#also also i am the kind of person who likes to repeat noises n phrases and i simply love to project onto funny clown robots

[uwusenpaiuwu]

Sleepovers At The Baji Household feat. A Fed-Up Chifuyu

Summary: Chifuyu just wants to sleep, man, but Baji wants to be a jealous crackhead at 2 AM.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Note(s): I had a little free time and wrote this. So, please enjoy! ALSO, to the anon that sent me a request a few days ago, I saw it and have it filed on my to-do list!!! I will definitely get to it as soon as I get a break in my schedule :)

"Chifuyu, ya wanna see some real discrimination?"

No. No, Chifuyu does not want to see what Baji means by 'real discrimination.'

Does he tell him that, though?

Yes, actually, because it's 2 in the fucking morning and, as much as he respects the other boy, he wouldn't put it past himself to smother him with a pillow after having his dream of cuddling with a sea of puppies suddenly destroyed.

Unfortunately for his sanity, Baji either doesn't hear him or, more likely than not, doesn't give a fuck, because he's already flopping onto his belly and whipping out his phone to do God knows what.

The dial tone that sounds from the speaker a few seconds later makes Chifuyu cringe, especially since it's only ever been a calm silence fit for a good night's sleep prior to Baji bulldozing through it with his absurd question. (At the very least, he's thankful that the latter has half a mind to keep the brightness on the lowest setting, otherwise, Chifuyu would have had to fight.)

On the far end of the row of carefully-laid futons, you shift in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing together at the noise. Rotating onto your side, you unconsciously reach for Baji, and just when he thinks you're being cute and trying to cuddle him, you smack him in the head.

Baji doesn't flinch, instead, takes his pillow and shoves it in your grasp to keep your unconscious self occupied, so that he can focus on getting through to the person who reuses to pick up (understandably so).

Releasing a frustrated groan after being redirected to voice mail for the fifth time, he dials the number again, muttering an impatient, "Pick up already."

Chifuyu feels sorry for the poor soul on the other end. He would've blocked someone following the first call, because again, it's-

The blond has to squint his eyes up at the digital clock on Baji's nightstand, which confirms that it's already 2:22 A.M, further solidifying the fact that he shouldn't be awake right now. And this also applies to the ever persistent first division captain, who insists on bothering who Chifuyu soon discovers is Mikey from the contact ID that flashes across the screen.

Why Baji is so keen on bothering him is a question he doesn't have the mental capacity to ponder over. The most energy he'll expend is to listen in when the call miraculously connects.

"What...?" comes a muffled voice from the receiver, tone laced in an irked grogginess birthed from a slumber rudely interrupted.

There's an absurdly loud, almost angry, roar of Mikey's name, one that has Chifuyu curling in on himself in a futile attempt to escape a sound that should be illegal at this hour.

But you know what else should be illegal?

The fucking whiplash Chifuyu gets when Baji's deep voice takes an abrupt 180°, switching from its normal gruffness to a squeaky, ear-piercing shrill as he screams, "I love you, love you, love you! Do you love me, too, Mikey-kyun~♡?!"

The room is dead silent.

Not a word. Not a murmur. Not a breath.

Just pure, unadulterated silence as both Chifuyu and Mikey process the words that hang in the air, permeating it with a goosebumps-inducing eeriness from having heard such a...a girly, overtly cutesy screech from Baji.

Then-

"What the fuck? He hung on me!"

Chifuyu opens his mouth, thinks better of reacting to the cursed scene he had the misfortune of bearing witness to, and promptly closes it.

Other people may have sleep paralysis demons.

But Chifuyu?

Chifuyu has Baji.

With both hands partially raised in prayer, he begs for the shenanigans to be over and done with.

They are not.

While his eyes remain closed in a last ditch effort to convince himself that it's all a bad dream, he hears a lot of grumbling happening on your side of the room, courtesy of Baji, who's scrambling around in search of...something. One quick peek reveals him fiddling with a phone - yours, to be exact, as evidenced by the distinctive phone charm of your favorite anime character hanging from it.

"(Y/n), wake up for a second," he hears him whisper. It takes a bit of prompting, until he's able to successfully rouse you enough from sleep to elicit any kind of response, which is, essentially, nothing short of an incoherent, slurred mess. Although, Chifuyu is pretty damn certain he heard you call Baji a 'dickhead' for the trouble.

Unperturbed, he continues shaking your limp form, coaxing you into wakefulness with, "Repeat what I tell you, and I'll let you go back to asleep. Deal?"

You squint your eyes at him, only able to make out a vague outline of his visage in the lightless room. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die," he automatically responds with the same phrase he's become accustomed to saying whenever you two made a promise, something done purely out of habit, formed when the two of you were just kids and he wanted to get you to do something absolutely ridiculous either for him or with him. And just 'cause he knows you're more susceptible to complying if he does it, he also interlocks his pinky with yours.

"...Fine."

The approval is his cue to proceed, and it's as he's putting the phone on speaker that he turns back to a regretfully wide awake Chifuyu, mouthing a wordless, 'Watch.'

The phone rings, loud and clear, precisely once and only once.

"(Y/n), what's wrong?" It's important to note that even though Mikey still sounds tired as hell, his tone is much lighter, much happier really, than when it was Baji, which is an offense in itself to the said teen that's off to the side, attentively listening to the conversation unfold.

Then, it strikes Chifuyu, what Baji is trying to do, and fuck does it give him an instant headache.

Meanwhile, your mouth morphs into the dopiest of smiles with the pleasant surprise of hearing your boyfriend's voice, chest instantly overtaken by a warm fuzziness that never fails to make an appearance whenever he's involved. Sappy, you know, but it's true!

A light but firm nudge to your shoulder reminds you of your mission. It's too bad that, teetering along the edge of sleep as you are, the words Baji whispers are barely repeated correctly.

The initial phrase from before, the one Baji greeted Mikey with, is shortened to a simple, "You wuv I...?"

But, without missing a beat, you receive Mikey's confident reply of, "Mhm... I wuv you a lot."

There's a sleepy giggle then - a fucking giggle - before your voices drop to sweet whispers that the third and fourth wheels can't fully comprehend from where they are.

"Where the fuck was my 'I wuv you,' huh?!" Baji whisper-shouts, considerate of your conversation even when ranting and raving. "Shit, I would've taken a simple 'I love you,' too! I've known that bastard way longer than (Y/n), and this is what I get?!"

Okay. Toman's president answers his boyfriend's late night calls faster than he does anyone else's and openly expresses his love for him. So what? Chifuyu wouldn't exactly call it 'discrimination,' per se. 'Favoritism,' maybe if you wanna stretch it, but using as strong a word as discrimination, especially taking into account you two are dating; it's normal? Nah.

"You wanna say 'bye' to them? Mm. Baji and Chifuyu." A pause. "Fuyu, Mikey says 'bye.'"

"Bye, Mikey-kun."

The other person in the room waits, and waits, and waits, and when it's clear that there is no intention to address his presence whatsoever, Baji turns to Chifuyu with an almost scandalized expression, making wild gesticulations with his hands, clearly distressed. "See?!"

Blank blue eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Honestly, it's a common occurrence - Baji spiraling in a nonsensical rage - so it's easy for Chifuyu to block out the muted, jealousy-driven temper tantrum as he takes his pillow in both hands, raises it as high as he can, and-

Sigh.

-lets it flop right back onto his face.

He can't suffocate Baji. Shouldn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. After all, they're best buds, meaning he has an obligation to put up with shit like this once in a while. (Plus, he'd probably get his ass kicked before he succeeds anyway. Totally not worth the beating.)

"Did you hear? Mikey said he wuvs me," he hears you drawl dreamily as soon as you hang up, sounding very close to clocking back out for the night.

"Yeah, yeah. Cute shit. Happy for ya, dude," Baji huffs. Thankfully, he sounds like he's in a similar state to yours, if the yawn that follows his sarcastic comment is anything to go by.

"...He soooo ignored you."

That warrants a punishing punch to the arm, dulled only slightly by the combination of the thick quilt you're swaddled in and the raven-haired boy's fatigue.

"I'll fucking throw you out right now, (Y/n). Don't test me."

"You won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"Will."

The conversation gradually dies down shortly after, the exhaustion that took its sweet time getting to both of you having reached its peak with the help of the childish bickering. It takes 10 minutes, maybe 15, before two sets of light snores fill the room.

Finally.

Let it be known that there is a lesson to be learned from tonight's events. Really, there is. Y'know, something along the lines of 'Don't agree to a sleepover with Baji, if you plan on actually sleeping,' or whatever.

Alas, Chifuyu's consciousness fades before he realizes what it is.

~~~

"Mikey, be honest. Who do you love more? Me or-?"

"(Y/n)."

"But-"

(Y/n)."

"I-"

"(Y/n)."

Baji is only momentarily discouraged, sharp eyes glaring at the blond that lays his head on your lap after hi-fiving you. He didn't want to do this, but he's left with no choice.

"(Y/n) or Babu?"

From the way Mikey stiffens up, refusing to look at either him or you in the eyes, Baji knows he has him right where he wants him, has him torn between a cute face or a sweet ride.

"Oi! Don't pretend to be asleep! Answer the damn question! OI!"

(After hours of serious contemplation - even though you told him it doesn't particularly matter - it's revealed that, of course, Mikey loves you more. Babu just happens to trail behind as a very close second.)

#mikey x male reader #mikey x reader #sano manjiro x male reader #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjirou x male reader #sano manjirou x reader #sano manjiro #sano manjirou #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x reader #baji keisuke #chifuyu matsuno

[tokiloki]

@inky-page Tumblr ate your ask I'm sorry but here you go. ❤️

💮 TR BOYS WITH A GIRLFRIEND WHO SPEAKS 4 LANGUAGES

🌸Characters : Rindou Haitani, Baji and Sanzu Haruchiyo.

🏵️Warnings/note : Fem reader/Second point of view (you, your) /Slight cursing. /Brief mention of drugs in Sanzu's part/ fluff/ slight crack/generally astonished boyfriends./ An au where all the manga pain doesn't exist/Canon divergence.

HARUCHIYO SANZU/ AKASHI::

-Your boyfriend was shocked when he found out. And honestly, he didn't find out in the best of ways.

- He was just lounging on the sofa while you took a shower, lazily flicking from channel to channel while waiting for you to come out.Thats when he heard what was one of the most terrible noises in his life, coming from the shower.

- He ran in panic as he heard you screech an impressive number of curses, some he didn't recognise as his language. He barged into the bathroom calling out your name, only to see you struggling with the shampoo stuck in your eyes. Screaming at everyone and everything.

"Y/N ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

"HARU? DO I LOOK ALRIGHT?"

-He stood there for a hot minute, shocked at the number of different notes that flew from your mouth.

- Ignoring the situation, he simply leaned on the doorframe and asked about how many languages you spoke.

-You were going to kill him, no seriously because the shampoo in your eyes was doing wonders to your raging temper, only adding to the fuel.

"OOOH how interesting! How many languages do you speak Y/N darling? Do you attend classes or something?"

"HARUCHIYO SANZU, DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE RIGHT TIME? IS IT THE RIGHT TIME HARUCHIYO?"

"You're right, you're right, stop staring at me like that calm down."

-Since that day onward, he asked you the most random questions to date.

"Y/N sweetheart, what do you call cocaine in (language)?"

"Babe I swear I never researched drug or gun names in my language courses, let me sleep it's 2 am."

------

"Y/N did the duolingo owl ever terrorise you into studying? Is that why you studied so many languages?"

"Haru shut the hell up before I go to sleep on the couch"

"You wouldn't"

"Keep talking and we'll see"

RINDOU HAITANI ::

-Honestly, you’re the one who told Rindou about your unique specialty , you admittedly actually hoped for some kind of astonishment, or amazement from your stoic boyfriend.

-Instead all you got from him was a cool shrug and a question of what languages you spoke, after that he just went back to scrolling absentmindedly on his phone.

-You knew Rindou wasn’t one for words, but still, it would’ve been nice if he showed a little enthusiasm -its not everyday someone speaking 4 languages appears. The thought crossed your mind before you could stop it.

Did he even care?

-It must’ve shown on your face because Rindou sighed, dropping his phone to the side and pulling you closer to his body, mumbling apologetic words, you squirmed, insisting you knew and that it didn’t hurt.

“Y/N I promise I care, you know how I am”

“Rin! No it’s alright, I know, don’t worry!”

-Your reaction didn’t satisfy him, even though you thought it did. In fact, you almost forgot the entirety of the tense incident, until a number of weeks later when it made it’s way back into your conversations.

-You two had been sitting on the couch, your head rested above his chest with his arm around your waist as you watched a boring movie. You were slowly slipping off into small bouts of sleep, eyes tired and head drowsy when you heard a quiet voice mumble.

“Y/N?

“What’s wrong Rin”

*in foreign language* “I love you Y/N, you know that right?”

“I love you too Rin-”

-Your eyes flew open in shock, tilting your head up to meet his dimmed violet eyes staring at you. He rarely ever commented on his love for you, but that wasn’t what shocked you, this time, he had commented in one of the languages you had thought he wouldn’t even recall.

“Hold on” 

-You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, peering up at him again, his face was dusted with a light blush, one you could barely see in the dark room. He averted his gaze away, blush darkening as you stared up at him in shock. Finally you spoke.

“Since when...did you even learn...that?”

“A while ago dumbass”

“A while ago?”

“From when...from when you told me you could speak a bunch of languages, I just thought to take one up.”

-Rindou wouldn’t say anything else regarding it after that, resorting to intense focus on the movie onscreen, he wouldn’t tell you but the look of hurt that had flashed on your face when you told him had him sinking in guilt.

-He recalled the deep anxiety he found himself sinking into, thinking that you thought the worst of him. He wanted to show you that the 'I love you's' he murmured were truly heartfelt.

-Ran said he was being over dramatic, but Rindou had honestly found no other way to prove to himself and you that he cared for everything you did and said. The warmth that bloomed through his chest at your excited smile was worth every minute he had spent trying to learn a language to connect to you.

That night, Rindou was free of his worries, which had all been soothed by your smile.

BAJI KEISUKE ::

-Listen, he is proud of you. He thinks that you're deservedly the smart one in the relationship, maybe the one smart person he will sit and listen to all day.

-When he heard from a friend of yours that you spoke four languages he was genuinely amazed, exclaming to you later on just how amazing and impressive that was.

-You even slowly began to realise that he was picking up on common phrases you used, his eyes would gleam over with pride whenever you said a single word, instantly bookmarking it for another day.

-To someone else it might have seemed like Baji was the multilingual one, but no he was just hyping you up every minute he could.

-It actually ended up being helpful as you helped him with language studies, he thought your methods were better than the teachers anyways.

-Baji was always motivated to do better by you and his desire to keep his mother happy, so motivated he found himself studying voluntarily, shocking the Toman members so badly to the point that you actually received a frantic call from Mikey asking if you had drugged Baji.

-You regularly answered multiple random questions from him, most of them were things like 'alright how do you say you're beautiful?' only to repeat your words with a cheerful grin, making you laugh at his cheesy techniques.

-Baji, despite all his wholesome actions, was also the first person to ask you for every possible curse in every language you spoke, grinning enthusiastically as you nervously recited words you wished you didn't know.

-Actually Baji even learnt curses you didn't know existed, saying that he was "merely deepening his knowledge"

-But all in all, Baji loves you and all your 'random mumbo jumbo' as he calls it. He's never been so proud to love a girl before, and he apologises for all the random questions he cursed you with.

---------------------

A/N : im sorry for how long this turned out. I got to Rindou and kinda got carried away, anyways first fic I hope you liked it! Reblogs and likes much appreciated 💖

#tokyo revengers fluff #baji keisuke #baji headcanons #anime #tokyo revengers x reader #rindou scenarios #rindou headcanons #sanzu akashi #sanzu haruchiyo #baji fluff #sanzu x reader #tokyo revengers imagines #toman x you #haitani rindou imagines #haitani x reader #tokrev sanzu #tokrev #anime fluff #The rindou simpery is strong #baji x y/n #baji x reader #baji x you #rindou haitani #Sorry for how long it is sjskhsjsjs #Down bad for rin atm

[slightlymore]

Snail

Disclaimer: I do not consider Jaehyun a fuckboy in the derogatory sense of the term, he’s just very flirty and cocky in this piece for entertaining purposes okay lol alright let’s go; also, no, the snail title has nothing to do with the sexy situation lol dw, it’s a cursed one but not that cursed Words: 5K Warnings: mention of blood (regarding a little cut on the hand, nothing serious) related to the plot not the sexy bits | manhandling and rough | oral (both) + swallowing + face fucking 

As the floor trembled and your escargot went flying all the way until meeting the handsome face of a stranger, you promised yourself to learn how to say no more often. You had no idea why you accepted to be on a cruise in the middle of the Pacific. Wasn't the Pacific supposed to be, you know, pacific? Or were you just that clumsy? 

Your mouth was open and it continued to grow ever wider at the look of one escargot sliding slowly on the man's eyes. He was standing there, with hands wide open in front of him as if someone splashed a bucket of cold water on his whole body. "I am-" you got closer with the first napkin you could find, "-mortified" you added, trying hard to build up courage and wipe the garlic off his nose. But you didn't manage to as he preferred to wipe his whole face with his palm instead. You watched him with a sorry and disgusted face, while awkwardly holding the fabric with both of your hands. Then he suddenly opened his eyes and gave you the most assassin of looks. His wet eyelashes accentuated the growing redness and his furrowed eyebrows created a deep, scary shadow. You gulped loudly and jolted as he slid the napkin from your fingers with a violent movement. "I apologize, I didn't-" you tried to speak again but as the man finished to wipe his face he turned his back to you and walked away throwing the napkin at your feet. "-mean to…" you whispered without completing the phrase as no one was there to listen to it anymore.

Your sister laughed loudly for a solid minute into the phone. You sighed but you felt the chuckle warm up your chest and you found yourself grinning as well. "I can imagine his face even if I don't know what he looks like-" she spoke again but choking on the words as another laughing fit interrupted her. You shook your head as if pretending to be disappointed by her behavior. "It was terrible. I've been here for 20 minutes and I've already made a fool out of myself," you commented. "Y/N, I know you don't like stuff like this, but that fundraising party is vital for the image of my company," your sister finally was able to catch her breath. You rested your elbows on the iron rails and looked down at the shining water. "Yes, don't worry, I can deal with all of this". "Just smile and shake hands and tell people who is giving the money you're giving," you listened to your sister's voice through the phone. The sun was so bright that it was almost difficult for you to keep your eyes open. You suddenly started to feel hot and tired, already socially exhausted after interacting with only one person. Turning around, you stared at the colorful clothes people were wearing, yellow, red, green, white, pink, bright blue and your head started to hurt. Everyone was chatting loudly, holding drinks, telling each other about their last investments, yachts, airplanes, jewelry, celebrity parties, vacation plans. What in the world would you talk with them about when your dress was $15 and your earrings probably plastic? You sighed again. "-and remember to talk to the fundraiser. He's a pain in the ass but rather charming if you know what buttons to press," you listened to your sister's last words while wondering what she said before that. "Alright, get well soon," you replied, eager to sit somewhere in the shade with a nice refreshing lemonade or something. You walked around the deck, thinking about how nice it would be to put your hot feet inside the cool water of the pool. But no, the fundraiser wanted a chic, semi-formal look for the party. As if anyone cares. You rolled your eyes, having a full-on conversation with yourself inside your mind, hovering over the refreshments. You poured yourself whatever looked fresh and not too sweet and downed it all. It was only when you turned around, hearing the mic being hit as if someone was trying to grab everyone’s attention that you realized you just had a big ass glass of alcohol. “Thank you for being here,” said the man. He was on top of the small stage from where the live band was providing people with background noise. People clapped and you imitated them, trying to walk at the front and see the fundraiser’s face. Finally, he was speaking. Afterwards, it wouldn’t be that weird to just go inside your cabin and chill for the rest of the day until dinner, would it? You “sorry, uhm, excuse me, haha, mind if I just-, thank you” ed you way until being able to see the man’s feet. First thing: boat shoes. Okay, you were on a boat, kind of, but, honestly? Come on. Then you raised your eyes to see his cream shorts and sighed. In the end you eyed his red shirt with black palms on it. What a rollercoaster. But it wasn’t until you saw his face that you felt like falling down.  “Snail man!” you gasped covering your mouth with your hand. Curious eyes looked at you from left and right and the man himself stopped from talking and looked down at you. You didn’t yell that just now, did you? Now you were definitely going to be thrown off the ship. Snail man’s eyes were firing but his lips smiled when he cleared his throat and just continued the monologue as if you were a little fly not worth his attention. You pressed your lips together, hoping that your warm cheeks would be mistaken for sunburns instead of killing mortification. After everything was finished and the band started playing their music again, you debated whether talking to the fundraiser or not. He didn’t look very pleased to see you and you were afraid you were going to embarrass yourself even further, but your conscience didn’t let you just run away. You didn’t apologize properly and your sister would be upset that you didn’t talk to him at all. “Uhm, excuse me,” you spoke to him, rising your hand a little as when you’re too shy to call the waitress to ask for more breadsticks. He turned his head to look at you, one hand in his pocket and the other one holding a glass of champagne. His eyebrows got furrowed very quickly and you sensed that he was doing everything in his power to not roll his eyes. “Ah, snail woman herself,” he commented with a dry voice. You walked towards him hurriedly as if glad he gave you a chance to talk to him. “I wanted to properly apologize for the incident. I didn’t do it on purpose… uh…” you knew his name was Jung Jaehyun but he was too young for you to use honorifics with him. At the same time, he definitely looked like someone wanting to be called Sir. He sighed. “Call me Mr. Jung,” he told you. Yep. “Mr. Jung,” you repeated. He sipped on his drink again. You stared. Uhm?? He should tell you that he’s forgiving you now, right? That’s how human interactions work. I’m sorry. Oh no, it’s alright. “Is there something else you wanted to tell me?” he spoke after the awkward pause. Was there something else you had to tell him? You were kind of panicking. How do rich people talk? “I am Y/N?” you question, hoping it was what he wanted to hear. Nice to meet you Y/N, let’s just pretend that we didn’t have an abrupt first contact and let me help you feel less embarrassed. But no. He laughed at you. Yeah. Just like that. He laughed loudly for everyone to hear while your whole face got even more flushed than before.  The people that were close enough to you to hear your conversation, chuckled secretly, giving you weird stares.  You stared at his face.  If you didn’t feel a slow-boiling rage inside your chest, you might have considered his laugh charming, with those white teeth and deep dimples of his. But you were indeed starting to feel rather irritated. You did splatter him in buttery escargots and called him a snail, but you apologized and he definitely saw how mortified you were. Was this a way to make you pay? You looked around and felt the urge to hug yourself but you didn’t want to look more vulnerable that you actually were. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he talked again and you locked eyes with him again. He was still amused but a softer light adorned his eyes. “I’m messing with you. It’s fine. We’re cool, don’t worry about the snails,” he added, walking towards the refreshments table and looking around, unsure. You tailed him to be able to hear what he was saying. He was probably those types of people that were used to just walk around a company while six people surrounded him taking notes and helping him to take off his jacket. “Escargot,” you whispered. The man shrugged. “Snails that you eat. Besides, you called me snail man, not escargot man”. You took a glass of orange juice while he smelled some pastries. “Unless you wanted to say that I look like a snail,” he considered. “Oh no, you don’t look like one at all,” you assured him. “And how do I look?”. “Very handsome-” you sputtered before being able to stop yourself.  Okay, what the actual fuck? There were legit thousands of different ways to say it. You look fine. You look nice. You look good. Nonchalantly Y/N. More casual. As if you don’t care. No. You look very handsome. God. To the snail man that embarrassed you just 1 minute ago. Mr. Jung looked at you with the corner of his eye and smiled. Who knows how many times he has heard that before. “Honestly, you caught my eyes as you entered the cruise. I was there when you tripped because I was coming to talk to you,” he confessed. His tone was flat though as if he was talking about the weather. Your head jerked into his direction.  How does one reply to that? Thanks? Should you feel flattered? Okay, he was a very handsome man but if he needed only a piece of garlic thrown to his face to change his mind about you (when it was an accident) then you didn't want it. “I see,” you talked awkwardly while your hand tried to put down your empty glass. “Hey, caref-” Mr. Jung warned you but it was too late. Your nerves were so thin that you didn’t realize how fragile crystal glasses actually were. “Oh, shit-” you stared at the shattered pieces in your hand. One of your fingers was quick to bleed little beads of blood. “I am so sorry,” you apologized for what you felt was the 20th time that day. For no reason.  “Let me see,” Mr. Jung ordered, carefully cleaning the skin of any remaining fragments after you opened your hand. “I have a first aid kit in my suite. Let’s go,” he spoke again and taking your other hand he just walked away, as if completely sure you'd follow him. You tugged a little trying to convince him that you were fine. “It’s alright. I have a band-aid in my purse”. Mr. Jung just stared at you without saying a word as if his eyes were powerful enough to command you to do what he wanted. Not negotiable, they were saying. You softened your grip and let yourself be dragged away with a sigh.

His cabin didn’t look like yours at all. It was much more spacious and elegant. His bed was round and luxurious. It looked so sensual with its red and black bedding that you had to look away. Your heels got buried in the soft and thick rug placed in the middle of the floor. Mr. Jung’s perfume impregnated the whole room and you felt a little light-headed. He took you to the desk in front of the big windows that were showing the lazy waves underneath the cruise. Leaving you there to rest your hips on the wooden furniture, he opened a cabinet and retrieved what he needed to disinfect your cut. When he turned around and got closer you could see how his expression was serious and stern, no trace of the flirty light from before. Maybe he didn't want you to sue him for hurting yourself on his cruise? You breathed sharply through your teeth when he placed the cold and wet cotton on your finger and he raised his eyes to look at you. You returned the glare. “It’s alright,” you whispered, inciting him to go on. You had no idea why you kept your voice so low. Maybe because he was standing so close to you, almost touching your knees with his thighs, or maybe because he looked so concentrated, his plump lips slightly open and a little line between his eyebrows. As he was looking down on your hand, you looked at his face for the first time without feeling shy. You didn’t like to see blood or maybe it was the sun hitting your head but you suddenly felt all your limbs very weak.  When he was done and looked up, you swallowed and made sure to be caught gazing at the surroundings instead of the nude collarbones his unbuttoned shirt revealed. But maybe he wasn’t that stupid. “You look very pale,” he commented while raising a hand and brushing his thumb on your lower lip. “You also look a little shocked,” he added more amused when you jolted at his touch. Yeah, because you’re touching me, not because of the cut.  What was he doing? Do rich people think that they own people as well? You tried to express that with your eyes but he looked unfazed as if doing that was as easy and normal as to shake someone’s hand. You knew you had to move away, tell him that you just need to get some rest, maybe lay down for a bit. But your limbs wouldn’t move.  You cleared your throat. “Thank you,” you murmured moving your hand as to indicate what you were referring to.  Mr. Jung was just staring, apparently not used to reply to gratitude, eyes slightly narrowed as if analyzing you, then they went down and openly looked at your breasts. 

Okay.  Alright. You didn’t wear any bra because it would have ruined the dress silhouette and you were already anxious out of your mind wondering if your nipples would show or not, so you definetly didn’t expect people to just staring at it. You gulped and let out a little nervous laugh while shifting your body, trying to do something that would distract him from staring at your boobs, not because you hated it, but because you suddenly felt exposed, shy and, God save us, maybe a little turned on. You shouldn’t have drunk that glass of alcohol. “Your suite is very nice. The color scheme is intense but charming-” you started to cary the conversation but felt your breath hitch as he got suddenly even closer as if not listening nor caring about what you were trying to discuss. “Please, don’t stop talking,” he purred. “I love your voice,” he added distracted.  “You’re not even listening to me,” you replied with a tiny sound. “Mm, you’re right, I’m focusing on other things right now,” he smiled finally lifting his gaze on your face. “Your dress has a blood spot right here,” he pointed to one of your nipples, touching it, definitely feeling how it got hard because of it. You quickly dropped your head to your chest to see. Damn it!, that was a big ass spot on your fucking bright yellow dress. “Why did you wait so long to tell me that?” you jerked your head up again.  He shrugged. “I got distracted”. And you knew what he meant with that. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms on your chest and puffing your cheeks. He found that very funny and just laughed at you. Again. “I think I should go now,” you nodded to yourself as if building up the courage to get up. “Yeah”, Mr. Jung agreed. But you didn’t move nor did he. So, he tilted his head on the side and wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue,  getting as close as to whisper on your lips.  “Or maybe you’re waiting for me to help you get undressed?” he asked teasingly. His hands were pressed on the desk around your body, his arms feeling like a cage and his presence so intense that you physically shivered. “You- you should let me go,” you stuttered, even if you both already understood that you had no intention to go away. Mr. Jung let his dimples appear in a shiny smile. "What if I want to do something else?" he asked without breaking eye contact. You kept in a whimper, not used to hear people talking to you like that. "You'd have to at least buy me dinner first," you tried to joke and keep up with his vibe. "I'll fill you up so well that you won't want to eat anything else," he whispered and you've never felt your guts do what they just did ever before. Fuck.  "I-" you blinked unable to look at his eyes. What was happening? Why was the fundraiser flirting with you? Why weren't you already on your feet walking towards your cabin? Why were your fingers moving slowly to touch his wrist? Why did you were feeling the urge to let it brush his skin and follow the vein on his forearm until reaching the bicep then upon his shoulder, caressing it when it reached the soft part of the neck trying to understand if his pulse was beating as fast as yours or not. He let you do that as your eyes followed your hand and when it was close to his face you saw his jaw clench. You stopped.  "Go on," he ordered but you couldn't bring yourself to, feeling your cheeks suddenly burn. So he took your hand and forced it down on his chest, slowly, letting you feel his muscles underneath the thin shirt fabric, going down on his abdomen, making your breath hitch as he flexed his abs on your fingertips, not stopping, letting it slide on his cold belt until your palm was all the way on his turgid length. He pressed his hand on yours even harder, letting you understand what you were dealing with, not looking away from your face, loving your reactions. Oh, you were wet, fuck you were so wet. "Okay," you breathed out, "okay, okay, you won Mr. Jung". "But there is no game," he explained with a sly smile. "If you're trying to make me pay or embarrass me because of the incident, then I'm sorry again Mr. Jung-” you spoke trying to keep your composure that was holding itself on the thinnest thread ever. He chuckled. “I’m trying to tell you that I want to fuck you, miss Y/N,” he whispered against your ear, articulating every word, slowly, as if he was touching you already with his voice alone. You let out a tiny moan that became suddenly bigger as his tongue lightly traced the curve of your neck, making you stretch it to the side. Then he just bit down, hard, with no warning, sucking on the skin, grabbing your thighs, digging his fingers into your flesh and lifting you into his arms. You yelped and tightened your arms around his neck not expecting the movement and not expecting his throwing you on the bed either. You exhaled sharply as it knocked all of the air out of your lungs and he didn’t even give you a single second to breathe in again, that he was already on the bed, on his knees, between your legs. Oh, God. It’s about to happen. But he didn’t do what you thought he would do. His smile never flattered and his eyes never let you go while his palms caressed your legs slowly, from your calves, going underneath your knees, tickling your sensitive skin, then upon your thigh where the dress split started. You looked down at his hands and just gasped loudly when he held the fabric and just tore it apart. “It was ruined anyway, baby girl,” he assured you seeing your shocked expression. You jolted again when he touched your stomach and ripped your dress again, this time until the tear reached your chest and you felt the material sliding off your skin to the sides. Naked in one second, you shivered certain that your cheeks were burning. You wanted to say something, but you had no idea what should one say in these types of situations. “Would you help me take this off as well, babe?” Mr. Jung smiled. “I can’t possibly tear that apart,” you sat up shocked. Jaehyun’s deep laugh tickled your ears. “Just unbutton it, love, it’s enough,” he suggested and you obeyed lifting your hands to rest on his chest for a moment then slowly tackling the task. You felt Mr. Jung’s gaze on your body just as present as his fingers drawing little circles on your bare thighs. “You are so beautiful, miss Y/N,” he suddenly said making your hands tremble on the last button. His compliment didn’t linger in your mind too much though as the image in front of you knocked your thoughts out of your mind. You touched him, starting from the bottom, pressing your hands hard then going up scratching his skin with your nails. He breathed out as your fingers spread on his chest and you expected him to finally kiss you but he just raised one hand and cupped your face, feeling your cheek with his thumb then letting it descend on your neck, massaging your throat, applying some pressure, enough for you to open your lips in an attempt to breath better. Your legs squirmed around him, trying hard to get together, indicating him that something between them needed attention. But he just smiled and didn’t budge. His hand continued to go down on your body until reaching your soft breasts, cupping them, feeling the smoothness of your skin and the plumpness of your hard nipples. You whined at the touch and your eyes implored him to go faster. “Be a good girl for me, or I will stop,” he warned you softly. “You want me to stop?” You shook your head quickly, so easy to submit yourself to him. He smiled as if pleased and let your breasts go to unbuckle his belt. His pace was so calm and slow, so different from just a minute ago when he literally ripped your clothes off your body. He was a surprise and your core felt even wetter at the thought of what he might do next. When he let his thick cock out, pumping it slowly, licking his lips teasingly, you thought he wanted you to go down on him, and oh, you were so eager to do it, letting your tongue feel his veins and taste his flavour.  But he clicked his tongue with a dimpled smile as if reading your mind and directed his length on your breasts, hitting your nipples with the tip of his cock, little drops of precum smearing on them, making both of your breaths hitch. You looked down at how it moved and promptly grabbed your chest, tightening it around him, opening your mouth and letting a trail of saliva fall on it. Jaehyun hummed appreciatively and moved his hips between our breasts, loving the way your skin felt on his hot cock, grunting every now and then and biting his lower lip. You, on the other hand, were panting loudly, soon shut up by his fingers shoved inside your mouth to suck on them. Your tongue wet them well while looking up at him with lusty eyes as if asking if you were being a good girl or not. The answer was that you were so good that he had to feel that tongue on his cock as well. So he just grabbed your head by the nape and filled your mouth all in one go, hitting the back of your throat with the hottest groan you’ve heard a man do before. “Oh- oh fuck, fuck-” he managed to say as his adam apple went up and down, swallowing hard. He was so hot, rolling himself on your tongue, chocking you, thrusting fast, holding your face with both of his hands, staring down at how his cock disappeared between your lips. You whined at his size and you would have let him know that it was too much if he didn’t release right at that moment with a shudder of his hips. His expression was pained from pleasure and he tried to pull out but you grabbed his sides to keep him in place and he cursed again, feeling his cum slide down your throat as you swallowed around him, adding to the euphoria. A little trail of it came out your lips and down your chin that you promptly collected with your finger and licked off, slowly, not breaking eye contact.  “You are driving me fucking crazy,” his voice came out deep and dangerous just like the look in his dark eyes and just like his manners.  He grabbed your shoulders and pushed you down on your back but not giving you a second to catch your breath as you were already turned around on your stomach with a dull thud, his hands forcing you to get on all fours in front of him. Your panties were quickly dragged down your legs but your needy core wasn’t left bare too long as his tongue replaced the fabric, hugging your form tightly, vibrating restlessly on your bundle of nerves, smacking it by tugging it with his lip, caressing it with his thumb, stretching you out to fuck you with his fingers. Previously upright on your hands you just had to let yourself fall on the mattress, not having a single ounce of force in your arms anymore, pressing your face on the covers, mumbling nonsense as Jaehyun was sending you into pure bliss. His teeth followed his tongue on your thigh, biting the soft flesh and sucking on it hard, adding to the sensation his fingers provided so deep inside of you. “S-sir,” you whimpered breathlessly, “don’t stop, please,” you begged. And he didn’t. “Does it feel good, princess?” he asked before going back to tease your clit.  “Y-yes, yes, please, I want-” you whispered.  He knew what you wanted.  He kept on pumping your core fast even when you let out a high pitched sound, gripping the sheets underneath you and squirming restlessly. Your legs were still shaking in spasms when he rolled your over on your back again digging his fingers into your skin, not worried about leaving marks. You looked at him and whined seeing his cocky smile, knowing that nothing good would come out of it. Sprawled like that in front of him, letting him look at every inch of your body in broad sunlight, with your head clearer thanks to the explosive orgasm you’ve just had, you let your hands cover your breasts as if helping to cover you a little. A little tingle of shame caressed your spine and you couldn’t bear to look at Jaehyun in the eyes. He smiled placing his hands on your waist and dragging your body towards him, opening your legs around his hips with a rough movement. “Are you getting embarrassed for behaving like a little slut just now, angel?” he teased you, caressing your thighs. “Let me see everything, put your hands away,” he ordered. You looked at his face for a brief moment and gulped, nervous, still very turned on but so shy at the same time.  “I said,” he lowered his voice by a few notes, making your breath quicken, “put your hands away,” he added, intimidating as never before.  His expression was lusty but dangerous and you were about to obey, but he didn’t have much patience. He came closer as lighting and grabbing your wrists, he pinned them above your head, keeping them down in an iron grip. His chest was almost touching your breasts and his cock was laying between your wet folds. Jaehyun started to slowly roll his hips and you felt him harden at every movement, twitching on your raw clit, making you jolt. You breathed on his lips, thin moans forming on your tongue, mind starting to get foggy again, your everything telling you to just let yourself go.  “Please- please I want-” you mumbled choking on your breath while his other hand traveled south, kneading your hip and pressing your leg against himself even harder. “Yes, darling?” he whispered back, pelvis moving at a slow pace, driving you crazy. “Please- I want to feel you inside,” you confessed with a tiny voice before suddenly losing all air in your lungs as he penetrated you in one go, burying himself deep inside, thrusting hard as to make your body shift on the bed sheets back and forth. “Like this, baby?” he asked with a broken voice. “You wanted this? To feel my cock stretch your sweet little pussy like this, huh?”. You tried to hum back but only high moans escaped your mouth as he was pressing so hard into you, isolating his pelvis movements as if hammering, making your toes curl and legs tighten, all of your muscles tensioned and twitching underneath his weight. “My little disobedient princess had the courage to ask for my cock? Now, you’re going to get it” he got up on his knees again, caressing your stomach then sliding down and rubbing your clit with his thumb.  You arched your back, eyes rolling back in your head, hands shifting while trying something to hold onto.  When you lifted your hips so close to coming undone yet again, he descended again, stopping with a deep thrust. Remaining still inside and holding you tight, he wrapped your body with his, squishing your breasts with his hard chest. You whined, clenching around him, so so close, please, you were so close. Against your neck, you heard him breathing heavily and chuckle before leaving wet kissed on your skin. Reaching your lips he thrust in again, pushing you into the mattress, repeating the same movement as before, knocking the air out of your lungs, making you moan as never before. You wanted him to move, you wanted him to continue to hit that sweet spot again and again until you would lose your fucking mind. But you had no force to articulate any words so you just wrapped his neck with your arms and dragged him down in your first kiss, letting your tongue communicate what you couldn’t say, whining and wincing, making him growl as you clenched around his throbbing cock while he let his hips move again until they lost rhythm.

#havent written a jaehyun one in a hot minute #jaehyun #jaehyun smut #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun scenarios #nct smut #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct 127 smut #nct #nct 127

[worldwidemochiguy]

until i saw you - mafia yandere! namjoon

Summary: You were up at two am finishing an essay for college. All alone, you felt like you were the only person awake in the world. Until you heard the gunshot, until you looked up, until you saw him... and until he saw you.

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist 

a/n: hello everybody! this is in response to @kpopgirlbtssvt​ ‘s prompt asking for fem! reader who is going to college in South Korea to see mafia member namjoon doing mafia stuff and then him comforting her and eventually taking her home. I hope this is ok! also, for future reference, a ‘food market’ is like a type of charity shop in South Korea where disadvantaged people can go and get food and clothing and essentials for free and people volunteer to help at them. 

You take another sip of your vanilla latte, humming at the pleasant taste. You generally have more of a sweet tooth and prefer to order a hot chocolate instead of coffee — much to the amusement of your friends — but you knew you would need the extra shot of caffeine to stay awake. You’ve been so busy with college assignments and all the little jobs you do to keep yourself afloat that you have ended up awake at one in the morning, furiously typing your essay in the hopes that you can complete it within two days. 

You’re very lucky the owner of your favourite cafe, a sweet old lady who has given you free daanpatbbang more times than you could count, despite your protestations, seems to like you so much. She was kind and trusting enough to allow you to stay the night at the cafe, working on your essay. Jiho, the girl who was cleaning down the tables, left to go to bed, leaving you completely alone in the night. 

It is slightly eerie. The only light in the cafe is coming from the screen of your laptop, the only noises are your steady breathing and the soft tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. If you looked outside the floor-to-ceiling glass window you loved to sit next to, all you would see is the soft glow of streetlights reflected in the puddles on the sidewalk, and the occasional car passing by. 

Seoul is asleep. You just wish there were someone awake to keep you company. 

The thought dissipates in the wind as something catches your eye. You see a man, half-running, half-staggering out from an alley that opens into the sidewalk across from where you are sitting. A hand yanks him back into the shadows. As if in a trance, you rise from your seat, abandoning your tepid latte and move towards the exit. If you have any common sense, you would hide behind the counter, or run away as soon as you reach the door, following your head and avoiding trouble and minding your own business when anything looks dangerous. 

But, for some indiscernible reason, you drift out onto the sidewalk, closer to the point where the staggering man disappeared. You notice a dark stain spilling out from the shadows onto the concrete. The moonlight bounces off it, except the white light has been burnt as it reflects, changing into the deep red of sunset.

The night is no longer silent — harsh pants of exertion and the sounds of bodies being slammed against brick emanating from the darkness. You feel a building pressure in your head, a voice that sounds exactly like yours screaming at you run! run! run!

A gunshot.

The staggering man falls to the ground, his body half-in and half out of shadow. His head has been blown open, and its remnants are scattered across the street. His hand is outstretched towards you, open and grasping, asking for help. 

You vaguely register the coldness spreading across your backside. You worry for a second that you have wet yourself but then realise, with some relief, you have just fallen against the wall of the cafe and slid to the ground. You feel guilty for feeling relief at a time like this, your thoughts turn sharp and loud in your head and then you scream again. Again? Oh, you had forgotten the first scream. You guess you are once more the only person awake in Seoul.

But. If you are the only person awake in Seoul then who is coming towards you?

The second man to emerge from the shadows, and you question how many more are hiding behind him, takes measured steps towards you. His gun — he has a gun, and you want to scream again, but you start crying instead — is relaxed in his hand. It’s still smoking slightly. You wonder if it would feel warm pressed against your forehead. You guess you will find out soon enough. 

He is tall, and when he stops in front of your curled up figure his shadow covers you completely. But then he crouches, and a pair of dark, intelligent, earnest eyes meet yours. It is difficult to maintain eye-contact when everything looks blurry to you, your tears forming into stained glass in front of your pupils, but you do your best. If you disappoint him, you just know that he’ll shoot you too. 

“누구십니까?” He asks you a question, but you can’t answer, and for some reason this inability to obey his expectations sends you into a spiral. You burry your sobs in your knees, strains of your thoughts slipping out as I can’t, I don’t know, please don’t hurt me. He sighs, then asks in slightly accented, but fluent English.

“Who are you?” 

His voice is smooth. It is the first voice you have heard all night and it startles you for some reason, your spine stiffening and forcing your head upwards again. He had leaned in even closer, and now your nose is an inch from his. He tilts his head, almost encouragingly, and you try to swallow even though your mouth has completely dried up.

“My name’s y/n. I’m a college student. I-I was working on an essay.” Your voice is scratchy and quiet, and every other syllable is a poorly concealed sob, but the man nods politely as if he is even remotely interested in what you have to say. 

“An essay, huh? At three am?” It’s like he is disapproving of you staying up late. “Did you leave it to the last minute?” He definitely sounds disappointed in you, and your heart thumps painfully at the thought, though you can’t say why.

“No, no, I- I’m double majoring and I’m doing multiple jobs to support myself, so I don’t have time for schoolwork. The essay is due in two days, so I’m n-not leaving it to the last minute.”

“If it’s due in two days, why are you staying up all night finishing it now?” You could almost say there was concern in his voice, which prompts you to keep on telling this stranger more details about yourself.

“I’m volunteering at a food market all day tomorrow so I won’t have time to do it then.” 

“You’re-“ he breaks into a smile, and your heart cracks at the realisation that he has dimples, “You don’t have time for schoolwork because you volunteer.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but you shrug self-consciously anyway, feeling colour bloom on your cheeks. Your friends always teased you for it, so it makes sense that this man would as well. 

“You’re so- innocent.” 

He pauses, before reaching up slowly, as if he doesn’t want to startle you, and cups your cheek. The semi-dried tear tracks on your face are wiped away as he swipes a thumb under your eye. You don’t know why his touch doesn’t frighten you especially since he had been holding a loaded gun, though it had been discarded as soon as he crouched down to your level. 

“Who takes care of you?” He asks, and your brow wrinkles slightly in confusion. He huffs a laugh, then brushes his thumb over the crease until you relax again. But you still feel bewildered. That was a question you had never asked yourself, but now that you turn it over in your mind, you realise you don’t know. 

Who takes care of you? Not your dad, who walked out on your family before you got old enough to have a chance at remembering his face. Not your mom, who relied on you to send money home to support her, and then spent it all on alcohol to give her a chance at forgetting your dad’s face. Not your little brother, whom you loved with all your heart and who was too young to understand anything other than the fact that you were who he could rely on and mom was not. You wish you could say your friends took care of you, or at least comforted you, but it felt like all they did was mock you, for so many things such as the cheap clothes you always wore and did your best to take care of, to the ease with which you gave in to others’ demands. The truth was, no one took care of you at all, and you had never even realised that until the stranger had asked. 

“Y/n?” His voice rouses you from your thoughts and you snap your eyes back to his obediently, even if tears are once again obscuring your vision. You hadn’t realised you had started to cry. 

“Who takes care of you?” He reiterates the question, and before you can stop it, a sob racks your body.

“No one. No one does, no matter how hard I wish for them to.”

You bow your head, watching as your tears drip off your face and create small ripples in the puddle next to you. Suddenly, the ripples increase and you realise it has started raining, like the sky is crying along with you. The closest thing to companionship you have. 

You are encased in warmth and protected from the ice-cold rain as the man wraps his arms around you. You shiver as he presses you to his chest, somehow lifting you into his arms and protecting you from the chill with his body. 

“You are wrong, y/n.” His voice rumbles, and your shivers instantly calm. “From now on, I’m going to take care of you.”

“Y-you are?” You sound fragile and pathetic even to your own ears.

“I never make promises I don’t intend to keep. And I promise you, y/n, I will always protect and care for you.” 

“But,” you flounder, not exactly in distress, but disbelieving that anyone would do this for you, “Why?”

“Why?” The man repeats, now walking along the sidewalk in fast paces, though you barely notice. “Because when you saw me, you did not run. When I asked, you answered obediently. You are desperately in need of someone to protect you, to take care of you, to love you.” At the last phrase, his voice dipped lower and you burrowed deeper into his chest, desperate to believe that he was being truthful and this was real.

“You’re going to t-take care of me?” You stutter, and his lips curl up in a playful smirk, revealing the dimple that you were already growing to love.

“Of course I will, and you only have to do one thing in return.”

“What is it?” You ask right away, desperate to please him. He does seem pleased by your responsiveness, and you can feel your heart skip a beat with excitement.

“All you have to do, y/n, is love me.” 

He stops walking, and you realise you have reached an expensive black car parked by the side of the road. He opens the passenger door for you and sets you down, moving swiftly to the other side to occupy the drivers seat. You notice he puts child-lock on, effectively trapping you in the car, but it is unnecessary. You are already leaning sideways slightly so that you can rest against him. He appreciates your clinginess, and presses a kiss to the side of your temple before putting the car into gear. Butterflies settle in your stomach pleasantly as you relish the tingling feeling his lips leave on your skin. 

“I-“ you start, then falter, and he sends you a glance, still mostly focused on the road.

“If something is bothering you, say it, y/n.” He commands firmly, but by no means unkindly. You take a deep breath to steel yourself.

“I don’t even know your name.” You sound almost mournful of that fact and he turns to you with a boyish grin fixed on his full lips, and his duality shocks you, switching from the intimidating man with a gun to the sweet guy who wants to take care of you in a heartbeat.

“My name is Namjoon.” 

“Namjoon,” you try, and his encouraging smile and nod give you a fraction more courage to continue “you know how you said- you said that if you were going to take care of me, I have to- have to-“ you falter again.

“Yes, y/n?” He prompts you patiently, but you can see his hands have started to tighten on the steering wheel. Like he’s angry with you. Panic coils in your gut and you retreat back to your seat, gaze firmly fixed on the airbag in front of you. He notices your distress right away and attempts to comfort you.

“Listen, y/n.” You immediately snap to attention, despite the fear now causing your breath to come in short whimpers. “I want you to say what’s on your mind. I promise you, I won’t punish you for it, no matter what. I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Ok,” you say unsteadily, and Namjoon takes a hand off the steering wheel to run it up and down your leg comfortingly. His touch calms you, and you take a deep inhale before speaking again.

“You said that if you were going to take care of me then I have to love you. And I don’t- I don’t know how to… love you.” He opens his mouth to intercede, but you don’t give him the chance. “I don’t mean that I- I mean, it’s not to do with you specifically, it’s just… I’ve never loved anyone before. And we’ve only just met. I… I’m worried I won’t do it right.” You trail off in a small voice, and you see his irritation melt away instantly.

“No, my love, you don’t have to worry about it. I didn’t mean that you had to love me right away.” He explains and relief floods your system, allowing you to relax into his side again. “I just meant that… I want you to be affectionate with me and allow love to grow over time.” 

“I just want someone to wake up with each morning and send me off with a kiss before I go to work, someone to worry about me while I’m off on business and to fuss over my injuries. I want someone to take care of and to buy things that make them happy and make sure they’re warm and cozy at night. That someone has always been faceless until…”

“…until?” You question, your heart in your throat.

“Until I saw you.” 

“Wow…” you chuckle even as a tear slips down your cheek, “If I’d have known about your talent for romantic speeches I wouldn’t have worried about taking too long to fall in love with you.” His laugh is loud and warm and it washes over you, dragging you under the tide and drowning you in feelings you hadn’t been aware existed within you. He takes one hand off the steering wheel to intertwine his fingers with yours and you let him, a smile outshining the tears on your face as you start the next chapter of your life, feeling loved and wanted for the first time. 

#yandere namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon fic #bts namjoon #yandere bts #yandere #namjoon x reader #yandere bts fic #yandere fic #yandere bangtan #bangtan boys #yandere kpop #yandere imagines #namjoon fanfiction #yandere bts x reader #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts

[hazel-writes]

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female OC

Summary: Aristeia, an ambitious and self-reliant journalist on Tatooine, crosses paths with a Mandalorian after a harrowing encounter with Imperial remnants.

Word Count: 5,000

Warnings: canon-typical violence, death

A/N: Oh my gosh, I finally did it. After months of reading some absolutely incredible Mando fanfics, I took the plunge and started writing my own. I'm so excited to share this with all of you!

This fic starts during episode 1x5 and will loosely follow the show's timeline (I will be taking many creative liberties). The first chapter is from Aristeia's point of view, but I'll be going back and forth between her POV and Din's afterwards. I jump straight into the action in this fic, so if things seem a little crazy at first, don't worry, all will be explained soon :)

This is my first time writing for our favorite space cowboy, so any and all feedback is welcomed! If you want to keep updated on this fic between updates, check my bio for other places you can find me. Also, a Spotify playlist to accompany this fic is coming soon!

Without further ado, please enjoy this chaotic mess of a chapter! ♥︎

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Aristeia sighed as she weaved her way through the busy streets of Mos Eisley, Tatooine. It was almost sunset and most people were heading home after long days at work. A layer of dust rose around the feet of those attending to last-minute errands. She watched as a woman bought a large red fruit from one of the street-side vendors. A soot-covered teenaged boy stood by the neighboring building, stocking up on mechanical supplies. Near his feet, two sunburnt children fought over a small toy. The scene was normal to her: ever since settling on Tatooine years ago, Aristeia had slowly grown accustomed to the slow and gritty flow of the planet.

As she continued walking, she kept her head down, eyes always focused a few steps ahead of her feet. However, whenever someone neared, she would look up briefly to offer them a small smile. Most of the time they ignored her, scowled, or rolled their eyes, but every now and then, someone would return her gesture. Those moments made the effort worth it.

Unlike the people who meandered around her, Aristeia was just starting her work for the day. She kicked up clouds of dirt as she made her way to the recently-abandoned mechanic’s shop. She used to frequent it back when she had a speeder, but after the owners passed away, it had unfortunately turned into a popular site of criminal activity. A few days back, she had intercepted a transmission that mentioned a meeting at the location, and as a journalist, she had to be there to see what was going on. Armed with a small notebook and stylus, she was prepared to document the whole thing.

Turning the corner of a dusty alley, which was littered with miscellaneous tools and sheets of scrap metal, the old mechanic’s place finally came into view. Its exterior architecture was similar to that of the rest of Tatooine, however its dark and doorless entrance led to an underground network of small rooms. With every step Aristeia took towards the building, her anxiety grew. Unlike her other investigative stakeouts, she was going into the mechanic’s blind. The transmission didn’t reveal a whole lot about the nature of the meeting, which she knew meant it was of special importance. These were the kind of meetings that could provide her with a groundbreaking story. They were also the kind of meetings where someone could get hurt.

Aristeia had never been good at fighting – physically, at least – but she did give herself credit for not having died so far, especially in her line of work. Put a blaster in her hand and she’d probably shoot her own foot off. However, put a pen in her hand, and she was a force to be reckoned with.

Aristeia had been writing ever since she was young. It started with little stories: she would go into a crowd of people, find a quiet place to sit, and observe each person that passed by. She would notice what they were wearing, how they carried themselves, who they were with, where they were going, and then she would make up the ‘why’: Why were they dressed like that? Why did they walk like that? Why were they with this person or that person? Her imagination would stitch together the missing pieces of their backstories, creating life narratives of people she had never even met. She did the same thing now from time to time. In fact, people watching was imperative to her role as a journalist.

As Aristeia grew older, she and a few friends decided to start a local newsletter that got sent out to residents of Mos Eisley every month. It was by no means a ‘professional’ establishment. The writers were all residents, many of them barely adults, who wanted to keep their friends and family informed about any activity that could threaten the freedom they had fought so hard to gain after the fall of the Empire.

A group of giggling children ran around the corner, pulling Aristeia out of her thoughts. She watched as they kicked around a near-deflated ball with bare, dust-covered feet. Sighing, she turned back around to peer down the steps of the abandoned mechanic’s. It was just beginning to get dark and the suns had nearly reached the edge of the horizon, casting eerie shadows on the stairwell walls. She looked for any sign of movement in the space below and when nothing seemed to be stirring, she made her way down the packed-dirt stairs and entered into the main room.

The area was small with not very many places to hide, immediately making her anxious. She had never been a fan of tiny spaces. But this was too important of a mission for her to give up now. She looked to her left and spotted a large plant, which obviously hadn’t seen any light or water for quite some time. However, its pot and leaves could be big enough to hide her if she was able to fit behind it. It’s not like she had very many options to choose from.

A noise from above forced her into action. She darted behind the plant as fast as she could, curling herself up against the corner of the wall. The sounds of heavy footfalls met her ears. There were at least five people making their way into the room she was in. From between the leaves of the plant, she could make out the forms of two stormtroopers and a tall, lanky man in a gray uniform. Imperials.

After the fall of the Empire, most people on Tatooine had celebrated immensely. They believed they had finally achieved freedom. It was hard for Aristeia to share their excitement, knowing how many lives had been lost on both sides. She also had always been a realist, never letting herself get too comfortable when everything seemed to be coming up roses. She had been tracking the movements of rogue troopers around the city for a while, trying to figure out who they took orders from and where they were located. In recent weeks, she had intercepted a few transmissions referencing what the Imps called ‘the asset’. Just one day before, she had caught word of a meeting scheduled to take place in the room where she was now hiding. She knew she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get more intel. Once she had enough information, she planned on writing a massive expose, informing all of Mos Eisley to her discoveries.

A raspy voice broke her train of thought: “Have you found the asset?” Peering around the plant’s leaves, she saw that it was the man in gray who had spoken.

“No, not yet,” a Klatoonian replied gruffly. “We tracked the ship to this city. As far as we know, the Mandalorian still has it.”

A Mandalorian… Aristeia shuddered. There wasn’t much in the galaxy that she was terrified of anymore. Sure, she often felt scared. In fact, she was scared most of the time; it’s part of what kept her alive for so long. But there was very little that truly terrified her. Mandalorians were one of those things.

She shook her head, forcing herself out of her spiraling panic. Focus on the facts, she thought – it was a phrase she repeated often when overwhelmed with her work. Focus on the Facts. The Imperial man’s mention of the Mandalorian was new info to her. All she knew from previous transmissions was that the Imps needed the asset for some sort of experiment. She didn’t understand it too much – she was never very good at science.

Aristeia reached into her bag, pulling out her notebook and stylus so she could document her new discovery. As quietly as she could, she opened the front cover of the journal, flipping to the next blank page.

As she did so, her finger caught on one of the pages, slicing a thin cut across the pad of her pointer finger. Kriff, she whispered, accidentally dropping her stylus as she moved to nurse her injured finger. She realized her fatal mistake too late.

“What do we have here?” she heard a voice drawl from above her. The Klatooinian, who had taken a few steps toward Aristeia, peered around the edge of the plant before looking back at the Rodian. “Is this one yours?”

Aristeia scowled at the suggestion. “No, I most certainly am not.”

The two men chuckled, infuriating her even more. “Why don’t you come out so we can take a better look at you?” the Rodian suggested with a devilish smirk.

“Yeah, cause that sounds like it would end well for me…” she mumbled, trying to think of a way to escape the predicament she had gotten herself into.

The uniformed man and his two stormtroopers stayed quiet throughout the ordeal, seemingly bored by the other mens’ interaction.

“She must be terminated. She has heard too much,” the man in gray finally chimed in.

At this, Aristeia started to panic. She was in deep bantha munk this time. Sure, she had been in tricky positions before – it was kind of a requirement of living on Tatooine – but this was bad.

“I didn’t hear anything, I swear! I was just…” She stood up slowly and looked around the room, trying to find an alibi. “...admiring the plants?”

She mentally facepalmed at her attempt of a lie, something she was never very good at. It helped her in a journalistic sense, as she always did her best to remain objective in her articles. She recognised the power that came with telling the truth, especially now, in the wake of an empire founded largely on lies. However, in this case, she could’ve used a good fib. Admiring the plants, really? she scolded herself. After a moment of silence, the uniformed man directed a curt nod at the stormtroopers, who then advanced on her quickly.

Springing into action, she attempted to kick the chestplate of the trooper closest to her, but missed, only managing to clip his knee. Nonetheless, it threw him off-balance, sending him stumbling into his fellow trooper. She took the brief opening to run as fast as she could towards the stairs that led back up to the main street. She got halfway up, mere feet away from freedom, before a large hand yanked her back down the steps harshly. She fell backwards, scraping her elbows and knees on the hard dirt before hitting her head on the floor, hard.

She couldn’t see anything but blurry spots of white and orange as strong and grimy hands pulled her across the floor, back to the troopers. The one she kicked earlier returned the favor, sending sparks of pain through her abdomen. Footsteps approached and a heavy boot landed between her shoulder blades, forcing her against the floor. Another second passed before she heard the charging up of a blaster from above her head.

Aristeia closed her eyes, cheek pressed to the dirt, accepting her fate. She forced warm memories into her mind, not wanting her last thoughts to be of the man whose heavy boot currently pinned her to the ground. Her mind danced from memory to memory, finding it hard to focus on any one image for too long: a familiar, tender hand ran its fingers along the curves of her face; trees towered over her like arrows aimed for the stars; a single candle cast a warm glow over pieces of parchment; a sweet smile, one she probably would never see again, beamed through the darkness...

A burst of blaster fire sounded from above her head. As if shooting her once wasn’t enough, she thought, before realizing that it wasn’t possible for her to make sarcastic quips if she was dead. She opened one eye, then the other, only to stare right into the lifeless face of the man in the gray uniform. It was a sight she was sure would stay with her forever.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

She finally looked up, not recognising the deep modulated voice that sounded from above her.

A shining wall of silver met her eyes, his blaster pointed at the Klatoonian. A Mandalorian, she thought. Waves of terror flooded Aristeia’s body. It was almost as if the universe had plucked him straight out of one of her nightmares and dumped him deliberately at her feet. She was familiar with the Mandalorians, more than most, but seeing one after so many years still managed to send shivers down her spine.

Focus on the facts. Focus on the facts. she repeated to herself.

Something about the way the armored man carried himself made her realize that this wasn’t just any Mandalorian: this was the Mandalorian, the one her attackers had been discussing moments earlier.

His presence seemed to fill the whole room. She found her eyes involuntarily moving up his figure, taking in the pure power that emanated from his armored form. Her gaze landed on his face, or where his face should’ve been. Instead, all she could see was her own terrified reflection in his dark, deadly visor.

When the Klatoonian didn’t make any effort to move, the shiny man looked down and gave her a barely perceptible nod to the side. She knew exactly what he was telling her to do.

As fast as she could, she rolled to her right, hearing blaster shots fire above her as she did so. She scrambled back towards the plant she was hiding behind earlier and watched as the armored man fought the others. While the Mandalorian was distracted with the Rodian, the Klatoonian aimed his blaster towards his silver chestplate. Aristeia considered shouting to the metal-clad man in warning, but didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. To her horror, she watched as the Klatoonian pulled the trigger.

The Mandalorian, however, sensed what was coming and ducked. The blaster beam rebounded off of a large metal sheet that stood propped up against the wall behind him and hit the Klatoonian square in the chest. He fell to the floor, lifeless. To Aristeia’s surprise, she heard the Mandalorian curse, seemingly frustrated by the death of his attacker. The stormtroopers took his moment of annoyed distraction as a sign to run, bolting back up the stairs before the Mandalorian could stop them.

Aristeia’s senses slowly started to come back to her, as did the pain in her stomach, hands and knees. Unsure of the Mandalorian’s intentions, she scrambled on the packed dirt, trying to find the notebook she had brought with her. She finally found it tucked between the wall and the nearby plant pot.

She turned to see the armored man, having knocked the Rodian unconscious, finally focus his attention on her. She grabbed the stylus that she always kept clipped to the side of her notebook, the one that had caused all this trouble to begin with, and held it out in front of her as threateningly as possible.

The Mandalorian casually put a hand on his hip and popped one of his legs out slightly. His helmet tilted to the side incredulously. If she wasn’t so scared, she might have laughed at his almost-lazy posture.

“Hey, they say the pen is mightier than the sword, right?” Aristeia shrugged nervously, still directing the stylus towards the silver mass in front of her.

He ignored her comment and dipped his helmet towards the bodies on the floor. “What were you doing with them?”

She debated whether or not to tell him. His low, warning tone made it seem like she didn’t have much of a choice. So far, he hadn’t made any move to hurt her, despite the fact that he had every opportunity to. Even now he kept his distance, almost like he was trying not to startle her any further. That, or the stylus really had scared him.

“I’m a journalist,” Aristeia responded. “I was trying to get some information for my next story when they found me.”

She shifted on her feet when he didn’t respond right away.

“Story?” he finally repeated, almost like he was skeptical of the word.

“Yeah.”

She knew it must sound silly. Her stories, and journalism as a whole, probably weren’t on this man’s radar. A lot of people thought that her profession was impractical and meddling, but obviously the work she did was important enough to gain the attention of the Imps.

Whatever the Mandalorian was thinking prompted him to mumble something, turn on his heel, and start back up the stairs. Aristeia was left speechless, her hair settling back into place after being disheveled by the sudden billowing of the Mandalorian’s cape.

She looked around the room at the bodies littering the floor, remembering briefly that the troopers had escaped. That alone almost ensured her certain death. They had seen her face – it was only a matter of time before they would find her. Already regretting her decision, she heard herself calling out to the Mandalorian who had reached the top of the stairs: “Wait!”

He stopped his movement, pausing briefly before slowly turning to face Aristeia, who now stood at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up at his figure, which from her angle looked more commanding than ever, his silver armor backlit by the setting suns.

Finally finding her words, she spoke. “Please, I… I need to get off this planet. You have a ship, right? The troopers who ran, they’ll tell the others, they’ll come after me.”

She hated how desperate she sounded, but she didn’t know what else to do. Her friends barely had enough money for speeders. Most of them had never even been off the planet. All she knew was that she needed to leave, and soon.

“Why would they waste your time on you?” the Mandalorian asked, probably unsure how a girl armed with a stylus could possibly pose a threat to the Imps.

She ignored his underestimating tone before replying. “Because I overheard what they were talking about. Once they find out who I am, they’ll kill me.”

“And who exactly are you?”

Kriff, she thought. If the Mandalorian found out just how invested she was in her recent investigations, he could use that against her. “Well… I’m Aristeia.”

The Mandalorian voiced a frustrated sigh. “And?”

“And…”

She was about to answer when she spotted a blinking red light out of the corner of her eye. Upon further inspection, she found its source: a tracking fob held in the Mandalorian’s left hand. Of course, she thought. He’s a bounty hunter. The Klatoonian must have been his bounty – that’s why he was upset when he was accidentally killed in the crossfire.

Aristeia felt her heart rate spike as she devised the best way to backtrack on her previous request for help.

She slowly made her way towards the Mandalorian, subtly attempting to get back up to street level. “...and I really should be getting back to work, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just head back up those stairs now.”

The Mandalorian, unfortunately, noticed the unusual change in her disposition.

“What’s the sudden rush?” he asked as the arm carrying the fob shot out to stop her escape.

“No, no, it’s nothing! I really should go. My… husband is waiting for me,” Aristeia lied. The Mandalorian just stared, his arm remaining in place. “He gets upset when I’m late.” She offered with a fake smile, trying desperately to alleviate the tension. When he still didn’t move, she continued. “He’s very big. And uhh… He’s a sheriff!” she added, for good measure. The Mandalorian cocked his head slightly to the left in response, as if seeing how far she would take her lie. “And he has lots and lots of weapons. A whole armory with guns and knives and other… spiky things.”

“Spiky things?” he asked, almost amused.

“Well, yeah.” she replied, but it came out as more of a question.

“Well, you know what I think?” he said, taking a few sauntering steps forward. His posture oozed confidence – one hand was hooked on his belt, just in front of his blaster, while the other hung casually at his side.

Aristeia took a small step backwards. “W-what?”

“I think you have a bounty on your head.”

Kriff, she thought. He’s good.

Aristeia took another step back, but the Mandalorian closed the distance quickly. She held up her hands placatedly.

“Look, I don’t… know if there’s a price on my head. I’ve always just assumed . Over the past few years, my friends, the other journalists here, they’ve been going missing. It was pretty obvious that the Imps didn’t want us sharing their activities with the whole planet. Recently, things had been pretty quiet, at least until they started freaking out about this whole ‘asset’ thing.”

The Mandalorian’s posture straightened and his towering body leaned towards hers menacingly. When he spoke, his voice lacked all the nonchalance it had earlier and instead radiated a seriousness that chilled her to the core. “What do you know about the ki- the asset?”

Aristeia, regarding his sudden change in demeanor, stuttered in response: “N-nothing really – Shouldn’t you know?”

“Nothing really?” he repeated, completely ignoring her question.

“Just what I’ve heard over the coms.” Shoot, she thought. Shouldn’t have said that.

“You have access to their coms?” he asked, a sliver of surprise peeking through his gruffness.

She did. It was one of her biggest accomplishments since arriving on Tatooine. One evening, she had been at her desk, listening to random transmissions on an old faulty comlink her mother gave her years ago. She would do this every night, never once picking up on the voice she was desperately waiting to hear. Instead, she usually caught onto feeds from people nearby: small business dealings, calls to family working out in the dunes, even the occasional secret teenage correspondence. Aristeia enjoyed listening to the small snippets of the others’ lives; it gave her hope in a world that she seemed more and more disconnected to with each new day.

But on this night, she had intercepted a transmission that was far more concerning than her typical listening content. Two voices, one that she now knew was the man in the gray suit and another who she assumed was a stormtrooper, crackled over the comlink. Within a few minutes, she not only knew that the Empire wasn’t dead, but that they were also situated right on her doorstep . After making this discovery, she made sure to keep her com set to that specific feed, which is how she ended up finding out about the meeting that led to her current encounter with the Mandalorian.

“Sometimes I have access,” she responded to the Mandalorian’s question with a nonchalant shrug. She basked in the power that this information seemed to give her over him. “It depends on how close they are, the wind levels, and if my tech is even working that day-”

“Where do you live?” he interrupted hurriedly.

Aristeia suppressed a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Where do you live?” he repeated slowly, though this time it came out as a more of a modulated growl.

She laughed nervously. “No way, you seriously think I’d tell a bounty hunter where I lived? That’s like breaking every single rule of common sense. I mean, come on, think of this from my perspective.”

His posture relaxed minutely and he released another sigh, this one less frustrated than the previous. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now.”

She recognised the truth in his statement, but that didn’t mean she was willing to go out of her way to help him. For all she knew, he could take the coms and turn her in afterwards. Aristeia tried to get a better read of him, but unlike most people she met, she couldn’t. She didn’t have any guesses as to who he was, what his intentions were, or why the ‘asset’ was so important to him. In a universe of starry galaxies, he was a black hole.

“What do I get out of it?” she asked, trying her best to sound confident. She countered the slight relaxation of his own stance with the newfound boldness of her own. “Helping you, I mean.”

The Mandalorian scoffed beneath his helmet. “I saved your life, I think that’s qualifying enough.”

“You were just going after the Klatooinian.”

“And if I hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

“Wow, consider me comforted.”

He sighed, clearly agitated by her retorts. “If you show me the coms, then I won’t tell the Guild about the little notebook operation you’ve got going on down here,” he said, waving a gloved hand towards the bag that carried her journal.

“And now I’m being blackmailed. Fantastic.” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Aristeia stilled, evaluating her options. She could either ignore the Mandalorian and risk having him reveal her, and her work, to the Guild, or help him and hope he returned the favor. Neither option was ideal.

“Fine ,” she relented. “Just give me a second.”

Aristeia took the Mandalorian’s lack of response as a signal to go ahead, and made her way back into the darkness of the room that now reeked of death. She tried to think back to the days when she would come to the mechanic’s to repair the many malfunctions her speeder frequently sustained. She always enjoyed the loud and hectic bustle of the establishment. Its owners were kind and would always let the neighborhood kids hang out and watch them work on one project or another, occasionally even letting them help out. Those times seemed distant as Aristeia approached the body of the fallen Imp.

“Hey, you wanna hurry it up down there?” a gruff voice sounded from above.

“Really?” Aristeia replied, astonished at the Mandalorian’s near-childlike impatience.

“I thought you had some husband with a large collection of spiky things who doesn’t like it when you’re late?”

Hearing him repeat her previous lie out loud made it seem even more ridiculous, but she ignored him and continued to move towards the gray-suited man.

“What are you doing?” he called from above, seemingly untrusting of her retreat back to the main room.

Oh my stars, she thought, surprised by her own annoyance at the Mandalorian. Her initial fear had evolved into irritation at his constant attempts at intimidation and control. She couldn’t let her guard down though – she could lose her leverage at any moment and then who knows what he’d do with her.

Aristeia reigned in the sarcastic comment she was about to make and instead answered his question with a restrained sigh. “Seeing if they have any information.”

“In case you didn’t notice, they’re dead. They can’t help you.”

Obviously, she thought with a roll of her eyes, but didn’t say so out loud.

“Yeah, but their pockets can.”

Aristeia stared at the man in gray. Even though the blaster bolt to his chest all but guaranteed his death, she still approached his body warily, as if it could come back to life at any moment. Avoiding his hollow gaze, she dug through his pockets, searching for any more information that could prove useful to her future articles. All she found was a handwritten note containing some sort of coded language she didn’t recognise. She folded it carefully and put it in her own pocket for safekeeping before heading back towards the Mandalorian.

By the time she joined him at street level, the suns had already set. He took a few steps forward but paused when he felt her hesitate behind him. She felt weird leaving behind the mangled bodies of the men in the darkness below.

“We should move the bodies,” she said cautiously, her eyebrows furrowed in confliction.

“No time,” the Mandalorian replied simply, turning back towards the street.

“Please,” she pleaded, looking to her left where a group of children played in the distance. “I- I don’t want any kids finding that.”

He silently followed her gaze and stood completely still for a moment, as if debating his own response. Aristeia tried, and once again failed, to get a good read of what was going through his head.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll get them in the morning.”

She would’ve liked them taken care of sooner, but it seemed that there was no room for negotiation. To be honest, she was surprised he agreed to her request at all. Something was different about this Mandalorian, and she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“Which way?” he asked, referencing her house. The one she stupidly agreed to take him to, Aristeia thought.

“Uh…” She paused briefly, but it was a moment too long for the Mandalorian’s liking. “This way,” she finished, pointing down an alley to her left. She hiked the bag she carried higher up on her shoulder and took a few steps forward before feeling a hard tug on her arm.

“Hey, I wouldn’t recommend trying anything. It wouldn’t end well for you,” the Mandalorian said threateningly. His visor stared down at her coldly and she suddenly grew extremely frustrated by the fact that she couldn’t see his eyes. She felt vulnerable under his gaze and didn’t like it one bit.

“Let go of my arm,” Aristeia replied, her voice low and serious. His grip remained strong. She stared daggers up at his helmet and it was the first time since meeting him that she was truly angry. “I said, let go.”

To her surprise, she felt his grip loosen and she promptly tugged her arm away from him. Her posture radiated confidence, but the fear in her eyes betrayed her. Without a word, she spun around and continued heading in the direction of her small house, not sparing another look behind her to see if the Mandalorian was following.

He was.

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Masterlist || Next (coming soon!)

#supernova fic #hazel writes #hazel's fanfic #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin #grogu #din djarin x female oc #star wars fanfic #star wars #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #quotev

[venusparker]

billet-doux↬ p.p

prompt: peter was never quite good at saying words, so he doubts he’s any better at writing them.

warnings: prepare for the fluff and cuteness overload. i’m in that kind of mood. also super long btw. (and i did not reread this that well so if there’s typos i’m sorry)

notes: hope you all like this because i’ve been thinking of writing a more peter centric, less reader type of fic. also i’ve been wanting to write a lovey dovey one. i’m thinking of writing some more ned leeds stuff as well so if you guys have any ideas, just send them in!

Billet-doux.

The words repeated in Peter Parker’s head like an echo, his focus varying between the miscellaneous thoughts in his head and the piece of crumpled notebook paper on his desk. The paper was free of lettering, but covered with ink stains and crinkles from the sweat he has mustered up the minute he got the idiotic idea in the first place. A billet-doux—what was he thinking writing you a love letter? Really, he wasn’t sure. The particles of dust in the sun floated down as he stared hopelessly and aimlessly in front of him, eyes almost pitiful. Peter had never been a good writer, nor did he think he could sum up how much he cared about you on only a single mere sheet of paper, a paper whose college-ruled lines were incapable of capturing all the love a boy his age could feel about someone as breathtaking and as quiescent as you. A fool he was, frankly, thinking that just because he had heard the words in class, or that because the one time he would decide to do something even slightly out of spontaneity, it would work out seemingly.

Then again, this is the constant cycle, the same speech he tells himself everyday–or at least nearly, practically, overwhelmingly everyday–before he once again strings together the words and expressions and phrases that could even come close to describing the levels of anxiety and longing you filled him with. In his head, it was romantic and everything you ever wanted, with no awkward pauses in between paragraphs with commas in places where commas didn't belong and crossed out adjectives that sounded more as though they were written by someone who was five, not fifteen. In reality, when he'd reread everything, he was a sappy writer. Sappier than he wanted to be; but he couldn't help it. He really wasn't all that good with saying the words he wanted, so he doubted he was any better at writing them. Eventually, the paper––another one of many––would become a filled up, scribbled upon letter, with his messy, scrawled handwriting curving his y's and making it possible to see a slur within his s's. And, just as eventually, he'd stash the letter away in the same place he stashed all the other ones, and it wasn't that shocking to know that they were in an old folder that he once used for AP US History when he had been more focused on school and less on superhero-ing.

It wouldn't be surprising to know that he doesn't keep the letter that far from his suit.

Today, the letter had been longer than the others. Most of them had started out the same way, reminiscing how adorable you looked, or how hilarious he finds your quick wit and clever comebacks towards Michelle whenever you two went at it in class. He would know, considering he was sitting next to you for all of it, everyday, ever since he started high school. But today, he truly went all out. One of his tawny eyes closed in concentration, mouth pursed, head tilting slightly while reading it all over, and wondering, wondering, wondering: why couldn't he just say this all to you out loud?

He thinks it's just because it's easier for him to script all these emotions down and never show them, or at least have the guarantee of his voice not being shaky or breaking, than to have the rejection from you. Aunt May had found them once, much to the red-faced and flustered Peter's dismay, when she was cleaning his room after the umpteenth he said he'd clean it but didn't. She had reached under his bed to grab old and dirty laundry, when instead her hand had found the letters, and after that Peter had moved them and made a reminder to lock his door. That still didn’t stop May from bringing up every chance she got.

“You should show them to [Y/N]!” She had advised once before, preparing some cauliflower in a stove pot. He only responded with a curt sigh and a shrug.

He didn’t think he’d ever show them to you. Especially not this one, the one that truthfully portrayed what he thought about you and how much he liked you, how much he wanted to spend most of his time with you.

––It’s day three hundred and seventy-eight since I’ve been best friends with you. Is it weird that I counted? It probably is, but you know me and I know you. So, I know that you know how weird I already tend to be. Besides the point—what I wanted to say was that, today had to be the most mesmerized I have ever been with you. Is that cliché? I know it is. But even though you always say you hate cliches, deep down you love them, because who doesn’t love clichés?

He wants to cringe at his own words, but instead he finds his lips curling into a grin, a grin holding back the burst of happiness that exploads within him at the mere mention of you.

[Y/N]...you’re, well, awesome everything to me such a great person, honestly. This is the sixth love letter I’ve written which is so dorky. I’m supposed to be a badass, remember? I’m Spider-Man! And incredibly cute. Why am I writing a love letter? Why have I written six of them? Because to be fair, I’m scared of you. You’re scary and intimidating, even though you don’t think you are. But what I want to say is, I’ve loved you every minute of every day or every month I’ve known you. It’s like no matter how hard I try to get you out of my head It’s no good.

Do you have any idea how much I wanna grab your face and kiss you on the goddamned mouth? With consent, of course. I’d always ask first. But you know that. I know I do. I do, I do, I do. I want to do everything with you. I want to visit bookshops with you—

He stops reading the letter and closes his eyes for a moment, only to open them a moment later when he receives a call from you. The ringtone is different because you asked him to change it, considerably because yodeling was never a good choice for a ringtone anyway, and you never understood why he was the way he was. His eyes flicker to the last line of the letter before answering your call.

I want to wish I could tell you this in person.

Peter enjoys writing about you, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s easier than drawing, which is the route most people takes, including Michelle. Sometimes, if Michelle is feeling less cynical than usual, she’ll give him a peak of a sketch of whichever boy or girl or whoever she liked that present week. The detail encapsulated with each line of lead interested Peter, but he wasn’t good at drawing pictures. He was good at taking them. But he already has quite a few of you, and they’re all hung up around his desk or strewn somewhere around his room where it seems messy but it’s just the way Peter likes things to be. He always somehow finds where everything is, including that one picture of the two of you at Coney Island that is currently shelf hopping around his room (and by currently, he means continuously).

He also likes writing about you because it makes it easier to pretend and make you the main character of the cheesy John Hughes movie he’s piecing together in his head whenever he sees you. He doesn’t expect anything from you. He just likes thinking about you. In his sentences and paragraphs, you were never a doubtless fantasy object—Peter had more respect for women and men and people than that—but it allowed him to imagine that somewhere there was a universe in which he had even a sliver of confidence buried deep within his gut that could someday push him into confessing all that he felt for you.

“And what are you thinking about, Mr. Parker,” you teased, interrupting him as he glanced up and grinned as you came into his field of view. His mouth also let out a sigh that was breathey and he licked his lips that were being nipped at by the cold New York air.

“You know...stuff.”

He said it in a way that sounded like him, which never really made sense to anyone but you two. Peter always sounded excited or nervous or innocent without intending to and he often hated it. The response only resulted in you lifting a brow as you sat next to him on the roof of his apartment building.

“Stuff...right. Is Tony Stark working you too hard? I’m sure there’s only so much web you can create on the daily,” You mutter, partly to yourself, but Peter still shoots you a look and nudges you gently with his elbow. “What? Am I wrong?”

”No, you’re ridiculous is what you are,” He retorts, rolling his eyes. His lips still threaten to split into a smile. ”I’m not thinking about that stuff.”

“Peter, would it kill you to be less vague? You’re really killing it with this superhero thing, aren’t you? You could use more descriptive nouns, you know.”

“Trust me, I have,” He starts, but he catches himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask him, but he doesn’t reply, he just stares intently at his backpack (his new and last one, according to Aunt May who was at her wits end with Peter’s ongoing backpack crisis). He had brought it up here to do some of his homework and focus, mainly because May was doing yoga and watching a workout DVD and he couldn’t handle all the noise. But he also brought along his second secret (six second secrets to be precise), in case inspiration struck, only to have you arrive unannounced ten minutes later. Big mistake.

He grabs his backpack, which was still severely unzipped and open, and tries to hoist it up on his shoulders, but you grab it.

“Pete, what’s up?” Peter doesn’t like when you worry about him, because it only reminds him of how much he really likes you. And how much he probably shouldn’t. Ned told him that the lines between your friendship were already blurred, but that just made Peter want to repaint it.

He’s awkward and he’s a gigantic dork, but around you he doesn’t find it a problem. When his feelings surface, that all changes.

“I gotta take care of––“

“Let me guess: stuff,” you finish for him, grabbing his backpack suddenly, spinning around to investigate it’s contents. “Whatever you’re worried about is in here!”

“Ever heard of privacy, [Y/N]? Come on, giveee,” he panics and whines, immediately grabbing for his bag. He’s careful and it’s only causing him to fail at taking it back. But he knows it better than disregarding his super strength and potetionally needing to ask May for another backpack. Or hurting you.

Almost certain you’ll find nothing, you start huff, until your eyes land on a stray piece of paper. It has Peter’s handwriting on it, his unmistakable and familiar handwriting, and you pull it out and hold it up triumphantly after skimming through the first lines.

“That’s what’s bothering you! You like someone!” You’re dodging his hands, and for a superhero, Peter’s never felt so slow. “Who is it? Can I read it?”

Deep down, it hurts to know that Peter likes someone. Your best friend. But you knew that the person must’ve been special for him to write about them. You knew Peter, and he never wrote unless it was occasionally for the school newspaper.

“No!” Peter snatches it from your hands, but you tumble forward, latching onto his arm as the both of you fell on your backs.

“Give it to me! Peter!”

Thus began the wrestling match. Peter had always, always known how competive you were, and determined, and he fondly remembered how you almost cried when he threw you the blue shell in Mario Cart. (You didn’t talk to him for three days.) He thought of taunting you lightly, with scattered of words of what, you want this letter? or sorry, i don’t know what you’re talking about, but figured they would only fuel your eagerness even more and he also knew how stubborn you were. And so, he resorted in hiding the letter behind his back as you leaped onto him, again and again, the both of you grabbing onto each other’s limbs and the thin piece of paper.

“Ha,” you yelled, finally sitting on his chest, holding the paper up high as you scanned a few sentences.

A few sentences was enough to see your name. Your name, written around like ink blots after words like beautiful and amazing, and around the crossed out errors and the small doodles he had taken the liberty of adding. Peter had only shouted, “[Y/N] don’t forget that we are on the roof and I will not hesitate to push you off!” as a joke, but gone increasingly quiet at the sight of the letter finally being in your hands.

“It’s...me.”

That was all you had to say, mainly because you hadn’t thought of anything else clever enough. Peter chewed his lip nervously underneath you and ran a hand through his hair, mumbling an apology.

"I know, it’s dumb. But could you give it back? I’d rather not face rejection with you also reading it. That’s too embarrassing.”

“Peter, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe you should try writing a letter.”

You smacked him lightly on the chest and got off him, helping him up. He may have tried to be sarcastic with you, but he was an open book. The nervousness and anxiousness was plastered all over his face like freckles, and his lips parted as he tried to steady his breathing. He fiddled with the hem of his dark blue physics-pun t-shirt and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“So...so do you like it?” He has said it so softly, you could have mistaken it for a gust of wind. Peter had thought about every scenario, every worst case scenario in his head and it was as if a nightmare was currently happening. Well, minus the gigantic spider (he knows, ironic isn’t it?).

“Yea,” you croaked, voice and throat suddenly dry. You cleared it and continued. “Yes. I mean, Peter, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to. I like you, a lot. But I can’t just go up to you and spill it all out of mouth like slobber. That’s why I wrote some of those.”

“Woah, woah, some? There’s more?”

Peter groaned and wished that he had the superpower of teleporting to anywhere but here. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Pete, you do realize I need to read them all right? Now that I know they exist,” you told him, following him as he tried to turn away from you to hide how ashamed he was.

“Stop,” he whined, visibly pouting. “Just forget it, okay? This was so stupid.”

You stopped him from walking off, pressing your hand to his chest. Giving him a small smile, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, and you swore you felt him melt into your hand as it stayed there, caressing his face. It felt strange to some extent, holding your best friend the way you were, but nothing felt different. Well, not too different, not really. Sure, there was a little awkward tension now that the proclamations of love this boy had for you in paper had been read by your own eyes, now raveling around the nerves in your head—but this was the kid you knew inside and out.

If anything had changed in your friendship, relationship, whatever you and Peter had—it felt good, right.

“You don’t have to show me them if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and if I did, I’m sorry. But if it makes you feel better, I like you too. You big nerd. And that love letter? Really sweet.”

“You really liked it?” He mutters, eyes finally meeting yours, the glint in them almost sheepish. “You’re not just saying that?”

Eyes locked, you had no hesitation in your answer as you stare in wonder at the boy in front of you, hopeful, passionate—your idiot.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m not just saying that.”

#peter parker #peter parker spiderman #peter parker imagine #peter parker marvel #peter parker mcu #peter parker fic #peter parker headcanon #peter parker hcs #marvel spiderman #spiderman marvel #tom holland imagine #tom holland peter parker #tom holland #tom holland spiderman #spider-man #spider-man homecoming #marvel imagine #marvel smut #peter parker smut #tom holland smut #imagine #marvel prompt

[trylonandperisphere]

Room and Board, Ch. 5

A/N: I know, you guys. Over TWO YEARS later. What can I say? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ But I promised myself I would finish this eventually! Extra special thanks to Akanevm for becoming my patron and encouraging me to pick this mess up again. This is soooooo not beta'd, by the way. <3

Also on fanfiction.net and AO3.

I'm afraid what happened next was not my finest moment. I completely froze.

For a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly, I stood there, my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide, as the lights continued to flash and the music to pulse, echoing in my head. Not a single word came to me, to recoil, reassure or respond. Instead, it was like the beat of the bass drum synced with my heart, causing it to beat louder, faster, vibrating my chest and pumping blood through my body until I could feel it pulse all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I registered a rush of cool sweat on my head, arms and legs, and a coiling in my stomach, all the while she was looking at me, watching me, the red, yellow and blue beams chasing each other across her body, glowing on the round of her left cheek. And then the smallest movements happened: her eyes tracked back and forth once to read mine, her eyebrows twitched above her glasses, and her lips pressed together just the slightest bit, and I could tell that from my silence, some kind of damage had been done.

Abruptly, she leaned back and put her hands up in a placating gesture.

"Oh, hey," she said, and a grin that was not comfortable stretched her mouth. "I just… my mistake, okay? I, like, just got myself the wrong impression." Now I was uncomfortable both for myself and on her behalf, pained that I was causing her to feel awkward, too. "Look, no offense, right? I get that you're straight, and, well, I couldn't help but try… but I won't again. I've been having such a good time with you, so… so could we forget it and just"—she huffed out something like a laugh—"just hang out like two people who could get to be friends?"

Part of me knew it was hard for her. It's not like I'd met a lot of gay people, much less any our age. But Mémé Aurora used to tell me how free Berlin and Paris had been for all types of people before the war, and then what the Nazis did to anyone different, and how so many people went along with it, either agreeing or not wanting to get into trouble. She told me how, even if it wasn't as bad and things had changed, people were still shunned, attacked, and discriminated against, even in countries as progressive as Switzerland. And of course I had seen it, now and then—harsh words spoken, or even milder insinuations in school, meant to embarrass someone, put them down, isolate them. Mémé had always instilled respect and kindness for the humanity of others in me, even when I had felt my worst, my most alone. So I hated to see Cosima, whom I knew had put herself out on a limb, made herself vulnerable because, well, for some reason she liked me, looking worried at how I might react, at my silence, at a rejection that could turn ignorant or cruel. I hated it, and yet I felt a panic welling, a panic that stunned me,and I wasn't sure why.

I just needed some space, some air. I just needed it.

"Uh…" I forced out, then felt a smile stretch my face that was equally as uncomfortable as hers, and I hated myself for it. "It's, it's okay," I finally managed. "It's fine; don't worry about it. I just… It's just that I'm awfully tired, and hot, and… I just think I need to get some air. So…"

I could see her face fall in hurt and confusion, and maybe a sort of disbelief at my behaviour. I didn't want that at all, and part of me was shouting at myself for being such an idiot, when I'd been enjoying being with her so much, and nothing wrong had happened, really, had it? Of course you could still be friends, it was telling me, don't let yourself mistrust again, believe in the worst, now when you've been doing so well. Don't go to that place again. But at the same time, my body was pulling me backward.

So, I fumbled for a moment, and just pushed out what I could.

"I just… I just have to go. But… I'll contact you, alright? You… you're the only Cosima in the competition, yes?" I tried to smile, though it felt strange. I hoped that somehow repeating back to her what she'd said before would be some sort of talisman of my well meaning she could hold onto, of how I remembered the fun we'd had together and wasn't dismissing it, even if I was backing away as I spoke.

She nodded, just once, and I couldn't take any more.

"Goodnight, Cosima," I breathed, careful not to say goodbye. It felt like the best I could do.

And when I pushed out of the dark and noisy club into the cold, night air, I just kept walking, head down, in rapid steps back to my room.

Of course I didn't have a key.

I stood there at the door, my mind swirling in distress like the fog of my breath as it met against the door and rolled back at me. I hadn't bothered to bring my coat, since the club was just a short walk from our cabin, but I could only stay outside so long before the freezing temperatures sunk into my bones. It was then that I heard someone laugh from within.

"Hello?" I called, puzzled, with a soft knock on the door. There was a pause and a shuffle, and then it opened, revealing Aida, looking back at me in surprise.

"Del? What are you doing here?" she asked, and then shook her head at herself. "Uh, I mean, sorry, it's cold out there. Come in, before you freeze your ass off."

I stepped in and as she closed the door to the room, I noticed the blonde girl from earlier sitting on the sofa. She gave me a little wave and a smile.

"Oh, euh, hello… Inge." I glanced back at Aida, who was locking the door. "I didn't know you two would be here."

"Ah, we, uh," Aida started, slipping past me to stand by the coffee table, "we were talking and we didn't want to keep spending money on drinks. So, I remembered we had this here." She picked up a bottle of some peppermint schnapps from the table and shook it to make a sloshing noise. "It's a drink and a mouthwash in one!" she joked. I gave a halfhearted chuckle.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd left and I…" Suddenly my vision was swimming as unexpected tears welled in my eyes. Aida's face dropped with bemused concern.

"Oh shit, did something happen? Are you alright?" she asked, and I nodded, but I had to press the back of my hand to my mouth to hold in a gasp. She took a step toward me, then paused and looked back and forth between me and Inge. She seemed hesitant, nonplussed.

Finally, Inge rose from the couch.

"Why don't I give you two some space to talk?" she offered, then addressed Aida. "I'll be back at my room if you want to reach me. 417, in the Dalgång Building, remember?" Aida nodded and the tall blonde gave me a kind nod and left.

It was quiet for a moment, then Aida stepped to me and gently put her arm around me to guide me to the couch.

"Here, have a seat," she said, taking one next to me and angling herself to take in my expression, which was no doubt contorted in my struggle not to cry. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a breath. What was I even crying about? I let it out slowly, working to regain control. When I opened my eyes she raised her eyebrows and shook the bottle again.

"Want a sip? Looks like maybe you need it." I laughed a little.

"Non, thank you. I'm sorry." I took another breath against a wave of emotion I didn't understand, and pulled myself together.

"I'm fine, really. I just… what you said was right. Cosima… likes me. She said something—" I actually had to chuckle at myself, because in repeating it I realized just how innocuous it was, and wonder at my overreaction. "She said I was her type of woman."

Aida took that in and made a little face.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Well, no smoothness points for phrasing on that one." She cocked her head and looked at me more seriously. "Did that upset you, that she came onto you? Did she do anything else?"

I found myself making a frustrated groan in my throat.

"No, she didn't… she didn't do anything wrong, really. I just… I don't know, I suddenly felt so uncomfortable. I didn't know how to act. You know, I've just never had anything like this happen to me before."

Aida let out a sigh and uncapped the bottle to take a pull.

"Yeah, okay," she said, after a moment. "So, you're thinking that a girl… hitting on you… is gross?"

"No, not like that," I answered, trying to understand my thoughts, myself. "I just… I should have just said 'thank you, but I'm not interested,' or something, and just left it at that, shouldn't I? But I didn't want to hurt her feelings… and I also had been having such a good time with her, and maybe… maybe part of me thought, 'what if I was leading her on?' You said maybe it could be interpreted like that…" It still wasn't making sense to me. Aida just looked at me steadily, saying nothing.

"Oh my god, I just freaked out, didn't I? Am I some kind of… asshole? A terrible person?" I asked.

Again, my best friend let out a deep sigh. She seemed to mull it over.

"Well… what did you do?" she inquired.

"I… I said it was alright," I replied slowly, going over it in my head. "Well, first I kind of froze. I didn't know what to say. And then she, she saw I wasn't responding, so she backed off. She said she was sorry, and she understood I was straight… I mean, that she'd made a mistake… and then she asked if we could just forget it happened, and if we could just hang out as friends."

Again I saw Cosima's face in my mind, small and sweet, transforming from nervous hope into dejection, maybe even resignation.

"I'm such an idiot," I said. I shook my head at myself. "So, then I just… kind of smiled and said it was okay, but I was tired and hot, so I had to go… but that I would contact her. Merde. Merde!"

Aida sighed.

"And then you left?"

"Yes, I just… left."

"And," she paused and looked at me closely, "did you mean it? Like, was it okay? Do you really think you'll contact her? Do you even want to?"

I sunk back into the cushions, feeling worn and disgusted with myself.

"Yes. I really think so. I mean… if she never said anything, I would still be there, now. But, that's not the point, is it? She did say something, and I reacted and… I don't know!"

Aida seemed to stare at the coffee table in front of us for a moment. She took another sip from the schnapps, and and made a low, little grunt in her throat. When she spoke again, her voice and inflection were serious.

"Delphine, do you think that if she was interested, she's going to keep thinking about you that way, and does that make you uncomfortable?"

I sat there for a moment, and something about her tone struck and rung inside me. I opened my mouth, then paused to really try to think about how I responded.

"I… I don't know if she will continue to think that way about me. I know people do have crushes, and think about other people a long time. B-but… it's all theoretical, because I haven't really ever had that." Aida's brow crinkled.

"I thought you were into that guy Luc before you…" she trailed off. I closed my eyes, knowing what she was thinking, then met her gaze again.

"I don't know if I was… 'into him,'" I admitted. "I thought I was… I really wanted to be. I mean, I know he was cute, and I did enjoy kissing him. I did think he was nice to me, and smart. So, when everyone teased me, I thought… I thought I was hurt because he rejected me. But… I think maybe it was more because I thought I'd never fit in." My eyes were welling up again.

"Shit, Delphine," she murmured. "Wait, what are you saying? Are you saying that you didn't like him, or you just haven't met someone you're attracted to, or you don't like guys, or…?"

I noticed that I trembled before I answered.

"I, I'm not sure," I finally said. "The therapist said… maybe it's just my depression. Maybe I don't have to rush myself into liking someone, that I have enough on my mind with school, and everything. He said this is a very overwhelming time of life sometimes, you know? And that I would work it out eventually… that many people are confused, even if they don't show it, or just do things they think they should because everyone else does. All I know is… I don't know what that's supposed to feel like, being attracted to someone, much less trusting them enough to… to acknowledge it in my brain and maybe even let them know, tu compends?"

I searched her eyes, feeling a little desperate. After all, although I had shared more with her than anyone else at school, there were still things I didn't express—not to anyone. I felt, in this moment, that she wouldn't judge me, that she truly was a kind person, but at the same time I felt vulnerable, nervous… maybe something like the way Cosima had felt with me, and I had messed that up.

The moment before she spoke seemed to stretch a long time.

"I think maybe I do understand," emerged carefully from her lips, and then my best friend said to me, "because, the truth is, I'm gay, Delphine... and I had a crush on you for a long time."

#room and board #cophine #orphan black #fan fiction #fan fic #writing #mine #clone club #the drought is over! #whether the water is of good quality is another story #TEEN ANGST CITY

[whalefairyfandom12]

for him.

Summary: In which Dan paints smiles and studies English at a dead end. His muse takes the from of Phil Lester, a film student at his university, but paint doesn’t last forever and not everyone is who we make them out to be.

A/N: I had said awhile back that I wasn’t going to continue this story for a couple of different reasons, but I’ve been wanting to get back into writing and I thought it would be a nice reintroduction. Given that this is over two years late I’m not even sure if anyone still cares haha, but I hope you enjoy it regardless!

tw; depression, alcohol, suicidal thoughts

Masterpost

Part Two

   The paper sits on top of his laptop, crumpled and severely tea stained. The impending due date is written across the top in black sharpie: June 11.  For the most part creative writing is the only class that doesn’t make him want to rip his hair out, but he’s not convinced that his teacher isn’t a sadist.

  Purple writing stains the back of his hand, the biro ink smudging and dripping onto the paper below him.

   we live in the broken fragments of a dying universe.

  His phone releases a chiming sound, the vibrations making a rattling noise against the surface of his desk. Dan grabs it, desperate for anything to take his mind off of the depressing reality that he might very well fail his course. He wonders what he’d do with the rest of his life if something related to english doesn’t work out. Nothing maybe.

  The text is from Phil, perhaps unsurprisingly. they say only boring people are bored. with that reasoning i must be duller than 50 shades.

   A smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself, Dan dials Phil and waits. “E.L. James couldn’t make it so I’m the replacement.”

  “Thank god. I’d rather talk to you any day.”

  “Is my voice your favorite sound?” Dan asks sarcastically.

  “Yes.”

   The smile grows. “In that case it’s worth nothing that your voice is my favorite sound too.”

   “Lucky that,” Phil says, and Dan can hear the accompanying eye roll. “What a coincidence.”

   “Are you finished with your homework?” he asks. There’s a pen sitting beside his computer and he flicks it with his thumb and forefinger. It hits the wall and rolls back towards him, and he repeats the action.

  “The pressing assignments,” Phil says. “You?”

  “Sort of, kind of, not really?”

  “Is the creativity block still pretty bad?”

  “It’s still there,” Dan says, making a face. “By this point I’ve learned to cope but I wouldn’t call it fantastic.”

   “What genre do you like to write?”

   “I gravitate towards realistic fiction but it doesn’t really matter.”

   “Hmm,” Phil’s voice trails off into contemplative silence. “I told you that I would help you cure your creativity block. I promise I haven’t forgotten, it’s just a work in progress.”

   “Don’t worry about it,” Dan says. “It’d be nice to have the block gone but I don’t want it to become your issue.”

   “Who said anything about worrying?” Phil asks. “Who do you think I am, Philip Lester?”

   “Did anyone ever tell you you’re absolutely freaking hilarious?” Dan asks dryly.

   “Hey!” Chris’s shout comes from the living room and he yanks the phone away from his ear, cupping a hand over the microphone. “Cheese or pepperoni?”

  “Why not both?” Dan asks, raising his voice. “We both know you can eat at least one of those without any help.”

   “I’m glad you agree!”

    He repositions the phone. Phil’s saying something, but he can’t quite make out the words. “Sorry, what?”

   “I asked if you had to go.”

   “I should, yeah. Did I relieve your boredom?”

   “I think it’s safe to say that you did, but now I want pizza, too,” Phil says. “Good luck with your story.”

   “Thanks,” Dan says. “I’ll see you then.” He pushes the end call button, shoving his phone in his pocket and turning off the light.

    Chris looks up from his laptop, scowling at the screen. “Have I mentioned before that this thing is utter shit?”

   “Once or twice,” Dan says.

   Chris releases a long breath from between his teeth, eyeing him intently.“Phil?” He nods. “I’m not saying anything but--”

   “Yes you are,” Dan interrupts, subjecting the boy to a glare. “How long did they say on the pizza?”

   “Ten, fifteen minutes tops,” Chris says. “I’m just saying, if you’re planning on making a move you should do it soon.”

    Dan stares at him incredulously. He doesn’t see any point in arguing further, and he retreats to his room; making sure Chris can hear the slam of the door behind him. Even if he was interested in Phil, hypothetically speaking, for those feelings to be reciprocated is about as likely as finishing top of his maths class. There’s no way in hell a notion like that could ever be more than a fleeting fantasy, and he’s never been one for daydreams.

...

    Dan’s seat in Creative Writing is located diagonally by the only window in the classroom. The door is located a short distance away, accessible in ten seconds, maybe less if he’s charged with adrenaline. He has the best seat in the room; if a need for escape presents itself he can make a run for the door or shatter the glass and jump out the window. The drop to the ground isn’t high enough to kill him. He thinks.

   His professor’s giving some lecture about characterization but he stopped listening a while ago. He hopes she doesn’t ask what his story concept is any time in the next millennium, because he doesn’t have one. Despite Phil’s bravado about curing his creativity block the page is as empty as it was a month ago. Christmas break starts in two weeks, and he’s hoping to have the skeleton of his story finished by the end of break.

   He contemplates if the other thirty two students have completed the assignment yet. He thinks that’s unlikely, but he also doubts any of them are quite as far behind as he is. The sparse moments he has to write he’s either too tired to do much more than log onto his computer, or he lacks the inspiration to produce anything with a glimmer of potential.

   Dan scribbles in the margins of the newest handout, previous doodles already littering most of the available white space. He can write nonsensical drivel until every inch of his skin is stained, but finding the right words and phrases long enough for a novel is an impossibility.

  the invisible boy loved the dark so much the shadows rose to swallow him whole. he wondered, if people were fireflies would the world be a brighter place?

  Dan chances a glance at the clock; twenty minutes until his next class. It seems like he’s always counting down to something, the end of class, the end of the day, the days before break, the years before graduation. Sometimes he doesn’t think the countdown is ever going to come to an end. If life’s composed of moments than each moment lasts the number of seconds it takes to end. Everything is composed of numbers, and though they’re cool and aloof and safe there’s a security to them that he’s too afraid venture out of.

   He wonders how long it’ll take before he begins counting down the seconds to his death. Sometimes he think he thinks he’s already started.

   For the end of November the weather is warm enough to allow spending lunch and the time between classes outside, something that Dan wholeheartedly prefers to eating in the cafeteria. Conversations flow more freely, and he can stretch out on the grass and watch the clouds.

   PJ and Phil’s digital storytelling class is the first that’s released, and by the time Dan reaches their usual spot most of the time Chris’s already there. Phil’s sitting with his back against the tree and knees tucked to his chest, PJ and Chris sprawled on the ground in front of him. A sketchbook is perched on his legs, pen uncapped and ink flowing onto the white canvas.

  “Is Louise free yet?” PJ asks.

   “Five minutes,” Dan says, checking his watch and sitting beside Phil. Louise’s French class runs later than anyone else’s, but her next class starts a good half an hour later than his does so he supposes it evens out.

    Sometimes he wishes he saw her more often. The points of their lives that intersect are sporadic; planets brushing and occasionally colliding but never for long. “How was digital storytelling?” he asks.

  “Fine,” PJ says. “Nothing new really, we’re supposed to be drafting a storyboard for a short film. How was English?”

  “Long,” Dan says, pulling a face. “At least break starts soon. That’s something I guess.”

  “PJ and I have an Important Announcement,” Chris says, waving a hand in the air with what he assumes is meant to be an impressive gesture.

  “We do?”

  “Yes,” Chris says, pushing himself up on his elbows and giving PJ a meaningful look.

  “Right,” PJ says, eyes widening in understanding. “We do.”

   “For those of us who aren’t telepathic would you care to clarify?” Dan asks.

   “Hush,” Chris says, raising an admonitory eyebrow. “Patience grasshopper.”

   Dan shakes his head, turning his attention to Phil. The sunlight is filtered through the branches and leaves of the tree overhead, casting parts of his profile in shadow. He thinks that Phil’s the kind of person that deserves to have stories written about him and paintings created in his likeness, yet he doubts there’s an artist alive who could begin to do him justice.

   “It’s a capybara,” Phil says, catching Dan’s eye and tilting the drawing. “A work in progress.”

   “I like it,” Dan says, tracing a careful finger over the drying ink. “Are they your favorite animal?”

    “They’re in the running.” Phil’s eyes slide past Peter, landing on the rapidly approaching figure of Louise. “Hey.”

    “Hello.” Her backpack is tossed on the ground with a dull thumping noise, and she lays on the ground, closing her eyes.

    “Now that everyone’s here I want to make the Important announcement,” Chris says, staggering to his feet.

   “What’re you on about?” Louise asks, her words punctured by a yawn. “I’m too tired for anything that requires more response than a grunt.”

   “PJ and I are dating,” Chris says proudly. Silence meets his words, and a quick glance at everyone confirms that the other two are just as unimpressed as Dan is.

   “Wow, what a surprise,” he says sarcastically. “I never would’ve suspected.”

    Chris looks distinctly wounded. “Thanks mate. Good to have your support as always.”

   “You two have wanted to bang each other for ages,” he snorts. “If you wanted to deliver a shocker this wasn’t it.”

   “Congratulations,” Phil says, offering a thumbs up.

   “Thank you Phil,” Chris says pointedly. He sits down again, crossing his arms wearing an expression akin to a pout.

    “Cheer up,” PJ says, bumping his shoulder. “At least they didn’t throw rotten tomatoes.”

   “That’s tomorrow,” Dan says. He stifles a yawn, checking his phone. He had time to take a nap, but he doesn’t think Chris would agree with the idea.

    “Are you lot going home for break?” PJ asks.

   “I am,” Phil says. There’s no enthusiasm to his words and Dan frowns, giving him a sideways glance.

   “Does that mean you’ll need some entertainment over the holidays?” he asks.

   Phil smiles. “I think some entertainment would be nice.”

   “I’ll also be at home doing nothing,” Dan says. “I have a feeling the entertainment hotline might decide to give you a call.”

  He decides that Phil has the nicest eyes he’s seen, a shade of blue that Van Gogh could only dream of. He’s heard people talk about drowning in eyes before, but Phil’s are more like the sky and Dan thinks he wouldn’t mind letting the anchors snap and float away.

...

    Dan’s favorite bookstore, Ink and Quill, is only a five minute away from the school. Whenever Things become too much it’s his first place of refuge. There's a sofa nestled in front of a fireplace by which a bookshelf is crammed, and it's there he sits and contemplates the meaningless of existence.

   Tuesdays are always his least favorite days. There’s an expectation that Mondays will be bad, and Wednesdays are hump days; if you can survive the first two days you can survive the last few. Thursdays are so close to Fridays and Fridays are the day before the weekend that they’re bearable, but Tuesday serves no purpose other than lengthening the week and adding another day to the work week.

   It’s on one such Tuesday afternoon that Dan finds himself laying on the sofa with his eyes closed. Spots dance across the back of his eyelids, a pale imitation of his own northern lights. He holds the lights closer, as if by squeezing his eyes shut he can make them illuminate his mind.

  “Hey.”

   He opens his eyes, the warmth of Phil’s voice casting it’s own luminescence over the dim lightning from the fire. There’s a skylight directly overhead, and if he tilts his head at the right angle he can see the sky. The torrential downpour outside successfully blocks the sun, projecting a gloomy and melancholy air over everything else. All there is is a mass of gray, and he thinks that if oblivion was to be summed up in a color this would be it.

   “Hi,” he says, leaning against one of the armrests and crossing his legs. Phil sits on the opposite end of the sofa, mimicking his posture. Their legs are pressed together, thighs touching and calves brushing. There’s a distinct warmth to it and for once Dan doesn’t mind the contact. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I think I’ve seen you around before,” Phil says, a smile ghosting his face. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Well enough.” Dan shrugs, trying to play the action off as nonchalant. “What about you?”

    Phil raises an eyebrow, as if to call him out on the complete falsity of his response. “Fine,” he answers, the challenge in his voice palpable.

    Dan can’t remember the last time someone paid enough attention to notice the difference between sincerity and empty words. It’s nice--but that still doesn’t mean he’s going to sob into Phil’s shoulder and unload the weight of his problems. “What are you doing here?”

  He’s afraid the question comes off as brusque, but Phil doesn’t show any outward signs of offense. “I was submitting my application,” the boy says.

  “For what?”

  “Exchange program and mentorship,” Phil says, eyes lighting up. “In California.”

    Something ugly has begun to take root. “When would it be?”

    “The next three years. I’d finish my degree there.”

    “A transfer essentially?” Dan asks. He’s not sure why it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, but it does and he can’t breathe.

    “You could look at it that way,” Phil acknowledges. “I doubt they’ll accept me, but I figured there was nothing to lose in trying.”

    “I hope they accept you,” Dan says, even though no, he really hopes they don’t. He’s aware he’s being incredibly selfish and that there’s no logic to his thinking, but he can’t force himself past the idea of university without Phil.

  “Thanks Dan. You’ll be the first person I’ll tell once I hear something.” Phil gives him an expectant look. “What brings you here?”

   “I like it here,” Dan says. “I usually come here on Tuesdays and think about Things.”

   “Things?”

    “How nothing matters in the end.” He means his words to come off as sarcastic, but he doesn't think he's successful. 

    “What do you mean?”

    Dan shrinks into the sofa. “I was just kidding,” he says. “Never mind.”

    “Well, if you do want to talk about the end of the world I’m always here.”

   Dan tries not to read into that last part too deeply. Phil is still looking at him a little too closely, and he changes the subject. “When are you going home?”

  “Tonight. When are you?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Dan says. He pushes up his sleeve, glancing at his watch. “I should go and pack. I hope your trip goes well.”

   “Thanks, you too,” Phil says. “Should I keep an ear out for the hotline?”

   “I think you should,” Dan smiles. He shrugs his coat on, rising to his feet. “I’ll see you next year.”

   Phil nods. “Happy Christmas and New Year,” he says. There’s a brief hesitation before he pulls Dan into a hug, letting go almost immediately. Dan thinks he can make out the ghost of a blush on the boy’s face as he opens the door.

   The hug was nicer than he remembers hugs being, and he can’t remember the last time he was disappointed for physical contact to end. Hugs, he comes to the conclusion, should be given more often.

...

     His aunt’s house is always too much of something. Too much noise, too much smalltalk, too much of the same questions and answers over and over again until he finds the quietest corner that he can and retreats. Everyone from his grandparents to cousins to family friends crowd the already cramped space of the living room, spilling out into the dining room and even upstairs.

   It’s impossible to not feel claustrophobic. He’s found that if he spends enough time buried in other people that the walls feel like they’re closing in. There’s no escape from the endless conversation and observation, and in a way it reminds him of school. Always under a microscope, where each and every movement and word is subject to dissection and offense.

    After answering yet another question about uni good, fine, yes, no, Dan slips down to the basement in the hopes that he might find it at least relatively empty. Because the universe hates him, two of his cousins are battling to the death with light sabers and knocking over every piece of furniture in the process. He lets the door slam behind him, leaving before he can be blamed for any of the destruction.

   The upstairs is too loud and too chaotic for any semblance of solitude, and after giving the downstairs a final check he votes for going outside. He’s heard there’s something called grass. From the first floor there are two ways outside--a sliding glass door that leads to the porch and the front door connected to the kitchen.

    The porch door is the least mobbed, and he begins to make his way over. A poke to the back of his neck and a demand to join a card game puts a temporary halt to his escape, and he makes up a lie about needing to get a drink of water before making a run for it. Dan’s not sure if it’s a failure of memory or something else, but he doesn’t remember family reunions ever being quite this bad. The door slides open easily enough, and he steps outside.

   The sky is clear for the most part, and a slight chill sends a puff of condensation into the air every time he exhales. His decision to not bring a coat is one that he’s now regretting, but it’s not worth going back inside to grab it. The wooden slats of the porch are damp and cold to the touch, and he steps off and settles in the grass. The walls aren’t enough to mute the noise, although they make it relatively bearable.

   He closes his eyes, attempting to return his breathing to a somewhat regular pace. A quiet buzzing interrupts his train of thought, and he cracks open an eyelid. He fumbles for his phone, clumsily swiping without bothering to check the caller I.D. “Hello?”

   “Hey.”

  The smile that crosses Dan’s face at Phil’s greeting feels ridiculous, and he’s glad the dark and solitude conceal the expression from analyzation. “Enjoying your festivities?”

    “Not particularly. You?”

   “No. Merry Christmas.” There’s no enthusiasm in Phil’s statement, and there’s even less in Dan’s reply.

   “You too. How’s break been?”

   “I’m actually looking forward to starting school again which I think says a lot.”

   “Is it really that bad?” Dan asks.

   “I might be slightly dramatic,” Phil says. “Family gatherings were never really my favorite thing, but it could always be worse. How’re you?”

   “About the same as you. At least on campus there’s somewhere to hide that’s not outside.”

   “After we get back you should come over,” Phil says, the statement slightly distorted over the sudden influx of noise. “I still have to give you your present.

   “Sure, sounds like a plan.” Dan agrees. He neglects to mention that Phil’s gift is still in the development stages.

  “What's your favorite color?”

  “Blue,” Dan says. “Like the sky. You?”

  “Purple. Like an aubergine.” The static of a loud crash cuts through Phil’s next phrase.

  “What did you say?”

   “I have to go, sorry,” Phil says. “My little sister almost set the table cloth on fire. I’ll talk to you later.” The lines dies before Dan can say anything in response, and he stares at his phone until the screen goes black. He would never admit it, but out of all of the presents he’s gotten so far hearing Phil’s voice is undoubtedly the best one yet.

...

  The worst part of packing all of his family in one house is the inevitable lack of sleep. Dan’s out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow, and it feels like mere seconds have passed before his eyelids are pried open. Literally.

   “Play with me!” Kat, his younger cousin, is jumping on the bed. Her fingers are millimeters away from Dan’s eyes, their attack momentarily paused.

  Dan groans, batting away her hands. He rubs his eyes, blinking a few times to ensure that nothing's broken. “What time is it?”

  Kat shrugs, blonde hair forming a mane around her face. “Time for you to wake up!”

   “I am awake.” Dan buries his face back in his pillow. “And now I'm asleep.”

  He can hear Kat’s pout, sense her arms crossing and bottom lip beginning to jut out. “Why are grown ups so boring?”

   Dan sighs, rolling over to face his cousin. “Why don't you go wake up your parents?” Normally he’d feel guilty about pawning Kat off on her parents at some some ungodly hour in the morning, but he's too tired to feel anything but exhaustion.

  “Because.” Kat begins to jump on the bed, her words falling into time with her movements. “Because because because because because--”

  “If you leave me alone I promise I’ll play with you in a few hours,” Dan coaxes. “I’ll even give you an extra cookie at lunch today.”

  Kat mulls his offer, head tilting to one side. “Okay,” she agrees, sliding off the bed. She totters towards the exit, the door slamming shut behind her. Dan lets the silence envelop him, nestling into the quiet and letting it fill his head overflowing.

    He stumbles downstairs a few hours later, showered, dressed, and hungry. His mum is at the stove, a growing plate of pancakes sitting on the counter beside her. She hums a greeting, shooting him a warning glance.

  “Touch those pancakes and you won’t be getting any,” she says threateningly, waving the spatula at him. In a competition for the best puppy dog eyes Dan would be a long ways away from the winner, but they’d always worked on his mum.

  “I won’t tell Kat,” he wheedles.

  His mum sighs, gesturing for him to open his mouth. She casts a furtive glance around the room, tossing one into the waiting trap. “You’d better not.”

  “Thanks mum,” Dan says brightly. He puts a hand over his mouth to hide his chewing. Whatever else could be said about his mum, there was no denying that she knew how to cook. He had never been a fan of family reunions, but he supposes they’re not all bad.

...

   The bus had arrived back on campus at three forty one in the morning. He’d exchanged a sleepy greeting with Chris who’d arrived the day prior before dumping his bags on the ground. He sat down at his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, beginning to brainstorm ideas for Phil’s present.

   The current beginnings of said present sits on top of his desk, unfinished and a complete disaster even four hours later. Dan stares at it for a moment, hoping that today will be the day that his telepathic abilities kick in and the gift will magically finish itself. Disappointingly, though admittedly unsurprisingly, the paper remains in shards and the cardboard in mangled sections. A quick knock breaks his concentration, and before he can say anything in response the door opens.

   “Why bother knocking if you’re going to come in anyway?” Dan asks, swiveling in his chair. Chris stands in the doorway, holding a plate of cookies and balancing a glass of milk in the other hand.

   He shoots a vaguely horrified look at Dan’s project. “The hell is that supposed to be?” The question reflects confusion and slight disgust, which Dan thinks is probably the appropriate reaction.

   “Your guess is as good as mine,” he says grimly. “It was supposed to be a book, now I honestly have no idea.” In theory his idea wasn’t completely terrible. Originally he’d wanted to write something, but he’s resorted to binding a book for Phil to write his thoughts down in and giving him a fountain pen. He’ll be the first to admit it’s not the most creative idea out there, but it’s always harder to come up with a gift for someone you care about.

   “Is that for Phil?” Chris asks. He enters the room and sits on the edge of Dan’s bed, setting the plate and glass on his desk. “Christmas present?”

   “Yeah. What are you getting PJ?”

   “Camera lens,” Chris says. “He won’t shut up about it--contrary to common belief I can take a hint.” A quiet smile steals the bite from his words, and Dan would tease him about it if he had the energy.

   “Are those for me?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the cookies.

   “No,” Chris says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I brought food all the way to your room because I thought it would be a nice centerpiece.”

   Dan grabs a cookie off the top, the chocolate burning his tongue and bursting in his mouth. He lets his eyes flutter shut, the slight bitterness of the chocolate cut by the sugar in the dough. The contrast is perfect, and he doesn’t think he’s ever tasted anything so delicious. “When you asked me about moving in together I want you to know I only said yes for the food.”

   “What’s your idea?” Chris asks.

   “I wanted to bind a book for him to write his ideas in,” Dan says. “It’s kind of a mess right now.” He reaches for his duffel bag, unzipping one of the pouches and rooting around for a moment before emerging triumphantly with a wrapped parcel. “This is yours.”

   Chris shakes it experimentally. “Is it explosives? I bet it is.”

  “It’s not explosives,” Dan says. “I pay rent too.”

   Chris tears off the wrapping paper, face lighting up. “You’re kidding me.”

    “Merry Christmas.” Dan’s almost knocked over by the enthusiasm behind the boy’s hug. He can’t help but think it’s not nearly as nice as Phil’s. “Everyone was really uncreative this year and we all saved up. Trust me, it’s a completely selfish gift. I’m tired of hearing you complain about your old laptop all of the time.”

    “Thank you. Your gift’s coming,” Chris says, straightening. “Shipping hates me.” He points to Phil’s present. “I think you should try hot gluing the fabric to the cover instead,” he suggests. “It’ll hold better.”

   “That’s actually a good idea,” Dan says.

   “I’m full of them,” Chris moves towards the door, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s why you love me.”

   “I’ll have to ask PJ’s opinion on that one.”

   “Only if you let me ask Phil’s.” He ducks the glue stick Dan throws in his general direction, his laughter following him down the hall.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #for him. #phan au #fh #fanfiction

[roxy-davenport]

Tricks-O-Matic

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader

Beta: @raspberrymama

Word Count: 2,653

A/N: This was written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing’s SPN Hiatus Writing Challenge- Week 4 with the prompts, “You’re supposed to talk me out of it,” and a gif of a couple dancing in a laundromat. Fluff and humor, just go with it trust me. 

                            Also on AO3

You huffed out a breath. You hated doing laundry. It was the bane of your existence, so you always waited until the last minute when you were down to your last panty to do it. You literally couldn’t wait any longer.

You put your laundry in a shopper and wheeled it down the road to the laundromat ignoring the honks directed at you. Of course the bunker’s washer and dryer would break just when the boys left and gave you mountains of dirty clothes. Oh, what fun.

You sighed loudly when you were hit in the face with intensely hot air. Not only was it summer but the Laundromat was even hotter, if that were even possible. Who needs a sauna when you can just do laundry?

You slowly wheeled your mountain of clothes into the laundromat rather awkwardly might I add, nearly tipping over your entire mountain of clothes on the way in. God forbid someone else would be here to help open the door for you.

 In a way, having the Laundromat to yourself was kind of nice, if not slightly creepy. You imagined most people would be at jobs at ten in the morning, not half asleep needing to do laundry after discovering they were down to the last panty. Talk about a rude awakening.

You stepped in front of a washer yawning, happy to be doing busy work because doing nothing in the bunker but waiting for the boys to come back didn’t sound fun. In fact, if you were being honest, you had no idea what to do with yourself for a week alone in the bunker. Hello, boredom.

You quickly put everything in several washers spreading out a little bit as you slowly meandered over to the sorry excuse for chairs that looked as if they’d break the second you sat on them and even worse they were all bright orange to boot. They really matched the yellow wallpaper.

You were desperate for a distraction right now from the boring day you were bound to have. You looked at the magazines. As you guessed they were months behind, nothing good.

And that’s when the TV turned on, no remote in sight. A note fell off the TV as if a wind blew it but there was no wind. The note said, “Broken.” That made your spidey tense tingle. What the ever-living fuck was going on. You whirled around looking for the culprit. You didn’t smell sulfur or feel a cold chill run down your spine. You walked around the laundromat finding no cold spots. Okay, this was creepy. What was going on?

As if in response to your apprehension, the newscaster on the television program seemed to address your concerns. “No need to be afraid, sweet cheeks,” the news announcer said winking at you. There was only one person that called you that and the newscaster looked nothing like him. Eerie. The newscaster actually looked like an underwear model. That guy missed his calling.

 The emblem behind him said “Fenrir News.” Now that’s an unusual name. You were starting to have a distinct idea who might be doing this. The news announcer winked at you as if he knew that you knew.

 The news announcer was still looking at you clearly and not the teleprompter. “Before we get into the local news, there’s something I have to say: There is an epidemic sweeping our country with few solutions available. An epidemic of boredom. It’s a horrible condition that leaves the intended victim without the ability to have fun. I know, that sounds truly horrible. The victim is so bogged down by the inability to come up with or do anything fun they just lie there, frustrated. Take this amazing, beautiful woman watching. She’s stuck in a laundromat desperate for a little adventure. It kills me to know just how bored she is and even more upsetting that they didn’t take her on the hunt. That her besties benched her because she’s recovering from a wound on the last hunt. Not cool, right? Her besties sentenced her to a week of boredom. Sounds like they should have some payback when they return. Anywho, Y/N this one’s for you.”

There was white noise and a blank screen for only a moment when what looked like a commercial came on.

 A woman with a huge smile on her heavily makeuped face waved at the studio audience.

 “Hello there fellow hunters. Do you find yourself struggling to get out hunting stains? You try and try but you just can’t wash out the blood and monster guts? Am I right? Mmmhmm. I know. I’ve been there. It’s terrible but don’t worry I have the solution. Here is Tricks-O-Matic. And it really does the trick. You wanna see?”

 She holds up what looks like Dean’s shirt, the raspberry plaid shit you could have sworn you just put in the washer. You walked over to the washer and looked for the red shirt not finding it. Tons of greens, blues and blacks but no dark red plaid shirt. Huh.

 The woman in the commercial poured a very bright blue substance on it that had the consistency of paint. You shuddered to think what’s going to happen and how you would explain it to Dean. The second she put the substance on the shirt; she dunked the plaid shirt in water. Then she wrung it on a little and then held it up like a champion belt at a wrestling tournament.

 Of course the shirt was wet but there was no mistaking that the stain was in fact gone.

 “That’s right. One, two and gone. No matter the stain, Tricks-O-Matic will get it out. Tough on stains, gentle on your skin. So next time you’re leaving for a hunt remember Tricks-O-Matic. It really does the trick.”

You chuckled at that. Ridiculous the levels you boyfriend would go to, to entertain you but you had to admit, it was working. The commercial was clever and he did get out those monster guts for you that you were sure the washer never would. Dean would be quite impressed with you.

 The catch-phrase was pretty awesome. Tricks-O-Matic indeed.

The TV went blank again, white noise coming out of it for only a few seconds until a soap opera come on. The title flashed across the screen, “Angelic Lover.” Oh how very subtle right? That was your boyfriend, the archangel of subtle.

 A woman ran into the screen, her eyes puffy as if she was crying. “Luke?”

 A man that looked just as tall as Sam came onto the screen. “You should be with the angel,” he said in a gravely voice.

 “What? “You’re supposed to talk me out of it.” The woman said in a hitch-pitched and rather nervous tone. “You’re supposed to make me marry you. That’s what our parents want. You’ve lusted after me for years, now desperate to claim me as yours but you will never have me.”

 “How can you be sure I’m Luke?” the man asked with a quirked eyebrow smiling at her.

 “Who are you then?” the woman asked apprehensively as she slowly stepped away from him.

“Can you not recognize the man you love? I am your angel, my darling,” the man confirmed, his arms outstretched.

“But you -.”

“Have the face of your enemy, I know. I got a face transplant to break into the mansion and get past the guards but it is I, my love. I killed your enemy. He is no more.”

The man took off his face revealing a completely different man. The studio audience went wild. As did the woman. She fainted into his arms, waking up a minute later. He looked down at her adoringly.

“It is you,” she said in a soft voice.

“It is me,” he repeated.

She looked at him again, growing nervous. It couldn’t be. She slowly stepped away from the man. “No. That’s not possible. We can’t be together. I’m a human. You can’t possibly love me.”

“But I do.”

“You do?” she asked incredulously.

“I do,” he confirmed.

“But what of my friends?” Gasp. “They…They…will not let us be happy. My father will never rest until you are dead. You must leave. We can never be together. We’re from two different worlds. We don’t belong together.”

“But we could.”

“Could we? Could we really?”

“Yes.” The man then grabbed the woman and kissed her passionately on the lips. She swooned and her legs fell out from under her before she fainted again into his arms.

You rolled your eyes. “A tad dramatic, no?”

The TV went blank again and then what looked like men playing a game of basketball outside came into focus. One of the players stopped playing and stepped up to the camera. The rest of the players were fuzzy and out of focus.

 “Dramatic is better than being bored and you know what else is better than being bored? Taking twice daily Baldur. It cures the boredom right up so I can get back to doing what I love doing like playing ball.”

The commercial faded out as the men played basketball in the background. A list of side effects came onto the screen. Some caught your attention such as; intensive farting, love of anchovies, need for kinky sex, need for the Trickster, a deep yen to prank others, acid reflux, vomiting negativity, becoming more awesome, so awesome in fact that you can’t hang out with people wearing plaid. That had you laughing. You were sure who it was now.

You glanced at the washer. Time to add more soap. The TV went blank as you put more soap in. You had to admit that this was making you happy and a lot less bored. You loved being with Gabriel and was hoping he would be able to visit you when the boys were away. The silence was deafening and you missed his assortment of entertainment. Sure enough, the second you sat back down, the TV came on again.

A black and white program came on called, “Tricked,” but the actors looked like the same ones that were on the TV show “Bewitched.”

“My friends will be here soon. No powers okay. You promised.”

“Of course I’ll be on my best behavior,” the man stated holding his hands up.

“Why don’t I believe that?” she said in a grumpy tone.

Smirking he replied, “I don’t know. I have an incredibly believable face.”

“Mmm hmmm.” The woman opened the door and she found two dogs on the doorstep.

“Your friends weren’t already dogs? Maybe they never showed and they sent dogs instead? Strays?”

 The woman turned around and glared at him. He simply shrugged. “It beats them wearing plaid all the time. This is a new look for them and besides, they always ruin my fun and all I want is to-“

The screen went blank again. Talk about a cliffhanger.

An announcer came on waving at a studio audience that was clapping wildly. “Welcome to Dance Wars: Laundromat. We have Y/N and Gabriel, returning champions. Can they keep the throne? You’ll have to tune in and watch.”

 You looked at the TV confused. You felt a shift in the air behind you and then what felt like a gentle kiss placed on the back of your neck. You jumped and he laughed a warm laugh. His breath fanned over the back of your neck.

“Did you really not guess it was me? I mean I thought I was being pretty obvious. I’m kind of offended. Who else would dedicate all this time to making you smile? Fenrir and Baldur? Hello? Trickster? Loki myth.”

You smirked. “I knew it was you from the beginning. From those clues.”

“Aren’t you clever cupcake?” Gabriel grabbed you around the waist, rutting against you, pressing his hard cock against your ass. “How am I doing about making your day better? I thought I heard laughter and I definitely saw smiles.”

“You’re doing a wonderful job as always.”

Gabriel twirled you around and brought you back into his waiting arms and then out of nowhere swing music appeared and you danced around the laundromat.

 A customer tried to come in to wash their clothes and saw you both dancing. He tried the door but it was locked. You gave Gabriel a look.

 “This is our time,” he pleaded with you.

 You rolled your eyes. “We have all day; and if you’re free, all week. Let the poor man wash his clothes?”

 Gabriel sulked.

 On the next twirl, you spun away from him, unlocking the door and spinning back into his arms. Gabriel’s frown only intensified. He dipped you and gently ran his hand down your face to your collarbone. You let out a shaky breath at the tender touch. He righted you and grabbed you closer to him as he kissed you passionately. You chose to ignore the customer who looked at you both uncomfortably.

“Why didn’t you call for me?” Gabriel implored.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling silly. You should have called. “You’re an angel. One that’s trying to keep a low radar and you have angel stuff to do that is definitely more important than preventing a human from being bored.”

“No. Okay yes. I am trying to hideout. Dear old Dad and Luci need to think I’m dead. I plan on staying out of the whole epic battle. And yeah there may be some angel tasks and just desserts I have to attend to from time to time, but you and only you are the most important thing to me sweet cheeks. No angel business is more important than the love of my life. Anytime you want me, please let me know. If I could, I would never let you go. But I know you love the Winchesters and you hunt. I know but I would want to be with you every second, if I could. And hello Trickster here: curing boredom is kinda my speciality. “

“Can you forgive me?”

“Always.”

The random dude in the laundromat was eyeing you two weirdly. Did he hear your conversation or did he just see the massive amounts of PDA? Whatever the reason, you pushed on Gabriel’s chest to release you from his arms. He disconnected with you slowly after a lingering glance. You slowly took out mountain of clothes from all the washers. Gabriel proceeded to grumble behind you.

Gabriel whispered into your ear, “That guy there will never know. He’s not even watching us right now. Why can’t I just snap my-.”

“He’s giving us side-eye. He is most definitely still watching us. Why not show him you have magical abilities? Why could possibly go wrong?”

“I’m sensing sarcasm in your tone.”

You smirked back at your boyfriend. “Hey, I have an idea - why don’t you just turn him into a dog?”

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

 You shook your head at your boyfriend and slowly left the laundromat. Gabriel happily held open the door for you. The second that you were clear, no one on the road and the man from the laundromat couldn’t see you, Gabriel snapped his fingers and you got back to the bunker with all the clothes there, clean, dry and in everyone’s respective drawers. You looked down to see the both of you naked.

“I might have another idea on what to do to cure boredom.” Gabriel said in a playful tone

“Do you now?” you asked in a seductive tone.

“How long are the boys away?”

“A week.”

Gabriel’s smile was huge. “We could fit in a lot in a week.”

“Well, what are you waiting for tiger? Come get your girl.” He pounced on you like a lion and you squealed and giggled when he tackled you to the bed. A week with Gabe never sounded better.

Tagging

Forevers @purgatoan @killerofthesouth @charliebradbury1104 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @chelsea072498 @everyday-supernatural-af @kalliravenne @toogardenenthusiast @winchesterprincessbride @one-shots-supernatural @take-me-tonirvana @hellsmother @ellen-reincarnated1967 @faegal04 @deals-with-demons @mamaredd123 @atc74 @hamartiamacguffin @donnaintx @love-kittykat21 @impala-dreamer @evansrogerskitten @lucifer-in-leather @hiswickedkitty @riversong-sam @rosie-winchester

Gabe peeps  @manawhaat, @bkwrm523, @whispersandwhiskerburn, @deathtonormalcy56, @for-the-love-of-dean, @jelly-beans-and-gstrings, @deansleather, @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname, @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @mrswhozeewhatsis, @ilovedean-spn2, @wi-deangirl77, @deanwinchesterforpromqueen, @fandommaniacx, @revwinchester, @oldfashioncdvillain, @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell, @castieltrash1, @mysaintsasinner, @bohowitch, @vintagevalentinexx, @thinkwritexpress-official @deals-with-demons, @bowtiesandapplepie, @itsemmyb, @crzcorgi, @deerlululucy, @mrsjohnsmith, @growleytria, @sleep-silent-angel @walkingencyclopediaoffandom, @thegleegeneration, @babypieandwhiskey @supermoonpanda, @sis-tafics, @kittenofdoomage, @lilyoflothlorien, @ferferelli, @ackleslaugh, @curliesallovertheplace, @trenchcoats-and-bees, @katnharper, @winchester-princess @notnaturalanahi, @skybinx-blog, @thebunkerismyhome, @feelmyroarrrr, @tia58, @winchesterswoonathon, @castiels-forbidden-angel, @jotink78 @howmanytuesdaysdidyouhave, @wayward-mirage, @hexparker, @alangel1895

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