide,” you confess. ”Anything goes, and feel free to go nuts with anything you can find in the kitchen if you decide to cook. Can I jump in the shower, and you’ll just surprise me?”

”That sounds perfect.”

Frankie gets up and offers you his hand to help you up as well, placing one last kiss on your lips before releasing you to go to the bathroom.

As you standing underneath the spray of water and let it wash away the stress of the day, your mind wanders to all those times Frankie has noticed what you say and do.

That time he scanned the selection of an ice-cream stand, then asked you if you wanted to go someplace else or if you had your pills with you, because they didn’t have any lactose-free or non-dairy alternatives.

That time he asked if you wanted to leave a party despite you having said nothing about being tired, but your smile was growing more and more strained by the minute.

Or every time he brings you flowers, and they’re never supermarket roses but always something a little different from the flowershop, because you once said that while you don’t not like roses, there is a world of flowers out there, and one should always support one’s local florists.

Frankie opted for home delivery of your favorite meal from your favorite Thai restaurant. You don’t even ask how he remembered what your favorite on the menu is, or how he knows what level of spiciness you want it. It’s delicious, as always, and you relax even more as you share the meal with Frankie, talking and laughing. You’re clean and wearing your lounge clothes, and by the time dinner is finished, you’re full as well. Frankie makes you a cup of herbal tea, and you end up on the couch, starting up Netflix but barely watching as you doze off against Frankie’s shoulder. Right before nine, he gets up to go to the bathroom, and as he comes out and returns to the living-room, he stops right before the couch.

”Hey,” he tells you softly, ”I think it’s getting to be bedtime for you.”

”I think so too,” you yawn, getting on your feet and stretching. ”You staying the night?”

He hesitates.

”Better not. You need your sleep, I don’t want to be in the way.”

Your slide your arms around his waist and look him in the eye.

”You, Francisco Morales, are the least in the way man I know.”

He chuckles. ”I don’t think that was a correct sentence.”

”Oh, shut up.” You lean in to kiss him, just a gentle peck, then another.

”I’d like for you to stay,” you mumble. ”You might even get lucky if you do.”

”Is that so...?” His arms go around you, and you are enveloped in his warmth.

”Uh-huh...”

”If you’re sure you’re up to it.”

”No marathons, though.”

”I can be quick.” His smile shines through the kiss, and you giggle.

”I have an hour in me, I’m sure.”

Look at you, you think to yourself as you take Frankie by the hand and walk before him to the bedroom. In the mood despite it all.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfic #my fic

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twistyfish · 9 months ago

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prompt~ rafayel fluff -> angst where he’s rude and apologizes after. requested by anon!

“Why did you paint my acne scars so clearly?”

“Because they’re on your face!”

While you were normally impressed by Rafayel’s attention to detail, today it was making you very self conscious. “Was there really a reason to include them, though? They’re temporary marks that aren’t a part of me. And you literally drew the individual pores on my nose- Raf, this is so unflattering.”

“Quit micromanaging me. Art isn’t supposed to judge itself, you know.”

You huffed at his response. “But art is supposed to be pretty. This is not pretty. It’s uncanny. It looks too much like me, I don’t like it.”

He chuckled. “You don’t like that the portrait I’m painting of you looks like you? You’re so interesting, cutie.”

“Stop, you know what I mean.”

He didn’t turn his head, but his gaze flitted to meet yours before returning to the canvas. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

You watched the brush flutter around the canvas like moth wings, leaving intricate strokes in its wake. As Rafayel became more engrossed in his process, you left him to work and went out with a few girls from your team.

You had a nice time catching up with them and getting coffee. Well, two of you got coffee and Tara got hot chocolate.

When you returned a few hours later, he was staring at the painting with a look of intense scrutiny. You walked up to him quietly.

A little too quietly, because when you put a hand on his shoulder, he tensed and his paintbrush created a small splotch on the canvas mid-stroke.

“Oh! I’m sorr-“ you started, but he cut you off.

“Are you kidding me? I just finished painting that section.”

Your heart sank a little. You felt genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I don’t care what you meant to do. You ruined it. There’s a huge smudge over the nose.” His shoulders were tense, and he was holding himself more rigidly than he had been when you left.

“Raf, I think you should take a break.”

“Oh, so just because I’m upset that you interfered with my painting, I’m being irrational?”

“That’s not what I-“

“Don’t think I didn’t notice. The spot where you made me mess up is right on top of the part you didn’t like. If you’re that insecure, you shouldn’t have asked me to paint you.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “What?” You said harshly.

“You heard me. Why ask me to paint your face if you’re going to criticize me every step of the way?”

“Stop. I accidentally startled you and you made a mistake because of it. Are you seriously accusing me of sabotaging your painting because of that?”

“Maybe.”

You stared at him blankly. “I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe you either.”

You shook your head and picked up your bag, walking toward the exit. You weren’t going to argue with him like this.

Your mind spun. Why was he acting like this?

Fortunately, he seemed to come to his senses fast because you didn’t even make it halfway home before the phone rang. You accepted the call half heartedly.

“Hey,” his voice rang through the phone.

“Hi,” you said with a flat tone.

“I’m a dick.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have called you insecure and I shouldn’t have accused you of anything. I’m the one who messed up.”

“It’s not a huge deal, but yeah, you shouldn’t have.”

“No, it was unnecessary. And what I said about me not painting you? That was stupid. I love painting you. I would paint you all day if I could. I can’t capture your likeness perfectly, but trying to recreate that radiance makes me so, so happy.”

Your lips spread into a smile hearing that. “Really?”

“Really. I got too defensive over my art of you, but that wasn’t cool because I snapped at the real you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Raf. I forgive you.”

“Yay!”

#love and deepspace x reader #lads #love and deepspace #lads x you #lads x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #angst to fluff

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bruisedboys · 2 years ago

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I have a concerning amount of Bradley Bradshaw thoughts, so I was so excited to see your post asking for them!! You also made a post about being bad at eye contact and I’ve never related to something more in my life. So…

I started thinking about Bradley and shy!r who can’t hold eye contact with him!! But I can’t decide if he’d be understanding or hold your face toward his and lovingly tease you. What do you think??

(This is my first time requesting but I’ve been following you for a while and love your blog!🤍)

omg. so I’ve decided he absolutely does the second one because he’s such a huge flirt …… also I made this a blurb hope you don’t mind !!

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x fem!reader

You’re out grocery shopping with Bradley (which is nerve wracking enough already, he keeps pulling you out of the way of other customers by the waist, leaning over your shoulder to read the ingredients on a tub of yoghurt you’re looking at, his face an inch from yours) when he stops in the ice cream section and just looks at you. At first you think you’ve got something on your face.

“What?” You ask, confused and a little self conscious.

“You look really pretty,” he says simply, smiling that awful (gorgeous) smile that you hate (love) and obliterating any thoughts of self consciousness you previously had. “I’m so in love with you I could die, sweetheart. Seriously.”

Your heart seems to explode out of your chest. Your face gets hot and you’re sure your legs almost give out. You can’t look at him any longer because he’s so handsome and he’s lovely and kind and looking at him means knowing he’s looking right back at you. With his stupid gorgeous brown eyes and pretty smile and undeniably handsome moustache.

You avert your gaze to the linoleum floor. Staring at it as if it will save you from your incredibly sweet boyfriend. And then said boyfriend starts laughing. He laughs and you should be offended, should tell him off for laughing at you when you’re literally being tortured in the middle of the grocery store, but his laugh is maybe your favourite sound in the whole world.

Bradley drops the carton of ice cream he’s holding in the cart and surges forward to take your face in his hands, never rough but definitely demanding of your attention.

“Babe,” he says, faux serious, eyebrows pinched in an almost-glare, though his grin betrays the act. He lifts your jaw so you’re looking at him again. “I’m talking to you. You know it’s rude to look away while I’m talking to you.”

He’s joking, of course he is. He knows how shy you are and would never ever demean you for it. Still, you struggle to meet his eyes, opting for staring at his nose instead.

“Bradley,” you say, breathless but trying not to be. “You can’t just say something like that while I’m trying to get groceries. It’s life ruining.”

“Life ruining!” Bradley laughs, loud and ecstatic. “You’re life ruining. You’re so lovely it makes me sick. Can’t you give a guy a break?”

“Oh my gosh,” you complain, almost begging with him. “Stop.”

You wrestle your way out of his grip (he doesn’t put up much of a fight at all. If he did you’d still be firmly stuck), and step away, hot around the collar, stomach churning with butterflies, wishing the floor would swallow you up.

Bradley just grins at you. “You’re cute,” he says. “Come on, let’s find the sprinkles. Do you want chocolate syrup too?”

You honestly don’t think your stomach could handle it.

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smolandweirdwriter · 7 months ago

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Love the idea of still ears being a signal for tired/laziness. feel like that makes up a bunch of “lights are on but no one’s home” type of sayings - yea he’s a nice guy but those ears don’t twitch, you get me? I was so tired last night you’d have through someone petrified my ears! Etc etc

Adaine muttering, "My ears are stones I'm so tired" after a long night of adventuring and everyone just. stares at her. except fig, who knows what it means, and fabian, who touches his own ears, which don't move involuntarily and which he has to focus hard to make move. (not that hes self-conscious about that. no. definitely not. he grips his battle sheet tighter.)

elves and goblins have a lot of sayings about ears. "Stiff-ear" is basically the equivalent of "couch potato" for elves, but it means someone rude or insensitive to goblins. this causes some interesting communication blunders for adaine, fig, and riz

#adaine abernant #riz gukgak #fig faeth #headcanons #fh #fhjy #fantasy high #dimension 20 #fantasy high sophomore year #fantasy high junior year #kristen applebees #fabian seacaster #gorgug thistlespring #smolwrites

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thegiacabin · 4 months ago

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𓏲⋆.♡ CAMP NAP-BLOOD ⋆₊ .ᐟ

( 𓂃ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ 💤 ༄) percy jackson x fem!reader

a/n: AYYYY my mini series is finally done, hope it makes ya laugh 💗 ALSO im so sorry this is not gn pronouns i was mostly self projecting and i am a girl so ig I forgot. ilyy thoooo my lil gender neutral queens ‼️‼️

Episode 1: Welcome to Camp Nap-Blood

Reader arrives at Camp Half-Blood, literally yawning through her orientation with Chiron. She’s been falling asleep in the middle of sword-fighting lessons, harpy chases, and Capture the Flag. But her dreams? They’re weirdly vivid. Percy notices her snoozing during a campfire and wakes her up (kinda rude, but he’s trying to be helpful). Turns out, the campfire stories she was hearing in her “sleep” were straight-up messages from her dad, Hypnos.

Reader: “I wasn’t sleeping, I was… meditating.”

Percy: “Meditating with drool on your face?”

Episode 2: Quest Announcement (And She’s Already Snoring)

Chiron gives Percy, Annabeth, and Grover a new quest… and Reader gets selected too. WHY? She’s barely conscious 80% of the time. Turns out her ability to drift into the dream world might actually help them get clues about their mission.

Reader: “Wait… I have to walk? Do we get nap breaks?”

Percy: “You can sleep when we save the world!”

Reader: “Ew. That’s the worst slogan ever.”

Episode 3: Monsters, Mayhem, and Sleepwalking

Reader proves to be unexpectedly useful during a monster attack. She sleepwalks through the fight, dodging blows and accidentally tripping a drakon by falling into it. Percy, annoyed but impressed, starts warming up to her sleepy chaos.

Annabeth: “That was surprisingly effective.”

Reader: [Yawns] “What? Did I miss something?”

Episode 4: Dream Diving

Reader’s dreamwalking abilities reveal a crucial clue about the villain they’re hunting. She dreams of the villain’s lair and wakes up with critical information. Percy checks on her and finds her sleepily mumbling about what she saw. There’s a cute moment where he drapes his jacket over her while she’s passed out under a tree.

Percy: “I still don’t get how she manages to sleep through life-threatening situations.”

Annabeth: “Maybe because she knows we’ll do the fighting?”

Episode 5: Percy’s Sleepless Night

After a tough battle, Reader helps Percy calm down by showing him how to focus and relax in his dreams. She drags him into a shared dream to give him some much-needed mental peace. It’s a soft, intimate moment where Percy realizes how valuable Reader is—not just to the quest, but to him personally.

Reader: “See? Dreaming isn’t so bad.”

Percy: “Not when you’re here.”

Episode 6: Rise and Shine (Or… Not)

The final showdown requires Reader to stay awake (gasp). She struggles to fight the villain, leaning on Percy and the others for support, but ultimately her ability to dive into the dream realm helps them uncover the villain’s weakness. Percy literally carries her back to camp after the fight because she’s too tired to walk.

Reader: “You don’t have to carry me…”

Percy: “Oh yeah? Tell that to your legs.”

Final Scene

Back at camp, Percy finds Reader napping by the lake. He joins her, laying down next to her and staring up at the sky.

Percy: “You know, you’re the only person who can make saving the world feel relaxing.”

Reader: [Sleepily smirking] “That’s my special skill.”

Tagline for the Series

“She’s too sleepy for quests. He’s too stubborn to give up on her. Together, they’ll dream up a way to save the world.”

#percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #percy pjo #pjo #pjo hoo toa #pjo series #child of Hypnos #sleepy girl #tumblr fyp #fupシ

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movingmusically · 6 days ago

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What Are Friends For? - Chapter 21

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

The flat felt too still when I woke up.

No soft hum of music from Austin’s record player.

No quiet footsteps moving around the kitchen.

No warm weight beside me, shifting, reaching—

Just me.

I rolled over, eyes barely open, reaching for my phone.

Austin: Morning. Made my own coffee today. Not the same.

Austin: What time do you start?

A small smile tugged at my lips.

Me: Morning. 9am, it's a training day today. Teachers are in, kids aren’t. Zara (my work wife) and I will be “working” (talking shit in my classroom) most of the day.

Me: How was your morning?

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed.

Austin: Early workout. Going over scenes. Missing my scene partner, though.

I snorted.

Me: Don’t think Callum would appreciate that feedback.

Austin: Yeah, well. He’s not you.

Something warm curled in my stomach.

Me: I’ll text you later, gotta get up.

Austin: Yeah? Can I request a dramatic reading of your lunch options?

Me: Absolutely not.

Austin: Rude.

Austin: Talk later x.

I sighed, stretching my arms over my head before forcing myself out of bed. One day in, six to go.

The training session was dragging. Useful, maybe. But it was hard to focus when I kept replaying the last ten days in my head. Zara and I escaped early to my classroom, coffees in hand.

“You’ve been weird,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

I lifted a brow. “Excuse me?”

She pointed at me, then waved a hand vaguely. “Like… suspiciously quiet. You barely said anything in the group chat.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I just didn’t have anything to say.”

She gave me a look. “Yeah, right. You always have something to say.”

I hesitated.

Zara’s eyes widened. “No. No way. What happened?”

I pressed my lips together.

Then— “I slept with him.”

Zara nearly dropped her coffee.

“You what?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly self-conscious. “It—kind of just… happened.”

She stared at me. “Angie.”

I groaned. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“It is a thing!” She smacked my arm. “You barely told me anything about this whole set visit, and now you’re telling me you slept with him?”

I sighed. “Okay, yeah. A lot happened.”

She folded her arms. “Start from the beginning.”

So, I did.

I told her everything—about touring the set, Austin arranging for me to be an extra, the first time we kissed. The pub date and him asking me to stay. The past week. The mornings, the nights, the way everything had shifted without me even realising.

By the time I finished, Zara just stared at me.

“Jesus Christ.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”

Her head tilted. “And now?”

I swallowed. “Now… I’m here, and he’s there, and we'll see each other Sunday.”

Her expression softened. “And?”

I exhaled. “And I already miss him.”

Zara shook her head, muttering under her breath. “Knew it.”

I frowned. “Knew what?”

She sipped her coffee. “You’re all loved-up, aren’t you?”

I choked. “It’s been ten days, Zara.”

“Yeah, but how long have you actually been into him?”

I frowned. “I don’t know.”

Zara’s look was unimpressed. “Bullshit.”

I sighed, tipping my head back.

Because honestly? I wasn’t sure I had an answer.

After Zara finished dramatically analysing my entire life, I grabbed my lunch and sat at my desk, my phone in hand.

I hesitated for half a second before holding down the mic button.

“Alright, Butler, since you demanded it—today’s lunch selection: pasta bake, jacket potatoes, or a ‘seasonal vegetable risotto,’ which was 90% peas. I went for the pasta. Solid choice. Five stars. You're really missing out. Tragic”

I sent it off and took a bite of my food, shaking my head to myself.

A couple of hours later, my phone buzzed with his reply.

Austin: ‘Tragic’ is right. You get dessert?

Me: Sponge cake with pink custard.

Austin: That’s not real.

Me: It absolutely is.

Austin: I need to see it with my own eyes to believe it.

I huffed a quiet laugh, tapping out a reply.

The week slipped into a new kind of normal after that. We texted through the day. Nothing dramatic. Just small things.

Austin: Barry says hi. And that he misses you. Mostly because you’re the only one who’ll listen to his theories about the moon landing.

Me: Tell him I miss him too. And that I fully support his research.

Austin: Call time got pushed. Wanna FaceTime later?

Me: Yeah. Call me when you’re home. x

It wasn’t the same as being there. But it was something.

One evening I was curled up on my sofa, laptop open, when my phone buzzed. Austin’s name lit up the screen, the familiar FaceTime ringtone cutting through the quiet.

I answered, and Austin’s face filled the screen—hair damp, hoodie on, stretched out on his bed.

I smiled. “Hey.”

He exhaled like he’d been waiting all day for that. “Hey.”

I tucked my legs under me. “Long day?”

He nodded. “Good, though. You?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. You know. Changing lives, shaping young minds, confiscating Rubik’s cubes. The usual.”

Austin smirked. “Sounds heroic.”

“Oh, incredibly.”

A beat of quiet.

Then—

“I miss you.”

The words were easy, slipping out like they belonged.

Austin’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

A small pause.

Then he smiled. “Me too.”

And somehow, that made everything feel just a little bit easier.

By the time Friday night rolled around, I was officially done.

The first week back had been fine—busy, sure, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Even so, by the time I made it home, all I wanted was to get into pyjamas, make a cup of tea, and not move for the foreseeable future.

Which was exactly what I did.

Now, curled up on the sofa, laptop open but mostly ignored, I half-watched some mindless TV, letting the voices blur into background noise.

I checked my phone instinctively.

Nothing new from Austin.

Not that I was waiting.

I stretched, rolling my shoulders, reaching for my mug—

Then my phone buzzed.

Austin: Still awake?

I smirked, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Me: Barely. You?

Austin: Yeah. Night shoot.

Austin: Sitting in a freezing hangar, waiting for them to reset the shot. Callum is monologuing about the ‘psychological toll of war’ to a very tired grip.

Me: That poor grip.

Austin: That poor ME.

Me: You love it.

Austin: Lies.

Austin: What are you up to?

Me: Not much. Just crashed on the sofa with tea and some mindless TV.

Austin: Sounds unfairly good.

Me: Unfairly?

Austin: I’ve been standing in the cold for an hour and a half. This is inhumane.

Me: Would it help if I told you what was for lunch today?

Austin: That depends.

Austin: Was there pink custard?

Me: No.

Austin: A travesty. I regret asking.

I grinned, shaking my head.

Me: You’ll be here Sunday. I’ll make sure you’re well-fed.

Austin: Careful. That almost sounds like a promise.

Me: Maybe it is.

There was a pause.

Then—

Austin: What time should I come?

I chewed my lip, considering.

Me: Whenever you’re here is fine. You can come straight to mine if you want.

Austin: You sure?

Me: Obviously.

Austin: Alright. I’ll head over once I’m back in London.

Me: Good.

Austin: Yeah.

Another pause.

Austin: Looking forward to it. x

Me: Me too. x

I let my head sink back into the cushions, eyes slipping shut for a moment. My body had been heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after a full week of work—the early mornings, the endless to-do lists, the sheer energy it took to be switched on all the time.

But now? Now, I wasn’t tired at all.

I glanced at the clock without really meaning to.

Two more days.

I hadn’t meant to count. Hadn’t meant to be aware of it at all.

But I was.

I locked my phone, exhaling slowly as I stared at the ceiling.

I stretched out, pulling a blanket over me as the TV murmured in the background, but I wasn’t really paying attention to it anymore.

My phone sat beside me on the sofa, screen dark now, but the weight of his last message lingered.

Looking forward to it. x

It should’ve been simple. Just another Sunday. Just another visit.

But it didn’t feel like that.

Not anymore.

Because seeing him this time wasn’t just seeing a friend.

It was seeing him.

And I already knew—

One day wasn’t going to be enough.

Taglist:

@slowsweetlove @thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @myradiaz @butlerrizz @chocolatetree222 @richardslady121 @ilovereadingfanfics

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #fan fiction #fanfic #imagine #austin butler fanfic #austinbutler #fiction #callum turner fic #callum turner #what are friends for fic #waff

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tenessee-walker · 1 month ago

Note

What if... Headcanon for Chubby and tall fem reader x Arthur/john/Dutch/whoever?

Like I know most women/afab are smaller than men but I never feel seen as a taller chubby gal but I still wanna feel like I'd be considered cute 😔🥺

I’m 5’9 and I have a thing for lando norris who’s 5’8 (ik it’s not a lot) but that’s okay so :]]]]

soft!john who stares up at her with that dumb little smile, all dazed and red-eared whenever she walks into camp, like she hung the moon and stars just for him.

soft!john who literally melts when she hugs him from behind—he leans back into her arms with a little grin, all relaxed and safe like, “mhm… don’t let go yet.”

soft!john who stands behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, fingers splaying over her stomach like he’s holding treasure. He kisses her shoulder and says stuff like, “I swear, I could stay like this forever.”

soft!john who calls her “darlin’” and “my girl” but also gets this cocky lil grin when she towers over him a bit and teases like, “you gonna pick me up next?” and she rolls her eyes, but he’s beaming like she just proposed.

soft!john who lives for when she sits him on her lap or cuddles him like a damn teddy bear. He acts all cool until she actually does it and then he goes pink and nuzzles into her like a shy pup.

soft!john who watches her laugh with the softest expression—like nothing’s ever made him happier—and tells her, real quiet, “y’look so pretty when you’re happy.”

soft!john who gets defensive if anyone says anything remotely rude or teasing about her size—like full-on growl-in-your-face, fist-clenched, absolutely feral mode.

soft!john who likes to sleep half on top of her, cheek smushed against her chest or stomach, arms thrown around her like she’s his whole world.

soft!john who’s genuinely confused when she gets self-conscious, and just blinks like, “…huh? but you’re the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”

soft!john who tells her she’s “soft in all the best ways” and “you’re perfect, you know that?” and “I don’t ever wanna stop holdin’ you.”

soft!john who thinks she’s strong, and gorgeous, and the best damn thing that ever happened to him. And he makes very sure she knows it. Every. Single. Day.

#rdr2 #rdr #rdr1 #john marston x you #john marston fluff #john marston rdr1 #john marston x reader #john marston smut

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invaderzia1 · 2 years ago

Text

Horns (Wyll x Tiefling!Reader)

After breaking his promise to Mizora, Wyll navigates life as a brand new Tiefling. Luckily for him, he has support in his tiefling friends.

yes I’m aware the game isn’t out yet but I really liked that scene with Wyll and Mizora. Also this is set in act 1

Since disobeying Mizora, Wyll had been rather moody. Nobody could really blame him, not after the way she stormed into their camp and basically turned him into a tiefling, laughing about how some magic even she can’t fix. She left him with rather hefty horns on his head, leaving him to figure out how to navigate life with them by himself and laughing about how it’ll affect his reputation as the blade. So nobody was surprised when the heavy horns caused Wyll to struggle with his balance and maneuvering through his recent days, but they rather kept to themselves, all having other things to deal with then offer support to the poor man.

Except, you had been watching him. You had always found him quite charming and handsome, it honestly made you quite glad that he accepted traveling with you and the rest of your companions.

It had been a week since the incident and you’ve kept a close eye on Wyll, giving him space to process everything. But being a tiefling yourself, you couldn’t help but notice the lack of care he is giving his new horns. You knew what happened when people didn’t take care of them correctly, having suffered the consequences of failing to properly take care of your own.

Wyll is stood by the river near camp, having finished cleaning himself and getting ready to join the others for whatever food Gale decided to cook up. He barely even notices you sneak up behind him, too busy staring at himself in the reflection of the lake, still not used to his visual changes.

“You know, you gotta take care of them.” Your voice startled Wyll, causing him to jump slightly before turning to look at you. “Can’t just pretend they aren’t there or they’ll grow weird or get too brittle.” You moved closer to him, trying yo be cautious around him while assessing his new horns. “Kind of hard to tell right now what they’ll do, but I have some extra things if you need them.”

“What?” Wyll says in disbelief, almost self conscious about you having noticed how poor he’s cared for them the past couple days.

“If you don’t take care of them they might start grow weird.” You walk over, trying to get a better look at how his horns seems to be growing. “Or, they’ll become brittle and start to chip off.” Reaching up, you cautiously bring your hand to his right horn, but refusing to touch it until Wyll gave consent.

It takes Wyll a few seconds of going through his emotions before he leans his head down, letting you touch his horns. Your hands touch softly against it, standing on your top toes to get a better look at where they meld into his head. Then moving to look at the sharp tip of the horn.

“Hmmmm,” you let your feet fall flat again, letting go of Wyll, “I have an extra pad to smooth it down. They look healthy, but you are going to have to be careful of them getting over grown.”

“Like a sheep?” His voice comes out as a mix of surprise and disbelief, raising an octave.

“Yes,” you smile, finding it a little funny how that’s the only comparison he could think of, “like a sheep.”

He makes a noise of annoyance, accompanied by the sound of your laugh. As he looks up at you, he takes notice of your broken horn, recalling Karlach also has a similar situation. It feels rude to just ask, but he feels the situation permits it.

“May I ask what happened to your horn?” Wyll nods his head to your broken horn, instinctively your hand goes up to touch the nub.

“Oh this old thing,” you start, laughing a bjt to yourself as the memory surfaces in your brain, “fun story actually, when I first started traveling I didn’t have enough money to keep my usual tools with me. So I went without taking care of them. Ended up in a fight against a lone gnoll, thing got a good grip on my head and just took the rest of my horn off.” You can’t help but laugh, knowing to everyone else that seems wildly traumatic, but so much time has passed that you feel disconnected from it. “Luckily, I was able to even the score. We both left that fight pretty fucked up.” Your hand falls to the necklace around your throat, decorated with teeth that Wyll is now able to identify as gnoll.

Wyll’s mouth drops horrified for a brief second, then letting air escape his nose as he starts to laugh. It’s a weird and fucked up thing to bond over, but for the two it seems to work. As the laughter dies down, you put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait here, I’ll go grab my bag and help you with them.” You say, then running back towards camp, leaving Wyll slightly flustered by your kindness.

You rush back, a brown bag tightly held in your hands as you come back. You gently lead Wyll to a large rock by the water, patting it for him to sit down, which he does. Placing the bag next to him, you jump onto the rock and kneel behind him, just like your parents used to do for you when you were young. Reaching into the bag, you pull a small vial of a yellowish liquid and a round brown pad.

“Alright, now this is horn polish, you can find it in most market places or you can make your own.” Your hand snakes over his shoulder, showing him the vial. “It goes on before you use this,” your other hand goes over his other shoulder, reveal the coarse rough pad of material. “This will help you buff out your horns and keep them looking smooth.”

Your hands disappear behind him, he can hear the vial open behind him and then feels your hands softly applying some of the liquid to his horns. You take great care in making sure you cover all of them, then wiping your hands off on your bag.

“This is going to feel kind of weird the first couple times, but it’ll get better, I promise,” you warn him, giving him a few seconds to brace himself.

The feeling of the rough pad against his horns is awkward and uncomfortable, almost like hearing nails on a chalk board. Wylls teeth grit together as he clenches his hand together, trying to brace himself as you go to work. He feels your body get closer to him, trying your best to comfort him while using both hands on his horns. You try your best to be both thorough while going quickly, recalling how much you hated this when you were a kid. To try and distract him, you opt to speak.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to help me with my horns. He was always better at this part than my mom,” you admit. “I used to start crying when she would do my horns for me because she was so rough with it. If I saw her with the pad in her hand I would immediately start crying and run off, trying to hide. She’d always find me though.”

“Really?” Wyll chuckles.

“Yeah. Looking back, I feel kind of bad about the trouble I gave her when she was just trying to help me. But at the time it seemed like a reasonable response.”

Wyll and your laughter blend together, the mood becoming more light as you continue to work on his horns. He starts to tell you small bits of his teen years, talking about the trouble he used to get in.

“Alright, now that we are done with this part, it’s time to move on to the finish touch,” your voice announces, slowly putting the used product back into the bag. You pull out another bottle, this one looking more clear than the polish, but a thicker consistency. Your hand rests on his shoulder, leaning over as you show him the bottle more. Wyll feels his heart rate pick up feeling you this close to him, but watches as you start to explain this product. “This is your last step, it’s a protective coating to keep your horns shiny and helps strengthen the keratin.”

“So, I just slather it on them?” Wylls face turns slightly to look at yours.

“Yeah, you don’t need much either, it spreads like crazy.” You lean back, popping the bottle open and reaching up to his horns again.

Slowly, your hands start to rub the oil onto his horns, being as gentle and smooth as possible. It grows quiet as you concentrate on keeping the oil only on his horns and making sure it’s spread as thin as it can be. Wyll, on the other hand, grows quiet as he enjoys the intimate position you are in. It’s been years since he’s felt this close to another person, having spent years to following Mizora closely. He allows himself to drift closer to your touch, feeling more at ease now than he has the past couple weeks, possibly even the past couple years.

“And that should do it,” you reach down and wipe off your hands on your bag. Wyll snaps back to reality, giving some space between you. You smile softly down at him, then gesturing from him to look at himself in the lake.

Wyll stands up and takes a few steps, looking down at his reflection and seeing how nice his horns now looked. Moonlight now illuminated them from the shine, its a small change but it makes him feel warm. It’s the first time since becoming part infernal that he’s felt content with his new appearance.

Wyll looks back up at you, still looking amazed by the work you had done. He takes a step closer, putting a hand on your shoulder as he speaks.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, I know it’s been tough for you.” You smile softly at him.

Wyll moves closer, as if he wants to lean closer. You prepare yourself for him to do so, your body leaning closer to his until a loud voice interrupts the both of you.

“Are you two done down there or should we just eat without you?” You both hear Gale ask, followed by comments from Shadowheart and Astarion that you most certainly don’t need to hear to know that its innappropriate.

Now both your cheeks flush red, flustered by being caught by the rest of the group. As you hear Astarion make one more comment, you start running up the hill and threatening to grab your a stake for him. Wyll just stands there, watching you as you start to argue with Astarion, hearing Shadowheart and Karlach laugh at the display. His heart fills with warmth as he looks back at his reflection in the lake, seeing the way his horns now shine with the moonlight. Grabbing your bag, he slowly makes his way back to camp.

#wyll x mc #wyll x reader #wyll x tav #baldurs gate 3 x reader #baldur’s gate 3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 #baldur’s gate 3 #maddy writes

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