If it's fine, can I request Harumasa with a reader who feels flustered and frustrated about anything regarding her/their chest because she's/they're almost flat...?
Much love <333
Thank you for the request! Sorry that it's a bit short, I wasnt really sure what to put. Tbh, the relationship wouldn't be that different because Harumasa isn't the type of person to point it out. But!! I still had a few ideas, and thus, a short drabble.
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Even if you have a flat chest, it won't stop Harumasa from using it as a pillow. He absolutely adores using any part of you as a pillow, whether it be your shoulder, thighs, or, like I mentioned already, your chest.
His clinging is nice, until it's summer. When its one of those dry nights, Harumasa will still cling to you and it becomes unbearable hot.
You can try to tell him to go away, but he won't budge.
If you ever bring up being insecure over your chest, he'll understand where you're coming from. Don't get him wrong, he loves boobs, but that feature doesn't make a person.
Trust him when he says he loves you regardless of any shortcomings you think you may have. He has quite a few himself.
Sometimes, in nights where both of you remain awake despite the late hour, Harumasa will leave kisses along your jaw and neck. Eventually, they trail down to your collar and even slip past your shirt, so he can kiss your chest, too.
Just thinking about him when he comes home from being away for too long (a few hours) but missing you like crazy.
He's curled up behind you, hands on your hips, mumbling about how boring it was... working and not having you by his side.
Who can't help but get a hard on when he feels your ass rubbing against him so nicely because despite trying to come off a gentleman, its a hard thing to maintain around you.
Who will shamelessly start getting off to the feeling of your ass through your much-too-short shorts, mumbling and kissing your neck.
"Fuckk... feels s'good.. mm... please baby, don't make me stop.."
He can't even help himself with you, making a mess in his pants n whining without even being inside you, because it just drives him that crazy.
(Id say..)
(Hoyoverse) HARUMASA, Heizou, Dahlia, Aventurine, Dan Heng,(Gachiakuta) FOLLO, Enjin, (Forsaken) CHANCE, Noli, Elliot, (BSD) DAZAI, Ranpo + your favs!
⋮ ⌗ ┆Apparently, your boyfriend is actually pretty rich...
Pairings: Harumasa/reader (gn) (not proofread.)
(The following text is for the 3 Harumasa fans that exist on Earth.)
He never came off as exceedingly rich to you. No expensive cars, no designer brand clothes, and especially no obvious flaunts of wealth. And even though he never tried to hide it from you, it still always came off as a surprise when Harumasa would casually purchase some expensive jewelry you were eyeing, and brush it off as if it were nothing.
"Dennies are meant to be spent," he'd explain with a shrug of his shoulders before moving on from the topic entirely.
Of course, Harumasa never asked for anything in return. He always claimed to be a gentleman, though you begged to differ because you could count the times you caught him staring at your ass on more than one hand.
You remember once, a little before you two started dating, when you and he were touring around New Eridu. He told you it was his day off, but you had a sneaking suspicion that he simply chose to bail on work.
The details aren't important, he'd argue.
Regardless, you offhandedly mentioned some place nearby that always served the best lunch meals. You didn't think much of it. It was one of those restaurants that you'd only visit on special occasions. And with a large group of friends. Nicer looking, and more pricey as well.
What you didn't expect was for the next few minutes to be spent by Harumasa adamently nsisting you two visit it right away. You thought he was pulling your leg at first. Maybe just trying to sound eager and interested.
But the thought quickly shattered when you realized Harumasa was actually quite serious about it. And so, reluctantly, and a little embarrassingly, you'd have lunch with Harumasa in some fancy restaurant.
You both were a bit underdressed for the occasion, but he didnt act like it was a big deal. And it really wasn't, he'd explain again.
The food was great, as always. The service was fast. Overall a very enjoyable meal. That is, of course, why you enjoyed the place so much.
You hadn't intended on spending so much money that day, but you supposed it was worth it. You had a nice time with a friend, after all. Splitting the bill, however costly it may be, would be worth it.
Except Harumasa paid for the entire bill before you had a chance to protest. You felt bad, but he kept insisting that you really shouldn't worry about it.
"Life is too short to be spent worrying on meal expenses. Lighten up!"
The other moment that came across as surprising to you was when you first spent the night at his apartment; which also happened to be the first time you had even been at his apartment in general.
You two had just finished up one of your date nights, and it was getting late. Harumasa usually dropped you off at your place, and sometimes, if he didn't have to be somewhere early the next day, he'd sleep over.
After all, he was always talking about how he enjoyed your apartment more than his.
But you both were tired, and his apartment happened to be closer than yours... so, one thing led to another, and you ended up at his place for the first time.
It wasn't what you expected.
Well, it's not like you actually had expectations on where he lived. You knew he wasn't broke. But you didn't know he was this well off either.
It was one of those nice apartments - with lots of stories and a hell of a lot more windows. Pretty countertops with those weird, abstract lights hanging above. It also had one of those nice rain showers, which was a nice bonus, you supposed.
The apartment was minimalistic in nature, but Harumasa claimed to never be a fan of the dull whites and boring grays.
Reminded him too much of hospitals.
Which is why Harumasa made sure to hang up lots of photos and buy many vibrant pillows to liven up the place.
Oh, and also the 'calculated heaps of clutter' that he claimed made the place more homey.
When he first bought the apartment, he kept it relatively clean and uncluttered. But the novelty of a nice, minimalist, modern room wears off when its just that. A nice room to brag about. Not a home, like it should be.
Though he admits, the place is a bit messier than he'd like.
As you both enter, Harumasa sheepishly apologizes for the mess. You explained to him that you really couldn't care less. Your apartment was never much better.
Still he'd sigh, letting you follow him to his room so he could get you a set of clothing to change into after you showered, but he'd pause when noticing the mess he left on his nightstand.
Pill bottles, tablets, and other medical instruments laid scattered along the table top, stuff that has undoubtedly begun to pile up over the months of needing them.
Again, he'd begin to apologize for the clutter, shoving the bottles into a drawer, somewhere out of sight. He knew that you knew about his less-than-ideal medical state, but he also worried that maybe seeing it all laid out like this would make you subconsciously think less of him.
Harumasa loved attention, but he hated pity.
He'd pause, though, when you placed a hand over his, explaining that it was alright.
"Life's too short to be spent worrying about idle clutter."
You happily stayed over that night. And many other nights after.
There was another time where Harumasa had acted somewhat... irrational? Carefree? With his money.
On the day of your first anniversary dating each other, Harumasa sent you a text that he'd be home a little late that day.
It was rather odd, you thought. Harumasa always always made it a priority to rush to your apartment as soon as he could when work ended, so that he could whine and complain about how exhausting his day was.
Well, he claimed to be exhausted, but after just a few kisses from you, he'd perk back up instantly. Though that was supposedly just a coincidence.
Anyway, it was weird. But you didn't mind waiting a little longer.
Harumasa came home at 8:26 PM that day. Clothing soaked, hair ruined, and slightly out of breath as well.
You quickly invited him inside and attempted to get him to dry off a bit first, but Harumasa was much too excited to listen.
Of course, you noticed it when he came in. You tried to ignore it a little bit at first, but it was.. difficult.
The abnormally large bouquet was difficult to miss. It was filled to the brim with freshly picked, vibrant flowers. One's that easily pushed the bouquet price into the triple digits, and most likely, a bit more as well.
He eagerly pushed the flowers into your hands, grinning like a fool despite currently appearing as a sopping wet cat.
"Is this why you were so late?" You asked him.
"Only partially," he began, reaching into a bag to pull out something. It looked like a book, but it was much too square to be a normal literature book. "I had to get these photos printed, and the shop was having ink issues, so it took a lot longer than expected."
You realized then that it had been an album, filled with pictures of the two of you, and some friends as well, that he had collected over the past year.
Harumasa was always a photographer, and a pretty good one at that. It was a secret to no one. And even though Harumasa took care to capture a majority of his photos on camera, there were a handful of them that he only had on his phone.
They were still good, no doubt about it. But he always believed there was something different, more special, when viewing a physical photo.
It was something that could be immortalized forever, and for someone like Harumasa, that held value.
He explained finding some small street-side shop that worked with converting digital photos into proper, film ones. And that he would have been lucky for how low traffic the shop was, if it had not been for the printing issues.
"I had to stay there a whole two hours, can you believe it?" He slid the album onto the counter.
"But I think it was worth it. Don't you?" He asked, still with that smile that you loved so much.
You'd stare at the photos laid out neatly in the album, then glance at the flowers tucked neatly by your chest.
Seeing it all here made your own gift for him seem rather shoddy in comparison.
"It's really wonderful, Harumasa."
And after a few more words of praise, you finally convinced Harumasa to go shower and dry off.
You sat at the counter quietly while he did so, flipping through the album again and again. You had forgotten about some of these moments, if you were being honest. They likely would have remained forgotten if these photos didn't exist.
You'd look down at your lap, seeing the small box you purchased that held Harumasa's gift.
They were a handful of small envelopes with letters inside them, each one filled with moments where you thought of him.
You were sure he'd end up liking it, but at the same time, Harumasa's gifts were much more expensive. Would he start thinking you didnt value him enough to purchase expensive gifts?
After some time, Harumasa had finished changing and he met up with you again in the living room.
He was whining, again, about how being in the city for so long had tuckered him out. Oh.. and he definitely caught a fever because of the rain! Yes, that same day. Yes, within a few hours. It wasnt strange! Though... maybe it could be cured if you held him close for a while.
You'd sigh, indulging his dramatics. But... you also took this as a chance to show him your gift.
He was still laying down in your lap when he opened them all up. He was quiet for the first time today. And he spent the next few minutes meticulously reading through each one. Sometimes he'd even read the same one multiple times.
"You wrote all of these?"
You nodded. "They're not as expensive as your gifts... I can pay for our next dinner if you-"
He'd press a finger to your lips, obnoxiously shushing you.
"Ah ah ah, I won't hear another word. I like these very very much. And besides, it doesnt matter if it costed zero dennies or one million. I'd like whatever you gift me."
He'd look down at one of the letters again before rolling off of your lap. He leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. Then your nose, eyelid, and everywhere else he could.
"Thank you. They're really wonderful."
All of these events had you coming to the conclusion that your boyfriend was much more financially stable than he let on.
You'd never ask him outright, of course. You really didn't care about the number in his bank account, and it was also rude.
Never ask a man about his salary or.. something like that.
And of course, you'd never, ever! What was the point anyway?
One random afternoon, you ended up in his lap, watching a random cartoon that showed up on the TV, because Harumasa didn't like watching the news.
It was too boring and reminded him of meeting debriefs. And besides, if he wanted to know about something, he could just search it up himself, couldn't he?
That's when you popped the casual, innocent question.
"So, are you like... rich?"
There was an awkward silence for a little, and you almost became worried that maybe you had offended him somehow; that is until Harumasa bursted out laughing, and you'd instantly come to regret your question for another reason.
"Rich-? What makes you ask that?"
You began frantically trying to defend yourself. That you were just doing innocent online searches on the salaries of "Elite Frontline Agents" and whatnot, and that the numbers seemed high and that it was all out of a naturally developing, healthy curiosity!
"Looking up details about my job, huh? And here I thought my fans were my only stalkers..."
"I'm not a stalker!"
"You so are!"
You began to explain that you were only curious because Harumasa made a lot of... costly purchases.
He'd sigh, leaning his head on your shoulder.
"Well, yes. What's the point of working a job if you aren't spending the money you earn? And even if I were rich.." he began, "I prefer the term 'financially comfortable'."
"Yes. Very financially comfortable..." you'd mumble, crossing your arms.
"What? Come on now, don't act like that. Isn't it a good thing? If I want something, I can get it. And besides, it means I get to spoil you, too."
"So you are rich?"
He'd hum, tracing a finger up your thigh. "You're putting words in my mouth.." he'd mumble. "That's quite rude, you know?"
"Sorry."
He chuckled at your apology before finally folding.
"Here, why don't I just leave it at this? If there's anything you have your eye on, just send me a text, 'kay? And maybe give me a few kisses, too. Then I promise, whatever it is that you want will become yours."
You had a hunch for a while, but it was only that day that you realized your needy lover was secretly loaded.
im absolutely in love with your recent harumasa writing…it was so peak me thinks :3 if you don’t mind, may i request harumasa x reader nsfw? to be a little more specific, after a long day of work reader and haru wind down with gentle fucking ausyaua, pls take ur time! ^^
Now I do believe I missed the part where it said gentle nsfw, but I DID still write something...
Anyway, thank you for the ask! I may have to get to work writing another scenario that matches the ask better. (・・;)
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⋮ ⌗ ┆Your boyfriend Harumasa is soo tired after work... won't you help him relax?
NSFW content below. Not proofread. From this ask!
"F- fuck... baby, slow down-"
Harumasa's voice fell to that quiet, needy gasp, hands squeezing at your thighs.
He looked so cute tonight; flushed down to his neck, sweat causing his dark raven hair to stick to his forehead, those needy whimpers spilling from his lips as you bounced on him, pussy making a wet plap each time your hips met his.
"Slow down? I thought you asked me to fuck myself on your cock?"
Harumasa was the one who came home from work, clinging to you, asking you to help him because he was sooo pent up.
Harumasa was the one who grabbed your hips and forced you to straddle him, talking about how sweet your pussy was and how much he needed it.
Harumasa was the one who suggested that you ride him, so that he could grab at and suck on your tits.
And now, Harumasa was the one whining and whimpering beneathe you. Asking for you to slow down.
"I did say that but- fuckk... your pussy feels t'good.." Harumasa couldn't stop the high pitched noise that escaped his lips as your hips fell onto his with a messy slap.
You felt each twitch of his dick shoved deep inside you. He really couldn't help himself. How could he? When you were squeezing so perfectly around him...
You pressed your lips to his, kissing him until he was breathless all over again, never stopping the cruel grind of your hips. You thighs were sticky and sore from how long you've been going at this, but Harumasa was still hard and pathetically trying to thrust up into you, despite his whines.
"Fuck.. 'm gonna cum.. Can I baby? Please.. please.." he'd pant, biting down on his already swollen lip.
"Mhm... go ahead..." you coo, kissing his cheek in a seemingly sweet way. You trail your kisses down to his jaw, and then to his neck, beginning to suck right around where it would peek out of his uniform, since you know he never buttons up properly.
He gasps when he feels another one of his messy loads shoot up into your soft, warm cunt. It was a greedy thing, sucking him and his cum deeper into you. He messily attaches his lips to yours, shoving his tongue into your mouth as you kept him nestled inside you.
And when pull your lips away, he needily chases after them until you're sliding yourself off of his dick and watching the slick gush out of you, staining your thighs and the sheets below you two.
"Damn..." he'd hiss, panting as he rubbed circles into your hip with his thumb. "you keep fucking me like that and 'm gonna propose to you."
New to your account from that Harumasa drabble because holy hell, I've been hoping to see something like that for so long on this tag no matter how short it is. Thank you for the full course meal + dessert 🙏
No problem! Thanks for the read, nonnie
Seems like the Harumasa tag isnt very popular as of late, though...
Hoping to bring more fics to that desolate place in the future
- Lohotine
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ʚɞ MDNI Harumasa is super lazy, but it doesn't stop him from getting you all wet anyway
Somewhere in the background of your apartment, there's some random show playing. One Harumasa had picked out about an hour ago -- and one which, frankly, you didn't find entertaining at all.
Maybe it was because the show was poorly written and even more poorly paced. Or, maybe it was because you couldn't focus with how your boyfriend lazily fingered you.
He drags his fingers along your puffy folds, slowly and without much thought. Occasionally, he'll dip the tips of his fingers into your embarrassingly wet cunt, but that's about it. He isn't even looking at you and it's so frustrating! He has you sitting prettily here in front of him and yet his attention remains elsewhere...
You've always loved his fingers, lean and delicate, but now you thought they must be some kind of torture. Not enough to get off to, and yet, too much to simply ignore. "Ahh- Haru.." you'd whine, wiggling your hips a bit to get his attention, which doesn't work at all.
"Hmm? What is it? I'm trying to watch the show..." he'd hum, fingers still barely passing through the fat lips.
These small, ineffective pleas of yours often fall on deaf ears. Either that, or they're met with a half hearted coo or just more feigned ignorance. And it doesn't take long at all before your slick has made a mess between your thighs, probably dripping down and staining the sheets.
Harumasa knows he's being a bit mean, and he makes it up to you later by eating you out good.
warnings: possibly ooc idk, mentions of illness, depression, nonsexual nudity
wc: 1.9k
When Asaba Harumasa sent you a “U up?” text in the wee hours of the morning you didn’t question it.
You simply rolled onto your back, squinting harshly into the light of your phone screen as you typed out a quick response, your arms falling limply at your sides as you willed yourself from the warm embrace of your comforter.
Late night messages didn’t warrant more care on appearance than a wrinkled sweatshirt dragged on over your pajamas and whatever sneakers were conveniently placed by the door, your hair little more than a rat nest knotted on top of your head. You had no fear walking the streets at this hour, especially when you looked as abysmal as you did on such calls, your fear abating further as the fresh scent of rain assaulted your lungs.
Some part of you questioned your choice to not go back for an umbrella as you dodged puddles on the sidewalk, the hood of your sweatshirt now tied ridiculously around your face as if the thin fabric would save you from the impending chill of the rain.
A good ten minutes had passed before you found yourself standing at his door, a trail of water dripping in your wake. You didn’t bother to knock, you were past that point in your relationship by now, simply extending yourself onto your toes as you swiped your fingertips across the top of the door trim until a familiar golden key flipped easily into your palm.
The apartment was quiet as you padded in, wet sneakers in hand. The mess didn’t shock you anymore, the haphazard pile of sneakers and the odd pair of dress shoes a stark contrast to your orderly placement of your own. Piles of jackets, dress shirts, and ties were strewn across every chair in the small kitchenette to accompany the sink full of dishes and the assortment of glasses at various stages of finished that littered the space as well. You grimaced at the gritty feeling of his floor as you ventured in further, stripping off your wet clothes as you went.
“Haru?” You called, padding down the short hallway towards his room. The door sat slightly ajar, the interior of his bedroom just as dark as the rest of his apartment had been. You rap your knuckles against the door, calling his name again as you push the door open, your shadow splitting the light that spilled in from the hallway.
He didn’t acknowledge you, let alone move from where he sat hunched over on his bed, electrifying eyes dull as he stared blankly out the window. His blankets were strewn wildly across the bed, his sheets barely clinging to the edges of the mattress. You warily eyed the upturned pharmacy bottle on the nightstand, watching your step for stray pills as you picked your way to his bed. You eased up onto the mattress behind him, looping your arms over his shoulders as you rested your chin against the junction of his neck.
The rhythmic tap of the rain mingled with the gentle sound of his breathing and the thumping of your own heart against his back. He was warm in your grasp, his hair tickling your cheek as you rested your weight into his body. On his bad days the best thing you could provide was companionship in his silence, your hands gently running up and down his arms as the rain began to lull your tired mind back to sleep.
“Haru,” you murmured gently against his ear, feeling his body tense at the tickle of your breath against his skin.
“It’s still you.”
He shuddered in your arms.
When Asaba Harumasa asked you to join him in the shower, you didn’t bat an eye.
You ushered him off the bed in silence, pausing just to fish around in his closet for a suitable change of clothes. His bathroom was cramped to be housing two people, but he didn’t utter a peep of complaint despite all the bumped elbows and the rattle of medication bottles being knocked from the countertop and into the sink as you did your best to arrange the space into something reasonable. He looked more gaunt than you remembered under the harsh white light of the bathroom, cheeks more sunken and eye bags darker. You didn’t bother to ask how many days he had already called out of work for, knowing that it may hurt you more to know how long he had silently endured his illness before deigning it worthy to bother you.
The bathroom steamed quickly once you turned the shower on, the air warm and clammy against your skin as you worked to free you both of your clothes. Embarrassment had long died at the idea of being naked in front of him, making the notion of being pressed flush against him in a tiny standing shower an exceedingly natural thing. The warm water was a welcome feeling as it doused over his back and down your chest, your hands traveling up to run through his dark hair. His shampoo hung sweetly in the air as you worked it into his scalp, a grin pulling at your lips as his pretty lashes fluttered and he leaned into your touch.
The rest of the shower progressed in a similar manner, your hands working soap over the firm planes of his chest and arms and watching as the scars notating years of hollow exploration and management vanish for just a moment under a sheen of bubbles. Your fingers paused just shy of his slender neck, fingertips grazing his clavicle before you retracted your hands. He favored washing his neck himself as you had found out the first time you had bathed together, recalling how harshly he had recoiled at your touch. It was never a topic you chose to breach, assuming it to have something to do with the pinpoint scars that littered his pale skin.
You nearly missed the murmur of your name falling from his lips under the rush of water from the shower head. It was the first thing he had managed since you arrived, his voice husky from his silent struggle for god knows how long. His hands, once firm against your fleshy sides, trailed up your arms to catch your wrists as he guided your own hands to rest against the sides of his neck. He held them there for a moment, thumbs tracing over the backs of your hands in a mindless motion before his eyes drew shut and he leaned into the junction of your shoulder. You felt his neck expand under your fingers as he inhaled deeply, arms sliding down to hang loosely around your waist.
How you managed to finish washing up in such a position may be the real miracle of the night, wincing as you pushed the curtain aside only to be assaulted with cold air before you could reach for one of the towels you had set out. With practiced ease you dried him off, watching his hair begin to bounce back to life under your ministrations. You dressed him before tending to yourself, pulling your own clothes back on before winding your hair up in a towel.
You paused, watching quietly as he stared blankly at his water-warped reflection in the steamed bathroom mirror. “Harumasa,” you called, bunching the fabric of your shirt sleeve in your hand as you swiped it across the mirror.
“It’s still you.”
When Asaba Harumasa didn’t ask you to make him a meal, you took it upon yourself to intrude for a moment longer.
He seemed much more comfortable now, lingering just within your personal bubble as you milled around his kitchenette. In terms of groceries things appeared rather grim until you unearthed a couple packs of spicy instant ramen from the back of a cabinet. You made a mental note to work up a list and find something to replenish his cabinets before he fully wasted away, images of fresh meat and veggies dancing in your head as you hummed a mindless tune over the boiling pot you tended on the stove.
You dressed it up as best as you could considering the circumstances, praising your lucky stars as you found some stray utensils from old takeout in one of the drawers. The dishes would be your next battle, but for now stray chopsticks from a local restaurant and the very pot you had cooked in would have to do. You cleared the chairs of his clothes so you could both hunch unceremoniously over the pot, shoulders pressed together as you silently battled each other for whatever caught your fancy.
Asaba Harumasa didn’t have to ask you for help with the dishes, or with the laundry.
He was right there with you, pressed to your side as you gently motivated him alongside your efforts to reclaim his space. He didn’t have to ask you to help him remake his bed, iron his clothes, or pick up the medication spilled all over his floor. You were sure you had heard him mutter “thanks” to you a hundred times already as you milled dutifully around his space with him trailing along behind until you heard the first yawn break his silence.
He didn’t fight when you pushed him back down the hallway to his room and turned the covers over for him, nor when you crawled into bed beside him. The rain had yet to stop, still pattering pleasantly against the window as you scooted closer and rolled to your side to face him, your hair fanning wildly across his pillow.
“Do you want me to hold you?” Your voice came out in a whisper in the dark, the streetlight peeking through the windows just enough to accentuate the warmth in your gaze. He sucked in a breath.
“I would like that.” He breathed, watching your infectious grin dimple your own cheeks.
You drew him closer, pulling his arm over your waist as you draped one of your legs over him. Your hands threaded into his hair, gently massaging his scalp as you pressed his head against your chest.
“Goodnight, Haru.” You hummed, pressing a kiss against the top of his head, your nose wrinkling as his hair tickled your nose.
His grip around you tightened, drawing you closer as he nestled his face into your neck, breathing in the scent of his soap on your skin.
“Goodnight, (y/n).”
…
When his alarm went off at 6am you didn’t stir, your chest still rising and falling in a steady rhythm even as he untangled your limbs so he could get up.
He was still exhausted, his body feeling like it was laced with lead as he stumbled out of bed and down the hall, his work clothes in tow as the scent of coffee met his nose. You must have set the coffee pot timer when you were reclaiming his kitchen.
He flipped on the bathroom light as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, pausing at the flash of orange on the mirror. A multitude of orange sticky notes decorated its surface ringing his reflection, each adorned with your curling script.
Good morning, sleepyhead!
Looking particularly handsome today~
Intelligent and Funny too!
Productive!
Healthy and vital!
A dapper fellow indeed ;D
He reached out, peeling one of the notes off as he brought it closer, electric eyes dancing over your words as a warmth bloomed in his chest. His eyes flickered up to his reflection, boring into his own visage as he sucked in a breath.
Look! It’s still you.
And for the first time he smiled like he believed it.
࣪ ˖ 𖦹 No matter what, Phainon will always prefer to have you above him.
Not in any explicit way, but just in general. When you two are simply laying together, he wants your head on his chest.
When you are mindlessly scrolling on your phone, he wants you settled neatly in his lap.
Even when taking your hands in his, he instinctively places your palms above his. (So he can bring your knuckles up to his lips and kiss them, of course!)
Phainon supposes this happens because,
1. He already does prioritize you over himself, so it's only right that you'd naturally be above him.
And, 2. Phainon knows he's stronger than you, and he just loves you so so so much that he never wants you to feel trapped! Especially not by being beneath him.
And thus, Phainon will always adore moments where he can gaze up at you. (And maybe even fall in love more, if that's even possible.)
(Anaxa's still better though, I just haven't figured out how to write for him, trust.)
The thud of a metal object hitting the dirt roused you from your nap by the campfire. The embers of the logs crackled and floated into the air, fanning you with a steady warmth. The safety of the fire counteracted the discomfort of seeing a brown automaton watching you in the dark.
They had no visible eyes, only a pair of dark sockets as empty as the hole in their chest cavity. Nothing but frayed wires of red and blue remained in the tangle of what was once an empathy module, or so the automaton claimed in a monotone voice distorted by static.
They spoke as one expected a computer to speak; all inflection was missing save for the occasional buzz of amusement. This delight was most often heard when pain befell you.
“WX-78” was their designation, and they were so deserving of the right to be called a person that they were above it. “Address me as your superior,” they had commanded.
The sky was filled with pink and orange as the sun fell below the horizon. A certain stillness had collapsed onto the camp and brought with it the chirps of nighttime creatures, their music interrupted by the occasional snore.
The sounds of people shifting and getting comfortable were especially loud to you, for you had found yourself cooking in the dim hours of the evening. The many asleep in bedrolls at your feet forced you to maneuver around them in a dance of sorts to make it to and from your bed.
When you returned from scrounging a couple of Moon Moth wings out of the group pile, WX-78 was standing at the campfire and gazing into the heart of the flames. “It reminds me of something,” they grumbled, with their head leaning forward to reach ever closer.
The light of the fire reflected in their hollow eyes.
You pinched the Moon Moth wings and inserted them into the top of the potato, sticking them halfway through its yellowish innards. The flames browned the potato for half a minute before you stuck it with a fire poker and lifted it from the rack.
Its faintly sweet aroma smelled of earth and butter, and its calloused texture was in stark contrast to the warm fire lapping your skin. The heat proved a welcome reprieve from the cold winds that blew into the camp at dusk.
The Butter Muffin was dropped into the clutches of WX-78, who cupped their hands to hold it.
It was a ghostly shade of white, and the wings of the Moon Moth helped it resemble the petals of a flower. The potato gave the wings a place to lay, its round shape imitating the fluffy mixture of bread and flour that made the baked good it was named after.
WX-78 observed in the Butter Muffin a certain innocence that they wished to savour. The vegetable and the insect cooked into it had been free of any violent intent in life, a fact that prompted it to be shoved through the slit in WX-78's face.
“Your tribute is acceptable, human.” The remains of the Butter Muffin speckled their brown face in white dots.
The word “tribute” implied that WX-78 was some sort of higher being and you were some kind of supplicant worshipping at their shrine.
* * *
A shift in the airflow startled you awake, and your arm rocketed from your side to clutch a small object hovering near the back of your head.
It was cold like unused pot metal, dense like a rock, inflexible like a tree branch. Many ridges and dents were roughening the otherwise smooth texture of its arched shape.
WX-78 stood on the opposite side of the cot and observed your rapid movement with a slight tilt of their head, their right hand raised and slowly retreating to their body.
“Foolish human,” they complained, condemning you through a thin mouth that did not move to match their grumbling. “You allowed yourself to slumber so deeply that you were one second away from an attack.”
The recklessness of a hot flash swelled over you in a rush of sweaty heat and shivering chills. It scrambled your thoughts like eggs in a frying pan just as it had poured a surge of adrenaline into your pounding heart.
It was as if a butterfly was flapping its wings inside your chest, and the exhaustion of insufficient sleep tugged at your eyelids with a hollow sting. Your eyes were wide open and circled by dark rings, closing slightly when you calmed your breaths enough to speak without hyperventilating.
“You'd attack me?” The question was uttered with a high-pitched tone cracked by confusion and alarm. Indistinct whispers floated to your ears from the forest, each one louder than before.
The inky black of their eye sockets was bottomless. WX-78 drilled into you with a steely silence that, combined with the distant emptiness of an automaton's face, betrayed the fact that there was something more unfolding deep within the recesses of their CPU.
“I would attack all organic life without mercy.”
The several moments that it had taken them to answer caused sweat to form along your brows and forehead, the droplets trickling past your narrowed eyes and running down your sunken cheeks.
Finally, WX-78 turned and stalked toward the campfire. They sat cross-legged in front of it with their back facing you. Their head drooped forward once again, and the creaks of gears locking signified that they were resting for the night.
You, however, tossed and turned in your bed for hours, plagued by fears of unseen assailants striking as soon as you were relaxed.
The whistles of the wind seemed to carry from the lips of a tall beast waiting in the shadows. Its highs and lows were far too melodic and controlled to be natural, so you strained your ears to hear something else, something more pleasant that would calm the paranoia raging in your mind.
Wigfrid was patrolling the outer reaches of the camp, humming a Scandinavian ballad and twirling a crooked spear. The rat-a-tat sounds of her prancing around the fence made of stakes were repetitive enough to drown out the whispers and snaps of twigs.
The sensations of a presence hovering above you and lying beside you faded with the rise of the sun, only to return minutes later when a pair of hands began to shake you as if their life depended on it.
“Could you wake up, please?” The brassy voice spoke through clenched teeth and gritted the word “please” with a frantic emphasis. The pressure applied by the hands vanished from your shoulders, and the voice dropped to an uncertain mumble.
“Please?”
You cracked open a bloodshot eye to find Wilson fidgeting like a toddler at the peak of a sugar rush. He was wringing his hands together and wiping the resultant sweat on his red vest, although it did little to help the sweat running down his neck and matting the spikes in his black hair.
Wilson glanced at various tents and bedrolls, his eyes slowly turning to you before quickening once he realised that you were awake. “Oh, thank goodness!” He exhaled so loudly that you thought he might collapse then and there.
His shoulders lowered from the release of tension, and a hint of hope crept into his quivering lips and crinkled eyes. “We're out of firewood—”
Echoing in the camp was a roar so foul and strident that it cracked the surface of the earth and sent any other animals scurrying to the trees. The ground vibrated as if the victim of an earthquake, but it was no quake that threw such a towering shadow across the land.
Wilson lost some of his panic in exchange for a dash of annoyance. “And the Deerclops is attacking our camp.”
You leapt out of the bedroll in a stupor of sleep deprivation and alarm, your knees buckling and threatening to give out. Taking a moment to steady yourself allowed you to flee with Wilson to the entrance of the camp.
A clank and a clunk sounded from behind you, and WX-78 stopped at your side. “Human, I will accompany you.”
A Canadian-accented voice rang out from the western corner of the camp, where Woodie was swinging his axe Lucy at the great leg of the Deerclops. “Ey! Robot buddy! You can borrow one of my axes!”
WX-78 said nothing, merely looking in Woodie's direction before turning to scan the camp for a spare axe. They found one that had split a tree stump down the middle and was now sticking out of it.
After peeking over his shoulder and wincing at a stake that was hurled nearby, Wilson whipped around and raised his hands in a false gesture of confidence. “Well, as the lead scientist, I thought I would head the search.”
With one pull from a single arm, WX-78 ripped the axe out of the stump and made direct eye contact with Wilson as they did so.
Wilson crumpled like a piece of wet paper, his finger dropping to his chest and a mix between a whimper and a chuckle leaving him. He straightened his back and tapped his fingertips together in a scramble to regain some of his composure. “It's an excellent idea.”
His eyes were almost shut from how much he was squinting. “I shall await your return.” The weight of the forced smile on his face was too much to bear once WX-78 looked away, and Wilson slumped with an audible sigh.
“Whatever happened to the first law?” he murmured, talking low enough that he was sure WX-78 would not hear.
* * *
The clicks and raps of sticks hitting each other were the only sounds in the forest that day until you unearthed a gear hidden in the topsoil. It was oblong and designed with a series of bolt-shaped holes like the kind used to work massive clocks, and the layer of dirt coating it was not enough to stop WX-78 from snatching it.
They lifted it to their mouth and had it halfway down their throat when they paused. After a moment of contemplation, they slowly removed it and considered its different uses with a tilt of their head.
WX-78 put forward the gear and held it in alignment with your head, producing a low rumbling sound as they squinted at the way it fit into the shape of your skull. “You would make an adequate robot.”
The stick you were recovering from a bramble plummeted to the ground. “What did you say?”
No response came from them except for the fact that they did not lower the gear. WX-78 heard the oncoming footsteps first, and they spun their head like an owl to pinpoint the intruder.
It was an older woman dressed in a plaid shirt and skirt, with her pointed slippers and hair bun embodying the spirit of a librarian. Wickerbottom was her name, and she held a hardback book with a spine as thick as a table.
Her eyes, which had been crinkled, opened a crack at the pair standing in front of her. “There you are,” she muttered, which prompted WX-78 to tighten their grip on the axe.
She hummed at the sight and greeted their axe-wielding self with a dry frown. “WX-78.” A withering scowl grew on her face when they refused to fully acknowledge her, merely having turned their head over their shoulder to peer from a distance.
Wickerbottom adjusted the rectangular eyeglasses to rest on the bridge of her pointed nose, sitting just below her closed eyes and just above her pursed lips. “I don't recall Wilson instructing you to forage at such nocturnal hours.”
WX-78 whirred at the implication that they could be commanded. A resounding ring from the axe whipped the wind as they turned around to lean towards Wickerbottom. “I do not take orders from organics.”
Keeping one hand near her eyeglasses, Wickerbottom leaned over to look past WX-78 and squinted at you with a hint of a smile as if expecting your presence. “Leading one of us astray, I see?”
Unmoving, they stared as her gaze soured like a spoiled peach. A moment of tense silence passed the likes of which were being crushed by a compressor, and WX-78 marched a few steps closer to her.
They outstretched an arm and extended their index finger to Wickerbottom, allowing the axe to fall into one hand and hover by their side. “Minion, you were not ordered to come here. Leave now.”
Despite her prim appearance, a musical quality lingered in her melancholy voice. “I'm merely here to assist, you cantankerous automaton.” Wickerbottom opened her book of pages decorated with illustrations of greenery and raised it close to her face.
It was titled “Applied Horticulture,” and when she began to read the text, every plant and tree in the area flourished as if fed by super fertiliser. Branches grew twice as long, trunks thickened to double their size, and flowers opened in full bloom to fill the air with pollen that drew harsh sneezes from you.
Your eyes started to water and redden, leaking tears down to your runny nose and dry throat. This blurred vision and constant jerks of your neck caused you to bonk your forehead on the pile of sticks in your arms.
The echoes of your sneezes were panting and heaving shouts that startled birds in the forest and chased them into the night sky. The numerous chirps and flutters of wings were like static on a television set, and angry creases formed on Wickerbottom's face.
She raised a thin finger to her lips and hushed you before turning back and flipping a page in her book.
A series of heavy footsteps thudded from behind, crunching a trail of leaves and crushing a multitude of twigs scattered around the forest floor. The whirr of turning gears and the rattle of metal colliding with thick layers of dirt quickened as the noise drew near.
“Let us depart.”
The processed beats of their voice box alerted you to the lumbering figure of WX-78, who was stamping forward to block your sight of Wickerbottom. “This exchange is counterproductive to our foraging.”
They were facing you, but the decision to put their back to Wickerbottom was deliberate.
You staggered away from the excess of flowers sprouting at your feet. The guiding hand of WX-78 pushed you along in what you assumed was the direction of the camp, with the voice of Wickerbottom growing quieter and more confused.
It was when the first hound's howl broke the silence of the night that your vision cleared and your nose dried. The ability to breathe without wheezing and swelling pain were like waking from a restful nap, but this clarity of thought allowed some old paranoia to resurface.
Whispers carried on the wind, engaging in indistinct conversations that you were not allowed to join. A few resembled the hisses of leaves rustling, while others were akin to bees buzzing and dogs growling.
The forest had never been so claustrophobic and hostile as it was at that moment. It was as if the trees themselves were prepared to uproot and give chase, and every thicket was the hiding place for a creature with one thousand fangs and a taste for meat.
Once a haven of nature, the grove had become a trap of nightmares and suffocating closeness under the moonlight.
The bushes threatened to smother you in their lush growth; the berries you had eaten so aptly before were now poisonous; the wildlife was perched on branches waiting to pounce — it all repelled you like the meeting of two north poles on a pair of magnets.
You stared into the forest with unshakable dread wrapping its cold tendrils of sweat around your neck. Your eyes were burning from the dry breeze blowing past them, but you refused to blink for fear of missing the arrival of some beast.
In your mind dwelled its gnashing teeth, its gnarled talons, and its beady gaze. Its ragged fur and its spindly spine flashed on the edge of reality. A part of you believed that such thoughts had summoned it or created it, but time dragged forward without a single noise from the treeline.
Turning your back to it would surely conjure it, you told yourself, which seemed to be true when a rigid hand landed on your shoulder from behind. A spin and a backwards leap revealed that it was no beast but rather the arm of WX-78.
The buzzes and pops of sound that had been crawling into your ears like worms were partly the voice of WX-78, who faced you with soulless eyes and an even bleaker lack of expression. “Fleshling, your inferior mind is crumbling.”
Their touch was like something creeping beneath your skin, and the urge to itch where they had touched was unbearable.
Before you could mutter a half-coherent response, WX-78 moved their head slightly to the left and then yanked you forward by the shoulder. You tumbled to the ground behind them as they stomped towards the forest and brandished their axe.
“Something is coming,” they droned, and again, you heard the feral growls emanating from deep inside the bowels of the forest.
At once, the voices of the wilderness quieted.
Then, a shrieking howl echoed in the night.
The bushes at the edge of the woods rustled, and a dark figure lunged out of the blackness with a string of drool whipping the air. It landed on all fours, a hound with yellow and black fur and a gaping mouth of red.
Its stout body and fat nose were vaguely pig-like. The hound opened its mouth so wide that its lower jaw reached its disproportionately small paws and charged at WX-78 with a loud series of ravenous barks.
A deadly and precise whirl of the axe silenced it, only for an additional hound to dash from the treeline and stampede across the moonlit grassland. Its paws flattened a trail of grass with thwacks like a fly swatter hitting its mark, and its shadow stretched along the earth to the size of a giant.
Just as WX-78 was pulling their axe from the original hound, you turned halfway at the sound of panting and were tackled by a mouthful of fangs.
The bulky weight of the hound was an anchor sitting on your chest and far exceeded what you had imagined from its short stature. Its claws etched themselves in your shoulders and upper arms as if a sculptor painfully dragging a jagged stone through clay, but it set its teeth upon your neck.
A frantic wiggle and a moment of squirming forced its snout downward, where it opted for your collarbone instead. The bites were akin to razors cutting past your skin for surgery without anesthetics.
The hound was knocked away by a swift kick to the head, dislodging its teeth from you in a forceful manner that opened many gashes across your upper chest. It scrambled to its feet and tore up thin roots in the process before launching itself at the leg of yours that had kicked it.
A shriek of agony rocketed from your lips as you sat up and began pounding on the hound with your fists. The cries ached in your throat, and the urge to stop screaming came with a wave of vertigo.
It was as if you were falling from a great height despite never leaving the ground. Nausea and drowsiness came next, both of which churned your stomach and sucked the will to fight out of you with the haste of someone downing their favourite drink.
The steel blade of the axe rung with a high-pitched hum, not unlike the toll of a bell. WX-78 reared it above their head and aimed for the neck, swinging it with wanton force and the intent to not do anything less than leave the hound brutalized.
As soon as the axe was brought down upon its head, you were blinded by a warm substance splattering your face and torso in a diagonal stripe. Your hand instinctively went to wipe the liquid from your eyes and flick it onto the grass.
The squelches and rings of the blade continued almost a minute after the howls and whines of the hound had ceased. You lowered your hand to see WX-78 hacking it as if they were cutting through plants in a jungle, each chop landing with more aggression than the last.
They swung the axe for a final time and slowly turned to look at you. How they did so — only turning their head and not their full body — placed their head at such a sharp angle that no human could match it without dying.
WX-78 was slightly hunched, their shoulders raised and their neck bent forward. Their expressionless face was more haunting to you than the widest smile, and it took three tries before you managed to pull your eyes away.
“Disgusting,” came a drone from the inert mouth of WX-78, who spared nothing more than a glance at the carcass when they jerked the axe out of its gore.
WX-78 watched as you tore off a strip of your clothes to fashion a tourniquet, but that meant walking with a limp. The pins and needles of blood loss stuck your leg up and down before a wave of numbness washed it all away.
It took half your energy reminding yourself not to pull your injured leg forward and take a step with it. The trial winded you and filled your head with a lightness that was like walking on clouds, so long as you did not look down to see the streaks of drying blood running the length of your leg.
Doing this enveloped you in a coldness that was akin to tying a wet blanket around your skull. It drained the strength from your knees until they shook like uncertain foundations and dumped you on the ground, scraping the skin of your palms as you fought to not have your face eat the dirt.
A series of clanks grew louder and louder, and you looked up through hazy eyes to find WX-78 blocking your sight of the moon. They stank of blood and rust just like the axe dripping in their hand.
Instead of carrying you, WX-78 grabbed your unscathed forearm and began dragging you through the dirt as if hauling a loaded sack.
With each minute that passed, the surrounding trees and thickets grew less familiar. The land had lost its rolling hills and replaced them with a flat meadow devoid of any inhabitants save for a solitary building.
A glass door overlooked your approach, but what lay behind it was as dark and secretive as the woodland.
This was not the way back to the camp, but you were too weak to protest beyond silent thoughts.
There was blood seeping through the tourniquet and staining it with a shade of crimson that glistened under the moon. Your vision was greying and losing more light the longer you noticed the leak, so you turned on your side and planted your free hand in the earth.
This grass crunched like a head of lettuce under your palms, blackened and cursed to never grow again until the passage of many decades.
The dirt here was scorched and mixed with ash as though kindled by a flame long since extinguished. The shapes of burnt objects had been imprinted on the earth in dark outlines, and the only remains were brittle fragments of metal that crumbled to dust and ash at your touch.
WX-78 then released you with no warning, prompting the back of your head to smack the ground. A feeble groan was the most you could offer in response.
The clanks and clunks of moving joints lasted for a couple of seconds before they entered your vision and stopped to loom over you. You wondered if WX-78 was checking to see if you were breathing, and once they confirmed that you were, they turned away.
They were starting to march toward the building when you mustered all your strength to sit up. The immense weight of your head caused it to wobble, which sent a spear of pain into your eyes and neck.
Instead of providing a shoulder to lean on or a swift tug to help you to your feet, WX-78 pushed you down.
You attempted to rise from the dirt once more, only for their metal hand to grasp your collarbone and shove you to the ground. WX-78 then pinned you against the cool grass with a stiff grip that dug into your skin like nails.
The tall blades of grass swayed along with the chill in the wind, tickling your face like incessant fingers tapping for attention and curling around it as if swallowing you.
Dangling in the night sky was a full moon of wondrous luminosity, and it shone upon WX-78 to encase them in a silvery glow. Deep in their eye sockets there seemed to lay a flicker of light.
“Fleshling,” they said in a bid for you to mind them.
A pregnant silence followed that lasted far too many seconds, during which WX-78 became as still as a body in a casket. Some fearful part of you was waiting for them to snap your neck or crush your windpipe like one of the various twigs they enjoyed breaking beneath their feet.
“You are damaged.”
Despite their lack of obvious eyes, it was growing nigh impossible to shake the weight of their gaze as they refused to look away.
who r ur moots?? I'm new to the Tumblr and found you and I think ur neat!! anyone who writes in the same fandom as you??
@lohotine (recently inactive, their work is mainly two time centric but still their writing is a treat)
@pearlescentparade (they're amazing, they inspired me to begin writing.)
@h4rkena4ngel888
@shallowpumpkin
There are probably many more but these creators are the only forsaken writers I can stand to read, I'm very picky when it comes to my desired literature.
