Various One Shots

Professor Layton x Tomboy! Reader

Requested by 

A/N: Okay, let's do this oh my god.

Warning: Slight Gore.

Your POV:

The news has been going crazy with this story lately. Whoever this person is, even they've got to be annoyed with the amount of news coverage they're getting. 

I stare at the screen, an anonymous outline of a face being displayed on the screen, below it, the name Gutsy. 

How fitting.

The screen the switches back to a woman whose hair is filled with various products, her face caked in makeup, and she's wearing a pink pantsuit. 

I glance at my own appearance in the nearby apartment window, my hair that I've only brushed, black jeans, and a dark blue sweatshirt. My own (e/c) eyes stare back at me, framed by (s/t) skin. I look down at my mismatched socks, red and black, respectively.

I snicker at the difference.

Turning away from the window and grab the remote from my table, flicking the television off. I walk to the space next to the door reserved for my single pair of grey Nike's and slip on my shoes. I check my sweatshirt pocket to make sure I have all of my stuff before stepping out of my apartment and heading out to face the day.

Popping my earbuds into my ears, I notice the sea of people around me, the streets of London are flooded with people, and while I've only lived here for two years, it feels like home. I pull my hood over my face, keeping the fabric pinched between my index finger and thumb as I walk so the wind doesn't force it back. After a ten minutes walk, the large brick building towers before me, inside is the famous Professor Layton's flat. The sidewalk here is empty, quiet. Peaceful.

I know him better as my boyfriend Hershel. 

It's a bit odd, considering just how different I am from what he (or anyone) considers a lady. A lady wore skirts and dresses and knew proper speak. No, I'm just a woman. One who curses like a sailor and spends fifteen minutes tops on my appearance. Hell, I don't think I even own a skirt, let alone a dress.

But he says I'm a good person, the best. Bold and amazing. We are, aesthetically, complete opposites, however, great minds think alike. We share the same interests, every conversation is easy, fun. He says that's why he loves me.

And I love him, too.

I walk up the steps in front of the building and take out my earbuds, pressing down on the buzzer so he can let me in. I pull down my hood and look into the camera on the buzzer panel so that Hershel can see my face. 

Suddenly I feel someone standing behind me. The feeling is overpowering, daunting. I turn, ready to confront whoever is behind me. But a strong arm snakes its way around my waist, spinning me back around, and a hand covers my mouth. I struggle as the strong person drags me away, kicking and clawing at the person behind me. 

I can distantly hear the sound of my name being called.

They lift their hand from my mouth and punch me hard in the head. A quick exclamation forces itself from my throat, then I suck a sharp breath in through my teeth. Black spots cloud my vision, purple outlining the dots.

Everything blurs and goes black.

Professor Layton's POV:

The sound of the buzzer blares through my medium-sized flat. I stand from my desk and step into the living room, looking at the small screen over the intercom.

I see a wide-eyed (y/n) standing just barely in view of the camera, a large hand covering her mouth. I see her begin to writhe in a struggle, before being pulled off-camera. I press down on the intercom button and call her name over and over before making a decision.