paradise 💐

band!ellie headcanons and smau

sinopse: ellie williams is the lead singer in a band (+some texts with her). i lost the resquest im so sorry!

cw: nsfw after the texts with warning! swearing, ellie's a changed woman after you, reader works in a record store and ellie's a simp.

part 2

✮ is obviously in a band with dina and jesse.

✮ cat was in the band when they started too, but they had massive drama when she and ellie broke up. (they're on good terms now tho! trust)

✮ they had a phase where they acted like they were both dating dina...(they were in a love triangle).

✮ got matching flash tattoos on their very first serious show.

✮ is kind of a fuckgirl and looooves her fans iykwim.

“just until i find the wife.” that's her lame excuse.

✮ the type of girl to have groupies and sign their tits.

✮ mets you at the fucking record store where you work.

"is that you?" you gather the courage to ask about what she was buying and she smiles proudly.

"it's our debut album."

"oh! congrats." you sigh before lifting your head to continue.

"i bought one this morning when they came in, thought it looked cool." and she has to ask for your number because why the hell did that make her heart melt.

✮ you initiate your first kiss after your lunch date and she just looks like she's never kissed before (:o)… awh she was NOT ready.

✮ 3 dates in and she's inviting you to a local show, having you in the front line. eye contact goes insane...

✮ you notice the girls drooling over her and tbh you feel a bit insecure.

✮ they bite their tongue when ellie leans over to you at the edge of the stage, singing to you, fingers on your chin.

✮ but soon enough she's on tour, she's texting you less and you try to move on.

✮ and you're soooo wrong for that because she's just busy and thinking about you.

✮ always talking about you to dina and jesse.

“i need to get back to my girl.” she's so delusional too.

✮ she's instantly only focused on you, weirdly adding your name in every cover of romantic songs they do at rehearsal.

✮ the first thing she does when she's back is run to the record store.

“how was the tour?” you asked, she's leaning on the counter and you take a step back.

“i missed you.” and you're not even thinking anymore.

✮ she wastes no time asking you to be her girlfriend after you cuss her out because she was late to one of your dates (it's hot asf).

✮ never beating the u-haul lesbian allegations after that.

✮ she's soooo daddy upstage but you know she wants and NEEDS to be babied.

✮ you were so upset she had a show on your birthday, but she called you on stage and serenaded you as if she was justin bieber or sum… flowers and everything. (she sang “one less lonely girl”)

her fr^

✮ when she's out and fans stop her… she's so sweet and attentive but she wouldn't want to be late to see you

“sorry girls, the wife is waiting i have to go.”

texts with band!ellie

nsfw (cw: cunnilingus [e!receiving], strap on sex [r!receiving]. switch!ellie!!!!).

✮ absolutely loves good luck head when you're backstage.

“baby just needs some encouragement, am i right?” you ask softly between open mouthed kisses on her lower stomach and thighs. she nods. “yes… need your tongue.” she grunts, thrusting her hips. you start licking and kissing her slit and she can't help but grind against your tongue until she cums all over it.

✮ loves it when you ride her strap too, but she has to switch out and completely dick you down… with permission after not touching you for so long.

“please let me fuck that pussy.” she knows you're getting tired, since you didn't even slap her hand when she started rubbing your clit. “come on…” she spits down your clit. “tired, babe?” you nod breathlessly grinding on her lap. she fucks up into you “tell me i can fuck you…” but she's already doing it?? “f-fuck me, ellie.” and now she's grining and holding you flat. “damn, this pussy's split open.” as she bottoms that shit deep in you. she will fuck you stupid.

a/n: this is a lot but i enjoyed doing it... and.... my phone's charged!

omg imma abuse this 2k event thing

category: fluff

number: 9

character: aonung

(ps. HAPPY 2K KAY!!!!! I LOVE YOUUUU)

SURPRISE

second 2k event fic for my beautiful moot lex <333

You and Ao’nung had been mated for almost two years. Knowing each other since you were children and constantly spending every moment with each other no one was surprised when you both announced your union.

Even when your souls had already intertwined the two of you still found the need to endlessly be in each other’s company. Whether it was your head resting on his shoulder, laying together in the sand or a large hand resting on your stomach.

You had found out you were pregnant months ago, something Ao’nung was beyond excited for. He already felt blessed to have you beside him every day, to think you were gifting him with a product of your love was something he would be eternally grateful for.

This resulted in him being incredibly protective of you. Constantly looming behind you, his large hands hovering over your body as he was give his signature glare to anyone who dared look your way. (You told him he was just being delusional that no one was looking, but he insisted.)

“Ao’nung I understand that your mate instincts kicked in but I think you may be having more pregnancy hormones than me.” Ao’nung scoffed at you with a smile plastered across his face.

“I am just worried flower, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You waddle like a baby”

“If I remember correctly I have a baby in me. This is your fault.” You faced him with a cheeky grin on your face. He couldn’t even get tired of seeing the way your eyes squinted as your cheeks rose showing your beautiful smile.

“I think we are both at fault actually.” Your mouth dropped in annoyance as he laughed at your expression.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.” You groaned, your feet getting tired from the walking. Ao’nung gave you a encouraging look as he held your hand.

“Why must you torture me. Do you take joy out of me moving like an elder.”

“It is funny…kinda”

“Ao’nung!”

“I am sorry flower, I do not relish in seeing you in pain. But I promise you’ll want to see this.” He dragged your hand as he walked towards the direction of your marui. You were walking slow, feet growing tired as you grumbled complaints to your mate who was pulling you along.

“Ao’nung this better be worth it.”

“It will be, but what’s your threat if it isn’t my tough girl?” He looked back at you with a smirk as you glared at him.

“You don’t want to know. Way too hardcore for your pregnancy hormones.”

“You! You are the pregnant one!” Ao’nung groaned still pulling you along as he mumbled a number of profanities.

“Now show me the surprise! I am bored!”

“Ok close your eyes pretty girl.” He watched you close your eyes, double checking before he guided you to the inside of your marui, a hand securely resting on the small of your back and your stomach.

The light dimmed as you got inside, making your anticipation grow larger.  “Can I please open my eyes now?”

“Eywa, so impatient. But yes open!” You opened and immediately gasped, your hands covering your jaw that had dropped.

There in front of you was a newly decorated section part of your marui. Adorned with carved toys, new woven mats and most impressive was a ground cot that was woven so delicately in the yarn of your favourite colours. He had created small blankets to drape over the cot along with a mobile that hung above it, with little carved ilu’s twirling softly.

“Oh my Eywa. Ao’nung this is beautiful.” You felt yourself tearing up, turning to crash Ao’nung into a tight embrace. He chuckled and rubbed his hand along your back giving you a soft peck to the head.

“Do not cry flower. If you cry, I’ll cry and that won’t be fun for anyone. You know I’m not a pretty crier.” Ao’nung looked at his work proudly, a sense of pride growing his chest, just like his soon to be growing family. “Tsireya helped me with the weaving. But I started carving the toys as soon as I heard you were pregnant. I guess I got a tiny bit carried away.”

“Thankyou so much my love. I love this so much. I love you so much.” You hugged him tighter before looking up to give him a tender kiss. The happy tears brimming your eyes as Ao’nung caressed your face softly.

“Do you think our child will love it as much as you do?” You nodded quickly.

“Of course they would. How could they not? I can’t wait to see our child grow up with your love.”

“Our love flower. Our love.”

reblogs super duper appreciated my lovelies have a great day/night !! <3

I tried to tag the commenter but the blog doesn't show up, so I can't. TW: this post does contain what could be interpreted as reality checking and although I don't mean any harm, this could potentially be triggering!

But anyway, this requieres a longer answer - I'm gonna give them the benefit of the doubt and just assume they just don't know better, which is fine, we're all here to learn. So please don't read an attack into this! I also do not experience delusions myself and certaimly don't want to speak over those who do. I am doing my best to be respectful and not accidentally spread misinformation, but if I mess up, please let me know!

Firstly, "delusion" is not a bad word. a delusion isn't "somethign stupid someone believes in, what the fuck is wromg with them", it's a (symptom of) a serious mental illness, often seen in schizophrenia and psychosis. it's an unshakable belief that contradicts Reality (= in this post, Reality with a capital R refers to the reality that is generally shared by all people and can be seen and experinced by everyone - aside from those who may have delusions). "touching grass" won't do anything to help that, it is reality for them and absolutely nothing and nobody can change that. at worst, telling them they're wrong and should just "touch grass" will make them suffer even more.

so, yes, you could say that all p-shifters experince delusions, because nobody but them can see their transformations. at least, there hasn't been any proof at all until today and their beliefs absolutely clash with science and Reality. but here's the thing: there is a condition called clinical lycanthropy or clinical zoanthropy, which describes exactly the experience of believing you can, have turned or will turn into an animal. there are quite a few of them here on tumblr, having their own community which also often kinda overlaps with alterhuman spaces. those people are not p-shifters! p-shifter is not a medical term or anything, instead it is a term that has evolved here on the internet and has a history of cult-like behaviour, lots of manipulation, malicious people, etc. the "original" p-shifters also oftentimes had a lot of ableistic opinions, openly shitting on clinical zoanthropes, using delusional as an insult, etc. the term p-shifter was never ever meant to describe the experience of clinical zoanthropy. it was invented to create the feeling of belonging to an elite group, to put yourself over others. it's even questionable if the majority of p-shifters actually believes they could transform or if they just wanted power over others, promising them to teach them how to turn, knowing all to well it can't work.

nowadays, some clinical zoanthropes try to "reclaim" the term p-shifter - which is a problem, because you can't just take a term that was NEVER meant to describe your experinces and also never used as a slur against you. a different example in alterhuman context would e the word kinnie - originally made by trolls and to shit on otherkin, it always directly addressed otherkin, even if in a deregatory way. it was meant to be used for otherkin. p-shifter was never meant to be used for delusional people. p-shifter will always have its ties to manipulation and cults, it will always be a harmful term.

I don't and will never allow people who call themselves p-shifters on my blog, because of the terms roots.

there is nothing wrong with truly believing you can transforn into an animal, even tho it contrdicts Reality. there is absolutely nothing wrong with being delusional (as in, it doesn't make you a bad person, of course it almost always comes with suffering). there however IS something wrong with proudly using a term that was NEVER meant for you, never described your experiences and instead has a history of manipulation and online-cults. if you proudly call yourself p-shifter and just basically decide to ignore that history, I don't trust you.

THIS is what my post was about, not about the fact that some people are delusional.

title -> el tonto genre -> angst to fluff plot -> remembering what your ex did to you didn't affect you like it used to when someone else took his place and showed you true love. pair -> jeongin x gn!reader warnings -> seungmin being a seungmeanie + cursing + mentioned cheating words -> 1306 lowercase intended

el tonto que me dejaste pero no estoy triste salgo de noche hasta tarde y tú solo quieres saber como pude borrarte yo sé que me viste el gucci que me regalaste puesto pa' salir con él

el tonto / lola indigo & quevedo

"so now you're with my best friend? very classy of you (y/n)".

i heard behind my back when i was leaving and i just sighed. it was as if i was hit with a wave of flashbacks, him saying the nastiest things possible to me, him trying his best to break it down to me that he found somebody new, him in a very subtle way trying to put the blame on me for not being enough & finally him deciding to end things with me because i am way too complicated for his liking.

i spent months in my bed, tears running down my face as i tried to think of everything i did wrong (or what i thought i did wrong at the time). looking for the mistakes that could have been, looking for a way to fix things, to let him know that i am not all that he's thinking. i didn't get out of my house, i tried to compose myself and still do my daily tasks: eat, work, hang out with friends, visit family but i wasn't the same inside and you could tell by looking at me outside. the worst part was probably the fact that my friend group and his collided, i always tried to chill with one friend at a time but sometimes i would see his crew looking back at me like i was a piece of trash. all except for one.

"it's none of your business who i'm seeing, seungmin." i said and just smiled bitterly as i did not want to see him right now. but he kept on following me and shaking his head like he needed an answer from me when there was nothing to say. "okay what is it? just say it and we can get it over with." i said to him and this time i looked at him in the eye. 

it's been so long since i saw him and it felt so weird, so distant and so unfamiliar. it was as if he never meant anything to me when months ago i was bawling my eyes out over him being with a new guy/girl. turns out that relationship ended as soon as it started and i wonder why? that's when the turning point started and i started realizing maybe it wasn't me all along who was the problem.

"what makes you think you can just leech onto jeongin like that? he's gonna realize who you truly are, you know that right?" and i couldn't help but snort like what was he even saying? sounding like a cartoon villain. it was my turn to shake my head and respond to him.

"who i truly am? oh right complicated, clingy, too much for you and guess what? he loves those things about me," i said proudly since i learned to embrace my flaws but also realize that they're not really bad things. so what i want cuddles, i want attention and love to go on dates? he provides all of that while i also understand that we sometimes need space from one & another, that his work isn't the most normal out there and that he isn't always available. i tried my best to be there for him like he was there for me, that makes me a bad person? jesus, how delusional is he? starting to think about what i saw in him in the first place. "also why do you care so much? yes he's your friend but you know at the end of the day all the things you said about me were bullshit, all the accusations and the insults are so immature on your part and he's happy with me, let him be happy with me seungmin".

he was clearly shocked that i was speaking to him this way, he really thought i couldn't stand up for myself and my relationship. it's like i could hear his thoughts right now, calling me awful things one after the other. i decided it was my cue to leave as i grabbed my things again and tried to walk away.

"didn't i gift you that?" he asked, looking at my outfit. and fuck, i forgot really that the shirt i was wearing was one of his gifts. i was hoping that it wouldn't be a big deal.

"yes and they're wearing it because they look amazing in it." it was as if he was a dream come true, jeongin appeared right beside me as he grabbed my hand. i just smiled and blushed like i was in high school all over again as i looked at him, he always brought the butterflies to my stomach, the blush to my cheeks and i fell in love with him all over again as i saw him. "hyung i know that you're trying to protect me and that this might be weird but i'm not a kid anymore and i made my decision to date (y/n) because i'm in love with them".

silence fell.

for seungmin because jeongin never spoke back to him, sometimes being too shy to do so and sometimes out of respect since he was one year older than him. for jeongin because he couldn't believe he just did that, it wasn't disrespectful but it was kind of surprising for him to do something like this. for me it was...

"you're in love with me?" i asked, my voice getting smaller as i was in disbelief. 

"of course i am darling." he said as if it was the most normal thing out there and i was about to kiss him but then i remembered, yeah we're standing in front of my ex boyfriend. "just please hyung, stay out of my relationship and tell the others the truth, i'm tired of everyone looking at (y/n) like that when they didn't do anything wrong." as if he wasn't perfect enough, he knew exactly what to say and at what time.

seungmin nodded finally and decided to back off from me.

"i'm sorry (y/n), i'm happy that you found someone and if it's innie, i'll understand," he said and before he left, one last thing was still on his mind. "you guys do look good together, i hope you find happiness like you deserve."

i just nodded and waved as he left, i couldn't even fake a smile because of how much it still hurt deep down inside. but in reality now, on the outside you could see me glow like something new in me was sparkling. maybe it was the lesson that i was taught, the things that were slowly progressing how i liked or maybe it just was finding him. like i said earlier, innie was the only one who never looked at me that way. he wasn't close to me when i dated seungmin but when we broke up, it was as if something pulled him to me, to protect me and to be there for me. as much as i wanted to do things my way, all alone and not receive any help, i could not say that it was all my effort. jeongin showed so much love and care for me, he listened to me and didn't know what to say most of the time but he was there to hold on my worst moments and that's all i could ask for.

"what are you thinking about love?" he said and i looked at him but then quickly closed my eyes and gave him a sweet kiss. his hands traveled to my waist as he brought me closer to him. not wanting it to end but i couldn't help but smile and when i saw his smile glowing, it was enough to make me feel like home.

"you, always thinking about you innie..."

Police!Soap and Killer!Ghost PT2

When Soap wakes up, the first thing he notices was his skull-splitting headache. He groans and tries to reach for his head, only to find out he couldn’t. Someone had restrained Soap to a metal chair, Soap tries to wiggle out but there was no use. Whoever tied the knots wasn’t planning for Soap to get out of it- it was on securely.

“Who the fuck-“ Soap grumbles to himself quietly.

Luckily for the officer, he didn’t have to wait long to find out who was behind the restraints. That mask- the dark attire- it was The Ghost.

Soap suppresses a scream and turns to face the intimidating individual. “What the fuck do you want with me?” Soap says, hoping to sound as demanding as he was hoping to sound like.

The Ghost just stared back at Soap, unwavering.

“You’re The Ghost, right…? Or am I being delusional.” Soap chatters nervously, hoping to not get a knife into the stomach or something like that.

The Ghost scoffs, “Drop the grand name. Hearing people add “the” to your nickname gets annoying overtime.”

Ghost’s voice definitely wasn’t what Soap expected. A deep baritone. Soap shakes his head, getting rid of the wooziness. Soap looks around the room he was held in. It was small, the light on the ceiling was trying it’s best to stay on, flickering occasionally. The walls were pretty shoddy, Soap guessed this was probably an abandoned building of some sort.

“So.. can I like.. go home now..?” Soap suddenly says.

“What do you think the answer is?”

“..yes…?” Soap squeaks hopefully.

“No.” Ghost narrows his eyes.

“Oh. Are you gonna kill me?”

“Whats with the questions, officer?”

“I dunno. Wait- how do you know Im a officer?”

“Your uniform is really saying something here, McTavish.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you always this stupid?”

“Honestly I have no idea. Can I go now?”

“What did I say?”

“The fuck are you gonna even do with me here anyway-“

“Good question.” Ghost suddenly pauses, “I.. acted on impulse. I actually don’t know what I’ll do with you now that I brought you here.”

“Uh.. yes. So you can let me go right?”

“How about torture?”

“No thanks. I’d rather eat dinner.”

“Are you asking me to take you out to dinner..-“

“No? Yes? I have no idea, I’m hungry though.”

“You’re strange.”

“I’m the strange one? You literally prowl around in the dark wearing a skull mask, Im pretty sure you’re the strangest out of the both of us. It’s like you’re a batman ripoff or something.”

“Bold words for someone within stabbing range.” Ghost warns.

Soap only shrugs, “I say a lot of bold things, I also drive people up a wall apparently with my chatter.”

“That you do.” Ghost nods in agreement, “Do you know the police rotation schedule for patrols?” Ghost asks.

“And.. why would I tell you exactly?”

“Do you value your own life?”

“Yes, or else grandma is gonna tear me to pieces when I reach heaven.” Soap jokes.

“You.. sound like you have a nice family.”

“I do- for the most part.” Soap says proudly.

Ghost looks away for a moment before looking back at Soap. It made Soap wonder about Ghost, weirdly. But Soap doesn’t get the chance to ask about Ghost’s family.

“Tell me the rotation schedule.” Ghost demands.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“What if I dont.”

“Are you asking to die?”

“Uh- no? I just.. cant really remember from the top of my head..” Soap tries his best to recall what the schedule was like.

“Bloody hell- how the fuck did you even become a police if you cant even remember the most basic things-“ Ghost asks, exasperated.

“I have no idea. Luck I guess?” Soap blinks.

Suddenly, luck reminded Soap- Wait, oh. I haven’t even started to come up with a epic escape plan yet.

Ghost narrows his eyes, “What’re you thinking about.” He demands.

“Mind’s empty.” Soap quickly says.

“Well that empty mind of yours better start thinking. I’m very close to disposing you.” Ghost hisses.

“I can’t write it down anyway, you tied me up.” Soap complains.

“You think Im stupid enough to untie you?” Ghost says flatly, “Yes, I untie you and then you try to escape and I’ll have no choice but to stab you then.”

“Oh so you don’t want to kill me-“ Soap sighs with relief.

“What- no.” Ghost’s voice seems to slightly falter, “Not that.”

“Mhm, ok.” Soap says. He tries the ropes again despite knowing its futile. Ghost only gives him a strange face. That wasn’t going to stop Soap though, he keeps going. It hurt but eventually he’d get somewhere, right?

“What’re you doing-“ Ghost asks.

Soap ignores him and keeps going, eventually wrists becoming bloody. If he could get his hand out everything else would come apart easier.. or Ghost kills him. But hey, Ghost hasn’t killed him yet anyway.

Ghost on the other hand think’s Soap went absolutely mental. Normally Ghost would just let the victim suffer, but for some reason he tries to stop Soap.

“You’ll only end up hurting yourself.” Ghost states.

Soap ignores Ghost.

“Stop.” Ghost tries again, this time finding himself reaching a hand out. He quickly stops.

Soap looks up at him. A uncharacteristic “Why do you care?” Throws Ghost off guard. And it stung a tad more than it should.

Ghost had many victims in the past who were bold enough to throw at least a few insults around- he felt nothing. Yet with Soap- Ghost has observed him from afar before. A very kind soul indeed, but past other kind people didn’t stop Ghost from plunging a knife right into their rib cage, so why Soap? The fuck was this kind of concern boiling up from deep inside the hollow depths of his body?

Ghost’s hands act on its own without Ghost’s consent, grabbing Soap’s shoulder, making those beautiful bright blue eyes look up at him. Beautiful..? Huh. Never noticed before. Ghost respected people who take action and take it seriously, this kind of focus from someone as idiotic as Soap really threw him off- it made him wonder what other versions of that man he’s never known before.

“What?” Was Soap’s reply.

Ghost finds himself cutting the ropes for Soap, only when he untied them did he realize what he did. Soap stood there for a moment, eyes wide in shock before quickly taking a step back.

Ghost takes a step forward earning a punch to the face, but it was obvious Soap was holding back. Playing the defensive. Soap takes off running, running to anywhere. But after trying a few locked doors and meeting a few dead ends with Ghost not far behind, he opens the window at the end of a hallway.

Ghost immediately stops a few good feet away, “Idiot- this is the third fucking floor!” he blurts out, because if Soap jumps, he’s surely going to crack every single one of his bones probably. Ok. Maybe not. But still.

Soap only spares Ghost one glance before climbing out of the window. Ghost quickly scrambles after Soap but finds Soap slowly scaling the side building. Working his way to the pipe on the opposite end of where the window was, fearlessly, never once glancing down or pausing. Ghost only watches in awe as Soap makes it to the pipe, hanging on for dear life as he tries to slowly descended it, his uniform all dirtied up. That was the kind of bravery Ghost respected.

He could only watch as Soap stumbles and staggers onto the street and away from the building.

A part of Ghost know this meant he’ll get in trouble if he lets a victim get away, let alone a officer- but a part of him just wants to watch Soap go. So he watches, he watches Soap sprint down the street..

..round that corner…

..and duck out of sight. Ghost sighs, catching himself mid-sigh. The fuck was wrong with him? He’d have to get Soap back later he thought. And he’s more excited to see Soap again than he should.

( END OF PT2 ) (Just wanted to write some silly conversation between the two dont mind me 🗿)

(Personally I didnt like this one much. It feels too rushed. Didnt check for typos either yayy ignore them lmfao. 💀)

https://www.tumblr.com/ihearyou-jikook/717675816900853760/hi-lovely-im-an-avid-jikook-supporter-and-i-will?source=share

Hi, it's the same anon. First of all, thank you for being so polite, kind and understanding as to answer a topic that probably gets tiring and repetitive, especially when Taekookers love to bring it up, especially now that Taennie is out.

You are right about that: my favorite jikook blogs (besides you) have received asks from bitter Taekookers, telling them that they hope Jungkook will also appear with a woman soon, and we'll all be crying too. "Just you wait", one of them said.

Funny how they were setting themselves up for failure and still find a way to hate on us.

In my opinion, that behavior tells me one thing: they do not care or see Jungkook as a human being. They only liked him because of their delusional ship, and now that Taehyung is out and proudly about with his girlfriend, they change the narrative and Jungkook is suddenly straight once again.

(IImo, he's queer. I could be wrong, of course, but I have yet to see Jungkook looking interested in a woman. I've seen a few videos of people claiming he's looking at girls, and it's never as deep as they make it sound. He can't even mindlessly glance at a girl without people being like oh he's in love with her. If that's how it is then I'm in love with half of the planet, because sometimes I glance at people and I'm not even thinking anything tbh.

I've noticed that some fans often want to force this fuckboy image on him (too much Wattpad), when he's actually so, so sweet and looks like he would be so dedicated and infatuated to whoever he falls in love with (jimin, imo)).

And yes, about Jungkook covering the tattoos Mijoo did for him, I also heard that. He covered a lot of tattoos with Polyc, and they look a lot better now tbh. I don't know why, but I don't feel good vibes from her. I think her and her staff used Jungkook. I don't know if she really had a boyfriend? People say she said she did/does, while denying the rumors, but personally I have never seen it. But a lot of people say the same thing, so it's probably true.

Anyway, I miss Jikook! Manifesting a Jikook live over here 🥺🥺🥺

Thank you again!!!!! Your answer was great.

Anon, you are sweet 💜💛💜

Thank you for sending your ask! I love when we can have conversations like this 😁 && I'm shy about you mentioning fav Jikook blogs, hehe. 😳😳😳

Yup, I agree the things you've said. You're right about Tkkrs. They are scrambling so hard right now because they safeguarded themselves from Taennie for too long and they are self-destructing. They absolutely used JK for their ship.

Meanwhile, we're over here like...

I am with you, I would love to see a Jikook live 😳 but you know that they can't help themselves and act up when they're together 🤣🤣🤣

You my friend, get a koala Mimi

Cr. Moonlit night

&& a Kookie manhandling a Mimi

Cr. Here

The Artist and His Majesty| 18+

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓎 0 / 5 | fantasy au. 

chapter i , chapter ii

pairings: yandere! emperor! shigaraki x female! reader.

warnings: [series] dubcon, exhibitionism, size difference, degradation, masturbation, bondage, reader is also kind of delusional, death, violence (not on reader). (there are more but i can’t think right now.]

↪ for chapter 0: none !!

summary: you come to the big city in hopes of starting your career as an artist but things take a shocking turn when you’re recruited as the court painter for the royal palace.

↪ for chapter 0: a strange man approaches you, offering to buy your painting to which you oblige. little do you know that it kicks of a series of unfortunate events ending with you being trapped in shigaraki tomura’s clutches forever.

wordcount. 

a/n: finally !! i started this series. high-key inspired by these two dresses in my wardrobe and @ana-list‘s this  drawing ! seriously it’s literally everything. also thank you once again for proof reading this @the-grimm-writer ! 

taglist: @shigaraki-is-my-master, @deathmemeiverse, @n4dhii, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @mstssister, @nereida19, @prince-zukohere [dm to be added/ removed.]

“That’s a beautiful painting,” a rough, scruffy voice calls out, jerking you away from your daydreams. Your grip around the color canvas resting in your arms tightens as you glance behind your shoulder to see a well-built man standing right behind you. He’s tall and a lot older than you, he has short grey hair which falls right before his eyebrows along beautiful, matching grey eyes. A cigar hangs lazily from his lips as he occasionally huffs on it, blowing clouds of smoke out his mouth. He’s dressed in expensive robes, a choice of style only people better off could afford. You can’t help exachaning a covetous glance between his expensive suit and your sloppy, knee-length, light green dress. “Thank you.” you murmur shoving him an appreciative look, hoping he’d leave you alone. When you come to the city to complete your studies in art, you mother, father, family and friends had warned you about men like these. Rich, snobby men who liked to lure in young, naive girls. Whispering praises of how they are the most unique on the planet so they pull their guard down form them to take advantage of the helpless beings. 

“Can I take a better look? It’s the Emperor, is it not? Your painting. ” You hesitate before turning back to him. Not a lot of people had seen the King to be. He lived humbly in his castle, trying his best to not indulge in the affairs of the common people. “ Yes,” you hold up the slightly small canvas (courtesy of you being broke the entire week and not being able to save up to buy a bigger canvas). To even get an idea of Shigaraki Tomura, you had to go through many people. Not a lot of people had seen his face, he had always kept it hidden under a mask. No one knew why he did so but the many conspiracy throes suggested it was something to do with his personal grief.

 You had heard many stories about him. Some made him look like a spoiled brat with a demeaning, ignorant personality who didn’t care for others and as the rumors said: self destructive habits which lead him to tear the skin of his own neck down whenever he got anxious or frustrated. 

Others portrayed him as a strong, confident man and a reliable leader who cared for his comrades. You did not know which one of the two personas brought him your attention but you couldn’t complain. Tomura had caught you under a spell, and despite never meeting him (and knowing full well you never would), you were still ready to sacrifice your life for him. He was your King even before he had taken his crown, to you he looked like a shining bright light ready to enlighten you. To you, he was a god. And as years passed by, he grew from a caterpillar into a cocoon which was ready to burst open as a butterfly into the beautiful, mysterious world. And it was happening today, Prince Tomura Shigaraki’s Coronation ceremony. After the passing of All For One, it was his turn to take the crown and fulfill his duty as the ruler of the nation

 The entire city was busy, bustling with people. Families, friends and everyone in between gathered around the huge castle walls as they waited for the ceremony to begin. They waited patiently, filled with excitement and joy as they waited to catch a glimpse of the new great King. You were among them. You had come down to the centre of the city with your friends, waiting alongside many to catch a glimpse of the new ruler. The painting which nestled in your hand was something you were hoping to sell today, to a shop or anyone who wants to have it. It was a beautiful painting which had taken you several days to complete, and dare you say it, you were quite proud of it. From all the things you had heard about Tomura, you had managed to sketch him decently. Long white, wavy hair reaching till his shoulder, skin white as snow. He sat proudly on his throne wearing a cape with his vermillion eyes peering through your soul. His face was scarcely detailed as you did not have much idea about it but he still looked ethereal. With little scars running both his eyes and a comparatively larger one on his right. Chapped lips with even more scars running over them wildly, he was not conventionally attractive. No one would call him a pretty boy yet there was something more, something alluring which attracted  you to him. His beauty was rare, not in the grasp of many but if it was grasped and held close to the heart, it was hard to let go off. And you found him attractive, very attractive. 

The man took a good look at your painting, examining it carefully and for a second you really thought he had seen the mysterious Prince. “It’s quite similar to him,” he sends you a friendly grin and you notice a tooth from his front missing, leaving an uncomfortable gap. “Have you seen him before?” he asked and you shake your head, no. He gives you an amused expression, “I must say, you are very talented, miss…?” you complete your name with a nervous smile. “And you are?” you ask. 

You realised that you were getting a little too comfortable with the stranger and it could be a really bad decision but you can’t help but give him the benefit of the doubt as he behaves like a gentleman you can find yourself to trust. “Kagero Okuta but I like to go by Giran,” he says with a lop-sided grin. Giran, you’ve heard the name before but cannot recall where and how. It sounds so familiar but you just can’t grasp it, he looked wealthy so you assumed he was a Noble and that made you even more curious as to why he was speaking to you.

 “What are you planning to do with that painting?” he asks, diving a closer look and admiring its features. “I must say, you’ve got it quite accurate but,” you stiffen, your hands growing cold as your heartbeat picks up. You realized your painting must have some complications, drawing a man you had never seen before purely out of your interpretation was a hard and a bold task to do. But to have someone who had actually seen the King for himself pinpoint your mistakes sent a rush of anxiety through your veins.

 “He’s not that bony.” He completes and you gulp nervously, looking down at your painting in disappointment. Your eyes are filled with disappointment,  all of the time and effort you spent making the piece all for it go in vain just because you missed a small detail. Giran notices your remorse and speaks up, “But that’s quite alright. He looked just like that until a while ago,” he hadn’t meant to offend or hurt you. He still believed your painting was the most beautiful thing he had seen all day.

 “What do you mean?” you ponder, giving him a perplexed look. He leans  in closer to you as if to tell a secret, “let’s say the King has been working out behind closed doors.” you blink in confusion. It was a strange thing to say, exactly how well did this man know the Emperor? Who was it that you were talking? 

“Who are you?” you can’t help but question, bewildered by such a character. Giran says nothing. He just stares at you with his lips curled into a snappy smirk, holding his cigar between his lips. He was not going to tell you anything. Without wasting time, he quickly changes the topic. “What are you going to do with that painting?” he repeats, his voice growing impatient.

 “I am planning to sell it,” you feel a bit taken back. The friendly aura which had Giran had now disappeared for a reason you could not conclude. “Sell it? To whom?” the intruding nature of his tone starts to make you uncomfortable, there’s nothing more you want to do other than get far away from him. Yet you still find yourself answering him, “To anyone who wants it.” he hums at your response, his eyes holding a mocking glint. “Wouldn’t you like to give it to the Emperor himself?” you frown, was he mocking you? 

“That’s well...impossible.” you reply, stretching your neck awkwardly. “To you, maybe.” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, this man was really testing your patience. A part of you tells you to ignore him and walk away but as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bag of coins worth much more than you could ever earn in a month, he has you hooked yet again. 

“Hey, let me buy that painting, would yer’?” 

.

..

..

“What is the problem now?” Giran takes a seat around the round table. It was late after the Coronation ceremony and the Royal palace was already facing problems. Giran was disappointed but definitely not surprised. After all, he was their personal problem solver and broker. “It’s not that big of a deal.” A curt and hard reply cut him off.

 “It actually is, Shigaraki Tomura.” a voice speaks, coming from a man dressed in a black suit with a long, flowy robe covering his entire body. He stands taller than the other two men in the as his head is replaced with a wisp of smoke. He was none other than the trusted and talented magician of the Royal family. With eccentric features and an ability to wield strange magic, nobody knew where he came from. There were many rumors about him; that he was once a normal, handsome man cursed by a witch that turned him into a hideous monster or he simply was a ghost. “What is it, Kurogiri?” Giran rephrases his question, directing it to the other man. “We need a new painter,-” 

“Servant.” Shigaraki corrected. He stood in front of the giant windows glancing over his city as his men talked about hiring a new painter for the castle. He couldn’t care less about such tedious tasks, he had his focus set on greater things like expanding his territory, taking back stolen land. 

“What happened to Mr. Kyo?” Giran asked, Shigaraki rolled his eyes at the mention of the name and clicked his tongue, “His Majesty eliminated him.” Giran stops himself from laughing out loud. He was certain once Shigaraki would take over the throne incidents like so would double the instant. But he was expecting it to happen so soon. “And why was that?” 

“He was breathing too loud, like you are right now.” 

A cold silence broke over the room as Giran counted his breath. Kurogiri looked nervously at Shigaraki who still had his back turned to them. The longer the pause grew, the dreadful the atmosphere became. Shigaraki’s threat strung the air loud and clear and Giran was afraid to speak again. “What we are asking for is that-,” Kurogiri started in a calm, slow tone easing the tension in the room. “-we need a new court painter. Do you have any names?” 

The murderous sent in the air magically disappeared as a grin stretched across Giran’s face. 

“Aren’t you in luck?” He says, running a hand through his hair before taking a puff out of his cigar. “Does that mean you know someone?” Kurogiri questioned. Giran hummed, “You see, I met this beautiful painter today. She’s extremely talented and I know for a fact she will love working for the castle.” 

“What’s the name?” growing impatient, Shigaraki asks. “Oh, it was,” Giran pauses for a moment to recall. 

“Ah yes, Y/N L/N.” 

Trust

This story is a bit of my own ramblings and interpretation (Lumine, poor baby, I felt all this for you) of the chapter quest, “A New Star Approaches” -- while I am a sucker for the ‘rival to lovers’ trope… I really have a love hate relationship with Childe. His true character doesn’t show he has any kindness to the traveler, and, while other story missions with him seem to make him more appealing, I still can’t trust him. Anyway, here is another story. 

Summary: 

After fighting Childe in the Golden House, it’s revealed that Rex Lapis is still alive! And he’s none other than the Funeral Parlors own patron! Lumine’s trust is shattered, and she feels more alone than she did before. 

Genre: angst / hurt

Potential Spoilers?*

Lumine x Childe / Zhongli 

Lumine and Paimon rush through the doors of the Golden House, beads of sweat dropping to the floor. The large room is filled with piles of glittering mora, which Paimon can’t help but notice. After a quick reminder of why they were there in the first place, they can’t help but notice the surprising lack of millilith. A worry passes through Lumine as she spots the suspended body of Rex Lapis at the other end of the hall. With haste she runs toward the large dragon's body.

“Well, well …” Childe’s voice echos about the room. “I didn’t expect to see you both here. Shouldn’t you be bounding around Liyue looking for items for the ritual?’” His tone is dark, all the playfulness and gentleness he usually embodies replaced with annoyance. He ascended the stairs in front of the altar, stopping but a few feet in front of the two. 

“I must thank you for your hard work though. If you hadn’t spent all that time setting up the, ‘Rite of Parting,’” he spoke the words as if they tasted bad in his mouth, “I wouldn’t have been able to gather all the information I needed.”

Lumine couldn’t wrap her head around what she was hearing, what she was seeing. Childe had been the one to help them, he saved her from the Millilith… he was a Fatui sure, but he was different… wasn’t he? 

“You were planning on stealing the Gnosis from inside the Exuvia this whole time!?” Piamon shouted, her voice surrounding them in the grand hall. 

“It is my duty after all…” he started, “the Tsaritsa gets what she wants.” With a sigh he placed his hands on his hips. His exasperation was apparent. 

I can’t believe this, Lumine thought. The anger rising from her stomach into her throat. She had let her guard down, let this person close to her, and … trusted him. If he thought for one second he’d be able to take the Gnosis from this Archon, she was about to prove him wrong. 

“I won’t let you …” she hissed through clenched teeth. 

“Oh Comrad, I don’t need your blessing. If it were up to me we wouldn’t have gone through all the niceties in the first place.” His arms lifted into a shrug, a smile inching across his face. 

“If you think you can win against me, you’re delusional.” The anger Lumine felt had moved from the pit of her stomach into every nook and cranny. Her hands tightened over her sword, the blood in her veins pumping in preparation of the fight she rightfully deserved. She was going to make sure he felt the pain she was experiencing. She only further cemented her nerve as Childe’s laughter faded into the deep shadows of the Golden House. 

“Fighting talk,” he retorted, reaching for his weapons, “I love it!.”

And with that the silence of the Golden House was filled with the sounds of metal striking metal. 

With one final strike, Lumine sends Childe rolling across the broken floor of the once pristine building.   

“Wow, that was … unexpected.” He says through heavy breaths. “It’s been a long time since I had such a fantastic match like that.” 

“This method of yours isn’t the best way to make friends,” Paimon states, her own irritation peaking through. 

“Ha, well, yes. Anyway, it seems the Gnosis was never here in the first place.” 

Paimon and Lumine look at eachother, confused. “What do you mean,” Paimon chimes in. 

“It seems I was mistaken thinking you two would be involved in knowing anything about the Gnosis. Which tells me I might need to go back to the beginning, huh…” he says the last sentence under his breath, turning his head as if in deep thought.

“Are you … are you telling me Rex Lapis is alive!?” Lumine shouts, her heart still beating rapidly from the fight. 

“Hmm, we just might see.” He said with a tired smile before summoning a whirlwind of sigils. “I guess we'll just have to call upon the Geo Archon another way! How about … with an old rival?” In a flash Childe was gone, the sigils surrounding him slowly faded away into nothing. 

----

The sky began to clear and the rain, which only a few moments ago was pouring, had slowed to a soft drizzle. Members of the Adepti and Qixing stood at the dock looking out over the settling waves where they caught the last glimpses of the Jade Chamber dipping below the ocean. 

With the present danger now quelled, there was still one last thing on Lumine’s mind. Who is Rex Lapis, and where is he? While the Adepti and Qixing members discuss their next moves for the Rite of Parting, Lumine set’s off to find Zhongli. He must have some clues as to where Rex Lapis could be hiding. 

After receiving word from the receptionist at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor that Zhongli headed to Northland Bank a few minutes ago, Lumine and Paimon reluctantly head there. If only she had prepared herself for what she’d find. 

Upon entering Northland Bank, Lumine saw Signora, Childe, and Zhongli speaking together. 

“What…?” the words fell out of her mouth upon seeing the three of them. Maybe she was imagining things? What could Zhongli have to do with Signora!? She was a Harbingers, and the worst of them all! “What is happening …” she stuttered, anger building in her stomach again. 

Childe opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Signora. 

“You remember the agreement, Morax.” She stated, looking back at Zhongli. “Now, if you would be so kind,” she stretched out her hand, “the Gnosis please.” 

“What in the world are you talking about!?” Paimon shouted, causing the other patrons of the Northland Bank to stare. 

“The contract is now completed. That which thou seek is now bestowed upon you, as my promise is as solid as stone.” Zhongli’s words were void of emotion. His statements were matter of fact, as if he was simply explaining the reason why the sun rises in the morning. 

Lumine took an unsteady step forward. “I don’t understand …” 

“Are you saying you are Rex Lapis!?” Paimon took no time to voice her frustrations, and ask the question on their mind. “Why are you giving her the Gnosis!? She’s the bad guy!” 

Lumine could see them talking, she could tell they were explaining something important, but she couldn’t seem to hear them. It was as if someone had turned on a radio in her head, and instead of playing the sounds of Zhongli’s voice, it was static. The only thing that seemed to turn the radio station back to the right channel was when she saw the Gnosis in his hand. It’s warm glow illuminating his skin, a soft hum filling the room. 

Paimon was in shock, even more so as she watched the traveler make her way to the Geo Archon. 

“Lumine?” 

Lumine reached her hands out and wrapped them around Zhongli’s wrist. There weren’t very many people she would so easily touch. After losing her brother, unable to keep hold onto him as he was ripped from her hands, she found it difficult to cross that barrier. However, there was a desperation in her to make the connection.  

“Lumine…” Zhongli didn’t seem taken back by the sudden physical contact, instead his voice seemed remorseful. 

“Don’t … don’t give it to her.” Her voice was shaky, her hands trembled around his wrist. 

“There isn’t much you can do, Comrad…” Childe started, his arms crossed.

“Don’t give it to her!!” Lumine shouted, which caught everyone off guard. It wasn’t like her to express her feelings in such an animated way. Her eyes we fixated on the golden gaze of the once Archon of Geo. “Please, not again. I can’t see this again.” Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, her nose tickled from the sensation. 

Zhongli sighed, placing his free hand over the trembling ones wrapped around his wrist. His touch caused Lumine’s grip to soften. “A contract is a contract; I cannot break my promise.” 

With that Signora took the Gnosis, and made her way to the door, chuckling proudly to herself.

“Looks like you couldn’t protect another one, huh.” Her words were like venom, and stung Lumine in the heart. “Come, Childe.” 

“Fine, but I’ll meet you there.” He mumbled, turning around and walking up the stairs to the second floor. With both of them gone, only Zhongli, Paimon, and Lumine remained. Her hands still grasping onto Zhongli’s arm. 

“Lumine…” she could hear them call out to her, but she couldn’t respond. Her emotions trapped in her throat, blocking it up like a pipe filled with frozen water. Only the words in her head occupied her attention. I failed. I failed again. She felt a hand touch her shoulder which made her head snapped up.  Zhongli and Paimon were looking at her, worry plastered on their faces 

“Why…” she stammered, the blockage in her throat making it hard to speak, “I don’t understand why. I was … I was helping you. I did all that … and it meant nothing?” 

“It didn’t mean nothing…” Zhongli started. 

“It did. I couldn’t … I couldn’t stop them! Again! Why is it every time I can’t protect those around me?!” The shame building up inside of her. It was too much to bear, and there wasn’t anyone else to blame but her. 

“Lumine, you did everything you could…” Paimon’s voice was sweet, but right now it felt like a jab in her side. 

“Don’t.” Lumine backed away from them, tears spilling down her face. “Please, don’t…” she was so exhausted. Her body ached, her mind was cloudy, and after everything that had happened in the last several hours, she couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry.” Was all she could say before running through the doors of Northland Bank and down the bustling streets of Liyue. 

----

The next morning she awoke to the sounds of Liyue citizens going about their day. She didn’t remember making it back to her inn. 

The last thing she remembered was sitting at the edge of the dock staring at the calm waters of the sea until it reflected the darkness of the night sky.

Her eyes were raw. They hurt when she rubbed the sleep from them. She looked around her room noticing things were not how they normally were. It dawned on her that she wasn’t in the inn, but somewhere else.

Next to her was a warm tub of water and a clean rag. Who could have left this? As she dipped the rag in the warm water, the memories of yesterday began to flood back to her. The fight at the Golden House with Childe, the battle on the Jade Palace, Zhongli turning out to be the Geo Archon, and her failure to stop another Gnosis from getting into the hands of the Fatui. 

“Hey, you’re awake.” a voice called to her from the end of the bed. She turned to see Paimon floating with a small bag in her hands. “I brought you some of your favorite snack foods.” She said, drifting closer to Lumine’s side before resting on the bed herself. 

“Thanks.” Lumine looked out the window, “where are we?” she asked, looking back at Paimon. The only person she met in this world who seemed to always be there for her. She so badly wanted to trust that Paimon would be there with her to the end, but after the events yesterday, well she wasn’t really sure if that would be true either. 

“Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” she began, opening the bag to present the goodies she purchased. Of course there was something in there for herself. “Zhongli and I found you by the dock late last night ... he carried you to his room.” 

After how she treated him, how could he still show her so much compassion. “Is he here?” She asked. 

“He went out a bit ago, but should be back later. He told us we could stay until we were ready to leave.” A reassuring smile appeared on Paimon’s face. “Hungry?” she asked before offering one of the snacks. 

“Extremely.” Lumine replied, responding with a warm smile. “Thanks, Paimon.” 

“Of course! Now, let’s see what other cool things the funeral parlor has to offer.” 

“It’s a funeral parlor, Paimon. It’s accommodations are mostly for the dead…” Lumine chuckled. 

“You never know! I’ll be right back, you say here!” She added before disappearing into, well, where she goes. 

The sounds from outside were getting louder as the citizens of Liyue were becoming more active. Quietly, she made her way over to the window. Her body still aching from the battles of yesterday. As she looked down onto the streets, she wondered how they would feel if they knew what she knew. If they could imagine the pain of being alone while surrounded by so many friendly faces. Had they ever lost someone close to them; had they ever been betrayed by someone they thought they could trust? As she pondered on these items, she could feel the tears rolling down her face once more. 

In the silence of Zhongli’s room she cried, “I trusted you ....” she covered her face from the outside world, “Aether, where are you… I can’t do this without you.” She sobbed as softly as she could, not wanting to disturb the happy citizens below. 

Unbeknownst to her, the words she thought could only be heard by the passing wind were also caught on the ears of a certain Fatui harbinger. Childe leaned against the outside wall, hidden behind the decorative pillars on the second floor roof. His arms tightened around his chest as he listened to the sound of Lumine’s cries against the backdrop of laughing children and footsteps on cobblestone. 

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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Cuppa Tea, Cuppa Tea

Request: The first request is that the reader kinda is yawning a bit, but "oh, it's fine, I'm just studying a bit harder" but they're either lying and doing a bunch of work deep into the night (maybe translating old books or something) or it's insomnia, or actually studying til 4:00am or something (lots of "ors" I'm so sorry) and of course spike finds out and is like "I'm supposed to be the nocturnal one??" And I had a brief thought of somehow the reader being tricked to drink sleepy time tea or something that will make them sleep as much as they need, but idk if that would be weird 🤔 but anyway, I hope that made sense ^^;

Pairing: Spike x gender neutral reader 

Warnings: swearing 

Word Count: 1.3k 

Summary: Y/N is at Spike’s studying for a chemistry exam when Spike starts to worry for them. 

A/N: sorry for the delay!!! This was so easy to write because honestly it’s relatable. Enjoy X

Masterlist

The words on the page start to blend and nothing makes sense anymore. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to process the words I'm staring at here. I have to pass this chemistry exam. I'm not even a chem major, stupid general education classes. I hear Spike move about behind me while his Passions episode comes to an end. Being one of the token full-fledge humans in the Scooby Gang means I'm sometimes dropped off at Spike's for safekeeping. Lately, there's a water demon terrorizing Sunnydale, so I've been instructed to come straight here after classes. Yet, Spike insists on meeting me right after the lecture. He went about finding out my course schedule so he can be thereafter my last class. Since I finish when the sun is still out, he has to use the tunnels on campus. He's the definition of smothering.

"Y/N, you need to go to bed," he advises, appearing beside the crypt I'm set upon.

My notes and textbook are laid perfectly on the crypt to study.

"Five more minutes," I yawn.

The candlelight is starting to radiate enough heat to feel it. They've been going all afternoon and well into the evening. Its light is starting to burn my eyes.

"You said that twenty minutes ago," Spike sighs, kneeling next to me.

"Oh bet, I thought it was only ten," I check my watch for the time.

Spike huffs in annoyance and snatches my textbook away.

"Hey!" I reach for the pages, but he moves it away.

"I'm so supposed to be the nocturnal one! Not you!" He reminds me with a fuss.

"Ever heard of insomnia?" I sass.

"It's not healthy," he preaches, setting my textbook down.

"Nor is being undead. That's a little pot calling the kettle black," I shrug while I reopen my book to the proper page.

"The more tired you get the more annoying you are," he grumbles, tossing his head back dramatically with a sigh.

"Dope," I nod with narrowed eyes.

"I hate you," Spike growls.

"Love to hear it," I mutter subconsciously as I continue reading.

"Ugh, oh my g-"

Absentmindedly, I read the chapter on proper chemical mixing. I can't even read the periodic table, how am I supposed to remember all of this?  

I start to sing a familiar tune under my breath without much thought. "Oh say can you see by the dawn's-"

"Stop!" Suddenly, Spike's hand is covering my mouth. "Stop while you're ahead!"

"I was just getting started." My voice is muffled by his hand.

Spike slips his hand around and brings up the other to make me stare into his eyes.

"You're getting delusional!" He accuses.

"What's life without a little bad trip? Adds some spice," I dismiss carelessly.

"You're psychotic," he determines

"Says the serial killer," I shrug.

"You're! Losing! It!" He emphasizes.

"You! Eat! People!" I fire back mockingly.

"I need to so I can exist. You don't need to study to exist," he takes my textbook away again and strolls away.

"I need to so I can get a good job," I reason.

"Industrial America is overrated," he declares monotonously.

"You're also an old English man," I grumble.

"Yeah, so I know a few things," he smirks proudly.

"You never took school seriously?" I climb down from the crypt to fetch my book from him.

"Well... I went if that's what you mean. I had a rather expensive education," Spike describes vaguely.

I reach for my textbook and take it back civilly. "A White, upper-middle-class, during the Victorian Era, given a well-to-do private education? Well, color me shocked!"

"I can hardly stand you when you get in this mood. You need sleep," he rolls his eyes annoyedly.

"I hardly tolerate you every moment of every day. I need coffee," I correct.

"I will kill you," he threatens as per usual.

"Oh yes, bring me the sweet release," I grumble as I head back to my spot.

"You sicken me, you know that?" Spike questions sarcastically.

"Glad to hear it," I laugh humorlessly.

"Normally, people aren't so keen on being threatened," he reminds.

"Fair enough, granted I'm not 'normal,'" I form quotation marks with my fingers.

"Clearly," he mumbles.

"'Clearly,'" I mock his voice. "You even sound old!"

"I'm only one hundred and twenty-six!" He states, yet again, this week.

"Oh my goodness! You're right! My bad! You're practically a new spring chicken! Now get out there young one, and seize the day!" I tease.

"I'm going to make you a cup of tea," Spike declares, heading over to his make-shift kitchen. In reality, it's an electric kettle he plugs into an extension cord that's connected to somewhere outside.

"Coffee," I request, returning to my reading.

"Tea! You don't need any more coffee," he ridicules.

"You're depressing," I insult under my breath.

After a short time, Spike returns with a mug. I've managed to get through the last paragraph I've been struggling with.

"Here," he hands the white porcelain object to me.

The warmth of the mug contrasts the cold of my hands.

"What kind," I ask as I go to sip it.

"Green," he nods.

"Oo, so you are giving me caffeine," I wiggle my brows right as the liquid hits my lips.

"Only to shut you up," he sighs.

"Always the charmer," I wink.

After a moment of consideration and pondering, I can determine that this is good tea. Spike stands around waiting for my approval.

"This is nice, what brand is it?" I go in for another sip.

"An old one my mother used to use, been around for a while," he stammers.

"Lovely, thank you."

I compliment and he grumbles some response. ______________________ The sound of a distant lawnmower wakes me up in a jolt. I gasp for air, having been so deeply asleep that I hardly felt alive. I must've been more exhausted than I originally comprehended. My blurry vision adjusts to my surroundings and I'm tucked into a bed, but not my own. No, I know this bed. I've seen it before. The bright red sheets are hard to forget. Spike.

"What the-" I scream, "Spike!"

The bleach blonde vampy appears from behind a pillar across the room.

"Yes, Pet?" He says slyly, as though it's just any other morning.

"You asshole!" I curse at him as I hurry to get up.

"Feel refreshed?" He smirks.

"Did you drug me?" I come to the realization as I stand up that I don't remember falling asleep or getting into Spike's bed.

"Eh, somewhat," he explains vaguely. "I gave you camomile tea and maybe crushed up some melatonin in it."

My jaw drops, "you're insane!"

"Knocked you out like a bloody babe," he snickers, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

"What time is it?!" I shake my wrist to my watch.

"Noon," Spike answers before I have the chance to check.

My eyes go wide as the harsh reality that I'm late to my class sinks in.

"Shit! Shit!" I rush to gather my things. "Fuck me! I have my test in thirty minutes!"

Spike strolls about casually around me, not giving two shits.

"You'll be fine," he assures calmly. "The sleep will help."

"It better!" I growl at the vamp.

"I'll pick you up after your class. We'll get coffee," he suggests with a smug expression.

"You don't drink coffee," I glare as I pack up my backpack.

"Damn straight, but you do. My treat," he offers.

"Oh, so kind!" I remark sarcastically as I struggle to slip my arms through my backpack and get my shoes on at the same time.

"Have fun!" He waves as I head to the door. "Good luck!"

"Fuck you!" I bid farewell as I slam the tomb door behind me.

"Coffee!" He shouts from inside as I stroll away. "Four o'clock! I'll pick you up!"

"Okay! Fine! Fine!" I yell in agreement, despite everything that just happened.

God, I hate to love him. 

__________________________

Masterlist

Tags: @mx-pibbles​

May I suggest an AU where Don Paolo finds the Golden Apple first and adopts Flora instead of Layton? :)

Absolutely!! Thank you so much for asking! This turned out to be... pretty long, actually, almost 2000 words :'D I'm going to post it here under a cut, but I also put it in Puzzles Left Unsolved if you'd rather read it on Ao3. Thank you again for the request; it was a great chance for me to write for Don Paolo for the first time!

...

“Welcome to the Future.”

Dr. Allen smiles broadly, throwing open the clock shop’s door with careless abandon. Flora can’t hold back a gasp at the sight before her. Yes, the scenery in front of her is Midland Road, but it’s unmistakably changed: worn down, and dirty with ten years’ worth of grime. The bus stop is gone, and tall poles mounted with loudspeakers tower above the ground.

Could they really have travelled through time? It seems impossible, but then again, the evidence seems too solid to brush aside. Flora’s still reeling from the trip through the “time machine.” Between the rocky ride down here, and the changed London that she sees before her now, she’s almost convinced that she truly is in the future.

Hesitantly, she looks toward Paul, hoping that she can take a cue from his reaction to what Dr. Allen referred to as “The Future.” Her mentor looks almost as dumbfounded as she does. Then, he seems to notice her gaze. He clears his throat, calming his expression, and turns toward Dr. Allen. “For ‘Future London,” it’s not all that futuristic, is it? Where are the jetpacks and the robots?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I’m so sorry that the future isn’t completely what you’d hoped it would be.” Dr. Allen shrugs nonchalantly. “Now. If you’re done gawking, then we can begin discussing business. Follow me.”

As they follow Dr. Allen through the streets, Flora casts a questioning glance up towards Paul. “What do you think about this?” she whispers.

“Feh. It’s all a trick. Although I’ll admit it’s a good one.” Paul waves his hands dismissively, then brings his arm to his mouth, stifling a theatrical cough. “As bad as the air quality is in ‘present’ London, it’s nowhere near this horrendous. Coupled with the yellow sky, either the Apocalypse happened within the last ten years, or we’re underground.”

Flora’s half-disappointed, but half-not. An underground city, particularly one that so closely mirrors an existing city, is almost as fascinating as a future one—and, as Paul had said before, now that she thinks of it, she’s a little disappointed at the lack of futuristic technology. “So there’s still a chance for the jetpacks, then,” she says thoughtfully.

Paul chuckles. “If you get started on inventing them tomorrow, then there’s a slim chance that they’ll be around in ten years.”

“You could invent them too, you know,” Flora says mildly.

“Let’s stay focused on the present, my friends,” Dr. Allen says lightly. “Right this way.” Turning the corner, they enter a large tunnel, and Flora stares up in awe at the sloped roof above them, the beautiful stone-tiled road, and the pretty shops lining the walls.

“A pretty little arcade, isn’t it?” Dr. Allen says proudly, leading them toward a restaurant built into the wall of the arcade. “It’s a pity that it has no counterpart in the present. I hope this restaurant is to your liking. My partner is very fond of the place, although I don’t entirely trust his judgement.”

“You’re paying, right?” snorts Paul as the group steps through the door.

Dr. Allen raises an eyebrow. “Of course; you’re my guests. Paul, you wound me.”

“My name is Don Paolo, Allen.”

It’s strange to hear Paul reacting adversely to being called… well, Paul; Flora’s grown so used to calling him that over the last several months. Yes, he wanted to be called “Don Paolo” at first, but after the first ten times she’d called him so, he’d grunted that it was “too formal, and that she should call him “Paul” instead. Flora’s secretly glad of that; the name had always struck her as funny, but she’d hate to offend him by giggling by mistake.

Dr. Allen shrugs, and the three of them take a seat at the table, the cook coming to take their order. “Just coffee for me,” he says nonchalantly, “but give these two whatever they like. I’ll be paying.”

Paul gets a coffee as well—a smart move, Flora thinks; he wants to seem like an equal match to Dr. Allen. Flora would do the same, but upon further consideration, she just gets water; she’s not sure that she could handle anything more right now, with the amount of butterflies in her stomach. Her nerves are frayed, and being seated here, in the Future, in front of the man that summoned them here, is only exacerbating her anxiety.

“I supposed I was careless, Paul,” Dr. Allen finally says, as the coffee arrives at the table. Once again, he raises an eyebrow, glancing in Flora’s direction. “I never thought to tell you to come alone, simply because I never thought there’d be anyone who wanted to come with you.”

Flora blinks. What a rude thing to say! But now that she thinks about it, Paul really doesn’t seem to have any friends, except for her. He doesn’t often leave their flat, except when they both go to the lab to work on their engineering projects. Occasionally he’ll go off on his own, but he never talks about seeing anybody else.

Of course, there is his archnemesis, Hershel Layton, but they certainly aren’t friends, not with how Layton hurt Paul in the past! Paul never talks about what that man did, but Flora doesn’t want to force him to tell her, as curious as she is. Whatever it might be, it must’ve been traumatic, and she wouldn’t want to make him remember anything painful. But other than Layton, Flora can’t think about anybody else that Paul even knows.

Well, there is that framed picture of that pretty lady with glasses on his work desk, but Flora doesn’t even know her name, let alone if she and Paul are friends.

“If you want to know who she is, you can just ask,” Paul scowls.

“I’m his apprentice,” Flora chimes in eagerly. “I’m studying engineering, and disguises, and robotics, and… and lots of things.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Dr. Allen chuckles. “I never thought you had it in you, Paul. I knew you were good with disguises, but masquerading as a mentor is a new one for you.”

“As far as you know.” Paul shrugs. “It’s not as if we were ever best friends or anything. There’s a lot of things that you don’t know about me.”

“True, true.” Dr. Allen leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “But at least there was one thing that we had in common. And that’s what I’d like to talk about today.”

A shadow crosses Paul’s face. Is that… sadness in his eyes? “I’m not really in the mood to reminisce, Dimitri.”

“Maybe not. But perhaps you’re in the mood to help me make those precious memories reality once again?” There’s a feverish light in Dimitri’s eyes, despite his serene expression. “What if I told you that my time machine—”

A time machine?

Flora’s mind starts racing. A real time machine? Could it really exist? How does it work? What—

“That’s what killed her, Allen.” Paul’s harsh voice cuts through Flora’s daydream. “You’re delusional if you think that it’ll actually work, or that I’ll waste my time helping you.”

“I don’t think I’m delusional,” Dimitri says calmly, but Flora can see pain in his face. “But even if I am, at least I’ve got a plan. What are you going to do if you don’t help me? Continue living in your delusion of thinking Layton cares one iota about being your ‘archnemesis?’” He stands slowly. “I’m giving you a chance to help bring her back. It’s up to you if you’ll take it. I’ll give you five minutes to think it over.”

Before either of them can say anything, Dimitri exits the room.

Flora avoids looking at Paul, staring into her water glass. She feels like it isn’t her place to say anything, as curious as she is; she should wait for—

“I suppose you want to know what in the world is going on.” Paul grunts, crossing his arms, and stares into one of the paintings adorning the wall.

“If you want to tell me,” Flora says hesitantly. “I mean, it’s not really my business, is it?”

“Well, you are my apprentice, so it’s at least partly your business. Especially since you’ll be helping me make my final decision.” Paul sighs. “You’ve seen that picture on my desk, right?”

Flora blinks. “That pretty lady?”

A small smile colours Paul’s face. “Yes. She was… well, she was a friend. Well, she… she died almost ten years ago.”

Flora bites her lip. So that’s why he takes such good care of that picture. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, not knowing what else to say.

Paul shrugs. “It was a long time ago,” he says dismissively, but Flora can hear the sadness behind the words. “She worked with him,” he says, gesturing dismissively toward the door, “building a time machine, and she died because it malfunctioned, exploding and killing her and nine other people. I… Well, I blamed him for a while, even though it wasn’t only his fault. I felt like, since he was lucky enough to work with her, he should’ve been there to save her. My only satisfaction was that he blamed himself too.” He chuckles wryly. “You probably think I’m awful now, don’t you?”

“N-no, not at all!” Flora hurries to assure him. “I… I understand why you reacted that way.” It’s all too easy to search for a scapegoat when there’s nobody else to blame. She remembers how much she hated and feared Dahlia for replacing Mama, when Dahlia really did nothing wrong… but it’s too late to mend that. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind. “But there’s a chance to bring her back, then isn’t there? If he’s got the time machine working, now.”

Paul snorts. “No way that he’ll ever actually get it to work. Not after it failed so spectacularly last time.”

Flora shouldn’t feel so disappointed at his words, but she does. She wants to find out more about this time machine. Before today, she’d hardly even thought of the concept, but now that she knows it’s something that could plausibly exist, she wants to find out more. But Paul so easily dismissed the idea. Maybe he’s right about that; after all, it did fail ten years ago. But that doesn’t mean it will fail today.

(What if she could bring her parents back?)

(What if she can bring Paul’s friend back to life?)

“Shouldn’t we give him a chance?” she asks tentatively. “Maybe he can tell us exactly how he plans to do it, and then we can make a more informed decision.”

“The only thing he’ll inform us with is more of his delusions.” But Paul looks at her curiously. “You’re really excited by this time machine thing, aren’t you?”

Is it really that obvious? Flora flushes, staring into her drinking glass once again. “Maybe a little bit. I just… I just think that if there’s a chance that it works, then we should consider all our options.”

She waits in silence for Paul’s reply. Finally, he sighs, chuckling. “Why is it always so hard to say no to you?” He stands, heading towards the door to let Dimitri back in. “Fine, fine. We’ll listen to him ramble for a few more minutes, and find out what he wants from us, and then we can decide what we’ll do.”

Flora smiles after him. “Thanks for listening to reason, Paul,” she says jokingly.

Paul grins back at her. “Don’t mention it.”

Inch By Inch (Sequel to Seven Inches - Tailor!AU)

A sequel to Seven Inches, written for both our TwoKinkyBeans July Exchange plus the line prompt that Lien sent me:

“Oh” Tony coos as Peter gives him another quick gasp. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

I hope you guys enjoy!!! 

Warnings: nff, smut, handcuffs, light dom/sub, pet names, a size kink I didn’t quite intend to write but IT HAPPENED.

-

Peter stares at the supple material that’s spread out all over the desk. He swallows and reaches out for it. His fingers trace past the tightly woven twill texture. May, from the other side of the shop, cocks an eyebrow at him. “You’re alright up there?” Peter’s cheeks flare up right away. He tries to come up with a somewhat plausible excuse as to why he takes such a sudden interest in the navy blue material. He can’t think of any. The only thing that keeps replaying in his mind is Tony’s promise. He can nearly feel the man’s hot breath tickling on his ear again. “Make that tweed suit yourself, kid, and it’ll be the one I wear when I take that sweet little ass for the first time.”  The man had slapped is butt and resumed their earlier conversation as though nothing had happened. Fuck, he wants Tony so bad.

“I, eh-” Peter stutters, “-I want to learn how to make a suit myself.” May squints at him, searching his face. “Why do I have a feeling this has something to do with a certain customer?” She presses her lips together, but her eyes betray how she’s trying to hold back a wide grin. Peter smiles sheepishly.  “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.” “Mmmh.”

-

Peter’s focus is nowhere to be found. He wants to listen to May as she gently explains different sewing techniques to him, he truly wants to. Yet, it’s only Tony’s voice he hears inside his mind. Gosh. He wonders what it’ll feel like to have Tony inside of him. Sure, he’s been topped by other guys before, but nothing is comparable to the size of Tony’s massive cock. He can already imagine it sticking out of the thick pants proudly. The suit itself would be a hot as fuck look without question. Would Peter be able to feel the structure of the fabric against his thighs? Feel every little fiber?

Peter craves it all. The man’s voice, his hot gaze. Since the ‘Shop Incident’, they haven’t even laid hands on each other again. Okay, well, they had. But nothing truly sexual. Just chaste kisses and whispered promises as it’d been impossible to find space in their shared schedules. Peter has been very occupied with his newly found Spider-Man duties now that Tony had taken the role as a mentor too. His new suit is insanely good, and Peter loves patrolling in it and exploring all the latest tech the man included. Tony has been busy also, and he hasn’t made it into the shop once.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, get your ass back to earth.” “Wha-” Peter breathes out startled and blinks a few times. There, he’s got no focus. 

No. 

Focus. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but your crush is as big as Stark’s wealth.” His aunt shakes her head almost teasingly. “Aaaargh, May, how do I get rid of it?” “You don’t. Well, you will eventually. But while it’s there, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’ll be walking with your head on cloud nine for quite some time.”

Peter is silent for a few seconds, letting her words sink in. “Do you… Do you think I’m too naive?” “How- Why do you think that?” “He’s Tony Stark, May. Am I… Delusional for thinking he might actually want me?” “It’s clear he does, isn’t it?” “I mean…” His voice trails off. May finally puts the fabric back down on the table.  “Yeah?” “More? I mean more. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want more, then how can I even think about what he might want from me?” May makes a shushing noise, shaking her head and grabbing Peter’s hands within her own. She smiles sweetly at him in the way only she can. A warm, comforting feeling spreads in his chest, and his panic dies down. 

“Peter,” she whispers and tucks a loose curl back behind his ear. “As much as I understand your nerves… They’re only natural. And there’s no hurry. Now tell me, what’s with the suit? Every time you see it, you get a little weird.” “He… He made a promise about it.” “Oh?” “Mmmh, I’ll spare you the details.” “Oh.” She chuckles. “In that case, why don’t we get back to making it?” “That sounds like a solid plan.”

And that’s what they do.

-

Peter’s heart hammers in his chest when his eyes dart up to the top of the immensely large building that is the Stark Tower. He’s been here before, obviously. But never as Peter. Always as Spider-Man- with the other Avengers around as well. Now, he’s just Peter. A tailor-in-learning. On his way to deliver a handmade suit to his crush/mentor/hero. Tony. Tony Stark. The richest man in the States. 

How the fuck did he get here.

He stares at the intimidating entrance. Men and women in their sophisticated clothes walk in and out of the building. He feels terribly out of place, but he takes a deep breath and pushes through his nerves. The large, busy foyer nearly overloads his sense. However, a few deep breaths help him to shut out the visual and audible stimuli. He strides over to the reception area and smiles politely at the lady behind the computer.  “Hi! I’m Peter, Peter Parker, Miss. I uh, I’m here to see Mr. Stark? About his new suit?” He holds up the package to show it. The woman returns his smile and nods.  “Let me check his schedule, Sir.”

Sir. Peter almost snorts but feels very proud at the same time. 

“Mr. Stark is expecting you in his private quarters. Here,” she says. She hands him a keycard and then points towards the elevator. “The keycard grants you access to both the elevator and his suite. It’ll take you to the right floor automatically. Please hand it in when you leave the building.” Peter nods, his jaw slack as he takes in all the information. He slides the keycard through his fingers, twisting- turning and playing with it nervously. Pressing his lips together, Peter thanks the lady once more and makes his way towards the elevator. 

It isn’t until he actually sets foot into the metal box that he realizes what exactly the woman had told him. He nearly gasps. His heart misses a beat and his cheeks heat up.

Private quarters.

Oh God- Oh God. Tony has set up the meeting in his private quarters. That means something. Doesn’t it? Or is he the type of man that doesn’t care about random people stalking through his living space? Peter has no clue. He hopes he’s an exception to the general rule. That no one else is allowed in the man’s suite. 

He hopes… Well- He hopes Tony and him are going to have sex. Real sex this time. Tony promised. He told Peter they would. He wouldn’t back down now, would he? Peter sighs, tapping his foot in restless motion. Peter eyes the small display indicating the floor they’re at and inhales slightly when he sees they’re nearly there. This is it. This is-

Ding.

Peter clutches the suit a little closer and hesitantly steps out. Everything in the Tower is absolutely gigantic, and apparently, the suite is no exception to that. Peter can’t even imagine having… This much space. The glass windows let the sunlight cast a golden glow over the man’s presumable costly possessions. He takes it all in. The large, plush sofa. The pool table. The fucking  hot tub in the middle of the room with circular descending steps around. A soft, instrumental beat is playing through the hidden speakers. Peter wonders how on earth he will find Tony seeing that this is just his leisure room.  “Mr.-” “Ah, Parker, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.” 

Peter turns around startled and stares at the man leaning against the side of the bar. A smirk plays on Tony’s lips and he raises his glass. “You want some?” “I, eh-” Peter babbles, still a little dumbfounded. Tony flails his free hand, and Peter decides a quick why the fuck not. If he’s old enough to fuck whoever he wants, he can sure take a small drink, right?

A few minutes later, they’re seated on the large plush sofa. Peter sips his Tequila Sunrise cocktail. Tony insisted that Peter would enjoy it and much to Peter’s liking and dismay, Tony was right. He’s not 100% sure what’s in there, but he sure isn’t complaining. “So,” Tony smirked, “-I see you brought a new suit?” Peter eyes the suit, still neatly packed in its cover.  “I- I did, Mr. Stark. Would you like to try it on?” Tony tilts his head. His eyes burning, prodding and oh God- Peter can feel his own heartbeat speed up. “Show it to me first, boy.”

They stare at each other for a brief moment. They both know what’s happening. They’re slipping back into their roles. Just as they had in the shop. Tony’s voice already dropping a notch, the rough scratch in his words catching on his tongue so sweetly. So… Authoritative.  “Of course, Sir,” Peter gushes and rushes to pull the zipper down. Carefully, he takes out the suit, smiling slightly at the feel of the thick, textured fabric as it slides past his hands. Tweed suits are not very high in demand, but they definitely radiate a certain chic vibe. Maybe because it’s so timeless.  “Here you go.”

Peter stands up, holding the piece by the clothing hanger and blushes when he hears Tony’s appreciative hum. The man stands up too. Slow. Calculating. He strides closer, making Peter’s dick twitch every time the man’s leather soles hit the floor. When Tony stops right in front of him, the older man grins. “Oh, isn’t it just gorgeous,” he coos. “Almost as beautiful as you. Tell me, did you make this?” “I-I did, Sir. My aunt, uhm- May. She obviously helped me get the technique right.” “Goooooood.”

A pause.

“Now, be a good boy and help me change clothes.” “Yes, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers breathlessly. For a short second, Peter waits for Tony to make the first move. It never comes- oh.  A strangled noise escapes from his throat when he takes a step closer. His fingers moving up to help Tony get out of his cardigan sweater. He’s the one making the movements, and yet it feels almost humiliating to undress Tony. In the very best way, of course. “Am I doin’ it right?” “Mmh- Just keep it up, honeycomb.” Peter nearly cracks up at the pet name, but the lustful look in Tony’s eyes keeps him going. He’s deliberately not being very careful. His fingers brushing past Tony’s naked, warm skin at every possible opportunity where he slides the fabric off the man’s shoulders. The icy, blue light coming from the Arc Reactor shining freely onto Peter’s face. It’s… Such a powerful device. Peter groans. “I can feel the vibrations,” he mumbles as he keeps staring at it. His hands slowly trace down now. He definitely should work a little faster if he wants the man inside him sooner rather than later. It’s not gonna happen automatically.  His hands work on the fly of the pants and he tugs them down impatiently. Then, he drops onto his knees. Carefully untying Tony’s shoelaces and taking them off together with the pants. All that’s left now are the tight, black undies. “Leave them on for now. Go on, dress me.”

-

“Oh, oh!” Peter whimpers out loud. His arms are shackled to the headboard above his head. His legs are draped over Tony’s still fully clothed shoulders and the man’s cock pounds into him harsh and fast. The soft, thick wool pants have slid down to Tony’s knees where it rests on the sturdy mattress. “Oh” Tony coos as Peter gives him another quick gasp. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?” “P-Please, gimme everything, every last inch of you,” Peter pants heavily. He feels so incredibly full. It’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before, and it only aids in riding his ecstasy more and more. He can’t really feel Tony’s balls slapping against his skin yet, and somehow it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted at this moment. “More, need more!” “Yes, ’m gonna make you fall apart at the seams,” Tony growls. He slows down his movements for a good second and tightens his secure grip on Peter’s hips, dragging him up a bit. Peter snorts at the pun, but the light chuckle morphs into a loud and pleading moan when Tony slowly but surely fills Peter up wholly. The weight of his balls finally settling against his skin. Peter’s eyes water at the near overwhelming intensity of pure happiness coursing through him. He did it. He took a full seven inches inside of him.

Everything that happens after that is one big blur. Tony manages to hold him up with just one hand, using the other to drag sweet strokes on Peter’s hard and leaking cock. Everything just feels so goddamn perfect, the fire in his stomach building and building and building and- “I can’t- I can’t stop oh fuck oh Tony!!” Peter cries out, cum spurting from his cock right onto his chest. His eyes are pressed shut, his head pressed back into the soft, fluffy pillow. “I keep coming...” he mumbles completely dazed. It’s true though, he can feel the muscles jerk- aiding in forcing even the last few drops out of him.  Tony’s hips stutter. His breathing simply stops as he presses into Peter with such force that it brushes past Peter’s overstimulated prostate again. It stays there when the cum oozes from the man’s dick. It fills him up, Peter can feel the slight pulsing inside of him. 

“Oh, sweet boy…” Tony murmurs after a few seconds of undisturbed serenity. The firm grip suddenly becomes a very soft caress on Peter’s tired muscles, and it’s only then that he feels they’re trembling. Slowly, Tony helps him put his legs down. As a result, his cock slips out, and Peter gasps when his hole desperately tries to clench around nothing after the fast pounding it received.  “Mmh- feels cold,” he mumbles. Tony is quick to respond to that, shifting around so he’s able to tug the sheets up to cover the exhausted boy. Peter lets out an appreciative groan.  “So,” he smiles sleepily, the tiredness catching up with him, “-do you like your new suit?” Tony snorts, and he nods. “It’s perfect, such hidden talent in you, Spider-Boy.” “Oh, go fuck yourself,” he giggles. Tony tilts his head playfully. “Nah, I’d rather fuck you. After a short break, obviously.”

Peter gives the man a teasing push, only to draw him down and nuzzle into his chest. He might not be sure what Tony wants from him, but Peter sure as fuck wants cuddles right here, right now. “Hug me.” “As you wish, honeycomb.”

Noona, Do You Have a Boyfriend? | Part 2

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: Now that you’ve blown him, Jisung just won’t leave you alone.

Warnings: femdom, sub!jisung, brat!jisung, dom!reader, dancer!au, dancer!reader, spanking, slapping, ruined orgasm, jisung cries lol.

Part 1 You were having a good day. You had woken up feeling refreshed for a change. There was minimal traffic on the way to the JYP building. The boys had a rare day off, while other JYP artists had other schedules which meant that, for today, you had a whole practice room to yourself—something that was preciously rare and incredibly appreciated as you needed a way to release some of the tension that Han Jisung was causing you, and what better way to do it than to spend the whole day doing your favorite thing in the world? As the cherry on top of an already perfect day, you had a surprise run into Wonpil at the in-door cafeteria today which then turned into a pleasant lunch together. Yeah, today was a really good day. That is until Satan clawed his way up from hell to you. “Morning, Hyung. Morning, Noona.” Jisung greets you both, plopping down at the table were sitting at without an invitation from either of you.   Wonpil was a little shocked at the boy’s sudden entrance, but he smiles and greets him back nonetheless. “Oh, Jisung-ah, I didn’t see you there. How are you?” “I’m great.” Jisung responds with a tight grin, eyeing you. “What are you doing here, Han? Isn’t today your day off?” You try to keep the venom out of your voice in front of Wonpil. He didn’t need to get involved in this, but Jisung is seriously stepping out of line. He shrugs, “Can’t a guy surprise his girlfriend?” You’re confused for a second, wondering when the hell Jisung got a girlfriend, and more than a little annoyed and jealous. Who was she? Why didn’t he tell you? You thought he said he liked you, but then he just goes and gets a mystery girlfriend? That dick. It wasn’t until Wonpil awkwardly remarks that he didn’t know that you two were together, that you realize Jisung was talking about you. “What?! We’re not together!” You practically scream, making the few people in the cafeteria turn to stare at you. 

You can see Jisung’s jaw clenching and a light blush covers his face at the unwanted attention, but he keeps smiling. “Not yet.” “Not ever!” “I’m so confused right now.” Wonpil says, “Are you or are you not together?” “No!” “Yes!” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Wonpil stand up, “Okay, well, I think I should leave you guys to clear things out between you.” “But—but—you didn’t finish your… and he’s gone.” You deflate. You hear a scoff coming from next to you, and you turn to see Jisung with his arms crossed over his chest and a mean scowl on his face. “I can’t believe you, noona.” “You can’t believe me? I can’t believe you!” You shoot up, grabbing the rest of your food and dumping it in the trash. You feel sorry for wasting it but you’ve lost your appetite. You head towards the practice room, intending to pack your stuff and leave. Jisung follows right behind you, thankfully staying quiet until you’re back inside the practice room and away from any potential eavesdropping.  “Wonpil-hyung? Really?” He spits out when you reach the room, and you spin on your heel, marching towards him and poking your finger at his chest angrily. “That’s none of your business. You had no right, Han. No right! Why are you even here?” “Because I knew you’d be here. You could never resist the temptation of having a practice room all to yourself, especially if you thought that I’d be home today.”Jisung grins smugly, and cups your face in his hands. “See? I know you so well, noona. We’re perfect for each other.” You smack his hands away, “You know, most people have enough pride to back off when they know they’re being avoided, but not you.” “I refuse to be avoided.” He proclaims proudly, not caring one bit about your attempt to shame him. “I like you and you like me. Why are you being difficult?” You bristle at that. Not only is he blatantly disregarding your wishes, but he has the audacity to claim you’re the one at fault in this situation. He needed to be taken down a peg. “Difficult? I don’t want to be with you, Han. It’s as simple as that.” “And who do you want to be with? Wonpil-hyung? Don’t make me laugh.” “What’s wrong with Wonpil?” You ask through clenched teeth. You will not stand here and let this brat bad-mouth his sunbae. Someone like Han has no right to even talk about an angel like Wonpil. “Sorry, am I upsetting you, noona?” The shit-eating grin on his face completely contradicts his words. The brat is ecstatic that he’s found a way to get under your skin. “I guess I get why you have to defend him. I’d want a big, strong woman to protect me too if I was spineless like him.” “Watch your mouth, Han.” You warn, you hands balling into fists at your sides. “What? I’m only saying the truth. He’s exactly the type of weakling I said you’d go after.” You grab him by his shirt and pull him down to you, your angry face just centimeters away from his smug one. “This is your last warning.” “Ohh, scary. What are you gonna do, noona, spank me?” He sneers, “Do you even know how to when all the boys you’ve ever fucked never had the balls to stand up to you?” Your fists clench and unclench at your sides as you both stare each other down. It was clear he wasn’t taking you seriously and you wanted so bad to get that infernal squirrel grin off his face, but you still held back. He was right. None of the guys you’ve been with ever tried to defy you. They always did exactly what you told them to do. None of them would ever dream of openly defying you the way Jisung was right now, and it stirred something in you that you’ve been trying so hard to hold back. You knew you had a mean streak. You’d watch videos of subs getting punished and cum fantasizing about all the wicked ways you’d punish a sub of your own—a boy who had previously been faceless before Jisung came into the picture, and from then on he was all you could picture—Jisung gasping and crying as you edge him, Jisung squirming away from your punishing touch, Jisung begging you to let him cum, Jisung begging you to stop making him cum… you had thought up a million ways you would punish the boy in front of you. You wanted to wreck him so bad, it scared you. Which is why you knew you had to keep away from him. He was a danger to your sanity. Taking in a deep breath that does nothing to calm you down, you take a step back, deciding to just pack your things and go home before things get out of hand… “See? I knew you don���t have the guts.” Like a dog that had been taunted for far too long, you lunge at him, ignoring his startled yelp as you yank him by the hair and pull him towards the chair in the corner. When you drape his body over your legs, he starts to panic, “Wait, I didn’t mean for you to actually—oh, fuck!” A brutal slap to his ass cuts him off, sending his hands scrambling to find purchase on the floor as his body jolts forward in your lap from the force. “Noona—” You ignore him, hitting him again, and again, and again—his tone gradually turning from indignation to pleading as he fusses and protests, but never actually makes any attempt to get away from you. And you know why…. His cock is hard as a rock right now, and the way he’s grinding it against your thigh is not exactly subtle. “You horrible, horrible boy.” You hiss and tug on his sweatpants, pulling them down his ass in order to expose his skin directly to your strikes. With each slap, your hands sting more and more, but you know that as much as it hurt you, it hurt him so much more, if his labored breaths and squeaky cries are anything to go by. “Say you’re sorry.” “No.” He grits, wrapping a hand around your ankle and clenching it hard. You hit him more. “Apologize.” “If y-you think you’ll break me with a s-spanking then you’re de—delusional, noona. I’m not that easy.” His words were good and tough, if only he didn’t stutter and whimper his way through them. “Really? So is that not your dick hard and leaking against my leg right now?” You sneer, delivering an extra hard slap to his already bright red cheek. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are enjoying this.” It takes him a while to respond—too busy trying to keep a grip on himself—and when he does, it’s shaky and strained. “Well, I-I’m glad you kn-ow better.” “Tell me the truth, was all this just a ploy to get me to spank you?” You ask, your palm kneading his overheated skin, and even these touches make him whimper in pain. “You like being punished, baby?” Jisung jolts at that, his hips driving into you thighs and a drop of precum trails from his cock down your leg. “Ohh, you like being called a baby, baby?” You laugh, smacking his ass more. “Fuck you.” He curses, but his hips don’t stop rutting against you. “You wish.” You give his ass a few last spanks before pushing him off of you. He goes stumbling to the floor, his feet too unsteady to keep his body upright. “No!” He immediately tries to scramble back up onto your lap, but you press your foot against his chest and push him back down. Cocking your head to the side mockingly, you say with fake confusion, “But I thought you said you didn’t like it.” “I like it!” He pushes your foot to the side forcefully and crawls up between your legs, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling it down towards his very hard cock. “I like it, ok?” “I can see that.” You hum, pleased, and start stroking his dick, your grip loose and your touch light. “A little spanking was enough to break you after all. You say you’re not easy but you’re actually just a little slut, aren’t you?” He whimpers at your words, his eyes squeezing shut and his hips bucking into your hand, trying to get something more than the feather light touches you’re giving him. “You want more, baby?” You tease, and he nods earnestly. “I’ll give you everything you want. But first, I want my apology. I want to you to tell me exactly how sorry you are.” “I’m sorry, noona.” He gives in right away, ready to give you anything you want if only you’d keep going. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Smiling evilly, you rub your thumb in circles around his slit, the precum collected there making it very slippery. “What are you sorry for?” He groans in frustration, annoyed that you’re dragging this out. Unhappy with his response, you smack his sore ass in punishment, reprimanding him, “It sure doesn’t sound like you’re sorry.” “No, I am. I swear I am.” He rushes to say, “I’m sorry for being a brat.” Now that he’s playing along, you start stroking him again, one hand jerking his cock while the other fondles his balls. “Hmm, and what else?” “I—I’m… I don’t…” He frowns, eyes hazy and mouth hanging open, unable to concentrate when you’re dragging your hand over his cock so maddeningly slow. He fumbles around for a bit, trying to figure out the answer you’re looking for, but coming up empty so you decide to help him out.  “Are you sorry for disrespecting your hyung?” His slackened jaw slams shut and he glares at you, his eyes even clearing up a bit from the anger. You know he’s dying to talk back. You don’t expect anything less from him. Jisung loves being the center of people’s attention, especially yours, and now that you’re giving your attention to someone else, he can’t stand it. But right now, you hold his release in your hand and are fully prepared to take it away from him if he misbehaves, and he knew that. So he grits his teeth and tells you want you want to hear for now, though you suspect he’ll try to get back at you for it later. “Yes…I’m sorry.” “Good boy.” You coo, laughing as he shudders at your words. Oh, so he likes getting praised too? God, he was delicious. He was so sensitive to every little thing you said or did that you could think of a million ways you could play with him. “See? You wanna be a good boy. You’re just too proud to admit it.” Jisung bites down hard on his lip to stop the sharp retort that spring up automatically, staying quiet until he’s sure he won’t say something to get himself in trouble. “Yeah, I wanna be your good boy. Can you please give me more now?” “So impatient, baby. Do you want noona to make you cum?” You start moving your hand faster, building up a pace you know will get him there quickly. “Yes!” He moans, relieved that you’re not teasing him anymore. Little does he know what’s coming next for him, poor boy. “Yeah? Tell me when you’re about to cum.” You order, and too fucked out to know better, he agrees. Tightening your hand around him, you give him long, firm strokes until he’s putty in your hands, fully surrendering himself to you, then you pump his length shallowly and focus all your attention on just the head of his cock, your closed fist alternating between twisting around it and pumping it. “I’m…noona! I’m gonna—” He throws his head back, crying out. As soon as you feel his cock twitch, you pull your hand away, and despite the lack of stimulation, he starts cumming anyway. But you know the orgasm is far from pleasurable. Jisung wails in agony as he experiences what is probably the first ruined orgasm of his life, his hips moving on their own, desperately humping the air as cum starts dribbling out of his cock. His eyes are wild and confused, boring into your own and trying to seek out an explanation for this new feeling he is experiencing, wanting to be reassured that you can stop this torture, only to be met with a wicked smile as you delight in his pain. So he tries to save himself, his own hands moving towards his cock but you stop him before he can do anything, grabbing his hands and pin them against his sides. You hungrily watch as he squirms under the effect of the searing pleasure that offers no relief, only intensifying and aggregating in his belly. “N-no,” He sobs, and his body finally stops shaking. He’s still hard though, his cock impossibly red and swollen, and as soon as you let his hands go, he immediately tries again to touch himself again. But his dick was much too sensitive for that right now, and he only hurts himself trying. You watch in delight as he struggles to decide between touching himself and getting hurt from the overstimulation or not touching himself and getting hurt from the overwhelming need. You felt justified in your punishment. He deserves this for the little stunt he pulled back at the cafeteria and for being a pain in your ass for the entire duration you’ve been at JYP.  But when tear start spilling down his face, you begin to feel a little guilty. Myabe you were too hard on him. Sure, he’s an insolent little brat but he truly was suffering right now and he didn’t even understand what was happening. “Han, stop it.” You intervene, pushing him to the floor and pinning his hands down next to his head. You were trying to get the squirming boy to settle down, but he only struggles harder, taking your severe tone to mean that you’re going to hurt him even more. You needed to soften up a bit. You needed to do something you never thought you’d do for Han Jisung: actually be nice to him. Holding his face in your hands gently, you coo down at him, your voice soft but firm, “Baby, I need you to settle down. I want to help you but I can’t do it if you keep struggling. Will you be a good boy lie still for me?” The reaction is immediate; he freezes and stares up at you, surprised at how tender you’re being. Capitalizing on his moment’s shock, you start peppering sweet little kisses all over his face while continuing to urge him to calm down, and promising to make it better. You keep this up until the gush of salty tears finally turns into a light trickle then you pull back. You brush the wet bangs away from his forehead and caress his cheek gently, “I’ve got you, baby.” “Why did you do that, noona?” He sniffles, looking up at you with huge puppy eyes, like a kid who you just stole candy from. “You needed to be punished.” “No, I didn’t. You just like torturing me. You’re so cruel, noona.” Even with tears still glistening on his face, he finds a way to milk this. “And I’m still so hard.” He tries to buck up against you, but even the cotton fabric of your shorts is too rough on his sore dick, making him whines and demand for you to do something about it. “You said you’d fix this.” You swallow back the sharp retort that was on the tip of your tongue. You’ve punished him enough today, and despite his entitled behavior, he has suffered enough. And you knew just what you had to do to help him. When you get up to take off your shorts and panties, Jisung looks at you like you were handing him the key to the whole fucking candy shop, obviously misconstruing your actions.  “I’m not going to fuck you, Han.” You say, casually squashing his hopes. “Why?” He elongates the word in an annoying way, sitting up to grab you and pull you down to the floor with him. “Because you’re too sensitive right now.” “No, I’m not! I can take—” He cuts himself up with a yelp when you grab his dick. Arching an eyebrow at him pointedly, you pin his hands down and order him to keep them there. “But I—” He gets interrupted again, this time by your fingers pushing into his mouth that he loves to run so much. “Suck.” Finally, something he obeys. The boy is messy, swirling his tongue around your fingers as he sucks on them eagerly, getting not only them wet, but also your panties. This whole thing, just like last time, was making you drenched. Maybe you could sit on his face. Make him do some work for a change. It’ll even shut him up… “Hurry!” He demands, turning his head to the side to get your fingers out of his mouth. They slip down his chin, leaving a small trail of saliva on their way. Grabbing your hips that were hovering just above his dick, he pulls you flush against him, only whimpering a little from the residual pain as his cock gets pressed between his belly and your slick pussy. “What did I say?” You growl, slamming his hands back down. “You were taking too long.” “That’s not for you to decide.” You spit out, glaring at him. He glares right back, challenging you. This boy just didn’t know when to quit. Maybe he really was acting out on purpose, provoking you so you would hurt him. You decide to test that theory out, giving him a warning to see if he would disobey it or not, “If you touch me one more time without permission, you’re going to regret it.” He looks like he’s about to argue so you clamp a hand over his mouth— apparently this is becoming a running theme here—and you slowly, very slowly, start sliding your hips forwards and backwards over his cock, letting your juices coat it entirely before you start moving faster so you wouldn’t cause him any more pain. As his cock gets wet and slippery, the pleasure starts to overtake the pain, and you feel him bucking his hips up against you, his fading glare getting replaced by a needy expression. “Feeling good, brat?” You ask, taking your hand off his mouth so he could reply. “Yes. Please don’t hurt me again.” He begs, terrified that you might move away from him when he starts cumming again. “I won’t. I want you to cum for real this time, and I want you to do it all over yourself.” You smirk, pushing his shirt up and grinding faster against him. You are always surprised to see his abs. You just don’t expect a small guy like Jisung to have them, but he does, and you hope to see them covered in his own release soon. “And not that pathetic dribbling mess. I want thick, hot cum shooting out of your cock just like last time. I want you to look like the slut I know you are.” “I don’t want to.” Jisung replies insolently, taking you aback. You had thought you’d broken him already but apparently not. His hands—that you specifically told him to keep by his side— move up to your breasts to squeeze them. “I’d rather cum on your tits and send a picture of it to Wonpil-hyung.” You slap him. Jisung’s hands drop to his sides like dead weight, and he stares at you with a mixture of shock and arousal in his eyes. “Oh my god, Jisung, I’m so—”  “Fuck, do that again.” “What? No!” He reaches for your breasts again. And that’s how you know he was doing it on purpose, because when you slap him once more, his hands fall to your hips, holding you still as his hips buck up against you sloppily, and cums. The sight in front of you is even more sinful than you could’ve ever imagined. You didn’t really get to savor the moment properly last time so you try to commit to memory every little detail of him right now, from the thick robes of cum covering his stomach to the way he was quivering under you, the prettiest fucked out expression covering his face, and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, you’re reminded of the throbbing need between your legs. Climbing up his body, you smirk at the confused look on his face. “Wanna make noona feel good, baby?” He doesn’t even bother answering you, he just grabs you and pull you down towards his eager mouth. You’re not complaining though, not with the way he’s eating you out with such vigor, his tongue swiping up and down your slit hungrily and his lips kissing and sucking on your clit. You wouldn’t have been able to handle any teasing right now anyway. So despite his movements being a little too rough and sloppy, you appreciate the eagerness of it. Besides, the sheer imagery of him looking so fucked out beneath you, yet still so happy and willing to have you sit on his face so he can please is more than enough to make you lose it. As you feel yourself getting close, which you had to admit was worryingly fast despite Jisung’s unrefined technique, you order him to stick his tongue out so you can ride his face. And he happily obliges with, holding his tongue rigidly and watching you with rapt attention as you fuck yourself on it.  “Sungie, I’m gonna cum. Suck on my clit, baby.” You cry, tugging on his hair. He flicks his tongue over your clit a couple of times before he wraps his lips around it and sucks harshly, making your legs shake. You can no longer hold yourself up, and your weight falls on him, smothering him. But if he couldn’t breathe, it doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he’s moaning out wantonly against your pussy, the vibrations adding to the shocks of pleasure that are shaking up your body.  As the high leaves your body, you slump down to the floor next to him, and despite how oxyegn-starved he was, he still whines at the loss and drags his body over to you. You’re too tired to fend him off so you let him wrap his arms around you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and sticky against your skin. After lying there quietly for a while, trying to catch your breaths,  Jisung is the first to break the silence, which comes as no surprise to you. “You’re never getting rid of me after this.” He proclaims happily, and even though his face was hidden, you just knew he was grinning from ear to ear. •❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Quick poll: I’m thinking of adding a scene in part 4 where the OC doms Minho and Chan in front of Jisung and punishes them for talking smack about her to him. Would you guys like that or should I keep it exclusive to Jisung?  Also as always, feedback is greatly appreciated :)

Legends

Chapter Ten ~

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie/ Eren x Mikasa (other pairings will be added as the story goes on)

Words count: 5963

* spoilers for chapter 127 and up

Summary:

an injury

a miracle

an understanding

and maybe 'everything happens for a reason' holds some truth in it, and all of it leads to that tingle of emotions with unsolvable maze that hypnotize its victims

~a story of broken hearts who are searching for a cure while mending each other’s wounds

It’s been two weeks since Hanji and the rest left.

The days seemed to stretch into eternity, dinners were tasteless, the nights were colder than they really were, and silence was the default ambience they adapted to.

The stream became Eren, Mikasa, and Armin’s, most frequently visited place, well, it’s not like they got a variety of options beside the labyrinthine forests and boundless mountains, but it gave them an adequate privacy to discuss things that were better kept concealed from others, for instance, Eren and Mikasa’s engagement.

They all agreed that postponing the announcement until Hanji and the rest came back was the best choice they could go with, and it also depended on what news Hanji brought back.

One afternoon, Armin was on his way to the stream in search of his two childhood friends who couldn’t be found anywhere around the cottage. But he halted when he glimpsed them through thick, tangled branches.

They were sitting by the stream, Mikasa leaning against Eren’s chest, while he caressed strands of her hair between his fingers. They were talking in low, hushed voices, before Mikasa turned her head and pressed her lips against Eren’s.

Armin turned around and skittered back to the cottage, golden particles of joyfulness flying over his shoulder, mellow grass and flowers’ buds blossoming behind his step. His lips stretched into a beaming grin. From now on, it would be better to rethink his decisions of looking for them each time they disappeared, together.

Luckily, they didn’t have to try hard in terms of hiding their relationship; both were a shy wreck when surrounded with people. If their hands slightly pumped into each other, they’d profusely apologize with unnecessary politeness. Everyone would shoot them quizzical glances, but eventually, they’d go on with whatever they could do in a cottage discarded in the middle of nowhere.

Well, except Mikasa and Eren were idiots.

Due to recent developments, it was a normal occurrence to wake up and find Mikasa in Eren’s sleeping bag, her head snuggled into his chest and his arms wrapped around her waist.

Annie wondered if they legitimately forgot about the past and decided to start with a new, blank page, or if it was just a passing delusional façade which they were seeking to turn a blind eye on. She couldn’t comprehend how Mikasa forgave Eren for all the unmeasurable suffering he put her through. 

So, one night, while Annie had kitchen duty with Armin, she tentatively asked about them.

Annie would never forget what Armin said, when he swiveled his eyes to her, a smile on his face, a potato and a knife occupied his hands: “They didn’t.”

“How is that?” Annie tilted her head to the side, glancing at her ring on Armin’s finger.

“They didn’t forget about the past. Mikasa isn’t over what Eren put her through, nor is Eren, but…” Armin looked down at the potato clutched between his fingers, it had a nasty brown spot on the side of it, with a swift motion of the knife, Armin cut it off. He didn’t finish his sentence.

The dinner that night, Mr. Leonhart asked Armin something no one thought would be talked about: “So Arlert.”

The spoon halted halfway to Armin’s mouth, slight chattering erupting from the table.

“About the ‘memory altering’ you mentioned the other day,” Mr. Leonhart continued, everyone else stopped chewing, spoons no longer clanking against plates, and a humid waft flew through the opened window, “so Eren,” He nudged his head towards where Eren was sitting, “he is capable of changing memories of the Eldians the way he wants to, am I wrong?”

Armin swallowed, gently putting down his spoon on the half-eaten plate of the potatoes he pealed with Annie not long ago: “You’re not wrong, but… it’s not about Eren, it’s the power of the founder that Eren happens to be the holder of.”

“Well that is not very different from what I said.”

“I’m sorry but I think it is, I mean…” Armin hesitated, he repulsed against fidgeting in his seat, “saying that Eren is the one who alters the memories… makes it sound like he changes memory for his own gain, a complete misuse of the Founder power.”

Mr. Leonhart arched an eyebrow, chewing slowly on his food. Annie was -as always- sitting by her father, silently observing the conversation.

“On the other hand,” Armin continued his spiel, he deemed the silence as permission to keep going, “when we say ‘it’s the Founder that’s capable of altering memories, then it’s objective enough to know that it’s not a personal… privilege.”

Mr. Leonhart leaned forward in his seat: “And why are you calling it a privilege?”

A spoon clattered on the table, and everyone whipped their heads towards Annie, whom mouth was agape, staring at Armin.

“I…” Armin began, all eyes swiveling from Annie to him, he glanced at Eren, “I do think it’s a privilege to be able to… change someone’s memories.”

Connie snorted and shook his head: “How is that even a good thing, Armin? We’ve lived all our lives with lies and you are fine with it? Really?”

“No, Connie that’s not what I meant-”

“Connie is right,” Jean interfered, “it’s, and I quote you, ‘inhumane’.”

“And what if it meant happiness to someone you love?” Armin half-cried out.

“Even if it meant them forgetting about you?” Mr. Leonhart asked in return.

“Yes!” Armin’s breath quickened, the ‘yes’ he flung had the weight of detouring future events, and Armin didn’t estimate its heaviness until it came out of his mouth. Mr. Leonhart’s lips twitched in a hasty smirk before his face fell into its passive self.

With shaking fingers, Armin picked up his spoon and stabbed it into the cooling-down potato chunk. Slowly everyone went back to their prior small talks, though their voices were hushed, and their glances faltering.

Annie held the spoon that fell out of her hand a few minutes ago, but she didn’t finish her plate.

Later that night, Mr. Leonhart somehow found Eren, Mikasa, and Armin’s spot at the stream, and he followed Eren and Armin there.

“Hello there, young men,” Mr. Leonhart emerged, and both Armin and Eren jumped. Armin thought that Mr. Leonhart simply materialized from nothingness, he didn’t hear him coming, and Mr. Leonhart was the last one Armin would expect to go there, well, not with his chronic harmed leg.

“Is something wrong?” Armin asked, he stood up out of homage for the old man, Eren followed suit.

Mr. Leonhart let out a breathy chuckle, he cleared his throat endeavoring to hide his labored breathing from a transient journey: “Are bad news the first thing you think of when I show up?”

Armin didn’t know if Mr. Leonhart was being serious or sarcastic, and it didn’t sound like his tone held good news either.

“Well,” Mr. Leonhart let out with a sigh, “I am sorry to disturb your evening, but I came here to request something, that I am afraid, can’t be postponed for much longer.”

Eren looked at Armin from the corner of his eyes; he already told him about his conversation with Mr. Leonhart, how he doesn’t want Armin anywhere near Annie, but Armin didn’t seem like he held any grudge towards the old man, if anything, he told Eren the story from a very understanding point of view.

“We will do what we can,” Eren took the lead; he deemed that Armin would want him to.

“Good,” Mr. Leonhart replied, “I would like to ask you to alter my daughter’s memories.”

Armin’s sight clouded and he was sure he didn’t hear right, Mr. Leonhart could not have just asked Eren to erase Annie’s memories, but when Armin swiveled his head in the direction of Eren, the lines formed between Eren’s eyebrows were enough confirmation.

Eren’s mouth opened and closed but words didn’t come out, and when silence stretched into an unbearable stillness, Armin said: “I’m sorry, altering whom memories?”

Mr. Leonhart shot Armin a look with a raised eyebrow, and the anger boiling inside his veins was inevitable.

“You know Eren can’t just simply-”

“I believe you are not the one with the Founder, and I believe Eren can speak for himself.”

The veins in Armin’s forehead became prominent, his hands turning into fists, he chewed on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything that would be regrettable, or worse, be held against him in the future.

But Mr. Leonhart wasn’t giving Armin a rest, he continued: “So Eren, as her father, I think, for her own well-being, starting fresh new would do her good, and I want her to be happy with the rest of her life, to forget the pain she had to go through.”

Armin took a step forward but Eren held him back from his sleeve: “And what about you? You want to alter your memory too?”

After a moment of silence, Mr. Leonhart answered with one, truncate answer: “No.”

Eren let go of Armin’s sleeve: “I think you know that I can’t just use the Founder for personal uses-”

“You are not, you are using it to save someone’s life,” Mr. Leonhart proudly defended his idea, like there was nothing in the world that could deter his mind, and the pride in his voice made pile rise up Armin’s throat.

“How in the world would that save a life?” Armin struggled with focusing his eyes on Mr. Leonhart, “how is that not a misuse of power?”

“Would you not do the same for someone you love?” Mr. Leonhart pivoted, using Armin’s words against him and hitting a nerve in him.

“It’s unfair to take away all the struggle she went through!” Armin burst, taking a step forward, Eren didn’t stop him this time. Armin’s hands were shaking, power charging into his veins that he could just-

“So you want her to live in pain for the rest of her life?” The calmness in Mr. Leonhart’s voice only made Armin’s anger burgeon.

“That pain is what made her Annie, it’s who she is! You’ll rob her off the struggles that made her who she is! The struggles she fought and barely made it through! How would you even think about robbing her off what she deserves credits for?!”

“You are not saying that out of care for Annie, you just do not want her to forget you.” Mr. Leonhart proclaimed, his nose one with the clouds.

“N-no-”

“You do know that if you two met in normal circumstances, you will hardly stand out from the crowd, she would not have bothered acknowledging you,” Mr. Leonhart pointed his cane at Armin, swaying on his spot, “you are aware that you were lucky enough that my daughter even noticed your existence.”

At that moment, Armin knew what it was like for a flaming arrow to burn through his ribcage and shoot straight into his heart.

Mr. Leonhart turned his head away from Armin, instead, he looked at Eren and asked: “If it was consensual, then it is not misuse.”

Eren shook his head, “I… I can’t say-”

“Sure you can!” Armin wasn’t even trying to control the volume of his voice anymore, “Eren you are the holder of an immense power-”

The words stopped in Armin’s throat when his eyes met Eren’s.

When he saw Eren’s softened gaze, his slumped shoulders…

Armin shook his head: “Y-you can’t be…” his eyes widening the more it sank in, “Eren, don’t tell me…”

“I…” Eren tilted his head down, took a deep breath and confessed: “I would be lying if I said I didn’t consider it…”

“That’s- how- no! Just no!”

“But wouldn’t that save all of you from the struggle?” Eren looked up at Armin, meeting his eyes. He flinched when he saw fury dancing through them, “Armin, listen to me-”

“If you ever consider tempering with her memories,” Armin wasn’t used to threats dripping from his voice; poison oozing from his teeth onto the ground, acidifying the grass into a dewy mix of a yellow, soggy hodgepodge. He swallowed and started over, a shaking cautionary finger in front of his face: “if you ever consider tempering with her memories, my memories, or anyone else’s, I swear-”

“You wouldn’t even remember,” Eren stated, as simple as that.

Crack, crack.

Armin retreated his steps, his trust in Eren breaking with every step, the shattering sound of it synchronizing with dry twigs snapping under his boots.

It dawned on him that he could do nothing to stop Eren.

“And you,” Armin shot his eyes towards Mr. Leonhart, he wished he could be as intimidating as he wanted to, but tears were elevating in his throat, on their way to deluge from his eyes, “You’re not even planning to tell her.”

Mr. Leonhart didn’t comment on that, nor did he fidget; his face stoic and it was unbearable how he resembled Annie with his stance.

Armin turned on his spot, and walked away, fuming, tears stinging the edge of his eyes, his throat burning.

He wasn’t far enough from earshot when Mr. Leonhart said, a smirk evident in his voice: “I would never forget this favor.”

Armin imagined them shaking hands with a smile plastered on their faces.

Three days later, Hanji was knocking at the door.

It was a relief to see Hanji, Magath, Gabi, accompanied by Kiyomi all well and healthy, delivering good news.

On their way, they got to track down Kiyomi’s whereabouts, since they separated after the battle at the harbor.

With a slim chance of questioning the location of a nation’s leader without enticing unwanted attention; they succeeded.

They met at a wheel-less wagon that was used as a local pastries side shop.

Kiyomi was ahead of them, already planning her next step, so, with the help of her and Magath, they communicated with other political parties and they concluded to peace, since the world’s most empowered army was lost to the dust, they had no other choice but to ceasefire.

Kiyomi was all over Mikasa when they met, she embraced her in a suffocating hug, crying tears of joy and relief, mumbling things about being worried sick about her and being grateful that she’s well and alive. Mikasa only awkwardly hugged her back.

The light, newly-casual atmosphere was back, and the stress that was wearing them out was finally thawing.

~~~

“So… why did you guys get me here?” Hanji wondered, their hands in their pockets.

Eren looked over at the stream, then back at Mikasa, none of them knowing how to start the conversation. They’ve decided to tell Hanji first in private and plan out their next step.

“Um…” Mikasa started, she hoped Armin was with them; he offered to accompany them, but Mikasa and Eren insisted that they could handle it.

Besides, Mikasa sensed some tension between the two of them; it started the night they went together to the stream, each of them returning to the cottage separately.

“I was wondering… if a… mini-celebration c-could be held…” Mikasa said after a long pause, she was hesitant to talk about this, but since everything was almost back to normal…

“What? A celebration for what? To celebrate peace? I mean yeah sure why not-” 

“N-no,” Eren interrupted Hanji, one drop of sweat slid down his forehead, then he gestured for Mikasa to continue.

Mikasa’s fingers were trembling, she scrubbed her feet together against the dirt and swallowed. She glanced at Eren and whirled of comfort washed over her chest when she saw him nervously smiling at her, and when he nodded, she mustered the courage to let out what she had in the bag.

“A wedding.”

Hanji stared at Mikasa, a confused, amused expression on their face as the tip of their lips twitched upwards. Hanji gave Mikasa two marginal head shakes and a knitted-eyebrows.

Perhaps Mikasa should’ve elaborated more.

“A wedding…” Hanji repeated slowly, Mikasa nodded in confirmation. Hanji squinted their eyes before they dropped the bomb: “and whom exactly is getting married?” 

Mikasa held her breath in, her tongue turned into a knot in her mouth, it created a coarse lump, and she thought she’s gonna choke on it and die.

“Mikasa and I…” Eren came to the rescue, Hanji’s eyes swerved to him, and Eren forgot what he wanted to say.

They made two scenarios of how Hanji would react; they’d either glare them to death, or kick them out of their temporary (or not) residence and threaten to chop off their ears if they ever see them nearby again.

It was off limits that Hanji would start… cackling.

At first it was just giggles, then it turned into chuckles, at this point, Eren and Mikasa were thinking if straight up running away was an option- then Hanji was guffawing, stomping their feet on the ground, torrents of tears meandering down their cheeks.

The laughing ceased into minor hiccups, morphing into respiratory snorts, before Hanji was muffling their mouth with their sleeve, trying to hold in the sobs shaking their body. Hanji’s legs gave out, sprawling on the dirt beneath them.

The option of running away was thrown out the window as Eren and Mikasa cautiously stepped closer to Hanji, as if they were approaching a ticking bomb. Mikasa put a feathery hand on Hanji’s shoulder, craning her head to the side to get a glimpse at Hanji’s face, but Hanji cloistered it with both their hands, sniffling.

Mikasa shot a panicked look in the direction of Eren, who shrugged helplessly. If only Armin was here with us.

“I’m really sorry…” Hanji wept out between ceasing-sobs, “it just…”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, we are sorry, it was emotionless of us to-”

“No! No!” Hanji interrupted Mikasa, finally looking up at her; their cheeks were wet, and their eyes were starting to redden, “it reminded me of Erwin.”

Eren and Mikasa glanced at each other; bewildered at how this whole marriage spiel reminded Hanji of the past commander.

“We used to make bets, you know, like really dumb bets about the love lives of others and…” Hanji tilted her head to the sky, watching a white bird soaring over their head, drawing circles in its trace, “and we made a bet about you two.”

Hanji compelled a breathy laugh, “He bet twenty bucks on you to get together when you turn twenty, and here we are! Now I owe him five bucks!” Hanji spread their arms and yowled at the sky: “even at this you were right!”

Eren looked at Mikasa, only to see that she was already looking at him, her eyes glistening, the tips of her lips twitched upwards in a sad smile.

~~~

Mikasa, Eren, and Hanji have been out for two hours.

Armin was leaning against the wall beside the window, he kept glancing outside, waiting for the moment they came back.

When Eren and Mikasa decided to break the ice and announce their relationship, Armin offered to be by their side, but they dismissed him, saying that “we got this.”

Got it my ass, Armin thought, if only they looked at their reflection in the mirror…

Nothing regarding altering Annie’s memories had been said between Armin and Eren, and since Mikasa didn’t interfere, Armin assumed that Eren didn’t mention it to her.

Armin must talk to Eren, he can’t just let him do it…

But at the same time, something nagged at Armin’s head…

It bothered Armin that he was -to some extent- convinced about a ‘new start’ would be good for Annie. He cared so much for her, he wanted her to be happy.

The logical thinking is to tinker all their memories, they’ve been through hell and back, and not everyone in the world could forget their past, to have the ability to wring away all the taunting bitter life they’ve been through.

It’s tempting…

But…

Armin closed his eyes, he saw himself, his younger self, weeping in his grandfather embrace.

My parents were killed.

He saw a colossal titan looming over wall Maria.

I lost my hometown.

He remembered when his grandfather gave him his straw hat.

I lost my grandfather.

The chill breeze drifting through the window reminded him of his days on the streets.

I was homeless.

The stinging ache in his legs and arms and the questionable aroma of the boys’ dorms.

I enrolled in the military and became a soldier.

Trost, his first expedition; the bodies of his comrades.

I witnessed my friends die.

He remembered vomit burning his throat after the first time he stamped his hands with humans’ blood.

I killed people, I killed people.

Shiganshina, Commander Erwin, and Bertolt.

I was burnt alive, then was brought back to life on behalf of two other people.

When he transformed at the harbor.

I became a monster.

Sasha…

I lost a lot.

Eren, Mikasa…

I saw the most important people to me suffer and I couldn’t do anything about it.

The rumbling.

I’m not the one who should’ve been revived.

And here they are.

Armin let out a sigh, he saw more than a human being should see in their whole life, and he was, what? Almost twenty years old?

It’s funny how far life can go with being unfair.

But…

Armin clenched his jaw, oh yeah, he saw the worst life could offer, but… it gave him a lot.

His dreams, the ocean, his childhood friends, his comrades.

The person he had become…

And you know what? I will never even forget about it, Armin thought, all these struggles? Oh yeah, I totally scraped my teeth against metal to go through it.

And you think I’ll just throw it away? To throw away all the pain I got over with? No. way.  

But maybe Annie had another perspective, maybe she just…

She won’t remember you, she’d go on with her life.

Perhaps she doesn’t want to remember you, maybe it’s better for her to forget, and forget forever.

Armin decided that he had enough with his thoughts, he needed a distraction, and at the same moment, Annie sat on the couch across from him.

Armin sighed for the millionth time, as if letting out the air compressing his lungs would somehow disperse the thoughts crowding his mind. He managed to maneuver his mind into thinking that this was some sort of a sign.

Since the day Mr. Leonhart had that very first tirade with Armin, he had a hesitant urge to talk out things with Annie, and after Mr. Leonhart’s other talk with Eren and Armin, the itch gotten painfully worse. He wasn’t aware of what exactly needed to be discussed, or how to approach it, but one of the things he was sure would slip off his tongue was why didn’t she tell me she was leaving?

And what frustrated him is that she didn’t even budge about it, like it was nothing!

Armin took a deep breath; he was going to sit beside her, cut to the chase, ask her about the whole leaving thing and attempt to get to the other ‘memories’ issue.

… or not, first, he should probably ask about her day, maybe a cup of tea would also be nice, or he could wait for another time where he wasn’t stressed out about-

The door burst open, and a beaming Hanji stormed into the cottage: “Alright you guys we’re gonna need a big ass cake ready by the evening-”

“Hanji no wait!” A flustered Mikasa and Eren shrieked, jostling themselves in the door frame.

“What’s going on?” Historia walked into the living room, her eyes travelled from Annie sitting on the couch, to Armin who was still shock-frozen, to Hanji trying to say something but Mikasa suffocating them with her hands.

Jean and Connie emerged from the kitchen, holding cups of some steaming beverage, then one after the other, everyone was flowing into the room, even Levi.

“Would someone care to explain?” Historia asked, her tone on the verge of astonishment and frustration.

“We… uh…” Eren started, but the dozens of eyes staring into him paralyzed his tongue.

“We would like to ask for your blessing of our marriage.” Mikasa managed to let out in one go without getting paralyzed herself, earning a panicked glance from Eren, who didn’t expect Mikasa to just announce it like that.

Gabi gasped so loud and covered her mouth with her hand.

A fatal silence followed.

A needle drop would be heard through the stillness that swathed them, and maybe they were holding their breaths because it couldn’t be heard either.

“Well,” Historia started, her tone breathy, she didn’t know what to say, her mouth was open but no words came out, then, she cleared her throat, closed her eyes, took a deep breath that flared her nostrils and caved in the walls, then her eyes fluttered back open. Historia stood at the center of the room, and with her queen voice, she declared: “me, as the Queen of Eldia, would gladly give you my blessings, and I wish you a future filled with happiness.” 

Eren averted his head towards Mikasa; she was chewing on her bottom lip. They looked at each other, then attentively stepped in the direction of Historia, they knelt in front of her, their hands on their hearts.

Then Historia laughed loudly, breaking her queen demeanor, as she ushered them to their feet and wrapped her arms around them in a ribs-crushing embrace. Mikasa managed a breathy giggle through her compressed lungs.

Everyone followed suit, giving their blessing with awkward hugs and clumsy handshakes. Eren and Mikasa even got a handshake from Levi, and that was something… right?

Kiyomi shed some tears as she hugged Mikasa until her face turned blue, and Kiyomi promised her that, if only the circumstances were different, she’d hold a wedding for them that the whole world would be talking about for years.

Armin was watching from the corner of the room, not budging to lean off the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. Armin took a deep breath, relishing this passing moment of content, I did ask for a distraction after all, but when he opened his eyes, he saw twinkling shreds of glass on the floor, splattered by red droplets, Connie rushing outside, following Jean.

No one seemed to notice that but Armin; the room was lively with talks and plans for the wedding. He peeked from the window and saw Jean wrapping a towel over his right hand, Connie saying something, wearing a mixed expression between distraught and concern.

When Armin swiveled his eyes back to the room, a pair of icy blue glowered at him from across the room.

Well, maybe he wasn’t the only one who noticed that after all.

Annie nudged her head towards the kitchen and went into it, after a minute or so, Armin followed her.

The kitchen wasn’t as spacious as a proper functional kitchen is supposed to be, its maximum capacity was three people adjoined shoulder to shoulder.

Annie propped herself against the sink, Armin leaned against the wall opposed from her, he waited for her to say something.

Annie hugged herself and said: “Do you think it’s a good idea for them to get married now?”

Armin frowned his eyebrows, his lips twitching into an uncertain smile: “It’s not about what I or anyone else think, it’s about them. If this would make them happy, then why not?”

“Armin, we’re living in an isolated cottage, the rest of the world assumes that we’re dead, and just the other day we were in the middle of a war.” Annie reasoned.

“So what? We should sit around and brood about it until we die?” Armin didn’t mean to sound as sarcastic as he did, but Annie didn’t bat an eye about it.

“Are they ready to throw their past away and start a new life? Just like that?” 

“I can’t see why you would have any problem with that,” Armin shrugged, she does want to forget, and this is a proof, “besides, we’ve already talked about this before.”

Annie pushed herself off the sink and walked to Armin, who didn’t fidget but locked eyes with her.

“Do you think they’re in the right state of mind to make a family?” Annie questioned, getting closer to Armin.

“They can heal together; I know they’ll be there for each other,” Armin answered, he didn’t know where Annie was going with her questions and a part of him wanted her to just stop, he wanted to block his ears, curl in a ball and freeze his mind for a minute, just a minute.

“Is it even possible? And what about Jean? You saw him…”

“Annie…” Armin’s eyes softened, he let his arms drop at his sides, he said in a tiny voice: “we’re all broken, we’re all damaged. Mikasa and Eren are trying to patch-up each other, together, that’s how they were meant to be since they were nine, and Jean…” don’t say it don’t say it, “he has to let it go.” 

Annie tilted her head up, her arms that hugged herself loosened, but her eyes didn’t deter.

Armin sighed, pushing himself off the wall and straightening up, he forced a smile and inquired: “Why are you so concerned with them?” 

Annie’s eyes wavered, she swallowed and answered: “I’m not that concerned with them.”

“You are.” Armin disagreed.

Annie didn’t say anything back, she just swayed on her legs, sometimes jittering her foot. Armin craning down his neck to look at her was unusual to him, he surely was much taller than her, but seeing her from that angle made her look even more petite than she was.

Annie turned her head to the side: “Since I’m living here with all of you, I must as well make sure you all-”

Without thinking, Armin placed two fingers under her chin and spun her head to him.

Annie’s eyes widened for a mere second, her cheeks heating up. She glanced at his hand and then at his eyes, managing a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving…” Armin whispered, a halfhearted smile playing on his lips, and his head dropped down, his bangs falling into his eyes, and Annie held herself from brushing them back.

Leaving?

Annie’s eyebrows wrinkled, her head skewed, not really knowing what Armin was referring to-

“Annie! Come here!” Historia’s voice chirped from the living room, Armin dropped his hand and both him and Annie whipped their head towards the sound.

Annie glanced at Armin one last time, before she walked out the kitchen.

However, Armin didn’t move, he leaned back on the wall and crossed his arms, kicking the wall with the heel of his foot.

Voices erupted from the other room, Reiner’s gruff, deep voice could never be mistaken: “You never told us you were leaving, when are you even planning to?”

“At least wait until the wedding! It’s gonna be fun!” Historia’s voice rose again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get a chance to tell you.” Annie’s voice was finally heard.

The half-smile that pulled at Armin’s lips dropped, he sighed then pressed his lips together.

Just what exactly was I expecting? 

Armin pushed himself off the wall, and walked into the living room, noticing that Annie was sitting next to her father, as everyone else’s enthusiastic voices were overlapping.

However, Armin didn’t see what happened a few minutes ago.

He didn’t see that Annie was shocked when they asked her why she was leaving, and that she didn’t know how to answer until she looked at her father, who only nodded silently.

Later that night, everyone was immersed in sleep, slow breaths and quietness.

But Annie…

Her eyes snapped open, her breathing quick and unrhythmic, a layer of cold sweat covering her skin. Annie looked around the room, but the pitch-black color didn’t allow her to see anything, as if she didn’t even open her eyes.

She couldn’t remember what she woke up from, all she knew that it was horrific.

Annie stood up on shaking knees and tiptoed between sleeping bags relying on her memories of how they lined them up. Trying not to step on anyone’s foot was like eating soup with a fork.

She kept looking behind her back, as if what she saw in her sleep had come to haunt her in this world too. Each time her toes touched the cold, wooden floor, a blazing fire shot up her spine.

Once Annie stepped into the kitchen, she closed the door and leaned against it.

She took deep breaths, choking on the third one as she realized how dry her throat was.

Water, I need water.

From the end of the kitchen, Annie heard a chirk of a match being lit, its little spark following before it was a ball of fire illuminating the kitchen.

Annie startled, inhaling sharply before another gust of air scraped her throat, turning her into a coughing fit that obliged out wheezing sounds, the air squeezing out from her lungs.

The match got closer to her and Annie could finally see a hand stretched out, carrying a glass of water.

Annie took it and gulped it down, the thorns in her throat dwindling.

“I thought you would be up by now.”

After drinking the water until its last drop, Annie wiped her mouth with her sleeve, while still panting, she said: “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is freaking people out is what you do now, Eren?”

Eren chuckled with sealed lips, making his laugh sound like water bubbling in a pot, right before it boiled. He started searching in one of the door-less cabinets, internally thanking whoever suggested depositing their rusty doors.

Soon after, he produced a candle and lit it with the almost-dead match, before he leaned against the sink, looking at Annie, who managed to control her breathing, and was gawking at Eren, like he held a cut limb and not a candle.

“Well, since you’re here,” Eren started, “I was meaning to talk to you.”

“And you think now is a good time? In the middle of the night after I almost died, and you scared the shit out of me?”

“Couldn’t ask for a better opportunity.”

“Alright I’m out,” Annie cracked the door open, “whatever you have to say, can be said tomorrow-”

“W-wait,” Eren lurched forward, catching Annie’s hoodie’s cape between his finger, “I-it’s urgent,” He pleaded with his eyes, and Annie rose an eyebrow at him, “it’s about Armin.”

Annie stopped, a foot outside the kitchen and the other still in. She stared his trespassing hand off her, then slowly closed the door, making sure to not wake anyone up.

“You want to gossip about Armin with me? Bad choice if you ask me.”

“Annie, I’m trying to be serious, and I know that you do have your own inquires about him.”

Annie waited a few seconds before she averted her eyes and muttered: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, and I’ll answer your question, if you answer mine.”

She was apprehensive for a few moments, and she couldn’t tame the burgeon curiosity clawing its nails in her skull.

Annie tapped her foot three times: “If only I go first.”

“Deal.”

“How did Armin know I was leaving before I knew myself?” Annie let it out in one go before she could allow herself to back away.

“Your father told him.”

“What? When-”

“My turn.”

Annie rolled her eyes.

Eren took a step forward and whispered: “Armin will never forgive me… but I have to…” he sighed, “Annie, I need you to listen.”

~~~

You guys, I’m tearing up as I post this because this took so long to edit, my mind is basically BURNT

Ok so uh, after chapter 132 came out, I kinda… found it hard to write Hanji… in fact, the scene where Hanji screams at the sky, I added it the day before leaks came out and we got the horrific news…

Anyway, I don’t know how to approach this so I’m just gonna jump straight into it Feedback would be very important to develop this story, after all, I posted it so you guys can get a glimpse into my fucked up mind, and it’s very important to me to know what parts of this story was weak, what parts didn’t make sense, did the characters act in an understandable way in some scenes? Where did I over describe and where did I not describe enough?

Basically, just shoot, I accept criticism whether it’s negative or positive, just SHOOT

Also it would be fun to hear your expectations of how this story might go, since two thirds of it is already written down, it would be really fun to know if we all think the same or not lol Ok I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far have a good day/night!

MLQC Song Fic : Gonna Keep it Under

TagYou know what to do : Listen while reading this

Pairing : GavinxReader, GavinxMC

Tag : .....enduring feelings

Words : 1800

What if Gavin didn’t interrupt you/MC on Blind date? 

(Baby, you and I are best friends

So I gotta keep a distance

'Cause I don't want to risk the thing that we have, no)

Your meeting with Gavin was part of Gavin’s plan. It was arranged. But it would be a lie if Gavin said that he didn’t feel excited meeting you again. You both went from awkward to each other to feeling content to each other. You, who were afraid of Gavin, now would go around, proudly saying that Gavin’s your friend, best friend even. 

You would never know how the term of ‘friend’ made Gavin’s heart flutter, even if he yearned for something else, something more. But Gavin would never do that. Being your friend, being able to protect you from far, not being awkward to each other and have fun with each otehr company was all Gavin could ask for.

It would be lying if Gavin said that his crush towards you had died. Nope.

All the years you were apart and Gavin still had the feelings towards you, even if he dated someone else, it didn’t never last longer than a month because Gavin was never emotionally present for his exes. 

(And my tongue I gotta bite it

But it's oh, so hard to fight it

'Cause I don't wanna mess up all that we share)

“So, what’s your relationship with officer Gavin?” Anna asked one day, when Gavin took you to the shooting location with his bike. You turned to see Gavin, smiling. While Gavin maintained his stoic face, his heart was beating fast.

“He was my senior.” you told Anna. “He was scary back at school, but now i can say that he’s my friend.”

Gavin bit the inside of his cheek.

Friends, huh? That works too. Gavin rather be your friend and keep all of his feelings inside rather than risking it by confessing it and losing it all, losing you. After all these years Gavin tried to find you again, after the attempts to tried to be close, Gavin wouldn’t wanna mess up.

Friends it is.

(You're the needle in the haystack

That I found but need to put back

'Cause I don't wanna you to be that one thing I've lost, no

So the truth remains a secret

And forever I'ma keep it

'Cause I fell there is a line that we shouldn't cross)

“So, what do you like about the target?” Eli asked when both he and Gavin went out for a drink. Gavin glared at Eli and the latter coughed clearing his throat, rephrased what he just said. “I mean, that junior of yours.”

“She’s...the one who saved me.” Gavin hold the glass of cocktail in his hand, playing with the ice cubes by shaking the glass. “My evol was awaken by her.” Gavin closed his eyes, remembering the time when he was free falling from the rooftop and felt something awoken deep inside him when he heard the piano playing and your voice.

Eli hummed. “No, i don’t think that’s all.” Eli smirked. “There’s gotta be more to her, Gavin. If it’s just being grateful to her for saving you, you wouldn’t hung up on several girls you dated in the past like that. It was almost like you couldn’t move on from that highschool crush of yours, for years.” 

Gavin gave Eli an annoyed look that Eli knew that he was right. Gavin sighed.

“True, i did like her even before then. She was an honor student, she had many friends, her journalist talent already exist since she was in journalist club.” Gavin sipped the cocktail. “She was scared of me, back then. But she never ran away from me, unlike some girls, even my classmates. She even gave me a bandaid when she saw a cut on my face.” Gavin chuckled to himself. 

Eli was listening to Gavin rambling stuffs he likes from you, probably because he was under alcohol influence that Gavin bared his other side to Eli. Eli found Gavin amusing, like he was talking with a highschool kid who was in love. The older commander remembered the day Gavin walked in to the commander and literally begged for Leto to give Gavin the mission to keep an eye on you, even it was Eli who was originally supposed to do that.

“Then, since you’re close to her now, why don’t you confess to her?” Eli asked.

Gavin fell silent. For a split second, Eli swore he could see Gavin’s sad smile flashed acrossed his face. 

“There’s a line that i should not cross, Eli.”

Eli wasn’t sure if he felt pity towards Gavin, or wanted to slap some sense to the fellow captain of his for being a coward,

(Oh, baby

Situation's crazy

How you make me love you, love you like that

Love you, love you like that

Don't wanna

Be caught up in some drama

And jeopardize the friendship that we have)

“Gavin, you’re back!” you exclaimed happily when you saw Gavin flew just right outside of your apartment’s balcony. 

Gavin’s eyes lit up seeing you. He did flew back from his missions straight to your home when you send a chat to him, asking if he was okay since you couldn’t contact him for 2 weeks straight. Gavin landed on your balcony, taking off his shoes and walked inside your apartment. Soft pastel colors wasn’t really his fave, but seeing your apartment interior, Gavin just began to like it since it suits you.

“Oh no, you’re hurt!” you said as you saw Gavin’s bruises on his hands. Gavin was about to tell you that it was fine but you were forced to sit on the couch while you walked to your bathroom, getting first aid kit.

Gavin watched you closely as you pat his scarred hand with a disinfectant. You frowned, asking him “Does it hurt?” you asked. Gavin shook his head. He was so used with bruises and scars on his body. Part of the mission.

Watching you tend to his wounds patiently made Gavin’s heart flutter. You checked his other hand, find some cuts on his fingers and you also tend to those wounds too. You frowned, complaining that Gavin should take care more of himself, which Gavin smiled to and nodded as you kept on going on your rambles.

Gavin’s heart would even burst when you prepared food for him later that day. Telling that Gavin always eat takeaways and instant noodle so you opted to cook something for him. You weren’t really a chef like Victor but you thought your cooked meal was pretty decent.

“It’s so unfair, making me love you like that.” Gavin murmured as he watched your back, preparing the food for him.

“Hm? What did you just say?” you asked.

Gavin exhaled. “Nothing.” 

(Being with you is impossible

I can never be too close to you

Baby, I don't wanna lose you no

I ain't gonna be delusional (oh oh)

Emotions start to soar

I lock'em in a drawer

Forever gonna keep it just the way that it is)

“Bro, what’re you waiting for? You should’ve totally ask boss out!” Minor exclaimed as he shoved down his hotdog.

“No.” Gavin deadpanned. 

“But Gav! She’s going to the blind date her aunt set up for her, standing you up! How can you just pass the opportunity! Come on, i’ll help you!” Minor clenched his fist to the air.

“No.” Gavin shook his head. “It’s alright Minor. It’s alright already. I’m fine. Besides, there’s no chance that she would go out with that Chandler guy.” 

Gavin heard from Minor that you went out for a blind date your aunt set up for you. You even told Gavin about it on chat. Gavin could feel that he was being anxious but there was nothing he could do but offering his help, like, he would definitely stand by nearby the restaurant you and this Chandler met and would definitely stormed in if things went south and you needed his help. 

But what Gavin didn’t expect when he entered the restaurant and sat a little bit far from you was, you seemed to enjoy Chandler’s company. You even smiled, laughed. And even…...blushed? Gavin bit the inside of his cheek.

Gavin didn’t even know if having Minor with him right now was a help or a torture to him.

“Gavin, you’re impossible! What if she really go out with that guy?! Seriously i’d rather having my boss dating you! You’ve loved her since high school.” Minor kept on persuade Gavin to came and snatched you away from the Chandler guy.

Believe me, Minor. I’d love to. But--

“One more word, i’ll shut you up myself.” Gavin’s replied immediately make Minor went silent and gulped.

(So that's where it ends 

'Cause baby, I love you

But I am never gonna tell you so 

We can be friends

But never a couple 

I don't wanna I don't wanna lose you, no

So I'll just go, go gonna keep it under

It's good just the way that it is

Go, go, gonna keep it under 

'Cause there's just too much I would miss

I'm gonna keep it under)

“You’re dating Chandler?” Gavin replayed what you just said when he took you home.

You nodded excitedly. “Yes, i’ve been going out with him for several months. He confessed to me last night.” you smiled

Gavin didn’t know what he should react to the news. Happy? Sad? He should be happy because the girl he was so in love with is happy right now. Sad because the source of her happiness wasn’t because of him. It was because of someone else.

That’s how it is, huh? This is how it ends.

Eli or Minor would give him an ear later on but right now Gavin had to deal with the harsh reality. Because he didn’t wanna lose her, didn’t wanna lose the thing that he had with her, Gavin held it all in with him, bury all his feelings deep down. In all honesty, Gavin was insecure. Insecure that he wasn’t good enough to be with her, to make her happy. So he opted to stand by her side, protecting her, like a friend would, while he watched her from far.

“I love you, that’s why, i will let you go.” was what Gavin had in mind.

If you’re happy with your relationship with Chandler, then so be it. At least Gavin would still be able to stay by your side, even if he wouldn’t be able to taste your cooking anymore, or have any excuse to come to your apartment right after his missions.

That was for the best.

“I’m happy for you.” Gavin smiled, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you.” you smiled back at him.

But Gavin had a bad feeling.

A real bad feeling about your relationship with the man named Chandler.

If this Chandler ever hurt you, or he found out that he hurt you, Gavin wouldn’t stay calm about it. He promised himself. He sacrificed his own feelings, keeping it under for years.

How long will it last?

[TO BE CONTINUED]