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sylacris · 11 months ago

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— “say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime.”

alternatively: “save me, lead me from my solitude.” / i finally release the draft that’s been catching cobwebs in my docs since june 2023

phantom of the opera! dazai osamu x gn! reader

cws: possibly ooc, self indulgent.

wc: 1.0k

Track down the murderer! Do not let that animal escape!" The mob screams in rage, a fury directed at the one and only culprit of the chaos in the opera house.

They’ve had enough of this- this phantom. His demands, his actions, and how he acts like he's a being above them—the mob rallies above ground with torches and pitchforks, fueled by absolute despise for such a being.

"Too long has his reign of darkness terrorized this opera!" Shouts of agreement ring in the half-destroyed theater house, debris and glass littered across every surface of the floor, faint smoke wafting in the air as the mob charges underground.

"The phantom resides deep below! This monster cannot be left alive anymore!"

The echoes reverberate in the underground chambers; they are faint and barely audible, but you knew they were looking for him. Yet here he was, holding you like a vice in his arms, and yet his touch is soft, even warm. An arm circled around your waist while the other held your hand, faintly caressing your knuckles as if attempting to soothe you.

He leaned closer to your body, a slight weight piling on your back, burying his face in the crook of your neck, a sigh escaping his lips, his breath tickling your skin. You could only attempt to look at him through your peripherals, his tousled brown hair being the first thing you set your sights on.

The hand that held yours snakes upwards; he places both yours and his hand where your heart is. "May you sing for me, my angel?" he requests, and if you listened closely enough, it was as if he was begging, a tone you’ve only heard from him in jest, or perhaps in your unwaking nights.

"Osamu…" You voiced it out, the response to his words seemingly out of your reach.

He tilts his head. Dazai is not one to plead, however. "Please? For me?" He smiles softly. The traces of ‘the phantom’, the chaos incarnate that runs rampant along the crevices of the opera house, are no longer there; instead, it's the face of a man whose devotion to you—and only you—surpassed that of a thousand men in many lifetimes.

If that viscount could make you royalty, Dazai could make you an angel, he’d burn everything to ashes, meet death, and come back just for you. He’d repent, like the demon that he is, just to see you eye-to-eye, just to be able to hold you in his arms and call you his.

You knew he would do anything for you, and perhaps that was what instilled an odd fondness for such a man. His eyes reflected such solitude, an unwarranted loneliness befitting a shunned child.

Yet in those same eyes lies adoration, his piercing gaze thrilling your soul.

Adhering to his request, you gently hum a tune, one that he wrote for you to sing to. His gaze is fixated on you, a satisfied smile finding a place on his lips. His expression is akin to a child being given candy; you could almost excuse all his crimes with such a look.

Almost.

The arms wrapped around you let go, freeing you of his weight. You continued to vocalize as Dazai grabbed your hand in his and placed his other hand on your waist. Slow steps gradually turned into a waltz led by him.

“Come, embrace the darkness.” He softly sang to your tune, “Forget those earthly fears.”

"I'm here to keep you, to hide you,” he whispers. “Through music, I beguile you.”

He seems to be enjoying himself as you match his tune, with the final duet between a demon and his beloved angel taking turns. A duet only for the two of you to perform and to witness.

“Who appears to me—a friend or phantom?”

The hand on his waist moves to cup his cheek lightly; you could only guess that such an act surprised him as his eyes widened from your touch before leaning into it, savoring your touch.

"Who twines music for my soul to sing?"

A fond smile appears on your face, one that he wouldn't dare miss under the candlelit glow of his chambers.

"Show yourself to me, distorted angel."

“Do you fear the light as I fear for you? "You tilt your head as his eyes trail away from you.

"Are you afraid I'll leave you too?"

The hold on your waist falters ever so slightly as he lifts your hand, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. His melancholy so obvious, with a downcast air to him, yet he still manages to smile, that smile still persists; it’s almost disheartening how controlled he is. almost.

“I promise I'll keep you safe; let your fears be no more, my angel.” His honeyed tone tempted you with a promise, one of pure, unadulterated love, just for you.

“Let me be your freedom, your place of solace, a hideaway from the world above. Let us run away together, my angel.”

Dazai tilts your chin up, meeting his gaze—a look filled with hesitation as his eyes drop to your lips.

Yet the moment was fleeting, for the mob seemed to have come closer. Distant shouting, an angry cacophony. Who knows what they’ll do to you and to him once they reach these chambers?

(Kill. They’ll kill him.)

“Do you love me? "You whispered under your breath.

“What kind of question is that? "He raises an eyebrow, as if he has time to tease in this situation. With wholehearted assurance, he replies,

"You know I do."

He leans in to leave a small peck on your forehead, restrained even until now, when everything is high-stakes, yet that kiss alone seems to say everything you needed to know, yet at the same time, everything you already knew.

He hesitates at first before letting go of you. Walking to one of the draperies in the chambers, his hand grasps it before putting it to the side, revealing to you a secret exit. Of course. Of course, he of all people would have an exit strategy.

The downcast gleam in his eyes seems to disappear for just this once, as he’s back to that loveable, cat-like grin. With his other hand, he extends it to you as a final confirmation, a decision that you cannot undo once made.

And just this once, you’ve never been so sure of anything else.

#☁️ aes’ musings #dazai osamu x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd dazai #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs

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foundtherightwords · 3 months ago

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As the Sun Will Rise - Chapter 1

Pairing: Grunauer (Overlord) x OFC, Beauty & the Beast retelling

Summary: After losing most of his unit in a disastrous D-Day mission, Derwin Grunauer returns to his hometown near Miami, body riddled with scars and heart heavy with guilt, only to find his neighbors shunning him due to his German name. He retreats into his family mansion and remains there, unwilling to rejoin the living, until the day Alba Reyes turns up at his door with a basket full of warm bread. As the daughter of a Cuban immigrant, Alba knows something of being an outsider, and when she offers to work for Derwin as his housekeeper, it is not only to pay off her father's debt to the Grunauers, but also because she feels some connection to the reclusive young man. When that connection develops into something more, they must overcome both the town's prejudice and their own doubts to find happiness.

A/N: My inspiration for this came from these lovely artworks that reimagine Beauty and the Beast in a 1950s setting. The idea of making the Beast a World War II veteran jumped out at me, and given that "Overlord" is a World War II movie, I immediately knew I'd write this for Grunauer. I based this on the original screenplay more than the movie itself (Grunauer's full name and the fact that he's from Miami are both in the script), since Grunauer actually survives in that. The title is, of course, a lyric from "Beauty and the Beast".

Warnings: period-typical attitudes (sexism, racism, prejudice), PTSD, some violence, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: period-typical sexism and prejudice

Chapter word count: 5.2k

Chapter 1

"I'm so glad the sugar ration is over, aren't you?" Mrs. McLeish said, peering at the rows and rows of cakes and pastries behind the glass.

"We all are, Mrs. McLeish," replied Alba, handing the gray-haired lady her purchase neatly wrapped in paper bags. "That'll be a dollar and sixty-three cents."

"Are you sure, dear?" Mrs. McLeish felt the bags, trying to remember what she'd bought.

"Of course. Ninety cents for half a dozen loaves of bread, fifty-two cents for ten ham croquetas, and twenty-one cents for three cheese pasteles," counted Alba. There had been no mistake—Alba knew this was only Mrs. McLeish's way to weasel some discount out of her.

Mrs. McLeish started counting out her money with excruciating slowness. "My Ted has been so looking forward to your bakes ever since he came back from the Pacific, you know."

Alba smiled and reached into the display case again. "Well, here's a slice of tres leches cake, to thank Ted for his service. On the house," she quickly added. Mrs. McLeish's wrinkles immediately relaxed, just as Alba knew they would. Papi wouldn't like it, but they couldn't afford to alienate a customer now.

Mrs. McLeish was barely out of the door when the cheerful chime of the shop bell was drowned out by an obnoxious roar. Alba looked up to see a bright red Aston Martin screech to a halt across the street.

"¡Mierda!" she muttered under her breath. This bit of profanity earned her a stern look from the statue of La Cachita, the patroness of Cuba, on her altar set in a corner of the bakery. "Sorry," Alba mumbled to the statue. She tried to dip behind the counter, but it was too late. The driver, a tall, broad-shouldered man with raven hair slicked back, wearing a leather flight jacket that was too heavy for Miami in late June, was already striding toward the door. He pushed it open with unnecessary force, making the bell chime furiously in protest.

"Allie!" he declared, flashing a grin that showed his white teeth to perfection. "Just the girl I want to see."

Alba tried to pull her lips into the semblance of a smile and ended up with something more like a grimace instead. "Mr. Grant, good morning," she said. "What can I get you today?"

"Call me Gastin, dearest Allie," replied Grant, leaning against the counter. "How many times do I have to ask you again?"

"As many times as I've asked you to call me Alba, not Allie, Mr. Grant," Alba said smoothly. Grant's smile faltered, but only for a moment, before returning to full blast.

"But Allie sounds so much nicer! Allie Grant. Just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Ignoring his suggestive leer, Alba repeated, "What can I get you today? A pastelito, perhaps, or some croquetas?"

Grant shuddered. "God, no. Do you have any idea how fattening those can be, with all that cheese and butter and frying oil?"

It was on the tip of Alba's tongue to snap that he was in a shop that thrived on cheese and butter and frying oil, but she bit back the retort and simply said, a little impatiently now, "Then what do you want?"

"You know what I want, my dear Allie." Grant was now leaning so far over the counter that a bystander may think he was trying to reach into the till. "A date with you."

"I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment," Alba said automatically.

Grant let out a derisive laugh. "Busy with what?" He gestured around the empty bakery. It was after eight; the first waves of customers had gone, which meant Grant had timed his visit to catch her specifically. He certainly hadn't driven all the way here from his swanky family mansion on Millionaire's Row for one of La Perla del Sur's pasteles.

Mierda.

"Come now, Allie," Grant continued, seizing her hand in a tight grip. "I don't understand why you keep working in this dump. When we're married, you'll have the biggest mansion on Miami Beach and never have to deal with all this misery..."

Alba's face tightened. For six months now, Grant had been hovering around the neighborhood and pestering her into going out with him, despite her making it clear that she had no time for him. She knew she was the minority in this. Most people would consider him a great catch. A war hero and the heir to a real estate empire, courting the daughter of a lowly baker, a Cuban immigrant at that? She should have been over the moon. It was true that she had been flattered by his attention at first. But she wasn't interested in finding a boyfriend, and she'd treated him the same way she did all customers, polite and friendly. Only when Grant started harping on about marriage, as if they were already engaged, that she firmly shut it down. Even then, he couldn't seem to take a hint, whether because he was too arrogant or too dim, Alba wasn't sure. So her politeness had turned into grudging tolerance and finally into barely concealed dislike. Still, he refused to leave her alone.

"Maybe I like the misery," she bit out.

Grant opened his mouth, but before he could come up with a response, an angry voice rose from the street. It was Mr. Olson, whose grocery store was across the street from the bakery, and whose front door was currently being blocked by Grant's monster of a vehicle.

"Who's the schmuck that parked his car in front of my store?" Mr. Olson shouted, waving his broom. "Move it before I smash your headlights in!"

Grant flung Alba's hand aside and ran out of the bakery without another word. Seizing the opportunity, Alba ducked through the swinging door that separated the front of the bakery from the sweltering back room, where two enormous ovens were constantly belching out steam and heat. She almost collided with her younger sister, Beatriz.

"Alba!" Beatriz exclaimed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I need you to man the counter for me," Alba said.

"Why?"

"He's here."

"Who?"

"You know who. Señor Slick." Alba's lips curled in distaste.

"Really?" Beatriz craned her neck to look through the curtain. Alba glanced behind her. Grant was busy arguing with Mr. Olson, but she grabbed Beatriz's shoulders and positioned herself so Beatriz would hide her from view anyway.

Alba couldn't understand why Grant was so determined to woo her. She definitely wasn't as pretty as Beatriz, though they shared the same features and coloring. The same hazel eyes on Beatriz were bright and clear, while Alba's eyes couldn't seem to decide which color they wanted to be and ended up as a sort of muddy brownish green. The same dark curls on Beatriz were glossy and bouncing with her steps, while Alba's had a tendency to frizz maddeningly in the humid Florida air, so she mostly kept it under a headscarf. Beatriz's figure was all soft curves, while Alba's was straight and flat as a pond cypress.

And most of all, Beatriz, like other girls in their neighborhood, was always making sheep's eyes at Grant. He never paid attention to any of them though. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he only set his sights on Alba because he liked a conquest.

But Alba had no time to dwell on all of that now. "Yes," she told Beatriz, "and you can ogle him to your heart's content if you man the counter for me."

Beatriz's face fell. "But Papi told me to make the delivery." She gestured to a basket, packed with loaves of bread in paper bags, a box of ham and cheese croquetas, and a box of pasteles filled with guava jam, still warm from the oven.

"Delivery? Where to?" La Perla del Sur Bakery did not do deliveries. Those who knew of their bread and pastries would line up outside its door before the opening time of six o'clock, come rain or shine.

"The Grunauer place," said Beatriz.

Alba smacked her forehead. Of course. How could she forget?

The late Dr. Grunauer had been their landlord. When they first arrived in Miami from Cuba thirteen years ago, Alba's parents, Mauricio and Ana, had found a nearly dead town, brought to its knees by two great hurricanes and the Great Depression. They had rebuilt their lives alongside the city. They had found this place for cheap, and Dr. Grunauer, a professor at the university, had only been too glad to let them have it after the crash of the land boom. Mauricio had traded his suit and tie for an apron and worked tirelessly next to his wife to open this bakery. But it was difficult to curb the ambition of a high-ranking government official, even if the coup d'état of 1933 had stripped him of his power. Mauricio had borrowed from Dr. Grunauer to buy a vacant beachfront store, hoping to open another La Perla, to be run by Alba's older brother, Rafael. Then came the war, and Rafael joined the Air Force and never came back from the Pacific, and Ana soon followed him, so that was the end of that. The beachfront property was left to languish through the war, and in the end, Mauricio had to cut his loss and sell it for cheap.

Dr. Grunauer, too, had passed away a year before the end of the war. Mauricio was not one to ever forget a debt, and although Dr. Grunauer's only son, who had come home last year, never mentioned it, Mauricio had been sending him bread and pastries and even fresh fruits sometimes, hoping that he would not call in the debt any time soon.

Now Alba snatched the basket out of Beatriz's hand. "I'll go," she said. "You man the counter."

"But—but—" Beatriz glanced at the back, where Mauricio and the assistant baker, young Frank, were busy loading trays of shaped dough into the ovens. Alba knew Papi didn't like Beatriz to be at the front alone, despite the fact that she always drew a crowd, mostly of young men—or perhaps precisely because of that.

"Bea's too busy flirting," he'd once said to Alba. "She'll mistake flan for croquetas and sell her own shoes as pastelitos next. I need you there, to keep an eye on the till and tell me when we're running low on things." And so Alba had no choice but to grin and bear it, though she didn't have Beatriz's natural charm and ease with the customers, and a day working at the till always left her with crescents of sweat under her arms, sore cheeks from having to stretch them into unnatural smiles for so long, and a raging headache.

"The breakfast rush's over, you'll be fine," Alba assured her sister. "I'll be back before lunch." She rushed out the side door before Beatriz could raise further protest and draw Papi's attention.

"Be careful," Beatriz called after her. Alba wondered if the warning was meant to be about Grant or the Grunauer place.

As she wheeled her bicycle out the back gate and down the lane, Alba saw her best friend, Claudia Barron, watering her garden, the hose curving over her pregnant belly. Claudia had spent her whole life in their neighborhood of Cypress Grove. She'd grown up down the street, dated a literal boy next door, Marty, and after Marty came back from the war, they had gotten married and moved into a house on the same street. Sometimes Alba thought she would go crazy if she were Claudia, never going further than a few miles from where she grew up. Other times, she envied Claudia her straightforward life.

"How's Marty Junior?" Alba nodded at Claudia's belly.

"Kicking up a storm last night. It's this heat, I don't think he likes it." Claudia raised a quizzical eyebrow at the bread basket. "Where are you going with those?"

"Delivery to the Grunauer place."

"Some sweetener for Gruesome Grunauer, eh?"

"Don't call him that," Alba said, rolling her eyes.

"It fits him, though. Like father, like son. He's been back for what, a year? Yet nobody's seen him. He's locked himself away in that mansion with all those snakes and gators." Claudia shuddered. "I wonder at your dad, letting you go there alone. Why can't he or Frank go?"

"They're busy," Alba said shortly. "I have to go now."

Without waiting for Claudia's goodbye, she got on her bike and rode away. Claudia was a good friend, but she could be an awful gossip sometimes. "Gruesome Grunauer", indeed! Yes, it was true that Dr. Grunauer had always been rather strange. With his balding head, owlish eyes, and quiet, mumbling voice, he reminded Alba of a mad scientist, like Victor Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll, and she, like the rest of the neighborhood kids, had been slightly afraid of him. The nickname had started when they found out he raised snakes and other reptiles on his land, and it stuck. There was a rumor that he even kept an alligator. Every Halloween, the kids always dared each other to go to the Grunauer place to get a glimpse of this alligator.

And then there was Mrs. Grunauer too. Apparently she had been bedridden, and nobody had ever seen her. When she passed away, shortly after Alba's family moved to Cypress Grove, people had whispered that Dr. Grunauer had poisoned his wife.

During the war, those childish rumors had persisted and taken on a more malicious tinge. The war hadn't been easy for Dr. Grunauer with his German name and German accent, and some people had even turned against the Reyes for their association with him. And now, with the old man dead and his son back at the mansion, more rumors had surfaced. They said young Grunauer had been badly injured in the war, and those injuries had left him disfigured. It didn't help that he never set foot outside of his home.

Alba never subscribed to the local rumor mill, but she couldn't help feeling a slight sense of trepidation as she rode her bike down the back lane that followed along the Tamiami Trail. Alba preferred this shortcut, which ran right through the cypress swamp west of the city. She had always loved the swamp, loved seeing the bald cypresses rising from it like majestic giants, their trunks dripping with ferns and orchids, loved watching the herons and egrets that waded amongst their roots, loved the thrill of sighting an alligator floating lazily over the dark water. Even with the occasional blare of a truck horn from the interstate in the distance, it still provided a quiet spot in the busy city.

This morning, though, Alba paid no attention to the beauty of nature. Leaning on the pedals, she only hoped that she'd made enough of a head start that Grant wouldn't be able to follow her in his car. She wondered how the Grunauer place had changed. She knew where it was, of course, though she'd been too much of a wimp to come right up to its gate. In her childhood memory, it was the grandest house she'd ever seen, as grand as the Palacio del Valle in her hometown of Cienfuegos back in Cuba. She also wondered what young Mr. Grunauer would be like. Though they were roughly the same age, young Grunauer had never been a part of the Cypress Grove gang—he had been sent to a boarding school in Jacksonville even before Alba arrived, and none of the kids in the neighborhood knew him.

Soon, the lane branched off into two even smaller trails, little more than footpaths lined by willow and cocoplum bushes. Rolling her bike down the right trail, Alba finally came to a clearing. The willows and cocoplums gave way to magnificent oaks covered in Spanish moss that stood on either side of the path like sentinels, guarding the mansion of her memories. It stood back from the path, a little aloof, a little wary, a queen surveying her empire, its white walls shining like a mirage against the dark canopies of the trees surrounding it. A porch held up by tall columns ran around the house, shielding it from the sun and prying eyes. A beautiful frangipani stood in the back, its branches, dotted with star-like blooms, reaching toward the house as if in adoration. If those oaks were the sentinels, then the frangipani was an attendant bowing down to the queen.

Alba shook her head. Such flights of fancy were usually Beatriz's purview; Alba herself was more likely to notice that the yard was overgrown, the porch needed sweeping, one of the window shutters was sagging, and the paint was chipping. A swing full of dead leaves creaked on rusty chains on the porch, adding to the overall abandoned air of the place. As she drew closer, she also saw a sign hanging crooked on one of the oaks, with "BEWARE OF DOG" scrawled across it. This mundane little detail dispelled any fanciful impression she had of the house, and instead of the palace of her childhood, now she only saw a sad, neglected place.

Alba looked around cautiously. There was no sign or sound of the dog she should beware of. Emboldened, she wheeled her bike past the rank of oaks and leaned it against the porch. The front door had no bell—Dr. Grunauer probably had gotten rid of it after the kids played too many games of ding dong ditch, and nobody came out here now—so she knocked instead.

No answer. She knocked again, louder, calling out, "Hello? Anybody home?" From somewhere deep inside the house, there was a bark. Although it was deep and rumbling, it wasn't the bark of a dog one should beware of. It was not ferocious or angry, only rather annoyed, like that of a dog that had been wakened up from a nap.

Alba reached for the door handle. It turned with some protest. She pushed the door open and stepped into a cool, dark front hall. Something crunched under her foot, and Alba looked down to find more dead leaves strewn across a hardwood floor that hadn't been swept in God knew how long. A door on her left was ajar, showing what looked like a living room overlooking the oak-lined drive. Next to this door was a staircase, its top disappearing into the dimness of the second floor. On the top of the stairs were some strange, pale shapes that looked like logs or a rolled-up carpet that somebody forgot to put away. Sunlight from the open door behind Alba couldn't penetrate the gloom, and thoughts of snakes and gators swirled around her head, making her hesitant to step beyond the little patch of light.

"Hello?" she called out again, her voice lost in the profound stillness of the house. "I'm from the bakery. Is there anybody here?"

There was that bark again, more excited than annoyed this time. In the hallway beyond the staircase, a huge shape emerged, silhouetted against the darkness. It was a dog, she could see that. The biggest dog she'd ever seen.

Alba stood rooted to the spot. She only had the presence of mind not to scream. Screaming would only agitate it further.

The shape came into view. It was a great boarhound, so dark and glossy that it appeared little more than patches of shininess in the dark. It stalked toward her on paws as big as dinner plates, eyes glinting, nose sniffing, tail lifted in alert.

Then, slowly, that tail moved side to side.

Alba couldn't believe her eyes.

The huge dog was wagging his tail. He'd stopped by the bottom of the staircase, seemingly trying to make up his mind about her, but clearly he didn't see her as a threat.

"Here, boy," Alba said shakily, reaching out a hand.

The dog ran to her and almost bowled her over in his eagerness to sniff the bread basket she was carrying. She tried to lift the basket out of reach, but it was quite difficult—when stood on his hind legs, the dog could easily reach her shoulders. "Down, boy," she said. The dog sat and looked up expectantly at her with his liquid black eyes. Alba gave him her hand. He licked it. "Oh, you're just a big softy, aren't you?" she said, laughing in relief and kneeling to rub his ears.

"He's an idiot," said a voice above her.

Startled, Alba looked up. What she'd thought was a roll-up carpet turned out to be a leg encased in khaki pants, and the logs were the arms. A person was lying on the top of the staircase.

"Who are you?" he said. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the scowl in his voice.

"Alba Reyes," she replied. "I'm from La Perla del Sur."

"La what?"

"The bakery. I'm Mauricio Reyes' daughter. We rent your store in Cypress Grove?"

There was a groan, and the shapes moved. The man was sitting up. The dog gave a little woof and bounded up the stairs to join him. Alba involuntarily craned her neck, trying to get a better look. His face was still half-hidden in the gloom, and in the light shining through the window at the landing, she could just make out a shock of sandy brown curls and a pair of dark, dark eyes. There was no sign of those disfiguring injuries that she could see.

As those eyes met hers, fragments of memories flitted through her mind—a pair of brown eyes, schoolyard noises, the sudden, bright pain of a split lip, and a voice, asking, Where did you learn to punch like that?

Before she could grasp it, the memory was gone, like the reflection on the surface of a pond being broken up by a pebble. The eyes on the top of the stairs were scowling at her again.

"Good morning," she said uncertainly.

***

Derwin Grunauer was not having a good morning.

He'd woken at five, as usual. Even though he could now sleep in as late as he wanted, the habit developed after eight years of boarding school and three years in the army was hard to shake. He hadn't gotten up though. What would be the point? He had nowhere to be, nobody to see, nothing to do.

But Otto, who seemed to have a sixth sense of when his master was awake, had scratched at the door and whined, demanding to be let out, so Derwin had reluctantly gone downstairs, opened the door, and gave the dog his breakfast. For himself, he hadn't wanted any. His pantry had been empty since the day before, but he loathed picking up the phone to call the grocer. He knew he had to, eventually. Either that or starve to death, and Derwin didn't think he was brave enough or desperate enough for that. And so he'd made himself a cup of coffee with the dregs left in the pot and gone upstairs to mentally prepare himself, otherwise he would start panicking and stammering on the phone like an idiot.

Then his treacherous leg had tripped at the top of the stairs, making the cane fly out of his hand and sending him sprawling face-first across the steps. The fall hadn't hurt that bad—he'd been climbing as fast as his leg allowed, which was not very fast at all—but it had drained him of whatever energy he had, and left him angry and despondent. Angry at himself, at his throbbing leg, at the world in general. And despondent at life. He'd turned over and remained there, ignoring Otto's attempts to pull him to his feet. There was no point in getting up. There was no point to anything. He wished he could have stayed there until he melted in the heat and dissolved into the floor. Eventually, Otto had given up and returned to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of his breakfast.

He hadn't heard the knocks.

It was the smells that hit him first. The heavenly, warm, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, the rich, savory smell of fried ham, and the buttery, sugary smell of pastries. His stomach growled.

Great. He was so hungry that he'd started hallucinating.

Then he heard the voice. Olfactory and audio hallucinations might be a bit much, so he cracked open an eye and looked for the source of the sound.

Somebody was standing in the front hall. No, not just somebody. A young woman. Wearing a sleeveless blouse and a sensible pair of slacks and sandals, with strands of her dark hair falling out of her headscarf. Sunlight was streaming in through the open door behind her, framing her like a halo as she looked up at him, her mouth falling open in surprise. She was too far away for him to make out the color of her eyes, but he could see that they were light and bright, fixed on him with none of the suspicion and hostility he was used to from other people, only curiosity.

Otto was licking her hand too. Traitor.

Still, Derwin refused to let himself be taken in. A lack of animosity didn't necessarily mean kindness. When he came home last year, after several months in St. Mary's Hospital in Portsmouth and a longer stint at the VA Hospital up in Bay Pines, where they'd tried and failed to get his leg back to working conditions, Derwin hadn't expected much. His father was gone, killed by the strain and loneliness of the war, and they had never been popular in town to begin with. He'd only hoped to settle down and have a quiet life. Yet somehow, what he found was even less than what he'd expected. People turned their backs on him in stores and restaurants, whispering to each other and pulling their children close wherever he went past, calling him Kraut and Jerry and worse. All because he had the misfortune of bearing a German name.

This young woman, whoever she was, probably hadn't heard much about him. The moment she did, she would turn and run, like all the others. And when she said she was renting the old store in Cypress Grove, it fell into place. She was his tenant. No wonder she was friendly. She couldn't afford not to.

"My father asked me to bring you some bread," she was saying.

Derwin's stomach growled again, so loudly that he was sure the young woman heard it from all the way at the bottom of the stairs. He grimaced, mortified.

The bakery... yes, he remembered now. In the past few months, he'd been finding bread and pastries outside his front door with a note saying "Compliments of La Perla del Sur Bakery". He'd been wary, but then he'd come across the name on his monthly bank statements and realized they were just trying to be nice to their landlord. The bread was good, and the pastries were phenomenal. Plus, it saved him from having to go to the store. They had tried knocking at first, and when he never answered them, they just left everything on the porch, like a silent offering to some faceless deity. Once, he hadn't found it until days afterward, when the bread had gone soggy in the humidity and the pastries stale. He'd eaten them anyway.

His love for pastries didn't stop him from feeling annoyed with this young woman for invading his space, however.

"Are you OK?" she asked after a while, when he didn't say anything or make any move. "Do you need help getting up?"

He grunted a refusal.

"Should I bring these into the kitchen for you?" she continued, lifting a wicker basket to show him. The mouthwatering smell intensified.

"No need," he mumbled. "Just set them down there."

"Where?" The woman looked around the front hall. There was no place to put anything, except for a side table piled high with mail that Derwin couldn't bring himself to open.

"Anywhere."

"Your dog may get into them."

"I don't care."

"I'm going to put them in the kitchen," she said in a voice that invited no further argument, and before he could stop her, she was walking briskly down the corridor. She tossed a piece of pastry to Otto, and he immediately followed her, tail wagging. Traitor.

Grumbling under his breath, Derwin pulled himself up by the banister and limped his way downstairs. If he didn't catch her in time, this woman may go through the entire house, and he couldn't have that.

He stumbled off the last step and almost ran straight into the woman, who was coming back from the kitchen.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, catching his arms and helping him stand up straight.

Their eyes met, and Derwin found his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He'd been right—her eyes were light, bright green, gleaming like a forest pool in the shade, where the leafy canopy above is reflected in the quiet depth of the water.

Those eyes flicked briefly to the scar on his left cheek, before turning away, not out of disgust as Derwin had expected, but rather of embarrassment. She took a step back and let go of his arms.

"I've put the bread in your bread box," she said (I have a bread box? though Derwin). "I'm not sure when you want the pastries, so I've put them in your fridge. Heat them in the oven before you eat them, they'll taste better. The guava pastries will go great with some coffee."

That was probably the most anybody had ever said to him in over a year. Derwin stared at the young woman, not knowing what to say. She gave him a smile—quick and uncertain, but a smile nonetheless—and walked out with that same brisk, graceful stride, still followed by Otto, who was gazing at her adoringly.

"Otto, stay," Derwin said sternly when the dog looked like he wanted to follow the woman out the door. Otto reluctantly obeyed.

"Oh and, don't set the oven higher than two hundred degrees when you warm the pastries, or they'll get burned," the woman said over her shoulder, before closing the door behind her. A moment later, Derwin heard her bike rattling down the drive.

He glanced at Otto, who met his eyes with a wistful, reproachful look. "Don't look at me like that," Derwin said. "I didn't chase her off."

Leaving Otto in the front hall to whine and watch the figure on the bike disappear behind the oaks, Derwin limped into the kitchen to retrieve the pastries. She was right; they tasted much better warm, though he wouldn't offend them by pairing them with his dishwater coffee. Otto soon gave up his vigil and came into the kitchen as well, looking inconsolable. Derwin took pity on the dog and shared the ham croquettes with him.

"Just because she gave you pastries doesn't mean that she's your friend," he told the dog.

Otto always fell in love with anyone who showed him the smallest bit of attention. It was a terrible habit.

Chapter 2

So here's the Grunauer fic that I promised! It's my longest to date (82k, 20 chapters plus an epilogue), so I'm going to post it twice a week. If you want to be tagged when I update it, let me know, or you can just check back here every Tuesday and Saturday!

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #grunauer #grunauer overlord #overlord 2018 #grunauer x ofc

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plscallmeeren · 9 months ago

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O H , H A R R Y

Hermione Jean Granger x Luna Lovegood x Reader

Request: yes

Summary: you have been friends with the trio since first year and you've always been enthralled by Hermione and Luna, but only now in sixth year (for legal reasons everyone's an adult) are confessions made...... btw it's potions class and Harry has a crush on you (potions facts r all correct)

Warnings: Swearing; nipple play; magic strap-on/fake p; fisting; finger f; face f; power dynamics; bondage; top!reader; biting; anatomy ig; dirty talk of all kinds; threesome; anal; semi-public sex; porn with hardly any plot; out of character Hermione; damn idk stuff

Word Count: 3.6K+

You stared miserably at your cauldron in lieu of Snape's arrival. Luna sat next to you, doodling something in a notebook, completely unaware of your thoughts entangling with her.

In front of you, Harry and Ron were placed side by side, whispering about something. Hermione sat a way off, poring over her potions book as if she needed preparation for the lesson. Your heart nestled into your stomach mockingly as Ron looked her way adoringly.

What were you thinking? How could you be into two girls? Wasn't one bad enough? And what on Earth possessed you to think you had a chance?

But you had to tell them. At some point. For your own sake. So that you could move on. At least Luna, because Hermione would be harder to escape if things went south, considering you were in the same group of friends.

Your gaze wandered helplessly toward the Ravenclaw girl, searching her profile for something that might comfort you. Whatever that meant, you found it, because the sheer sight of her brought some joy to you - every single time.

Eventually Snape strode in, dramatic as always, impatiently beginning his lesson void of introduction, as if he weren't the one who had come too late.

"Valerian - recognising it. How tall-"

"One to two meters, sir," Hermione cut in enthusiastically, recoiling at the look he sent her in return.

"And are the blossoms or the leaves edible?" he continued, ignoring her. Apparently his gaze lingered on Luna for too long, however, because she answered easily: "Both. The leaves are harvested between May and June, the blossoms between June and July."

"That's not what I asked," he snarled, "and I don't recall calling on you, could that be, Miss Lovegood?" She held his stare better than anyone.

"Right. (Y/l/n), is the root dried before the common tincture is derived from its essence?" Snape sounded smug. Usually that was bad.

"No, it's not. And the tincture is said to be repellent of cruel spirits and similar." For a second you felt smug yourself. Then you remembered it was still bad.

"Also not my question. Now; who can tell me what real potion Valerian roots are essentially to-"

Hermione's hand was raised. Snape stared at her, looking almost surprised that she should suddenly be present and also have the nerve to remind him of this. She withered under his scrutiny, finally choosing to answer as he wasn't moving: "Draught of the living death, sir. I think, sir."

"I don't think I like your attitude, Miss Granger. Or yours, for that matter," he added meaningfully, glaring at you and Luna in turn. "Detention. All three of you. You'll be cleaning up the doubtless mess that will arise this lesson due to the jumping beans. No leaving after class."

You wished you could protest with the fact that you had a lesson the next period, but you didn't have one, just this once, and by the looks of it, neither did your friends. Harry and Ron looked at you pitifully.

This is the time. This is the day, a surprisingly loud voice inside you said. You gulped. Maybe it was.

The lesson dragged as fitful bursts of imagination illustrated to you exactly which ways you could be explicitly shunned and exiled, while others portrayed perfect scenarios of reciprocation that partly led to some crazy classroom threesome. You felt almost guilty for thinking about them that way, but you were the last one encouraging these thoughts after all.

Finally, not that you had noticed, the two hours of anticipation faded away with the distant coaster of students packing their things. Snape loomed over Hermione, supposedly giving instructions. She winced at something he said and you were overcome with a strange sort of second-hand rage. Not the kind that made you move out your blood boil, but the kind that twisted some vital organ you couldn't place, deep down inside your gut.

He left, cape swooshing, and there you were.

You. Hermione. Luna.

You all looked at each other for a moment before Hermione began relaying Snape's tricks for catching the beans. They sounded awfully implausible. You all suspected they were only supposed to mistake it harder, but quiet prevailed as you got to work.

It was awkward silence. And you had no idea why.

This was not as usual. The three of you were quite close, or at least you were with both of them, and there was never any tension unless Luna brought up an unusual creature and stubbornly disallowed anyone from changing the subject.

Eventually you couldn't stand it any longer. "I have something to tell you. Both of you. To get off my chest."

They looked at you expectantly, abandoning the hopeless search for bouncing legumes.

"What is it?" Hermione, oh clever Hermione, with wit and smarts and pride.

"Yes?" Luna, lovely Luna, with daydreams and understanding and interest.

"I don't expect you to react to this," you continued uneasily, watching them exchange an unreadable look. "I really don't. I don't want it to change. Us. Anything. But it's not getting better, so this is the only way I can think of."

You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes for a second to regain your composure. "I like you. Both of you. And I know that's weird. I know we're friends and I shouldn't but I really do. It's only become more with time, so... I don't know what else to do but tell you and..."

Hermione beamed. Luna laughed. Your brow furrowed.

"Oh, but that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed, flinging herself at you so that you had to half catch her, not letting you finish.

"Wait- What do you mean, that's wonderful?" You asked, confused.

Luna smiled. "(Y/n), you can't imagine how wonderful this is," she started, approaching the part of the room where Hermione leaned against your frame. "Recently I admitted to Hermione that I felt for you also, and at first she was disturbed, because she had the same feelings, but then we realized that if you hypothetically felt back, there was no reason we couldn't share you. Or, more likely, that whoever you liked should have total allowance to act on their wishes."

You stared at her. This was a dream, right? Sure, Luna could be direct, but still...

You pinched your arm, simultaneously ecstatic and disturbed when it hurt. You looked at them both in turn again, Hermione pulling away a little from her impractical position. "So... the three of us? Together?"

"Yes."

"If you can handle both."

"Right." You clicked your tongue, eyes involuntarily roaming Hermione's body as she stood so close to you. "I don't know what to say now."

"What were you going to say?" Luna asked slyly, siding up to you as well.

"Well... I'm always thinking of you. In the library, when we study together," you lock eyes with Hermione, "and when we hang out. You're just never absent from my mind."

Hermione giggled, and your brows rose when you realized what she was thinking. Luna smiled coyly also, making you smirk. "Not really what I meant, but sure."

"Don't you think we should celebrate? Instead of moderately awkward sexual tension, I mean," Luna asked, keeping an entirely straight face.

"Oh, yes," Hermione agreed, grinning, lighting up as if she had just arrived at a spectacular idea. "I think I'll just pick up that bean."

She paced about two steps before leaning over slowly in a way that would never be suitable for catching something, showing off the perfect silhouette of her ass and legs. "Oops," she murmured when it jumped away.

You bit your lip, turning to Luna instead. Your hand found the nape of her neck where your fingers could reach the roots of her hair, your other securing her waist as you leaned in, kissing her slowly.

It was better than you had imagined it. More natural, more believable. It felt like melting into her. Your heart sunk between your legs.

Hermione, looking almost jealous, swung her hips as she walked, wrapping an arm around your waist and the other through your hair as if to drag you away.

You pulled back, eyeing her playfully before moving the hand that had resided on Luna's hip to the other girl's side, slowly finding your way to cup her ass. She gasped.

You couldn't believe this was happening. Each arm around a beautiful girl.

"You can do her first," the Ravenclaw whispered. "I don't mind watching."

"I wouldn't want to keep you out of the fun," you smiled wickedly. "Why don't you sit on that desk there, love?"

She obeyed easily, leaving a panting Hermione before you to focus on. "Sweet girl... why don't you cast a silencing and locking charm, will you?"

She nodded frantically, quickly pulling out her wand to do just that. Before she could, however, your mouth was on her neck, inducing a moan - more surprised than anything.

"S-Silencio," she stuttered, chest rising and falling fast as you slid the robe off her shoulders onto the floor.

You kissed her on the mouth then, her wand arm faltering as you muffled her groans, pulling off her jumper and top in one. Her wand clattered on the ground.

Next came her skirt and tights, ripped off her without a second thought, leaving her in black lacy underwear. You grinned. "Luna, honey, I'll need you to undress, too."

She nodded from the desk, immediately setting to work. You looked back at Hermione as she stared up at you, practically awaiting judgement. "Pretty girl," you cooed, "if only I had known you'd been hiding this under all those clothes." She blushed. Blue and purple spots were already taking form on her neck.

You cupped her breasts carefully, massaging them with the palms of your hands until you could see her hardened nipples through the fabric. You unclasped the lingerie, diving down to her cleavage, sucking and biting and eliciting guttural moans and whimpers from her. A distant whining came from the direction of the desk also.

"P-Please, mommy, I want more-"

"Mommy, huh? Interesting," you interrupted her. "And what exactly would that entail?"

She only whined, resulting in a shrewd pinch of her left nipple. "I- I, uh... down there..."

"Use your big girl words, darling."

"I- I want you to f-fuck me."

"That's more like it," you purred. "But you'll have to wait a moment."

Turning to Luna, you raised your wand, catching her off guard as charmed ropes snaked around her wrists and ankles, finally grasping the table legs with considerable force. She panted in anticipation.

"Bet you're wondering where I learned that trick," you cooed, but didn't elaborate as you led Hermione with a hand on the small of her back towards Luna, gently applying pressure to her shoulders until she caught on, sliding to her knees before her friend's bare cunt with wide eyes.

"I'm gonna need you to eat her out, kitten. Can you do that for mommy?" You tilted your head mockingly.

"I, I've never done that before," she stuttered, "but I'll try..." Her mouth collided with Luna's pussy, ass naturally drifting upwards as she elicited soft moans from the blonde, who writhed against her magical bindings with a flawlessly arched spine.

You rounded on Luna, licking your lips at the sight of her plush breasts and perked nipples. You touched her right with the tip of your wand experimentally, relishing her passionate gasps as its cold effect startled her. You continued for about a minute, maybe more, playing with irregular hot and cold touches all over her cleavage.

She was moaning and whining more and more, hips bucking up into Hermione's face more often than not.

You returned to Hermione, standing behind her calmly before running a finger up one thigh, then the other. She groaned into Luna, causing a chain reaction. The same finger roamed around her pussy, poking at her lips once or twice before venturing up to her ass, circling her other hole. She whined as you pushed into her carefully, curling and uncurling a few times before retracting again, leaving her pussy heaving, longing. "Such a good girl."

"Please," she whimpered, muffled by the Ravenclaw's folds. You wanted to tease her, but couldn't find it in you to delay.

"You're so wet for me, it's adorable." Two of your fingers rubbed sidelong up her cunt, slowly edging deeper and deeper until you were inside her, searching for her g-spot, finding it, pounding against it so that she had to come away from Luna to breathe, whine, moan. The sinful sounds were so high they sounded fake, but the movements of her needy hips proved otherwise.

"Quiet, now, kitten," you mocked, only thrusting into her harder as Luna groaned from afar. "Or do you need more?"

She nodded quickly, but you weren't going to let her get away so easily.

"I need to hear you say it. C'mon, use that pretty voice of yours."

"I need more," she whimpered, hardly able to catch a breath long enough to speak. You grinned, groaning a guttural 'good girl' that sent Hermione over the edge. Her juices flowed freely over your fingers, but you didn't stop, merely slowing down a second before adding another finger, then another, so that the majority of your hand thrust in and out of her with every frantic intake of breath.

"You ready?" you purred, smiling as she nodded. The remaining thumb glided into her, your entire fist now hitting all the right places in her cunt.

"Oh, Merlyn, please-"

She slumped forwards into Luna's pussy, sending vibrations through the blonde girl. With one guttural moan, clenching around nothing, she came again, writhing in her bindings as Hermione's face remained attached to her slick, almost sliding away at any given time, swaying back and forth with every push of your joined digits.

You could feel her gripping your hand harder and harder, threatening to spill, to arrive-

You drew your fist out, eliciting a pathetic whine from the Gryffindor. "Good girl," you said softly, presenting your hand to her face, which she eagerly licked clean of her own juices. "I'm gonna need you to..." You leaned in close, whispering in her ear so that Luna could only strain to hear you. Hermione nodded eagerly, still breathing hard.

You held up your wand, closing your eyes in concentration to remember some of the charms your cousin (oh, the irony) had showed you a while ago. Finally, pointing down, you muttered the words, watching as an unfamiliar bulge formed in your pants. You pulled the trousers down, letting it spring up, ignoring the girls as you set to work again, finally managing to have the wand vibrate heavily in your hand.

When you turned back around, Hermione was obeying your first ask, tickling Luna all over her body as her already aroused cunt pulsated and clenched, her nipples going stiff. She jerked and spasmed on the very desk she had just before contemplated potions class.

You handed the brunette your buzzing wand, letting her place it on the Ravenclaw's clit. She shuddered, struggling to hold still. Your fingers ran over her middle, tracing the outline of her beautiful face and the roots of her silver hair. Thumbs gliding to the corners of her mouth where her head hung over the edge, gently prompting her to open up, meaningfully catching her eye. An endless string of whines and moans poured from her now that her lips were parted.

Slowly, she took your fake dick, gagging on it in a way that brought immense pleasure to you through this unreal sequence of nerves. Luna started sliding up and down it with those voluptuous lips, and before you knew it, it was you who was pushing down her throat again and again, the blonde giddy with stimulation and slight lack of air.

"You can come now, honey. Come from mommy fucking your face like the sweet girl you are," you said sweetly, and then she was gasping, her face better than any pornographic scenery, and then Hermione was whimpering at the sheer jealousy of another's orgasm, and you were so impossibly turned on that you couldn't stop yourself. Your own orgasm exploded in Luna's mouth, some leaking out onto her face as you pulled away, sorry you hadn't asked, but she looked so ecstatic you could have come again.

The angelic image; Luna, wise Luna, white flecks dripping down her cleavage and face, swallowing the same as she licked her perfect lips. Hair a mess, spread-eagle on the table where she would have to sit and learn the next day, mildly cross-eyed, pussy and breasts on full, parted display, a blunt portrait of pleasure.

You took the wand from Hermione, Luna sagging at the loss of stimulation. A simple flick and those gentle but stubborn ropes snaked back into the air, vanishing as their deed was done. "Why don't you get dressed, love? We'll go to my dorm and get comfortable," you suggested, but your grin was too curious to be innocent.

She reached for her wand on the neighboring desk among her discarded clothes, but you interrupted her actions. "Don't clean up here. Put your clothes on over it all." She glanced down at her dripping wet thighs, soaked pussy, thought of the cum on her face and cleavage - then smiled just as wickedly.

Your lips crashed against hers before she could proceed, however, removing her more obvious decor as they travelled to her chin, her cheeks, cleaning her up in a way so inherently harmless she laughed. You had always loved her laugh. "Go ahead."

You held out a hand to Hermione, who was resting on the stone floor, helping her up and sitting down on the next table before Luna. She intuitively sat down on your lap, groaning as she slipped onto your cock. She sat there, 'adjusting', as you both watched Luna get dressed.

"See her legs? All wet under her stockings, even as she'll walk through the castle. Think how many other people will see her like that, unaware of all the dirty things my girls have been up to," you murmur in her ear, earning a groan of frustration. She lifted herself up as if to fuck herself on your lap, but you pushed her back down again. "Don't tell me you still haven't had enough of being fucked, sweet girl? You still want more?"

She whimpered, bucking her hips against you as you rested your head on her shoulder carefully, kissing the side of her neck. Luna pulled up her skirt, awkwardly setting bra over wet skin.

"What would other students say, knowing you're so needy? That you and Luna both have drenched cunts and wanna be fucked? Have been fucked?"

Apparently movement wasn't necessary, because that was the moment Hermione squirted for the first time in her life.

"Good girl," you whispered one more time, one last shudder of approval, before lifting her off of you and charming away your helpful illusion.

She started getting dressed over her post-sex anatomy, managing to clasp on a bra and stockings. You were just buttoning up your trousers when the door creaked open. Hermione yelped, scurrying behind you automatically, Luna standing sagely, now fully dressed.

Harry and Ron stood paralyzed by the wooden door, staring. The former looked livid.

"How dare you? I thought you were my friends!" he yelled, glaring at Hermione and Luna in turn, noting the slick around the Gryffindor's face as well. "(Y/n) was mine! You knew I liked her, didn't you? How could you take her from me?"

"Oh, Harry," you sighed, effectively inaudible over his ongoing accusations and claims.

"Please, Harry," you said louder, making him stop, "I didn't realize. I'm sorry for hurting you. But I was never yours, or only as a friend. I'm sorry. But I can be with who I want, and that's nothing to take up with Hermione or Luna, either."

He was practically quivering with... what? Rage? Sadness? Frustration? Envy?

"Well, I think it's great, y'know," Ron intervened awkwardly. "The whole... being-with-you-want-thing. Real good. You should all be happy, is what I'm saying, I suppose. Although I do find that hard to say in the dungeons, but y'know. 'Is what it is."

He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders, turning him around slowly. "C'mon, mate. Uh, he's sorry and all, I think is fair to say. Just outta sorts, is all."

Harry seemed unable to withstand his friend's kind tug, dragging his feet over the dark stone in the opposite direction.

Hermione emerged from behind you, hand clapped over her mouth. "I can't believe I forgot to do a locking spell."

"Maybe you've forgotten, but that wasn't entirely your fault."

"Anyway," Luna interrupted as the Gryffindor appeared to be searching her memory, "let's hope nothing will go out of its way to stand between us anymore. Not even our friends."

"We won't let them either way," Hermione added, smiling brightly.

"Good to know." You grinned. This detention was certainly worth it.

#fanfic #fanfiction #new chapter #romance #harry potter #smut #x reader #threes0me #wlw #wlw ns/fw #hermione x reader #hermione fanfiction #hermione granger #Hermione smut #luna lovegood #luna x reader #Luna x Hermione #bd/sm kink #top reader

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kaeso4ka · 3 months ago

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You die, but something keeps keeping you on base… Or is it someone?

Pairing: yandere Optimus Prime x reader

As you entered the main bay of the base, you stretched. It was just the right amount of walking: it was a good time to stretch your legs in the blazing desert sun. It was good that the vultures hadn't swooped down on you, or they might have… You were glad to be alone, though. For some reason no one had come for you, but you could walk to Omega One on your own two feet.

At the base, working at the monitors as usual, you met Ratchet. He didn't pay you any attention, just mumbled something in response to your greeting.

On the couch on the human platform sat Jack, Rafe, and Miko, playing a game of racing. Miko was noisily encouraging Rafe, but he was steadily losing to Jack.

“Hey,” you stood up, clapping Jack on the back, ”having fun?”

All three of them flinched almost synchronously. Rafe even seemed to shriek quietly.

“...What are you guys doing? You've gotten nervous as hell?” you folded your arms across your chest. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“We just... Didn't expect to see you here today,” Jack turned around unhesitatingly, forcing a smile out of himself. “How are you?”

“Better than alive,” your smile came out honest. You really have been feeling lovely since this morning. “Ready to roll mountains. Or neck myself... Whatever.”

Jack didn't have time to answer: the portal vortex interrupted him. The Autobots were returning from their mission.

Bulkhead was the first to arrive at the base, followed by Arcee and Bumblebee... Then, trailing behind, came Prime.

“We did a pretty good job on those Vehicons, didn't we?” Bulkhead chuckled, confirming the words - signals - of Bumblebee. “They were totally weak today.”

“Bumblebee!” Rafe snapped off the couch, almost throwing him against the rail.

Bumblebee sprang to the platform, picking the boy up off of it. The blue optic's gaze fell on you... and then immediately shifted to the backs of Ratchet and Optimus.

“What's wrong with him?” you turned to the approaching Miko. “You're all so weird today.”

“Forgive us,” Miko didn't sound as cheerful as she always did, ”it's a rough day. Maybe you want to rest?”

“I'll rest in the other world,” you shrugged, ”hey Optimus!”

Prime reacted instantly. He stepped away from Ratchet, talking quietly to him until then, and then gently took you in the palm of his hand.

“It's good to see you.”

“You're always good to see me... And actually, we saw each other yesterday. Did you miss me?”

“I always miss you,” already in their compartment, Prime put you on his desk. He took up the datapads himself, “especially now.”

“How could I not?” you settled more comfortably among the monitors, energy cubes, and datapads. “Everyone's so weird today. Decepticons?”

“No,” Optimus shook his helmet, ”it's fine.”

You didn't believe him, of course.

***

“What the hell is going on here...”

You frowned at Ratchet's back. Some time passed, but the situation didn't change. It was as if everyone around you was shunning you, except, of course, Optimus.

June nearly fainted when she saw you; Fowler swore. Not to mention the fact that everyone else was talking to her as if through force.

“Hey, Ratchet. What the fuck is going on here?” you moved determinedly towards the medic.

Ratchet gripped the dentures tighter. He knew you'd ask that question sooner or later... and him, of course.

“You really don't remember? You don't understand?” the mech turned to the organics, examining the stranger's transparent silhouette.

“What am I supposed to remember? It's fine,” you didn't like Ratchet's look.

“How strange. You so wished for your own death, yet you manage to forget it,” Ratchet grinned unfunnily, ”take a closer look at yourself. You're dead.”

Your smile faltered, then disappeared altogether as your gaze lowered to your own body... Through which you could see the interior behind you.

“What the fuck!” you touched your stomach, but your palm fell through it. “How...? When...?”

“A bad conflict with Optimus,” Ratchet dimmed his optics, ”I don't understand why you die, either, and then keep coming here every time like you should. Can't you leave us behind even after your favorite death?”

“I... I don't know. I don't remember or understand anything,” the realization of death flooded the mind, but the pain of the greater realization that you could still for some damn reason understand the reality around you almost got you, ”I don't know what's going on, Ratchet.”

“It's noticeable. I wouldn't be surprised if Prime is keeping you here,” Ratchet waved his manipulator toward the exit, ”that's what. Leave. Find your way to the human Afterlife. Or perish in the fires of the Smelter. I don't care. But don't come here again.”

You nodded. Obediently, she headed for the exit, soon finding herself far beyond Omega One. Its vaults were already behind her, and the endless desert lay ahead....

... until, far ahead, a cliff loomed on the horizon, hiding the Autobot base beneath its vaults.

#transformers #optimus prime #reader insert #optimus #optimus x reader #yandere #optimus x you #transformers prime #optimus x human

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miss-tc-nova · 1 year ago

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After Running Away - Leona x Jamil

Well hello again @completeanduttermess

Okay so...of course I had to finish this before June ended so, yay! Happy pride month! Second, oh my god, I’m so sorry this is so bad. I may have had free time, so my brain decided all work was out of the question. It was either this or the pet!au that was getting way out of hand and almost not LeoJami at all.

Anyway, this is meant to be in the era after The Lives We Want.

~~~~~~

Leona & Jamil After Running Away

In the beginning, it’s rough.

Mostly for Leona.

Big Kitty may have been shunned by his kingdom, but he was still a prince. He still had people looking after him and doing all the grunt work for him.

He can’t do that now.

Well, he probably could. Jamil would probably do it, but then the desert native would be living the same life Leona just saved him from.

So, even if he grumbles and moans the whole time, Leona is going to do his own chores with his own hands. Or at least try.

Jamil has to save him.

It’s terribly awkward for him to watch Leona try to cook or wash clothes. The lion could barely dye his own hair after all.

Leona is smart and talented and could probably easily survive on his own. But for the life of him the man cannot navigate a kitchen.

So Jamil does often end up with those chores, but Leona always watches carefully. He’s observing and taking the process in. And it’ll be soon enough that he’ll knock Jamil’s socks off with a curry he made himself.

Jamil is faring a bit better at this new life. But he still has a lot of anxiety.

Every bit of him is nervous that someone is going to recognize him. Or recognize Leona. And when that happens, Leona might be punished. And Jamil’s family might be punished. All the consequences of a single slip up plague his thoughts.

Those nerves often come out in his overplanning. He starts mapping out their next stop, the sights they’ll see and the places they’ll stay, but in an excessive way—like down to the minute. He’s scarily accurate. Sometimes, he unpacks the bags to take stock of their supplies, check their cash, and mend any clothes.

The worst is when he starts making contingency plans. That’s when the paranoia really starts to win. He’s rehearsed in his head what he’d say to anyone who asks who he is and if they’ve seen him on the news. He’s even thought about what he’d do if anyone tried to detain Leona for this whole thing.

While it may all look normal on the outside, Leona is very aware when Jamil is stressing. And in those times, Leona does what Leona does best.

Annoy Jamil.

Sometimes it’s literally laying on top of Jamil’s focused task, sometimes it’s sitting nearby to poke him, sometimes it’s throwing random things at him (like socks and pillows and wadded paper), and sometimes it’s picking the snake up to haul him off. Somehow, this stupid “pay attention to me” tactic always work. Jamil does pay attention to him and that gives Leona all the leverage he needs to be a distraction.

Because Jamil knows that, no matter what happens, they’re in this mess together. Surely their two bright minds could get them out of any situation.

Aside from Jamil’s anxieties and Leona’s lack of daily living skills, these two are having the time of their lives!!!

Leona doesn’t feel the eyes of everyone comparing him to his brother. He didn’t realize just how much of a weight that was.

And there’s no pressure of “royal appearances.” He can be as “slob” as he wants…if Jamil lets him. Well, maybe he cares about his appearance a little, but it doesn’t have to be annoying anymore.

And Jamil gets to do whatever the fuck he wants! He gets to say “no” when he doesn’t want to do something. He gets to do whatever he wants. And he gets to show off, so long as no one recognizes him.

Though part of him might yearn for the world to recognize him, Jamil is rational. Besides, it’s more than enough for him if only Leona sees him.

At first, they visited some small places, trying to keep a low profile while the world was on the lookout for them.

But as time went on and their faces faded from the news, they got see the rest of the world.

They’ve seen the inside of many motels and Airbnbs. But they’ve also spent nights under the stars. Lying on grass, saying stupid stuff and laughing at nothing until they fall asleep. Those are probably their favorite moments.

They have acquired a broom. It’s the fastest, and really only way, for them to get around. They may have money, but rentals, taxis, and tickets add up. And brooms run on magic, which is free. It also makes the quickest escape if necessary.

And sometimes, just floating on by is peaceful enough for them.

Mostly Jamil is in charge of where they go. Sometimes Leona will put in his opinion on where to go, but mostly, he has no opinion and just lets Jamil choose.

As they approach each new destination, the excitement tends to spark in Little Snake. His demeanor lightens and usually there’s a smile on his face. Leona almost always catches himself staring—maybe smiling a bit too.

Leona actually stares a lot. He gets a bit of second-hand excitement watching Jamil. That and just watching his sweetheart makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But he’ll never admit that. It one of the things that Jamil teases him about.

But honestly, how could he ever stop himself when all the wonder of the world sparks in those gorgeous eyes.

Though there’s a lot of cooking, there’s also frequently the taste-testing of local cuisine. It gets a little interesting considering Leona’s picky pallet but they enjoy taking a break and sharing something new. When he finds something he likes, Jamil analyzes the flavors, wondering if he could easily recreate it.

Though there’s plenty of money from Leona’s savings for now, Jamil keeps an eye out for little odd jobs as they walk through. Things like helping load or unload trucks, delivery across town—just little things to make a quick buck. Leona grumbles as he pulls his weight.

Despite enjoying the travelling, sometimes they talk about settling down somewhere. In fact, as they travel, they talk about the pros and cons of living in the location they’re in. There’s a small list on the places they’d want to live, but both of them agree that it’s going to be a few years before they think about that.

For now, it’s just enjoying their newfound freedom and enjoying each other’s company.

~~~~~

Nova’s Twisted Wonderland Masterlist

#novas headcanons #leojami #leona x jamil #twst leona #twst jamil

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