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uchihabbynic · 1 year

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Trafalgar Law x Crewmate! Fem Reader - Caught

Warning: NSFW, porn with v minimal plot, (m) self pleasuring, Law is forever a mess with his emotions but we love to see it 🤧 🖤

As the journey to Wano Country drew near, Law allowed his crew to indulge in a bit of fun to reset and recharge before their next voyage. Lately, Law had been so frazzled in your presence, letting the taboo that is his crush consume him in ways he wasn't accustomed to. Women were usually a non factor for the Captain of the Heart Pirates but he’d known you for quite some time now and you were practically his right hand; A position that wasn’t to be taken lightly and not easily given.

The level of trust the Captain had in you was unmatched and everyone around the two of you could see the vastly different ways Law interacted with you vs. the rest of the crew. Some would chalk it up to longtime friendship, but his crew knew him better than anyone and could easily see through the lingering stares, the gentle but unnecessary touches - even the way in which Law spoke with much more care towards you. Granted, this had only been a recent occurrence but he wasn’t nearly as sneaky with his feelings as he thought he was.

The icing on top of the cake was when a pipe leak was discovered in your sleeping quarters and Law didn’t hesitate to offer up his bedroom - just temporarily, of course. When the suggestion was made in front of the crew, you happily agreed to stay with him but this didn’t come without the snickers and giggles from the other crew mates; Bepo being the ringleader. Law roared at his subordinates to go make themselves useful as he felt his cheeks rapidly heat up, embarrassed that your shared proximity had turned his loyal steadfast crew into an all out circus of hoots and hollers.

This was already coming off of Law feeling unlike himself all week. It was bad enough that he began to think about you in every decision that he made - every time he managed to lay his head on his pillow and even the moment he opened his eyes in the early hours of the morning, you were his first and last thoughts. But, just 3 days prior to you moving into Law’s bedroom, he could have sworn he heard the faint cries of his name roll off your sweet tongue between the cold, metal walls separating your quarters from his.

At first, he was sure it was a dream after having nodded out with his face in a book but those faint, melodic moans were oh so real and indeed kept him up all night. Trafalgar cursed himself, feeling shameful that he'd begun to look at you differently, think of you … differently; letting the sinful thoughts he normally kept buried in the innermost crevice of his brain, come flying to the forefront of his mind.

Frustrated, Law began to assume you were teasing him on purpose with the way you’d parade around the bedroom with nothing on but his yellow Heart Pirates hoodie that just barely covered the top of your plush thighs. When he first noticed you’d stolen his hoodie one evening before dinner, his mouth practically hit the floor, not expecting to see you wearing his clothes. He felt his heart drop to his ass, eyes shifting nervously when he saw the way your curves stretched the hoodie in all the right places.

Needless to say, the man had been a flustered mess all week.

Fortunately for Law, you decided to join the rest of the crew for a night out at a local tavern giving him the time and space needed to recompose himself. He was a Captain and your respected leader. What did he look like indulging in perverted childlike fantasies?

At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

As you were preparing to go out for the evening, Law stepped outside your shared quarters to give you the privacy you needed to get dressed, however; when you made your grand outfit reveal, the Captain swallowed harshly - throat feeling painfully dry and constricted. You practically knocked the air from his lungs when he saw the way in which the ribbed bodycon material clung to your hips or even the way your cleavage spilled out the front - only to be contained by thin straps that hung off the shoulder.

“You’re going out wearing that?” Law frowned, examining you from head to toe, awkwardly clearing his throat, realizing that his question came off way more forward and controlling than he intended for it to.

“Mhm.” you responded casually as you ran your fingers through your freshly curled hair.

“Something wrong with my outfit?” you asked back, slightly annoyed at Law’s tone as you turned to face him, letting him get an even clearer view of your fit.

Law immediately shifted his head to the floor, hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat. How stupid! He thought to himself.

“Course not. I-” Law stumbled over his words trying to make sense of what he meant to say, in a futile attempt to not make an even bigger fool of himself. “Bars can be unsafe you know, just … be careful is all.” Law managed as he regained his stoic demeanor.

“Thanks, Dad-” you said sarcastically, but instantly covered your mouth at the snippy comment that flew out at your superior without even a second thought. “I mean, Captain.” you quickly corrected yourself, nervous that you’d be scolded for being a smartass.

Law’s words got caught in his throat as the nickname dripped from your tongue. His mind was clearly in the gutter so much so, he glossed over the fact that you were being a bit too sassy for his liking. Law just grumbled and made his way to his desk, burying himself into his studies, the way one always does on a Friday night if you’re Trafalgar Law.

As much as he convinced himself that this was about your safety, a nagging, intrusive voice in the back of his head decided to surface.

What if someone else had caught your attention?

With the way you looked in your dress, there was no way that other men wouldn’t take notice and that didn’t sit right with Law. He wasn’t your boyfriend so what could he really say or do besides sulk and drown in his own pity that he wasn't man enough to ask you out himself and accompany you to the tavern.

12:30am struck the clock and Law had been alone, isolated in his bedroom for some time now. Hunched over his desk with only a small warm-hued lamp to provide light; there were papers, highlighters and books scattered about as this was certainly not an unusual scene for the Doctor. Gray irises slowly disappeared under tired, heavy lids as he found himself zoning out more than usual.

As he leaned back in his desk chair for a break, his mind took a sudden turn. Sounds of your needy whimpers and cries rang out in Trafalgar’s ears, replaying the way you desperately called out his name a few nights prior. Law could feel the room closing in on him. His button up shirt felt a bit hot and his signature spotted jeans felt more constricted than usual. With a quick glance down, it was evident that he’d gotten turned on from the thought of your fingers being knuckles deep inside of your sweet cunt, pleasuring yourself, mere feet away from his bedroom.

Law sat back and exhaled deeply trying to calm himself and the primal urges he often suppressed. However, he’d been so overstimulated; truly drunk off you these past few days that he needed to relieve this pent up stress. It was slowly bubbling for days to come, often having been ignored, but the way his cock was now painfully pushing against the rough fabric of his jeans, Law knew something needed to be done.

Just one time wouldn’t hurt.

Law decided to peek over at the clock once more. He knew that the crew would be out for at least 30 minutes more and figured a quick stress reliever would do the trick.

The Doctor fumbled with the zipper on his jeans, instantly shoving them down just far enough to release his strained cock. With a sigh, Law palmed the thick outline of his member, savoring the feeling of the soft cotton providing friction against his swollen tip.

For once, Law completely let himself go as he rested his head back on the comfortable leather pad of his chair. Pulling his cock out completely, he gave it one slow, experimental stroke, hissing from the contact.

He immediately got to work, spitting on his hand and placing firm tattooed fingers around the base of his cock, stroking himself at a steady pace as he thought about you being on your knees in front of him in that pretty little dress you wore out tonight. How sweet it would be for those luscious lips to be wrapped around the tip of his cock, suckling with such force and intent that his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Law’s breathing began to increase and quiet grunts left his lips as he let his head lull backwards, eyes squeezed shut and jaw slack, fully embracing this much needed alone time. Law wrapped his fingers around his cock a bit tighter as he picked up the pace, fucking himself with his hand. Images of your mascara-run tear stained face filled his mind as he envisioned that his warm, wet hand was your mouth sucking and slurping fervently as he shoved himself down your throat.

“Fuck … keep going, love. Just like that.” He panted out, desperate whines finding their way past his slightly chapped lips. Law’s chest heaved as he began pumping faster, bringing himself closer to his release.

“God, Y/N-ya, you suck this cock so well …” The words sensually left his mouth with each pump.

Wet squelching sounds bounced off the metal walls as Law mindlessly fucked his hand, wishing it was your sweet mouth. He so desperately wanted to shove his cock down your throat, mercilessly fucking your face and release his creamy seed all over your delicious tits.

His vision began to blur as he found himself on the edge of his orgasm, mindlessly using his other hand to fondle his balls, tugging gently while simultaneously focusing on the tip. The pleasure was overwhelming and Law knew he wouldn’t last much longer. It wasn’t often he relieved himself so he knew the load would be massive.

The pornographic sounds of his pleasure echoed in the metal room as he struggled to keep his grunts under wraps. Your name now tumbling from his lips like a wicked chant with every pump. Beads of sweat gathered around his hairline, causing some of his jet black locks to stick to the sides of his face. With just a few pumps left, he knew that his hand would soon be filled with his milky essence.

As Law brought himself to the cusp of orgasm, there was suddenly a knock at the door causing him to be distracted from his last few strokes. Startled, he released the grip on his cock but it started to involuntarily twitch, spurting tons of thick cum all over his hand and his lap. Law’s unexpected hands free orgasm hit him so suddenly, his fist flew to his mouth biting down, to ensure there would be no sounds made as he rode out his high.

“O-one moment!” He called out to the guest on the other side of the door, praying that his shaky breath wasn't obvious. Law scowled and scrambled to find tissue underneath the piles of books on his desk, desperate to clean up the evidence of his arousal and pull his pants back up.

As Law hurriedly zipped his jeans, he walked to the door casually, hoping that his delay wouldn’t raise any red flags. To his surprise, you were standing on the other side with a lust blown expression on your face.

“Everything alright?” you asked hesitantly, hoping that the flush on your face would be written off as too much alcohol and not the fact that you’d been listening to Law pleasure himself for the last 10 minutes. Your legs were like jelly, your mind was clouded, and the arousal that pooled between your thighs was fierce as you were sure your ears didn’t deceive you.

“Yes, all good here.” Law managed to keep a composed poker face, now stepping aside to let you inside of your shared bedroom.

“How was your night out? The crew behave themselves?” Law did his best to keep the casual conversation flowing. He was slightly fidgety because he had no idea how long you’d been standing outside of the door before you actually decided to knock.

“Crew was fine.” You said casually, as you stepped inside and examined the bedroom only to spot a balled up tissue left in the corner of Law’s desk.

“How about you? Good evening?” You initially figured it’d be best to play dumb. You knew Law was an anxious man and being put on the spot was something he hated the most but with the performance he just put on, there was no way you’d let an opportunity such as this slip by.

Law plopped down on the bed, rubbing his face, exhausted from the orgasm that washed over him moments before you came in. “Yeah, I uh, caught up on some late night reading … you know how that is.” Law was lying straight through his teeth because why would he admit the truth, right?

Suddenly, you kicked off your heels without saying a single word in response. You slowly brought your body across the bedroom until you were standing directly in front of Law, who now had a confused look on his face.

“You know Captain, if you wanted it … you could have just asked.” You said softly with a small smile. You blamed the alcohol for your boldness as you forcefully gripped the front of Law’s muscular shoulders and pushed him on his back.

Law’s eyes practically bulged out of his head, a look of pure horror ran across his face as he began to put two and two together.

You heard. You heard everything.

As Law tried to process a million emotions a minute; embarrassment, shame, guilt, all at once - suddenly a look of calm caressed his features. Eerily calm. He realized that he was exposed and that there was nothing he could do to deny this so he in fact, decided to play along. A sly smirk grazed his lips.

“Y/N-ya…” the deep, gruff tone in his voice sent shivers down your spine as you listened to him say your name with so much lust and desire.

“Yes, Captain?” you said sweetly and batted your eyes innocently as you began to crawl onto his lap, straddling him in your tiny dress, red lacy thong peeking through.

“Show me exactly what you were doing in your room the other night…” Law demanded, his voice sounding sexy and smooth like silk as he looked up directly into your eyes.

“And don’t you dare play dumb with me…”

tags: @jordyn-degas @unsuretater-simp 🖤

#trafalgar law #trafalgar law smut #law smut #trafalgar law one shot #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #one piece one shot #heart pirates

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thecameronchronicles · 1 year

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Sessions 2

PART 1

TW: Dark!Rafe. Smut. Language. Mentions of domestic abuse.

SUMMARY: A late night visit from Rafe has you blurring the lines between patient and lover yet again…

WORD COUNT: 2000

*Requested*

Sessions 2

You knew that you should have been relieved when he didn’t show on that next Thursday at ten. And yet, all you could do was think about him. Even as other patients took a spot on that chaise that still wore evidence of your last session with him in its plumb leather having been torn, your lack of professionalism would be noted by many clients that showcased their frustrations. And yet, after validating them in the promise of your focus, although deceptive, your mind had returned to the thoughts of Rafe. You knew it was wrong. It was unprofessional. It was unethical. And yet, you simply couldn’t focus on anyone but your favorite patient…

Paperwork due that following Monday to keep from being swamped in the coming weeks, you remained in your office well beyond the hours stated upon the doors of your private practice as you could feel the weight of the day force your body into fatigue. Although you loved what you did in hindsight, it had been days like these that reminded you just how mundane it could be. Or at least how it had been until he had become your patient.

A soft knock to your opaque glass door would introduce you to him well beyond what was appropriate, a word that no longer held validity between the two of you. But as you jumped immediately to answer, hoping it would be him coming to you for an encore, you hesitated, reminding yourself this was not going to HAVE a repeat. No matter the pulsation between your legs or need only he could quell. You told yourself not to answer that door.

“I can see your light on…” You scrunched your face together before correcting your eased buttons now reset into their slits and pulled your hair back into a bun as you convinced yourself that you'd make sure he was alright before sending him away. If not for the heavy change of tone caused from emotion in his timbre, you would have been able to act indifferent from him. But you could hear the pain, the pain you wanted to ease-despite your better judgment.

But the second you opened the door, you found him in a state rivaling anything but ‘alright’.

“Rafe-”

“Before you say it isn’t right, I had nowhere else to go…” He explained, trying and failing to hide a sniffle, before he turned just right for you to learn the extent of his injuries. A busted lip and a bruised cheek that may reach to blacken his eye by morning light, not to mention what he concealed beneath his jacket.

“I was getting ready to leave, Rafe…” You spoke as calmly as you could, trying to appear indifferent, even if the sight of his wounds pulled at your heartstrings and twisted them into considering blurring those lines between right and wrong.

“Home?” He asked with a raised brow.

“Alone.” You validated as the pain behind his eyes seemed to change him. Whatever he endured, whatever made him miss that prior session with you and stand on your stoop now, had turned his usual brazen existence into one of a timid unrest. He was shifty and impatient, but almost too sheepish to speak. But all that would change when he saw that red lingerie peeking out from beneath your blouse.

“You wore it…” You retracted your hand from the mug offered to him, handing the coffee you’d made absent-mindedly as a comfort you now offered to him, before noticing that arrogance having returned.

“I-”

“So that means I can expect you to be without panties as well?” He asked, now leaning closer to the edge of the couch.

“You should go, Rafe…”

“Prove me wrong…” His words silenced you. “If you have even a little thong under that skirt then I’ll go…”

“I am not undressing for you Rafe. You had a bad night. You just need to go home and sleep it off. Or maybe at one of your friend’s places…Even your car…But not here-” He stared into space for a second before slamming down the mug on the table to such a degree that it cracked and broke. And yet, neither of you cared for this as he was suddenly advancing towards you. He had pinned you against the wall with his knee between your legs, the fabric of your skirt pulled to your hips.

“I knew it. You waited for this…and I let you down by not showing up…”

“What happened never should have-”

“Then why aren’t you wearing panties? Why are you wearing red like I asked?” His fingers brushed between your lower lips as his lips parted in a scoff. “And why are you so fucking wet right now?”

“You need to leave.”

“And YOU need to come…Don’t you? Bet you thought about it all day playing doctor…Hearing about all their stupid little problems while needing a solution for your own.” He bit his bottom lip as your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him,a commitment you could never quite venture to as his fingers felt too good.

“I bet you wanted to slip your fingers between your thighs and relieve it…Seeing that couch…Remembering how good I fell inside of you when you were on it…”

“Stop.” You spoke sternly, the word having surprised him.

“You’re hurt, Rafe-”

“Is that what you want, doc? You wanna talk about why I missed our session? Why you had to spend all day wondering where I was? If I was with someone else? Does it bother you to know I was?” You clenched your jaw. You wanted to deny it. But in truth, it made you livid. To know someone else got to hear his grunts of pleasure and feel his cock stretch them from wall to wall, staining him while he spoke the same name she called you.

“Isn’t it what you said? I should get a nice girl? Well they were…SO nice…” You clenched around his fingers.

“Yeah…that’s what I thought.You WANT to be good…but you’re just as fucked up as all of us…and lucky for you…” He moved to his knees.

“I know exactly how to deal with it.” You tried to stop him, but as your hands ran through his hair to pull him away, he would be pulled closer by your convictions. A devilish tongue making familiar strides of pleasure between your aching folds, needing even just a taste of what you knew he could offer. The same thing you had thought of with every client, every problem they spoke of, every tick of that clock hanging above the door.

Suddenly you were turned around, bent to a degree that he could savor you from behind, a smack to your ass allowed for his own pleasure. A pleased groan validated this as he returned inside of you.

“Rafe-stop-STOP!” You groaned as he retracted, your nails clawing into the wall in front of you as he stood at your back, matching your breathlessness.

“You want to talk about my problems instead of coming on my tongue? Does it turn you on that way? To know that I’m shattered enough that only your body can fix me? Being buried in it? Coming in it?”

“Rafe, enough-”

“No. YOU wanted to talk. YOU didn’t have to open that door. So you’re gonna fucking listen.” He ordered, dragging you by your hair and leading you to the couch.

“But you’re gonna do it while making me feel good…because I’ve fucking earned that too-” He unbuckled himself, leading his cock’s head to your lips. “Better start now, there’s a lot to cover…before I cover you…”

“Rafe-” You were interrupted by the forceful insertion of his cock behind your mouth, your gag endorsing him into a moan.

“He found the little recorder I brought back of us…told me all I do is fuck up…Said I’ll never be like her,” You knew he spoke of his sister as he was compared to her often, “Said he wished I wasn’t born…If only he knew how often I wished that too.” You paused your emotions as he tightened his grip on your hair. You wanted to berate Ward for speaking to his son that way, but you also knew you could mend the ache left behind by such words. Even if you knew you shouldn’t…

“If you stop again, you’re only going to be able to nod to your other patients. Your throat will be so fucking raw…” You obliged as he continued.

“I stood up to him,” He winced at the way you took him at such depth, hand screwing around his base and allowing him the pleasure that mended the pain of the words spoken.

“But he’s right…I’m a fuck up…And it’s all I AM good at…” He looked down at you. “Look at you…Crying for me, like I always wanted, and I still want more…I want to hurt you, I want to make you hurt for ME…” To this, you retracted, his grip now pulling you over the edge of the couch.

“You want to help me? You want me to get better?” You turned back to face him, watching him pull his cock between you, spitting on it, before thrusting viciously into you, “Then take it even better than last time and stop trying to fucking analyze me!” He shot.

“Rafe-” He pulled his belt from the loops lowered near his knees, taking it into your mouth and using it as a means to pull you back towards him. The pain was contradicted with the pleasure between your thighs as he was relentless in pounding into you.

“YOU want to know my frustrations? My demons? FEEL ‘em…EVERY FUCKING ONE!” He grunted.

“Rafe!”

“NO! You wanted this! You wanted to fix me! SO FIX ME!” He grunted, ignoring the pleas and tears as you were pulled onto the coffee table of the waiting room, magazines disheveled and torn, as he set you at an angle around him to where he could lift and lower you as he saw fit.

“Rub it…I wanna watch you do it…Because you’re not allowed to without me and you had to wait all day, and you did…so you should get a reward, right?” You nodded and whimpered. “So do it before I take it away…” You moaned, obeying and granting him the sight as he moaned.

“Fuck…yeah, you do it real good…poor doctor need someone to take care of her, right? Then let her favorite patient make her come…”

“Rafe!”

“Bet you thought of it like this all day, didn’t you? Maybe me between your legs at the desk in your little office while they waited for you?” He chuckled. “Maybe JUST like this? Maybe on that chaise again? Doesn’t matter, does it? Because I get you like this! ME!”

“You!”

“SAY IT AGAIN!”

“YOU!” You cried out as you bent forward, his hand reaching behind the back of your neck and leading you towards him until his forehead came at a rest to yours.

“I’m your dirty little secret and you’re my prescription, Doc-all I need to make me feel better.” He quickened as he felt you buckle beneath him.

“And I am the only one that can make you come like this, and you hate it…you hate how much you love it.”

“Ahhh…”

“That’s it…come on…you’re so close….let it go…”

“MMM…HMM..MMMM!” You squealed as you washed over him, his body stalling just long enough to savor the ripples from your own body, before he would take you all for himself.

“THIS is all I need. THIS is what makes me sane…YOU-Coming inside you…feeling how badly you need me.

“Rafe-”

“Tell me to come-” He interrupted you.

“Co-come-”

“LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

“COME!” He obeyed, painting you as you requested, remaining inside of you as you were forced to feel every flex of his cock.

“You need to consider making house calls, Doc, because one hour a week isn’t enough.” You hesitated to respond.

“That wasn’t a question.” nodded.

“Good.” And without a word, he left, leaving you wondering when you’d see him again. Because in truth, you needed to, just as badly as he claimed to need you. And it was enough to silence your guilt. For now at least…

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae @belcalis9503 @camilynn22 @bethoconnor

#rafecameron x reader #rafecameron #rafe cameron #rafecameronfanfiction #rafe cameron smut #rafe outer banks #outerbanks #outer banks smut #obx #obxsmut #obx fanfiction

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gon-and-killuas-mother · 11 months

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i am attempting "light therapy" to help fix my sleep schedule and i'm cranky about it

my aunt, who's a neuropsychiatrist (one of the few women in her field and fairly well known at this point, don't know if anyone's heard of Dr. Jo Cara Pendergrass but damn she's cool) was in town this week to look after her mom post-cataract surgery

Cara is probably the smartest person in the family, all things considered

(my brother and I give her a run for her money but neither of us intend on getting a goddamn PhD lol) (also my dad wouldn't appreciate me saying that, he is also pretty smart. but like. he's got intelligence, he's just lacking in wisdom)

ANYWAY. of all the people in the family, Cara is the person i rarely have to explain my illnesses to. usually, i have to tack on a brief description of it anytime i say "yeah i have EDS and fibromyalgia and IBS and--"

but last time i saw her over Christmas, i told her the diagnosis and had my script prepared to explain, but she just went "Oh yeah Ehlers Danlos -- wait. Oh."

her face did the thing where she was processing new info at light speed by blinking and cycling through several expressions as the pieces of the mystery that is my chronic ailments settled themselves in place

unfortunately i wasn't at the point where i was comfortable enough to tell anyone how miserable and in pain i was, that was something i put off another couple of months before i confessed to Nana that i'd become a grocery thief and was on my way to being homeless. that's also around when my brother asked my permission to share my story with the family, because he knows how difficult it is for me to admit how much i'm struggling.

i'm rambling tbh but only to keep me awake and sitting outside long enough

ANYWAY

so Cara was here this week. i went to visit the other night. we always have really interesting conversations about our brains and genes and family shite, i don't think anyone other than my brother and i can actually hold a conversation with her about that kind of shit.

i did NOT go there just for advice, but when i told her how much trouble i've had getting out of bed before evening, she gave me a couple of tips that i'm now trying out

1). the 24-hour sleep deprivation strategy

it sounds like a nightmare to me, but apparently has supporting evidence that, at least in the short term, resets your circadian rhythm.

if you've ended up awake hours past your desired bedtime, then instead of simply going to bed late, it's advised* to keep yourself awake throughout the rest of the day until the next bedtime.

( * WITH CONSULTATION OR SUPERVISION OF A DOCTOR)

the reason this is supposedly effective is that the longer you stay awake, the higher the sleep pressure becomes (sleep pressure is just your body's signal to go the fuck to bed, which is something i'm intimately familiar with as it's a constant companion of mine regardless of sleep hygiene). the higher the sleep pressure the easier it is to fall asleep and, ideally, the better your sleep becomes.

Cara did emphasize that as far as we know, it's only a short term strategy. either we haven't done enough studies or we haven't figured out how to apply it to a longer term solution.

2). Light therapy

i was already somewhat aware of this but not to the extent that Cara explained.

the trick here is to force yourself out of bed (if you're able) and sit outside. preferably on sunny days. she said this even works if you end up falling asleep outside anyway, you're still absorbing sunlight.

there's no immediate change, as it does take a few days or more to notice any improvements (this checks out, as i am still drowsy as fuck) but doing this daily or semi-daily gradually convinces the body and brain to be awake earlier.

it's one of those things that a lot of disabled folk like me, especially those with fucked up sleep, would hear and get annoyed with, because we've tried so many different strategies that have each failed one way or another. and hearing "go outside" just reminds me of my mother and every yoga enthusiast insisting on all natural medicine, which understandably raises my metaphorical hackles.

but Cara, again, is the smartest person i know. i'm much more willing to take the advice of a neuropsychiatrist over a yoga mom, despite them actually agreeing on something.

and also? i do miss the Sun, quite terribly.

so if, by sometime next week, i'm magically able to wake up earlier with less struggle, i will let y'all know. i'm gonna be cranky about it, especially if it actually WORKS, but as the neighborhood mascot of Sleep Deprivation i think i'm a pretty good indicator if something like this is legit or not.

｡⁠:ﾟ⁠(⁠;⁠´⁠∩⁠`⁠;⁠)ﾟ⁠:⁠｡

#tink rambles #trying to resist going back for a nap #been sitting out here an hour though so thats something #unfortunately i dont get any direct sunlight bc my apartment is north facing and the roof extends past the balcony #maybe if i can hobble down to the pool next week i can do some sunbathing #but only if i can find my sunscreen lol i burn exactly like my irish ancestors on sunny days

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mistresspotterhead · 3 years

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The American Ymbryne- Chap. 1

Alma Peregrine x fem!reader

Warnings: Yelling, slamming hands on a table, being outed (kind of)

Words: 1,900 on the dot

A/N: Wow, this took a lil bit. Alma doesn’t appear until the very end of this chapter, but she’ll be in the next one a lot. Everyone has been so kind, and that has helped a lot <3. Also: Miss Saker indicates the type of bird you are, not your given name. I hope you guys like this. 😊😊😊

Tags: @itsonlydana @evil-feather @merci-bitch @multimilfs @escapetodreamworld @gay-and-sad-tm @multifandomfix @romanottsmaximoff @n0thing-is-real-exe @theaudreymere

(ask if you want to be added/removed)

In a strange way, Cairnholm reminded you of the Chicago loop you and your wards had just fled from. They were both very dreary, cold, and, from what you could tell from those on the ferry, the people would rather be anywhere else.

“M-miss Saker? I’m cold.” The bundle of talking coats shivered next to you.

“I know, Astrid. We’re almost there, though.” You sighed and looked out toward the slowly approaching coastline. Your surviving children, Elina, Alexander, Leonard, and, of course, Astrid, all huddled closer to you. You stared at Cairnholm for a while longer, until the ferryman’s voice suddenly called out.

“Alright everyone, ‘ere we are! The… lovely… Cairnholm!” He steered the small ferry over to the somehow smaller docks, and you led your children out.

“Is everyone here? Astrid, Leo, Elina, Alex?” David, Beth-Anne, Lisa, Frankie, June, Stefanie, Josef, Alice, Rosie, Reggie. You suppressed the urge to call out their names as well.

“Yes, Miss Saker,” they called in long-suffering voices- you were very adamant about attendance. It was good to see something was normal.

“All right then. Leo, can you see where the loop is? And Alex, are there any other peculiars near?” Ah yes, your diviners. It was very lucky for all of you that they were two of those that survived the wight’s invasion of your loop.

Your Chicago loop near the Art Institute was one of the last surviving loops in America maintained by an Ymbryne, along with your South Side, McKinley Park, and St. Louis loops, though the latter was run mainly by its older wards and reset once a week.

As of a fortnight ago, though, the Art Institute loop was the only one you had. McKinley Park was attacked by Wights and Hollows in December, with South Side following close in early January. Samuel, the sole survivor of McKinley Park, was what Syndrygasti call a Librarian. He could see hollows and alerted you to them when you were traveling to St. Louis for reset. The problem with this, though, was that Sammy was only five years old, and so frequently got distracted.

It wasn’t hard to understand- Illinois in 1975 was very colorful. Sammy was gone now, though, as were all most all of your children. Speaking of…

“There aren’t any other peculiars on the island, Miss Saker- at least not in this time,” Alex said, startling you out of your thoughts.

“Thank you, dear. How are you faring, Leo? Have you located the loop? I don’t like being out in the open for this long.” For emphasis, Elina gave a giant, chattering shiver that was surely exaggerated.

“Indeed, but it is on the other side of the island, and the night is fast approaching.”

You looked over and scowled at the sun; if you couldn’t get rest, then why was it allowed to?

“Well then. It looks like we’ll have to go into town.” Immediately, protests arose.

“Aw, no!”

“Come on, Miss Saker! We can make camp out here!”

“Because that sounds comfortable,” Leo deadpanned to Astrid.

“Well, it’s better than town! There probably isn’t even a hotel!”

“Actually, Astrid, that’s where you’re wrong.” Astrid looked shocked at the suggestion that she could ever be incorrect at something. “There is a hotel. It’s called the….” You took out the crumpled guidebook the ferryman had given to each tourist. “Preist Hole. What kind of hotel is called the Priest Hole?” You muttered that last part to yourself. “Anyway, off we go. Come along, single file now.”

Your ducklings dutifully arranged themselves from youngest to oldest, seven-year-old Elina closest to you and sixteen-year-old Leo at the back.

You hoped that the food was at least good.

Nope. Everything on the Preist Hole’s menu was covered with vinegar. You wondered if that was a Welsh thing or a Cairnholm thing. Maybe the owner just liked vinegar. Next to you, Elina was grimacing with every bite. On a whim, you decided to flag the bartender down.

“Hey, Kev, was it?” He grinned widely at you. You gave him a small smile in return.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me. What can I do for you ‘n yer bunch today?”

“I was just wondering if you had some fries- sorry, chips- with less vinegar. My youngest is still picky.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll talk to Arnie ‘n see what he can whip up fer ye. He’s the cook, ye see.”

“Thank you so much, sir.” You attempted a bigger smile, but it still felt forced.

“Naw, it ain’t a problem, really. ‘N please, call me Kev. Sir sounds like I’m fifty- ‘n I’ve still got twenty years ‘fore that,” he chuckled.

“Well then, you must call me y/n.”

“Of course, ma’am- y/n, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s alright, Kev.” This time, your smile was a small bit genuine- his hesitancy was endearing.

“Yeh. Well, um, I’d better talk teh Arnie now. I’ve kinda been lingering here for a while.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you from work, anyway.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t object if yeh did,” Kev concluded, winking before walking away.

Once he was out of earshot, Astrid started chittering.

“Ooh, was that flirting I saw, Miss Saker?” You rolled your eyes, and Alex guffawed into his water.

“Miss Saker? Flirt with a guy? I think Elina would drink an entire bottle of vinegar before that happened.” You turned your head sharply in his direction, but not before Astrid snapped back at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You jerk your head toward her now.

“Well, Miss Saker isn’t really the type to, ah, dabble in the male gene pool.” It was like you were watching tennis, really, with all this head-turning.

“That doesn’t make any-”

“ENOUGH!” You stood up, placing your hands on the bar. “This is not a discussion we are having, especially not here and now. Alex, I told you that information in confidence, and I am severely disappointed that you have betrayed that. Astrid, whether or not I am flirting with someone, and really my love life in general, is none of your concern. Do you both understand?”

They nodded, Alex looking especially ashamed of himself.

“Sorry, Miss Saker. It just slipped out.”

You sighed and ignored all the stares you and your wards were getting because of your outburst.

“Alright, Alex. Just… you can’t share things that people tell you privately.”

“Yes, Miss Saker.” He was quiet after that, poking at his food.

It bothered you that he had shared that information, though it didn’t seem as if the other wards had understood. Of course, Leo was the only one you would expect to, as he was sixteen, but he had been sheltered in your loop his entire life. All of your wards had, really.

Just as you were beginning to sink into your past again, Kev came out with Elina’s new plate of fr- chips.

“Here ye are, little lady. I hope you like these better.” He smiled at Elina, tugging a small one out in return. You both watched expectantly as she took a tentative bite. And another. And another. Until the plate was almost gone, and she was rubbing her stomach in contentment.

“Well, that was fast.”

“It was good, Miss Saker. I wasn’t going to let it cool.” You laughed at the disapproving look on her face.

“Alright, alright. I suppose you have a good point.” You turned to Kev. “Thank you again, sir, for-”

“Kev.”

“...right. Thank you for doing this. How much will it cost?” You were ruffled at his interruption, but he didn’t notice. He pretended to think for a moment.

“Hmm… how much will makin’ a little girl ‘n her mam happy cost? I dunno.” He smiled at you. “It’s on the house. I can see that ye haven’t had such a good day, so….”

“Really? Are you sure? I mean, I have the money….”

“I’m completely sure. It’s good te make someone happy once in a while.”

“Well, I truly do thank you. It also seems that we’ll need a room, if that’s alright?”

“Sure. Room four was just recently vacated. It’s right up here.” He led you up the stairs, the kids trailing behind.

The room was small for five people, but it seemed like a mansion to the children, who only had their old, overcrowded loop to compare it to. There were four rickety beds, though they did seem to be clean, and a barren nightstand next to each of them.

“Ah… I forgot that this only had four beds. I can get ye another room, or-”

“No, no, this is fine. Thank you for your help, Kev.” You subtly ushered him toward the door.

“Oh- well, if ye need anythi-”

“Yes, of course. Ta, then! Have a nice day!” You shut the door, leaving him very confused.

Alex was wheezing on the floor behind you.

“That… that was absolutely amazing Miss Saker! You are an absolute icon!”

What in Abaton does that mean? You never could understand the new slang terms that the 1970s held.

Elina yawned, setting off all the other children and alerting you to their needs.

“Alright then, time for bed.” Immediately, they were completely awake.

“I’m not tired at all, Miss Saker, therefore I shan’t be able to fall asleep.”

“The fact that your accent is coming out very strongly tells me that you are indeed tired, Leo.” You crossed your arms. “Bed. now.” Your wards slouched, and grudgingly picked out a bed each.

“Miss Saker, where will you sleep tonight?” Astrid asked as you were tucking her covers in.

“On the floor, of course. Now, did you remember to take off your gloves?”

“But it won’t be comfortable! The floor is so hard and cold and dirty and-”

“Your gloves, Astrid.” She was very talkative, even late at night, though you had come to enjoy it. Sometimes.

She took off the gloves that helped control her peculiarity and was about to start chattering again when Elina suddenly spoke up from her bed in the corner.

“I could make you a nest with a spare blanket, Miss Saker?” You gave her one of your very rare genuine smiles.

“That would be lovely, Elina.”

“Wait- how did she know you were going to sleep in bird form?” Alex asked, finally catching on. You smiled again at Elina and kissed her on the forehead.

“She’s made me a little nest before when I fall asleep in my study while in bird form.”

“And that happens often?”

“Surprisingly so. Now, snuggle in and no more talking.” As the children said their goodnights, you finally transformed into your bird form; a stunning saker falcon. You jumped lightly onto Elina’s bed, careful not to hurt her with your razor-sharp talons or accidentally hit her with your wing (which had happened on more than one occasion).

Though you nestled into the warm bunch of blankets right away, you didn’t fall asleep until much later, and even then, you were restless all night.

---

Little did you know, in the old manor that you would trek to the next day, a group of peculiars and one very curious ymbryne had observed all of this. Alma LeFay Peregrine set her watch and gave the children a reassuring smile while she pondered what this meant and why her stomach had fluttered when you gave that dazzling smile.

#tw yelling #tw slamming hands down #tw being outed #alma peregrine x reader #miss peregrine x reader #alma peregrine #wow im so gay for her

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mandoinevarro · 3 years

Text

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @geannad @coaaster @frietiemeloen @yourbucky084 @brynnstudies @elfwoodfae

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

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xaharadesert · 3 years

Text

Return to the Lazaret Alone Pt. 5 - Headcanon

Asra Alnazar x MC

A/N: Almost done! @snarkfinnicksoup, only one more to go after this! But of course, who knows how long it’ll actually take me to get around to writing it :) Requests are open! Oh, and for anyone who’s wondering, after I finish this request I have about 8 others that have been sitting in my inbox for way too long, so if it takes a long time for me to post your request, that’s why! I like to take my time and write these headcanons to the best of my ability! Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes! Also, I know this didn’t touch on MC’s reasons for going to the Lazaret as much as the previous parts, but I feel like at this point it’s a bit repetitive. But, I made Asra’s perspective extra angsty to make up for it!

TW: crying, Lazaret, isolation, relationship insecurities, anxiety, panic attack, food mention, mentions of death

Spoilers for the end of the game!

💙Asra💙

Leaving an argument unresolved was one of Asra’s least favourite things to do

Even if the two of you couldn’t reach a compromise or some sort of agreement, he, at the bare minimum, always liked to soothe over any hurt feelings before separating in any way

Your last argument before you had lost your memories would forever be one of his greatest regrets, and he was determined not to make the same mistake by letting you think he didn’t love you completely

So even if you were angry, and needed some time to sort out your feelings before addressing the issue again, he would take your hand tightly in his own and tell you that he loved you before letting you go off on your own

With that being said, your most recent argument was much more bitter than usual, and even though he had still told you he loved you, he felt as though you hadn’t heard him properly

The both of you had gone to bed feeling bad, but neither of you had wanted to stay up any later fighting

Once sleep had reset your emotions, you could try again more peacefully in the morning

Or at least, that’s what Asra had hoped would happen

But when he woke up the next morning, it was to find you missing

Now normally, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence

He liked to sleep in late as often as possible, and no matter how long you slept, he would probably be in bed longer

So you not being next to him shouldn’t have scared him as much as it did

But to some degree, your emotions were connected, and he could feel his heart ache right along side you

He was out of bed before any other thoughts could register in his mind, throwing on some clothes, allowing Faust to slither into his shirt, and grabbing a few key items— most importantly, his compass

Not bothering with breakfast, he followed the compass’s needle as it pointed him toward what he desired most: you

He moved through the town quickly, not returning any of the greetings thrown his way by familiar townsfolk

An unpleasant feeling tugged at his gut, telling him that he already knew where you were

Telling him that the past three years had been a lie; telling him that his worst fears were a reality

Telling him that you were dead

His panic rose instead his chest, threatening to burst out

Doing his best to push it down, he kept moving, trying to convince himself that maybe you were just buying something at the edge of town

He couldn’t consider any other possibilities without breaking down

So when he came to the edge of town, the end of the dock, facing toward the Lazaret, that’s what he did

He broke down

Rationally, he knew you were fine

He didn’t know why you would have gone to the Lazaret, much less alone, but he knew that you were alive

But a larger part of him didn’t care

It insisted that you were dead, that he had failed to save you, that you hated him for everything he put you through

And he couldn’t help but fall to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he tried to stop himself from screaming for you

He felt like he couldn’t breathe; there was an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, slowly and painfully strangling him

The dock beneath him seemed to be falling away, and he felt like he was falling with it, not into the water below, but into an endless void

After what felt like an eternity, he slowly regained control of his senses

There were a couple people kneeling beside him, hovering but not touching as they tried to talk him back to reality

He didn’t recognize them, so they were likely just concerned passerbys, but he appreciated them nonetheless

It took a while, but eventually he was calm enough to convince them to leave him be

Now that the initial panic had passed by, he felt empty, but at the same time, determined

He wasn’t sure how long he had taken for himself, but he felt ready to find you and bring you back home, where you belonged

Quickly finding someone willing to ferry him to the Lazaret for a certain price, he sat in a small boat, staring solemnly at the Lazaret as it slowly grew bigger

When he reached the shore, he asked the boat’s owner to wait just a while until his return with you

He pulled out the compass and followed it once more, refusing to look at his surroundings lest he fall into panic again

It lead him into the lone building occupying the island and he pushed down his rising fear again, focusing on the fact that every step brought him closer to you

And there you were; curled up to be as small as possible, sitting on the ash covered ground

He choked back a cry and very nearly threw himself at you, holding you tight and trying not to break down again

You were startled for sure— Asra hadn’t made a sound when he came in— but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy being relieved and repeating quietly out loud that you were alive, you were safe, you were with him

And frankly, if you started crying to, then nobody would be able to blame you

The two of you clung together, crying for different reasons, but crying nonetheless

Eventually Asra managed to pry himself away from you just enough to look deep into you eyes

His cries slowly turned to laughter out of relief that you were safe, back to crying because of where he had found you, back to laughter again because, yes, he had found you, and you were alive

All in all it was a very messy and confusing time for the both of you

But eventually calm and relative silence fell over you as a comforting blanket, save for the occasional sniffle or chuckle

Frankly, neither of you was in a state to talk things through at the moment

You would, for sure, as there was no way Asra would ever leave anything unresolved ever again, but for that one day, all he wanted to do was take you home and hold you close

He shakily pushed himself to his feet, and tried to help you up despite not being very stable himself

The two of you left the Lazaret hand in hand, relieved to be together, but knowing you had much to talk about later

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scriptaed · 3 years

Text

his side, her side finale | 00:00

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut;

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 4.6k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

No matter how infinite the pages could write itself, in the way that he catches her stealing glances from across the room or the scalding spark imprinted on her hand by the touch of his own, there really are only three versions to every story: his side, her side, and the truth’s side; and in your unsolicited albeit self-justified defense, the truth is, what was once seemingly perpetual is now merely trivial. The imagery that once had you kicking and screaming into your sheets at night, the fleeting moments that were shared by both but valued by one, and the inevitably incessant burden of jealousy brought upon by a fervent want that could never be had could only have been falsified by a break—spatially, temporally, and heartfully. The mind can only tug so much at one’s strings; and yet, to be bent, only time could prove possible.

...and that time is exactly what is needed by all.

her side;

“Are you joining us for dinner tonight, Y/N?”

“Huh? What?” your ears perk at the sound of your friend’s call.

“Oh, there she goes again,” your other friend interjects with the roll of her eyes. You almost collapse when she swings a hand over your shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to get your ears checked?”

“No, but I might have to get my eyes checked,” you joke, despite pulling in all the performance points you could win with a disdainful scan up and down her less than professional attire. Thankfully, your act is gleefully extended by her cheesy gawk of an expression. Putting up a merciful pair of hands in the air, you laugh, “hey, in all seriousness, it’s not my fault you guys keep drooling over boys.”

“Uhuh, so you’re trying to tell us that boy talk is what’s putting you to sleep?” your friend’s accomplice crosses her arms, raising an accusatory pair of brows.

“Yeah,” you say much too seriously so you throw in an airy laugh, “I mean, there’s more to life than boys, y’know?”

“Right, like…?”

“Like…” your voice trails off because, for some reason, your mind goes blank as you attempt to recall your lifestyle from your previous hometown. “Like… hanging out with friends! With you guys!”

“Gah! You’re only able to say that because you have dozens of boys chasing you around the office. Us, on the other hand, time just… it just keeps ticking…” the two of them sigh in synchronization and you feel the heat of her arms retract as she shakes the hand of her one and only sympathizer.

“Psh,” you can’t help but grin throughout the frown elicited by their vivacious performance, “you guys have plenty of time. Just enjoy life for now and I’m sure you’ll find someone along the way.”

“Wait, but seriously,” her voice suddenly rises from her previously sullen state, as does her head on her friend’s shoulder. She looks you dead in the eye, and, honestly, you almost feel as though your privacy had just been invaded. “You really haven’t ever liked anyone before?”

“Uh…” you scatter through the disarrayed files that were your buried memories, eyes squinting at the sun that peeks through the clearing sky after a day full of rainfall. “Elementary and middle school don’t really count… too busy studying in high school… college was full of fuck boys I couldn’t care less for… and at work…”

The more that you hear yourself ramble, the more the reality of your lonesome future settles into the already burdened shoulders of yours.

“At work? You mean here? Or do you mean your last job?”

“Well,” you frown, trying to recall every male colleague that had piqued even the tiniest of interest in you; and as the two of your friends lean in, you start to lean back, despite the charging light bulb that flickers from the unlocked recollection of two years ago. “There was a guy who liked me and told everyone at work that he liked me, which I thought was really weird… nice guy, kind of a nerd, but I didn’t like him that way. Who else? Uh, hm—”

—bzzz.

The vibration against your back pocket pulls the plug from your train of thought.

“Aw man,” you hear your friends curse in the background, “just when we were finally getting her to spill something.”

The name on your screen has your heart skipping with delight.

Yezi [5:20 PM] Hey, I know you’re gonna forget, so you before you do, we’re having dinner together tonight :)

“It’s okay,” your friend pats the back of the other, “there’ll be some cute enough boys for her at tonight’s barbeque, I’m sure.”

“Ah shit,” you curse under your breath, hastily typing a response before peering up at your friends like a deer caught in the headlights, “actually, guys, turns out I already made plans with my friend from home. I’m sooo sorry.”

“Oh, really?” the two of them gasp. “Isn’t that a two hour train ride from here?”

“Yeah, so I really got to go now,” your phone tumbles into your bag as you begin to widen your strides like a woman on a mission.

They shake their heads in unison, “no, no, it’s okay!”

“I’m seriously so sorry guys,” you say as you pant, the distance between you and your friends widening by the second and forcing you to whirl around as you pace backwards. “I’ll make it up to you next time and do whatever you guys want, okay?”

“Really? Anything?”

“Yeah,” your hands draw a wide, inclusive circle into the air, “anything.”

“Even a blind date?”

“You know what? Why the hell not?” you chime, whirling back around with your back on them and a smile hidden away. Skipping off into the opposite direction toward the train station, you exclaim nonchalantly, “new year, new me!”

Lately, either through a stroke of luck or a reset of a life in a new town, there’s been something spectacularly whimsical about tonight’s air; and when a zephyr passes by, lifting you to the tip of your toes to an invincible high and relaying the confuzzled whispers of your friends—

“—wait, it’s not a new year, it’s already April—”

—you finally acquire a two year long-sought sensation: golden.

“I can’t believe you almost forgot about our plans!”

“Hey, I had a reminder set on my phone just ten minutes after your reminder” you quip with pursed lips, “and I still made it on time, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Yezi prims with a stern look plastered across her face, gesturing, “with your hair and clothes damp in rain and your face smiling like a wagging, clueless beagle.”

“Well… beagles are cute, so I’ll take that as a compliment?”

She frowns, ignoring your remark, “did you not check the weather forecast?”

“I did.”

“So why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

“I forgot.”

“Ugh, you forget everything these days,” she plants a palm to her forehead before returning to her plate, “well, I’m glad that at least you’re so carefree nowadays. You’ve finally settled into your new workplace, huh? You look so happy now.”

“You talk—” it’s difficult to speak with food being stuffed into your mouth “—as if I lost a loved one.”

“Well,” she grits her teeth, as if biting her tongue, and proceeds to slice the slab of steak, “I wouldn’t say that’s too farfetched.”

Frowning, your words come out muffled through puffed cheeks, “whaddya mean by dat?”

“You can’t tell me you forgot about what happened last time you were in town.”

“Uh…?” you furrow your brows, tracing into a forgotten yet familiar field you had long neglected for your own wellbeing. Last time you were in town, last time you were working here, last time you went out on a company party, last time you walked through this town’s treacherously embracing frosty breeze, last time you were dining here, last time you got wasted, not just here but anywhere, last time you shed tears… all the last times of this town shared only one similarity, a similarity you had subconsciously left behind at some point in your transition between the past and the now.

“Do I really have to say it myself?” she leans in, concerned. “I don’t want you bawling your eyes out again…”

Did she possibly mean… him?

“Jeon Jungkook,” she blurts, “there! I said it!”

Her utensils clatter onto her plate as she tosses her hands in the air in mercy, almost as if bracing herself for the storm after the calm, observing you intently but warily; that supposed storm, however and ever so fortunately, never arrives.

“Oh,” you utter, words slipping from your lips like sand through a palm, “I’m not crying.”

“You’re not crying,” she confirms, astonished.

“It doesn’t… hurt anymore?” you almost ask yourself.

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t,” you utter, shaking your head. Just as she’s caught off guard, you lurch across the table to pinch her cheeks, “but that doesn’t mean I appreciate you bringing him up during a perfectly lovely night!”

“Sho—” she furrows her brows in combination to her squished cheeks “—he doesh make you shad shtill?”

“Well, he doesn’t make me elated,” you finally release her from your wrath, returning to stare downward at your food, “but I guess it makes me reflect fondly on the past. It’s kind of like a scar. I know how much it once hurt but I can’t feel it to the same magnitude anymore. Actually, instead, the happy, jittery moments are more vivid to me than the tears that were shed. Is that… odd?”

“Like… like what? Examples?”

Like when his arm bumped into yours for the first time on the walk after work, like when he discretely went out of his way to ensure your safety across the bridge home, like when he enamored over the ‘ripped abs’ of a fully nude female character design of an upcoming project whilst you stood awkwardly with a set of breasts in full display for the two of you, like when the two of you escaped to become the aloof, static noise of an unbefitting party, or like when he held you in his hands and kissed you at the stroke of midnight, the butterflies live on—even today—to shield you from the dampened blows struck by dull weapons of jealousy, insecurity, and remorse.

With time, the silver lining finally showed itself like a sun shining through after a stormy night. You’ve finally accepted the truths behind every weapon. She was pretty. They were pretty. She never wronged you. They never wronged you. They deserved his love. His heart belonged to whomever he desired.

He never badmouthed his peers and, as blunt of a man as he was, he never pointed out your flaws, even if that meant you would later return home only to find mascara flakes on your cheeks. He treated women like a gentleman, as contradictory as it may seem from his appetite demeanor; and while you fell for him for that, you also cursed him for that very reason. He didn’t owe you anything… up to a certain point until the lines were too blurred to decipher between the truth, the deserved, and the faulty. Be it Ji-eun or Jennie, you’ve come to terms with his relationships.

As much as your relations with him seemed to run on a fragile thread of fate, your time had run out and the window of opportunity had been shut—but hey, at least you had fun.

“Are you… smiling?”

“Hm?” you look up to find her staring at you in concern. Blinking blankly, you quickly clear your throat and retract the smile you had subconsciously adorned. “I am?”

“I… don’t know if I should be worried or not,” Yezi downs another glass of iced water and you’re about to follow suit until she almost chokes on her water, “hey—isn’t that Jennie over there?”

“Jennie?”

You almost curse at Yezi for teasing you over bygones that should’ve been left as just that, but she really wasn’t lying. You can’t believe your eyes when you whirl your head around to look through the darkened tint of the restaurant’s window panes. You might have never really spoken to Jennie, but that figure is undeniably Jennie.

“What is she doing?” you squint, struggling to grasp a clear vision of her silhouette under the dim, orange street light beside her. You could only catch a hint of her side profile but those cheeks and unique sense of fashion definitely belonged to her; on the other hand, the constant stumbling and the hand to her head, almost as if she’s about to collapse at any second, did not resemble her. “Oh, oh, hold on, wait, whoa—we should help her!”

You scramble to your feet and bolt out the door whilst Yezi takes care of your abrupt leave with the restaurant staff. A freezing blast of wind welcomes you as soon as you step into the sidewalk but you waste no time. Abandoning the cold behind you along with the past, your mind is set on aiding the collapsed woman on the streets.

“Hey! Jennie, hey!” you call out to her as you sprint to her side, dropping to the floor without caring to notice the shards of glass that consequently cut your knees as you carefully roll her limp body onto its back and away from the sharp hazards. The pain has you wincing and seething under your breath, but the conditions of the person lying before you has you even more concerned. Her skin is even paler than usual. Her chest rises and falls rapidly in an evident struggle. Your taps against her shoulder gradually become frantic shakes until all you can hear is your voice and the whispering commotion of bystanders behind you. “Jennie! Can you hear me?!”

“Y/N!” you turn around to find Yezi peering down at you from above. “What happened?”

“I don’t know but something’s definitely not right,” you say as calmly as you could, “call 911. I’ll call her family.”

“Got it,” Yezi nods, immediately dialing the numbers on her phone but pausing in the midst of the ring to face you, “wait, do you know anyone from her family?”

Gritting your teeth, you frown as you dig into your memories, “...no, I know she might have had a boyfriend back then, so he might know, but I don’t know if they’re still together and I don’t even know his number…”

“Do you know anyone who might know her boyfriend then?”

“Well…”

The ending trails of your voice are whisked away into the returning wind of that fateful night. Hands gripping at your phone and eyes staring at the stranger yet familiarity of a name that glares off the screen, it’s an inevitable force that has you stupefied yet marveled at the revival of a tugging string that ties you to him through the strangest, most meandering paths.

his side;

It was almost like a fever dream. Her name plastered across his screen and his eyes squinting through the glaring light that illuminates his room. It had been two years since he had any contact nor mention of her; and now, out of the blue, in the midst of a nap after gym session, she calls him for help. He couldn’t believe his ears when he first heard her voice, believing it all to be another one of those numerous dreams that had him regretting his past or questioning his choices. He shot straight up in bed, phone grasped and glued to his ears that blocked out the computer fan that ran in the background.

Even now, after throwing on a sweater and jacket and bolting out the door in a state of rescue, he can’t quite believe his eyes; because there she sits on the hospital bench, in the signature slumped boyish manner and the confused blank stare off into the distance that still has him quirking a smile in remembrance every once in a while. In her favorite white blouse and her only slack of black dress pants, it’s almost as if nothing had changed, almost as if she had never left.

It’s almost like time had bent to his incessantly subconscious pleas and reversed its works; but the almost will always be an almost, for as long as those hallmark vivacious eyes and those rekindled mien of ambition lives. As far as Jungkook knew, she left with a dreary heart and returned with a fiery purpose.

Despite all that, he can’t help but notice the way she fidgets in her seat, nearly sinking and avoiding all contact the second his presence had been noticed. Instead of the sheepish flickering stolen glances of the past, he finds himself at odds with the way she fights to return the locked gaze of his eyes. She fought so hard that she might have forgotten how to speak, rendering a soft chuckle from his lips because the girl he endlessly dreamt of might still live after all; and for the first time in a long while, Jungkook has to put forth the effort to fill in the silence.

“Why did you call me?” he asks plainly as he stands before her.

“Well, I didn’t know any of her friends except you…” he watches as she fidgets with her hands, gaze falling to the floor before returning to him, “are you going to visit her? I think the doctor should be okay with it if you’re her close friend.”

“No, Kai will be here soon,” he explains, finally bending down and placing the bottle of rubbing alcohol beside her on the bench. “I have other shit to attend to.”

“Oh, right,” she mumbles. The evident surge in annoyance amuses him that he just can’t quite wipe the smirk off his face. Turning her head, she continues, “you must’ve had plans with Ji-eun tonight. Sorry for the trouble.”

This is it. This is the moment that replayed on repeat like a broken tape in his dreams. This is his chance to mend the wounds he had inflicted upon the confessing girl who cried her eyes out on the cab home that one, indelible night.

An uncomfortable silence fills the air with the exception of the unscrewing of a plastic bottle and the gentle return of the bottle against the metallic bench, which is then followed by another staggering silence.

“We’re not that close and I’m not dating Ji-eun now.”

The girl turns with the quirk of a brow, especially when she spots him kneeling before her with a soaked cotton ball. “W-Wait what? Wait, shit, ow.”

“I don’t talk to Jennie as much as you think,” he states as a-matter-of-factly and continues to gently pat the cotton against the wounds on her knees. After hesitantly placing a band aid over the wound—something he had never done for anyone else nor for himself who just “sucked it up”—he finally lifts his gaze to interlock with hers, observing intently as if to soak the reality of it all in now before the inevitable tape begins to replay for the near future. “I broke up with Ji-eun before you left.”

“And...” she utters slowly, “why are you telling me this?”

Just like in the pool on that one night, her challenging eyes never budge and neither do his.

“I thought the past you would’ve liked to know,” he states. Head tilting to the side as if to get a better look, he remarks, “shit, you don’t look away anymore, huh?”

“Why would I?” she quips, snorting and finally breaking contact to stare off to the side. “It didn’t matter if I knew or not. It’s not like we were a thing.”

“Really?” Jungkook hums, gathering the scraps of cotton and paper before standing to his feet with a genuine soft sigh. It’s hard to brush off the two year old sinking sensation in his chest for something so nonchalant, but he manages to do it like he always does with that stoic look on his unreadable face. “Cause I thought we were.”

“What?” she gapes and he only gazes firmly back at her. “Why? It’s not like I… liked you.”

“Really?” Jungkook’s eyes flicker up at the ceiling for a brief second, lips pursing as he concludes the cards on the table: the unapologetic albeit risky truth or the defensive albeit purposeless self-deception. Unbeknownst to her, Jungkook had all the cards in his hands.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, avoiding his gaze and shrugging, “and it’s not like you liked me.”

Peering down at her from above, the boy’s crooked grin gradually settles into the silence along with the usual unreadable mien that he wears on the daily. “How would you know?”

Finally turning to return his gaze, she raises a brow at him before uncrossing her arms and standing to her feet. One step, two steps until she stands before him as close as she could recall on that night, she utters the one mutual truth of the night.

“Because you never told me.”

The brief silence filled with tension seems to last an eternity, yet neither of the two could take their eyes off the other. A rush of thrill intermixed with panic floods his blood. His fight or flight system screams at him to obey the very laws he had followed all these years but his mind warns him that change is a necessity for this euphoric heat that radiates from this very moment. He’s never quite felt like this before: throat knotting and heart leaping nearly out of his chest.

“Let’s—”

“—I need to catch the last train home,” she blurts, quickly taking a step back to distance themselves.

Like a magnetic force that she is to him, her retraction almost pulls the breath from his lungs along with it.

“What?” he frowns, trying to steady his breath. “It’s 10 right now. My last ride is at midnight.”

“Yeah, well mine is at 11 and I still have to walk there,” she shrugs indifferently to the entire ordeal—something that Jungkook takes to the heart.

“What?” he mutters, “the station is right next to this hospital.”

“What can I say? I’m a slow walker,” she prims, bowing her head and waving her hand to bid farewell. “Thanks for the band aid and all the help today. It was nice catching up. See y—I mean, take care.”

He stands there in silence, too stunned by the constant turn of events. Distracted by the crestfallen weight in his chest elicited by his shattered hopes, Jungkook raises a hand in response to her pressed, upcurved lips. He can only mumble a seemingly indifferent, “...see ya.”

There she goes—as gracefully as she had reentered his life and as fleeting as she had left for a second time. All this time he knew his side of the story: growingly regretful, discovering a yearning he never knew was within his capabilities, and helplessly pondering over a past he could not change and wondering if she did the same. At some point in time, those feelings became a fragment in time and that person he wished she knew became a version of his present self. He moved on, he forgot the magnitude of the pain, but he never quite came to terms with what it all could have been.

And all at once, the very moment he stands before her, the past him whomst he had perceived to be temporary comes flooding back into reality—flesh, fervent, and feelings of an immensity he could never have been prepared for—and if he were to be honest, he thought it would have been the same for her.

He never really knew her side, after all; but at the very least, he desires to hear it from her, herself. She never missed him, she never thought of him from time to time, she never woke up from a dream of him so vivid that it felt so real that she was left with a melancholic loneliness in the air—those words would close the gap in his chest.

If there’s one thing Jungkook had absolute control over at this very moment, it’s the last chapter of their shared novel in time and this is not the conclusion he imagined.

Before he knew it, Jungkook finds himself sprinting down the train station. Across the coldly lit hallways, up and down the stairs instead of the ‘shitty, slow escalators,’ and cutting through the nearing midnight breeze of the platforms until the breeze finally brought him to the last unvisited area, his daunting final destination.

Checking his watch, Jungkook’s chest heaves as he holds his hands to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. It’s well past 11 now, nearing midnight, and he’s standing at the platform in the opposite direction of her new hometown. To the mere bystander, this platform really didn’t make any sense; but to Jungkook and his inkling, perhaps by a disheveled and desperate state, every twist and turn of the wind brought him right where he believes he belongs.

Puffs of his breath mark the airy night as he watches his last ride pass by the rails before him. Every cart, every seat, he scans them all. No one. His heart sinks with each check, each flicker of the eyes, and he begins to curse himself for his state of delusion until the last cart of the train flashes by to reveal his finale.

And as if by some sort of invisible string, life had somehow led him to her once again.

Because there she sits, across the wide yet surely crossable gap of the railway, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, as if she had been waiting for him all this time.

Jungkook stands there, stupefied by the works of fate, “why are you—”

“—hey, Jungkook!” she calls out to him, voice echoing across the vast, empty station. “What were you going to tell me back at the hospital?”

Taken aback by her question, Jungkook chuckles to himself in utter amusement; and as if by the magic sifting through the night, the nearby tower bells ring across the remaining distance between the two at the precise stroke of midnight.

“Let’s date!”

The boy’s zestful holler resembles more like that of a cheerful proclamation, for the way he holds his hands to his lips before throwing them freely into the air garners a giggle from his spectator. His voice projection accompanies the bells, perhaps too softly and thereby physically undetected, but she could hear him nonetheless.

“I liked you and I still like you so damn much, you dumbass!”

After witnessing the boy’s courageous display, the words she’s been waiting for but never knew she needed until their paths crossed once again for a limitless nth time slips from her like second nature, almost as if she’s practiced it in her dreams all this time. Her loud proclamation, however, slips beneath the bells like an accompaniment to a ceremonious work of fate.

The two of them stand on opposite sides of the platform, their confessions are far and wide and perhaps inaudible, but the dorky smiles adorning their lips as they gaze across at their inevitable final chapters serve to prove an undeniable fact.

Whether by sheer will or by this invisible string, whether by his side or her side, the truth is: their eternities will be forever tied, forever golden.

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cosmicpines · 3 years

Text

code july day 1 - future

au where jeremie's anti-xana program didn't work, taking place half a year after.

“Do’ya think we should start future-proofing our whole situation?” Odd was the first one to speak out loud in at least a half an hour, his voice echoing around the computer lab.

It was late. Not just “it’s a school night, we should turn off the Playstation” late, but “sunrise is in an hour” late. Ulrich, Jeremie, and Aelita were crowded on the couch – a fairly new addition to the lab that William and Odd had dragged over a mile to the factory after finding it on the street, a several-hour long affair that left them both sore for a week – blearily staring at chunky school-loaned laptop screens with piles of overdue library books on the floor in front of them. Odd and William were across the room, hunched over an oversized posterboard, surrounded by an accoutrement of Odd’s art supplies and printed out sheets of paper. What was keeping them up was potentially world-ending, but not in the usual way; instead of an evil AI, it was a history project due at 10 AM.

It wasn’t entirely their fault they didn’t start earlier – saving the world was a full-time job, afterall – but it’s not like they could give an excuse to Mr. Fumet that he would have believed. As the clock ticked over to 4, the prospect of having to pull the trigger on a return trip to finish loomed over them. They had already done it once, blearily uploading PowerPoint slides to the supercomputer to save them, giving Yumi an apologetic phone call in the morning. She was used to the disorienting resets at this point, having done them for half a year after graduating and moving across the country, but they usually texted ahead of time to warn her. She was sympathetic over the phone – she always was – but she was definitely irritated about having to retake an exam. They didn’t want to put her through that again and, besides, they couldn’t exactly keep the poster board from getting erased to time.

“Future-proofing the fact half of us might fail history?” Ulrich grumbled in response from across the room, leaning against the armrest of the couch. His eyes were glazed over in a stupor as he clicked idly around on the screen.

“Ulrich, are you done with your slides yet?” Aelita spat at him, now that the silent spell was broken, “I want to start stitching them together.”

“Uh… no.” Ulrich glanced at her, subtly turning his screen away from her piercing gaze, “Gimme ten more minutes? I’m almost there.”

Aelita clicked her tongue, probably remembering the last promise of the slides “in ten minutes.” She turned to her left and nudged Jeremie, “How about you – oh my god, Jeremie, can you focus?”

“Huh?” He looked up, and guiltly alt-tabbed back to a blank PowerPoint slide. “Sorry, I was just… I had a breakthrough about the bug in the Skid and I was…” He trailed off under her glare, “Sorry.”

Aelita clutched the side of her head, groaning. “Is it too late to go back to living on Lyoko where I don’t have to care about World War I and don’t need sleep?”

“Me too, thanks.” William muttered at Odd’s side, aggressively erasing a sentence on the poster, “Being XANA’s slave was less painful than this.”

He let out a bitter laugh, then raised his head, half smirk fading at the frozen-in-terror looks on his friend’s faces, “Sorry. Too soon?”

Odd, as he so often did, interrupted the awkward silence before people could make it worse, “Future-proofing us, is what I meant. Thanks for asking!” Nobody humored him as the typing across the room started back up and William started writing again, “Look, I’m just saying; we’re not getting any younger.” He brandished a red marker, filling in bubble letters on the top of the poster, “Yumi graduated. We’ve only got a semester left at Kadic –,”

“Could just all repeat a year like I did.” William grimaced. “And might again.”

Ulrich snorted, “Odd and I are probably on track for that.”

“Cheers,” William said, raising his pencil like a glass, without looking up, “Join the failure club.”

“BUT,” Odd interrupted, “Assuming we don’t! Because this presentation is going to be incredible,” That one earned a snort from everyone in the room (which was fair), “We’ll need someone who can do our jobs if we have to leave the good fight. Lyoko Warriors, the Next Generation! Kadic’s Next Top Lyoko Warriors!” He chuckled at himself, standing up, “We should put an ad in the paper: ‘Want a challenging, world-altering job? Come down to the abandoned factory!’” He hummed to himself, tapping his chin, “Our criteria would have to be strict. Can you imagine getting someone like, I dunno, Johnny? So, Johnny. Please, tell me: what’s your greatest fear? Giant crabs, you say? Why yes, that’s both oddly specific and also a dealbreaker. Next!”

Odd looked up, laughing, waiting for his friends to join in – Ulrich telling him he was being dumb, Aelita offering some other students and joking with him about their interviews, William making a snide remark about how he didn’t get an interview, a silent, but appreciative smirk from Jeremie – but got nothing. Jeremie’s head was buried in his laptop, and Aelita was – Aelita was glaring at him?

“What?” He asked her, but she said nothing, just raised an eyebrow in a you know what’s wrong look. Odd clearly didn’t, and turned to Ulrich for a clue, but Ulrich wasn’t giving him anything; he was just back to sulking, staring at his laptop. Odd ran through what he said again in his head, trying to find the offending phrase, when William punched him in the leg. “Hey –,” Odd started, ready to give a snappy retort, before seeing William was urgently tapping at the poster, where he’d just written something. Odd crouched down to read it.

you’re upsetting jeremie.

Odd glanced back at Einstein across the room, whose face was impassive, just typing away. Looking closer, though, he could see Jeremie had all the appearances of someone trying valiantly to pretend they weren’t upset – hunched shoulders, scrunched up face, not a single glance away from the screen. Aelita had stopped glaring to put a hand on Jeremie’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

Ugh. Odd sighed, wondering if he would have to apologize for just trying to lighten the mood. How was anything he said upsetting to Jeremie? He reached over for a pencil to respond to William, scribbling down on the poster.

Can’t he take a joke?

idk. Guess he thinks you’re blaming him.

Blaming him?? For what???? bro when did I even say anything like that??

you didn’t. don’t bro me bro. not my fault

Odd underlined his first bro, giving William a smile. William rolled his eyes before rubbing out their conversation with an eraser. Odd turned back to his coloring job and took a breath, surprised to see it come in shaky. It’s not your fault he’s upset, he thought to himself, pulling the cap off his marker. It’s fine. He leaned over to finish his coloring before noticing his hands were shaking. He clenched them, angrily. It wasn’t his fault Jeremie was upset. He was fine. Not his fault if Jeremie wanted to over-react. He’ll get over it and… where were the scissors?

He dug around their supplies for them, then, picking up a pile of pictures of historic figures, streaked from the bad library printer, took a pair of trembling scissors to extracting them. They were nearly done. One more section and they’d be done. One more and they could go to bed and Jeremie would get over whatever he was upset about and it was fine and it would all go away and it was fine it wasn’t his fault and –

“I’m working as hard as I can,” Odd felt a bit in his stomach open up as Jeremie spoke in a quiet, bitter voice. Odd stared pointedly down at the poster, blinking rapidly to try and assuage the pressure building behind his eyes, “I know we screwed up by not finishing before Yumi graduated, okay? I’m just… It’s a lot to figure out and I’m trying?! Is that not enough for – No. No, I know it’s not enough – I know I’m keeping us from having a normal life and it’s my fault William had to repeat a year and… and I –,” Jeremie’s breath caught, and Odd finally dared to turn his eyes to him, seeing his friend aggressively rubbing his eyes under his glasses, “I – I don’t mean to – look! It’s hard, alright?! It’s hard and I – I’m just so tired all the time and I’m sorry that we’re still awake for this too and that I –,” His voice finally broke as he started crying in earnest, his fist coming down on the side of the couch. Odd wanted to turn back to his work and brush it off, but the guilt clenching his stomach wasn’t letting go.

Hesitantly, Aelita put her hand on his shoulder again, “Jeremie…” but he shook it off again, turning away from her. She persisted. “It’s not your fault. We know you’re working –,”

“And it’s not enough! I’ve been working at this for years and I just I can’t come up with anything to defeat XANA –,”

“You had a lot of other things you needed to do first.”

He didn’t mean to, Odd was sure, but Ulrich’s eyes flickered to William for just a moment, and William’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, are we doing this now?” William grumbled, dropping his pencil. “Jeremie, you’re fine. Look, I’m sorry. Again. You don’t think I don’t regret every moment that I didn’t listen like a fucking idiot –” Jeremie, despite being wracked with tears, winced at the swear, earning a brief hint of a smile from Odd, “ – and got myself captured? Who then was a thorn in your asses for months? No. I get it. You’d probably be rid of XANA already if it wasn’t for me; you’ve made that crystal clear.”

“That’s not what I –,” Aelita glared at him, “You of all people should understand that I would never blame you for being trapped on Lyoko.”

“It’s not you that is. It’s him.” He jerked his thumb at Ulrich, who glared back at him.

“I’m not,” Ulrich muttered, “Cut it out.”

“Oh yeah? What did that look mean then, huh?”

“I didn’t –,”

“You blame me, and we all know it. You’re just butt-hurt over Yumi still, even though you had plenty of chances –,”

“Okay, that’s it.” Ulrich sat up straighter, “Maybe you’re still using Yumi as a scapegoat in all our arguments, but I’m done with that. Maybe I was an ass to you before because of her, but I don’t blame you for XANA, William. I never have. I was over it before you even joined,” He scowled at the ground, Jeremie’s crying filling the brief silence. “It was probably my fault you got captured in the first place. I wasn’t there because I had to talk to my stupid Dad and it was my job to tell Odd and I didn’t make sure – hell, even before that! Who was it that couldn’t protect Aelita back when XANA escaped from the supercomputer in the first place? If she hadn’t been alone, the Scyphozoa wouldn’t have gotten her, and XANA wouldn’t have escaped, and we would have been done.”

“Come on,” Aelita crossed her arms, turning away from Jeremie to the boy on her other side, “You’re being ridiculous. Half of that isn’t your fault.”

Odd wanted to chime in that it was Sam’s fault she didn’t listen to Ulrich, but his voice was still missing in action, his throat tight and unresponsive.

“I should have been able to protect myself,” Aelita continued, “It wasn’t your responsibility –,”

Jeremie laughed suddenly, hurt and bitter, “Protect yourself how? You couldn’t protect yourself because I was dragging my feet on giving you a proper weapon –,”

“We’ve talked about this!” She said, “We agreed it was more worth your time to work on an antivirus!”

“For a virus that didn’t exist! If I had just double checked –,”

“Double checked what? The faulty data you were being fed? There was nothing you could have done! If you want to blame anyone, blame me. Maybe it – maybe helping me made sense at first, when things were able to be stopped at a moment’s notice. But then even when you got me to Earth it wasn’t over, and things got worse, things got more dangerous – when we realized XANA could escape? That we couldn’t just turn it off with a switch? That – that should have been it.” Her voice dropped as she took a shaky breath, “You should have just let me turn the supercomputer off.”

“You were ALWAYS worth the risk, Aelita!” Odd finally snapped, terror shooting through his heart at the broken look on her face, the implications of her words, “You… you matter to us more than anything! Look, I’m sorry for bringing this all up, alright? I thought we could just joke around about running Lyoko Warrior interviews! I didn’t mean to get everyone upset. And speaking of! Jeez! All of you are such downers on yourselves! There’s like, a billion different things that could have happened!” He held out a hand, ticking them off, “Maybe William might not have gotten captured and instead XANA got Yumi or anyone else! Maybe, I dunno, Ulrich saved Aelita temporarily but then XANA tossed him in the digital sea! Maybe Jeremie could have noticed that Aelita didn’t have a virus sooner, and XANA just made a move sooner! Maybe – maybe – maybe if you had just let Kiwi be virtualized normally and not fuse with me he would have been a great Lyoko Warrior and would have bit the Scyphozoa and killed XANA! We don’t know, alright? I’m just trying to say that – ugh, forget it! Sorry! Jeez!”

Odd rubbed at his eyes, surrendering to the frustrated and exhausted stream of tears that leaked out of them. All of them, all of this – he kept trying to play superhero, to pretend that everything was going to be alright like in the movies, but in his heart he had to admit that this was starting to feel futile. Aelita’s virus, XANA’s escape from the supercomputer, William’s capture, Jeremie’s first botched attempt at his anti-XANA program, Franz Hopper’s sacrifice, Yumi’s graduation, their failure to stop space station from falling, Jeremie’s second anti-XANA program getting stolen by the AI, and now the looming threat of their own graduation… he wanted to be joking about needing to interview new Lyoko Warriors, really, but if graduation took them away from the factory… away from each other…

A hand landed on his shoulder, he realized he didn’t need to know who it was to press his own on top of it, to squeeze it and feel loved, as more hands, more friends, found their way to his other shoulder, to his back.

“I’m sorry, Jeremie,” he said, “And everyone else. I didn’t mean to –,”

“Don’t,” came a muttered reply from Jeremie, “We’re all acting tired and stupid. I shouldn’t have yelled. I knew you didn’t mean it.”

Odd let out an exhausted laugh, rubbing his eyes of the last of the tears, looking up and seeing his friends around him, “How late is it?”

“Too late,” Ulrich replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket, “We’ve got… three hours until classes start.”

A collective groan broke the spell over the room. Odd looked under his feet to the almost-finished-poster. Silently, all of them returned to their working positions. Odd kneeled down to finish gluing down the last of the faces to the poster. As the lull of busy work started taking over his mind, William nudged him.

“Sorry, I, uh…” William looked uncharacteristically bewildered, “This must have happened while I was – did you say Kiwi fused with you?”

#i am well aware that it is long past day one LOL #we'll see what else i get to #my intent going into this was to write exactly what odd wanted to joke about but then i realized that was kinda fucked up #codejuly #codejuly21 #code lyoko #i swear ill write fluff next i promise #mary blabs

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 3 years

Text

no body, no crime - allison argent x reader

(gif source)

Summary: When y/n disappears after confronting her husband about his affair, Allison takes matters into her own hands. Based on “no body, no crime (feat. HAIM)” by taylor swift [x]. You can find the mood board for this fic here

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: cursing, infidelity, implied kidnapping, implied murder, murder, alleged murder, alleged/implied death of reader, reader is married to a man with a j name 🤢

a/n: hi everyone! it’s been a hot minute since i posted a new fic & this is why. i’ve been working on this since late december of 2020, so this is the longest i’ve ever spent on a stand-alone work. i’ll include more gory details about the writing process at the end if you’re interested :)

dedicated to: elle (@demxters) for all of her help and ideas! this fic literally wouldn’t have gotten finished without her, send her some love <3

this is also dedicated to caoimhe (@free-pool-trash) for not murdering me after i gave her a preview several weeks ago and then just ✨stopped writing✨

master list

Este's a friend of mine

We meet up every Tuesday night for dinner and a glass of wine

“Hey!” Allison greeted cheerily as she met y/n at their usual table tucked in the corner of their favorite restaurant. y/n returned the brunette’s smile as she stood up to hug her friend, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Allison saw through y/n’s facade and furrowed her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” she asked as concern spread across her features.

“I think Justin is having an affair,” y/n admitted. The statement dropped like a bomb between the two women, causing Allison to nearly spew the wine in her mouth all over the table. She coughed a few times and drank some water to clear her throat before she composed herself enough to ask questions.

“What happened? Did you see something?” Allison asked hesitantly. Her mind was still reeling from the mere concept of y/n’s husband cheating on her. Sure, Justin had never been Allison’s favorite guy, but it was normal for girls to think that no guy would ever be good enough for their best friend. Right?

Her husband's acting different and it smells like infidelity

She says, "That ain't my merlot on his mouth"

"That ain't my jewelry on our joint account"

y/n explained what had been going on over the past few weeks. Justin had been acting distant, which wasn’t too abnormal, but when he started coming home from work much later than his shifts ended and disappearing at odd hours of the night, y/n got concerned. The day that she had planned to approach him about everything and ask if anything was wrong, she got a call from her bank while driving home from work.

“Hi Mrs. y/l/n, this is Kathy from the bank. I’m calling to inform you that there have been a few large cash withdrawals from your joint account recently under your husband’s name, as well as a pretty expensive purchase yesterday at the jeweler,” the rest of Kathy’s words sounded muffled to y/n. It was nowhere near her birthday, Valentine’s day, or their anniversary, so y/n didn’t know what he could possibly be spending all their money on.

The next incident came a few days later when both y/n and Justin were home. y/n’s husband was in the shower and his phone buzzed with a new text message alert. Typically, y/n was never the type to snoop on her husband’s phone, but she figured she should check in case it was a work message. At least that’s how she justified it in her head. Justin had saved the sender’s number under the contact name “Spam Risk.” It was clever, y/n had to give him credit for that at least. Upon further inspection, y/n quickly realized that those texts weren’t sent from a telemarketer bot.

6:24 p.m. I can’t wait to see you tonight, baby - Spam Risk

6:25 p.m. Don’t keep me waiting too long ;) - Spam Risk

y/n thought the messages were strange, but the picture that followed the messages was definitely what threw y/n for a loop. There, on her husband’s text message thread, was a racy photo of a woman’s body that definitely wasn’t hers. y/n was quite literally stunned to silence as she dropped the phone back down onto the dresser. For the rest of the night, y/n was numb and quiet, not that Justin noticed. Then, like clockwork, he left the house at 11 p.m. with no explanation of where he was going or when he would be back.

By the end of y/n’s story, Allison’s mouth was open so wide she was sure her jaw would hit the table.

“What are you going to do?” Allison whispered, still in shock. y/n grimaced before clearing her throat and speaking her next words with finality.

No, there ain't no doubt

I think I'm gonna call him out

Este wasn't there

Tuesday night at Olive Garden at her job or anywhere

“Hi, there should be a reservation for two under Allison Argent or y/n y/l/n for tonight,” Allison greeted warmly as she approached the hostess stand at their go-to girl’s night restaurant.

“Right this way, ma’am,” the hostess said with a smile as she grabbed two menus and led her towards their usual table. Two menus. That must mean that y/n wasn’t there yet? Allison thought it was strange, y/n almost always was the first of the two to arrive. Allison brushed off the thought as she thanked the hostess and sat down. She had intended to look over the menu, but the strangeness of it all wouldn’t leave her mind. y/n was late. She was never late. Allison pulled out her phone to text her best friend, and it then occurred to her that she hadn’t heard from y/n since last week. Allison had been away on a “work” trip with her dad for the past six days and had just gotten back into town. After 30 minutes of sitting at the table alone, half a dozen unanswered text messages, and even more calls sent straight to voicemail, Allison dropped a few bills on the table and left.

As Allison pulled out of the parking lot, she turned on the radio in a futile attempt to drown out some of her racing thoughts. Between songs the radio host took to the mic to make an announcement.

“Hello Beacon Hills, we now interrupt your regularly scheduled listening with an urgent message from the Sheriff's department. Speaking now is Sheriff Noah Stilinski,” the host trailed off before there was a brief crackle as the audio transitioned to the Sheriff’s press briefing. Allison turned up the volume as the Sheriff’s voice carried across the radio.

“Thank you all for attending and tuning in. It is with great displeasure and a heavy heart that I inform you all that y/n y/l/n has been reported missing. Shortly after 8 a.m. this morning, we were informed by her husband that she didn’t show up for work yesterday morning and also didn’t come home last night,” Sheriff Stilinski continued speaking but it all began to sound like white noise to Allison. It took everything she had in her to focus on not veering off the road so that she could head to the Sheriff’s station and speak to Stilinski in person.

Conveniently, her route took her right past y/n and Justin’s house. Allison didn’t know what to expect as she sped by their house, but the fact that Justin’s normally filthy truck had been cleaned and waxed definitely caught her eye. The truck and driveway were soon out of sight due to the speed she was driving at, but at first glance, it looked as though his tires and grill had been replaced.

He reports his missing wife

And I noticed when I passed his house his truck has got some brand new tires

About a week had passed since y/n had been reported missing. Allison wasn’t sure how many search parties had been held, but they all resulted in the same thing: nothing. There wasn’t a single trace of her best friend, in fact, everything in Beacon Hills looked completely unchanged and normal. Allison’s focus and appetite seemed to have left with her other half, try as she might to desperately hold onto them. Her marksmanship had even been affected, something that hadn’t happened since high school.

Allison started driving around town during her free time. She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, she mostly did it to try to clear her mind, though most times she was unsuccessful. She’d been mindlessly taking right and left turns and before she realized where she was, she passed y/n’s house.

Allison hadn’t planned to slow down as she passed the house, it was a mindless act if anything. Seeing a moving truck backed up to the house while Justin and some unfamiliar blonde woman were unloading boxes ensured that her decision to park her car where it couldn’t be seen and spy on the pair wasn’t mindless. Despite her gut telling her not to, Allison decided to give Justin the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he needed a roommate now since y/n couldn’t pay her share of the rent? Allison tried her best to keep all of her judgments and suspicions at bay as she watched the otherwise uneventful event unfold while biting her fingernails.

A few boxes later, Justin pulled the blonde in by her waist and kissed her with a fervor that would make most people blush. Allison’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she sat there in shock with her mouth wide open. It took a while, mostly because the kiss lasted for an obnoxious amount of time, but Allison finally regained control of her body. It was like her brain had to go through a hard reset before she was able to face the reality of the situation.

y/n was right. Justin was cheating on her. Not only that, but Justin had cheated on y/n, spent less than a week grieving her disappearance, then allowed this to happen.

And his mistress moved in

Sleeps in Este's bed and everything

Allison found out that Justin Smith’s mistress’s name was Rebecca Baker. She was a few years younger than y/n and she worked at the same company as Justin. It didn’t take long for Allison to hack into both of their iCloud accounts. A few hours of scrolling later she was really regretting her decision, especially when she got to Justin’s messages to Rebecca about y/n.

2:47 a.m. What about your wife? - Spam Risk

2:47 a.m. What about her? - Justin

2:48 a.m. Are you going to leave her or kick her out or something? - Spam Risk

2:48 a.m. It’s been taken care of. - Justin

2:48 a.m. Taken care of? Justin, what does that mean? - Spam Risk

2:49 a.m. Justin??? - Spam Risk

Each new message ensured that bits of Allison’s fingernails had been gnawed off while her left hand fidgeted anxiously in front of her mouth. Allison decided that those messages were probably the most incriminating thing she’d find digitally, but the time and date stamps caught her eye. The texts were sent early Monday morning, the day that y/n allegedly left home and then didn’t show up for work or return home.

A chill spread from deep within Allison’s bones up to the surface of her skin, making goosebumps appear. Allison didn’t know what exactly, but she knew something terrible had happened to y/n and Justin had something to do with it. She shut her laptop a little harder than necessary as a resolved look spread across her face.

No, there ain't no doubt

Somebody's gotta catch him out

Good thing my daddy made me get a boating license when I was fifteen

Allison regularly accessed her personal armory, whether it was to prepare for a job or pack for a trip to the shooting range, but it had been a while since a powerful and unforgiving feeling hung over her shoulders. Allison carefully ran her fingers over her custom silver arrowheads as she considered her options. Her father’s words from one of her adolescent archery lessons rung in her head.

“The type of bow and arrows you use doesn’t matter. As long as you use them right, you’ll be able to make any shot. Don’t get hung up on the technicalities.”

Not too long after, her bag was stocked with her essentials: a bow, her trusted black leather archery glove, as well as a handful of arrows, though these ones lacked the silver heads she typically reserved for more exotic expeditions.

The rare dark clouds in the California sky at sunset were reflected in Allison’s cold eyes. The drive to her target’s house was familiar, the turns she made were almost instinctual. Normally these roads reminded her of her coffee dates with y/n and nights they spent talking for hours until sunlight crept through the windows. Now, her mind was blank and her heart was devoid of all emotion.

Even though Allison had disabled her car’s GPS earlier, she parked her car about a mile away from his house. When she was done, there wouldn’t be any evidence that could be traced back to her. She memorized his schedule; at 5:00 p.m. his shift ended and recently he’d been getting home by 5:20. His girlfriend got home sometime between 5:30 and 5:45, but she would leave for her pilates class around 6:30 and wouldn’t get home until 7:45. Allison had just over an hour window to get the job done, but it wouldn’t take that long. If everything went according to plan, she’d be off the property within a few minutes of taking the shot.

When she arrived her target had just come home from work and was alone in the house. She waited patiently, hidden by the trees that the property backed up to. She watched as he moved around through the open curtains and then as his girlfriend entered the house and kissed him with a passion that made Allison’s stomach churn. She watched as they ate dinner together, as her target’s girlfriend got ready for her gym class, and watched as she got in her car and drove away. When Allison checked her watch it was only 6:25 p.m., she had far more time than she needed.

The plan was simple, really. Under the cover of darkness, she’d flip the breakers, effectively cutting the power. When her target came out to investigate, she’d let him fumble around in the darkness for a while. He’d always been a paranoid individual, so it wouldn’t take much to get him on edge. A rustle in the bushes here, a small snapped tree branch there, and then something that would get his attention. Allison wanted his eyes to be on her when she took the shot.

Allison’s target was watching TV so he knew immediately when the power went out, plus the fact that the once illuminated house was suddenly bathed in darkness. The high-pitched yelp that escaped his throat almost made Allison laugh. She had to keep quiet though, at least for now. As expected, the dopey man scurried around to the side of the house where the breakers were located in no time. The batteries in the flashlight he held were on their last leg, that much was evident in the way the light beam flickered every few seconds.

Just as he opened the door to the circuit breaker panel, Allison moved. A rustle here. The sound practically echoed in the silence of the night, causing the man to whip around and shine his flashlight directly at the source of the noise. There was nothing there. It’s just the wind, he reasoned before getting back to work. After a few switches had been flipped - none of them for the outdoor lights - he heard another noise. This one was much louder than the last, a small snapped tree branch there. Again, the flashlight’s flickering light beam uncovered nothing, but it was enough to make all of the hairs on the back of Allison’s target’s neck stand up straight. He hastily flipped the rest of the breakers and the outdoor lights finally came on.

When yellow light from the backyard fixtures flooded the area, both Allison and her target were revealed. Allison stood a considerable distance away from the man, but she was close enough to see the blood drain from his face and his Adam's apple bob. When his eyes darted to the bow hung by her side, realization dawned on his face. He began to turn away with the intention of running, but Allison’s voice held him frozen in place.

“Don’t move,” she ordered quietly without any aggression behind her tone. Her face wasn’t threatening, she just looked calm and focused. Allison’s smooth features and peaceful expression was what scared the man the most.

“I- I’m sorry- I didn’t-” he stammered out, his arms and legs beginning to tremble.

“Shh,” Allison chastised as she raised her bow, loading it with an arrow. Her fingers moved with precision, her muscles knew this routine well.

“Please don’t- no, you can’t, you can’t do this!” the man pleaded. He wasn’t above begging on his knees, but Allison wasn’t about to give him the chance. Her gaze was sharply focused on her target, the view of her tightly grasped bow in her peripheral vision.

“Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

When Allison’s fingers let go of the bowstring the arrow flew smoothly through the air. The only sounds heard were the arrowhead piercing skin and the man wordlessly falling to the ground. The arrow went straight through his heart. Maybe Allison’s shot landed right where she intended. Maybe there was a metaphor in there. Allison checked her wristwatch, the numbers 6:45 shining back at her. An entire hour to spare.

Time to take out the trash.

I've cleaned enough houses to know how to cover up a scene

The job didn’t take long at all and it was definitely one of Allison’s least challenging ones, but it still felt nice to take a hot shower and sit in front of her fireplace with a cup of tea. The fire served a dual purpose; the crackles of the burning wood soothed her like a lullaby while the flames licked around and destroyed her bloody clothes from earlier. All of her equipment had been cleaned and put away, positioned exactly as it had been before. Everything was the same, nothing changed or out of place. There was just one less heartbeat in the world that night.

Good thing Este's sister's gonna swear she was with me

On the second day of the trial, Rebecca Baker’s lawyers were throwing whatever they could against the wall to see if something would stick. That morning they began to argue that Allison Argent might’ve abducted and murdered Justin Smith in retaliation for y/n’s disappearance. It was all speculation at best, but the theory unfortunately made sense to the jury. Before things could get too far, the prosecution called its first witness of the day to the stand.

“Mrs. Martin, where were you on the night of Mr. Smith’s suspected disappearance?” the prosecution lawyer questioned calmly.

“I was with Allison at my house. We were having a girls night in, you can check my security cameras,” Lydia answered confidently. Lydia still had a pocketful of favors from her MIT days, so when the jurors were shown the clips from Lydia’s home security cameras, they saw exactly what they would’ve expected based on Lydia’s testimony.

Truth be told, Lydia didn’t know anything about what happened that night; including Allison’s whereabouts and any details related to Justin’s alleged demise. All she knew was that Allison called and asked for a simple favor - an alibi for just a few hours. Lydia didn’t ask questions and Allison didn’t give answers.

Good thing his mistress took out a big life insurance policy

On the third day of the trial, Rebecca Baker took the stand. Her lawyers tried to help her as best they could, but the prosecution was ruthless. All of the evidence was circumstantial at best - all parties, including the judge and jurors, knew that - but it was enough to make everyone reconsider the spotless image the defense had tried to create for Ms. Baker.

“Ms. Baker, is it true that you knowingly engaged in a romantic relationship while Justin Smith was married to and living with his wife?” another one of the prosecution’s attorneys began.

“Yes,” Rebecca replied meekly. Allison internally scoffed from her seat in the gallery. She found irony in the fact that Rebecca didn’t find any humility or shame in sleeping with another woman’s husband until she was under oath.

“Is it also true that within approximately a week of Mrs. y/l/n’s disappearance, you moved into Mr. Smith and Mrs. y/l/n’s house?”

“That is correct,” Rebecca said as she began to wring her hands together anxiously. The judge tapped his wrist watch and shot a stern look towards the prosecutor. The man nodded in response and continued to his final points.

“I’ll wrap up my questions for you, Ms. Baker. Can you confirm that shortly after moving in with Mr. Smith, multiple legal and financial arrangements and adjustments were made? And these new arrangements make you the sole beneficiary of Mr. Smith’s life issuance policy, assets, and investments?”

By the end of the prosecution’s final question, every jury member and spectator sat up straighter and waited to hear Rebecca’s response with bated breath. The blonde ball of nerves sighed defeatedly before turning to face the attorney directly as she answered his question.

“Yes, that’s true.”

“No further questions, your honor.” As the lead prosecutor returned to the plaintiff’s table, Rebecca’s attorney stood up to address the judge.

“Your honor, the defense would like to request a brief recess,” the defense attorney nearly pleaded. Though his poker face was much better than his client’s, it was clear that he was getting nervous.

“We’ll reconvene in 15 minutes,” the judge ordered with a stern glare cast towards Rebecca.

They think she did it but they just can't prove it

It soon became clear to Rebecca that the recess her legal team requested was nothing more than a “kiss your dignity goodbye” meeting. If she hadn’t been queasy before the recess was called, she definitely was upon re-entering the courtroom.

The rest of the trial seemed to move in slow motion for Rebecca. A few more witnesses were called to the stand, more lackluster evidence was presented, both sides made their closing arguments, and the jury left to discuss the verdict. After what felt like an eternity, the jury returned with an official decision.

Silence settled over the room as a single juror stood to address the court.

“The jury finds the defendant not guilty on count 1 of murder in the first degree based on lack of sufficient evidence. The jury finds the defendant not guilty on count 2 of kidnapping based on lack of sufficient evidence. The jury finds the defendant guilty on count 3 of insurance fraud based on…”

The rest of the jurors’ statement sounded like white noise to Rebecca. She was just barely coherent enough to hear the judge deliver her punishment a few minutes later. $50,000 fine and 200 hours of community service.

Allison stuck around to the bitter end of the trial to hear the verdict in person. In all honesty, Allison didn’t want Rebecca to go to jail. It wouldn’t be right for her to serve time for a crime she didn’t commit, but Allison did find satisfaction in the fact that Rebecca would soon be picking up garbage in a fluorescent orange vest.

After the majority of the spectators had vacated the courtroom gallery, Allison leisurely gathered her things. Justice had been served to Justin, she personally made sure of that, and now justice had been served to Rebecca. The blonde and brunette women briefly locked eye contact as Allison made her way towards the exit.

“You did this,” Rebecca whispered to Allison. Suddenly, it was like a flip switched within her. One moment she was numb, yet calm and collected, and the next moment she was screaming (literal) bloody murder and had to be held back by her lawyers.

“YOU DID THIS! YOU KILLED JUSTIN, YOU BITCH!” Rebecca cried, though her words fell on deaf ears. Allison exited the courtroom with her head held high as the courtroom deputy and defense lawyers did their best to calm the hysterical woman.

She thinks I did it but she just can't prove it

A week later the court case was still on Allison’s mind but the emotional scars had begun to scab. Healing was never a straight or smooth path, Allison had learned that the hard way over the years, but this was a start.

y/n’s landlord had been generous enough to allow Allison to gather y/n’s things before he cleaned out the house for new renters. As Allison walked through the home she once considered to be an extension of her own, she felt her throat dry out and tighten up. She hadn’t realized she was crying until she was wiping salty tears off of the picture frames she’d carefully picked up. Each photo unlocked a new memory, some even elicited a chuckle out of Allison amidst her tears.

A photo from y/n’s wedding day stood out among all the rest as Allison’s eyes jumped from frame to frame. It was a candid shot Lydia had taken while they were in y/n’s dressing room before the ceremony. y/n looked as beautiful as ever in her flowy white gown and Allison’s mulberry maid of honor dress complemented it well. As Allison put the final touches on y/n’s hair and makeup, y/n fastened the clasp of a custom necklace behind Allison’s neck. On a thin, medium-length chain hung an arrowhead from the first time Allison had ever tried to teach y/n how to shoot a bow and arrow. y/n failed miserably, but it was a cherished memory for both girls. Since that day, Allison had only taken the necklace off a handful of times.

Allison smiled bittersweetly at the memory and wiped a fresh tear off of the decorative frame before pulling her necklace out from underneath her shirt. She pressed a gentle kiss to the cool silver arrowhead and then to the photo frame, right above y/n’s styled hair.

A feeling that Allison couldn’t quite explain flowed through her body just then; it was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being stuck underwater or seeing the gentle rays of the sun for the first time after a hurricane, it felt like freedom. Allison felt almost as if y/n was right there next to her, with her head resting on Allison's shoulder and wrapping her arms around the brunette’s torso. In that moment, Allison somehow wordlessly knew with every fiber in her being that y/n was finally at peace.

No, no body, no crime

I wasn't letting up until the day he died

a/n: AHHHH DID YOU LIKE IT? it was kind of a wild ride from start to finish and i definitely shed a few tears while i was writing it. please lmk what you think!

okay, now onto the writing process from hell: i started drafting ideas for the fic on dec. 21 or 22 of 2020, after i put together a mood board. i had written more than half of the fic when i decided i hated it and scrapped the whole thing on xmas eve (~3000 words 🤡). after that i was kinda in a rut and couldn’t decide how i wanted to end the fic so i ended up writing and deleting ~2500 words over the past month and a half. @demxters is an absolute GODDESS and helped me come up with the ending, so i am eternally grateful to her for that. if any of this seems a lil strange it’s probably because i finished writing it at 4:45 a.m. after working on it for 3ish hours straight. have a great day lovelies!

join my tag list!

@dashkana @rogershoe @basicbibitxh @sweetfairyprincess17 @samkysnks @ellxpsismm @pure-ghost @lilyspells @ineedyourskulls @loveheathens @plq-cid @linkpk88 @grace-wade-08 @brithedemonspawn @fanfichoex @wistful-chaos @silveralma @malfoysadore @miss-i-ship-it @sonnydoesrandomshit

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nctxdreamies · 3 years

Text

A Silent Love

speak up, i’m listening

summary: wonwoo is known to be the quietest, most introverted, cold guy on campus. his feelings are only kept to himself until someone shows up...

who: wonwoo x female reader

genre: fluff, college

warnings: none :)

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i kinda love wonwoo so i had to write something up, hope you like it!

you’ve always been on top and focused on your studies

the only person that really kept you sane was your best friend joshua

he’s been by your side since day 1

you could never imagine where you’d be in the world right now without him

everyone always thought you two had a thing for each other

at one point that was true

things took a turn and you two thought it was best to just stay as friends

after that incident your friendship grew even stronger than before

both of you cringe at the fact that you used to date

you two agreed on to never bring it up ever again

you’re surprised that joshua and you even get along because of how different you guys are

he’s a total social butterfly, has so many friends, parties a lot ocassionally, and somehow still manages to get good grades

you on the other hand focus on studying, have a few close friends but joshua is your second half, and barely get out of your apartment

you wouldn’t consider yourself as an introvert nor an extrovert, somewhere in between...

studies were on top of everything, you had no time to focus on a relationship other than your strong friendship with joshua

especially after that incident, you knew that you could be independent

one day joshua went out partying late

he didn’t answer any of your calls or texts

it didn’t concern you since this wasn’t the first this happened

you couldn’t sleep knowing that joshua wasn’t home yet

you were always concerned about his well being but he always said that you worried too much for him

while waiting on joshua and studying for finals a phone call reached your phone at 3:00 am

this was odd since the number didn’t look familiar

you decided to pick it up anyways

“hello?”

“hi i have your best friend and he’s wasted right now, i’ll be there in 5”

“oh sorry who is this-“

you got cut off from the person on the other line hanging up

thoughts were running through your brain wondering who that could’ve been

exactly 5 minutes later there was a knock at your apartment door

you looked through the peeping hole to reveal joshua and a tall guy wearing a black mask, and bucket hat basically covering half of his face

you really only worried about joshua at this point since he was on the ground

the guy was struggling to hold him up

you immediately opened the door and right when you opened it you saw him dashing off around the corner really fast

you thought that was the weirdest thing ever

you picked joshua up and threw him on the couch

“jeez this guy is so wasted”

you looked back at your phone and saw the number and decided to text it

“thanks for bringing my friend home, sorry about that...”

‘read’

“oh wow what a way to say no problem”

the next morning you woke up later than usual and jolted out the door looking like a mess

good thing your morning bus ride to campus was long enough to get ready

you got on the bus and it was packed, there weren’t any spots left to sit in

there was one window seat open near the back

you headed down there and asked the person sitting in that row if you could sit there

he just moved over and let you through

right when you sat down a weird feeling got to you

you glanced to your left and the guy looked exactly like the one who brought joshua home last night

he was wearing the exact same bucket hat and black mask, this time his eyes were showing and he had a pair of round glasses on

he was just scrolling on his phone looking through social media

you decided to get ready while the bus started moving

there was a bump in the road and the makeup brush in your lap fell and rolled into the aisle

“shoot” you whispered under your breath

he quickly picked it up and handed it to you

you took it from his hand and locked eyes for a good 5 seconds

“thanks” you smiled

he went back to scrolling on his phone again

“hey weren’t you the guy that brought joshua home last night?”

“oh...um yeah, how’d you recognize me?”

“the bucket hat and mask! you seemed to be in a rush last night huh?”

“... yeah i was out later than usual”

the bus stopped at the campus and you both got up

you were surprised that he was getting up as well

you exited the bus and before he started walking off you caught up to him

“wait! are you a student here too?”

“yeah it’s my third year”

“woah really, mine as well!”

he didn’t seem much of a talker, he just wanted to get away from you

“by the way my name is y/n and i major in biology” you turned to him and smiled

“i’m wonwoo, i’m also in biology” he was basically whispering this

“how come i’ve never noticed you until now?”

“i guess it’s cause i’m always in the back and the first one to leave” he shrugged his shoulders

little did you know he knew who you were before you even talked to each other

you stood out to him in class since you were always paying attention, never late, and very active on the biology chat page

he knew you were out of his league and that’s why he was so cold and trying to avoid you

he eventually got over you even though he never talked to you once

but then the feelings rushed back when you started talking

“we should study together one day, and plus it’s finals season”

“i actually don’t study with other people... i kinda enjoy being alone”

“i can tell, you seem like the quiet type huh”

“i guess you could say that”

he suddenly turned the wrong direction to try and get away from you

“you know that’s not the right way”

he kept going and ignored you

you walked in class and noticed wonwoo already there

“wait i thought you were going the opposite way, how’d you get here before me?”

“i know ways” he glanced at you with a cold look

you just walked away to go sit at your seat

class ended and you turned around to go meet wonwoo again but he wasn’t there

you went to the library to study since it had the best lighting and comfy chairs between the bookshelves

you made your way there to your usual spot near the back, there was a tucked away table and chairs

someone was sitting there which surprised you since nobody really knew about this spot in the library

their back was facing you, but you decided to see who it was

“oh hey there wonwoo! i didn’t know you’d be here”

he looked up at you in shock

“this is where i normally go, what are you doing here?”

“i study here all the time, so you’re full of secrets” you laughed

you managed to crack a little smirk on his mouth

“so what are you up to?”

“i’m reviewing the content from the first few lectures”

you grabbed a seat beside him and started looking over the content he was looking at too

he felt uncomfortable by this but this was the only way he could get closer to you

you looked over at his test papers he was studying from

“woah you’re so good, how do you get grades like this?!”

“i just work my butt off i guess” he smiled

this was the first time you actually saw him smile so genuinely

“hey you should keep smiling like that, it looks good on you”

his eyes widened a bit and his cheeks were starting to warm up

he ran his hand through his hair and turned the other way in embarrassment

“well anyways i gotta go check up on joshua he’s still at the apartment”

“oh alright”

he seemed kinda sad that you were leaving so fast

“if you ever wanna study again together you got my number in your phone” you grabbed your stuff and left

that night while you were flipping through your textbook violently joshua knocked at your room door

“hey y/n sorry about last night, i was a total mess”

“whatever that’s all on you, at least someone brough you home safely”

“wait that wasn’t you?”

“no i was worried waiting for you all night”

“then who was that...” his eyes widened

“it was wonwoo, he brought you home”

“wonwoo... wonwoo” his face was confused

“oh like wonwoo in your major!”

“you know him?”

“yeah of course i do, we’ve talked a lot before since he loves music as well”

“oh wow he doesn’t seem like that type of guy, if anything he’s so cold and quiet”

“are you serious? this guy is NOT like that”

“he’s literally like that to everyone in our major, he’s that guy who sits at the back and listens along”

“you’ve never seen the real him i guess... why don’t the three of us go get a coffee tomorrow, then you can see how he really is”

“you know i’ve gotta study dude i don’t have time for this” you have him a disappointed look

“come on y/n you’re not studying for the whole dayyy” he started sulking

“ugh you’re so annoying. FINE if it will make you stop acting like this i’ll go”

he smiled and walked out of your room

you continued studying all night

your phone suddenly lit up with a text

“hey y/n i’m not sure if you got these notes but here they might help you study” *sent an attachment*

you opened it and everything on there were the things you struggled with the most

“wow thank you, this is really what i need right now!”

‘read’

joshua knocked on your bedroom door and that woke you up

“good morning y/n it’s time to get ready we’re going out for our coffee hangout”

you totally forgot about that so you started rushing to get ready

there was a knock on the front door and joshua opened it

you could hear a little bit of the conversation but you were more focused on getting ready

you walked out to the living room and saw wonwoo and joshua sitting on the couch talking together

“you’re finally ready, you literally take ages to do all that”

“not my fault you woke me up late”

“let’s get going” joshua gestured you guys to the door

you guys got to the cafe and found a booth near the back

“so wonwoo how has studying been for you?” joshua asked

“pretty good, i feel ready surprisingly”

you sat there feeling nervous about the finals

“y/n you need to relax this is a great way to reset and take a break from studying” joshua insisted

you all ordered your food and drinks and began talking

“so y/n told me you’re very quiet wonwoo”

“oh uh i guess i’m like that at school”

“oh come on wonwoo you barely talk, i never knew you were in my class”

“yikes well this is a great time to get to know each other” joshua smiled

you guys started talking for a while and enjoyed the conversation

you were able to have wonwoo open up more about himself

joshua’s phone started ringing and interrupted

he instantly left and said that he was sorry for leaving really early

“i guess it was urgent...”

wonwoo just shrugged

it started to get awkward without having joshua there

“so i heard you’re into music?”

“oh yeah, joshua probably told you... i kinda like making music”

“woah actually that’s so cool, could i hear a sample?” you asked

“it’s not really done but i have a short recording on my phone”

he let you listen to it

“dang that’s so good! i didnt know you did this type of stuff!”

“yeah it’s been a longtime hobby of mine”

you and wonwoo kept talking for a couple of hours now and you both started to lose track of time

suddenly joshua texted you

“oh my we’ve been here for so long, i better get going and plus i still need to study”

you started packing up and just before you could leave wonwoo’s hand stopped you

you turned around

“y/n i had such a great time today, thank you”

“me too we should definitely do this again!”

he didn’t respond except he just looked straight into your eyes

“i need to tell you something” wonwoo broke the silence

“yeah what’s up?”

he took your hand and led you outside

it was so beautiful with the sunset and you were both in awe

he brought you to a nearby lookout to watch the sunset

“wow it’s gorgeous up here” you exclaimed

“yeah i normally go here when i’m stressed”

“so what was it that you were going to tell me?” you asked

he started getting nervous and turned towards you

“well... this may seem so sudden but y/n i really want get this weight off my shoulders...”

you looked really worried

“i like you. i can’t keep being so cold and quiet to you, it really hurts me.”

he just said it so confidently

you didn’t know what to do, it felt so sudden and out of the blue

your words didn’t come out and you were just stuttering

“i like you too wonwoo, you’re such an amazing guy and i’d love to get to know you better”

he finally felt relieved from your response

he couldn’t help it and leaned over to kiss you

you didn’t hesistate to kiss back, it’s like you were meant for each other

he pulled away and held your hands and you both watched the sunset as you leaned your head on his shoulder

it started getting dark and he started walking you home

“how long did you have these feelings for me?”

“now that’s a long story” he laughed

“wait so even before i met you that night when you took joshua home?”

“i guess you can say so” he smiled

“i’m sorry i ran away that night without meeting you. i was too nervous to face you” he said

“what why? i was wondering why you left in such a hurry”

“yeah i just get nervous around you that’s why i’ve been so mean to you”

“what you weren’t mean to me... well kinda just a little cold”

“i’m sorry y/n”

you stopped and hugged him

you two reached your apartment and he watched you go in safely

“good night y/n” he texted you

“good night wonwoo.” you replied back

joshua was standing at the door smiling when you came in

“what’s wrong with you?” you looked at him and laughed

“i saw it all y/n don’t hide”

your face turned red and you ran to your room

“oh my y/n don’t worry if you don’t want to tell me i’ll just ask wonwoo”

you opened your door to a smiling joshua

“you- stop smiling like that” you rolled your eyes

“come on you two are so cute how could i not”

“ugh whatever, i need to study bye” you started pushing him out of your room

the next morning you were just about to head out your door, you opened it and saw wonwoo standing there

“oh nice to see you” you smiled brightly at wonwoo

he hugged you and kissed your forehead

you could hear joshua making a big deal out of it behind you

you closed the door behind you and left with wonwoo

wonwoo is still a shy guy when it comes to being with you in public

you absolutely don’t care about what people think

you still love him even though he’s still like this, it’s kinda cute

he rarely shows affection to you in public because the thought of pda just makes him feel weird

he respects you for who you are and isn’t the guy to be overly attached with you

he’s truly someone you’ve been dreaming of

#wonwoo #wonwoo au #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo svt #seventeen #seventeen wonwoo #svt wonwoo #wonwoo fanfic #svt fanfic #kpop imagine #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x reader #college au #wonwoo fluff #svt imagines #kpop scnearios #wonwoo scenarios #svt scenarios #Spotify

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kasienda · 3 years

Text

The Five Minute Adventures of Snake Noir: Ch 6 - Miraculous Abuse

Chapter 1: I Want It To Be You

Chapter 2: Best Friends

Chapter 3: Best Laid Plans

Chapter 4: A Thank You

Chapter 5: Unwanted Revelations

Chapter 6: Miraculous Abuse

If Adrien had avoided using the snake before, he now was operating on the other extreme. Ladybug had told him to abuse it, and he’s not sure she would have meant it quite so literally, but well… he and Nino had come up with a list.

It had started with his homework. If he could finish his homework in far less time, he’d have more time to visit Nino and Marinette. Not that it took a lot of time to visit Marinette as it was usually a loop, so even if he spent hours with her, it never took longer than ten minutes as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

He unfortunately couldn’t do all of his homework in a time loop because that would leave whatever he had completed in the last five minutes erased. But he could do all the reading, researching, planning, and studying in a loop. Anything that didn’t require him to write anything down.

Nathalie had only walked on him transformed once.

“Yes, Nathalie?” he had asked, without looking up from his textbook. He hadn’t even thought about it.

She stood stock still and was dead silent. He glanced towards her with a frown - her eyes were comically wide, but that was the only sign that she was shocked. He glanced down, and remembered he was transformed at Aspik.

Read on Ao3

“Oh shit!”

But it had been easy enough to fix. He just reset, destranformed, waited for Nathalie to come in and deliver his schedule changes for the week and leave, and then he transformed again.

And then Nino had realized if he could pack all of his studying into the space of five minutes, Adrien could surely squeeze in some well deserved leisure time as well.

It only took 71 loops to read a hundred thousand words, and Adrien had long ago discovered the joys of fanfiction, but he had never really had time to read more than a bit here or there. Now? With unlimited time and an entire endless library of things to read based on his favorite games and anime? Let’s just say his current power set brought a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Just One More Chapter.”

And a season of anime was only 119 loops. Hell, he had gotten through all 981 episodes of One Piece in 4532 loops, which was still nothing compared to his time as Aspik, and honestly, far less traumatizing.

He had felt slightly guilty about it. He was literally using the powers of time travel to watch anime.

But when he mentioned it to Nino, his friend had just rolled his eyes. “Dude! You’re thinking about this all wrong. You’re a hero and we need you to be okay. This is about avoiding burnout as much as it is about having a good time. It’s so you get enough of a break and enough sleep to be a competent hero that we all need!”

But eventually the stories and shows hadn’t been enough to hold his attention. And he took another of Nino’s ideas and started paying visits to several of his friends.

He had gone to Kagami first. He had no expectations of healing things with her, but he had always wanted to be able to explain so that his apologies might mean something.

“Chat Noir? Is there an akuma?” she asked by way of greeting.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ah, no. I wanted to talk to you about something, but I also have to erase your memory after the fact to protect identities. Are you okay with that?”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “You have piqued my curiosity. You may proceed.”

He nodded. He had already activated his power before he had landed in her bedroom that was definitely as lavish as his own if not quite as spacious.

“So… more than anything I wanted to apologize to you?”

She frowned. “I’m unaware of anything that you have done that would require an apology.”

“Kagami, I’m Adrien.”

Her eyes went wide for a second. “Ah, I see.” Then, she nodded.

“That’s it?”

“No, it makes a lot of sense.” And then she did something he never would have expected. She smiled. And most of his tension released.

“I just wanted to explain now that I had the ability to. That I wasn’t ever lying to you or running from our dates because I wanted to.”

“You had to sacrifice your own desires for a higher calling.”

“Yeah, that’s it exactly.”

She smiled at him again. “I appreciate you coming to explain and I understand completely why I can’t remember. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course!”

“Were you never in love with Marinette?”

“Well, I… uh… it was hard to see Marinette when I was completely enamored with Ladybug, but…”

She shook her head. “Are you in love with both of them now?”

“I mean, sortve?” He knew Kagami hated when he ended every sentence as if it was a question. “They’re the same person.”

Kagami sighed. “How disappointing.”

“Disappointing?! She’s amazing!”

“I know, but if she’s Ladybug and you’re Chat Noir, I have never had a chance with either of you.”

He felt like he had been thrown off a cliff. “What? You had feelings for Marinette?”

She grinned. “Well, she is amazing, as you always say. At least I know that I have really good taste.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have ruined all your prospects.”

“I will survive. Neither of you define me as a person.”

“You’re pretty amazing, too, you know,” he told her sincerely.

She nodded. “You honor me.”

He laughed. “Kagami, please don’t get all formal on me. I’m still just me.”

“Well, I hope you know that I appreciate all that you and Ladybug do for the city,” Kagami told him, ignoring his request.

“Thank you, Kagami. That means a lot coming from you.”

She nodded in acknowledgment and he knew he was being dismissed, and then he slid the switch on his bracelet and he was on the roof of her family’s manor once again his heart a little lighter.

He had gone to Alya after that. He had been nervous since she was the one who tended to push him aside as Chat Noir. But his fears proved to be completely unfounded as for the most part she could never stop laughing whenever he revealed himself.

“Wait! You’re Adrien?!”

She burst into cackles immediately.

“Why is that so funny?!” He has demanded the first time.

She had just grinned, shaking her head and still chuckling. “I wish I could explain it to you, sunshine.”

“I already know Marinette is Ladybug,” he said.

“Oh good! Then I don’t have to be panicked about accidentally slipping!” And she went back to rolling on the floor laughing.

“You wouldn’t happen to already know Marinette’s other secret would you?” she asked.

His eyebrows scrunched together under his mask. “Umm… that she’s in love with me as Adrien?”

Her face lit up. “Oh see!! You do get it!”

He shook his head. “I do not get it.”

“The two of you managed to get yourself in a love square. You’ve been chasing each other around like two cute little hamsters in hamster balls.”

He sighed, far less amused than Alya at the current state of his Marinette’s relationship. “I’m really glad someone is getting some joy out of this.”

“Hey!” she objected. “I’m only going to know this for another three minutes! Let me have my fun!”

He held up his hands in surrender, and he was smiling in spite of himself. Maybe some time in the future, after he and Marinette could be together, it would be funny to him, too.

“God! This is why it feels like I’m third-wheeling during akuma fights,” she exclaimed.

“You feel like a third wheel?!” he repeated in disbelief. “Have you seen the chaotic energy that is you and Marinette coming up with a plan together? I am definitely the third wheel in that situation.”

And then she was cackling again. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed. “Nino says I can be a bit of a bulldozer when I’m trying to find a solution to something.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said dryly.

All the mirth fled her face and she looked at him in concern. “Hey, you okay?”

He nodded. “It’s not like I’m allowed to be anything else.”

“No, don’t say that! You’re allowed to be upset with me! I deserve it sometimes.”

He shook his head. “I’m never going to hold your ability to defeat an akuma against you. I just… have felt a little unneeded lately,” he admitted.

She stared at him for a second and then she burst into laughter again.

And despite still not getting it, he found himself chuckling, too. Her laughter was just that infectious. “Why do you find this so funny?” he asked.

“Because you’re a literal superhero and a model with more money than god, and a heart of absolute gold. You work with her as Ladybug so well I have to deal with crazy conspiracy theorists on the Ladyblog who think the two of you must be telepathic aliens!”

“What? People don’t think that.”

“They do! And it’s annoying. But my point is you’re the real deal, Agreste, and she’s crazy about you, and you know it, and yet you still manage to doubt yourself.”

“I’m glad my struggles and hang ups are so amusing to you,” he said with a pout.

She sat up and fist bumped his shoulder. “Aww! Sunshine! I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, your insecurity makes you seem sweeter and cuter. And it makes you seem more human. I don’t mean to mock you in any way.”

He searched her face and only found open sincerity.

“Thanks, Alya.”

“So, does she know that you know?”

“I mean, she doesn’t right now. But I’ve told her. Many many times, but it was just like this and she doesn’t remember.”

She softened. “That sounds difficult.”

“It’s apparently better than the alternative,” he said, going for nonchalance, but he didn’t fool her if her scooching to sit right next to him was anything to go by.

“I wish we could all fix it for you, Adrien.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“How are you?”

He shrugged. “I’m okay at the moment. Some days are worse than others. Nino… Nino has been a godsend.”

She smiled. “He is pretty amazing. He knows outside of a loop?”

“He does.”

“I’m glad you have that, Adrien. Marinette was falling apart at the seams before she told me.”

“Does he know about Marinette?” Adrien asked. Sometimes, it seemed like Nino knew more than he was letting on. But maybe his friend was just really respectful of secrets and didn’t ask questions.

“Not from me! And he hasn’t told me about you being Chat Noir either.”

Adrien glanced toward the window.

“Does it bother you that there are secrets between the two of you?” he finally asked.

“No, not these ones. They’re not our secrets. They’re yours, and they’re Marinette’s, so they’re not ours to share.”

“I'm jealous,” he admitted.

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Someday, you won’t have to be anymore.”

The Snake beeped it’s first warning. “Time’s just about up.”

She offered him a fist bump and then a hug. He reciprocated both. “I’m glad you stopped by, Sunshine. You’re always welcome any time you think my particular brand of company is something that would help you.”

He grinned. “Thank you, Alya.”

“I look forward to the day when all four of us can just be open about everything,” she said.

He snorted. “You and me both.”

His went to his bodyguard next.

“I just wanted to apologize to you for always running off. I don’t mean to make your job harder or get you into trouble. I am literally running away to save the city.”

His bodyguard didn’t say anything. He never said anything. He had just let out a resigned sigh and then patted Adrien’s shoulder.

Adrien took that as forgiveness and reset the loop. There was no sense in sitting there in awkward silence for another four and a half minutes.

When he had told Nathalie one afternoon at her desk outside her office, she looked horrified - frozen as still as a statue trapped in Medusa’s gaze.

“Nathalie?”

“I… all this time?” she whispered.

“Yeah. I know it’s a lot. I know it causes you a bit of grief when I disappear.”

She waved away his concern. “Right now, we’re in some kind of time loop and I won’t remember?”

“But you will,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he confirmed anyway.

“Adrien, I need you to listen to me.”

He nodded.

“I can never find out. Your father can’t either. If you need something because you’re hurt or cornered, or…” she trailed off.

Was she crying?

She cleared her throat.

“Go to your friends. Their parents. Just… not your father, okay? Or me, because I’d have to inform him.”

His brows furrowed together in confusion. “Okay?” It wasn’t hard to to agree despite how weird she was being. He knew Paris needed him and he also knew that his father would never let him continue. Especially if he was seeking help due to an injury or something.

That’s what Nathalie was referring to, right?

She patted him on the shoulder. It was even more awkward than when his bodyguard had done it.

“Adrien, you’re quite impressive as a hero.”

“Thank you,” he said with a smile.

And then there was Marinette. He had learned that it was impossible to tell her he was Adrien without making her cry, which was frustrating because she was also so much more open and affectionate once she knew.

“How do I get you to not breakdown when I tell you this?” he asked her seriously.

She laughed through her tears. “I’m sorry, kitty. I have no idea. It’s just… it’s not fair.”

He smiled. “That’s what Ladybug always says,” he told her casually. She didn’t know that he knew this go around.

“She’s right! You deserve so much, and life… it’s not fair!”

He turned to her seriously. “I don’t need life to be fair, Mari. I just… don’t want to have to wear a mask all the time.” And then he smiled. “I’m glad that you’re okay with me doing this.”

She nodded tearfully. “Anytime, Kitty. Anytime.”

Then during a regular patrol at one point. He had just realized he wanted to make her laugh. So he spent another few hundred loops figuring out which jokes made her laugh the hardest and which ones were absolute duds. Then, on a day when she was having a hard time, he showed up on her balcony and gave her the best one hour comedy of her life.

Her unrestrained laughter was so explosive she had literally fallen out of her chair. Totally worth it.

“Thank you, kitty,” she said wiping the tears induced by her laughter. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

He hadn’t argued. “Of course, princess. I am always at your service!”

Then, he started working on the perfect confession. He was trying to see if he could get her to kiss him as Chat Noir without revealing his identity because, you know, that always made her cry.

“Can I use the snake to ask you a very important question?” He has asked Ladybug on patrol.

She nodded, and he activated it.

“What do you think it would take to get you to kiss me?”

She laughed. “Are you serious right now? That is your very important question?”

“It is,” he nodded, but offered her a huge grin so she could take it as a joke if she wanted.

“Why? You haven’t been able to be successful yet?” she teased.

“Oh no! I’ve been super successful. All I really have to do is tell you my name.”

She scoffed.

“No, I’m serious!” he boasted with a huge grin splitting his face knowing she only half believed him.

“So, why don’t you just do that?” she asked seriously.

“Because you always cry! And I don’t want to kiss away your tears. I want to make you smile.”

She got quiet. “You know, we can’t be together right?”

“Yeah Marinette,” he whispered. “I know that really well.”

It was silent.

“How long have you known?” she asked softly.

He had no idea how to answer that question. Because time was now very weird for him. In one sense he had only known for a few weeks, on the other he had literally spent so much time in loops that it had to have been at least twice that at this point. Maybe more.

“A while,” he said. “But we’ve already talked about that to death. I’d much rather figure out how to get you to fall desperately in love with this half of me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to fall desperately in love with you in five minutes?”

He shrugged. “We have a solid foundation of trust and friendship. I’m not starting from nothing. Plus, I’ve fallen in love in less than five minutes before.” With her. He didn’t think he needed to say that though.

She actually smiled. “Yeah, I’ve fallen in love pretty fast before, too.”

And it occurred to him that he had no idea what had made her fall in love with Adrien. He probably could ask her, but that was one more memory that he wanted her to remember having told him.

He could probably just show up on her balcony as regular old Chat Noir and just say something like, “So, Adrien Agreste, huh?” She’d probably tell him, and she’d even remember it. But she wouldn’t know that it was him she was telling.

How the hell had his life gotten so complicated?

“There’s no way I would start crying just from knowing your name though,” she said. “You have to be making that up.”

He just turned to her and raised his eyebrows.

The expression probably didn’t work as well with his transformation covering them.

But she still hesitated. “There’s no way!” she exclaimed, but then she got a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Unless…”

And then her eyes started welling with tears.

And he almost laughed. But he managed to hold it back.

“Oh, come here, bug,” he said instead, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her to him. And he just held her as she shook silently.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, and then kissed the top of her head. “I know.”

“Do you see my problem now?” he said after another pause.

And she laughed through her tears, which had been his intention, and he smiled.

She pulled away. “I’ve thought about it before, you know.”

“Thought about what?”

“Letting myself fall for Chat Noir?”

He hugged her tighter. “Yeah?”

“It never seemed like it would be that hard. I think if it hadn’t been for Chat Blanc, it would have happened after New York.”

He laughed. “Really? New York was when I thought maybe I should ask out Marinette.”

She looked up at him in horror. “Oh my god! We’re just perpetually screwed, aren’t we? We’re just going to keep missing each other over and over!”

He kissed her hand. “No m’lady,” he assured. “That can’t happen because now I know, and I can’t forget.”

And then she was crying again, harder. “I don’t want to forget either.”

“I know,” he told her, kissing her hand again. “I promise it won’t be forever.”

“I love you, Adrien.”

“I love you, too.”

And that time, of the two of them, it was he who was stronger and able to slide his fingers across the reset.

And he might have stayed in that loop far longer than he should have trying to figure out the way to the heart he had apparently already won.

He learned that she did enjoy his flirting whatever she said to the contrary, but the moments where he was vulnerable and genuine were the ones that seemed to move her the most.

But none of it was quite enough. If he wanted a kiss, he always had to tell her his name.

But despite his failure, pulling himself out of that loop was the hardest thing he had ever done.

And that’s how he knew he was in trouble.

…

“Nino, you have to take this away from me,” Adrien said, holding out the snake miraculous. He had just arrived and released both his transformations.

Nino took it, his eyebrows pinched together. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m scared I’m going to go into a loop and I’m never going to come out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look! Being here with you, with you knowing everything, is amazing. It’s the only time I feel like myself, unless,” he held up the bracelet, “I’m using this and… it’s getting harder to pull myself out of the loops.”

“Your visits to Ladybug?”

“Yeah,” Adrien admitted. “She told me to go every single day so I would remember what it was like to be loved,” he paused for a second, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “The problem is I really really like being loved.”

And then he couldn’t hold the tears back anymore.

Nino pulled him by the arm down to the ground and sat right next to him shoulder to shoulder.

Adrien buried his face in his hands.

“For the record, dude,” Nino whispered. “You are loved even outside a loop with Ladybug.”

Adrien threw his arms around Nino. “I honestly don’t know why you put up with me at this point. I feel like you have to put up with a lot.”

Nino grinned. “Hey! I happen to like hanging out with you! This shift has been awesome because I get to see you way more often.”

“And I’m not like messing up date night with Alya or anything, am I?”

“Nah!” Nino waves away his concern. “Alya and I hangout in the mornings and during lunch. Lately Marinette has monopolized her evenings.”

Adrien managed to keep a straight face at that. “If you and her ever do need a day away from the children, I’m sure Marinette and I can figure out a way to take care of ourselves for a day.”

Nino burst out laughing.

“What?! I’m a big boy and Marientte’s a big girl. We can take care of ourselves.”

Nino just shook his head, still snickering.

“Maybe all four of us could do something some time,” Nino suggested, his eyes sparkling.

Adrien narrowed his eyes. Did Nino know? He knew he couldn’t ask without giving it away, and he had just handed over the snake.

“That sounds really nice,” Adrien said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to handle going on a double date that he had to pretend wasn’t a double date. But someday.

He wanted to cry again, but his eyes remained dry.

“So, you just want me to keep it?” Nino asked, holding up the bracelet. “Should I hide it here in the room? Or wear it?”

“Wear it,” Adrien said. That was the only way Nino would know where it was at all times. “But don’t use it. Not even for an akuma.”

He didn’t want Nino to ever experience a loop on the battlefield. Not if he could help it.

“I reserve the right to come save your ass if necessary,” Nino said as he slipped the miraculous around his wrist.

Adrien laughed. “Okay, but please don’t unless you absolutely have to. I don’t need Ladybug pissed at me for giving away a miraculous.”

Nino frowned at him then. “Why are you giving this to me, instead of back to her?”

Adrien’s answer to that was complicated. Partly because he didn’t want Marinette to know that his loops with her were hurting him even as they gave him hope, and he definitely didn’t want her to know that he had fallen to the point of being borderline addicted.

But there was also a strategic element to his choice. He could approach Nino in either form, and Nino would know to trust him.

“You know who I am,” Adrien finally said.

“Will you be okay without it?” Nino asked.

Adrien shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m definitely not okay with it right now.” He paused, then looked at Nino. “I might be texting and calling you a lot over the next few days.”

Nino laughed. “I can’t promise to answer right away all the time, but you can always do that, man. Always.”

Adrien let his head fall onto Nino’s shoulder. “Have I ever told you that you’re the absolute best?”

“I could stand to hear it a few more times,” Nino said.

Adrien grinned. “Noted.”

…

Chapter 7: The Five Minute Adventures of Ananta

#miraculous ladybug fan fiction #marichat #platonic adrino #trigger warning: addiction #hurt comfort #coping #identity reveal #time loops #The five minute adventures of snake noir #a miraculous reveal #ml spoilers #ml s4 #my own content #this fic writes itself #I'm just the channel #happy reading

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im-frickin-trying-okay · 3 years

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Random BNHA Headcanons

(This is my first time doing this 😭)

Summary: A bunch of random BNHA headcanons. So, basically the title. The only reason I’m adding a read more is because I want it to be easier to navigate my page, lol

Bakugo is oddly nice when he first wakes up, but he's not exactly a morning person. He's less "I hate the world, why am I awake???" And more like "I'm extremely comfortable and the only thing that can ruin my mood is becoming less comfortable." He likes hovering between awake and asleep, y'know? Which is why if he's sleepy, his guard drops. When leaving the dorms, if he hasn't fully woken up, he goes from "outta my way, shitty-hair," to "mornin' Eijirou," and by the time he's actually aware of what he said, Kiri's already freaking out. If he's in bed all day for any reason other than being sick, he's probably soft for at least a few hours.

Kaminari's the type to wake up at 2 AM with an idea, go to jot it down, and then realize that he wrote a ten chapter book and now he's late for class. He'll probably put it into a google doc or something, so he can continue to add onto it throughout the day. I also feel like he probably will also randomly get a question and then spend hours researching it and any surrounding topics, before rambling to Kiri about "bro, if I went to the beach, I could make a bunch of glass! Probably! Maybe!" And then have to try and convince his friends that he can just make windows if anyone needs them.

Sero had added moves to his skill set, and practiced particular actions, with the sole intention of mimicking Spiderman. When Kirishima questions him on it, he compares Spiderman to Crimson Riot. They have a conversation that's essentially fanboying, both of them saying "we are not bringing All Might into this," and then more fanboying.

Jirou has an extremely eclectic music taste. If you can name a song, she probably knows it. She can memorize full melodies and all the lyrics within two or three listens, because she's just that good. Some people call her the human Shazam, because if you play the first five seconds of a song she likes, she'll immediately know what it is. She's also called out artists if they made a clear rip-off of a much better song. Her music taste is all over the place, which therefore makes it superior. However. This does not stop her from listening to the same six songs on repeat for a week. The six change a lot, though.

Koda has trouble with bugs, especially big ones. They scare him. But he has pretty much no issues with tigers, lions, horses, or even wolves. He loves animals, he really does. If you just showed up at his doorstep and shoved a bear cub in his arms, he wouldn't really question it, because he'd be happy to have a cute animal to play with.

Todoroki believes himself to be the opposite of moody. His definition of moody is switching emotions for no reason. He, personally, doesn't feel any emotion until something happens that day, be it a thought or an event, and his emotions stay fixed like that until something else happens. He could be having a great day, and then suddenly, it's a horrible day, and he can't figure out how people just "get over it." He does, however, find that unless something REALLY bad or REALLY good happens, his brain does a little emotional reset when he goes to sleep. Like, go to sleep feeling down, wake up feeling kinda meh.

Kirishima has considered re-dying his hair. Come on, hot pink is so manly! How could he not consider it? But he eventually resigns himself, because red just is his color now. Also, I feel like once, before dorms, he was really out of it, so he went to class with his hair down, and this was the first time anyone had seen him like that, and everyone was just confused as hell. Especially Bakugo. "Your hair's less shitty today. What the fuck."

Uraraka takes part in stupid bets all the time. Partially for the fun, and partially for the profit. She once floated Bakugo to the ceiling for 26 minutes before she had to put him down, because Kiri said that if she survived, he'd give her a dollar per minute. She ended up having to go to the recovery girl's office, but at least she got her money.

Mina is one of the few people who can understand and keep up with Deku's mumbling. This is not because she specifically tries to, (like Uraraka) or because she's known him long enough, (like Bakugo.) She's just used to gossipping with Hagakure at 4 AM, and therefore can understand high-speed low-volume speech. She's called him out on things before, but only when she's interested. She completely tunes out things about All Might and heroes and whatnot, but if he ever has anything to say about his classmates, specifically about Uraraka, Todoroki, and Bakugo, (because she, Hagakure, and Denki placed bets,) she hears every word.

Iida secretly loves to break the rules. He acts strict in front of anyone who he respects, or wants respect from, but after he thinks everyone's asleep, he relaxes, doing things that he considers rule-breaking without any remorse. Denki heard someone walking around outside while on one of his late-night internet searches. After finally willing himself to break away from an article about pandas, he popped his head out of the door to find Iida sneaking around. After some silent observation, Denki realized that not only did Iida just get back from breaking curfew, but he casually stole Hot Cheetos from Bakugo's room on the way back to his dorm. He said nothing the next day, at least not directly, but he sorta shoved Sero and Iida in the same room so that they could be bad influences on each other.

Despite it being a major part of her quirk, Hagakure almost never feels invisible. She has a lot of friends to talk to, she can wear cool outfits to stand out, and she is always talking. The only time she's not talking is during stealth training, and when she's using said stealth training to spy on people.

Tsu's little "ribbit" thing is actually just for fun. It feels right to do it, so she does it. Nothing wrong with that. However, pretty much everyone else assumed it was a part of her quirk. It took an insane amount of convincing to get that idea out of their heads. Deku was proud to be one of the few who never actually associated it with her quirk. He could prove it if he wanted to, actually, but that would require showing someone his notebook, which would open a whole other can of worms.

Oh yeah, speaking of Deku's notebook, he has multiple. Six to be exact. One is on his fellow classmates, one is on most pros, one is on the LOV, one is specifically on All Might, one is on his own quirk development, and the last one is a narrative of what's happening in his life, which is why he's constantly thinking as if he's telling a story. He mentally narrates everything that happens in his life, although he sometimes wonders if he's dramatizing things because of that. His internal monologue is constantly running its mouth, and sometimes he ends up speaking over it.

Tokoyami really likes plague doctors. He just does. He wants a plague doctor mask so he can walk around with less judgement, or maybe more, who knows? He just loved the concept. He claims that they're just really cool, which most people agree with, but he's never told any of them that he likes them because he saw a plague doctor mask for the first time at the age of six, and immediately thought bird man.

Sato likes baking, but he can't cook normally to save his life. Well, he can, but he can't. He hasn't burned water, and he knows how to do the very basics, but he can't function without a recipe, not to mention the fact that he's googled how to saute mushrooms three times and still doesn't get it. Baking comes pretty naturally. Exact measurements, precise times and temperatures. Cooking does not. Eyeballing ingredient amounts, guessing if the flame is high enough, trying to figure out how often 'stir occasionally' is. He actually once asked Bakugo if he had advice, to which he responded, "Why the hell are you asking me?!"

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borusawa · 2 years

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I Guess That's Love

A/N: The first chapter of my new story is out! I hope yall like it, even after all this time.

Part 1: Meet Uncute

“Finally fucking home,” her brain reverberated as the pleasure of removing her shoes dominated her body.

The natural scent of her house had healing powers, or so she was convinced, since entering what came to be her personal paradise always felt like tapping the reset button of her brain. Lola, her cat, softly meowed a welcome and Sarada couldn’t help but to pet the tiny angel while dropping her purse on the floor. She had a long day at work, which led her body to claim back all her delayed sleep in a spare of hours causing her to be completely exhausted when she finally managed to get home.

In the dark of the night and the peaceful silence that those hours tend to have, she guided herself to the bathroom, ready to shower the pain out. It was, certainly, the moment she treasured the most. The cold water managed to unwind her like nothing else, her playlist helped to get out of her system the last bit of work-related issue that could be persisting in her brain. A true dose of pure therapy.

It was well past 2 AM and she pressed play right before stripping out of her clothes and stepping into the shower. It was something about nightcore with guttural singing that just made her happy and when the water started to run down on her body overall relaxation fell upon. Only when the shower had finished and the music was finally paused that she heard a light knock on her door. Constant and, quite frankly, a bit annoyed, knock. Who could it be so late at night? The questions flooded her brain, worries about her parents, her friends, herself─for all she knew it could be a criminal of some sort. But would a criminal politely knock?

Sarada looked through the peephole on her door and spotted a familiar face. Not a close person but she at least knew her house was not about to get robbed. She held her towel tighter around her body and opened the door, only to be received by a mess of blond hair and barely open blue eyes. Her neighbor, a new neighbor nonetheless, apparently had something to tell her that couldn’t be held till the next day. She opened the door and plopped only her head outside.

“Do you happen to know what time it is?” His husked voice asked, eyes unable to look at her directly because of the lights coming out of her living room.

“Well... do you?” Sarada asked right before checking her phone. “It’s a quarter past three.”

“Exactly. That considered, would you mind explaining why there were screaming noises coming from your apartment?”

A scoff left her mouth. “Excuse me? You must be mistaken, I am sure I made no noise.”

Suspicion was spread over his face “No, I totally heard screams. The walls are thin and I made sure to listen carefully before knocking. What are you even doing awake at this time? Are you torturing someone or something?”

"What?” Sarada couldn’t believe that was happening. “What’s wrong with you? No one was screaming, I already told you that.”

“Then why are you behind your door? To hide the blood, that’s why.” The blond man crossed his arms.

“I could be with someone here for all you know,” Sarada stated.

A/N: If you wanna continue reading check out the same story on archive of our own or fanfiction.net! I'm just redirecting because I probably won't keep updating it on Tumblr.

#borutoxsarada #borusarafics #borusara #boruto

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otterbagel · 3 years

Text

The Reunion (Part 2) Simon x Reader

Reader makes a rash decision, one that has long lasting consequences.

(Notes: Link to part 1! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story. :) )

The air in the building was tense as you stood in the elevator, watching the numbers slowly rise.

The police had mostly left by now, all that remained were a few cleanup crews who were, for the most part, still here just to avoid going to their next assignment. Not that you blamed them; this had been quite a scary day.

Since you weren't in charge of anything big, you hadn't even known anything was going on until the broadcast had nearly finished. You had been… what had you been doing? Vetting some stories you had found to be a bit too mundane for publication. Even though the strange interference had originated from a few floors above you, it took a panicked employee yelling at the TV for you to notice.

There wasn't much anyone could do; police and security had already been notified. Just watching the skinless android on screen was the most productive thing your team could possibly do.

And watch they did. A few were visibly jittery, talking about barricading the doors just in case they decided to come down here— although the thought of an android group demanding an entertainment piece be written about their exploits almost got a chuckle out of you— others were more frustrated and annoyed. Older employees trying to figure out how the topmost office was sieged so quietly, annoyed that they might have to stay late, even discussions about who sent the androids.

Through it all you had remained calm, trying to lead the group as best you could through the confusion.

The elevator dinged.

But despite how you tried to compose yourself, you couldn't help but feel a sense of fear… and a deep longing.

You stepped out, the hallway devoid of any life. The usual guards up here had been knocked out and were probably taking a very long vacation.

At the very end of the hallway, right before the broadcasting room, stood a couple of human guards; you doubted they would risk using any androids up here for the foreseeable future.

With the hallway as empty as it was, the guards immediately took notice of you.

"Hey, what's your business up here?" One asked in a gruff voice.

You held up your keycard, a passive way of showing your status. "I wanted to get a better look at the room," you pulled out your cellphone, gently shaking it in the air in an attention attracting manner. "Wanted to get some photos too— we don't have any good ones to use for our article on it."

He appeared to ponder it for a moment before stepping aside, his partner following suit. He gave a nod.

With a quick stride you entered the room.

It appeared to have been deep cleaned, no trace of what had occurred. Some furniture had been moved aside, likely for cleaning.

Angling some of the less disturbed areas into the view of your phone's camera, you snapped a few quick pictures through the thickness of your throat.

It felt eerie to be standing here.

That android had been standing in nearly this exact location just hours ago, demanding rights and freedoms… that sort of talk would have him destroyed.

And yet… you completely agreed with him.

Your hands tensed on your phone as you looked to the floor.

Why couldn't this have happened two years earlier?

Why couldn't it have happened before that day?

...It didn't matter. He was far away, and safe from this sort of persecution. Maybe in Canada where no android laws existed… or maybe he was still in the States, just in a rural place and pretending to be human.

At least, that's what you told yourself to help you sleep at night.

You shook the thought away. There was no use thinking about him now.

Bringing yourself back to reality, you took a cursory glance around the room. You didn't get to come up here very often, maybe once or twice in the year you had been writing for them.

With the TV screen off, it was oddly empty looking in here.

There seemed to be a couple of points of interest: a darkened break room and a stairway to the roof.

Wasn't the roof where the deviants jumped?

That would be an interesting photo. You doubted there were many before the incident.

You climbed the dark stairs, taking in a deep, cold breath before you opened the outside door.

Chills ran down your hand and up your arm before you even had the door fully open.

You let the door shut behind you, as you crossed your arms to ward off the cold. Being this high up made the wind much rougher than you were used to.

The edge of the building was daunting. You hesitated to even approach it, lest a stray gust of wind send you sailing over. Without those parachutes, the intruders would've never made it back down in one piece.

The wind was a bit much. You took a few quick pictures before stepping closer to some of the walls. At least it would give some sort of protection.

There was a loud clanging noise nearby that made your phone fall out of your hands.

After you got over your moment of frozen alarment, you kneeled down to scoop up your phone, eyes wide and looking for the source.

Had that been the wind? Wouldn't you have heard it earlier if it was something that continuous and natural?

You crept around the large, metal ducts. Had to be from one of those.

There was an entrance to one of the metal compartments. That seemed to be the only place left for anyone to hide.

A worried thought crossed your mind: had someone been stuck up here during the panic?

Heading towards the door at a more brave pace, you stood a foot near the entrance with your hand reached for the handle. You paused, your more cautious nature pulling your hand away ever so slightly.

"H-hello?" You questioned quietly towards the door.

Silence.

You exhaled a tense breath, your hand making its way to the metallic door.

You knocked against it.

A loud fumbling noise from inside and the clicking of a gun sent you stumbling backwards and into a panic. This had to be a deviant, somehow left behind in the chaos.

"You don't wanna shoot me," your voice was higher pitched than usual as you fought against the wind and deep seated terror for breath. "The shots will be really loud. People will hear."

"Just," the android's voice was hard to make out, the echo in the compartment distorting his words. "Just go away. Leave me alone. I just want to be left alone."

After an extra second to make out what he said, you rose to a crawl and sat beside the door. "Why are you still up here?" You questioned. He didn't seem hostile.

He was quiet for a while. "I was injured," he explained. "I couldn't make the jump. I wanted to see if I could get back down tonight."

You nodded to yourself in understanding. "So… you're a part of that group of deviants? Are there a lot of them?"

Things went uncomfortably quiet until he spoke up again. "...why would you like to know?"

You licked your lips, struggling to verbalize the thoughts you had had bouncing around in your head for two years. "I… was friends with an android," you began wistfully and with a small chuckle. "I was wondering if he was okay, that's all."

The android went quiet again, the sound of what seemed to be him shuffling around inside to get more comfortable filling the silence.

"I… well I find it hard to believe," he remarked softly. "A lot of humans are very cruel… few seem to care about what happens to us."

He was right. It seemed that nobody cared about androids or bonded with them the way you had Simon. You couldn't understand the cruelty they could have towards androids if they did.

You placed a hand to your chest. "I know that humans are normally cruel," you began. "B-but I honestly cared about him so much. I would've given anything for us to be together. I swear it."

You stared at the ground while the android thought to himself.

"I was lucky," the deviant began. "The human I knew was very kind. I had been discarded over and over… and reset every time. I wasn't as useful as other androids."

You let your head rest against the metal as you listened.

"Then… they bought me. I knew I had been reset a lot… and expected they would do it too after they got bored of me…" his voice trailed until it was interrupted by a halfhearted laugh. "But they didn't. They treated me like a person. They… respected me. I felt like I might have had a future with them. A future where I wasn't just an object or a maid, but someone who brought meaning into the world."

You let his story hang in the air while you thought of your own tale. You could only hope you had made Simon feel the same way.

"When I… bought him," you felt gross saying it. "I didn't know much about androids. But after spending time with him, I knew he was so much more than what everyone tried to tell me. Just how… how beautiful of a person he was. He had to be more than that. I was excited to see him when I got home, to tell him about my day and to hear about his. He meant everything to me."

The android's tone was calm. "It sounds like you loved him."

You smiled to yourself, rubbing your hands together to warm them. "I still do," you responded, before the torrent of regrets washed over you like an unforgiving wave.

It had been such a dumb mistake. But even the simplest slip-ups can destroy lives.

You collapsed into sorrowful laughter, covering your face with a tense hand as you tried to hold back your overflowing emotions. "It was so stupid!" You exclaimed, lost in your own thoughts. "I… he needed repairs— his previous people were horrible… if I ever…"

You shook away the thought to get back on track.

"He… he needed skin repairs, so I thought it would be okay to go to a Cyberlife repair shop. But I didn't even think about whether they would check who his real 'owners' were," you spat. "When they found out how we had met, they were going to take him away. He had no choice but to run away. We were out of options."

The android was quiet, but you were too emotional to pay much attention.

"It was just one mistake! If I had just gone anywhere else… we could still be together." Your sorrow was brief before passion returned to your heart, directing your attention back to the metal door that was separating you and the android. "You have more androids with you, right? You don't have to tell me anything else, I just want to know if he's okay. His name is Simon. Have you met him? Please, tell me you have!"

Loud, metallic fumbling came from the other side of the door before it flung open. You scuttled backwards in alarm.

The blonde android nearly collapsed out of the doorway, his arm sliding off the door and onto the ground as held himself up to get a better look at you.

It was him.

He appeared troubled, but was fighting off a smile. "How… what are you doing here?" He whispered.

"S… Si…" you stuttered, unable to get out his name in case it separated you two again.

You snatched him up into your arms, enveloping him in a tight hug. He fumbled to return the gesture, letting his head rest on one of your shoulders.

"I… I can't believe it," you sobbed. "It's you! You're here! You're actually h-here!"

His hands gripped your clothing as if he was worried you would slip away. "But how are you here?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"I work here now," you choked out through a laugh. "What are the odds?"

"I can't believe this!" Simon fell into a bout of laughter himself. "I get to see you again!"

You knew that whatever lied ahead for the androids and humanity, nothing would separate you two again.

#dbh x reader #dbh simon x reader

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justforbooks · 3 years

Photo

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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