#implied trauma

Senpai is calm. Senpai is cool. Senpai is a tad bitter but never takes it out on anyone. Senpai is a tough nut to crack. And senpai likes blanket forts.

Yuji would’ve never guessed it. You don’t get offended at Sleeping Beauty jokes and don’t even get mad when strangers film you after you’ve fallen asleep in very inconvenient places (still, Megumi gets angry for the both of you).

This little glitch in your otherwise perfectly consistent personality surprised your kohai initially.

Everyone has to have a soft side, right? It’s warm inside the fluffy cave, warm and plushy. Every hard surface is covered, the laptop being the only source of light. You’re folded into a seemingly very uncomfortable position in Yuji’s lap but the boy has long learned that you’re capable of sleeping anywhere, any time. Limbs point into all directions as you slump against his front, upper body tilting to the side to give him space.

On the screen, his character mines away, the repetitive clink clink clink filling the quiet.

“You’d like this part, I think,” he says. “It’s kinda calming. Like… just digging and stuff. No one bothering you. Just you and your little cave.”

The iron block turning into a collectable item makes that satisfying, popping sound.

“The first thing you should make of these are torches. Even your own house can turn into a hostile entity spawning point if there’s no light.”

He interrupts himself with a quiet hum.

“…and then mobs just start spawning everywhere and suddenly your cozy little cave becomes a nightmare,” Yuji continues, leaning back a bit so you’re more comfortably settled against him. His voice is easy, casual, like he’s narrating something completely normal instead of trying to carefully build a world you can drift in and out of. The pickaxe moves onto the next block.

“See? Like that.”

For a while, it’s just the rhythm of it. Mining. Placing. Quiet commentary. The soft rustle of blankets when he shifts his legs so you’re not slipping sideways. Glancing down, Yuji can see your eyes occasionally fluttering open, sometimes you even make a tiny humming sound to let him know you’re still somewhat conscious.

He doesn’t dwell on why you’re all soft and pliant all of a sudden. No sharp remarks, no amused smiles. You’re just a puddle of body parts in his lap.

“You said you liked lush caves, right? With the axolotls. I’ll try to find one, okay? We have enough torches now to go on an expedition,” Yuji explains, though he knows most of it doesn’t register for you. Yet, he treats you like you’re fully there.

“You’re doing great,” he says softly, as if you were actually playing with him. “We’ve got a good setup now.”

His avatar starts hopping around on the screen towards a more defined direction.

“Eh, I didn’t know senpai liked blanket forts… I wonder what else she likes. Hm…” He trails off, imagining you a frilly sundress. No, that’s too far. The truth is usually something less on the nose.

“Oh, I know… you like those silly ASMR videos. Monsoon sounds and uh… heh, is this good for ASMR? Dumb underclassman helps you sleep while playing Minecraft.” Yuji chuckles at his own antics. He guides your hand over the keyboard and clicks on the control caps with your fingers. To make you feel included. He also likes the sounds your sharp nails make when they hit the dark plastic.

The quietest huff from between your lips escapes you. You, or at least part of your sleepy brain is paying attention.

“There she is.” Yuji straightens his back, the pink spikes on the top of his head brushing against the fabric of the fake ceiling. “Unpopular opinion but axolotls are only cute in this game, or as plushies. In real life, they just look like mermaid d—“

He quickly presses his lips into a thin line, blushing at his almost slip-up. He can’t talk like that in the presence of a lady! “—Anyway! Axolotls. Wet little guys. Cool, in-game. No further commentary.”

Finally, Yuji maneuvers his avatar to the mouth of a fairly big cave. At the bottom, pointed blocks of dripstone are visible. Ugh, those types of caves are always such a hassle, moving around the clusters is annoying. But he’s determined to find you a lush cave, so that’s what he will do. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure if you even like Minecraft. You must be indulging him again.

“What’s Senpai’s favourite video game?”

No reply comes, still, Yuji nods his head. “Mm, thought so,” he whispers anyway, smiling like you answered. “Probably something super niche and artsy. Something with rain sounds and hidden endings that make you cry.”

It’s calm like that. Him, talking, making up ninety percent of the conversation, while you’re just there. He wonders if that’s enough for you, or if that’s truly all you can take. Distant sounds of zombies wandering around echo through the laptop’s speakers.

“Yuu…”

Call it intuition, pattern recognition, whatever, but the soft, quiet voice of yours, mewling that nickname makes Yuji’s heart drop. It’s accompanied by a weak strain in both of your hands. One palm tries to close around the material of Yuji’s sweatpants, nails digging into his thigh, the other tightens against the keycaps, making Yuji’s character take a leap off of a few blocks and lose half a heart. Yuji doesn’t even notice, his focus is suddenly fully on you.

“Hey…” He gently pries your palms open, forcing your fingers apart as well as he can.

You’re not supposed to use nicknames. At least not before anyone’s earned it. Yuji knows he hasn’t.

He has learned how to measure a pulse correctly in the meantime. His index and middle finger find that exact spot, over the slight dip in your wrist.

Too fast. Not just for you, for a completely healthy person too.

The cave ambience keeps droning from the device, some distant skeleton rattling around in the dark. He glances at the screen just long enough to pause it, the world freezing. The blanket fort falls into a thicker kind of quiet.

“…huh…?”

Every movement Yuji makes now is more or less calculated. General panic and fight-or-flight reactions aren’t something Yuji differentiates between. Fear is fear, and one wrong move could make things very difficult. His head dips to look down at you.

Your face is half-buried in the collar of his hoodie, lashes damp where they stick together. You’re awake in the worst way—eyes open, but not really seeing him. Your pupils keep dragging toward the edge of the fort, toward the little slit where a line of blue light leaks in.

Yuji follows your stare, then looks back at you.

“Mh… senpai looks scared,” he mumbles with a melancholic tone. It’s almost helpless how he just states it to himself. Yuji is dumb but not that dumb. Based on what you’ve told him before, he can guess now why the blanket fort was built. “Okay.”

He places both of your hands into your lap, gazing down at the pretty pattern of your nail art as the polish glints under the light. Dark, sharp, with a glazed finish. Totally Nobara’s work.

“It’s fine, you know. It’s just us. We’re just playing. No one else is here.”

“…just… just us…” you echo his words, the syllables barely make it out between your lips. You hunch further into yourself, trying to hide even in the already small space of the blanket fort.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Yuji hesitates, tilting your nailbed left and right between his fingers. Then, his hands retreat before his arms curl around your waist, pulling you close. He’ll probably get smacked for that once you’re yourself again. “You feel weird, being this scared.”

Your head tips against your kohai’s shoulder, a small sign of defeat.

“…m’sorry.”

Yuji’s gaze lifts from your lap to your face. “Nah, it’s okay. Do you, uhm, want me to crush you?” That came out weird.

He scratches his head with slight annoyance at himself for not being able to voice his intentions correctly. “Tch, stupid,” he mutters before collecting his thoughts.

“I mean, I heard that it can be calming for some people to have something heavy on them. Like a weighted blanket. You seem like someone who would… And, you know, I have the right build.”

There’s a pause and Yuji is tempted to think you’ve fallen asleep.

“Yes, please.”

He shifts carefully, slow enough that every movement is announced before it happens. You end up pressed to the padded floor of the den, squished under Yuji’s weight in all the right places. Chest, tummy, hips and, somehow, knees. It’s odd how easily you’re able to trust Yuji with this exercise. He must be doing a better job at being worthy than he thought.

“Maybe we should put this on your treatment plan,” the boy jokes with an uncertain smile as he settles on top of you. The oddly shaped tent shakes under the shift of weight, but it holds, pillows packed tight, duvets layered like one big shield.

You’re still keeping an eye on the slit at the entrance, so Yuji angles his back towards that area, putting another barrier between you and the outside world.

You breathe under him with snappy little pulls but gradually give yourself over to being gently restrained.

“Please,” you repeat weakly, possibly in response to Yuji’s suggestion, or maybe you’re just pleading on instinct.

For a moment, Yuji stays quiet. He doesn’t try to make sense of everything. There is certainly a backstory there, something bad but it’s not like knowing the details would change much. You’re sick and sleepy and that’s that. That’s what Yuji will work with.

“Is this okay?” He asks, his head dropping beside your temple.

“Mhm…”

“Can you still breathe?”

Instead of replying, you just nod, letting out a slow breath to demonstrate. The expanding of your ribcage reassures Yuji.

“Actually… this feels really good for me too,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re a comfy pillow, senpai. And you’re really nice to me. I can ramble to you all I want.”

“Can you please… talk more?”

Yuji reaches back blindly until his fingers find the keyboard. It’s not the best position to be using a laptop, lying on the ground.

“Okay. Minecraft update.” His voice turns light on purpose. “We are entering deep mob territory. Oh, shit, the skeleton is still here—“

A tiny puff of air brushes his collarbone. It’s the closest thing to a laugh from you. Yuji attacks the NPC with his own weapon frantically, it proves to be harder in the narrow environment. At some point, skeleton bursts into little white particles.

“Yes!” Yuji grins, triumphant. “Get folded. This is our cave now.”

Your fingers, curled into the front of his hoodie, tighten their grip. He feels it immediately.

“There you are, good job staying with me. You’re super strong.”

Your fingers strain further.

“…Liar.”

໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১all rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.

#78

content: hypnosis whump, past trauma, implied trauma

"The day you use that shit on me is the day you will officially become dead to me," Whumpee said seriously. "I don't care about the circumstances. You don't do that."

"Of course," Caretaker agreed quickly. "I would never use it on you."

"Good. Glad we're on the same page."

You didn't have to be a gifted empath to watch how Staeve hurled himself into the thick of combat, right at the biggest bandit wielding the two-handed great sword, and think that the man might be vulnerable to a spell that exploited wisdom.

The fact that it took down Astarion too, well, perhaps that one was just bad luck.

It happened like this:

-

This is written about @velnna's Tav, Staeve. I was delighted to discover that they don't mind fan fiction being written about him.

I'm always cautious about writing for other people's OCs--getting voices right is so important to me. I have elegantly avoided that issue here.

-

Full text below.

Full Text On AO3

Trope of the day: childhood trauma

_

Whumpee involuntarily flinches when Caretaker accidentally closes the door with more force than intended - loud 'thud' and a quick hushed "Whoops" is heard as they move through the house.

And that is all.

Still, Whumpee is tensed up and their heartbeat far too fast against their chest. Loud doors, footsteps... even the way someone says "Hi" makes Whumpee feel like they did something wrong. That someone will walk up and scream at them.

Or worse.

The door to the kitchen opens and Whumpee jumps when Caretaker comes in, instinctively hiding that they were about to make themselves something to eat. Caretaker just smiles at them, walking to the fridge.

"Have you seen the cheese?," they ask, rummaging through the fridge as Whumpee feels their mouth run dry.

"Sorry, I uh... It's here," they mutter, moving to give Caretaker the package they hid behind themselves, hoping the other cannot see the sandwich they were about to make. They didn't ask, they were just hungry. Now they fucked up, they always fuck up...

"Thanks, kid," Caretaker just says with a smile and gets a plate. "Do you want to stay there or eat your sandwich?" Raising their brows they look at Whumpee, who cannot stop themselves from probably looking really dumbfounded.

Oh.

And here's one angst thingy (I put a "Keeping Reading" because of implied dark topics):

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

​🇪​​🇲​​🇴​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳​​🇦​​🇱​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​​🇷​​🇪​​🇸​​🇸​

​🇮​​🇸​​🇴​​🇱​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳​ ​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇸​​🇸​​🇴​​🇨​​🇮​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳​

​🇮​​🇲​​🇵​​🇱​​🇮​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇳​​🇴​​🇳​-​🇨​​🇴​​🇳​​🇸​​🇪​​🇳​​🇸​​🇺​​🇦​​🇱​ ​🇸​​🇮​​🇹​​🇺​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳​ (​🇳​​🇴​​🇹​ ​🇬​​🇷​​🇦​​🇵​​🇭​​🇮​​🇨​, ​🇧​​🇺​​🇹​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇸​​🇴​​🇷​​🇮​​🇪​​🇳​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​)

​🇲​​🇪​​🇲​​🇴​​🇷​​🇾​ ​🇱​​🇴​​🇸​​🇸​

​🇫​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ / ​🇵​​🇭​​🇾​​🇸​​🇮​​🇨​​🇦​​🇱​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇱​​🇱​​🇦​​🇵​​🇸​​🇪​ ​🇩​​🇺​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇸​​🇹​​🇷​​🇪​​🇸​​🇸​

​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​​🇲​​🇪​​🇸​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇸​​🇭​​🇦​​🇲​​🇪​, ​🇸​​🇪​​🇨​​🇷​​🇪​​🇨​​🇾​, ​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇻​​🇺​​🇱​​🇳​​🇪​​🇷​​🇦​​🇧​​🇮​​🇱​​🇮​​🇹​​🇾​

In the days that followed, (Y/n) became a ghost in her own life.

She told no one, not even Amara, her closest friend and confidante. Not because she didn’t trust her, but because saying it out loud would make it real. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she clung to her routine like a lifeline. She opened the thrift shop each morning with robotic precision: flipping the "Closed" sign, turning on the soft jazz station that played from the dusty speaker behind the counter, sweeping the hardwood floor even if it didn’t need it. Every hanger she adjusted, every antique book she alphabetized, felt like another brick in the wall she was trying to build around herself.

Her body moved through the motions, but her mind was elsewhere, flashing back to her apartment room she didn’t remember walking into, and a man she’d only known through race broadcasts and glossy interviews. The way he had looked at her. The disbelief. The discomfort. The guilt. Then, worst of all, the money.

(Y/n) felt humiliated all over again each time her memory tried to rewind to that night, only to play back static.

Still, she kept quiet.

Monaco, for all its glittering skyline and constant tourist buzz, was a small city in the ways that mattered. Gossip traveled fast. She didn’t want to be a headline. She didn’t want to be that girl. If Lando hadn’t recognized her beyond that night, all the better. Their worlds didn’t have to collide again.

Amara, meanwhile, was her usual vibrant self, full of anecdotes, laughter, and a contagious zest for life. She talked often about how Monaco felt like “living inside a music video,” and how lucky they were to work just a few streets away from literal royalty. When she announced she’d be taking a week off to show her cousin around the Riviera, (Y/n) smiled and wished her a good trip, even though the idea of being alone at the shop twisted her stomach into knots.

“You’ll be fine!” Amara said brightly, squeezing her shoulder before disappearing into a cab. “Carla’s gonna help you out. She’s great. You’ll love her!”

Carla was great. A little older, soft-spoken, always wearing vintage scarves and cat-eye glasses. She brought chamomile tea in a thermos and told stories about her childhood in Tuscany as they folded clothes and arranged displays. Her presence was soothing, and for the first time in days, (Y/n) didn’t feel completely alone.

Then came Luca.

He arrived one afternoon carrying a tray of lattes with his name scribbled in loopy cursive on the cups.

“Cousin tax,” he said with a grin as he handed Carla her drink. “And one for your coworker.”

“Hi,” he said, turning to (Y/n). “I’m Luca. I work over at Le Lait down the street.”

(Y/n) forced a polite smile and accepted the cup. “Thanks. I’ve seen you there. I usually come by after closing.”

“Figured you looked familiar,” he said. “So you’re the girl who always orders an oat milk flat white and tips like she’s a celebrity.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you all still like me when I ask for extra caramel,” she joked weakly.

Luca had dimples that appeared every time he smiled, little brackets that made him look younger, even with the slight stubble on his jaw. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, but he did linger. He came by twice more that week, once with muffins, once with a playlist recommendation scribbled on a napkin.

Then, on Friday, as Carla stepped out to make a call, Luca leaned on the counter.

“You know, I’ve been trying to find the right way to ask this,” he said, eyes flicking to hers, “but… would you want to grab a drink sometime? Or coffee when you’re not the one closing up shop?”

(Y/n)’s breath caught. Not because she hadn’t seen it coming, but because a part of her wanted to say yes. She wanted to feel normal. She wanted to not carry this weight. But her heart was too heavy, her thoughts too loud.

“I’m really flattered,” she said gently. “But… I’m not in the right place right now. I’m sorry.”

Luca’s smile didn’t falter. “No worries. Had to shoot my shot.”

She appreciated his grace. And as he left, waving goodbye like nothing had changed, (Y/n) felt the sting of her own isolation settle deeper.

By the time Amara returned, (Y/n) was emotionally drained. She smiled and hugged her tightly at the shop, let her ramble about train delays and cousin drama, all while pretending she wasn’t counting the seconds until she could go home and collapse.

“You look like you need a vacation more than I do,” Amara said, teasing. “Tell you what, pick me up at the station tomorrow and I’ll bring croissants. You deserve them.”

“Alright,” (Y/n) said, managing a tired chuckle. “I’ll be there.”

The next morning, she dressed in a soft beige cardigan, the kind Amara said made her look “effortlessly Parisian,” and tucked her hair into a loose clip. She felt light-headed but chalked it up to the poor sleep she’d had all week.

The train station wasn’t far, just a ten-minute walk past the sun-drenched cafés and uphill through a short flight of stairs. The platform was humming with arriving travelers, the air filled with announcements in French and Italian.

(Y/n) stood near the railing, eyes scanning the crowd.

That’s when the edges of her vision started to blur.

Her heart raced, not in the panicked way it had when she first woke up next to Lando, but in a way that made her legs feel like paper. Her stomach churned. Her hands trembled.

She blinked rapidly, tried to steady herself.

But then the world tilted.

The chatter around her became distant, distorted, like someone was speaking underwater. Her knees buckled. Someone shouted. Then, nothing but darkness.

To be Continued… 🧡 🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴀɢɴᴏꜱɪꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: I just want to say thank you to everyone who’s reading, reblogging, or even just silently vibing with Unplanned. 🧡 Your support means more than you know.

I’ll try to update as soon as I can, I’m letting myself rest and sleep for now 😴💤 But I promise I haven’t forgotten about this story.

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