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thetravellingvagrant · 1 year

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Day 6 - In Which I Remember Why I Fucking Hate Hostels

As is now apparently just my way, I was up and raring to go for whatever grinding, awful bus journey lay ahead of me on this particular day. I think it was Genoa to Milan, but at this point I had done so many trips in such a short period of time it was impossible to actually tell. I quietly hauled all my errant belongings out of the dorm room in which I had spent the night, into the communal kitchen, to arrange them back into my bag as far away from sleeping ears as I could. Christ, I’m good.

I sat down at the only table, joined by a strange and ever so slightly sinister looking thin, old man who gave me serious ‘was once a respected professor of history who has since been edited out of every BBC4 documentary he was ever featured on due to clandestine nazi sympathies and also wild, unspecified sexual misconduct’ vibes and forced a bowl of complimentary breakfast cereal down my throat, more because it was there and I hate passing up on a deal than out of any actual hunger. As I finished my, what I might loosely call, breakfast with a final triumphant wretch, I turned to the sink to wash my bowl - see above, re: christ, me being good - and the man spake.

“You are travelling?” he asked in a thick italian accent.

“Uy, yes. To Milan” I offered in return.

“Ah. Me too! You go by bus?”

Ah christ. I really didn’t want to get saddled with having to walk to the bus stop with this guy. I was already late for a start - I didn’t have time to stop every thirty seconds for him to daub a swastika on a nearby wall and wolf whistle at a pre-teen.

“...Yeah.” I replied, the trepidation a little more obvious in my voice than I had intended.

“...What time?”

Go. Away.

“...eight forty.”

“Ah. My bus is at ten.”

Thank god.

“My cell phone is broken and I don’t know how to get there.”

I stood in silence for a second, waiting for him to say more. I’m not quite sure why he was telling me; I couldn’t really wait until ten to walk him to the bus stop, if that’s what he was implying. He said nothing, though. Clearly it was my turn to talk.

“...the bus station isn’t that difficult to find...” I shrugged, putting my jacket on impatiently.

He nodded. I took this as a sign the conversation was over and turned to leave. As I put my hand on the door, he continued.

“Where do you go after Milano?”

“Bergamo.” I snapped, desperate to be out of this conversation, now for both time and comfort based reasons.

“Ah. That’s in the mountains?”

“...I guess?!”

Another silence.

“...Well. Bye!”

And with that, perturbed and grumbling, into the icy air of the Genoan morning. I hope he never caught his bus. Bloody nonce. Probably.

Quite unlike the old diddler whom had just occupied far, far too much of my time, I had been in and around Genoa enough over the past four days to know, almost as if by instinct, where that fucking bus station was and so, made it there with ease. I boarded my already present and idling bus to Milan and took my seat. This one existed, so I was thrilled. The bar really is that low for Flixbus.

A minute or so before departure, a woman walked on board. That one woman every single inter-city bus seems to have; loud, unduly angry about something or other - god knows what - and existing completely without any concept of how the relatively simple ticketing or seating systems work on long distance buses. She leaned over a couple and began hammering on their window, seemingly in an attempt to catch the attention and bid farewell to her friend, not accompanying her on this journey. She then turned to the rest of the bus and boomed in Italian so loud that even I understood

“WHERE’S SEAT 20?!”

I chuckled. Boy, whichever poor sap was in seat 20 was about to have a shitty fucking time on this trip. Didn’t envy *that* poor schmuck one bi- Hang on a second, I’m in seat 20.

I watched, dismayed, as she howled over to my aisle and took the seat next to me, immediately spreading her knees and elbows out wide, puncturing directly into my own happy little bubble of personal space. Sighing, I folded myself into the smallest shape I could manage and pressed myself against the glass. It was me. I was the schmuck.

The woman fell asleep near immediately, allowing me some wiggle room in unfurling myself, which I immediately and gleefully took. This was a mistake. In my (outwardly) casual attempt to not cripple myself, I accidentally jostled her arm, which fell from its previous resting place, atop her fat tummy, directly onto my leg. This, obviously, was an intolerable turn of events and one I immediately rectified by pushing her hand away, into the gap between us. She responded to this, still asleep (I hope) by pushing her now loose hand, first under my thigh then snaking it upwards to my lower buttock. How had this gone so badly wrong. I tried for an embarrassing amount of time to subtly remove her pudgy little meathooks from my gentleman’s lady garden to no avail - many of my attempts seemingly only causing her to push in deeper - until eventually, I relented and decided instead to live with his unimaginable social torment and just fart on her hand periodically instead. Revenge is sweet.

Eventually, nearly forty minutes late - it was Flixbus after all - we pulled in to Milan and the woman pulled her hand out of my unhappy anus. We bid each other adieu and went our separate ways into the city, never to see one another again. I absolutely fucking pray.

Reader of earlier entries to this blog will know that Milan’s Lampugnano bus station is, very helpfully, fucking ages away from the city center. Regardless, I decided to walk the distance one more, partly because the check-in time for my hostel dorm for the night was, once again at the irritatingly late 2PM, though mostly because I hadn’t figured out how to buy a ticket on Milan’s public transport system and at this point was beginning to be too stubborn to want to figure it out. So I walked. Shoulders be damned.

I arrived at my hostel at half past one - the time I had been let into the previous hostel - and so decided to push my luck.

“Check in is 2.” the surly, bespectacled woman behind the counter snapped.

“Oh, okay.” I replied, knowing that anyway.

She eyeballed me, sighed deeply as if absolutely done with my bullshit, despite me uttering literally two sentences since my arrival and began tapping on her keyboard.

“...One moment” she spat, clicking away, before stopping, looking up at me like I’d just spitroasted her cat and oozed out the words “...Your bed is ready.”

“Oh, lovely!” I beamed, quietly wondering what her shitty attitude was about if the room was already free and me being in it thirty minutes early, to the best of my knowledge, affected her life in absolutely not one way I could imagine. She grunted and threw a key at my face.

A far cry from the yesterday’s hostel, this one had absolutely no charm to it at all. It was sterile, impersonal and shoved rules in your face in almost every direction you turned

So homely. Also, as a side note "we will have to use the oxidation blade to open your locker" is an absurd claim. The door to mine was nearly hanging off its hinges and one solid yank cold have collapsed the whole thing.

Also my assigned bed was an upper bunk in a corner of a four-person dorm, in which all the residual heat of the room coalesced, making my bed and my bed, alone, the hottest place on fucking earth. I turned the heating off immediately and clambered into it, regardless, to relax my aching body. Maybe if I thought of it as a kind of sauna it wouldn’t be so bad, even though I absolutely hate saunas.

It wasn’t long before I met two of my erstwhile roommates. A couple of loud-ass, basic-ass Polish Erasmus students*. My favourite.

They had been separated from their other two loud-ass, basic-ass cohorts by the hostel’s callous room-assignment computer system and they were not happy about it, one bit, no sir. As luck would have it, though, they had bumped into two entirely different Mexican Erasmus students staying in the other room who were willing to switch dorms with them. As absolutely thrilled for them as I was - and I was very thrilled - the upshot of this entire encounter was that my dorm room had now become a sort of low-key, very very boring party-central for two different groups of Erasmus dullards to mingle and hoot and discuss their various business management courses. It’s always fucking business management. Anyway, my answer to that was a firm and emphatic “no.”, so I packed my laptop away and left, hoping against hope that by the time I returned they would all be dead.

(*for those of you reading unfamiliar with Erasmus, it’s a sort of foreign exchange program you can enter into while in university, which the students who partake of it use as a replacement for genuine personality.)

I grabbed a quick lunch in the form of a pre-packaged sandwich (with the crusts already cut off because Italians are babies) from a supermarket, before heading to the Milan museum of natural history - noting that entry was free on the third Tuesday of every month, which it was, and thus taking that as a cosmic sign that I should go look at a mammoth for a bit or whatever.

The museum was actually really quite a good one, despite nearly all of it being described only in Italian and while I thought it, initially, to be a bit titchy and shit, I was delighted to discover that the initial part of the museum - which I had thought to be the full thing - was actually augmented by multiple other, hidden away floors of exhibits, a good number of them chock full of some pretty fucking stanky examples of bad taxidermy, which, as anyone who’s even passed a quick eye over this blog or spoken to me in person for even a second in real life will know, is absolutely my jam. So expect a big dump of photos of that after this entry.

Brace yourself...

For dinner, I decided to get some famous Milano pizza. Milan, of course, being the birthplace of the dish and it wasn’t until I was outside my chosen restaurant that I remembered that it’s actually Napoli rather than Milan that pizza originated in and I’m actually very stupid. Consequently, out of a potent mixture of embarrassment and irritation, I ended up getting some nice pizza-esque foccacias, instead. Milan is probably famous for those, right? Right.

Back in the hostel, I was left alone in my otherwise unoccupied room for hours hours and - again - anyone who’s ever met me in person will tell you that I firmly believe that not being around people is fucking sick, so I was obviously having the time of my ruddy life.

At around eleven, fatigue set in. I clicked my light off, lay my head on the pillow and I swear to Italian Jesus, literally less than thirty seconds after I had done this, the doors to the room burst open and the Erasmus girls returned, followed shortly after by the other occupant of the room who, if I am being as charitable as I possibly could be, I could only really describe as ‘The king regent of all fuckbois’.

I anticipated some noise on their return. That was fine. It’s impractical and unfair to expect everyone to be as great and also handsome as I am, while staying in a dorm. What I did not expect, however, were all the lights to go on and for Fuckboibot 2000; a robot sent back in time from the near future to neg all women, to spend a full forty five minutes, loudly opening, closing and reopening his suitcase, banging his locker door shut at full force and generally being as loud and shit a roommate and person as it was possible for him to be, which apparently is so shit that it even transcents what I thought to be a human being’s limit of shitness and yes I am including Hitler in that.

Finally though, sick of making all the noise he possibly could, like a baby sick of its rattle he settled into his bunk for the night, presumably to wind down for the evening, looking at mean spirited memes and sliding into the DMs of unwilling and disinterested women as I lay in the darkness and plotted my incredibly petty revenge.

#Milan #genoa #italy #travelling vagrant #travel #travel photography #photography #taxidermy #bad taxidermy #natural history museum

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papasmistakeria · 2 years

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I saw a video saying that in the original TNG concept, Data and Riker were supposed to be the best friends transferring from a different ship and as much as I love Geordi and Data's dynamic, I simply can't ignore this concept cause of how much I love it so-

AU where instead of Data and Geordi being besties, it's Data and Riker!

Their friendship would be similar to a brotherly dynamic. Data would consider Riker to be his older brother, someone who's always there to support and look out for him, and Riker would consider Data to be his little brother, the only family he's ever had (not counting his dad)

On their previous ship, Data constantly gets harassed and Riker would always step in to his defense. Riker got into fistfights with the Tactical team for calling Data an 'it'

Everytime Riker gets injured from fiercely "defending Data", he never goes to Sickbay cause then he'd have to explain to the doctor why he got the injuries so the duty would fall onto Data to patch him up as best as he could

Riker willingly spent days and nights not sleeping just to learn about Data's inner workings. He isn't a cyberneticist. However, that doesn't mean Riker would be completely useless in helping his friend when issues rise. He knew the basics enough to help Data with minor injuries or malfunctions

During his first few weeks of practicing the violin, Data would only play if Riker was there to accompany him with the trombone. They've written and composed several songs together but no one knew what they were about

At first, Riker tried to set Data up on a date with someone, but after an incident that left Data almost dismantled, he stopped and from then on, became wary towards anyone who wanted to be close to Data

Riker likes to invite Data to playing sports in the Holodeck, much to the latter's dismay. Let's just say, everytime Riker manages to pull Data for a sport and convince him to "give his all", Riker would leave with broken ribs, limbs twisted in weird ways, bloody nose, and a chipped tooth while Data left with guilt and a lot of apologies to offer

First few weeks on the Enterprise, Data befriended Geordi and the first person he told was Riker. The next day, Geordi received a warning from the First Officer, that if he ever try anything funny on Data, Riker would personally hunt him down. Geordi took his words seriously and promised his intentions were good

When Data took up painting, he painted a sleeping alaskan malamute puppy with the fur colored after Riker's own hair and gave the painting to said person (who loved it). The first thing everyone sees when entering Riker's quarters was the painting

Outside of poker, Data and Riker have secret card game nights. Usually they play Yu-Gi-Oh or incorrectly play Pokemon cards

Riker likes to ruffle Data's hair like your usual older brother and he's one of the very few people Data actually allowed to touch his hair

Data doesn't like to be touched by other people without a reason, it's dehumanizing. However, he found there are certain people's sensory input that he actually enjoyed (even craved). Riker was one of them and his favourite touch from him are the head pats. When the emotion chip was fused into his neural net, Riker's head pats introduced him to the emotion of pride. Also whenever he's having a breakdown, the head pats helped ground him

They also do Holodeck mystery LARPing but instead of Sherlock Holmes, it's Professor Layton. Riker likes the thrill of adventure and beating villanous asses up while Data enjoys a good puzzle and theatrics

Riker once bravely drank Data's bio-lubricant cause some officer was insulting Data for drinking it in public and Riker wanted to prove a point and (once again) defend his friend's honor. He did succeed, but let's just say it ended with him in his bathroom, puking into the toilet bowl while Data gently pats his back. That day, he had the worst tummy ache and the most digusting vomit he ever had in his lifetime

Riker has his own "List of Data's Red Flags" where he listed several things Data should avoid (which Data himself wasn't aware of cause he was just that innocent) which Data happily complied since that meant Riker was looking out for him. Though it took him awhile to convince Riker that "engineers" aren't exactly red flags

#star trek #star trek the next generation #star trek tng #tng #data #doodles #will riker #william riker #geordi laforge #headcanons #alternate universe #i love these two so much #they should've been besties #geordi should've been his boyfriend while riker is his bestie i'm just saying #actual himbo and nerd friendship supremacy

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realcube · 3 years

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The Maid Café || Saiki K x Reader

summary: nendou and kaidou keep pestering saiki to visit their favourite maid café but he shuts them down every time. however, after a bit of prying they manage to convince him to give the place a try and while they are there, you just so happen to be on shift.

tw// cussing, maid café, (she/her) reader

key:

“non italicised text” = somebody besides Saiki speaking

“italicised text” = Saiki telepathically communicating

‘italised text’ = Saiki’s thought

‘Of course Nendou and Kaidou would be into maid cafés of all things — not cat cafés, not internet cafés — it just had to be maid cafés.’

Saiki’s internal monologue began as Kaidou continued gushing on about the cute lady he met at the café a few days ago as an argument to why Saiki should join them next time they go. Not to say Saiki wasn’t listening as he felt extremely sorry for whatever lady had to tolerate Kaidou’s advances and his prayer went out to her but besides that, he really couldn’t care less about the maids or the café.

Until, his attention was involuntarily aroused at the vocalisation of his name from Nendou, “Saiki’s definitely in for Friday, I’m pretty sure I sold him when I told him that the sandwiches there are almost as good as the ramen we usually get.”

‘No, you didn’t. I won’t be coming to join you on Friday. I’d much rather stay--’

Somehow Kaidou managed to cut off Saiki’s internal monologue with his annoying voice, “Don’t be silly, Nendou. You’re not going to win Saiki over with such a ridiculous comparison, one that he clearly doesn’t care about.”

‘Am I delusional? Is this a hallucination? Or did Kaidou just say something logical and based in reality?’

Kaidou’s aura immediately changed to dark and sinister as a mischievous smirk crossed his face, the background squawks of the crows suddenly became much louder for some unknown reason. “Instead, you must locate your opponent's weak point before you can recognise the crucially important moment to exploit it. The process takes patience but it is one I have learned from my many years rebelling against Dark Reunion. Now, young Nendou, watch and learn.” He finished with a dramatic flip of his school jacket which was slung over his shoulders as a cape.

‘What was all that about?’

Saiki wondered before Kaidou turned to him, much less brooding than he was a few seconds ago, and said casually, “Your loss if you don’t come, Saiki — you’ll be the one missing out on some of the best desserts in our whole town — not to mention the coffee jelly.”

✿✿✿✿✿

‘How do I always end up losing to these people? I am a psychic for god’s sake!’

Saiki mentally cursed himself out as he stood shamefully in front of the maid café, wearing a carefully curated outfit — including his germanium ring — created especially to hide his identity from anyone from his school that might pass by the café and spot him in there through the window or something. Honestly, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a maid café, or so he thought.

However, all the reviews he read along with both Nendou and Kaidou’s thoughts helped him conclude that this place’s coffee jelly and general dessert selection is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, his favourite Tumblr blog - DeadlyDesserts11037 - visited the place and gave it a 5 star review, recommending everybody who happens to pass by the town to definitely check the place out. After that, he was sold.

Saiki looked over at his friends and couldn’t help but facepalm in response to their bright red, thrilled expressions. “Good grief, please don’t tell me you are both that excited over ladies in maid outfits.” As you might’ve guessed, Saiki didn’t really understand the concept of a ‘maid café’, so he simply assumed the male obsession with maids had something to do with the objectification of women hence he obviously did not want to take part.

“Saiki, you’re seriously just built different if this doesn’t touch your soul.” They both brushed the pink-haired boy’s comment off, completely mesmerised by the sight of a particularly pretty maid-lady walking by the window — probably on her way to serve a table — carrying a notepad in one hand and a plate with a scrumptious-looking coffee jelly on top.

Saiki followed their gaze, his breath hitching at the sight. He was speechless; no sarcastic comment, no running commentary, nothing. Just..woah! If he had known that the girls that work at this place were so gorgeous and the food looked so delicious, he would’ve came a long time ago.

He wasn’t even sure which one he wanted more; the girl or the jelly. In a way, one wasn’t complete without the other because the coffee jelly which she held high next to her head brought out her (E/C) eyes while her shapely figure highlighted the defined curves of the jelly. Drool was quick to start forming at the corners of his lips but he was even quicker to wipe it away; he was starving.

“We’re going in.”

✿✿✿✿✿

To Saiki’s dismay, it was not the stunning (H/C)-haired girl who he had caught a glimpse of through the glass that ushered them to their table. Rather, it was a slightly less gorgeous maid-lady who had long, bright purple hair which was clearly a wig.

Fortunately for him, after she left Kadiou, Nendou and himself to take their seats, she rushed off saying that someone will come take their orders whenever they are ready.

Even with his psychic abilities, there wasn’t much he could think of to alter fate so the pretty coffee-jelly lady would end up serving their table, and besides that, he was way too caught up in gawking at all the mouth-watering desserts they had pictured on the menu.

Simply glancing over the menu brought a stupid grin to his face, he wanted to try every delectable treat presented in front of him. However, he knew he must exhibit restraint, which was fairly simple as he knew deep down there was only one thing on the menu that he was truly after. You guessed it — coffee jelly.

Usually, he couldn’t care less about what his friends comrades were going to order but in this case, he was tempted to try convince both Kaidou and Nendou to order something he liked so he could take a bite of whatever they were having, “What are you two going to order?”

Yet again though, he was ignored as Nendou and Kaidou were both too busy checking out other types of snacks to care about the ones on the menu.

Then, a movement out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention so his head jolted from the menu to his new target, the beautiful girl he had saw through the window earlier. Previously, she was holding a coffee jelly but now she was basically empty handed, until she approached the table and pulled out a notepad and pen, “May I take your orders?” She asked in the most calming, melodious voice Saiki had ever heard, the sounds that left her mouth were nothing short of angelic. Which made sense since her serving their table must’ve been god’s gift to Saiki for all his hard work.

Chills, Saiki got literal chills before he mused, “A coffee jelly, and two brownies for the pair of clowns.” His blood ran cold; curse his smooth sarcastic comments! Most of the time, he was able to filter himself but due to the nerves that arose while talking to you, he probably shouldn’t be surprised that he had a little slip of the tongue. But now, you probably think he is a bitch that insults people on the regular; which he is, but not usually aloud! Plus, he couldn’t even tell what you were thinking due to his germanium ring and your distant expression, awful combo!

While he was in the middle of feeling bad for himself and considering teleporting away home, a miracle happened, you burst out laughing. And somehow, your laughter was even more silvery than your voice.

Saiki had zoned-out from pure shock for a moment before coming back to reality, noticing that you had started jotting down something in your notepad, a sweet smile still lingering on your face despite the fact you had stopped laughing. “Alright, so one coffee jelly and two brownies. Anything else?” You asked, glancing back and forth between the three equally unique and strange men sitting at the table.

“That’ll be all, thank you.” Saiki telepathically communicated as he usually did, considering actually using his mouth to speak for a change so he didn’t seem weird but in all honesty, he couldn’t be bothered. In any other situation, he would’ve gotten a drink of water or perhaps hot cocoa but right now he was way too afraid of making another error in his speech to request something else.

Silently, he extended his arm to hand you the menu he was given when he entered the café, along with the ones Kaidou and Nendou were given too. His actions single-handedly shooting down your plan of leaning across the table to ‘take the menus’ but in reality it is just a subtle way of showing-off how nice your torso looked in this maid outfit, a trick you learned from your supervisor.

You nodded, closing over your notepad and making your way over to the kitchen, being sure to swing your hips just a little bit extra to impress the pink-haired megane at the table you just took an order from. You mentally cursed your stupid brain though for always crushing on guys/gals who don’t seem the least bit interested in you. In this case, the guy’s attention was divided between his star-struck friends and the desserts on the menu, rather than you which was an unusual sight in a maid café considering that most people would only come to ogle at the waitresses.

✿✿✿✿✿

“So, Saiki.” Kaidou finally landed back into reality after a large chunk of the waitresses roaming around were now in the kitchen which he didn’t have viewing access to, “What did you order us?”

‘So, he was fully aware that the waitress came to take his order, he just chose to ignore her and left me to order his food. What a child, it must be a side-effect of his eighth grade syndrome.’

Saiki couldn’t help but sigh, “I ordered you both brownies.”

Kaidou stuck out his bottom lip to form a pout as he crossed his arm over his chest like a toddler, “I hate brownies.” He muttered to himself, realising that if he wanted something done right, he’d have to do it himself.

An amused smirk tugged at Saiki’s lips but he resisted the urge to laugh, ‘I know.’ He thought, his masterplan to eat more food without looking greedy falling into place. “Oh well, more for me then.”

Suddenly, Nendou spun his head around to abruptly join the conversation, “Hey guys, did you see the hottie that was serving our table?” He inquired with starry eyes, as if he was a kid in a candy store.

Saiki nodded, ‘Obviously I did, you moron. I was the one who ordered the food for goodness’ sake!’

Kaidou shook his head, his eyes lighting up as he leaned in close to Nendou, “Nope! I was busy looking at the other girls, but tell us!”

Nendou chuckled at Kaidou’s enthusiastic reaction before glancing to the side, outstretching his arm and pointing at the waitress that was now approaching the table with the food in her hands. “There she is!”

‘Don’t point at her, you idiot!’ Saiki mentally insulted his friend but instinctively followed the guidance of the tip of his finger until his eyes landed on your shapely figure — accentuated by the nature of the maid outfit — slowly heading toward his table, holding the coffee jelly and the plate of brownies in the same graceful way you did when he saw you through the window.

The gleam of your gorgeous hair, the movement of your luscious lashes, the gentle bounce of your upper body, how your perfectly manicured nails clutched the base of the jelly glass; everything about what he was seeing made him believe that if/when he were to die, this would be his ideal first sight as he passed through the gates of heaven.

Before he knew it, you had reached the table and placed his jelly down on the table, gently nudging it towards him, “One coffee jelly for the cute boy with antennas.” You mused, making Saiki’s heart flutter in a way he was unfamiliar with. Then, you placed the brownies in front of Kaidou and Nednou who sat opposite from Saiki, “And two brownies for the clowns.”

If it wasn’t for the fact the pair of clowns were too busy leching over you in your maid outfit, they’d probably be curious as to your choice of words but luckily for both you and Saiki, they were way to entranced by your visible bra strap to care about the little nickname.

Saiki felt a light blush creep onto his face, which only got worse as you discretely sent him a playful wink before turning on your heels to stroll back to the kitchen, “If you need anything else, just give me a wave.”

All of them hummed agreement in unison until the waitress was out of sight, giving Saiki a moment to process the events that had just went down. Not only did you refer to him as ‘the cute boy with antennas’ but you also winked at him, if that wasn’t a clear sign you were interested, what was? However, Saiki still had his doubts since this was a maid café after all, perhaps you were just trained to do that with all your customers.

Luckily, the had the foresight to slip off his germanium ring to read your mind and that helped him come to the conclusion that you were either interested in him or you were just very competitive as the whole time you were serving the table your thoughts were along the lines of;

‘I’ll adjust my skirt- Ha! You looked! Try resist falling for me now, you hot lil’ megane! Your heart is mine and I know it! See, I’ll fidget with my corset too-- just make a move already, pinkie!’

Although he didn’t appreciate being called ‘pinkie’, he had no right to judge what was going on in your brain. All he could do is be thankful that you didn’t say that aloud.

✿✿✿✿✿

You sighed as you noticed the pink-haired boy and his little posy exit the establishment without so much as a goodbye, or even a wave!

It was disappointing as you had already mentally planned your future with this guy and he had the audacity to do the real life equivalent of leaving you on read. But oh well, it would be approximately a week until you developed a crush on a random customer that lasts for around 30 minutes and for the time being, you can focus on doing your job.

You glumly shuffled over to their table to gather their plates to be washed, then a piece of colourful paper attached to the empty jelly glass caught your eye. As you held up the glass to inspect it further, you realised that it was a sticky note with a message written on it in black ink and neat, cursive handwriting. It read:

‘Dearest waitress,

Thank you for the excellent service, we (myself) tipped accordingly.’

You hadn’t finished reading yet but you were curious as to what he meant by that, and apparently you service must’ve been exceptional as the writer had left a whole ¥2000 tip. That’s a huge addition to the demonia fund.

Followed by this charming little message was an extra tip for you; the writer’s phone number! Meaning that this little sticky note was something you had to protect with your life..so you shoved it in your bra for safe-keeping.

But not before taking a moment to giggle with delight at who the note was signed by,

‘Sincerely, the hot lil’ megane (aka Kusuo Saiki)’

#saiki no psi nan #kusuo saiki x reader #the disaster of psi kusuo saiki #the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiki k x reader #saiki x reader #saiki headcanons #saiki k headcanons #kusuo x reader #saiki kusou no psi nan #kusou saiki x reader #saiki fluff #saiki k fluff #saiki k oneshot

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collectionofcherries · 3 years

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☕ Morning Coffee ☕ Din Djarin

So I just finished The Mandalorian and look. I've got a problem with space dads. First it was Malcolm Reynolds and now I've been smacked in the face by Din Djarin. So how do I cope? Well I write about a morning coffee with him. As any perfectly sane person would. --- In synopsis Morning Coffee is a simple concept, it follows your morning to the start of your cup to the end of it. Hope you enjoy! ---

Pronouns: Unmentioned however I am a woman so may lean more towards Female!Reader Warnings: Fluff and of course my awful humour. Also in case you don't know what a Moka Pot is. Word Count: 1,834 ---

Din had gotten used to you over the time you'd been travelling together, and just in general having someone else on the Crest. Or at least he thought he'd gotten used to you. Waking up to a loud whirring noise he practically jumped out of his bunk to see what part of his ship was making that noise only to end up nearly barreling into you. The source of the noise. "What are you doing?" He asks.

"Coffee?"

You raise your spice blender and it was all the explanation he needed. You were grinding down the coffee beans you'd gotten on Nevarro. "Do you have to do that now?" He sighs.

"Well, typically people have coffee when they wake up. So yes." You answer back in the same condescending tone.

Even through the helmet you could feel his annoyed stare not that it bothered you much anymore, you get used to the glaring after awhile. "You know the kid--" He starts, gesturing over to his bunk.

"Is up with me." You finish.

You gesture over to the kid sitting and eating some of the eggs you'd bought at port. "How long have you been up?" He asks as his arm falls to his side.

"I've been up just long enough to start making coffee." You punctuated your statement by starting the spice blender again. "He's been up long enough to rummage through my bag and find food." You speak loudly over the whirring. The noise drowned out his sigh, the kid was always getting into things he wasn't supposed too. "Luckily didn't get to the beans, last thing he needs is caffeine" You let him know.

The kid on caffeine was certainly funny to picture but would prove catastrophic in practice. "Mmm." He hums in agreement,

Not that you could hear that, but you saw his small head nod. "Did you fix the burner?" Did resting bitch face apply to helmets? Was it possible to have resting bitch helmet? "Do you want me to fill this ship with gas waiting for it to catch or do you just want to answer?" You ask arching a brow to mock threaten him.

He sighs and goes over to the burner, he's been meaning to fix it it just hasn't been the highest priority. He pulls it the small burner down from it's storage in the wall and it slides into place with a loud squeak that competes with the loud sound of your grinding, it's been a while since he's even looked at it since it stopped working. He gets down onto the ground to take a look at the wiring underneath the component and you'd think he wouldn't be able to see you because of his helmet and his position on the floor but he does see you. He see's how amused you look and if you were anyone else he'd tell you to get lost but you're not anyone else, much to his emotional dismay sometimes.

As the grinding noise comes to a halt and you make yourself busy filling a moka pot he's reminded why this burner hasn't been used in so long, it needs new wiring. Wiring he doesn't have, he sighs as he gets up. "So?" You ask smiling at him.

He can't stomach to tell your dopey sleepy smile no so he just shakes his head but the fall of your dimples still sends a painful pang into his stomach. "I'll just use a fire starter, I think I still have one from that little fishing town on Trask's Moon." You nod to yourself as you talk.

You go over to your bag and the kid is instantly interested in what you're doing after all in his mind you could be getting more food! "You want to start a fire in my ship?" Din asks less than thrilled.

You rummage through your bag until you find the small fuel tab, it's clearly not food but none the less the kid reaches his hands up for it. "Actually." You start as you go over to the burner and place it in the middle. "I don't have a lighter so I want you to start a fire in your ship."

Unbelievable would be a good for to describe you he decides. At any point in time you're unbelievable. You make unbelievable decisions, you have unbelievable nerve, you have an unbelievably good smile, you're unbelievably hopeful, you're just unbelievable. How did he end up with someone so unbelievable? He's with the two most unbelievable beings in the universe, he has to be, he's sure of that much. A green kid who has telekinesis and you, he's not sure who's more unbelievable but he gets his answer as he feels you touch his arm which he immediately pulls away from you. "Don't even think about it." He says firmly.

"Well someone has to think about it, you're clearly moon blinked so let me press the button." You say as if it's nothing, it's a weapon of the Mandalorian for crying out loud. "Come on, I've seen you do it like a dozen times now it's just that little button there. I'll just press it for a second, it'll be fine." You say as if that's somehow supposed to make it fine.

"You're not Mandalorian, it's not a play thing." He tells you firmly

"Okay, fine, you do it." You gesture at the small fuel tab. "Kill joy." You add.

Unbelievable indeed. What is believable is that fact he knows you won't stop pestering him until that fuel tab somehow gets lit. "Grab the kid, I don't want him wandering near." He orders in a sigh.

"He does love fire." You mutter in agreement.

You go over and the kid is more than happy to be picked up by you, his arms outstretched and a gurgle of joy comes out of him as you pick him up and lean him against your chest. It never fails to make Din's heart squeeze when he see's you two together not that he'd ever whisper a word about how it made him feel, he barely even whispered it to himself. You handle the kid more like a baby than he does, you gently bounce on the balls on your feet and sway from side to side which he wouldn't be caught dead doing but he can't deny that the kid clearly loves it. You both look over at him and he immediately turns his attention to the burner, the feeling of being caught like a child with their hand in the cookie jar makes his cheeks tint with red. Thank the stars for this helmet some days.

Maybe it was from being startled by being caught or maybe it was just the effect you had on his logic but he takes aim at the small fuel tab and gives the tiniest press to his flamethrower and with the tini tiniest flame the fuel tab is lit. "And to think you didn't like my idea." You joke.

He scoffs and shakes his head but you know behind that helmet he's got to be smiling, even if it's just a little bit. You grab the moka pot and set it down on the burner and smile, soon you'll have coffee and it feels like it's been ages since you've had any. "Do you take sugar?" You ask as you go over to your bag.

"No."

"Is that apart of the creed too? To suffer awful black coffee? Like some sort of torturous training?" You laugh.

He doesn't give you an answer but you assume if he did it'd be a yes. You rummage out two cups and the small bag of sugar you have from your backpack and it'd always fascinate Din what you could manage to pull out of that bag, it seemed like you impossibly had so much in that one backpack. One thing becomes incredibly clear, the kid has seen sugar before and reaches to take it from the hand you're not holding him with. Big problem though, you can't really hold anything out of reach of someone with telekinesis. He closes his eyes and you immediately feel a tug at everything between your clasped fingers. "Don't!" Din says as soon as he sees what the kid is playing at.

But his warning goes unheeded. Between the tug from the kid and your grip as you try to keep the sugar out of his reach the bag breaks and sugar goes flying. He's thrilled and lets out a squeal of glee but you? Well Din can't exactly tell. Your mouth is agape in disbelief and your eyebrows are brought together but only a little. But after a moment you laugh and the tenseness drops from the room and he even lets out a tiny chuckle. "This is what I get for mocking you." You concede in a laugh. Another breathy chuckle makes it's way out of him. "Can't say he's not sweet on me." You joke but this time you aren't rewarded with a laugh...that was a pretty bad pun you admit. "Sweet on you too."

"Don't."

But just as his warning went unheeded with the kid it goes unheeded with you and you shake out your arm in his direction and tiny pitter patters of sugar hitting Beskar throw you into a fit of laughter. Din's refusal to find any of this funny and stand stoically only makes you laugh harder. Your laughter is only drowned out by the sound of the moka pot whistling to let you know it's done. This morning was too noisy Din decided, not that he could or would do anything to change that but none the less it was just so noisy. You get control of your laughter as you set the cups down and grab the moka pot. As you pour the kid sniffs and the caffeinated liquid and for once finds something digestible repulsive, you thank the stars as he lets out a whine of discontent. With some confidence that these coffee's won't be pulled out of your hands you set him down and with your free hand offer a cup out to Din. "Thank you." He says to spite all your shenanigans he's still got manners.

You smile and nod as you grab your own cup to enjoy, you go to look over at him only to see him making his way up to the cockpit. "Oh come on, enjoy coffee with me! I won't peak!" You call after him.

You're left unanswered as he climbs the latter. You take a sip of coffee and sigh at the bitter taste but you suppose bitter things are growing on you. "Guess it's just you and me kid." You say as look down at him, only to see the kid licking the sugar off the floor.

You can practically hear Din chastising him but it's too early for you to do so. After all the kid has put way worse things in his mouth. --- ~Admin Coral🍒 Buy Me A Coffee?

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #Din djarin imagine #din djarin fluff #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x fem!reader #reader insert #reader #x reader #fem!reader #star wars fic #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #coffee

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starlightsearches · 3 years

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Eyes On Me

Requests are open ✨ Modern Armitage Hux x F! Reader Warnings: RC is a sex-worker, discussions of sex, language. AN: Hi friends! After stressing over the newest chapters of Office Romance for the last, uh, forever, I thought I'd reward myself by writing something fun, flirty and fresh! I started working on this a few months ago after partaking in @thembohux's wonderful sugar daddy content, and then I had to put it on pause for a while until I picked it back up a few days ago. I have no plans for this story: no additional concepts, no plot points. Mostly I wanted a place to dump PWP in the future. If there is enough interest, or if you guys have any ideas about stuff you'd like to see in this storyline, please let me know and I might continue sooner rather than later. No sex in this chapter, but because of the nature of the story I'm still gonna ask minors to not read. Thanks!!

He’s already at the restaurant when you arrive.

That never happens. You’ve spent hours alone in restaurants sipping on wine and kissing your teeth, waiting for the moment some investment banker with a receding hairline finally decided you were worth his time—as if he hadn’t contacted you first.

You were hoping for a chance to find the restroom before the meeting, maybe fix your hair and refresh your lipstick—like you normally would before introducing yourself to a new client—and instead you’re rushing to the table, fanning yourself with one hand and hoping that you don’t have any leftovers from lunch stuck in your teeth.

Your heels click rapidly against the tile; you’re practically running over the hostess as she leads you towards the back of the mostly-empty restaurant, right next to the wide picture windows, which overlook the garden and the golf course beyond. There’s only one person seated there—a man much younger than you anticipated, closer to your own age than any of your clients. He has to hear you coming, loud as you are, but he keeps his eye on some distant point beyond the glass, brow creased, looking pensive.

You take stock of him as you approach: he wears a crisp, three-piece blue suit in a classic and well-tailored cut, black shoes shined to a polish, so clean you could see your reflection in them. The watch he wears is out of place, understated as it is; certainly not what you’d expect from a man in his pay-grade. It probably has some sentimental value, considering the signs of wear on the leather straps, and the nicks studded in the metal. His hair is slicked back and neat, a shock of red tamed into submission with shiny gel.

When your eyes trace over his face, you find it difficult to look away.

Pale skin stretches over angular cheekbones and a proud nose, his features carved with the decisive hand of a master. His jaw is strained, eyes severe—storm-colored and intense—but framed by soft lashes and an intelligent brow. The combination makes your legs go numb for a moment.

You didn’t expect him to be so handsome.

The tension in his face is lost as soon as you approach, his full, pink lips part in a whispered greeting as he stands. Chill fingers meet your own, his handshake firm and formal, but his eyes widen when you lean in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, catching the faintest mouth-watering whiff of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille on his skin.

He pulls away from the unexpected embrace, taking your chair in both hands as he pulls it out from the table. There’s a rosy tinge over his skin, his hands gripping the wood back of the chair tightly, but you don’t miss the way they shake when he lets go.

He’s nervous. How sweet.

“Armitage Hux,” he offers, the gentle lilt of his accent like a melody, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You offer him a smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

The waiter arrives at the table soon after you’re seated, probably eager for something to do during the post-lunch lull, and you let Armitage order for you, as he’s more familiar with the menu. Soon enough, the table is spread with an array of exquisite desserts and a coffee for each of you.

Armitage sips from his mug as you sink your fork into the chantilly cake, your lips wrapping gently around it, lingering there before you pull it from your mouth with exaggerated slowness, moaning slightly when the fresh berries burst against your tongue. It’s not an act, as far as he can tell, but a genuine reaction of pleasure, as if you couldn’t possibly imagine something more enjoyable than a bite of cake and the taste of a blackberry.

Jesus. What has he gotten himself into?

You sample a few more of the desserts he’s ordered, making silly comments about each, probably sensing his nerves and hoping to put him at ease.

You have kind eyes. It’s the first thing he noticed while scrolling through mountains of photos in the email, discreetly marked as a list of potential assistants for hire. You stood out among all the others; even after his initial hesitance, and the thirtieth or fortieth time he’d decided that it wasn’t worth it, the image of you stayed with him in the back of his mind.

To his dismay or delight—he hasn’t yet decided—the effect is only magnified in person, and he’s glad when you glance away, reaching into your purse and pulling out your cell phone, tapping at the screen a few times before setting it face down on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I record our conversation today,” you ask, “I find that it’s helpful to keep track of these introductions, and it would be a little too conspicuous if I pulled out a notepad. Everything that you share with me will be kept between us, of course.”

He nods in confirmation, and you settle into your seat, leaning over the table, attention entirely focused on him. “Alright, then. Tell me about yourself.”

He shifts in his chair, trying and failing to get comfortable. “I’m not sure what you’d like to know.”

“That’s alright. You can tell me about work, or your hobbies. Any pets?”

There’s the softest hint of humor in everything you say, but you treat him like he’s part of the joke instead of its target. He’s not sure if it’s unsettling or not.

“I work in finance—First Order investments. I don’t have time for hobbies . . .” he hesitates, trying to decide if you’re seriously asking him about his pets, “ and I have a cat named Millicent.”

“How sweet. Are you married?”

He splutters into his coffee, setting the cup back down on the table before choking out his answer, “no.”

You wave his distress away with a flighty hand. “It’s alright if you are; I’m not here to judge you. It does help to know, though.”

“No, I’m not married,” he confirms.

“Great,” you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs. The gesture feels more suitable for a therapist than . . . whatever it is you are, “Let’s talk a little bit about why you contacted me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s always a reason. Usually it’s a big life event, but not always. Things like a recent divorce, close family member or friend getting married, a new promotion . . .”

You finish the sentence with a flourish of your hand, inviting him to imagine all the different reasons men would want to buy your company, and his face falls.

If anything, it was the opposite. Nothing had happened for too long, his days all painted with the same brush. Arrive at work. Sell his life for the success of his father’s company. Leave the office too late. Continue working at home, Millie on his lap and a glass of wine.

And then repeat.

“No,” he coughs, clearing the tightness in his throat, “Nothing of that sort.”

You purse your lips. “Is there anything specific you’re hoping to get out of this?”

He turns too sharply, pain singing up the side of his neck, the sun stinging his eyes. How god damn embarrassing, sitting across from someone so lovely, knowing that they had to be paid to be there.

He bites down on the inside of his lip, hoping to stave off any more unfortunate emotions. He’s startled from his melancholy when he feels your hand against his, brushing the tips of your fingers over his knuckles. There’s some hesitation in your touch, a hint of apprehension; it surprises him, and after a moment, he lets his eyes find yours again.

“There’s no shame in being lonely,” you say, before pulling your hand back, a serious look on your face, “it’s the most human emotion.”

He scoffs, “and what would you know about that?”

You glance down, pressing your lips together before offering him a sad smile that’s achingly familiar. “I’m lonely more often than you might think.”

He wonders what might have happened if he met you under different circumstances. If he had found you organically, maybe sitting alone at a hotel bar—would he have had the courage to approach you? Would the conversation flowed this easily, would you have pressed your hand against his shoulder and smiled, maybe left him with your phone number, or held his hand tight in your own as he led you back to his hotel room?

It’s a ridiculous question, a fantasy in the purest sense. You wouldn’t have looked at him twice.

You cough gently, clearing the emotional charge from the moment before continuing your line of questions.

“Why don’t we talk a little bit about your preferences for appearance, like certain kinds of clothing, or lingerie?”

He takes a deep breath, letting out the last of his self-pity with it. Thank god, he knows the answer to this one. “Black lace.”

“Okay, I can do that. Do you have any other requests? Specific hair styles? Nail colors?”

His distaste must be clear on his face, because you laugh, “do people really care about the color of your nail polish?”

“Oh yes,” you nod, eyes wide, “you’d be surprised what some men consider essential.”

“No, nothing like that,” he hesitates, “but if you have any darker lipsticks . . .”

“Of course. What about intimacy? Is there anything specific you’d like to try?”

His toes curl in the tips of his shoes, a familiar guilt accompanying a very unfamiliar thrill, thinking about what he’d like to do to you. He can see it now, the images achingly realistic: his hand circled around your neck as you chase your release against his thigh, or your lips curled around the head of his cock, shiny trails of spit leaking from the corners of your mouth. The way your eyes would roll back in your head as he thrust into you, his lips at your neck, leaving currents of bruises in his wake.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says instead, embarrassed he had let his thoughts run so wild, especially in public. He digs his nails into his palms, hoping the pain might redirect the blood currently pooling in his dick.

You pluck a stray berry off one of the dessert plates, pressing it against your tongue. “Then we can explore together.”

You can’t help but be pleased; despite a few unorthodox moments, this was a fairly easy meeting. He’s a pleasant person to be around.

You take another bite of dessert, this time choosing to sample the bread pudding, still warm from the oven and coated in a caramel drizzle, letting the sugar melt in your mouth.

“There is one last item we need to discuss,” Armitage says seriously, and you look up at him, setting your fork down again as you swallow, “I have one more request, but it’s a bit . . . unusual.”

Oh, god. Nothing good could come from those words. “What is it?”

He leans closer, speaking quietly. “Unfortunately, my work requires that I attend a variety of events with my colleagues and our clients, and I would like to request your presence as my date. I have a reputation to uphold, both in my personal life and my employment, and I’d prefer to avoid a scandal. To prevent any gossip about this arrangement, I’d like to request your exclusive attention.”

Your teeth click together, jaw tense. Of fucking course something like this would happen—nothing could be too easy.

You take a calming breath, trying your best to give him a diplomatic answer despite your annoyance. “With all due respect, Mr. Hux, this is my job. My employment. I make a living providing my company to a small set of loyal clients, I do my job with the utmost discretion, and if you can’t respect the value of my time—”

“I assure you,” he interrupts, sliding a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, removing a folded slip of paper, “I understand how valuable your time is, and for the privilege of your undivided attention, I offer . . .”

He slides the paper across the table, and you reach for it, unfolding it in one hand.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your features in check when you read the number—it’s actually a little more than you’re currently making per month between your four other clients.

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering your course. The other girls would tell you to make a counter-offer, but you’d never really learned how to execute a successful negotiation, and just thinking about raising your price has your heart racing, the adrenaline doing nothing to aid your mental calculations.

He clears his throat, reading your panic as dissatisfaction, “and I’m prepared to make that payment weekly.”

Holy fuck.

“I can’t accept that much,” you press the paper back towards him, sliding your hand across the table until he stops your progress with his own, his fingers brushing gently against your wrist. He must not be used to touching people unintentionally, because he pulls his hand away, resting his tightly-clenched fist against the table.

“As I said before, I understand the value of your time.”

You trap your lip between your teeth. “I’ll take this amount, twice a month. Gifts are also appreciated—jewelry, perfume, or clothing—but won’t be considered as part of your payment unless I’m also given a receipt.”

“Of course,” he concedes with the faintest smile, “diamonds don’t pay the rent.”

You suppress a laugh at his dry humor, “and some men have truly horrendous taste.”

It’s only for a moment—the briefest flash of heaven. He smiles at your comment, the sun shining in his eyes, illuminating their emerald facets, and everything else ceases to exist.

He’s going to be trouble. You’re sure of it.

He presses his lips together, embarrassed for his little lapse before returning to his serious demeanor, “what happens now?”

“Now, I formalize a contract that I’ll have you sign covering the details of what we’ve discussed today. Then, I’ll contact my other clients and let them know that I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future, and then—” you lean forward, deciding to tease him, leave him wanting, “—you can take me to dinner.”

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nattikay · 4 years

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More Troll AU becauseeeee idk I have ideas and I wanna share o3o

Claire’s design is pretty much based on the changeling!Claire I did a while back but with some adjustments to make her look more like NotEnrique because in this version they are biological siblings! And (not?)Enrique is an actual child instead of an adult posing as one.

Claire had always been close with her little brother, but a few years before Jim was chosen as Trollhunter NotEnrique vanished, much to the family’s dismay. As it turns out, the Gumm Gumms wanted more changeling spies but were running out of available volunteers in the Darklands so they sent some goblins to kidnap some whelps to use, and NotEnrique was one of these. Needless to say in the Darklands they put him through some heavy brainwashing until he was ready to serve the role he had in canon. Because he is still an actual child in this AU, he is not as crass or mischievous as he is in canon; he mostly just follows orders watching what’s going on in his human form and reporting to Strickler or Bular whenever asked.

Of course, Claire and her parents had no clue what happened to him during this time. It wasn’t until Jim recognized him on an early Trollhunting mission and told Claire that they realized what had transpired. Devastated and desperate to get her brother back, this is what caused Claire to join the crew.

She does get a hang of the shadow staff faster than canon!Claire since she’d already grown up around the concept of magic, but not quite as quickly as changeling!Claire who had already been dabbling in dark/shadow magic for decades prior.

Fun fact about Toby in this AU: he is half-Krubera. A long long time ago, a troll accidentally tripped and fell down a deep deep chasm. She survived the fall but was lost and had no way to climb back out. She wandered the tunnels for a while until she found the Krubera, who had mercy on her and accepted her into their fold. Surprise surprise this is Toby’s mother, and it was while living with the Krubera that she met his father. They had a near instant connection and before long had a whelp of their own.

Alas, tragedy struck not long after. Blinky once said that only the Krubera can “thrive” in the deep caverns, and indeed the depth gradually took its toll on Toby’s mother, and despite his best efforts his father one day came in to find her turned to stone. Terrified that the same fate could be in store for his infant halfling son, he sent Toby to Trollmarket to live with his (Toby’s) grandmother, where he has been ever since. Toby and Arrrggh bond over being born among the Krubera but raised elsewhere due to tragic circumstances. Toby and Jim are still best friends with a similar relationship to what they have in canon.

Nana still has her cats, and she will take a serious whack and anyone who tries to eat them! She absolutely refuses to eat cat meat...but that doesn’t stop her from nibbling on some old litter or seasoning meals with shed fur. In fact, her famous Hairball Pie is downright revered throughout Trollmarket.

also p.s. you can’t see it because of the angle but Toby does indeed have a stubby lil tail

So James Sr in this AU is still pretty much the same deadbeat dingdong he is in canon; he only gets a design here because Jim got a lot of physical characteristics from him and who doesn’t love a fun comparison

But while his magnificent horns and flufftastic mane come from his father, Jim inherited his arm crystals from Barbara!! They may or may not be like second cousins with Draal or somethin idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I already talked about Jim and his becoming the Trollhunter in my previous Troll AU post so I won’t rehash it here, but needless to say Barbara is not particularly thrilled with the Amulet’s choice. That’s her SON!! He’s not even 200!! How could he be chosen so young for such a dangerous profession?! It’s outrageous!! Regardless, she does her best to support him any way she can, though she’s really not happy with the situation.

As for Barbara herself, she studies healing magic under Vendel. She still falls for Strickler albeit this time in his troll form, as she once met him when he was sneaking around Trollmarket for supplies. She was just as shocked to find out he was a changeling as she is in canon.

That’s all for now, once again there may or may not be more stuff later we shall SEE!

#tales of arcadia #trollhunters #jim lake jr #troll jim #claire nuñez #toby domzalski #nana domzalski #barbara lake #james lake sr #notenrique #troll au #my art

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

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Unprofessional [pt. 1] /// Yandere Tendou x f!Reader

Summary: The new hire you’re supposed to be training at your office job is a little too attached for his own good…or yours. [Part 2]

A/N: Someone requested yandere Tendou and I was like !!! However when I wrote it, it turned out kinda long so I split it into 2 parts; I’ll answer the req when I post part 2. Anyway I’m obsessed with the concept of salaryman Tendou, please enjoy!

Tags/warnings: yandere, timeskip (Tendou is 22-23 in this), workplace/office setting, liberal use of “senpai”, alcohol, Tendou’s crackhead energy is toned down a little bit because of the setting [In part 2: smut, 18+]

You don’t really like Tendou when you first meet him.

Your first impression when your boss introduces the new employee is that he’s all talk and no substance. He’s been hired fresh out of university, and he’s got the stink of a former frat boy all over him—that baseless enthusiasm, chaotic goodwill and arrogance mixed together. That might have been your type when you were still sucking down cheap keg beer from red solo cups, but you’re two years into your career as a real grown-up adult now, and the cockiness that radiates off Tendou in waves is just…annoying.

Unfortunately, when your boss tells you to take the newbie under your wing, train him, and be his mentor, it’s not a request. It’s a demand. So you decide to suck it up. If you’re going to have to spend every second at the office with Tendou trailing after you like a baby duck, you may as well get used to him.

After a few weeks, you have to admit he’s not that bad. Sure, he’s not the best at respecting personal space, but how can you blame him? When he looms over you to reach for a file above your head for the nth time and traps you between his body and the cabinet, you finally lose your patience and snap at him to give you some space, but he looks so surprised and apologizes so sincerely that you can’t help forgiving him. You feel a little bad, even, when he explains that he’s never worked in an office before so he’s not used to all the rules that he’s expected to follow in a professional environment.

You can’t really fault him for that, especially when you’re the one who’s supposed to be teaching him these things. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean anything,” you tell him, and he perks up so quickly that you feel even worse for chewing him out in the first place.

The thing is, Tendou doesn’t really stop getting close to you once you chastise him. It just bothers you less. The dozenth time his hand lingers over yours while you’re passing him a document or he picks an invisible thread off your blouse or sits a little too close when you’re riding in the back of a taxi to a client meeting, you start convincing yourself that you’re overreacting. He’s probably not being that much more pushy than your other coworkers—you’re just more aware of him because you don’t know him as well.

And it doesn’t help that he’s tall, towering over you and pretty much everyone else in the office. The cheap suits he cycles through can’t quite conceal the hard lines of muscle underneath—oh, whoops. Now you’re the one crossing boundaries. Tendou is so big that you’re just…more conscious of his presence, right?

This is drilled into you one night after a marathon overtime session when you’re carrying a tall stack of boxes back to the archives. Maybe it’s because you’ve been at work for 11 hours, but the files feel like they’re filled with rocks, not paper. Your muscles are this close to giving out when Tendou appears out of nowhere to pluck the files out of your arms. “Here. Gimme, gimme, I’ll take ‘em.”

The way he carries the heavy boxes so effortlessly makes you kind of embarrassed at how much you’d struggled with them. “You’re pretty strong, hm,” you say absently. Oops, was that inappropriate? You don’t want him thinking you’re hitting on him or something.

“Oh—yeah I guess?” Tendou’s laugh (the one that used to grate on your nerves) sounds like he’s pleased with himself. “I go to the gym a lot.”

“Wish I could find the time. Or the discipline,” you reply as he replaces the file box in the archive room.

“Wow, senpai is calling me disciplined. My heart is pounding.”

His tone is sarcastic enough that you don’t think twice about the second part of his statement. “Don’t get too full of yourself. If you have the energy to go to the gym, you should spend that time double checking your expense reports before you submit them.”

“Ouch.” Tendou holds his hand over his heart in mock betrayal. “Targeting my weak points, how ruthless. But seriously, working out is second nature to me. Been doin it since I was a kid so it doesn’t take any kinda discipline.”

“Oh? Did you play sports or something?”

“Yeah…” Tendou’s voice trails off and when you pause from your task of organizing the files to look up at him, he’s staring directly at you. “…Used to play volleyball. Grade school through college.”

The way he’s looking at you, searching your face for something you can’t identify, makes you think this is more important than it seems. You tip your head to the side, waiting for him to continue.

“Our team in high school was pretty good,” he says slowly.

“That’s cool,” you say, turning back to the paperwork. “Did you ever play Shiratorizawa? They’re my old high school—I think their volleyball team went to nationals back in the day. I was never into sports though.”

A moment passes, and you frown. Did you say something wrong? But just before you’re about to change the subject, Tendou starts laughing. “Shiratorizawa? No, I don’t think I ever played them.”

Your laugh joins his a second late, although you don’t know why he thinks it’s funny in the first place. In the echo of your voices, you can hear how quiet it is in the archives. There’s something here you’re missing, but you’re not sure what.

Luckily enough, the somewhat awkward atmosphere doesn’t carry over to the next day. When you get into the office, Tendou is his usual clingy self, distracting you from your own work to ask you to teach him something and pulling you away when you’re talking to your coworkers so you can double check his emails before he sends them. If anything, he’s more attached than usual—when you go to a contract renewal negotiation with a client he insists on tagging along, so you let him after making him promise not to get in the way.

Of course he doesn’t keep his promise, but you end up appreciating his intrusion more than you could have predicted. The client is stubborn and rude until Tendou chimes in (much to your dismay, at first) with an offer to add on some oddly specific perks to the contract. You’re already practicing your apology speech to the boss in anticipation of losing the client, but to your amazement he agrees to Tendou’s terms and the deal is sealed, along with a healthy bonus for you.

You’re on cloud nine, practically skipping out of the building with Tendou at your side as you fantasize about what you’re going to do with the bonus after you split it with him. A weekend vacation out of the city? An online shopping spree? Some fancy dinners at five-star restaurants? Knowing you, the money will end up going straight to your savings, but you still can’t contain your giddiness. “How did you know he wanted that add-on? Seriously, I had no idea!”

“A guess! I’m good at reading people.” Tendou’s just as elated as you, pumping his fist and whooping like a kid as soon as you’re away from the client’s earshot. “Woohoo! Yay! Our first sale together!”

“A guess? You risked that huge contract on a guess?” You roll your eyes but you’re too excited to be mad at him. “Anyway, you don’t have to say ‘our’ first sale, I know it was all you. I’ll tell the boss you’re doing a good job.”

“No way, it’s ours! Both of us. Me and senpai.” Tendou’s hand reaches down and his fingers lace with yours, squeezing so tight his knuckles go pale.

The thrill of your success flickers as nervousness sets in. Is he holding your hand? “Tendou—“

“Senpaiiiii~” he says in sing-song, swinging your hand as you walk to meet the taxi and ignoring your meek attempts to pull away. “Didn’t I do a good job?”

“Y-Yeah. Good job, Tendou.”

Work friends. The two of you are work friends. Your boss passes all comments to Tendou through you (mostly things about how he’s good with clients and charismatic but needs to stop making minor errors on paperwork). When one of you is sick, your coworkers ask the other to pass on their good wishes. Tendou fits into his role at the office seamlessly, and you can’t say you don’t appreciate the fact that all of his good work is reflecting well on you.

So when his birthday rolls around two months after he’s hired, it’s up to you to plan the office drinking party (only after he complains to you about how he doesn’t have any friends since moving to Tokyo). You have the date you got from Facebook—May 20th—circled in red pen on your private calendar along with a little doodle of a birthday cake.

“What’s that?” asks one of your coworkers, pointing to the circle, as you flip through your agenda a week before the event.

“Tendou’s turning 23,” you tell him. “It’s a Friday, so some of us are going to go to a restaurant and drink a little. You’re coming, right?”

“Oh…yeah.” Your coworker scratches his head and clears his throat. “You guys are pretty close, huh. Um, I actually wanted to ask—you’re not together, are you?”

A chill runs up your spine. “Together? Who said that?” If this rumor gets around to your boss it’ll kill your career. These things always look worse for the woman than for the man. God, it was probably something Tendou said without thinking, he’s always talking about you and someone could easily misinterpret all that praise…

“Well, if you’re dating—“

“We’re not dating,” you say quickly. “We do a lot of work together because I’m training him, but it’s not like that.”

“Really?” Your coworker straightens and smiles. “Cause I was actually thinking of asking if you wanted to go out this weekend—“

“Senpai? Can you help me with this draft?”

Damnit, it’s Tendou getting in the way at the absolute worst time—especially considering he just had to come up behind you and put his hand on your shoulder. Seriously, how many times do you have to tell him to stop doing that when you’re talking to someone else? You’re not sure whether to be irritated at him for cutting your coworker off, concerned that the other man won’t believe what you said about you and Tendou having a strictly professional relationship, or relieved that you don’t have to give an answer to what sounds like an offer for a date.

You cast an apologetic glance at your coworker and make your way over to Tendou’s desk, hoping against hope that the interruption doesn’t look too suspicious. You’d die if word got around to your boss that you were dating your mentee.

///

You’ve got this office drinking party thing down to an art. Step one is to load up on greasy appetizers that’ll increase your alcohol tolerance, step two is to drink plenty of water, and step three is to pour yourself a single drink early and take small sips.

There’s a step four, too: make sure no one else’s glass get’s below the 1/4 mark. Your boss and coworkers are a lot less receptive to how little you’re drinking when they’re all nice and tipsy. It’s a system you’ve perfected over the years, one that allows you to have fun with people from the office without risking making an ass out of yourself or getting a hangover (which, at 25, is a lot more unpleasant than it used to be).

You can’t count the number of times you’ve witnessed the awkward drunken escapades of your fellows, which range from the endearing (your boss crying over how much he loves his wife) to the awkward (coworker makeout sessions) to the potentially criminal (bar fights. So many bar fights). You’re happy to remain a neutral observer, and tonight is no exception.

The only problem is that Tendou hasn’t yet mastered the art of drinking lightly when you’re around people you work with, so now, at the end of his party, he’s (for lack of a better word) trashed. His cheek is mashed flat to the restaurant table like it’s glued there and his head is surrounded by progressive rings of bottles and cans. It’s some kind of miracle that he hasn’t yet gone to the bathroom to get sick.

“Sorry Tendou,” you sigh. “I should have been keeping a better eye on you.” You had no idea he’d get so drunk so quickly. Aren’t tall guys supposed to have high tolerance or something?

“Sssshenpaii,” Tendou slurs, hoisting his head off the table with that looks like Herculean effort. “I liiiike when…when ya look at me…”

“Ha, ha,” you say sarcastically.

Tendou’s head whips around. “Where’d everyone go?”

“They all left—now it’s time for us to go home too. Come on, I’ll help you get to the taxi.” You pay the bill (oof, there goes your petty cash for the week) and pull on Tendou’s shirt sleeve to get him to stand up. Luckily he’s just sober enough to realize what you want him to do and he follows you out to the street with an arm draped over your shoulders to steady his meandering footsteps.

The real trouble comes when the two of you are seated comfortably in the cab and the driver asks for Tendou’s address, which, apparently, he can’t remember. You do the sensible thing and look through his phone, but his own contact card provides no hint to where he lives in Tokyo, only a phone number, email, and address in Sendai which has to be his parents’ house—

Wait.

Tendou’s from Sendai?

You’re from Sendai. You didn’t know he was too. What a coincidence that both of you moved to Tokyo from Sendai. You’ve mentioned your hometown to him a couple times—how come he never told you he’s from the same place? You’re only two years older than him; maybe you’ve run across him in Sendai before the two of you started working together.

Now that you think about it, his face has always been kind of familiar…you thought it was just ‘one of those faces’, but…?

This isn’t the time to wonder, though. You poke Tendou gently in the side, careful not to jar him enough to risk any stomach upset. “Tendou? Do you remember what street you live on?”

After a long pause Tendou names a street, but it’s your company’s address which isn’t located anywhere near a residential district. When you tell him to think harder, he grimaces, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. “Don’ wanna go home…lemme sleep over at senpai’s house.”

“What? You can’t stay at my place.”

“Why noooot? ‘m tired,” he drawls, eyes closing as his head droops onto your shoulder in the back of the cab.

“It’s—it’s inappropriate—wait, no-no-no-no don’t fall asleep,” you tell him desperately but it’s already too late. A light snore filters out of him and you curse. “Tendou—“

“Address?” the cab driver barks insistently, giving you the stink eye in the rearview mirror.

Shit. Well, it is his birthday, you have a pull-out couch, and it’s not like anyone from the office is around to see you going home together. Tomorrow morning you’ll just have to give him a lecture about professional boundaries and make him promise not to breathe a word of this to your boss.

You give your own address to the cab driver. Tendou sleeps peacefully on your shoulder throughout the entire drive, rousing only when you whisper his name in his ear outside your building (which is a miracle, because you know without a doubt that you’re not capable of carrying him). When you get up to your apartment, you deposit him on the sofa bed and tell him not to look through your stuff while you brush your teeth.

Obviously, he doesn’t listen to you. When you emerge from the bathroom, Tendou is standing in the middle of your living room and turning the pages of an old photo album of yours.

“Hey, give me that.” You try to pull it away from him, but he doesn’t let go and his grip is stronger than yours, so the album remains firmly in his hands. “If you’re sober enough to mess with my things, you should go home.”

“This is senpai, right?” Tendou says, pointing to one of the photos.

Despite your exasperation, you lean in to take a look. It’s a picture from high school with you and some friends, all of you wearing your Shiratorizawa uniforms and grinning cheekily at whoever took the picture. Your fingers are cocked up in a peace sign. “Yeah? That’s me.”

“So cute…senpai is really cute…” Tendou’s long finger trails over the edge of your face though the filmy plastic covering the photo.

“Um…you need to get to sleep,” you say nervously, pulling a little harder on the album.

He doesn’t budge, instead just flipping back in the album to older pictures from when you were little until he stops at a photo of you and your younger brother in grade school. Against your better judgement, you frown and look closer to try and pick up whatever caught his interest in this particular image.

“How old…?” he asks.

“I don’t know, 10 or 11 maybe?”

Tendou nods. “When I met senpai…you were this old, yeah.”

“Jeez, you’re really drunk. We met two months ago, remember? I was on the interview board.”

“Yeah.” Tendou’s gaze is glued to the photo. “I was so sad, ‘cause senpai doesn’t remember me. But also really happy to see you after such a long time…I thought it was a dream…”

“Hm? I don’t get it.”

Tendou finally looks up from the picture and meets your wary gaze with those wide red eyes. God, you used to think his face was so creepy—lately you find his zealousness endearing, almost childlike, but right now? It’s making your feet itch how much you want to step away from him. “I was really hoping you would remember on your own, but I guess I’ll have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“How me an’ senpai met…”

Are you imagining it, or does his voice sound a lot less slurred than it did just 20 minutes ago? “You’re not making any sense.”

“Shh, just listen…your little brother played volleyball when you were kids, didn’t he?”

How did he know that? You nod hesitantly.

“Yeah…he was in my grade. He was a bad kid, y’know that? Always saying mean things to me.”

It’s true. Your brother’s always had a mean streak in him.

“He used to call me a monster. ‘Cause, y’know—“ Tendou taps a finger against his face. “Guess I look weird. And my name, too. So he said he didn’t wanna play with me. Demons can’t play on human teams. Every day, saying cruel things. I really hated him.”

Monster. Volleyball. Your little brother. Tendou Satori like the mind-reading spirits from folklore. Something’s coming to mind, a memory you haven’t thought about in years—no, decades.

Your little brother making fun of another kid. A tall kid with red hair in a bowl cut.

“I-I remember,” you stammer. “I came to his practice one time and you were there, right? That bowl cut kid was you. I got mad at him for calling you names and I yelled at him. That’s when we met?”

“Correct!” Tendou’s beaming like you just told him he won the lottery instead of recalling a random fifteen-year-old memory. “You made him let me play! I got to get on the court, and block him, and see his beaten face looking up at me. All because of senpai.”

You can play this off, you think to yourself. Tell him you’re sorry for how your brother treated him. Ask him why he never told you that the two of you have met before. Say something. Anything. But your mouth is too dry to let you speak.

“And, you know…” Tendou’s voice softens and a light blush dusts his cheeks. “I thought you were so cool. I couldn’t believe you were related to that jerk. Can I…tell you a secret?”

No. Deep down you know what he’s going to say, and you don’t want to hear it.

Tendou’s hand comes up to comb through your hair, gently pulling through the delicate strands next to your face and tucking them back so he can lean in and whisper into your ear (even though there’s no one else around). “I like you, senpai.”

Stop it. Stop it. Your blood feels cold in your veins.

“I’ve liked you ever since then. I used to wish we were in the same grade so I could be your friend and talk to you every day. Whenever we were in different schools I missed seeing you in the halls and hearing your voice when you spoke to other people.”

“Stop...stop talking,” you whisper, but Tendou continues like he didn’t hear you.

“Why’d you have to go all the way to Tokyo for college? In my third year at Shiratorizawa I studied for your school’s entrance exam forever, but I didn’t get in. Was too busy with volleyball, I guess.” He pauses. “Oh, by the way, I went to Shiratorizawa. I lied about that, sorry. But—seriously, d’you have any idea how hard it was for me when you were away at university? Not seeing the person I love for six years?”

Love, he said. You feel nauseous. “Tendou, you don’t—“

“Let me finish, okay senpai? You don’t know how much I’ve been through. Always having to respect your ‘personal space’—“ he frames the phrase in mocking air quotes— “when I need to touch you so bad I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

And then he’s hugging you into his chest, crushing your torso into his. You struggle and try to get him to let you go, but Tendou is so much stronger than you.

“You’re not that different from your brother after all, are you?” he hums into your hair. “You’ve been torturing me. You know how you lean over my desk when you show me something on my computer? I can…see down your shirt when you do that. And I smell your perfume. I spent two hours at the mall trying all the different perfumes so I could find the right one…thought my nose was gonna stop working! But don’t laugh—“

You’re not laughing.

“—the salesgirl looked at me funny but I got it eventually. Chance Eau Fraiche, right? I can’t believe how expensive that stuff is, what is it made of gold? It was worth it though! I saw this news article about how smelling things in your sleep can trigger memories, so I tried spraying your perfume on my pillow before I go to bed and now I get to see you at work and when I’m dreaming—”

“STOP IT!” Your slap echoes across the room with a resounding crack. You’ve never hit anyone before in your life, but your aim is good enough to leave Tendou staring with a shocked expression off to the side and a bright red mark on his face. His arms fall down from you and you back away from him, clutching your hand to your chest. “You need to get out. You’re drunk and you’re not thinking clearly. We...we can talk about this tomorrow, but right now you have to go.”

Your heart is beating like hummingbird wings, sending a flush up to your face that you know is visible. Tendou ghosts his hand over his cheek and is quiet for a long moment. “I wanted to do this the right way,” he says finally.

“What?”

“I tried. But you’re so obsessed with professionalism. You refused to see me like that,” he sighs. “You’re too responsible. Although it’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Please listen to me...” The psychological anxiety of this revelation is stirring up a primal fight or flight instinct, and you start backing up.

“I really wanted to treat you gently. You deserve to be treated well…”

“Tendou, wait.” How far are you from your bedroom? You don’t want to resort to hiding from him, but you’d feel a lot better with a locked door between you and him.

“…but senpai, I’ve waited so long. And it’s my birthday.”

Your hands scrabble for the doorknob, only—oh. He’s not just stronger than you, he’s faster too.

➠ [Part 2]

#Tendou Satori x reader #Tendou Satori #Tendou x reader #haikyuu x reader #Tendo Satori x reader #Tendo Satori #Tendo x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #hq imagines #yandere #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu x reader #yandere Tendou Satori x reader #yandere Tendou Satori #yandere Tendo Satori x reader #yandere Tendo Satori

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derireo · 4 years

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A3! And What Sports They’d Play ↦ All Troupes

So.. I was talking to a friend about the sports we used to play in the past. I loved sports as a kid and thinking of Haikyu also pushed me to do this. All troupes are included, and individual characters gets their own sport and my take on how well I think they’d do in it!

Kind of went off on Autumn and Winter Troupe;; sorry.

Uh, E-Sports, of course. He gets absolutely winded from walking, so sitting down and competitively playing a game he loves is his dream. On particularly intense matches, he breaks a heavy sweat and needs a lot of water and snacks to keep himself focused and in the game.

He's a popular player and a great one as well! Sometimes he gets asked to host little bits of the tournaments he attends because he has such a big fanbase and he's awesome at entertainment despite his normally deadpan tone with jokes.

He has a lot of energy, so I think running in track or doing marathons would be good for him. Afterall, he's one of the first to run after Tsuzuru in the prologue of the game. He isn't the best nor is he the fastest runner, but his stamina is impressive and lets him outlast many of his competitors.

I also see him doing kayaking? Not competitively, but he definitely loves the thrill of crashing down small waterfalls and regaining his balance right after. The flow of the currents is exhilarating and he has a good sense of balance, so he'd rarely overturn in a kayak (which is absolutely dangerous by the way).

He wouldn't do any competitive sports, but skate/longboarding is something I can definitely see him doing. If he needs time to himself or just simply wants to chill, he'll go out and enjoy the breeze as he boards down the bike lane in the park or on the road, hands in pockets.

He becomes a bit of an attraction at skate parks though. He's always seen there on his board, headphones donned and hands in pockets like I said; effortlessly performing tricks that a lot of other skaters would struggle doing. People are very attracted to the sight, and he lures them in whenever someone finds out he's at the park that day.

He's already suffering so much and is always tired— I wouldn't put it past him to play shuffleboard. It's not a laborious sport, and he can play with anyone like his siblings or any elders who need the company. It's a slow paced sport and is great for sleepy Tsuzuru who needs a break from scrip writing. I don't know if there were any canon stories of him actually being involved in a sport at some point, but I think he'd be pretty okay at tennis or table tennis.

Tennis is a very intense sport so he didn't play it for long because practice cut into his studying, his part-time jobs, and his babysitting. Table tennis is similar to tennis with it's concept, except you can just kind of stand in one spot and don't have to run around as much. It's a fun game to play with his siblings since they enjoy it so much, and they always run after the ball so he doesn't have to do much other than play along with them and clean up when they're done.

I honestly have no idea with Citron. I don't remember any canon details of Zahra (I think that's where he's from?) so I don't want to assume what kind of environment he was in that would influence his choice of athletics, but I think he would enjoy swimming! In the beach event, he ran into the water happily with Kazunari if I can remember, and I'd like to think he had a good body type for water.

There's also another part of me that thinks he'd love skydiving! The thrill of jumping out of the helicopter and letting the winds beat against him as he soared down towards the ground below would be awesome. He's practically shouting for joy as he glides down and loves the look of the city from above. Impressively enough, he can do flips in the air and loves twirling around, much to the dismay of other skydivers as they fear for him.

He's not one for actively moving, but ballet seemed interesting to him and he wanted to try it out. He had no idea how intense ballet was, from strict teachers, to getting blisters on his ankles and feet, Yuki actually almost quit. What prevented him from doing so was probably watching a performance where his seniors were giving the juniors an extravagant scene to watch and they inspired Yuki to keep going.

I would have said acrobatics/gymnastics as well, but Yuki's arms aren't very strong and he doesn't like doing flashy things like that anyways (no offense...? I don't know, I haven't watched videos of this sport in years). If he did pursue acrobatics/gymnastics, I'm not sure if he'd be amazing at it, but he would definitely be decent! He's got the flare;;

Running! Since he was in track for a while and was rumoured to be great at it, he would definitely be doing marathons and track alongside Sakuya. He had great speed and a stamina to match so he's a terribly good opponent to go against if you like to get pushed past your limits. If he kept pursuing track he would train during late nights and early morning with Tasuku, who has his routine jogs at those times.

Absolutely adores the sport too! His team of runners were basically second family to him, so if he chose to return, he would have the time of his life growing as a sportsman with them. He would grow into a fine and very popular runner! Hitting his growth spurt would only make him an even more fearsome competitor as his legs would get longer and his intense training with Omi and Tasuku would get his stamina maxed out.

He has no time to do sports since he's always acting, so I honestly can't say what he'd do. He isn't the best runner either and extreme sports is out of the question since he's a bit of a scaredy cat. I guess he would enjoy a casual game of table tennis though? But despite liking the sport, I'm going to say that he kind of sucks at it. He understands the rules and everything, but his rhythm is off and he never manages to hit the ball back.

He's good at receiving a strike back though! He's always lucky at standing in the right spot with his paddle in the correct position to receive a smash hit, and that's basically the only time he wins a point because he catches his opponent off guard. It doesn't happen often though, so he still gets absolutely destroyed during a game of table tennis.

I believe Misumi would be amazing at track & field. He runs extremely fast for one, and he does parkour like no other; he would definitely place first in sports like long jump, high jump, pole vault, and sprints. He doesn't have a particular favourite event to do though, but always does his best when someone gives him an incentive to do his best.

Izumi and Omi offer him triangle onigiri? He's going to run as fast as he can! Jump as high as he can and as far as he can! No one will be able to stop Misumi. But then again, competitive parkour is a thing, I'm pretty sure, so he can just do that sport for fun and still place in the top 3 at least. He would be terrible awesome at Ultimate Frisbee, but the disc isn't a triangle, so. :p

Him? Sports? No.

I'm kidding. Do not know at all what sport he would enjoy playing, but billiards is something that suits him in my opinion. It doesn't have to be competitive, but he's greatly skilled at handling a cue stick, and his aim is impeccable. He's real lucky with trick-shots too, so don't go and start betting money with him; you'll definitely splurge all of your cash on him within seconds.

Sigh. It's super annoying that he's good at everything, and sports are no exception. He plays futsal with Omi and Tasuku the most, and is very light on his feet. He's so good that during competitive games he'll do a trickshot and score, or will play around with his check and do something like dribble the ball between their legs when they're at their most vulnerable.

I'm sure he would fall in love with ice hockey, though. Ice hockey is fast paced and is a contact sport so Banri would feel free on the ice rink. Good thing is that he's pretty good looking, so he's a fan favourite player. The cold air biting into his skin as he pushes himself across the rink to get to the puck is exciting and he loves body checking opponents into the walls (this also makes him a controversial player since he plays rough and dirty).

He'd be a monster at competitive martial arts. Taekwondo especially, considering his kicks come in hot and fast. His spinning kicks are ones to avoid if you go against him, but he's so quick on his feet and can kick higher than his head so you might get a quick KO if you can't read his body language fast enough. Judo is also high on the list despite it being more of a grappling and throwing sport, but Juza's quick reflexes make him a difficult opponent to beat. Normally wins a match using jiu-jitsu grappling techniques on the floor.

He would also be great at ice hockey. His large figure and quick feet would make him a great player, and his posture is always low to the ground so it wouldn't be easy to knock him over on the rink. Not exactly the best at dribbling the puck though, but give him a one-timer when he's open and he'll send that thing flying through the net. No one tries to pick fights with him on the rink though lol, he's notorious for one hit ko's.

Taichi gives off the chaotic vibes of Nishinoya from Haikyu, but he would suck at volleyball so I'm giving him badminton cause height doesn't matter too much I think as long as he's quick on his feet and is able to read the body language of his opponents well. His form would be perfect though and he's super agile so getting to that shuttlecock is no problem for him. He's got a bit of muscle too so he can send those babies flying!

Doesn't really use strategy most of the time, so he'll just keep hitting and receiving the shuttlecock however he wants until his opponent tires or until someone messed up a smash. No one else in Mankai plays badminton so finding him a coach is a bit difficult. He eventually learns other ways to hit the shuttlecock, so when he learns how to slice or do drop shots, he's a little monster on the court!

Oh, the sports he would play.. Obviously, he plays futsal with Tasuku unless you haven't seen his card where he's playing as goalkeeper! With that information, he would absolutely destroy volleyball teams as a middle. Now I don't know if calling middles 'middle blocker' and outside hitters 'wing spikers' is like.. a cultural thing, and I know that's what they call the players in Haikyu, but it definitely catches me off guard and really confused lol. So, yeah! Omi would be amazing as a middle in the front since he's so tall and can shuffle fast on his feet to block a front row opponent. He's like Tendou in a way where he's great at reading people, the only thing is that he's better than Tendou (no offense, I'm serious) because he doesn't need to guess. He already knows. UGH, I want to go off on volleyball (both indoor & outdoor), but this part is getting long. Lmk if you want to hear me talk more about A3! & volleyball.

American football/rugby. Don't tell me I'm wrong please, I'll cry. Both of these are a full contact sport, and looking at Omi's past and his physical structure, you can't tell me he would not obliterate everyone on the field. He is either the offensive guard or the tackle. He will not start offensive plays, but he will end defensive plays. He stops any player from tackling their centre and tackles those who try to hit a blindside. I don't know much about rugby other than it is just as rough as American Football, just with less protective gear. I'm stopping here because I'm thirsting too much for Omi rn.

HOO, baby! When I looked at Sakyo, I just knew he would be able to do something with swords, so I chose kendo/fencing. Keno is a traditional martial art stemming from Japan and is practised with wooden swords. I won't say I know much about the sport, but it is definitely tense and is very noisy. Noisy because kendokas/kenshis shout whenever they strike, this is to show their spirit. Sakyo kind of hates shouting during the sport, but it definitely lets off some steam and gives him more momentum when he strikes.

I also think fencing because there are swords involved here too, it's just that it seems to be more of a European sport and has some sort of specific footwork involved. The piste may seem a bit narrow as well compared to kendo where they have a whole floor to themselves, so Sakyo doesn't practice fencing as often. (The clothing he's required to wear for this sport is also quite stifling as well.)

I'm ngl, but I didn't know what sport to give Tsumugi, omg, so I ended up giving him cup stacking. You know, you remember; I feel like you should do some research if you don't though because cup stacking was a huge thing in the early 2000's (?) and kids were setting world records here and there non-stop. Tsumugi uses his hands a lot for things like gardening, tutoring, bouquet arranging, etc, so he's deft and talented with them.

As long as he puts his mind to it, cup stacking is a piece of cake for him. He doesn't play anymore, but every now and then he'll look at his old kit in the corner of his room and will set it up with Tasuku in the lounge room for everyone to have a go at it. He loves the thrill and the way his adrenaline runs through his veins as he focuses on trying not to mess up the stack down.

HOOOO! Okay, so we already know Tasuku plays futsal so I'm not going to bother, but man.. He would be the same as Omi in volleyball; an absolute monster of a middle player. He's well rounded in the sport, so his coaches/team actually refuse to switch him out with a libero/defence specialist. His digs are almost on point with the setter, and he's always at the right spot when receiving, making sure no one gets an empty spot on the court.

When he's in the front blocking or hitting, he's almost always successful, and since he trains a lot with different drills and regimes, he perfects a lot of things like tipping, tooling, slicing, and even setting. His height added along with his vertical makes it almost impossible for opponents to block him, and when he's feeling good in a game, he'll start doing things like float serves and jump serves. If he's feeling any better, he'll play around and start doing slide hits at the front or will hit from position A on the back court (left corner facing the net). He'd also do swimming!!!!!!!!! BUT THIS IS GETTING TOO LONG

Definitely would do archery/darts. He's got impeccable aim if you take evidence from his outside work chats with Banri and has no problem pulling the string on a bow. Archery is difficult and I am not lying. Pulling the string until it's taut takes a large amount of strength and it digs deep into your fingertips, leaving calluses after one or two pulls.

Figuring out the trajectory and weighing in the factors of weather (if you're outside) takes a lot of skill and practice, and Hisoka always manages to hit the centre of the target with no hesitancy with his release of the string. His hands are all rough from the string digging into his fingers all the time, showing you how long he's been practising the sport.

I don't think Homare was very athletic growing up. I'm saying this only because his body type is quite lean and he's a poet after all who seems to stay inside more often than not if he isn't meeting with an editor/publisher. I think figure skating would suit him very well as it is an elegant and cold weathered sport. I also think he would fall in love with the suits if Yuki made them as they'd sparkle brilliantly and show off his flare as a skater.

He figure skates as a casual hobby rather than competitive, but he definitely makes a lot of famous friends in the community due to his whimsical personality and beautiful posture.

Kyudo (Japanese archery) was a sport that popped into my mind for Azuma, despite the strain it puts on the skin of his fingertips. His skin is very delicate with how much he takes care of it, so he wears a glove on his dominant hand to protect him. Kyudo seems to be more of a peaceful archery, and with the sight of Azuma in the kyudo uniform, the scene in front of you would be quite serene and calming.

I also think he would be great at figure skating since his body is lithe and he has lovely facial features that would complement the body suits that Yuki would create for him. His long hair flowing in the breeze he creates as he glides throughout the rink would be gorgeous along with the way his body looks as he does an axle in the air. His performances on the rink are always mesmerising, and he'll receive a few claps from fellow rink goers when he's in the centre just casually practising.

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phykios · 3 years

Text

honesty and promise me, part 4 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

July twelfth dawns like any other day, Annabeth wrapped up in Percy’s sheets. She’s spent significantly more nights in his bed than she’s spent in her own apartment over the last two months, but who could blame her? This bed is literally to die for. Therapeutic mattress for the fucking win.

Percy, to her greatest confusion and chagrin, is a morning person. Well, actually, what he is is someone who runs on very little sleep for three weeks at a time, before crashing headfirst into his bed for thirteen hours. It is a decidedly unhealthy way to live, but it means that Annabeth is used to waking up alone. The nights where she gets to wake up with Percy are the nicer ones, sure, but his presence is suffused in every corner of the room, his smell wafting from every piece of sweaty clothing tossed haphazardly about the floor, so much so that she never feels like she is truly waking up alone.

Gross? A little. But the smell is oddly sexy, too, especially after he’s just come home from a run, all wet and glistening and flushed, panting hard--

Ahem.

The point is, when Annabeth rolls out of bed in one of Percy’s shirts (the one that says “Do You Even Lift, Bro?” with an image of a male dancer raising his partner, courtesy of one Jason Grace) and stumbles into the kitchen for one of Percy’s patented brunch specials, it’s a pretty normal morning. What catches her off guard is the spread: eggs and bacon, obviously, with fruit and granola and yogurt, but also an enormous tray of delicious, flaky croissants, perfectly crescent shaped, with little bowls of every condiment imaginable, multiple flavors of jams and preserves and Nutellas.

“Bounjour, mademoiselle!” Percy says cheerfully from the oven, perfectly accented, bending over to take out a tray. “Ça va bien?”

“Um… bonjour…” She pokes a croissant experimentally, and is equally delighted and dismayed to find that it is just as flaky as advertised.

“Take a seat, these ones just need to cool for a bit and then we can get started.”

Spring in his step, he opens the refrigerator, taking out the most beautiful cake Annabeth has ever seen in her entire life. Perfectly round, paper white, with little blue borders piped around the edge, but it’s got Annabeth feeling like she’s just been doused in cold water. “How the hell did you know it was my birthday?”

Immediately, she knows it was the exact wrong thing to say. His eyes go wide as the saucers on the table, mouth open in shock. “It’s your birthday?”

Goddammit. “Um.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Because birthdays were inherently a dumb concept? Because her father had to be reminded of her birthday more often than not? Because her mother had stopped sending her birthday cards after she turned thirteen, calling them a waste of money and resources? “I don’t know,” she shrugs, dipping her finger into the strawberry jam. “I guess I just didn’t think it was a big deal. Ooh, does this have rosemary in it?”

“Annabeeeeth,” he whines, plopping the cake onto the kitchen island. “I can’t believe you! I love birthdays.”

“Well,” she flounders, attempting to duck his sudden attention, “what were you originally celebrating? I don’t usually think of cake as a brunch option.”

He raises an eyebrow, not at all impressed with her attempts to change the topic, but he answers dutifully, “Originally, we were celebrating me being one month cig-free--”

“Percy!” Annabeth gasps, clapping her hands delightedly, and a little exaggeratedly. “That’s great!”

“But,” he continues, “now we’re definitely celebrating your birthday instead.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Nuh uh,” he chides, grabbing his phone and beginning to type something, “I am asking Nico to pick you up a birthday card as we speak.”

Oh. “Nico’s coming?”

“Well, this is his apartment. Part of the deal is that I make him breakfast. I think he’s bringing his boyfriend.”

“Is… anyone else coming?”

“Just a couple of people, my friends Frank, Grover, Rachel… I invited Hazel and Thalia, too, but I think Hazel told me she was busy, and you know Thalia. If it’s not at a crappy dive bar then the odds of her showing up are virtually none.” Percy pauses in his text, fixing her with an odd look. “You really don’t want anyone to know, do you?”

How easily he reads her is a little disconcerting, and also a thought that she just can’t handle right now. “I just don’t like people making a big deal out of it. You know, it’s just another day. I’d much rather celebrate you quitting.”

He holds her gaze for a beat, before smiling, finishing typing out whatever he was doing on his phone. “Yes, I am officially quitting. Cigarettes are terrible for you, and I do not have the money to keep up the habit. So, I swear,” he holds up a hand, “No cigarettes, no weed, no vaping. Not that I ever vaped before.”

“Oh, never?” Annabeth teases.

“Not ever.” He leans in, grinning that devastating grin that is seriously detrimental to her health. “You could not pay me enough.”

“Good.” She goes to meet him, pressing her mouth to his, sweetly and chastely, but swiftly turning deeper, almost against their higher brain functions, like they only exist to be here in this moment, lips against lips, tongue and tongue. She’s always hated the taste of cigarettes, she prefers edibles to blunts, and anyone who vapes is automatically dropped from her list of potential partners… but she’s never minded the taste of ash on Percy’s tongue. It was just another part of him, another facet of the whole sexy package.

Now, though, she has the full taste of him, unfettered and unfiltered, his morning coffee and his morning breath. It is disgusting, but again, oddly thrilling. This is Percy, stripped down and divested of all the trappings of blue lipstick and tight pants. She wonders what he thinks when he sees her like this, messy haired, face and ears empty of metal, last night’s mascara smudged all around her eyes. Given the way that he deliberately threads her hair through his fingers, winding the frizzy curls around him, pulling her close enough that the pristine cake is in danger from some serious smushing, she thinks he likes it just as much.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on which perspective, either Percy’s, Annabeth’s, Nico’s, or the cake’s, their little impromptu makeout session has cold water dumped on it before they can end up doing it on the kitchen island. The sound of someone unlocking the front door is almost comically loud, and they break apart, equally red and flushing.

“Gross,” says Nico di Angelo. “No heterosexuality allowed in my kitchen.”

“Take that back, you biphobic ass,” Percy says. “I have never been heterosexual in my life.”

“I’m not biphobic, I just don’t want to see you getting it on on my marble countertops.”

“Speak for yourself,” chimes in Will, setting down a grocery bag right on the spot which would have been ground zero. “Hi, Annabeth.”

“Hey, Will.”

“Nice of you to join us today,” he says, as though he doesn’t see her here all the time.

She offers her assistance in cooking or setting up, knowing full well that she will be firmly rebuffed--domestics are not her strong suit, by any stretch of the imagination--and is sent away with an iced coffee that Will has so thoughtfully bought for her instead of the birthday card she was dreading.

Soon after, the party is in full swing.

Well, she uses the term party loosely. It is fairly intimate, even with Nico’s enormous apartment making everything smaller. They have assembled an odd amalgamation of people: “You already know Nico,” Percy says, indicating the goth prince next to, “and Will,” his boyfriend, the perpetually cheery med student, next to, “and this is Frank,” a large, physically imposing man with a shy smile, next to, “Rachel,” a red-headed girl who looked like she just walked out of a paint shower, all making space for, “and my buddy Grover,” the guy in crutches who had immediately dropped into the single, out-of-decor, but extremely comfortable-looking loveseat Nico had placed nearest to the bathroom. All told, they look like the brochure for a community college who really, really wants to publicize how diverse their student body is, but with a kind of natural chemistry and camaraderie that those kids on that brochure could only dream of. “Everyone, this is Annabeth.”

They greet her, each giving a limp wave.

Then Percy leaves to attend to his brunch spread, but not before giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She can feel all eyes on them, hot and burning.

Silence.

“So,” Annabeth says, as awkward as a freshman in an orientation mixer. “What’s up?”

“Your hair is amazing,” says Rachel.

Hers is crusted with paint, a deep red that turns pink against the orange in the light, a close cousin to Annabeth’s, which is in dire need of a touchup, curls thrown in disarray by Percy’s grasping fingers. “Thanks, I--”

“So how do you two know each other?”

Annabeth blinks. “Friend of Thalia’s,” she says. “You?”

“Used to do ballet together,” Rachel says, brusque, efficient. “Frank, too.”

Frank waves again.

A beat passes.

Annabeth looks to Grover, who watches, bemused. “You, too, I take it?”

Another second. Then he laughs, weird, but hearty, a joyful bleat. “Oh, sure,” he says. “I’m a regular Baryshnikov.”

She can almost feel the room relaxing, heaving a sigh after holding its breath.

“Are you with NYCB, too?” she turns to Frank, shoving her hands in her pockets, fingers curling around the fabric there.

Shaking his head, he swallows his orange juice. “I mostly do modern and hip hop, now, music videos and stuff.”

Objectively, she knows that you don’t have to be skinny as a rake or bodybuilding champion to dance, but Frank is neither of these, a huge, sweet-faced guy with a healthy layer of fat around his face and torso--a strict counterpart to Percy, who could give the Belvedere Apollo a run for its money. “Have I seen you in anything?” Not that she really watches music videos, but she figures it’s the polite thing to ask.

“Um, maybe,” he shrugs, embarrassed. “I’ve been lucky enough to work with some really big people.” Though he offers no further details.

“Working on anything cool?” She asks, doing her best not to cajole.

He nods. “Percy and I have a thing coming out probably in the next month or so, with--ah, well. Can’t say.”

“Tease,” Rachel grumbles, tossing back her mimosa. “I’ve been trying to get the secret out of him for months.”

Frank smiles, secretive and a little smug. “Sorry. You’ll find out along with everyone else.”

“Do you work together a lot?” Annabeth asks. She had thought that Percy was strictly ballet--though, she supposes dancers do crossover work more often these days, if only for the money.

“Not as much as we used to, sadly,” he replies. “We actually lived together in Paris for a few years while he was contracted with the opera before I decided to come back home. Vancouver,” he adds at her unspoken question.

“Bit of a hike, from Vancouver to New York,” says Grover.

Frank shrugs. “I was in town anyway, and I haven’t seen Percy in about a year.”

Annabeth frowns, doing some mental math. If Frank hadn’t seen him in two years, then that meant… that Percy had been alone in Paris all that time. The man thrives off of friendship and social interaction; no wonder he was jonesing to come back to America.

“Remind me again how long you two were together?” Rachel asks, red hair bouncing as she cocks her head. A jolt goes down Annabeth’s spine, appraising Frank in an entirely new light.

“On and off for about two years,” says Frank, thoughtful. “But I just lived with him to save money. The rent in Paris sucks.”

“And you were the best roommate I ever had,” Percy says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Clean, good cook, better kisser--”

Frank shoves him away.

“You’ve only ever had one other roommate, other than Nico or your mom,” Grover points out. “That one guy when you first moved overseas--Frodo? Fedora?”

“Fyodor,” Percy corrects. “He was terrible. I didn’t know any Russian, he didn’t know any English, and our French wasn’t good enough to actually hash it out, so he just gave me a permanent cold shoulder.”

“Kind of a low bar, don’t you think?”

“And there was my roommate in Boston.”

Sharply, she turns her head. “You lived in Boston?”

“Yeah, for like a year. I told you I was with Boston Ballet for a little bit, didn’t I?”

Pretty sure he didn’t. She almost opens her mouth to retort, to ask when and compare notes, to mention that she lived in Boston, too, before remembering who she is with, swallowing her words.

“Fyodor hated you,” Frank hums, reentering the circle. He’d wandered away and returned with a croissant, dipped in chocolate.

“Trust, me, the feeling was mutual.”

“It must have been,” Frank says, “because I saw your new apartment after he kicked you out--that place made a shoebox look luxurious.”

Something in Percy’s face almost falls when Frank says that. Annabeth is sure there is a story there.

But Rachel laughs. “Annabeth, you have no idea. It was a Chambre de bonne ,” she says, exaggerating the accent, “which might sound super fancy and French and cool, but trust me, it wasn’t at all. It was this size.” She slaps the kitchen island, a little too hard, her third mimosa making her loose-limbed and loud. “When I visited for Thanksgiving that year I had to pay for the heating bill, because Percy basically refused.”

“It was cozy,” Percy mutters, suddenly very preoccupied with the half a croissant on his plate.

“It was not.” Rachel says. “It was sad and cold and small.”

Nico looks interested, but not nearly as boisterous as Rachel or Frank, “Was that the place…”

“Ye,” Percy cuts him off, “Yes it was.” He smiles, Stepford-strained. “But, then Frank came to town, and so did his grandmother’s money.” He slaps Frank on the back. “And I got a bathtub.”

“I still can’t believe that a ballet dancer lived anywhere for two years without a place to soak,” Frank says, shuddering.

“I can’t believe you waited until Frank got to Paris to get yourself a sugar daddy,” Grover quips. Percy throws a grape at him. Grover, to her immense surprise, manages to catch it in his mouth.

Annabeth can’t really be impressed. This is the second time someone has brought up Percy and Frank having a history. Something hot and angry curls in her stomach. But Percy is laughing.

Rachel laughs too. “Oh, he didn’t wait,” she says. “He had a bevy of sugar mommies for trips to Ibiza and Moscow and Beijing.”

“It was Tokyo,” Percy says, “and they weren’t my Sugar Mamas.” He turns to Annabeth, sheepish, but not actually shameful. “They weren’t. Honestly.”

“Uh huh.”

“They were mostly Kym’s friends, and sometimes we’d go out when they were in town, and if we had fun, they’d invite me wherever they were going next. And if I didn’t have to work, I’d go with.”

“I have heard rumors,” Will says, popping his head in, Nico attached to his hip, “of Percy Jackson, boy toy of the rich and famous of Europe. Is it true?”

“Yes,” Grover and Rachel say at once.

“Do you want to hear about that, Will?” Percy asks, “Or would you rather hear about the summer Nico came to stay with me and Frank before he started college, and slept with every single dancer in Europe except Frank?”

Nico waves him off. “Only because you were already sleeping with him, cause he was your sugar daddy. Not like I needed the money.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Frank says.

“And now that we’ve aired all of my dirty laundry,” says Percy, “I need to borrow Annabeth for a second.” Gently, but with force, he tugs her arm, his other hand around her waist, directing her where to go like she’s one of his dance partners. Usually, she minds--a lot. She’s not about to let anyone, let alone a man, tell her where to go--but, you know, it’s Percy. Alone time with him is never a bad thing.

He pulls her into the hallway, shoving his hand into his pocket. “What’s up?” she asks.

“So.” Mouth open, he pauses for a moment, just… looking at her. His eyes are soft, warm like the first day of spring.

“What?”

“Uh, nothing,” he shakes himself a little, pulling his hand out. “Sorry, I just--I know you said you didn’t want anyone making a big deal out of your birthday…”

Oh, no. She braces herself for the worst.

Uncurling his fingers, he reveals his present for her.

“It’s… a pin?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Remember when I took my sister to the Met a few weeks ago? They were having that thing on Egyptian jewelry? Well, of course we had to stop in the gift shop, and I saw this and just--you know, thought of you.”

It is a pin--one of those lapel pins that more often than not are added to a collection usually displayed on a backpack. This pin is a silhouette she recognizes instantly: the Parthenon, its columns and angles rendered in sterling silver, little grooves dug into the metal in an approximation of the fluting.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing.” His ears are pink. “Happy birthday.”

And then he hugs her.

After a moment, she hugs him back.

It’s amazing how she can have had sex with someone so many times, but feel so awkward giving them a hug.

“I didn’t, um, tell anyone else,” he says, pulling back. His hands linger on her shoulders, thumb tapping at the base of her neck. “But, I kept meaning to give this to you, so, you know, now was as good a time as any, yeah?”

“I love it,” she says, honestly. Which surprises her. “Thank you.”

She slips it into her own pocket, not even minding the sharp corners.

When they return, Nico has already cut into the cake. “You were taking too long,” he snips.

It really is delicious. Much, much later, Percy sends her home with a sweet, soft kiss, and one of the last remaining slices, rather than staying for dinner.

Percy is the kind of boy who goes to his mother’s for dinner every week. She had been invited, but also threatened with the promise of another cake, and his ten year old sister, who would “love to make you a present.”

It sounded nice, but Annabeth knew when she wasn’t really wanted, and so she demurred, citing a need for some solo downtime.

She hasn’t heard from Thalia in, like, four days, which meant she had probably gotten a short-term gig. (“You’re lucky, she’s had Jason paying for her phone the whole time you’ve known her. Before that, she was almost impossible to get ahold of.”) Piper would take her out to dinner tomorrow, “just because.” But they would both know it wasn’t true.

So, to refresh and relax after a long, harrowing day of socializing, Annabeth goes home.

Or at least to her apartment.

It doesn’t have a doorman, or the views, or the room, like Nico’s place. Nor does it have any of the people, the energy, the joy. Her furniture doesn’t fill it up. The most appetizing thing in her kitchen are the granola bars Percy had made the week before, or maybe the brownies he made four days ago. She sets her to-go bag of cake and croissants down next to them, a smorgasboard of Percy’s culinary prowess.

Despite the long hours, her clothes still smell a little like last night’s bar, and her skin has a faint patina of dried sex sweat, and smudged makeup.

She doesn’t want to start leaving things at Percy’s place--don’t want him to get the wrong idea--but she also occasionally needs to be able to touch up her eyeliner. She’s either going to have to find a bag that isn’t embarrassing to carry, or surreptitiously shove some eyeliner and lipstick next to the condoms in Percy’s nightstand next time they have a sleepover. Or raid Nico’s bathroom.

Regardless, she needs a wash something bad.

As she scrubs down, she does her best to focus on the lemon scent of her body wash, and not Percy’s perfect form, dripping with water. She tries to visualize her last trip to Sephora, not blowing him under the hot water.

It doesn’t really work, so she gets herself clean and gets herself off and considers just spending the rest of the day naked, in case the mood strikes her again. But it's only 5PM, and she doesn’t have Percy to cook her some dinner tonight, so she sucks it up and puts on some pants.

When she had visited Boston for work a couple of months back, Alex had insisted on taking her shopping, complaining that her sister and her friend Mallory didn’t understand Versace quite like Annabeth did, and that Blitz sucked all the fun out of fashion, anyway. Then, she had bullied Annabeth into buying a set of sweats, claiming it was because of the Grecian patterns, but probably because she thought Annabeth in that much purple would be funny.

But eventually, she had wheedled, cajoled, and threatened Annabeth into buying a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. After deciding to forgo a bra, because that is just one more area she has always fallen short in, she shoves on a School of Architecture underneath them. The crimson clashes terribly with the lavender and seafoam, but she kind of likes it. Piper would call it “artfully nauseating,” or something.

Besides, no one is going to see her but her delivery guy. And if someone did see her, someone like Thalia or Percy, well, the clashing colors would be the least of her worries.

She is folded into her couch, wedged into the corner, very much not looking up Paris Ballet clips from the past few years, trying to spot Percy in the background, when there is a knock on her door.

Not for the first time, she curses her lack of doorman--and then frowns. Who even knows where she lives?

Piper and Leo? Magnus and Alex?

Has she already ordered food and just forgotten?

Is memory loss a side effect of a SK-II mask no one had warned her about?

Tentatively, she creeps towards the door, opening it slowly. If this were a horror movie, the door would creak open, revealing the villain cast in the shadows of the hallway, holding his weapon of choice.

She sighs.

The man is only a few inches taller than her, and dressed impeccably in a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost half a year of her rent-- a big critique coming from her, since she wears a month of her own rent as sweats. His blond hair is impeccably combed, his tennis shoes impeccably white, and his smile the most charming thing you can find this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Happy birthday, girly,” he says, giving her an awkward, one-armed hug, trying to avoid getting any of her facemask on his shirt.

“What are you doing here?”

“It's your birthday,” he reminds her, holding up the bag. “I told you I’d stop by last week.”

Had he? Maybe, and she’d just been too drunk or hung over to really process it. But maybe he’d also meant to, and then failed to follow through. Luke has a bit of a nasty habit of treating his intentions as the same as his actions. His intentions are good, usually, but it means that he often ignored the actual actions. Like how his intention was to support his mother in the best nursing home in the northeast, but his action was to work with Saturn, a very shady hedge fund, to facilitate it. Or how his intention was to have someone at a stuffy party to talk to, but his action was dressing up Annabeth as his arm candy because none of Piper’s models would call him back anymore. He hasn’t asked her to do that since, like, February though, thankfully.

“Sorry,” Annabeth says. “I just… you know I don’t like my birthday.”

He also has a bit of a habit of ignoring her distaste in a really blatant way.

He’s a little like Percy that way, actually.

She’d only ever told Luke about her birthday back in those embarrassing freshman days, when she’d thought he looked as good on paper as any Harvard MBA student possibly could, with a devastating smile to match. She’d been so convinced that he would be the right boyfriend that might finally get her mother’s approval, and she figured that her future husband should know her birthday.

“Come in,” she says, reaching for the bag, but he shakes his head and brushes past her, dumping his black back on the coffee table. Graciously, he doesn’t look at her as he starts to empty out its contents, giving her an opportunity to dart back to her bathroom and peel off her facemask. Luke would forgive designer sweats, but they aren't at the “just chilling in a facemask” level of a relationship.

When she returns, there is a small assembly line arranged on her coffee table: a stack of paper plates, a carton of Haagen Daas, forks and spoons, and a Milk Bar cake, all wrapped in its box.

“Is Milk Bar still the ‘it’ thing?” she asks. “With locations all over the country, I figured it would be passé by now.”

“I know it’s your favorite,” Luke says. “I don’t always have to choose the most popular thing.”

Milk Bar had been her favorite, that is true, right up until she’d started fucking Percy Jackson, and eating his food.

“Thanks,” she says, cutting herself a slice, and scooping herself some ice cream.

“That’s all you’re going to get?” he asks, cutting himself a sliver.

“I have had so much cake today,” she says. Milk Bar really isn’t as good as Percy's, but it reminds her of birthdays in high school, waiting for her mother to visit, sneaking out when she inevitably didn’t, convincing the local bad boy to buy her some alcohol. She eats it, eagerly.

Luke’s jaw drops. “You had a birthday cake? By choice? On your birthday?”

She shakes her head, swallowing. “No, I was at a party with some friends. They didn’t even know it was my birthday,” Until she had stupidly revealed it. Whatever. She just has to make sure he’s been excised from her life by this time next year. And maybe freeze some of his baked goods beforehand.

Luke doesn’t let her go through with her evening plans, which consisted basically of watching Legally Blonde for the gazillionth time while she slurped down some pierogies, but he capitulates to Roman Holiday , helping her put away the leftover cake and ice cream. “Thanks,” she says, when the movie was done. “I’m glad you came over. “

No one ever comes over. Thalia is her best friend, but Thalia would have questions about how she could afford the place, Piper never understood why she’d moved out here at all, and Percy… Percy was irrelevant. There is no reason for him to come here.

“I always like to see my best girl.” He smiles at her, charming and rogueish.

“If all those models you keep trying to date know that your best girl is an architect who lives in Brooklyn who you actually feed, that’s probably why they don’t want to date you back.”

Luke laughs, leaning over and knocking his shoulder against her own. “None of those girls could hold a candle to you.”

“God, you must be a terrible boyfriend.”

“Probably,” he agrees, sitting up and stretching, before reaching back to the bag he brought the cake in. “After all, you are the one I bring all the nice presents. But I think I’m a pretty good friend.”

He takes out a box, burnt orange, a black ribbon wrapped around it, because Luke is nothing if not predictable.

Annabeth sighs internally, quietly reminding herself that money is how Luke shows his love. And that she is wearing Versace sweats.

“Herm é s,” she says, pulling off the ribbon. “This box looks too small for a Birkin.”

“Do you want a Birkin?” he asks. “I can get you a Birkin.”

“I probably don’t need a Birkin,” she admits. Though maybe it would be nice to have one in her closet, if her mom ever calls her up for lunch again. She could show up with a Birkin and an eyebrow ring. Sweet revenge.

Luke waves a hand. “It doesn't matter if you need one, just if you want one.”

Inside the box is a scarf, the silk soft and smooth between her fingers, a pleasing gradient of oranges and reds and pinks and corals. When she unfolds it, laying it out before her, she finds a sharp, geometric design, columns stacked together like skyscrapers. Luke obviously had her in mind when he picked it out.

“Thanks,” she says. It’s pretty--perfect for an ambitious young architect with two degrees from Harvard who had moved to New York City with an offer from one of the best architecture firms in the world. And Annabeth has no idea where she could possibly want or need to wear it.

“Hey,” Luke says, suddenly soft, “don’t cry.”

Shocked, she reaches her hand up to her face. It’s wet.

Luke is probably the only person she will let herself cry in front of. She’d spent three years doing that in college. He’d seen her through heartbreak and hangovers, guiding her through it all like an aloof big brother.

“I’m okay,” she hiccups, wiping her nose.

He hands her a napkin.

Annabeth blows her nose, wet and gross. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m alright.”

“You sure?” He sounds sincere, but she catches him glancing down at his wrist.

“Do you have a date?”

“I…” At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “Just some guys at work. You can come, if you want.”

It could be fun. Hanging out with Luke can be fun. Get a little lit, take a business bro home, screw his brains out, send him on his way. But there’s an unspoken dress code to these things, and Annabeth just doesn’t wear Louboutins anymore. And the idea of fucking a business bro just… doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

“No thanks,” she nods, using the clean edge of the napkin to wipe her eyes. “I am going to watch The Search For Elle Woods , and you're going to strike out with some models, and everyone is going to be happy.”

“You really are so mean to me.” Luke complains, as she walks him to the door, before giving her another hug. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I am.” She is different and new, but Luke is still her friend. She had survived. It would be okay.

“Well, call me if you need something.” He kisses her cheek, sweetly, without any heat. Perfectly platonic. “I love you very much. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” she says, “I’ll see you around.”

“Always.” And he is gone.

She folds the scarf, going to put it in the dresser in her room, shoving it among a handful of accessories, gathering dust. She realizes, with a start, that she’s left a week’s worth of clothes all over her room on the way to the shower, and, with a sigh of adulthood, and the knowledge that if she doesn’t follow the ADHD gods and pick them up now, they’ll be there for weeks, languishing on her floor and stinking up the place, she goes to at least move them into her hamper. She rifles through ripped jeans and band t-shirts and black socks as she goes, checking each for anything like discarded change or a bus pass she doesn’t want to wash.

She shakes out the pants she’d worn out the night before, and therefore the entire day until she’d gotten home. There is a rather unfortunate stain on the knee that she can’t quite parse--ketchup? Chocolate?

Then she reaches into the pockets, touching metal, and she suddenly remembers her other birthday present for the day.

Pulling out the pin, she feels strange, hot in the face, funny in the belly, tossing the jeans haphazardly in with the dirty laundry. It's small and shiny, cheap metal for mass market production, and yet, she walks it over to the dresser, laying it down on the silk scarf like it's the diamond broach her aunt gave her for her sixteenth birthday.

She really is beyond Hermès scarves now. But that pin? Well, you never really can get more Annabeth--the middle school know-it-all, teenage debutante, college perfectionist, New York yuppy, or barfly and punk princess--than one of the greatest architectural achievements in human history.

She is still a little shocked by how much she loves it. How much it means to her that Percy saw that it was perfect for her.

And like so many times when she is confronted with an emotion she doesn’t like, she slams the door closed, and goes and watches a favorite movie from high school.

She does order dinner, eventually, setting out her meal in between texting Piper about brunch tomorrow. It's a whole thing, pretending that they’re not going out for her birthday, but eventually they agree on a time and a place, and she can eat her sausage and watch everyone practice the Bend and Snap in peace.

So she is very annoyed when her phone buzzes again.

Maybe the reservation fell through. Or maybe she doesn’t want Annabeth to show up in ripped fishnets, even though that only happened once.

Her stomach sinks when she checks her phone. It isn’t Piper.

Hello Dear, Happy Birthday. We miss you. Please call anytime. Love Dad, Mary, and the boys.

Below the text is a link, leading to a gift certificate for $200 to Sephora, which has Mary’s name written all over it. Aunt Natalie would have suggested Bergdorf Goodman.

Her hand clenches, momentarily overcome with the urge to hurl her phone against the wall. But there is no one around, so there wouldn’t be any point to it.

She stabs at a pierogi with a chopstick, and watches the girls dance on screen, humming along.

She passes out on the couch after midnight.

Her mother never called.

#my fic #darkmagyk #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #slightly douchey big brother luke castellan ftw!!!!!

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 23

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on "Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki." by @thefandomimagine

Loki felt alive.

With newfound energy surging into his bones, he felt shaped anew, his personality finally dusting the Earth's dirt off its magnificence for all to see.

Loki marched back into your room, clad in the familiar, asgardian fabrics, tailored to fit into Earth's fashion better. All was good again.

You eyed him from head to toe with a look suggesting an utter lack of interest. To his dismay, you seemed more focused on the itch on your back, and finding a way to reach it, than his rebirth.

"I didn't expect you to understand, but this is saddening, even coming from you." Loki crossed his arms, picking some invisible fleck off his black suit.

"Sorry," you muttered, almost bent in half backwards while sitting on the bed. "I'd clap, but I need that hand for a moment longer."

"Forget it. I don't need your approval."

Relief softened your features when you finally scratched the itch. "Okay, I'm done. How do you fancy some coffee before we wander off to the streets?"

"Only if you promise not to add anything 'special' in it."

"Your lack of trust breaks my heart."

One look through the window convinced you to put on some warmer clothes. The snow started to fall only yesterday evening, but you could already see it piling on the streets. Taking a car in such weather could turn into an unpleasant surprise, if roads were blocked because of it.

You winced while getting ready. "I have no idea how you can be so full of energy, princess. Every part of my body hurts as if I were fighting monsters all day yesterday. I'm getting too old for this crap."

Loki scoffed, leaning by the door. "I can't imagine you in retirement. What would you be doing? Knitting socks for the poor?"

"Or I could babysit villains. I feel I have a knack for it."

"You're overestimating your capabilities," Loki said, but there was no malice in his words.

He watched you pull on shoes, struggling with bending far enough to reach the laces. It must have been the bruises you mentioned. His own healed through the night, and Loki was more than happy to discover that. He couldn't imagine living like that.

A tiny part of him almost offered to help you, but he leashed it before the words escaped him. Why, he couldn't say. Confusion clad his thoughts while you finished and marched to the door. You fished a metallic card out of your pocket and held it in front of Loki's eyes.

"I really shouldn't be telling you that you need one of these to enter or leave people's private rooms in this Tower, and a few other sections not meant for the public. And I really shouldn't mention that most of the important residents have one of these on them at all times. Security protocol and all that, you know."

With a soft click to the panel, you left the room with Loki following your steps. He had enough reason not to thank you for the thing you never said. Although, Loki had to admit, his confusion only deepened.

The walk to the kitchen area was blanketed in a silence Loki was surprised to find comfortable. It was a thrilling concept that he might start getting used to his companion, but Loki was saved from delving into that by a voice he might not have expected, but would always recognize.

He froze, instinctively sneaking closer to the wall. You frowned, turning to him.

"What's wrong? We're almost there—”

"I'm not going."

"...is there any reason behind this sudden change of that brilliant mind of yours, or…"

You gestured wildly to the right, but the answer came to you with the next burst of voices from the kitchen area. It was close by now, and close enough for you to recognize its newest occupant.

"You don't want to talk to him?" you asked, though it sounded more like a statement as you tried to keep your voice down, stepping closer to the shadows Loki was lurking in.

"Why would I want to do that? He always brings the worst news, looking for people to plaster blame on—"

"Hey, man. Chill." You put your hand on his shoulder in what you hoped was a reassuring gesture. "You don't have to flood me with reasons. If you don't want to talk to him right now, don't. I'll just make some coffee and we're off."

"It's not going to work, he's—"

"Loki, he might be a god, but in this Tower, he's just a man. I'll be right back."

Loki made to grab you and explain very thoroughly why exactly that was a disastrous idea, but you shook his hand off and walked away.

For a moment, he debated following you, if only to make a statement. He didn't, cursing his brother for ruining the day without trying.

"Hello, my fellow residents!" You marched right into the kitchen, heading for the coffee machine.

Clint muttered something from over his toasts, Natasha sitting next to him by the counter. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with Thor, clad in his armor as if it were a second skin to him. It smelled rightfully so.

The sudden silence echoed through the room. With all eyes on you, you stopped with two cups in your hands. You raised your eyebrows.

"Is there a bomb in this room, or is it always so nervous in the mornings? Not that I would know much about it, given how rarely I make it here in time."

Clint took his time with the toast. You'd never seen anyone mutilate it so thoroughly.

Natasha was looking at you, but didn't say anything. Her face was unreadable as always, but something deep beyond the usual expressionless mask seemed to be very aware of every gesture made by the people around.

"Where is he?" Thor was first to break the tension. He crossed his arms over his chest, one of them wrapped in a bandage. It seemed like he was right back from his duty of sealing the breaks the Avengers mentioned earlier.

"Excuse me?" You turned the coffee machine on. Hopefully, it wouldn't decide to break in the next ten minutes.

"Loki. Where is he?" Thor stepped closer, walking around the counter in the center of the kitchen to stand on your side. Clint and Natasha observed you from beyond it, the toast now cold and forgotten for good.

"I have no idea who you’re talking about."

"This is not the time for jokes," Thor rumbled, his voice deep and strained. "I have already heard about his little venture, and I'm less than happy about it. I need to talk to him. We had a deal—"

"What if he doesn't want to talk to you?" you shrugged, stepping in closer too. Just because he was taller than most people, it didn't mean you'd be intimidated so easily.

Thor let out a barked laugh, cut short by the temper you could already see rising in his eyes.

"I don't care what—"

"Maybe that’s the actual problem?"

"We had a deal and he broke it."

"Technically, that’s not what happened," Natasha cut in, eyeing Thor. It was not the savior you expected, but you appreciated it nonetheless. "He kinda helped with saving the city and trust me, I was surprised too."

You sent her a kiss.

Thor sighed. "He was not to leave the Tower."

"He made a choice to save people. I didn't force him," you said. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room. "He had my back and didn't run away. You brought him here to give him one last chance. I won't let you punish him for doing just that."

Clint smirked, pushing his plate away. It was more crumbs than the actual toast. "Looks like someone is finally enjoying their job. Did you get the bag I brought you? I only noticed yesterday Thor left it here."

"Yeah. Thanks, Clint."

You took the cups, the warmth spreading to your fingers and the delightful smell making it difficult not to drool. You sent another kiss to Natasha now smirking openly.

"You should be careful around him," Thor warned you on your way out. Thankfully, he didn't follow you.

"Thanks, Thunderboy. You know how much I love your life-saving advice."

Loki, still where you left him in the corridor, couldn't help but enjoy that last remark.

He wasn't eavesdropping, of course not. But it wasn't his fault that the voices were too loud to be ignored, and so he couldn't do much but follow the conversation involuntarily. He couldn't help but enjoy its outcome, either. Especially when it was clear enough that his joy of a brother would be off his back for a while longer—something always worth appreciating.

You joined Loki not a few moments later, with a smile shining bright on your face. He followed as you took a path that would spare him crossing the kitchen. Thankfully, the Tower was full of elevators.

Loki took the coffee you handed him, assessing it carefully.

"Don't worry," you patted his hand. "I made it as bland and boring as I could."

"My stomach rejoices with relief," he assured you. He wasn't even lying.

The ground floor welcomed you warmly with an open area filled with people focused on their own lives. You sometimes forgot how many people were actually employed and working on various floors of the building.

"So." Loki sipped his coffee as you neared the same exit you last rushed through under very different circumstances. "I can't help but wonder, what's the ingenious plan that's gonna get us out of here unnoticed?"

Your lips curved. "A good, old blackmailing, my friend."

"Oh, dear, now you piqued my interest."

"Listen and learn."

You fished your phone out of the pocket of your thick jacket. The call was picked after the third ring.

"Tony, dear, in about twenty seconds my best friend Loki and I are going to leave the Tower and have a nice little walk around the town. If you let the alarm go off, I'm gonna tell Ms. Potts exactly what kind of an accident happened to her absolutely favorite Valentino bag and where you threw the evidence away. Have a lovely day."

Loki had his eyebrows raised. You wondered if he'd get wrinkles because of you.

"As much as I'd be delighted to hear that story, are you sure this is going to work?"

"Nope," you admitted before linking your arm with his and crossing the exit.

Nothing happened. You stepped a few steps farther onto the sidewalk, just in case, looking up at the Tower.

"You see?" You shot Loki a smile. "Everything's fine."

"Indeed, although could you please indulge me on how you are going to stop people around from recognizing me? I have some doubts they have heard of the whole 'Loki's not here to destroy your planet this time'.

You pursed your lips into a thin, intense line. Loki looked around. He wondered when the first scream would sound.

"I've got an idea."

"I dread hearing that…"

Loki wasn't happy as you handed him your half empty coffee, but he held it anyway. His mood gradually lowered as you took a long, thick scarf off your neck, and got to devastatingly low levels when you put it on him instead, successfully covering half of his face. The upper half expressed his opinion perfectly clear, he was sure of that, although it did not seem to make you falter one bit.

"You know what," you looked at your work of art proudly. "It actually suits you."

He should have killed you in your sleep.

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki/reader #loki/you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson/reader #loki laufeyson/you #loki marvel #mcu #loki imagine

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vampire--dad · 4 years

Text

A few friends sent me some prompts last night because I’ve been stuck in a little bit of a rut, so here’s something short for my friend Zach who wanted some post-tw3 father/daughter softness.

I’ve never really written much about Ciri so I did my best, but I kinda like how it came out

——————

It had been a long time since she’d come home.

She’d only visited Corvo Bianco twice now, but the sweet scent that lingers on the fields and the house at the top of the hill welcome her, a comforting sight after a long ride. She came here once just after Geralt had retired— somewhat. He still tracks down the occasional ekimmara, maybe an endrega nest every now and then. He’d go mad if he didn’t, even with Yennefer here to keep him entertained. She knows that, in a way, he misses the hunt, the thrill that followed his silver sword from its scabbard. That sword now rarely leaves its place on the wall, still sharp and raring to meet a monster’s neck once again.

It’s strange to consider the vineyard her home. Home has always been a difficult concept to her. Cintra, her birthplace, fell when she was young. She’s heard of the Nilfgaardians rebuilding there, but curiosity has not yet driven her to return and see for herself. Even rebuilt, she fears that memories will still flood those streets and overwhelm her. Then Kaer Morhen became a battleground. The abandoned keep haunts her. She avoids going too far north, lest she spots the mountain where she knows the castle lies and is reminded of what is left behind. Yet again, she was left without a place to call home. She wasn’t sure when it finally struck her that her home wasn’t a place at all.

Geralt was her home. Wherever he went, she went too. And she was home.

As Ciri slides from the saddle, she spots him sitting on the porch, hunched over— he always did have terrible posture— and reading as the sun hangs low before him and casts shadows across the vineyard. She knows better than to think he isn’t fully aware of her presence, but it’s far too much fun to mess with him.

“Has retirement stripped you of your senses, old man?” she quips as she scales the steps leading to the house.

Geralt smirks and turns the page, his eyes never straying from the paper.

“I heard you coming,” he says. “I’m old, not decrepit.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Smelled you a mile away. You’re as bad as Yen, except you smell… smokier. Smoke and… pine needles. That’s what it is.”

“And you didn’t even bother to put down your book?” she asks, her hands on her hips as a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Rude.”

“Only because I like to rile you up,” he chuckles, setting aside his book and looking up at her with a warm smile. Green and gold meet at last. His yellow eyes are as sharp as ever and filled with a warmth a father reserves only for his daughter. He stands and without a second thought they fall into a much needed hug. Ciri tucks her head under his chin just as she did when she was a child. She’s home.

Geralt holds her at an arm's length and scowls playfully.

“Are you getting taller? Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that?” he says.

“You’ve been telling me that since I was fifteen,” Ciri laughs. “And no, I just have new boots.”

Geralt cocks his head to the side and asks, “What happened to your old ones? I got those for you.”

“They were falling apart, wolf, I needed new ones or else I’d be running around the swamps barefoot.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. You used to hate wearing your boots, do you remember? Lambert couldn’t be bothered to make you put them on so he took you down the mountain barefoot—”

“I remember. Spare me the embarrassing stories,” Ciri groans, lifting herself onto the wooden banister and leaning back on her hands. Geralt chuckles as he resumes his place on the bench.

“But there’s so many to tell. You were such a ridiculous child. Still are,” he teases. All their quips and witticisms are shared with a knowing smile and a laugh. They can’t help but tease, they each give the other too many opportunities— and, well, she was raised under the same roof as Lambert. It was inevitable.

“Go get your sword, I’ll show you ridiculous, old man.”

“You think you could best me?”

“Could do it with my eyes closed.”

“We’ll see about that— tomorrow. I’ll let you get a good night’s rest first. Wouldn’t want you to be at more of a disadvantage.”

As the sun sets over the vineyard, they exchange more empty insults and stories of their time apart. To her father’s dismay, an old friend seems to have passed on his libidinous tendencies as she recounts several tales of being chased from towns by scorned spouses and taking her leave hastily through windows and tumbling into rose bushes. Once upon a time, he was no better than her or Dandelion, but that doesn’t mean she should be as bad. Geralt requests that the next time she visits, she brings more books, he’s running out and he needs something to stop him from tearing apart the whole house and rebuilding it himself. Ciri laughs and reassures him that she will. She supposes it’s the least she can do for her old man to keep him sane.

“You should invite Dandelion down here more often,” Ciri says. “He’s getting awfully bored of giving lectures and playing the same old songs every night.”

Geralt perks up at the mention of his old friend.

“You’ve seen him?”

“I have. Thought I’d stop by on my way from Troy, give him some new stories to write about. He misses you, you know.”

“I know, I miss him, too. I miss his singing. I’ll write to him, but he better not drink all my wine like he did last time.”

“Are you two going to come inside or not?” a third voice asks.

Yennefer stands by the door, her arms folded in contrast to the affectionate smile on her face. The smell that follows her out the door is divine, but Ciri’s excitement far outweighs her hunger. She finds herself grinning as she slips from her perch and runs to Yennefer with her arms outstretched. The sorceress laughs and takes her into her arms, hugging her tightly and stroking her ashen hair.

“Welcome home, Ciri.”

#the witcher 3 #the witcher #geralt of rivia #cirilla fiona elen riannon #yennefer of vengerberg #yenralt #geralt is a good dad and i love him

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turtlepated · 4 years

Text

The Handbook for the Recently Married (to the Deceased)

Chapter 6:

Again, sorry it’s been so long since I last posted! Life has been so crazy these last several weeks for all of us that I just haven’t had it in me to do much besides spend each weekend trying to decompress so I can start it all over again the following Monday.

Also be warned that this chapter ended up way angstier than I originally planned on but don’t worry! Next chapter is gonna be so fluffy you’re all gonna die.

Tag List

@sapphic-florals , @beetlejuicebeadoll , @do-ya-hear-that-sound , @imtherain , @imsuchahobbit , @pastelnacht , @tialanderrol , @sammyskip , @monsterlovinghours , @allmycrushesaredead , @missiheart123

----------

Well, things had certainly taken a turn that he never expected.

Beetlejuice lay in bed, still as a corpse and staring at the dark ceiling while the breather in bed beside him slept soundly. Although… he was a breather himself now, wasn’t he? He still couldn’t quite get over how weird it all was: lungs expanding in his chest as he breathed in and out, his heart thumping faintly, his skin warm under his own fingers. His hands kept running over his arms, marveling at the feeling. Even the lightest touch seemed to send sparks shooting up and down his nerve endings, he was so much more sensitive now than when he was dead.

He let his head roll to the side, his eyes tracing the silhouette of his new bride snuggled under the blankets next to him. She looked so peaceful, the comforter gently rising and falling as she breathed. If not for that simple, rhythmic bit of movement it’d almost look like she was the dead one. Beetlejuice couldn’t wrap his head around how breathers could just… switch themselves off for the whole night. That was the best part of the day! But they wasted it, out cold in their beds. He’d lain there for a while with his eyes closed, peeking every now and then at her like he was comparing his technique to see if he was doing it right. Try as he might, Beetlejuice had no luck with going to sleep.

It did cross his mind to shake her awake, but he eventually just slid his legs out from under the covers and stood, padding barefoot from the room and feeling his way to the kitchen. Wasn’t that what breathers did when they couldn’t sleep? They went to the kitchen for a glass of water or a midnight snack or whatever? He cut the corner from the living room to the kitchen too sharply, wanging his elbow on the wall.

“Ow! Shit!” he yelled, gripping the throbbing joint in his opposite palm and rubbing it vigorously. Squinting his eyes, Beetlejuice realized that he couldn’t see in the dark anymore, at least not as well as he had as a born-dead demon from Hell. Grumbling to himself, he reached out with both hands to find the counter of the kitchen island and felt his way along to the refrigerator. Opening the door let cool white light illuminate the room as his eyes roved the inside of the appliance. He wasn’t really hungry, he didn’t think, but he was exceptionally bored. With that and little else in mind, Beetlejuice began pulling things out of the fridge and setting them on the island. He did try to be quiet, sort of, as he rummaged in drawers and cabinets in search of what he needed.

Once all the essentials were laid out before him, he rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got to work dumping ingredients together in a mixing bowl, smashing eggs together and depositing the runny, oozing yolks into the mix. Sure, there were bits of shell still in there but he liked crunchy textures so no big deal.

The sound of unsteady, shuffling feet drew his attention to the corner where he’d banged his elbow, where the kitchen led into the living room. His own little Sleeping Beauty stumbled into view, her eyes barely open, her hair mussed, still half asleep.

“Beej?” she said blearily, blinking in the light from the fridge that he’d left open. “What’re you doing?”

“Makin’ pancakes,” he replied at once, going back to furiously stirring the concoction in the mixing bowl.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, swaying gently in place while she took in the scene. “D’you know how to make pancakes?” she asked at length.

“Nope!” he chirped back. “But I watched the Maitlands do this, like, every weekend before they bought it.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “How hard can it be?” Though he continued what he was doing like she wasn’t even there, Beetlejuice watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering when the explosion was going to go off. He was making a mess in her kitchen at three in the morning, he was certain she was about to get angry, yell, scream. But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead she shuffled around the island towards the pantry, closing the fridge door as she passed it, and he could hear her moving things around in the laundry room before she reappeared with some sort of cooking apparatus. She laid it on the stove and plugged it in.

“ ‘Lectric griddle,” she mumbled, yawning widely. “Less of a chance you’ll burn the house down. ‘M going back to bed, ‘kay? Try not to stick pancakes to the ceiling.” As she tottered off back toward the bedroom, Beetlejuice watched her with both suspicion and amazement. She just kept on surprising him, first with the marriage proposal, then the nice kiss (kisses! he reminded himself), letting him in her bed, trusting him not to destroy her kitchen? The more devilish side of him couldn’t help entertaining the thought of just trashing the place, giddy with excitement over the thought of her face in the morning when she walked in and saw what he’d done.

But another side of him, quieter and more subdued than his deeply ingrained instinct for chaos, didn’t want to abuse her absurd faith in him. Which, for a demon, was just ridiculous. He was a demon, for hell’s sake! Chaos and discord, panic and dismay, those were his specialties! His entire reason for being! Screwing with breathers had been his bread and butter for as long as he could remember! So why wasn’t he dousing the whole room in flour and nailing sandwich meat to the walls and ceilings? What was it about this breather in particular that made him want to…. behave, of all things?

The rest of the early morning hours slipped by and he still couldn’t answer his own question. He sat at her kitchen island on a bar stool, mercilessly vivisecting the results of his pancake making attempts which turned out flat and round and more or less pancake-shaped but were colored purple. She woke up late, he gathered, from all the swearing and running around and sounds of things falling that kept emanating from the bedroom and the en suite, finally rushing past him hopping on one foot as she wrestled on a shoe.

“I’m gonna be so late!” she huffed, not even mentioning the mess he’d left on the counter or the pile of dishes in her sink. “I thought I hit the snooze but I must’ve turned it off… I gotta run, Beej, I’ll see you later!” And with that inauspicious exit, Beetlejuice found himself left alone in what was essentially a strange house.

He soon lost interest in the pancakes and instead occupied himself by exploring/plundering to his heart’s content. Though it wasn’t as much fun without the thrill of potentially being caught being somewhere he wasn’t meant to be by someone who had things they didn’t want him to find. It was, somewhat disappointingly, all pretty run-of-the-mill since until he came along she’d evidently lived here alone. She owned lots of book (yawn) and movies (less yawn), but no dirty magazines or erotica novels. Not even an issue of Cosmo. Just his luck…

Beetlejuice had spent enough time watching breathers that when he got bored enough he flipped on the TV and surfed idly in search of something that held his interest. But with daytime TV it was mostly crummy talk shows, sitcom reruns and DIY home improvement. Switching it back off with a sigh, Beetlejuice slumped sideways on the sofa until he lay on his side, rolling over and stretching his legs out to dangle over the back of the sectional. How long had she been gone, now? Time had always been a slippery and irrelevant concept for him, born-dead demons and dearly departed souls didn’t care about time. It didn’t even exist in the Netherworld, so once he was shunted off to the Upperworld he never really bothered to try and get a handle on it. What would’ve been the point, when nobody could see him anyway. Thinking about the Netherworld gave him an idea, though. Wriggling his way off the couch, Beetlejuice bustled back into the bedroom. He was still wearing the pajamas she’d loaned him the night before, but what he was looking for now was in his suit jacket. Retrieving it from the back of the bathroom door where he’d left it, Beetlejuice rummaged in the pockets for a few moments before he found what he was looking for: an ancient and yellowed skull with leering, pointed teeth and three eye sockets.

He hustled back to the living room and plopped back down on the sectional, crossing his legs and setting the skull facing him on the seat cushion. He snapped his fingers and immediately in his hand was an ancient silver coin. Conjured currency normally wouldn’t cut it with a speaking skull, but Beetlejuice prided himself on his convincing forgeries. He fed the drachma through the gaping eye socket on the forehead and waited. After a moment a reddish glow flickered to life in each of the three empty sockets and the skull tipped back, hinging at the jaw and opening the mouth like a Victrola.

After another moment of silence, a familiar and harried voice emanated from inside the skull: “Netherworld Customs, how may I direct your call?” Beetlejuice beamed, folding his arms atop his crossed legs to lean in closer to the skull.

“Hi, Maria!”

His grin widened at the surprised gasp and the hissed string of swearing in Spanish. He could almost picture the deceased beauty queen at her desk, looking around to make sure no one was in earshot.

“Lawrence!” she seethed quietly through her teeth. “I’ve told you not to call me here unless it’s an emergency! I’m at work!”

“I know,” Beetlejuice replied, nonplussed. “You’re always at work. But I’m booooooooored.”

He heard her let out an exasperated sound. “That is not an emergency! We have a bit of a crisis on our hands here, if you care to know!” Cooing appreciatively, Beetlejuice leaned in closer, bent double over his lap and resting his chin in his hands. “Oooh! Do tell!” He could hear her rolling her eyes in disapproval.

“Living people, Lawrence! A girl and a man. They came through a door into the Netherworld and then left! The bosses downstairs are in an uproar, Juno is on the warpath!” At those words Beetlejuice full-on chortled, practically vibrating in place with glee at the knowledge that he’d had a hand in causing that old crusty battle axe even a moment’s worth of frustration. Miss Argentina scoffed reproachfully. “It’s not funny, Lawrence!” But he couldn’t stop giggling, wincing and yelping at a sharp cramp between his ribs from the uncontrollable laughter. “It’s pretty funny from here!” he wheezed, swiping at his face with the back of one hand. Oh yes, a pissed-off Juno might just be the funniest thing on any planet, so long as he was well away from the Netherworld’s most ruthless office manager. Silence continued from the other end of the connection while he got ahold of himself again, and again Beetlejuice could visualize the shrewd, calculating look on the fiery receptionist’s face as she drew her conclusions.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” she surmised. Only slightly lying, Beetlejuice immediately argued his case. “Of course not, mamacita! I was only doing my civic duty, trying to help a couple dazed and confused newlydeads on their way to the other side! I drew a door for the two stiffs and before I could do anything the lil pipsqueak ran through! Nothin’ I could do! Cross my black little heart and hope to die! Again.”

If her aggravated, long-suffering groan was any indication, Maria was not convinced. “Listen to me, Lawrence, this is serious!” she whispered urgently. “If you had anything to do with it and you know what’s good for you, you’d better steer clear of the Netherworld until things quiet down!” Beetlejuice chuckled to himself, examining his own hand again which was now less of a pale, corpse-like gray and had taken on a rosier skin tone. Thanks to the blood that was now circulating through his living body! But other than him, his little biscuit maker and the dolts in the Maitland/Deetz house, nobody had any idea that he’d pulled off his plan to marry a breather and come to life! Chuckling to himself, Beetlejuice assured her, “I’m all over it, babes. You know me, I don’t like stirring the pot.” Maria huffed again.

“I do know you, Lawrence! Which is why I know I’m wasting my time to ask you this, but please, at least try to stay out of trouble, won’t you?” She sounded so sincere and genuine that it actually made his chest grow tight for a moment. It was no fun yanking someone’s chain when they actually gave a shit about you even when you annoyed them, so he decided at the very least he could tell her what she wanted to hear.

“I’ll do my best, babe.” She let out a pensive hum, then sighed. “I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself, Lawrence.” There was a click as of a phone receiver being laid back in its cradle. The skull’s mouth closed with a tiny creak, the lights in the eye sockets fading to nothing. What had started as some decent entertainment at a former coworker’s expense had left him feeling strangely wrong-footed and lonesome. Growing restless, Beetlejuice got to his feet and padded listlessly back to the kitchen, wondering again how much longer it would be before his new housemate/spouse came back home. At least then he’d have someone to talk to, someone to take his mind off this growing sense of unease.

Hours seemed to go by in bursts of speed only to slow to an unbearable crawl. Everything he tried to distract himself from the downward spiral of his thoughts only worked for a hot minute before the feeling came back, a pressure building inside him that seemed to squeeze in his chest until it made it difficult to draw breath. How much longer would she be gone?

By the time it started getting dark and she still hadn’t returned, Beetlejuice was all but in a panic. Which was bad enough before when he was dead, but now that he was alive? His heart was racing in his chest, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his hands were freezing, he was soaked in sweat and he couldn’t keep still, pacing through the house, debating just going out to look for her. But he didn’t have a car, he wasn’t even sure where she worked.

What if…? No.

He cut off that train of thought, not willing to let himself fall down that black hole but even as he very deliberately steered himself clear the yawning maw of the horrible idea opened wider and wider, threatening to swallow him. It was happening again. It was already happening again.

She’d said so just the night before, asking about divorcing him, when he’d be able to leave. Yeah, sure, she’d backpedaled hard when she saw that she’d upset him but she’d still brought it up! And that fact did nothing to stop him picking at his most recent wound.

“You’re leaving me? But I thought we were pals!”

“What’re you talking about? I’ve gotta find my mom!”

A soft, keening groan leaked out of his mouth before he could stop himself, agitatedly swiping at the dribble of saliva working its way over his bottom lip. This wasn’t like that, he told himself. She had said she wanted him here, she hadn’t even yelled at him when he woke her up with his pancake making. She’d said she would see him later, she said, she said!!

Beetlejuice strode purposefully to the back door, reaching out to grasp the knob and freezing halfway to opening the door. Where would he go? It did briefly cross his mind, very, very briefly… to ask the Maitlands if they knew anything about her. He dismissed the idea almost immediately, no way in hell was he about to go crawlin’ back to those losers and their pet breathers! So he stood at the back door, paralyzed by indecision, one hand gripping the doorknob while his chest heaved and his mind spun. There was a familiar ache blossoming in the center of his chest but now that he was alive it was so much worse. Tendrils of that painful tightness were crawling up the sides of his neck, constricting his windpipe, throbbing in the roots of his teeth and between his lungs and down his wrists into his hands.

Where was she? Why wasn’t she back yet? What if she didn’t come back at all?

Beetlejuice whined again, a pathetic sound even to his own ears as he leaned forward until his head thumped against the door. He pressed harder against it, turning his head side to side until his skin grew hot from the friction, not bothering with wiping his chin as a string of drool dripped from his lips to sink into the rug between his feet.

She’d come back, he told himself. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

Because if she did, he didn’t know what he’d do.

-------

Turns out when you keep getting left behind by people you start expecting it.

No ETA yet on chapter 7 but expect lots of ooey gooey feels because I am a soft bitch.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice x self insert #The Handbook #my writing #Pate writes

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