#i went HOUSE HUNTING for her. i was looking into odd jobs because i thought she needed my help.

[oldhabitsdiescrming]

.

[ferrocyan]

figured it's about time i talk about tart a bit, so let's do that!

c'astarhte kasvert is the warrior of light. she may not look any different than any other adventurers roaming eorzea, but y'know, this one can face primals and kill them. she excels at being the indomitable vanguard of the battlefield, charging in and taking the hits while being none the worse for wear. warrior is her main job, though she takes up other disciplines too on occasion. tart is an easygoing person who is always ready to help people out. she likes people with ambition and drive, and values self-improvement above all. she's honest and rather naive, but has a vengeful streak for those who draw her ire. tart has only one goal in life: be a famous hero whom everyone loves and would never reject. which... mission accomplished! now what else will the warrior of light pursue?

this seeker of the sun was just another victim of the seventh umbral calamity with worse memory problems than most, who drifted into the bustling shipyard of aleport for work. she was less into carpentry than getting in between hapless travelers and dangerous beasts that prowl the roads, though, so her boss recommended her to see baderon for some more suitable work. through him tart stumbled into the scions of the seventh dawn. this group of scholars were able to explain the odd visions she'd been experiencing, and so she joined them without much thought.

the echo had started to plague her a few years after the calamity. she would get recurring visions of the past of other people, locations, objects--and herself. experiencing these visions caused headache and sickness, sometimes, especially when they occurred during sleep. but they allowed tart to recover her memories, little by little. so she pursued them, and there was no easier way to do so than by doing the scions' bidding.

hunting down primals gave tart a sense of purpose. though it wasn't until she faced one head on that she found out: it was fun. battling a primal was a unique thrill that she couldn't get anywhere else. it was exhilarating. it was so so much fun! she would do anything for both the scions of the seventh dawn and the voice of the star in her head, so long as they pointed the way to the next primal battle.

as time went on tart's memories were mostly returned, though she didn't know what to do with them. before moving to la noscea, she was born and raised in eastern coerthas. her parents were knights who served at the dawn vigil, being the vanguard against dravanian attacks. she looked up to her father who led many successful sieges taking back nidhogg's strongholds. those successes didn't last forever, though--eventually he failed, and was cast out for it by the high houses. ishgard and the rest of the world... forgot him completely. after the calamity, even tart had forgotten.

that was the one fate tart wanted to avoid. failure meant being abandoned and forgotten. she could never, ever fail at her duty. or else--

no, no way, that will never happen. she's good at fighting and excellent at not dying, which meant she could never fail! there will definitely never be a moment when she fails at saving the world (shadowbringers looms ominously in the distance)

i'll talk about her journey and development through the expansions some other time. as for her personality, tart is someone who lives in the moment. she takes on whatever's right in front of her, and tends to ignore everything else. if she sees someone in need of help, she will lend a hand. if someone wants to talk to her, she will listen. if she's an hour late to an appointment because she was too busy helping random people out in the streets... she's very sorry. won't happen again, promise. (she'll only be half an hour late next time)

tart sees no value in lying. she wants to be trusted by others and trusts that they are putting their best foot forward, too. this causes her to get taken advantage of, many times, but she doesn't really mind... if she helped them in some way, then good. if they cause her harm, that means she has the right to retaliate. she takes these things in stride and lives easy.

due to lacking knowledge, tart focuses on interfacing with the world by actions instead. she's pretty ignorant and content with that, but when it comes to physical skills, there is no such thing as being content. she hones her talents in combat, trains her body and practices her skills relentlessly. achieving better results than the previous day is her constant pursuit. when she's hit the limit in one discipline, she practices another. she finds joy and fulfillment in living this way.

it's not that she hates learning, though, just that she has a hard time with it, especially from books. she can read, but words on the page tend to get jumbled if she doesn't focus hard enough. and having had terrible experiences in school, she just avoids books if she can help it. much, much prefers learning from people instead. those who are willing to explain complex ideas to her patiently are tart's favorite people.

tart finds it easy to admire others. even if she doesn't entirely agree with or understand people, she likes to look for positives that she can learn from. living in pursuit of self-improvement can be hard--discipline will not keep you going forever. in those times tart turns to the most reliable motivator of all: love.

she falls in love so so easily. she loves the feeling! loves to find things about other people that she likes, admire them, and get a crush. that always makes her want to impress her crushes to look good in front of them. what better way is there to improve oneself, honestly, than falling in love and becoming a better person for the sake of love? nothing! this love tends to be one-sided, though. all that matters to tart is that she's in love, while the other person and their feelings don't really come to the equation. they don't even have to love her back--and often they don't. tart is ok with that.

so yeah, tart is a really self-centered person. she can be helpful and kind, but in the end most of her actions are self-serving. it's all so that she feels good about herself. all so that people like her and want her around. this changes as she starts to form attachments with the scions, and other friends further in the story, but in some matters tart will only ever listen to her own desires.

i think that's all for now, thanks for reading this far! have some pics i like

[memelover1024]

The Original Hunter - Part 4

Eight Months Later

Y/N lay on the Virginia Beach, basking in the sunlight. Her favorite book, Dante’s Inferno in her hands and Elijah's shirt under head as a pillow. She looked up and saw Elijah sitting on the sand with baby Hope showing her all the tiny shells in the sand. Little Hope was only 3 months old but she was the smartest baby you’d ever met. Hayley was sunbathing on a towel a few feet away and Klaus was rubbing lotion into carolines back, for what reason she didn't know. Vampires can't get sunburnt but it was none of her business. Elijah got up and handed Hope to Caroline and announced he was going to go for a swim in the water. “I'll join you.” Hayley said, hopping to her feet and following Elijah to the water, Y/N thought that was a bit weird because she didn’t look like she had any intention of getting up a second ago but she thought nothing of it. She went back to reading her book when a few minutes later she heard her husband's laughter. She looked up, expecting to see him watching Hope do something cute to Klaus do something stupid but instead she was faced witht he sight of her husband knee deep in the water, chasing Hayley and splashing her in the waves. She felt a pang of jealousy hit her in a huge wave, bigger than any before her in the ocean. With that wave came the all too familiar sadness that came with feeling as though she wasn’t enough, that she’d be replaced and had no idea what she could have done to have made her so insignificant. She quickly shoved that though out of her mind though, she was just being stupid. Elijah loved her, she knew without a doubt that he did. He would do that to her. He would never do that to her.

On the car ride back to the house they were staying in, Y/N sat with her head on Elijah's shoulder. “I was thinking that when we get back to New Orleans you could take up a bigger role in everything, you’re a queen. The people need to see you, know your doing something.” he told her ‘I was actually thinking that when we got back I could maybe start hunting again, nothing too big but maybe a couple of local or close-by jobs.” “Yeah, I can have an office set up next to mine on the third floor, with great lighting.” Y/N looked at Elijah, he was looking at something on his phone, probably texting someone at home,checking up. ‘Did he even hear me?’ she thought to herself. Y/N mentally facepalmed, of course he did, he was being kind and offering to make her an office to do her hunting research.

Y/N stepped out of the shower, the bathroom fogging up with steam. She grabbed a towel, dried off and put lotion on and went into the bedroom to put on some clothes. Odd, she thought. Elijah wasn’t there. Just around 10 minutes ago he was sitting on the bed reading. He must have left to go get something she supposed. She got dressed in her pajamas and sat on the bed and continued to read Dante's Inferno. She got lost in the book, but when she finally came back to reality she noted that he still wasn’t back. ‘Oh goodness Y/N. you’re being too clingy today. What the hell?’ she mentally scolded herself, but the uneasy feeling in her stomach didn't let up. She got out of bed and went to go find Elijah. She checked the library of the large house they were renting for vacation, he wasn’t there. ‘Of course he wouldn’t be. He has a book in our room.’ She then checked the kitchen, then the living room, then the dining room, then Hope’s room, then she checked with Klaus and Caroline. No where. It then occurred to her that, maybe he was talking to Hayley, they had become good friends in the months since Hope was born and Hayley became a hybrid. She went up towards Hayley’s room. When she arrived the door was already several inches ajar so she didn't bother to knock. She doesn’t know that she will later regret that decision. She walks in to find her husband and her friend kissing, pressed up against Hayley’s dresser. The two jump and turn to look at her but she's already gone. She ran to her room and packed her things as quickly as possible. Elijah followed her and pleaded. She doesn’t hear him though. She feels like she's underwater, overwhelmed and suffocating. She didn’t hear his pleads or excuses as she left.

[zootplayz]

Rosas Choice

Don't tell anyone but our founder has, FINALLY, chosen the man to help her get this legacy rolling. I was really expecting the big choice to be Akira. With all the dates the two went on. But...

that was not the case.

Glenn Goldman, a random gallery sim was the chosen man. I have to admit I was slightly disappointed when I saw her role the boyfriend want with Glenn. I desperately wanted it to be Akira. My last game lasted two whole years and none of my subsequent 18 legacies even met him let alone had a romantic fling. I was truly hoping Rosa would finally let me get to know this sim better. But alas, it was not to be. Oh, wells... Glenn is a great sim and a total dreamboat I can't deny that. After making things official with Glenn, Rosa naturally had to let her good friend Penny know and the two had a fun girls night in.

Even if Penny doesn't know when to hush up.

I'm with you Rosa I hate it when people talk during movies too.  Rosa spent most of the next week focusing on herself.

And friend zoning all her conquests.

That's not to say she didn't see Glenn. After the two became an item Rosa gave him a key and Glenn stopped by daily.

I mean really it was a little ridiculous, she should have just had him move in right then he was there so much. * * * Considering how long it took Rosa to finally choose her man she quickly wanted to take it to the next level.

Naturally, he said yes! I was very surprised with how soon this want popped up. He didn't move in just then, we waited until the next time he popped in unannounced. (Which didn't take long.) When he did he got a mini makeover.

I made him a brunette because that's what color his eyebrows were. Now that he's officially a member of the house let's get to know Glenn. As I stated before Glenn is from the gallery (created by Doro11) he's a happy sim (cheerful) who loves the outdoors and music. I guess Rosa likes them rugged and outdoorsy (something we share in common.)

Glenn was working as a vendor in San Myshuno. Obviously, that was no longer an option after moving in. Initially, I didn't know what career to put him, in or if I'd just let him make his living off gardening. (His lifetime aspiration is to be a freelance botanist) With such odd traits, I was at a loss and Glenn himself wasn't much help. When he would job hunt his thought bubble was just simoleons. Any job is going to give you those Glenn!

Then the GeekCon came to town.

While there Glenn took a shine to the rocket science skill and I thought...

Astronaut! It's perfect!

I don't actually intend on actively advancing his career though. If he achieves the skill levels on his own through wants and such, great, if not, the world needs maintenance workers too. Since we gave Glenn a makeover I decided to change Rosas's look a little too. Though only a minor hair change. I tried out longer looks but they just didn't feel right on her.

Rosa has made it to Sargeant. Even though Glenn was a vendor he brought a surprising amount of money with him (around 44k, he must have been saving for a long time.) No aspiring botanist is going to be happy and fulfilled in this tiny apartment so they discussed it...

and they decided to put a down payment on a fixer-upper in Willow Creek.

Let me tell ya, Glenn is pretty excited!

Glenn isn't the only one happy to be leaving the city. Rosa is too. Although she was pretty lucky with Penny as her neighbor the new one is just plain rude and the two developed quite the rivalry very quickly!

For the love of... they are moving out tomorrow! Could you act like a decent sim for just one night and turn that horrible music down!!! Part 02 Part 04 Read the full article

[bnhabadass]

Pairing: Bakugou x reader Genre: Smut, 18+, Mafia AU Trope: Woke up married Dialogue Prompt: “Aren’t we supposed to be working?”  Warnings: overdosing on cold medicine, mixing cold medicine with alcohol, dub-con, mentions of sex while unconscious, vomiting Word Count: 4,480

This is my contribution to this month’s bnharem collab. I was so happy when I spun the roulette wheel and it landed on my favorite au, the mafia au. I hope you all enjoy and make sure to check out everyone else’s contributions here. Also a big thanks to @doinmybesthere​ for being my beta reader and putting so much work into creating the master list for this collab.

“A fever? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You winced at the voice coming out of your phone. You were curled up in bed, a heavy futon draped over your achey, chilled body. “I’m really sorry,” you croaked into the receiver. “I can’t get out of bed; there’s no way I’ll be able to come into work today.”

“You know how important tonight’s meeting is.”

You could feel the fire in the eyes of your underboss as he spat at you about how important tonight’s festivities were. You couldn’t care less. You hated the guy, but more importantly you hated your father for getting you in this mess.

A debt needed to be paid and your family couldn’t afford to take out a second mortgage on the house. So your father, as smart as he thought he was, went to the nicest restaurant on the far side of town where the boss of one of the most dangerous mobs in the city stationed his office.

A debt for a debt. That’s what he told you as he came home smiling with a big check in his wallet. No one in your family knew where he got the money, but he seemed confident enough that he’d be able to pay it back.

A month went by and one day, three scary men knocked on your apartment door. They said they were there to “collect”.

You were terrified. You thought they were there to rob you, to take the money you had been saving in a rainy-day fund. But no, they came to collect you. Now, it’s been four months and you’re still stuck doing odd jobs for them--grocery and coffee runs as well as spending reports and other money related things you are less than qualified to do.

You hate your job. You hate having to put up with the unorthodox hours and the unsavory jobs and the complaints about your work ethic and the having to do it over again because you didn’t do it right the first time. You want out. If you weren’t positive that if you left they would be able to hunt you down, you would have fled the country by now.

But your father’s debt still hasn’t been paid.

“Look,” you pleaded. “I can come in tomorrow and work double my usual time. Please, Kirishima-san, I just need the day to rest.”

“Not a chance. You’re coming in today and that’s final. If you don’t, well, then maybe we need to take an extra payment from your parents.”

Before you could even process what he just said, he hung up the phone.

Another payment from your parents. You couldn’t possibly let them take any more from your family. With a new threat looming over your head, you mustered up enough strength to push off of your futon and get dressed for the clients’ dinner.

By the time it was 7:00 in the evening, you had taken a large swig of cold medicine and were ready to spend the night serving these criminals.

Outside of the restaurant, two bodyguards were stationed at the front door and one at the back entrance. All three of them were dressed in black from head to toe. You, on the other hand, were tasked with serving your boss’s clients, so your outfit differed from theirs.

You were dressed in attire suited for waiting tables. Black slacks stretch across your legs and your pristine shirt was smoothed against your body. A tight black vest clung to your chest and pressed against your boobs, squishing them together. If it weren’t for the fever, chills, and headache, you would look like you belonged with this crowd of criminals.

You flashed your ID to the guard at the back door and he nodded you in. Your eyes had to adjust to the fluorescent kitchen lighting, but once they did you saw how busy everyone was. It truly was one of the most important nights for your boss, so you understood why you were needed. Still, this night would truly take the most out of you.

“Oi, (L/n),” one of your boss’s associates called for you. “Take these to table four. I’ve been covering your ass for the last twenty minutes.”

“Of course, Kaminari-san.” You bowed your head and skirted over to the table where two well-dressed men spoke with one another in a hushed tone. You placed their meals in front of them and bowed your head.

“Wait,” one of them called as you began to walk away. “I asked for a Jasmine tea. This is Sencha.”

“Yeah,” the other one piped up. “And I asked for a Sencha tea and this is Jasmine.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to yell into the abyss and slap those men across the face. But of course all you did was bow in apology and take the cups back. Kirishima’s words to you over the phone rang loud and clear in your mind.

“Anything they need, you get it for them. These are important people the boss works with and we can’t have idiots like you messing this up for us.”

The men smirked at you and as you turned around to grab their “correct orders,” the man who ordered the Jasmine tea leaned over to leave a hard, painful smack across your ass.

You froze but didn’t say anything and walked away.

It was still early in the night but you had run yourself thin. You needed to sit down or to at least take a sip of water, but there was no room for breaks as you bounced from table to table getting the people what they wanted. You had even left the venue a couple times to retrieve items like the proper creamer one client required in their coffee.

Your throat was so sore and dry and it was aching for a break. Your entire body was aching for a break. But as you saw someone sitting at one of the tables raise her hand to wave you over, you had to put all of your aches aside to tend to her needs.

“Good evening, ma’am.” You bowed your head. “How may I assist you?”

A small smile was on her dark red painted lips. She seemed to be searching for something as she eyed you up and down. “Do you happen to know when Bakugou-san will be joining us?”

Bakugou-san… Were you supposed to know who that is? You had never heard the name before, although you knew your boss had many ties throughout the district. It could be one of them.

“I’m not sure,” you answered honestly. “I could ask my supervisors if they happen to know.”

She waited a moment. She seemed to be searching for something in your expression. “That’s all right. You may go back to work now.”

You bowed and thanked her.

Bakugou-san.

The name did sound familiar, but you’re not sure where you could have heard it. It wasn’t until you were deep in thought, trying to recall where you had heard the name, that you could feel something pushing up against your throat. Oh god. Your stomach was churning.

You ran to the bathroom, pushing someone out of the way to get there. You’d probably hear an earful from Kirishima for pushing a guest, but you needed to find a toilet before--

Oh no.

You barely made it into the stall before emptying the contents of your stomach onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. Your legs collapsed from under you and you kneeled in your vomit as you coughed up your stomach lining into the porcelain bowl.

Tears fell from your eyes as you struggled to breathe while hacking everything you had into the toilet. The black eyeliner you threw on before leaving the house had smudged into raccoon eyes around your lashes.

You rested your cheek against the toilet, ignoring all of the germs that were most likely crawling up your skin and into your pores. The toilet seat felt cool against your burning cheek and watering eyes. You thought you could die happily here, kneeling on the bathroom tiles in a pile of your slowly cooling vomit.

“Aren’t we supposed to be working here?”

Your eyes shot open, and in trying to stand up you slipped. Your ass landed in the smeared vomit. You winced and let out a drawn out, “fuuuck.”

It took you a moment before opening your eyes again and looking up at the man in front of you. And boy did your eyes widen. He was clearly a guest at the clients’ dinner. His blonde hair was slicked back and the bulge of his muscles under his crisp black button down didn’t go unnoticed by you. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and as he crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves began to tighten.

“Who the hell are you and why are you puking on the floor?”

It took you a second to find your voice. “I’m, um...” you trailed off. “(L/n), sir.” You cleared your throat. “I am a worker for the person hosting this dinner.” You tried to stand up and bow, but he put a hand up to stop you.

“You work for them.” It was a statement not a question, but you nodded anyway. “Why? What do you owe?”

You’re not sure why he was asking, but his intimidating glare compelled you to answer his every question. “My dad owes them money,” you admitted. “And he wasn’t able to pay them back.”

“Who do you mean by them?”

You weren’t sure how to answer. You didn’t even know what these people did. For all you knew they were drug mules or assassins. You never wanted to know what they did when you were roped in. After all, the less you knew meant you could have more of a normal life. “The boss,” you finally answered. Who the boss was, you weren’t sure. You answered to Kirishima but he didn’t have much power aside from ordering around you and every other person unfortunate enough to be roped into working for them.

The man in front of you scoffed. “Get up.”

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the wave of nausea that hit you. The man led you out of the bathroom, and as you walked behind him, people who passed the two of you stopped and stared. Oh no, it had to be from the vomit stains on your leg and down your shirt. You probably stank to high hell and your eyes wouldn’t stop watering from your fever.

The man stopped and you had to keep from bumping into him. “There’s an extra work shirt in the closet,” he said. “There should also be some slacks in there. Leave your dirty clothes in a pile and I’ll have someone collect them.”

His voice was demanding and it took you a moment to register what he said. It wasn’t until he snapped in your face that you moved.

“We don’t have all day, princess.”

You flinched and nodded before scurrying into the closet and flicking the light on. Inside the closet was the restaurant’s sad excuse for a boiler room. The low humming from the machinery brought you back into the present as you searched for the change of clothes you were promised.

There was a crisp white shirt folded on one of the shelves as well as a few different slacks in varying sizes. The shirt was a size too small, so you had to leave the first couple buttons popped open. Before leaving the closet, you tried to think about who the man was and why he was helping you. Was it possible that he wanted something in return?

When you emerged from the closet, he looked you up and down. You were too tired, however, to notice his lingering glare on your chest and the way the button down squeezed your breasts closer together.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, looking down at your shoes. You’re not sure why you were too scared to look into his vermillion eyes, but the way he called you princess earlier as he snapped at you had definitely made you tremble in your core, and you swore that if you looked up to meet his eyes, your fever would only go higher and higher.

“Why the hell’d you come here if you were sick anyway? Are you trying to poison everyone in the damn building?” His words were like little bullets that shot at every one of your doubts of coming in tonight.

You thought back to why you had come in the first place. You were huddled up in your futon that morning when Kirishima called. You begged to stay home, right? But you couldn’t. You squinted hard as you tried to remember why you weren’t allowed to rest. “I was threatened,” you thought out loud. It wasn’t directed towards the man but he nodded in any case.

“(L/n) was it, right?”

You finally managed to look up at him with bleary eyes. “Yeah, um...” You couldn’t seem to remember what his name was. Wait, he hadn’t told you. He had just led you around and given you new clothes, but he never properly introduced himself.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he said as if he could read your mind. His lips turned up into a smirk. “But call me Katsuki.”

“Katsuki,” you mumbled. “Bakugou Katsuki.” You had heard that name before, but where. “Bakugou,” you mumbled again as if you were trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. “Bakugou-san.”

He quirked an eyebrow up at you.

“Oh!” It hit you like a ton of bricks and as soon as you shot up, you had to recoil because of the ache in the back of your neck. “There’s a woman looking for you, Bakugou-san, er, Katuki,” you bowed.

He just chuckled. “There’s a lot of people looking for me tonight. Who was it?”

That’s a good question. You squinted as if you were looking deep into your memories to remember who it was who asked for him. “She was a woman,” you remembered. “With long dark hair and dark red lips.”

Katsuki nodded. “I see the Yaoyorozus are here.”

The Yaoyorozus. You weren’t sure what that could mean but you didn’t feel like questioning it, so you nodded instead.

Katsuki was looking down at you. His arms were crossed over his chest but a smirk that had been playing across his face all night wouldn’t seem to go away. “Feeling better?”

You didn’t feel better. Although you felt cleaner in the new clothes, there was still a throbbing in your head that wasn’t going away and the overhead lights made your eyes water. But the way that Katsuki looked at you like he was expecting you to say yes just drew you in.

He could tell that the way you nodded a yes in response to his question was a lie, and his face fell before pushing a hand up to your forehead, checking your temperature. “Have you taken anything today?”

You had to think back to earlier that day when you brought the bottle of cold medicine up to your lips, not even reading the recommended dose before downing what you could and leaving your home. “Yeah, um, I took some medicine.”

The grin that had been spread across Katsuki’s face returned. “Well I guess we’ll have to get you some more.”

He grabbed your wrist and led you through the halls and over to the bar. You didn’t pay attention to where you were going. The world seemed to be going too fast for you to keep up. What you were able to notice was that everyone’s eyes were on you as you gently swayed back and forth, trying to settle yourself down. As you were in your own head, you couldn’t start to picture what everyone else saw when they looked at you. You with your raccoon eyes due to streaky makeup that you couldn’t stop rubbing.

“Here.” Katsuki shoved a glass in your face. “Not necessarily traditional medicine but it’ll get the job done.”

You looked up at the whiskey glass in his hand. The ‘medicine’ was a deep brown color which swirled around as he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his thick ones as you took the glass. You lifted it up to your nose and took a deep breath in, gagging at the smell. “Um, I don’t think I should.” You had been warned about mixing alcohol with drugs and the dangers that came with it, but no one had ever told you not to mix drinks with cold medicine. Still, that couldn’t be right, right?

“Come on, it’s good for you,” he egged you on. “Besides, it’ll get that nasty taste out of your mouth.”

You had never tried whiskey before. You were used to lighter drinks, something bubbly with a shot of vodka or two in it. But this was almost too much. You lifted the glass up to your lips and tilted it back. Your lips stung as they made contact with the drink, but you didn’t want to seem weak to Katsuki. He’d taken care of you so far and seemed pleasant enough, albeit intimidating.

As you tipped it back further and took more of the drink into your mouth, Katsuki pushed his hand against the bottom of the glass so you couldn’t tear it away, making sure you would drink every last drop. It stung going down and the cubes pressing against your lip were colder than you expected. You gagged as a couple loose tears rolled down your face from the drink’s burning sensation. You bet you looked even more of a mess now.

“Good girl,” Katsuki said with a low demeanor. With his thumb, he wiped away a drop of whiskey that rolled down your chin.

“And this’ll make me feel better?” You didn’t think you were supposed to drink when you were sick, but you were far too tired to even think about what was wrong and what was right. If he said that it’d make you feel better, then that had to be a good thing. You’re sure of it.

“Sure will.” He placed a firm, calloused hand on your head and stroked down your hair. You nuzzled into his warmth.

It was such a nice sensation that it almost made you forget that you were supposed to be working. That there were people waiting on you to bring them their food and fetch their creamer, people who were ready to slap your ass and laugh as soon as you turned away.

“I have a,” you started, not really sure where that sentence was going. “I have to go back to work.”

As you began walking away, Katsuki stopped you, pulling you back over so your face was practically pressed up against his chest. “No you don’t. You’re sick, remember?”

Right, as if you hadn’t forgotten. But he was right. You were sick and your medicine hadn’t kicked in yet. You couldn’t risk spreading your germs and getting anyone else sick.

You watched the dinner guests from afar. You leaned in to hear conversations about hitmen and other rivaling mobs around town. Some were about money laundering and clients that needed to be taken out, whatever that meant.

At one point, someone asked to pull Katsuki aside and talk alone, but instead he just pulled you closer.

“The hell do you want, Yoarashi?”

Yoarashi was a big guy, bigger than Katsuki, but it was clear even to you that he was intimidated by the blonde in front of him.

“You owe me for what I let you borrow last month.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

To you, they sounded like they were underwater and you weren’t sure what they were discussing, but you were curious to learn more.

“Come on, Bakugou. Work with me here.”

“I’m a busy man, Yoarashi. Now get out of my face before I have my men take care of you.”

Something about the raw power and the threatening tone behind Katsuki’s voice made you excited. You wanted to melt into his words, but you weren’t sure why.

“Busy man?” Yoarashi scoffed. “Come on, Bakugou. You’ve barely been seen all night. Where have you been, fucking this little lackey of yours?”

He didn’t mean you, did he? Before you could even comprehend what he just insinuated, Katsuki turned you around and pressed your face up against his chest. You could feel yourself growing even hotter as you were pushed into one of his pectorals. One of his hands cupped the back of your head. Was he protecting you?

“Listen here,” you heard him say. “Don’t contact us ever again unless you want to end up like your first boss did. I can make your life a living hell and I will, got that?”

“Don’t think I don’t have other contacts, all right? You aren’t the only one in this town with resources, Bakugou.”

You felt something jab into the other side of Katsuki’s chest. Did Yoarashi hit him? A few seconds went by before you heard the snapping of fingers and two men came over to drag Yoarashi away.

Katsuki released the hold he had on you, and you watched as the tall man struggled out of his hold. “You aren’t gonna tell anyone what you saw here tonight, right princess?”

You shook your head. You weren’t sure what exactly you felt when you saw that man being dragged away. You were scared, of course; scared for your own life and of the raw power that Katsuki seemed to hold. But on top of fear there was something else. There was a tingle between your thighs that wouldn’t seem to go away, and there was also a sense of excitement. Out of all the people here, this man was paying attention to you. You were far from Mafia material, but he clearly saw something in you and you wanted more of his gaze lingering on you.

Your mind felt hazy with Katsuki and you wanted even more. You didn’t know what to do when you felt him smooth his hand down your back. You didn’t know what to do when his usual smirk turned into something much more dangerous. And you didn’t know what to do when he leaned over and pressed his lips against your own.

His lips felt heavenly as they explored you. They were soft and welcoming despite his cold and dangerous exterior. His tongue probed its way into your mouth. He tasted like whiskey and something else which you assumed was just him. He bit your lip and it felt like he smiled when you let out a moan.

When he released, you felt as if the whole world was spinning with Katsuki. You wobbled around a bit and he chuckled. You tried asking if you could sit down, but the words refused to come out. The last thing you remember is seeing the world go black, the sound of the clients’ dinner fading out of earshot, and two strong arms carrying you away from reality.

You were in pain by the time you woke up. Your body, especially your head, ached tremendously and you wished the sun would stop shining so bright through your window. But wait, the window in your bedroom at your apartment faced another building. The sun never shined too bright in the morning when you were at home.

Slowly, you peaked your head out from under the covers and looked around. You weren’t in your bedroom, but you were in a bedroom. The bed you had been asleep in was enormous, but aside from that there was not much else furniture in the room or even any pictures to signify who the room could belong to.

It wasn’t until you sat up that you realized just how exposed you were under the covers. You couldn’t find your clothing anywhere. What were you even wearing last night? Where were you last night?

You remembered being sick and being called into work by Kirishima. You were stressed. You were nauseous. There was a beautiful woman who asked for someone in particular but you were too sick to remember what their name was, right?

And then you raced to the bathroom and met--

A groan from beside you shook you out of your thoughts, and as soon as you saw the person lying in bed next to you, all of your memories came flooding back.

“Morning, baby girl,” Katsuki said.

You didn’t know what to say. Your mouth hung open and you felt lightheaded.

Katsuki was shirtless under the covers and you were too scared to ask if he had anything on covering his lower half. “You put on quite the show last night.”

Last night. Where you met him. What did you do last night? “I...” You didn’t know what to say, and that made Katsuki let out a booming laugh.

“Come on, you remember at least a little of it don’t you?”

You shook your head. Then you shook your head again. You couldn’t stop shaking your head.

Katsuki put a hand on your shoulder and you stopped. He had a shit eating grin spread across his face that you wanted to both punch and kiss at the same time. “First throwing up at my party and then getting blackout drunk in front of all my guests.”

“What?” You could barely remember anything. What did he mean ‘his party’? The clients’ dinner was run by…

Your eyes widened as you realized just who you had found yourself naked in bed with. Who had found you puking on the bathroom floor. Who that stunningly gorgeous woman was asking for earlier.

You clamped a hand over your mouth and Katsuki let out another chuckle. “You really were the life of the party.” He grabbed your wrist and dragged you over to his side of the bed, and you let him. He dragged his hand up and down your exposed body and roughly cupped your sex. “I had a blast toying around with you last night, but now I want you to be able to remember what it feels like when I bury my cock inside of you, sweetheart.”

You hated the way he was grabbing you and the way he forced your legs to open up for him, but what you hated more than any of that was the way his words made your inner thighs ache and how they instinctively parted just for him.

You turned away as he leaned down to smother your chest with rough kisses, and as you looked over to your left hand, you couldn’t help but notice a diamond ring that wasn’t there the night before.

[scarfacemarston]

All Epilogue Journals and Transcription

Note: This does not include the 100% completion spoilers. I really challenge you to read through this and still tell me that John is not as complex as Arthur. They just portray it differently. I’m not saying you have to like him - just that he is so much more than “just a dumb angry man”.  I still encourage everyone to play the game. It’s not the same through here. It’s a beautiful story and ties up nicely. 

Transcript:  Being back in this country made me dig up Arthur’s old journal again. Odd few years wandering. back here, this country that we ran to when things went crazy all those years ago  My mind is full of ghosts. Been a tough few years. Jack don’t like me and Abigail cannot  stand me or is it the reverse?

Killed a feller because he looked at me funny. Abigail wants me to settle down - To what? Everything I’ve tried has gone wrong, for so long now, ad now I’m back in old country. Well I guess the north didn’t turn out so good.

So now I’m a farm hand. Until I lose my temper again, I guess. Working at a place called Pronghorn Ranch. They seem to like me because I’m big and nasty and they surely ain’t. And some local tough guys seem to know they aint. Well I guess Abigail can’t have everything, but she won’t be able to deny I’ve at least got a normal job.

Pronghorn Ranch ^

I’m not much of a rancher but I can still give a big mouth a good smack. Abigail still seems to despise me. Jack ain’t sure but I reckon he aint none too keen.

She’s a gone - she went a - She went and left me. Gave me enough warning, I suppose. She weren’t wrong, I’d leave me, if I could. What now? No son, no woman and a no good rancher on a no good ranch. These rich bastards, the Laramie want old Geddes  dead. If I had a brainI”d go work for them. But I kind of like Geddes.

Good news - I now own a ranch. Bad news, I now have Uncle with me. Or is it the reverse? If he don’t shut his mouth, I’ll paint this place with his blood. I bought a dumpy bit of land for Abigail and she ain’t here.  Instead I get Uncle.

How the hell did this happen? I got the worst of all things. I miss Abigail. I’ve been a proper fool for longer than I can remember. FOR ALWAYS.

Went to Saint Denis with Uncle because Charles Smith was there and in trouble. Charles had taken to boxing and did not seem to be in too much trouble after all, until we stumbled into some local gangsters who wanted to shoot both of us But not he’s here and I’ve got a completely different family to the one I had a while ago. Not sure what to make of that.

This countryside is full of some of the worst scum and maniacs I’ve ever come access. Guess we fit right in. Went to buy lumber t build a new house. Got jumped by some local gang everyone is terrified by. A hand Charles had hired got himself killed. Wonder if these bastards will bring trouble  and how much.

Saw Sadie Adler again. Guess I thought she’d been dead. Maybe it’s just me that’s been dead. I don’t know. Was good to see her. She’s a bounty hunter and  suited to the work. Saw her put a knife clean through the hand of some big old boy she was fighting with. Ain’t seen her since she and Arthur saved Abigail and Arthur saved my life. We headed north and she  turned to this line of work

Built ourselves a place to live - never thought I would say those words. Now I just need a family and a way of paying off these debts. Went off bounty hunting with Sadie, who I’d met again after all these years, and whole thing turned crazy. Thank god Abigail weren’t around or she’d have skinned me herself.

Abigail and Jack came back. Whole of my life suddenly makes some kind of sense. If only I could pay off these damn debts - and if only I could have been a different man all these years I wasted being a fool.

I’M GETTING MARRIED. She thinks I’m a real fool and she’s right, only she don’t know quite why I am a fool.

We got married and we danced and Uncle made us laugh - and Jack seemed real happy. Sadie left, after she fixed herself up. Charles went off hunting something or other as I knew he would. Uncle ain’t going anywhere. Saw Dutch, damn near broke my heart again after all this time. Wanted to kill him, but I didn’t. Saw Micah was never gladder to see a man die. Whatever peace and happiness I can find in this world, I  know it’s a better place with him out of it. Storyline finished. 100% Game completion journal entries not included here - but in separate post. 

[mysticalrambling]

Missing You (T.H)

Tom Holland Fan fiction (Fan fiction Masterlist)

Summary: Tom is away for shooting and he is missing his daughter’s first easter. You and Sophia miss him terribly and he feels terrible for missing it. Sophia gets hurt during the egg hunt and Tom flies back to be with his family.

Warnings: Angst and some fluff.

._._._._.

“Daddy?” You had been folding your laundry because it was a therapeutic chore. The maid always left it for you by the end of the day because she knew that you enjoyed doing it. Your moment was interrupted by your one year old daughter barging into your room with only one question on her mind.

She had recently started walking and you were silently thankful because your over protective husband wouldn’t let her touch the ground in the fear that she would hurt herself. It even came to the point that Sophia started becoming agitated whenever he interrupted her progress. She would scream Bloody Mary when she saw him approaching with his arms outstretched. You sat him down one day and gently explained to him that we have to let her explore the world. If she falls and gets hurt, then it was our job to take care of her but we could not protect her from everything in advance.

The moment she took her first steps, they were towards Tom. You were there to record the moment and you guys were so glad that Tom had backed off a little bit. He would be there for his little princess every step of the way. If she wanted to leap, she could and he will be there to catch her if she started to fall. Sophia was the most important person in his life after you.

“Daddy is going to be here before your first Easter, bunny. Hopefully.” The last word was more of a mumble for yourself because you really hoped that he would be here. Sophia was born a few weeks after Easter so this was her first one.

“Daddy?”

Sighing, you said, “Let’s just get ready and see how cute you look in your new costume.”

“Bunny!” She ran off to her room to put her name on the and you opened your phone. Your husband told you that he would drop a text at approximately this time if he was going to make it back before the party. Disappointed, you just put the phone back on the side table.

“Okay, you need to sit tightly so that I can make your braids.” She was a hyper ball after she found the candies on the coffee table that you were going to give it to her at the party. Allergies to nuts was one of the many things that she had inherited from Tom and you never liked to take chances regarding their health. “No more sweets for you today, miss.”

“Nooooooo. Daddy!” Sophia’s voice trembled in the end because she knew that her dad would defend her. He was her knight in shining armor.

“Daddy is not here so let’s stop screaming now.” You were already in a sour mood as your husband was not with you on an important milestone. And Sophia was not making things easy for you either.

“No!”

“You are ready. I am going to give you your coloring books while I go get ready.” You did not listen to her small sniffles and went to take a shower while keeping the door open so you could keep an eye on her. When you got out, your phone was ringing and it was Tom.

“Hi. I am so sorry I can’t make it today. I tried my very best to get done with filming but it was not possible. So sorry, darling.” There was a crack in his voice that let you know that he was devastated about it.

“It’s okay, baby. There will be other Easters and you will be there for all of them. Don’t be sad, please.” You  tried cheering him up but it was not working.

Tom was always big on firsts; your first date, your first I love you’s, Sophia’s first kick, Sophia’s first tooth. He kept a record of all the moments and he was incredibly sad that he did not get to witness his child’s first Easter. Acting was something that he really enjoyed but he hated it right now. It was keeping him away from his family. He had planned everything out from where to hide all the eggs to where to buy the small bunny cupcakes that he would give to his little girl at the end of the day. This was not right but he was helpless. He could not do anything because he had an obligation to his fans as well.

“Is she wearing the costume that I ordered her?” When you mumbled out a yes, he asked, “Can you please send me a picture?”

“Soph, come and stand here. Pose for daddy.” When you sent him the picture, there was no response from his side. Seeing the picture, Tom choked back a sob. His little bunny looked incredibly cute with a white dress and a bunny ear headband. A pink tint graced her cheeks which meant that she had some candies and she had a toothy smile. Before he could say anything, the director called him back to shooting. “We will talk to daddy later. He might be busy right now.”

Tom’s mom had planned a party at her house and the whole garden was prepared for the egg hunt. You both wanted to host the party this year but Tom had to go to Cardiff last minute because of his shooting. Your siblings and nieces and nephews were all going to be there. You were happy that you got to spend this occasion with your family but you were miserable right now. Tom was not here.

“Hi. Who is this little rabbit here?” Nikki leaned in front of the toddler and squished Sophia in one of her famous bear hugs.

“Sophia Anne Holland!” There was a proud undertone to her voice because she could speak her whole name now.

“You are the cutest bunny ever.”

“I know.” You all chuckled at her haughty admission and watched as she skipped towards her cousins.

“Tom isn’t going to make it today?”

“Um no. He could not get away from work and he said to apologise on his behalf.” It was like something was missing and you didn’t want to indulge in that feeling.

“I am sorry, darling but he will make it up to you and Sophie.” You wanted to divert the topic so you started to talk about the guests and the decorations.

Pretty soon, you started mingling with the people and they always asked about Tom. You either replied to them or politely redirected the conversation. It felt weird being at a gathering without Tom. You haven’t done that from the past five years and you realised you didn’t much enjoy it now. Keeping an eye on Sophia was hard because it was usually Tom who performed that duty. You were given a free pass at parties from all the responsibilities and were allowed to enjoy every moment. He was always considerate towards you and that is why you loved him to death.

“Sophia, you can not go near the pool.” You caught her in your arms before she could fall in.

“Dada swimm- swimming.” Tommy was the one who was teaching her to swim because it was a hobby that he wanted his daughter to adopt from him. When she saw the water, she thought that her dad will be there to teach her.

“When dad comes back, you can go swimming.” Sophia still kept looking around for her father because this is the longest she has been away from him. Her toddler mind thinks that if she goes to do things that they do together, he will come to her. You couldn’t even get angry at her for wandering around the house without anyone. Hugging her, you tried to distract her, “Now, granny is having an egg hunt and we need to win it, okay bubs?”

“Win!!” You took her in your arms and went towards the garden where all the people were.

“Look, Tom. (Y/N) is here.” A phone was shoved in to your face by Sam and you saw Tom’s face on the screen.

“Hi. I was calling you and you didn’t pick up. I wanted to see Sophie on the egg hunt.” There was a look of longing on his face.

“I was busy with your daughter. She was running near the swimming pool and wanted to get in because she thought that you would be there to teach her.”

“Is she alright? Let me see her.” You angled the phone towards your shoulder where she was leaning on him. “Hey, baby.”

“Hi. Back?” Tom wanted nothing more than to hold his daughter in his arms and his heart broke when his daughter asked him that question. It meant that he was away too long because she never asked that question before. She didn’t need to.

“I’ll be back in no time and then we will go swimming. Promise.”

“Yes.” She hopped down from your arms and went to the start line of the race.

“How have you been?”

“Just missing you a lot and handling Soph is getting harder by the day.” You moved to a more secluded place on the ground so you could talk to your husband.

“I am sorry, darling. When I come back, you can have the whole weekend off.”

“Just come back. I want to spend sometime with my husband.”

“That is a tempting offer but I have to stay here a little longer. But when I come back, we will do more than spend sometime together.”

“I will look forward to it. The game is starting so I have to go.” You were about to end the call but he stopped you.

“I want to see her and I have a break for another twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

The race soon started and among all her cousins, Sophia was the youngest and the most hyper. You cheered her on with her grandparents and Tom. She was about to win the race and you were more excited than her. Tommy wanted to be there to witness her first victory but he settled down for seeing it on the phone. However, she stumbled on some rocks that were on the trail and she fell hard.

“Oh my god! Go to her, (Y/N).” Tom’s voice broke you out of your horrified trance and you went in to autopilot. When you reached near her, you gave the phone to someone behind you and kneeled in front of your daughter. She was crying really loudly and her arms was bent to an odd angle. Cuddling her in your arms, you picked her up and went towards your car. “What is happening? Mum, tell me!”

“I think Sophie’s arm is broken. (Y/N) is taking her to the hospital right now. I will keep you updated.” Nikki was moving quickly towards her car while she gripped the phone in her hands.

“Mum, I want to talk to my daughter right now.” He didn’t even realise that he was pacing and his hair was all messed up because he ran his hands through it several times.

“Tommy, I will keep you updated. Right now, she is a lot of pain and she is scared.”

“Please keep me informed.” This was one of the worst moment in his life because he wasn’t there for his girls. You both needed him right now and he wasn’t there. He decided then and there that he was going back to London.

Meanwhile, you reached the hospital with Sophia wailing in your arms and Sam driving like a cray man. You were sure that he would have multiple speeding tickets waiting for him when he gets home. The E.R was busy at this time of the day and you just laid your daughter on one of the beds while Nikki went to go get a doctor.

“Honey, it’s going to be okay. Please be strong, baby girl.” There were tears in your eyes as your daughter’s face turned red with all the crying and screaming. The little girl was in too much pain.

“Daddy, plea- please. Hurts a lot.” Hiccuping in the middle of the sentence, you looked at your brother in law helplessly. She wanted Tom and he wasn’t here right now.

“We will talk to daddy after the nice doctor here checks you out, baby.” She wouldn’t let anyone near her or her arm and kept asking for her father, She was inconsolable.

Sitting in front of the bed, the doctor asked, “Hi, I am Dr Ana. What happened to this little bunny here?”

“She, uh, she fell during the race and I think she broke her arm.” You stood on the foot of the bed as you shakily explained the whole situation. “Soph, let her check your boo boo please.”

“Daddy, please.”

“Okay, let me call your dad and you can talk to him.” Nikki interjected when she saw that the conversation was not reaching any end point.

“Okay.” You wiped her snot with your sleeves as she clutched her broken arm in pain.

“Tom, talk to Sophia. She is not letting the doctors treat her.” Putting the phone on speaker, Tom’s voice filtered through the phone.

“Hey bubs. You need to let the doctor check you and make the boo boo alright.” His soothing voice brought tears to your eyes as you wanted nothing more than to hold his hand right now.

“It hurts. Back please?”

“I am coming back right now so you need to let the doctor check your arm. I will be there in no time.”

“Okay.” The moment the doctor started examining her arm, you took the phone from your mother in law.

“It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to come back.” You sniffled a little as the doctor got a portable x-ray to check up on Sophia’s arm. She held on to your hand tightly as even the little movement hurt her.

“I am. In fact, my flight is already confirmed. I will be there in four hours, tops.”

Tom declined the call as his manager called him downstairs. Getting in to the car, he just prayed to God that his little girl would be okay. He swore mentally that he would never let Sophia run. He should have been there and he was going to never leave his family’s side ever again.

“I have given her some pain meds for her pain so she should be settling down now.” Sophia was moved to a pediatric room and now she was calming down a little bit. “What color cast do you want, Miss Holland?”

“Pink.” She stated as a matter of fact and you lightly laughed. Nikki and Sam were in the room as well and they were staying till Tom got here. The pain medication slowly started working and Soph drifted off to sleep with Mr Fluffs in her arms.

“We are going to get coffee and then we can get you a change of clothes. Do you want something else?” Whispering, Nikki placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I am fine. I just need the clothes and can you please bring some for Tom as well. I know he would come straight here from the airport.”

“Okay, darling. Take care and call us if something happens.”

“Okay, thank you.” You put your head on the bed and drifted off to sleep.

Tom entered the hospital and the receptionist guided him towards Sophia’s room. Quietly steeping in there, he saw his two girls sleeping. Sophia looked so tiny in that patient bed and he never wanted to see her there. When he got close, he saw dried tears on his little girl’s cheek and his heart broke when he thought about the pain that she was in. The pink cast was set on her right arm and he want to her side and gently kissed it.

“I am so sorry baby, I wasn’t here. I won’t ever leave you again, I promise.”

“You are back.” The commotion in the room woke you up and you saw your husband right in front of you.

“Just got in.” Tom’s eyes never left the tiny human being laying underneath the sheets. “(Y/N), she is never running again.”

“Honey, children get hurt all the time. She will recover in no time.”

“But-”

“Dadda!” Your baby jumped in to his arms before any of you realised what was happening. Her cast bumped on to the iron rod of the bed and she let out a blood curling scream.

“Call the doctor. It’s okay, bubs. You are going to be okay.” Kissing her cast, he tried to calm down the crying toddler. Meantime, you went to call Dr Anna so that she could check Sophia’s arm.

“It is all fine. You just need to be really careful with that arm. We are going to keep her here for one day and then you both can take your little girl home.”

You took Sophia from your husband and told him to go change in to comfortable clothes. When he came back, you both settled on the small bed and your daughter told him all about the injury and the pain. You both signed her pink cast and Tom also drew some rainbows and birds on it. Soon, it was time for her to take her medicines and you had to bribe her with chocolates, She always got her way.

“I love you, baby. Go to sleep now.” He wrapped the blanket around her and switched off all the lights.

“Love you. Be here?”

“Yes, I will be here darling. Now, sleep.” Sophia soon drifted off to sleep and Tom sat beside you on the couch.

“I missed you, Tommy.”

“I missed you too and I am never leaving you both for this long. Now, let’s go to sleep. It has been a tiring day.” Pecking him on the lips, you both laid down and just basked in each other’s warmth. Contented, you drifted off to sleep with your husband and child in the same room. Everything was going to be okay.

Hope you guys enjoyed it!!

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A/N: I loved to write about Tom Holland as a family man. Tell me how you guys feel about it and I am open to requests regarding dad Tom. If you want to be added to my tag list, comment down below.

Like, comment and reblog.

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[lifewithdavefarts]

DaveFarts - Episode 9 “Trapped In The Closet” [Episode List] Following the most blatant sit-com tropes you can think of, Dave decides to spy on his girlfriend, Dana, because he thinks she’s hiding something. Tim reluctantly decides to join his friend, but the two end up stuck in the girl’s closet, which will eventually turn into a gas chamber.

Trapped In The Closet

“Yeah Dana. Sure. No problem.”

Tim was working on some college tasks, but couldn’t help but to eavesdrop Dave’s conversation with his girlfriend, Dana, on the phone. He could only hear his friend’s replies, which being only the 50% of what they were talking about, it didn’t make a lot of sense. Not that he was interested: Dave was simply hanging out in his room because he had nothing better to do during that warm Summer evening, apparently, and so he simply showed up to Tim’s place with a couple of beers and a remarkable amount of procrastination powers.

Despite being relatively hot outside, Dave was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of long, grey levi jeans, kinda loose as usual. Something that Tim hated about his kink is how quickly he checked his friend’s outfit, something that he always did since Dave is now basically his “fart bud”, against all odds.

“Yeah… yeah… I love you. No… I love you more!”

Kinda funny how Dave, 24, would revert back to an awkward teenager at times whenever he and his girlfriend were on the phone. They probably even acted like that on purpose, because love is doing stupid things together after all.

“Tim. Car. Now!”

Dave hung up and turned weirdly serious, got up and walked downstairs, saying something about getting in the car.

“Wait, what?” Tim asked, questioning whether his friend was being serious or not, but he did follow him to wherever he was going.

“We don’t have much time, Tim. Dana will come back soon. She’s out with her own friends and we have… like… 15 minutes.”

The two walked outside and headed towards the girls’ house, actually only a few blocks away from Tim’s. Tim himself reluctantly followed his bro into this, knowing that, at best, it may turn into a funny mishap to tell to their other pals while being drunk and laugh about it.

“I’ll just pretend your words make any sense, like I usually do…” Tim chuckled, sarcastically, but still following his friend.

“I think she’s hiding something.” Dave explained, walking at a fast pace, Tim right behind him. “She’s been strangely elusive lately and I want to check her room for clues.”

Tim just chuckled in response. “Dave, you do realize that this is not a 90s sit-com, right? Her room? Really? What are you hoping to find out, exactly, anyway? That she’s having some kind of affair behind your back?” he asked, trying to reason with him.

“An affair? You think I’m that kind of guy?” Dave answered, looking surprisingly offended by Tim’s question.   “I just want to make sure she’s fine. She seemed worried about something and she’s like this organized haf-woman/half-machine hybrid who keeps sticky notes in her room to keep an eye on her busy life.”

“Oh…” Tim replied, rather sarcastically.   “Now that makes a lot of sense.”

“Leave your sassiness for later, dork. Can we take your car?” Dave asked.

“Why? We’re already right in front of her house…”

Dave realized that he was so worried that they did, in fact, walked for a couple of blocks and found themselves stepping in Dana’s backyard without even noticing. He just laughed a bit about it.

“Sorry. Love makes me blind.” he joked, knowing that it was a rather silly thing to say anyway.

“Not the words I would have used, but ok.” Tim answered.

“Come on, let’s get inside.” his bro said, with a smirk.  

“Alright… but please, let’s keep a low profile and no awkwa-”

But as they approached to the girl’s house, Dave awkwardly started muttering some kind of theme song that was oddly reminiscent of the Mission Impossibile’s most iconic soundtrack. This guy has a girlfriend, everyone.

“So much for keeping a low profile, Ethan Hunt…” Tim joked.

Dana’s room, following the usual   “average american house tropes” that the writer of this story grew up with in the 90s, was on the second floor. Luckily, the house was empty, so both Tim and Dave could easily climb it without fearing of someone noticing their totally legal actions.

“Look at Tim, such a rebel! Such a fast climber!” Dave whispered, noticing how good Tim was at climbing the girl’s house.

“Thanks. I learned it when I visited your mom.” he joked.

“I thought you’d prefer my dad, you know.” Dave played along, with a rather noticeable reference to Tim’s homosexuality.

“Just… just let’s get done with this.”  

After some awkward climbing, the two found themselves in front of a window leading to Dana’s room. The duo was sitting on a small portion of slanted roof, wondering how to get inside.

“Alright. I could just punch through the window and open it. But you know I don’t like violence against windows.” Dave said, somewhat joking, but really trying to come up with a way to get through this final obstacle.

“Never mind, it’s open.” Tim said, as his hand passed right through the window.   “Or, you know, I got ghost powers all of the sudden, but I doubt it.”

“You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.” Dave commented, as he got inside his girlfriend’s room, making sure no one was there, immediately followed by his sassy friend.

The room was fairly big and messy, books and magazines scattered all around the floor and the bed. Dana was a busy woman: she got a degree in economics but, given the tough times, she had troubles finding a decent job lately. Dave actually suspected that this was the reason she was being nervous about, well, everything, understandably.

“Why don’t you just ask her instead of acting like the perfect boyfriend material that you are?” Tim stated, in his usual snarky tone, noticing Dave basically rummaging through Dana’s more personal stuff.

“Just… let me do my thing ok?” he was serious again, trying to find something that could be clue, deep down knowing that all of that was quite non-sense and even ridiculous, but his stubbornness was showing.   “Wait…”

Something drew his attention. A red (therefore important, according to Dana’s code) sticky note on the nightstand. Something was written on it.

“Oh… I guess I was right…” Dave whispered, eyes glued on the note.

“Something about her job?”  

But Tim didn’t get an answer, as they heard someone coming from downstairs. They probably were so focused on their mission that didn’t even notice how someone got inside the house minutes after them. They went silent and tried to listen to the person’s footsteps.

“Yeah. I’ll keep you posted.”

They heard a muffled female voice getting closer, probably talking on her phone. A voice that was very familiar.

“Fuck! It’s Dana!” Dave whispered.

The two looked around, looking for a quick solution or a place to hide, blatantly ignoring the window they used to get inside in the first place.

“The closet!” Dave said.

Without even questioning whether this was a good idea or not, the duo sneaked inside Dana’s closet and closed themselves inside just as the girl came into her room, still talking on the phone about something.

Tim and Dave managed to mess things up however, as they ended up in a very small section of that apparently big, spacious closet, so they had to arrange themselves in a weird position. Dave was standing up, towering over Tim, who found himself sitting on the floor instead, right behind his friend… with his face perfectly aligned with his loose jeans butt. As his eyes got adjusted to the dark, Tim started to distinguish the seams and texture’s on Dave’s jeans ass, and the tiny red Levi tag on the right back pocket. He couldn’t help but take a look, which he felt really unnecessary, given the context.

“So… this is where you lived for most of your life…” Dave joked, looking around, as if the closet was some kind of fancy mansion.

“Haha! Another gay joke! Great timing, Dave!” Tim muttered instead. The last thing they had to do was talk.

The two waited for a couple of minutes, hoping that Dana would just leave again or even just go downstairs, so they’d have enough time to get out of there in the hopes that Dave didn’t leave any clue of his presence.

“As long a we remain silent…” Tim whispered.   “We have nothing to worry about.”

Only moments after saying that, he felt a very familiar sound greeting his face. It was a long, rumbling sound coming from Dave’s denim ass. It was one of his usual, well-known loud farts, a fart that he was desperately trying to keep as silent as possible. Luckily, Dana was too busy with her phone to even notice the weird noise coming from inside of her closet.

“Dave! What the fuck?!” Tim hissed.

The gassy friend tried not to laugh, realizing how idiotic the whole situation was.   “I’m sorry dude.” he murmured.   “You know what happens when I’m nervous!”  

The smell was unbearable already. Being in a such small space didn’t certainly help. Those were probably some of the smelliest farts Dave ever managed to rip in Tim’s face, although this time was, against all odds, more like an accident.

“Tim…” Dave whispered, carefully placing his butt closer to his friend’s face.

Another fart erupted, sounding dangerously louder than the previous one. The rough surface of Dave’s denim gently caressed Tim’s nose. The blast of gas then turned into something much more subtle, but still otherwise bubbly. Tim felt his nose burn, as really he had no choice but to breath all of that in.

“Dave I swear. If you don’t stop, Dana’s gonna–”

But another   “slow-paced” rumbly fart cut him off. Dave was seriously trying to contain his well-known farting abilities. Tim, instead, was trying to remain calm, feeling like the Universe was somehow messing with him. That was an insane situation: he certainly wasn’t new to Dave’s farts, but in that context, it felt almost like one of his weird dreams about his fart fetish.

“Tim I’m sorry, at least I know you don’t mind… I hope”

Funnily enough, despite the slightly amused tone in his whispering voice, Dave sounded genuinely sorry. Yet he was right: Tim was insanely enjoying it, but knowing that Dana was out there made the whole thing almost surreal. And, once again, as much as Dave always proved so chill about this stuff, he couldn’t help but feel somehow awkward about having his friend face-farting him so non-chalantly.

And yet another   “ninja” fart was ripped all over his face.   Being nervous really turned Dave’s stomach into a messy cloud of gas, and Tim’s nose was there to vacuum it all up, completely defenseless, standing before the sheer power of the gassy friend’s powerful denim-covered anus.

Even though the situation was absurd, Dave couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. After all, the smell hit him too, and it was getting insane even for the farter himself, whose gas just didn’t stop building up.

“Sorry bro… I have to do this.” he whispered.

Tim felt Dave’s hands gently grabbing the back of his head, holding it still, as he pulled him in the clutches of his denim butt. The warm fabric of the jeans was soaking in that unbearable smell. The sniffer then felt the weight of his gassy friend almost crushing his skull. Despite being dark, Tim realized that Dave was basically sitting on him, using his head as some kind of human stool.

The fart was directly ripped in Tim’s mouth at that point, that rumbly sound once again renewing the already destructive stench. It was supposed to be loud, so loud, that Dave had to basically use his friend’s face to deadpan its impressive thunderous noise. The gassy bro was trying to rip it in the form of a long series, hoping that Dana would fail to hear (or even recognize) his well-known gross, but rather impressive talent.

Tim heard his friend’s sighs of relief after each, rumbling fart, but Dave was also trying not to burst into a laughter that could blow their cover. Fart fetish or not, he couldn’t help but to find it more hilarious than gross.

As much as the lack of space in that closet wouldn’t really allow it, Dave even lifted his right leg a bit, while still   “sitting” on his stool-friend, as a way to facilitate the impressive amount of gas gushing out from his anus. It’s not like he had to worry about Tim passing out or finding it too gross, anyway.

That fart itself was lasting longer than both of them anticipated. They lost count of how much time passed, probably a full minute. Tim’s face was warm and sweaty now, still trapped in the clutches of his gassy bro’s denim butt, directly living in person that thin line between Fart Heaven and Fart Hell.

A final sigh of relief, followed by a louder toot and a chuckle.   “Sorry, bud.” Dave muttered, hoping that his plan worked.

Indeed, Dana didn’t hear a thing. She hung up and left the room, her footsteps slowly turning into a far, muffled sound, until silence announced that the duo was now free to get the heck out of there, especially considering how they were almost both choking on farts.

Tim forgot what fresh, non-fart air felt like in his nostrils and so took a deep, refreshing breath the moment he stepped out of that gas closet. Ironically, Dave did the same, maybe even wondering how would Tim even endure something as overwhelming as his farts, but he didn’t really mind anyway. Despite everything, that was oddly hilarious, as the two stared at each other and then bursted into a laughter.

“Now let’s get out of here…” the farter suggested.

But before the two could even walk towards the window, Dana showed up again in her own room. She didn’t even startle.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked, sounding more like an inquisitive mom than an angry girlfriend. She was fairly mature, after all. “I don’t know what you Dumb and Dumber are up to, but I swear if you–”

“I heard the news, Dana. We were just outside your window…” Dave explained, slightly tweaking the truth. “We wanted to play a stupid scary prank but then I heard it, while you were on the phone you know…”

Dana shook her head and laughed a bit. She hugged her boyfriend and kissed him.

“Yes! I got the job!” she giggled. “Sorry I’ve been so cold lately. The job interview made me so nervous…”

“It’s fine, Dana. You’ve always been stone-cold anyway!” Dave joked, earning a playful slap on his chest by his girlfriend.

“Yes, that’s a very import–wait what’s that smell?” the girl asked, sniffling loudly the air around him.

Tim’s heart almost stopped while Dave did his best to not just laugh like an immature prankster. His hair, clothes, skin, were completely “soaked” in his gassy bro’s gas, so naturally he’d himself smell like flatulence.

“Never mind. It must be you, Dave. He farts like crazy when he’s nervous, Tim, I swear.” she said, disgusted but slightly amused as well.

“Ow… it’s part of my charm, babe.” Dave replied, using what he would have considered an irresistible flirty tone of voice, which was super awkward instead.

“And yeah. Tim’s very aware of my skills, right?” he joked, winking at him, like the big teasing bastard he’s always been since he found out about his fart kink.

Tim just shrugged, faking a disgusted look, his heart racing fast, knowing that all he had to do after that was take the biggest shower in the hope that such unbearable stench didn’t fuse with the atoms in his body.

“Well, it’s gonna be a wild ride!” Dana exulted, happy about her new job offer.

“How about a round of beers to celebrate?” Tim suggested. “It’s on me, no worries.”

“Great idea, but I’m paying. I got the job, you dumb-dumbs get to drink!” Dana replied. She was in a very good mood.

“It’s fine, Dana! It’s the least we can do after-“ but Dave interrupted him.

“Come on Tim, stop living in outdated gender roles and let the pretty girl buy you a drink.” he said, faking a serious tone.

The girlfriend simply rolled her eyes and left the room “Just… meet me downstairs when you’re done saving the world, ok?”

As Dana was nowhere in sight, Dave simply turned to Tim and let another huge, long one rip.

“Shhh. Just tying up some loose ends here.” he said, shushing the gay friend, blasting what was left of his gas out.

“Are you finish-“ “Not yet” he simply said, as if he was making sure no particle of gas was left behind.

With one high pitched final note that was met with some immature laughter, Dave sighed in relief.

“With that said” he chuckled “You might want to take a shower.”

Tim simply nodded with an unamused expression.

“Oh, and you might want to leave the other closet you’ve been hiding.”

That was out of nowhere.

“No pressure bro, just know that we’re all always more than happy to have a beer with you.”

“Thanks Da-“

“Despite your bigoted views on gender roles of course.”

“I’m going to punch you now.”

The duo then headed downstairs and no one got punched luckily.

Tim thought about his friend’s words and how it was probably time to leave that metaphorical stuffy closet soon or later, not that he felt forced or anything.

Dana’s closet, however, that’s probably the only one he enjoyed being trapped into…

End of Episode 9

[wri0thesley]

May I request some La Squadra childhood headcanons (upbringing/family/habits/demeanor) :)) Maybe Mista and Abbacchio too if it’s not too much trouble since we already saw a bit of baby Bruno and it made me so curious about the other two! I always imagined Abbacchio to be a bit of a teacher’s pet as a kid lol. Your writing brings me life tysm!!!!

warnings for abusive family, human experimentation, misogyny, illness, hospitals, death, etc! 

Risotto’s family did not care much about him. He’s the middle child of five - they grew up in a rural part of Sicily, in a house that used to be a farmhouse but was merely a house by the time Risotto came along (aside from a flock of chickens constantly in the gardens). He had a traditional Italian family full of people - various aunts, uncles and cousins - but his cousin was his favourite, seeing in Risotto’s quiet nature something similar to his own. Risotto was uncomfortable with there being too many people around and found his home life cramped and uncomfortable and loud. At the local village school he was often hunted out for games of sport (his height and muscle growing in at an early age), but he shied away from making friends, not sure how to handle himself around people who shouted and laughed, envying his siblings for everything seeming so natural. He often stayed with the cousin, and it’s through them he discovered metal music and his now signature look. His parents didn’t have time for him, but his cousin always did, becoming a makeshift father figure where Risotto’s failed. He grew very attached, and as we know, his cousins death hit him hard. 

Formaggio grew up with a single father; his mother simply disappeared in the middle of the night and he never heard from her again. He was always loud, brash and cocky - his father was much the same way. They moved around from place to place, his father taking odd jobs to sustain them and never really getting the hang of them. His father was fairly young and a perpetual teenager, and Formaggio was much the same way. Despite living in occasional poverty, he always had a smile and he and his father were close to one another. He did not really make friends - other children were aware of his unwashed clothes, the fact his lunch was not made as neatly as theirs, the fact that his address was a one-bedroom apartment on the bad side of town - so he turned to acting out and violence, gaining a reputation as a Badly Behaved Child. His father fell into Passione in the need to support his son, and like father like son, Formaggio followed in his footsteps at fourteen (finding a camaraderie and sense of responsibility he never had at school and subsequently just stopping going there). 

Illuso got into Passione for the money and the power. He was an only child and he had a nice upbringing, honestly - he just found himself not special at anything, and he desperately wanted to be. He flitted from hobby to hobby and interest to interest; he was clever and he noticed things, and neither of his parents really knew how to deal with their sharp-tongued child. He was a bit of a bully at school, but not the kind that is ever found out - Illuso’s bullying was quieter than that, whispered words and rumours that never seemed to find their way back to him. He was well-acquainted with blackmail before he turned sixteen. He knew how to sniff out weaknesses in other people - he was always surrounded by people, but it was a lottery as to whether they liked Illuso or whether they just didn’t want to be on his wrong side. Always willing to volunteer for things, too confident for his own good - eventually, he stopped caring about being ‘special’ at something, and just worked on being the ‘best around him’. 

Melone’s backstory can be found here. Both of his parents were academics and lecturers in genetic science, and he’s the eldest child by eight years. His family moved around rather a lot. He has two younger sets of twins as siblings; one set of boys, and one set of girls. Growing up, his parents considered him less interesting and a little slow - he turned to science and genetics as a way to get their attention and praise; despite the fact he showed a natural affinity for it, by this time, they were far more interested in experimenting on their younger children and Melone was ignored. His nature is curious and insistent - he learnt to insist or to be ignored. He had to look after his younger siblings a lot growing up; they were home-schooled where he was not, and the strange separation of them and him and all of the children at school (Melone not quite fitting into either group) meant that he always seemed just a little off. 

Prosciutto is a mafia man through and through. His family are entrenched in old bloodlines and uninvestigated deaths - unfortunately, though, they are a family that had somewhat fallen from grace by Prosciutto’s birth. The definition of faded glamour and keeping up appearances; rooms in a big, drafty old house that have an old bed and a falling apart dressing table. His father always talked to him about how it was his and his brothers’ job to keep the bloodline going - a traditional chauvinist of a man. His mother was very quiet and pretty; she encouraged him to small interests like old music and fashion, but was always silent around her husband. He grew up knowing his life was expendable. Youngest son of two; his elder brother died within months of finally being given his assignment within Passione and honestly, Prosciutto knows his father would rather he have died. A quiet little boy who did not make friends (he had a tutor) and had too much of the weight of the world on his shoulders in the knowledge of how many of his mother’s jewels were pasteboard, where the guns were kept, and just how many people he saw regularly were murderers. At his assignment at sixteen, Prosciutto had to learn exactly how to blend in, because many of the mafiosos he was suddenly surrounded by did not appreciate what they saw as his superiority. 

Pesci was an only child of a single mother; his father passed away when he was young. He was rather sickly growing up, and it made his mother indulgent - despite growing up fairly middle class, he never wanted for anything, and they lived well beyond their means. His mother fussed over him, always afraid that he was going to have a relapse into his childhood illness - very much a child wrapped in cotton wool. It gave him his own complex about taking risks; he didn’t want to get hurt. He didn’t want to be rejected by other children. He was slow at his schoolwork but devoted to his mother, and other children saw him as a prime target to bully. He was kicked around a lot at school and it eventually made him too easy to subdue when he suddenly filled out and shot up and became a threat; found himself, too often, a henchman to more articulate, meaner children. Grateful to be accepted, he went along with the flow, despite feeling in the very core of his gut that he was disgusted by them. He ended up in Passione because his mother needed medical treatment and in trying to sort it out realised just how much debt they were in.

Ghiaccio just had a normal run-of-the-mill described as ‘average’ by everyone upbringing - both of his parents, an only child, a mother with a professional job, middle-class. His father was partially deaf - in my experience, people with deaf parents either speak very loudly or very quietly, and Ghiaccio has gone for the former. He learnt LIS at a very early age, and it’s part of the reason he can be so anal about pronunciation and language as a whole - he’s utterly fascinated by it, and that fascination started in early childhood. His parents were also indulgent of him, but having a younger brother meant that he didn’t get the full brunt of that indulgence - his brother was a little more of a ‘rough and tumble’ boy. He liked football and weights, and when he took up a sport Ghiaccio’s parents decided Ghiaccio should learn to do something too and asked him what he thought - they were surprised when he said ice skating, but figured he would go into ice hockey or something. He didn’t. For a while, he was fairly well-known in the competitive figure skating under eighteens circuit. It gave him two things; one, a competitive need to win and be good at things (and a propensity to tantrum when he lost) and two, a taste for flashy, expensive things (have you seen this man’s car). His parents eventually didn’t know how to deal with his arrogance, and he fell into Passione based on a ‘sponsor’ he ended up embroiled with at nineteen when his parents didn’t want to fund his ‘hobby’ anymore (they kept pouring resources into his younger brother, of course - Ghiaccio always felt a bit like they didn’t take him seriously). He left ice skating competitively behind, but he couldn’t leave behind the nice things or the anger issues he accrued. 

I’ve written about Sorbet and Gelato’s childhood/backstory here! But a brief, shorter version:

Gelato had a loving family and a privileged upbringing. Always enough money, always enough to eat - an only child, who perhaps was a little rowdy at school but whomst his parents were very proud of. Both of them were traditional types; thinks a man should be strong, should be the real driving force of all relationships - they were extremely proud of him going into the army. Cleverer than people tend to give him credit for, sharp-eyed, a constant humming need to be doing something with his hands. 

Sorbet was orphaned at a young age in a house fire and taken in by a church orphanage. He’s quiet but equally clever; his cleverness tends to be a little less in your face. He was a comforting presence to other people and took care of the younger boys (even now, he feels a sense of duty to some of La Squadra) - being low-voiced, soothing and commanding. He spent a lot of time reading. The church orphanage was poor; Sorbet has learnt to appreciate luxury where Gelato takes it for granted and it’s part of the reason he’s so concerned with finances even in his forties. 

Abbacchio grew up in a houseful of women. His father left when he was still young; he was . . . not a nice man, and Abbacchio has vague memories of his mother carefully applying concealer over black eyes. It’s part of the reason Abbacchio became a police officer - knowing that he was still out there, not paying for what he’d done . . . Abbacchio wanted to ensure other people did not go through it. He had a little sister (by six years) who adored him, and his grandmother (who had once been an opera singer and still had a touch of that old-time glamour). He was fairly well off; at least, after he and his mother went to live with her mother again. His grandmother was EXTREMELY indulgent of her serious pretty-eyed grandson (his affinity for opera comes from her) who wanted so hard to be a Good Man. He was made fun of as a child for being a teacher’s pet and a nerd, you’re right - he adopted being a goth and dressing like that fairly early in his life. Nobody was going to threaten to punch him in leather and black lipstick, he thought - and nobody, too, needed to know that his CD player was blasting Monteverdi and not heavy metal. 

Mista was the only child of an unreliable mother and a father who left when he was four (he kept very vaguely in touch; Mista has three little sisters who he sees occasionally but keeps quiet about his employ to. After the events of VA, he’s established a fund for each of them, but he wasn’t really permitted to see them much growing up). Even after his parents leaving and his neighbour’s loss of an eye (and the subsequent setting in of his fear of the number four), he was an easy-going child who made friends easily and smiled at all and sundry; he was never particularly book-clever, but he was good-natured and had many friends. His mother’s lack of reliability meant that he became very fond of simple things other people took for granted - when she died, he was sad, but his life did not change much. He’d already learnt to fend for himself when it came to food and the like; often coming home to an empty house and simply making do. (The lack of food in the house is part of the reason he gained such an affinity for things he saw as luxuries like wines and cheeses). He learnt to use his dark eyes and charming smile and warm nature to win sleepovers with schoolfriends and evening meals with their parents. Always a little bit behind his peers in having cool gadgets or interesting stories, Mista was content just to have a simple life and good health. 

[comfortwriting]

Best Friends Boyfriend - G.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompts

Part 2 of my slow burn mini-series, inspired by and dedicated to @amourtentiaa , want to be tagged? Let me know!

This chapter is inspired by @amourtentiaa ‘s Owlery which you can learn more about and access here.

Please read Part 1 if you haven't already!

George Weasley x Fem Reader slow burn 

Warnings: Fluff.

You couldn’t get last night out of your head, the sound of George whispering to you, asking you out on a date, how his beautiful face looked from the amber tones coming from the flames that radiated against his face, the way he smiled and licked his lips.

Laying in bed wide awake you kept your hand over your mouth, trying to hold in your giggles so you wouldn’t wake up Hermione and your other dorm mates. You couldn’t believe it - you’re going on a date, with George Weasley, the lad you fancy more than anyone else in the world - the only problem, your best friend, George’s younger brother, Ron, wouldn’t approve and would do anything to make sure the two of you keep well away from one another.

Throughout the whole day, you played it cool when passing George in the common room or the great hall, but as the day moved on and afternoon turned into evening, you couldn’t stop the giggles of excitement from bursting out, and the tint of pink to spread across your cheeks.

You had two hours until you were meeting George, for now, you sat in the common room with Ron and Hermione whilst Harry had Occlumency lessons with Snape.

“What d’you keep giggling about?” Ron hissed at you, scowling “you’ve been at it all day and you’re freaking me out.”

You covered your face with your hands, taking a deep breath and trying to calm the bubbling of nerves and excitement.

“N-Nothing” you replied, “I think I inhaled a dodgy potion somebody was brewing in the second-floor toilets this morning” you lied, avoiding eye contact with your best friend and his crush, Hermione.

Ron gave you an odd look and flashed his eyes to Hermione, who glared at him and shrugged her shoulders.

“Shouldn’t you go to Madame Pomfrey?” she suggested, knitting another hat for the house-elves.

Nodding your head, you got out of your chair and pursed your lips, “yeah, I think I will” you lied again “let me go and get freshened up, she might want to keep me in overnight if the giggles get worse” you smirked, chuckling.

Leaving your friends behind, you hurried off to your dorm room, getting your makeup, clothes, and shoes ready to put on after your shower, placing your clothes and makeup bag on the bed, kicking your shoes on the floor beside it.

“I dunno what's up with her” Ron huffed, slouching in his chair beside the fire.

Hermione continued knitting “Well, hopefully, Madame Pomfrey can sort her out, uncontrollable giggling can get you sent to St. Mungo’s.”

Ron focused on the bobble hat coming together in front of his eyes, trying to make sense of your behaviour today and if there was something else going on after his brother played Hero during the end of your horrific date.

Wearing your best black denim front pocket Pinafore dress over your red and yellow striped turtleneck and black tights, you stared at yourself in the mirror, blushing slightly at the thought of George seeing you dolled up just for him. You pouted, deep in thought and unsure of what hairstyle to do, checking the time you were cutting it close and decided your go-to natural, no school but not overdoing it hairstyle would be best.

“Tomorrow night, where we first met” you reminded yourself, hearing George’s voice inside your head.

Thinking long and hard about when you first met George and where, you closed your eyes and tried to focus, all of your memories whizzing around in your head - you couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter knowing that not only did George remember, but he also perhaps thought of that day often.

Hurrying out of your dorm and back into the common room, Harry now sat down with Hermione and Ron, they all seemed taken aback by your appearance, furrowing their brows at you.

“You’re a bit dressed up for a doctors appointment, aren’t you?” Hermione called out.

Ron looked at you from head to toe “I think you’ve overdone it, mate-”

“See you later!” you giggled, a spring in your step as you left the common room, going through the portrait hole.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione exchanged looks, none of them knowing what to think or say was becoming a reoccurring factor today.

“Something isn’t right at all” Ron muttered “she’s up to something”

Reaching the owlery, you felt your excitement and nervousness compete against one another inside of you, being a few minutes early, you had enough time to admire all of the owls around you who were getting ready to go out hunting. Each of them unique and calming to look at, stroke, and hear a hoot. The memories finally coming back to you more clearly.

Your first week at Hogwarts went more awful than you ever imagined, you had got lost on the way to your classes, got into trouble by Percy - your houses Prefect and due to your terrible potion skills Snape put you in a weeks detention, your parents were so angry you received a Howler before anyone else in your class.

Feeling lost, alone, and in need of a friend, you wrote out your worries, concerns and everything else you were feelings into letters, addressed to your friends attending other Wizarding Schools (like Ilvermorny) across the globe.

Writing about your feelings, life, and anything, in general, helped to make you feel better, heard, and less isolated from the impressive and promising classmates that surrounded you.

Walking up the long and steep steps up to the Owlery, your heart melted at the Owls, some sleeping, some bobbing their heads around, and others appearing to be smiling at you. You felt connected to them in some sort of way, and spending time with them, knowing they didn’t care about your house, or how well you could make a feather float in the air made you feel more at ease.

You stared and smiled at your Tawny owl named Penny, you approached her trying to avoid the owl droppings and rat carcasses and stroked her softly, handing her your letters.

“Please deliver these safely,” you told her, tears filling your eyes again “it’s taken a lot for me to write them”

Penny accepted the letters and understood how important this job was, and how much it would mean to you, she pecked at your cheek, little kisses against your tears before she flapped her gorgeous wings and took flight.

Not wanting to go back down to your Herbology class to be a laughing stock, you stayed in the owlery, falling to the floor and weeping.

“If these reports get sent home mum will kill us” once voice spoke out, panting up the stairs.

“Well” replied a similar voice, also panting “we need to change our grades and get one of these owls to send it to her for us, it's why I made a fake replica”

Their voices and footsteps came closer.

“As long as Errol and Hermes aren’t delivering it, we’ll be fine Georgie.”

Two tall twins with ginger hair walked into the Owlery shiftily, both of them stopping in their tracks, noticing you crying on the floor, drowning in your robes.

George’s face and heart softened, he mouthed to his brother ‘leave it with me, I’ll get it sent, let me see why she’s upset’

Freddie nodded and slowly left the Owlery, trying not to make a sound.

You missed Penny with all your heart, after many trips she became so sick and injured no magic, and no amount of Hagrid’s care and love was enough to fix her wings and bring her back to life. When you lost Penny, you lost part of yourself, the Owlery wasn’t the same without her and each time you visited, you would break down into tears.

“You made it, early” George called out, pulling you out of your trip down memory lane, causing you to jump slightly.

You blinked back the forming tears and turned around to face him, the moonlight illuminating his best features through the open arches. “Didn’t want to be late” you replied, smiling nervously, stroking one of the owls.

“You were so little” George chuckled “but even after growing up so much somethings never change”

You cocked up an eyebrow and smirked, slightly confused “what do you mean?”

“The owls” he replied “your love for them, the time you make for them, it’s beautiful”

You could feel your cheeks heating up, your heart rate elevating.

“They’re special to me” you replied, trying not to come across as too shy.

George blushed too, his cheeks mirroring yours as he stepped closer, so close you could count each individual freckle across his face - something you had only done from across the halls or over the table.

“that’s why I asked for us to meet here,” George said softly, stepping closer to you, his breath brushing against you “because you’re special to me”

George took hold of your hand, tracing stars into your palm with his thumb, his eyes taking in your hair, your makeup, your outfit, and shoes. He started to lean in, as did you, your soft lips brushing against his cinnamon scented ones, but pulled away before you could share a kiss, smirking and winking at you.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said nervously “I’ve been trying to give her to you for a while now, but whenever I’ve tried, Ron always got in the way”

You rolled your eyes “he always does” you replied “he doesn’t like the idea of us being together” you frowned, looking away from George and lowering your head, deciding to examine your shoes.

George lifted your chin up with his thumb, smiling at you “he doesn’t have to know” he paused “stay very quiet and follow me” he whispered, still holding your hand.

George walked you over to a very tired looking owl, her wings and body covering something small underneath her. George whispered to the owl “It’s George, she’s ready now”

The tired owl opened her googly eyes, staring at George, slowly and reluctantly moving away from her precious possession underneath her motherly wings. Underneath the wings lay a tiny owlet, its large magnificent eyes opening wide and staring at George, then you.

“I know he’ll never replace Penny” George murmured, wrapping his arm around you “but I want you to have a safe space here, I know how much of that Penny provided for you and I know how much of that changed when she passed away.”

You reached out your hand to stroke the baby, “it’s okay” you reassured his nervous mother “I’m not going to hurt him”

You ran the back of your finger down the Owlets fluffy back, its face showing signs of enjoyment and comfort, something rare amongst owls.

George watched in awe, the memories of you when you were much shorter and quieter flashing before him, now you were a beautiful young woman, with the same heart full of love and nurturing.

Tears of happiness streamed down your cheeks, you leaned into George and cuddled him, your face pressed against his chest, the scent of the burrow engulfing you.

“George - I - thank you, he’s beautiful”

George closed his eyes, taking in your face against his chest, his hand stroking your hair.

“I care for you, Y/N” he spoke out again “I know we were never that close, but you’re not just my little brother's friend to me”

You pulled yourself off his chest, looking up into his gorgeous eyes.

“like these owls, you’re unique, you’re special” he whispered.

“What’s your obsession with these owls anyway?” the tall boy asked, fiddling with his fake report.

“They’re unique” you replied quietly, walking around “they’re special”

George looked down into your eyes, his nose poking yours softly, leaning in, you didn’t pull back and allowed him to pull you gently into him.

His heart and yours racing, as your hand rested upon his chest, and his arm around your waist, your lips grazing against each other, turning into a deep, soft kiss.

Tag list: @amourtentiaa @reeophidian @inglourious-imagines @slutforsebstan @alwaysnforeverfangirl @horrorxweasley @xmalfoyweasleyx @freddiemylovelg 

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

The Jaskier Effect

Also on ao3

The first time that Eskel noticed things were changing, he was collecting the payment for a contract on a wraith in Velen. The alderman handed him a leather coin pouch with a wink, saying “Toss a coin to your Witcher,” and then proceeded to hum some tune as Eskel turned to leave.

Not every interaction was as odd, or as pleasant, but he did find that over the following months there was generally a slightly more tolerant attitude whenever he walked into a village or town, and less people tried to cheat him out of the coin he was owed for his work. If he hadn’t spent the better part of a century being shunned or ridiculed for being a Witcher, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? But he still kept his guard up. Aired on the side of caution. People don’t just change, and he was suspicious about this new growing respect for his kind.

It was in a tavern in Redania where he heard the song in full for the first time. He was perched at a table in the corner, thumbing a tankard of piss-poor ale when a young female bard started up and one of the patrons requested it.

It took Eskel a good few minutes to process that the song was about Geralt.

He didn’t know what was more surprising. The fact that his brother in arms had let a bard tag along on a hunt, or that he had allowed a song to be composed about him after the fact. Then again, he knew how much the title of ‘The Butcher of Blaviken’ upset Geralt, so maybe being sung about as a hero wouldn’t be so bad after all. Eskel had certainly noticed how this one song had started to affect people’s perceptions of Witchers, however subtle.

After the performance, Eskel had approached the female bard and asked if she was the one who wrote it. Essi, he later found out to be her name, had humbly thanked him but told him that a dear friend of hers had composed it. A bard called Jaskier.

Jaskier.

Eskel was very intrigued.

That winter he waited impatiently for Geralt to join them at Kaer Morhen. He asked Lambert if he had noticed the change and, Lambert being Lambert, had jumped on the chance to use it as a new way of getting into people’s pants. Not that he needed any help with that in the first place, but this new growing respect for Witchers definitely had its advantages.

Vesemir, like Eskel, advised on the err of caution.

“It won’t last,” he had warned, “It never does.”

“All the more reason to reap the benefits now, right Eskel?” Lambert threw him a lewd wink.

Eskel had grunted but not really given Lambert an answer.

When Geralt eventually showed up, just as the first snows started to fall, Eskel quizzed him mercilessly about the bard. He wanted to know how on earth the young human had found himself in the prickly Witcher’s company.

Geralt gave a very stunted story of how he met Jaskier and the adventure that followed but Eskel knew him well enough to see that the bard and his songs had affected Geralt in more ways than one. The White Wolf held affection for Jaskier. His hard edges were slightly softer than they had been last time they met. There was a new warmth to his amber eyes. Geralt, usually so closed off to the world, had unwillingly, or unwittingly, let someone in.

Witchers don’t tend to have friends outside of their own kind, and even then, they usually stick to their own Witcher School, and even then, sometimes ‘friend’ was such a strong word, but Eskel could see that this Jaskier had the potential to help Geralt find that part of himself so many believed was stripped from him when he underwent the mutations.

Geralt of course, insisted that Jaskier was not his friend and, come spring, when Eskel asked him if he was going to travel with the bard again Geralt shrugged with a grunt.

“If our paths cross, our paths cross,” the white haired Witcher answered nonchalantly.

Eskel just rolled his eyes.

“Well thank him for me if they do,” he rumbled.

“What for?” frowned Geralt.

“For the good work he’s doing for all Witcher kind,” Eskel grinned with a wink.

Geralt scoffed, mounted his faithful mare and disappeared down the trail.

As the years passed by and more songs about the White Wolf emerged, Eskel found his job as a Witcher to be less monotonous and more interesting. People were actually willing to converse with him, even offer him better rates for contracts. One barkeep even gave him a free beer because he recognised the wolf medallion around Eskel’s neck.

“You a wolf Witcher? You know that Geralt? Drinks on the house!”

Eskel was sure he’d never get used to it.

And, as he expected, not everyone was keen on the new perspective of Witchers. Some still slandered him in the streets, threw stones, spat at him, tried to pick fights with him that he knew they’d never win. But, thanks to Jaskier and his influence, life as a Witcher had improved considerably.

When Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen each winter, he always brought more stories of his time spent travelling with the bard. Eskel could see the brightness in his eyes and the soft way he spoke about Jaskier. Geralt was warm and open and laughing and joking, and it had been a long time since Eskel had seen him like this. The affect the bard was having on him, it was nice. Good.

Lambert insisted that Geralt should invite Jaskier to Kaer Morhen the next winter. Geralt had laughed it off, saying that Jaskier would much rather spend his winters warm and cosy in Oxenfurt than freezing his balls off with the likes of them, but he could see the thought playing in Geralt’s mind and he really hoped that Geralt would introduce them to the bard next year.

Eskel didn’t have to wait that long though.

It was nearing the end of summer and Eskel was passing through Novigrad. He usually avoided the big cities, but he was running low on a very specific herb to brew his potions and he knew the herbalist off Hierarch Square was the only place for miles around where he could get it.

He had wrapped his travel cloak around himself, making sure his hood hid his face as he ventured into the city. The general attitude and acceptance towards Witchers was better than it had ever been but, in Novigrad, where the majority of the populace was still out to get anyone non-human, he couldn’t be too careful.

His transaction with the herbalist went as smoothly as he could have hoped, and he pocketed the small pouch of herbs carefully. By now though, it was starting to get late and his horse was tired from the long day of traveling so, he decided to stop off in a tavern for the night.

He left his mount in the capable hands of the stable boys and slunk into the ‘Kingfisher’ without drawing too much attention to himself.

The heat of the tavern hit him in a stifling cloud. The tang of alcohol and sweat swirled about him, and the wall of noise was a mixture of shouted conversation and singing along with whomever the entertainment was for the evening.

Eskel wove his way through the many patrons and quietly discussed a room for the night with the barkeep.

Wary of the Witcher, the squat man had warned him if there was any trouble, he’d be out quicker that you could say Gwent. Eskel accepted his terms and found a stool at the edge of the bar to inhabit as he nursed a tankard of ale.

Hood still drawn to shadow his face, he cast his keen eyes over the patrons and his attention was drawn to the musician in front of the hearth.

The bard was a few years shy of thirty. Dark brown windswept looking hair and bright blue eyes. He was stood on a stool and was stamping in time to the beat of his wild lute playing. His voice was rich and just as colourful as the teal doublet and breeches he wore, embroidered and patterned with navy blue.

There was something about him, like he was familiar somehow. Then it hit him. He knew exactly who this bard was.

“Ho Hey

But the Witcher knew

Took a Witcher’s brew

And the Witcher slew.

Ho Hey

And the village knew

That their beast was through

And tossed his way some coin and ale and stew.”

Jaskier beamed as he sang, the patrons around him joining in with this chorus, stamping and clapping in time.

Eskel couldn’t tare his eyes away. Geralt’s description of the bard had been spot on but he could never have been prepared for…well this.

The confidence, the elegance that came with his playing. The animated charm. The way he had everyone around him engaged and enjoying themselves. Eskel could understand why Geralt was drawn to him.

He was barely listening to the lyrics. Just staring at the man who had won over his brother in arms.

Jaskier sang the chorus again then finished with a flourish, grinning at the rambunctious applause.

“Thank you,” he winked at a passing barmaid who swooned, “I will be taking a short break but fear not. I will return.”

There was a mixture of cheers and protests as the young bard skipped through the crowd and leaned over the bar, very close to where Eskel was sitting.

Gods above, Eskel thought to himself, his scent!

Jaskier smelled like lavender and sandalwood, fresh parchment and woodsmoke. It was a scent that Eskel had picked up on many occasions throughout the last few winters. Lingering on Geralt’s clothing, on Roach’s saddlebags.

With a goblet of wine in hand, Jaskier thanked a woman who was excitedly complimenting his singing and when she finally melted back into the throng, he took a long drink and then rested his gaze on Eskel.

Amber eyes met blue and Jaskier quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Well, well, well,” the bard crooned, voice thick with curiosity, “Dark and mysterious stranger who has been ogling me since he came in turns out to be a dark and mysterious Witcher.”

Eskel swallowed hard, not quite sure what to say to him. Not that it really mattered because Jaskier barely paused for breath before he continued.

“Let me see. Wolf Witcher,” Jaskier indicated the medallion just visible through the folds of grey cloak then narrowed his eyes at him, “You must be Eskel.”

Eskel absently touched the long scar tracking down the right side of his face. Of course Geralt had talked about his brothers with the bard, described them to his friend.

Jaskier’s expression softened.

“No,” he smiled kindly, “It’s the eyes, the jaw. You look a lot like Geralt. Except, you know, he has white hair and you’ve got – is it dark brown? Black? Anyway. I’m Jaskier.”

Eskel hesitated before taking the offered hand and Jaskier shook it enthusiastically.

“I imagine Geralt has mentioned me. Though not all bad, I hope. So, what brings you to Novigrad? Some monster lurking about? You doing some Witchering?”

Eskel was baffled by this young man.

Jaskier talked quickly without much pause for thought, true, but he was talking to him like…they were equals. Friends even. The bard was warm and open and ridiculously handsome, though Eskel would never tell Geralt that he thought so. There wasn’t an ounce of the usual fear he experiences when talking to people. No guarded expression. No hidden motivation. Just an imploring gaze and friendly smile.

Eskel understood completely why Geralt had given in to allowing Jaskier to travel with him. He didn’t see what everyone else saw. Didn’t see the Witcher, the monster, the savage killer. He saw Geralt. And now, he saw Eskel.

“Thank you,” Eskel heard himself say.

Confusion twitched in Jaskier’s expression and he tilted his head slightly.

“For what?” he hummed.

For what? Eskel bit his cheek. For helping to improve Geralt’s image? For being Geralt’s friend? For changing how people see Witchers? For increasing the payment prospects of contracts for Witchers across the continent? For everything?

“For your songs,” he settled on.

Jaskier flashed him a dazzling smile.

“You’re welcome,” he smirked.

Eskel realised that Jaskier had no idea how much his songs had actually affected the Witchers and their place in the continent. He had no idea that singing about Geralt was just the start of a ripple that had spread across the lands and changed people for the better. He had no idea of the legacy he was building, for himself, for his friend, and for all the working Witcher’s who used to struggle to get a decent price for even a few Drowners.

The fame of Jaskier the bard wasn’t exclusive to the high courts and bustling taverns. Jaskier had no idea how big his impact actually was.

And Eskel didn’t have the first clue on how to start telling him.

“You staying in Novigrad long?” Jaskier asked breezily, taking a sip from his goblet.

“Not if I can help it,” the Witcher shrugged.

“No jobs enticing enough to make you change your mind?”

“Unfortunately no one puts out contracts on Priests of the Eternal Fire,” Eskel grunted.

Jaskier snorted into his wine and Eskel felt his lips pull in a small smile.

“Fair enough,” Jaskier composed himself, eyes blazing with mirth, “We can’t always be so lucky.”

“What about you? How long are you here for?” being drawn into conversation with the bard was easy. It felt natural and relaxed and safe.

“Meh, who knows? Until I bore of the markets and politics and need to get back out there on the Path,” Jaskier frowned at the dregs lining the bottom of his goblet and Eskel flagged down the barkeep to order more drinks.

“Going to look for Geralt?” Eskel glanced at Jaskier over the top of his tankard.

“I might,” Jaskier shot him a playful grin, “Unless you want the company on the road for a while.”

It was Eskel’s turn to choke slightly on his drink.

“A new muse could be just what I need. How about it Eskel? Not all my songs have to be about Geralt, you know.”

Eskel caught those blue eyes and held them for a moment.

“Sure. Why not?” he rumbled.

“Excellent,” Jaskier clapped his hands together gleefully, “You and me Eskel, we’re gonna change the world.”

You already have, Eskel thought to himself, and I’m going to spend whatever time we have together making you see it. Making you understand. Showing you what you’ve done for us. For me. And for Geralt. The affect you’ve had on all Witchers and the world you have created for us. Just you wait and see.

Impalaloompa on ao3

[sofreddie]

Fricking Free

Summary: After a close call, Dean decides it's time to settle down into a normal life.

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam x Eileen, Miracle (the beautiful floofy pupperz)

Warnings: 15x20 AU, Injury to Dean (but no death), Angst, Fluff, Pregnancy

Word Count: 2,239

A/N: A part 3 or epilogue of sorts to the Dog-Gone Witches and Pesky Portals mini-series. I combined them into one list since it's all connected.

Sam hissed as he pulled Dean's body off the pole of rebar that had impaled him, gently laying him on the floor of the barn. The wound was really bad. The rebar narrowly missed his spine and heart, but he was sure it broke through at least one rib and punctured his lung.

He knew he'd have to get his brother to a hospital immediately if he had any chance of saving him. With his last bit of strength, he hoisted Dean into his arms and hurried to the Impala.

Laying Dean across the backseat, Sam rummaged in his pocket for the keys before shutting the door on his brother and hopping in the driver's seat.

Dust kicked up as he sped off towards the nearest hospital. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to keep an eye on Dean. He looked like he was passing out.

Other than subconsciously praying that his brother would be alright, only one other thought rang through his mind.

Y/N was going to kick both their asses.

Y/N parked the antique truck in the large parking lot of the hospital. Sam called her as soon as he got Dean to the hospital. She immediately took off to meet them, several hours away.

Sam shot up from the waiting seats in the hall outside Dean's room as soon as he saw her enter. He stood and waited for the yelling, but she rushed to him and crashed into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He was surprised, but grateful, as he understood her fear.

"He's in here," Sam said as he pulled from the hug and led her into the room. She walked through the door and her eyes landed on Dean in the bed. He was covered in bruises and bandages and so many things.

Her breath caught in her throat and she choked back a sob.

"Hey," Dean croaked with a small smile.

"You could've died," she blurted out in a whisper. She took several steps closer to him, speaking louder not but not quite yelling, "You almost died."

"I know," Dean rasped, "But I'm okay-"

She raised a hand to silence him, "I did not travel across the universe for you to turn around and die on a hunt Dean Winchester," she chastised, "You saved the world countless times. You've replaced God. You're frickin' free!" she huffed, "So be free Dean, with me. please," she begged, carefully taking one of his hands in her, tears streaming down her face.

"I can't handle seeing you like this. I can't handle not knowing if you're coming back. Please, please," she sobbed, dropping her head to his chest and holding him as carefully as she could.

Dean carefully draped an arm over her back, holding her to him as she cried. It broke his heart to see her like this. She didn't know, but Sam had had a similar conversation with him when he woke up.

He glanced at Sam then over Y/N's shoulder. His brother gave him an 'I told you so' look and Dean minutely nodded, looking back at Y/N.

"Okay," he said, brushing her hair back and looking into her eyes, "You're right."

He may never feel like he could completely quit hunting. But he trusted them and they both said he should. So he'd try. She was right. She was here, with him. After he had missed her so much.

It would be dumb to throw that all away. He almost died on that hunt. He swore to himself to never do that to her again.

Sam drove Dean and the Impala back to the Bunker, Y/N following behind in the truck. She was angry, hurt, scared. Sam hoped the drive back might give her time to calm down.

Dean was certain she didn't believe him and was gonna leave him. They all do eventually.

When they finally parked in the Bunker's garage, Dean was surprised to see Y/N there, helping him out of the car and offering to help him to their room.

Sam followed behind with their bags, ready to help if Dean seemed to falter. But he and Y/N seemed to make it to their room just fine. Sam set their things inside and helped Y/N get Dean settled onto the bed.

He still had a long way to go to heal. They were back to doing things old school. Just another reason not to take so many risks. This hunt made Sam realize that any day could be the last now. For real.

It was sobering. It made him want to seek out all the things he couldn't before because of the life, because of Chuck. He wanted that for Dean too.

Y/N sat on the bed next to Dean, taking his hand and Sam smiled.

"I'll just leave you two to it," Sam said, going for the door.

"Hey Sam," Y/N said, turning to look at him, "Thank you for your help, and for keeping him alive."

Sam grinned and nodded, "Always."

Y/N smiled then turned back to Dean once the door was closed, "You're gonna be laid up for a while," she sighed.

Dean swallowed hard, "Are you gonna leave?" he asked in such a small voice it surprised her, "Are you gonna go back home?"

She stared at him as if he'd grown a second head, "I am home," she responded, "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. But I am not above nagging and a little shoving and smacking if you put me through this again. I'd kick your ass now but looks like someone else did me the favor."

Dean laughed, taking in her playful smile. She called this home. She was staying.

"Now, do you want food or do you want to get comfy and watch some mind-numbing entertainment?"

"Pizza and Netflix in bed with you sounds fucking perfect," Dean groaned, letting his head drop back against the headboard with a lazy grin.

"On it, Babe," she responded, pecking his lips. Dean drew her back to him, reigniting the chaste kiss and deepening it. She pulled from the kiss and giggled, "Oh, no stud. You're out of commission for the time being," she patted his chest and he groaned once more, before taking off to set up for their relaxing evening.

Dean actually enjoyed the break he got while healing. Spending time with Y/N was just like back at her farmhouse. Except he was practically an invalid for weeks, Sam and Y/N having to help him with everything.

Now that he was healed, he was restless. He promised he wouldn't hunt, and he knew Y/N was still wary that he could or would even keep that promise. But he was determined.

Instead, he started picking up odd jobs around town: handyman, car repair, lawn maintenance. Whatever people needed, Dean offered a hand and started making a decent amount of money.

That's when the idea struck him.

If he could make and save enough money, maybe he could find a small home in the area. Maybe even a little farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Y/N would love that.

Suddenly, the apple pie life seemed attainable, tangible. So he turned to Sam for help with his plan. Sam was completely on board and started making all sorts of suggestions on how they could make the money: side jobs, part-time gigs, hustling, and selling a few non-dangerous artifacts from the Bunker.

Sam was certain they could make enough for Dean and Y/N, and for him and Eileen. Dean was over-the-moon when Sam told him he and Eileen wanted a home and to start a life.

Everything finally seemed to be falling into place.

Dean found Y/N in their room, folding and putting away laundry. He smiled at her, always loving the small moments of domesticity. They were new and refreshing and he didn't want to take any of it for granted.

"Hey, Babe," Dean caught her attention. coming up behind her and grabbing her by the waist as he placed a kiss on her cheek, "Can we talk for a minute?"

Y/N stopped what she was doing, turning to Dean with trepidation. She knew Dean wasn't a big talker. She nodded, giving him her full attention. He sat her on the edge of the bed and joined her.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking since that last hunt. You're right. It's time I left the life behind. It's time I focused on our future."

"Dean-" she interrupted, feeling incredibly guilty, "I'm sorry I said what I said. I know you hunt. I know that-"

He raised a hand silencing her, "I want to. I want a life with you."

She smiled brightly, leaning in and kissing him deeply with relief. Maybe they could have a simple, domestic, safe life.

"Rise and shine, Sweet Thing," Dean said as he swiftly pulled back the covers, revealing Y/N. She groaned as she wiped her mess of hair from her face to glare at him with barely open eyes.

Dean chuckled and pecked her lips before handing her a mug of coffee and sitting beside her on the bed.

"Why are you so chiper so early?" she groaned, "I thought that was Sam's thing."

He laughed again, "Well, I'm in a good mood and I'm really excited."

She raised a curious brow at him, taking a hefty gulp of her coffee to help her mind, "What's going on?"

"Get up and you'll see," Dean said, getting up from the bed and beginning to go through the closet and dresser, pulling out clothes for her. She decided arguing with this crazy person wouldn't get her anywhere, so she just went along with it.

Whatever it was, at least it made him smile so brightly. That tugged on her heart strings a bit.

She took turns getting dressed and gulping her coffee, trying to move as swiftly as her body would allow. Dean was practically vibrating in place, like a kid ready to go to Disneyland.

An hour later and she understood why.

Dean stopped the car at the end of the long driveway - practically a private road - to the charming yet dilapidated farmhouse in front of her. She climbed out of the car, her eyes taking in the property around her.

It reminded her of her own farmhouse in a way. Or it would if it wasn't so rundown and overgrown. That didn't deter her though. She wouldn't shy from a fixer-upper. Hell, her home was one too.

"I bought it," Dean said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her middle. He rested his chin on her shoulder as they both looked over the house and property.

There was plenty of land. She could already pick out a few good spots for a garden. The property was surrounded by woods too, so there was a sense of privacy and quiet.

"I figured we could fix it up together," He said as he took her by the hand and led her inside, showing her around and telling her all the ideas he had for the place. Her face hurt she was smiling so hard so long, "Sam said he'd come by and help too."

"He's not coming with us?" she asked, wondering why Dean would leave his brother behind.

"He bought a house too," he grinned, "For him and Eileen. It's in town."

"Wow," she huffed a laugh, "So you really were serious. About leaving it behind? Building a life with me?"

"Yes. We can be happy here."

She looked around once more before settling on him again and smiling brightly, "I think we can," she agreed.

Y/N groaned as she placed the bowl on the floor, petting Miracle on the head with a smile. She stood up straight, a hand on her lower back for support, the other on her large belly.

She perked up, hearing a car pull up the drive outside. She opened the front door and went down on the porch, smiling in greeting at Sam and Eileen as they exited the car.

Sam reached her first, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. He rubbed a hand over her belly in greeting to the baby, before stepping aside for the women to hug and coo. They laughed, barely able to hug each other as their matching protruding bellies got in the way.

"Dean in the garage?" Sam asked and Y/N nodded with a roll of her eyes.

"Is he ever anywhere else?" she joked. She ushered Eileen inside, Miracle happily greeting them both.

Sam made his way to the garage. It was a large barn previously, but he and Dean had converted it. Sam smiled at the sign above the entrance: Family Business Auto Repair & Restorations.

With Baby and a few cars from the Men of Letters Bunker, Dean was able to showcase his skills locally - and eventually regionally - which allowed him to really take off with cars professionally. He always thought about it, but never thought it could be a reality.

After a quick hug and greeting, the brothers made their way back to the house. The four of them tried to have dinner together at least once a week.

The brothers stopped in the trek, spying the women sat on the porch chairs, sipping at lemonade. A pitcher and additional glasses sat waiting. Dean smiled at his brother.

"Living the dream."

Forevers:

@sis-tafics

@lyarr24

@calaofnoldor

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67

Dean Winchester:

@akshi8278

@jerkbitchidjitassbutt

[asweetprologue]

Geralt decides to retire to Toussaint. He takes Jaskier with him.

Words: 4360, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Retirement, Getting Together, Domestic, Fluff

I promise I’m still writing stuff!! this is a soft little one shot I wrote a while ago and just cleaned up. read on tumblr below the cut!

In the end, it’s the weariness that does him in.

Once when they were both younger men, Jaskier had asked him about retirement for witchers. If they retreated to Kaer Morhen in their old age to train the new pups, or if they settled down across the Continent, or gave up the hunt to have families of their own. Geralt had snorted. “We don’t retire,” he’d said, mixing potion ingredients by the light of their camp fire. Jaskier had looked at him with wide, curious eyes. “We get old, and slow, and something kills us. We don’t - buy seaside cottages, or whatever.”

Jaskier had hummed at that, a mournful note that seemed to resonate in the air. It was unfair, Geralt had thought, that his friend managed to convey so much in such a sound while the witcher always managed to say so little. “Seems a bit unfair,” Jaskier added.

Geralt had blown out an amused breath, not quite a laugh. “That’s life, bard.”

But now, three decades and countless battles older, he just felt tired. Jaskier no longer traveled with him as frequently, and the Path was a lonely place. He and his brothers no longer met at Kaer Morhen to winter, not once Vesemir had passed. They would stop occasionally to meet up on the road, but never for too long. Even Ciri was going her own way nowadays, though he saw her the most frequently. As the years wore on, Geralt found himself visiting Oxenfurt more and more often. Itching for companionship, for a cease in the ever grinding motion of the Path. The routine that had once been a comfort was now grating.

Maybe it was time to take a break.

It was with this mentality that he turned to Jaskier on the last day of his stay in Oxenfurt and said, “Come to Toussaint with me.”

Jaskier blinked at him owlishly, the expression making him look ten years younger. These days his hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and when he chose to grow out a beard it was as silver as Geralt’s. “What’s so important in Toussaint?” he asked. They were seated at a table in the rooms Jaskier had been provided, for accepting a temporary lecturing position. The term had ended a few weeks ago, hence Geralt’s visit. Jaskier shuffled his gwent deck as he spoke, the cards weaving together like a cascade. Geralt found himself watching the bard’s slim fingers dance through the motions with an old fascination.

“I have an estate there,” he replied, pulling his gaze from the cards. He meant to look Jaskier in the eye, but a brief moment of contact with the bright cerulean had him turning his head, his heartbeat growing ever so slightly faster. It was too hard to ask this if he could see Jaskier’s face. Instead, he looked out the small window, overlooking the red tiled roofs of Oxenfurt. The city was painted a rich gold in the light of the evening sun, reflected warmly off of the river beyond the docks.

Jaskier spluttered across the table. “You have an estate? Since when?”

Geralt felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “It was payment for a job,” he said. “There’s a vineyard, gardens. I can send word ahead for them to start renovations on the guest bedroom. Come with me,” he said again, softly. He wasn’t above begging, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Jaskier looked at him with a confused but affectionate look spread across his fine features, and said, “Okay.”

~

Geralt sent a letter ahead to warn the staff of their plans to summer at the estate, and they began their journey to the Duchy.

It was a long journey, but not an arduous one. For once, Geralt allowed them to stick to the main roads, and at this time of year even Velen was bearable. The sweeping fields spread out around them in swaths of green and gold, punctuated here and there by defiant patches of wildflowers. Jaskier wasn’t as quick as he used to be following Geralt on the Path, but they weren’t on the Path anymore. They purchased a second horse and rode side by side at a leisurely pace. When the day grew hot, they would post up in a convenient spot of shade and let the horses graze, lunching on sun warmed bread and sweetmeats. Jaskier rambled the hours away with stories of his students and old antics at Oxenfurt, and Geralt responded with his own tales of hunts and growing up in the keep with his brothers. It was good to have another voice on the road again after months of traveling alone. It was good that it was Jaskier. Geralt had missed him. Once he wouldn’t have been able to admit it, even to himself, but it seemed silly now to hide it. A wall put up against someone who had been inside for years.

They slept beneath the stars and in cramped inns, sharing small spaces like they had for decades. It was different, Geralt thought. Something had released in his shoulders when Jaskier had agreed to come with him. They weren’t in a rush - there were no contracts to fill, no galas to play at. Jaskier’s purse was heavy from his time spent lecturing, and Geralt was able to pick up a few simple contracts as they went. Easy jobs that would put some extra coin in his pocket and lift the tension from the shoulders of the locals. But for the most part it was just the two of them, drinking sweet summer mead and browsing morning markets, getting accustomed to each other’s presence again.

Sitting across the fire from him one night as they camped, Jaskier said, “You’re different, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head from where he’d been skinning the pheasants for supper. “Hmm?”

Jaskier smiled, his eyes soft. “Well, maybe not that different.” At Geralt’s odd look, he went on. “You told me once that witchers never change. That they’re set in their ways. I think you were talking about something like your potions routine when you said it at the time, but I thought it applied to the whole of the witcher experience.”

Geralt hummed again. “It’s true. We age slowly. Get set in our habits.”

“But you changed,” Jaskier said. “I’ve seen it. After Ciri, and now, since we’ve left Oxenfurt. You’re different.”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. They’d never been on the road together like this, just the two of them as companions. Before Geralt had been focused on the Path, and Jaskier had been cataloguing his deeds as if he were some kind of hero of legend. He knew Jaskier admired Geralt’s drive, his ability to push on towards the next contract. Maybe the bard would think less of him, knowing that he was content to leave the Path behind for so long. “I’m still me,” he said aloud.

Jaskier gave him another smile, warm and honeyed. “I know it’s you, daft man,” he said. “It’s good. To see you… put down the torch for a bit.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just gave an agreeable rumble in his chest. And then, because he’d spent so long learning how to use his words around his daughter, he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Jaskier.”

A brief moment of surprise passed over Jaskier’s features, his eyes widening. Though Geralt had become better at voicing his affections over the years, he knew that the bard was always taken aback by the behavior. After a second Jaskier’s smile became a grin, and Geralt felt something in him relax even further. “I’m glad to be here, my friend. You know I can’t resist an adventure.”

~

They arrived in Toussaint quickly after that, both eager to end their days on the road. The countryside spread out around them slowly transformed from the muted colors of the north into the vibrant greens, purples and reds of the vineyards and forests. Geralt always forgot how stunning the Duchy was, with its colorful houses and flashy clothes. For once Jaskier fit in with the crowd flawlessly; it would take more than a bright doublet to stand out in Toussaint. Geralt had always liked it here. The peasants tended to be less prejudiced against non-humans, witchers included, and the knights he’d met always treated him as a brother in arms rather than pest control. The winters were mild and the summers sweet, and the wines were rich even if they were impossible for him to pronounce at times.

Of course Jaskier proved to be fluent in the local language - “What do you think the Seven Liberal Arts even entail, Geralt?” - which was helpful when they passed through smaller villages. Those away from the common crossroads or larger settlements tended to have fewer people who spoke the common northern tongue. They made their way to Geralt’s estate through a series of inns, barns and guest bedrooms as Jaskier relentlessly charmed the locals in grandiose displays of hospitality.

As they approached the estate, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop at the top of a hill. “This is it,” he said, nodding to indicate the view.

Jaskier gaped, craning to look out over the small collection of buildings and the dozens and dozens of grapevines that were nestled in the valley below. Geralt could see several workers out tending to the fields; his majordomo must have been overseeing things as agreed upon. They would have to get to know the rest of the staff while they were here. “This is all yours?” Jaskier asked, snapping Geralt’s attention back to the present.

“The house, most of the fields. I’ve not paid all that much attention to it before now, honestly. The house needs work. Never had any reason to sink funds into it before now.” He’d sent a fair sum of gold ahead to Barnabas-Basil to get started on renovations, but it likely would have only been enough to make the main complex habitable. Geralt was confident that he could undertake much of the repairs himself, in time. It would be good to have a project.

“It’s expansive. You produce wine here?” Jaskier asked, turning back towards him.

“Yes, but you’ll have to ask the majordomo which ones.”

Jaskier nodded to himself as they continued down the hill, soon approaching the main gate to the small villa. Members of the staff bustled throughout the property, though many stopped to look as the two of them passed by. As they settled their horses near a storage shed, the majordomo approached them, apparently already made aware of their arrival.

“Ah, Master Geralt, I trust that your travels were smooth? Please, come inside - I will have someone come and tend to the horses.” Barnabas-Basil Foulty was a clean shaven, bald man with sharp, almost bird-like features, and the head of the estate in Geralt’s stead. He stood at perfect attention at all times, shoulders back and head held high. A proud man, if not also an extremely polite one. Geralt liked him immensely, because he was good at his job and could keep up in the cups the one time the two had drank together.

“Ah, this must be the famous Barnabas-Basil. Fantastic to finally meet your acquaintance, my good man,” Jaskier said, jumping in to give the majordomo’s hand a firm shake. “Geralt has praised your skills from here to Redania and back.”

Barnabas-Basil inclined his head towards Geralt, though his spine did not stray an inch. “I thank you, sir, for your kind words. Please, allow me to show you the progress that we have made on the main house so you might get settled.”

The domo walked them through the estate, giving Jaskier a brief tour and pointing out new additions to Geralt. He’d not been to the estate in at least two years, but it was clear that the workers were making good use of the space. The small collection of colorful houses down the road had fresh coats of paint, and children played in the courtyard below the main house. A garden flourished in the space between the manor and the vineyard, dominated by root vegetables and herbs.

“If you would like, we can have it cleared out so that you might use it for your own purposes,” Barnabas-Basil said. His face betrayed no feelings on the issue.

Geralt grunted. “No need. The staff can use it as they wish.” He refused to meet Jaskier’s gaze as the bard beamed at him proudly. After decades of friendship Jaskier still seemed to find it a delight anytime Geralt did something he thought was particularly chivalrous. Geralt was not eager for him to meet the knights, with their virtues and heroic deeds.

The house, as he suspected, was functional but only just. “We’ve done what we could in a short amount of time, sir,” Barnabas-Basil said, his tone politely apologetic. “I assure you renovations are far from complete.”

“It’s fantastic,” Jaskier said, already darting off to explore the other rooms. There was a small kitchen, a bedroom, bathroom and an upstairs loft that could be made into a second bedroom. The additional bed wouldn’t arrive for another week or two.

“We can share,” Geralt said without looking at Jaskier, and did not elaborate further. “Show me what else needs done.”

~

They fell quickly into a routine. Geralt spent his days working with the locals on renovations, slowly breathing vitality back into the old manor. When he grew tired of working with lumber, he waded into the vineyards, to help pluck the delicate grapes from their twisting vines. A pair of women admonished him for his sloppy work on the first day and taught him how to gently cut the branches away and check the grapes for ripeness. Jaskier fluctuated between helping out with the building work and composing, though he also made the occasional day trip into the city to perform. In the evening they would retire to the house to eat, drink and chat over games of cards. At night they would curl up in Geralt’s bed, as they had when sharing quarters on the road.

It was a strange new intimacy, to learn what Jaskier was like in his bed. They had shared bedrolls many times over the years, but never with any consistency. When the nights were too cold or the inn too full, they would sigh and grumble and agree to share a space for the night, as a matter of convenience. But as soon as they had the coin or the resources to do so, they would always put distance between themselves again. Geralt supposed it had been a kind of self preservation instinct, but he now found little threat in the warmth of Jaskier next to him at night. He learned that some days Jaskier woke before the sunrise, throwing himself out of bed in a tangle of limbs to scramble for a quill. Other days he slept late, sprawled out across the sheets and dozing until the heat of the day forced him up. Often Geralt woke to the bard curled around him, an arm thrown across his broad chest, nose tucked under the witcher’s jaw. Those times always made something tighten in Geralt’s throat. No one should trust a witcher like Jaskier did, but he was grateful for the bard’s foolishness. Jaskier had always believed that Geralt would keep him safe, even when the witcher had refused to even admit that they were friends. Jaskier deserved better, but it didn’t stop Geralt from turning into his warmth each morning, wishing to reach out.

When the second bed came, Jaskier made no effort to relocate to the guest room. Geralt didn’t bring it up.

It only took a month for him to openly think about it, but when he finally did he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He looked up from where he was carving a notch in a new post for one of the fences and saw Jaskier sitting on the steps of the manor, the end of his quill hovering near his lips. His mouth moved around abstract syllables as he reached for the next lyric in a new song. The soft, repetitive notes rose and fell in the still summer air, and Geralt could see a small spot of ink on Jaskier’s cheek where he’d tapped himself with the quill by accident. Later that night, Geralt would point it out and they would both laugh, and Jaskier would play at being angry Geralt hadn’t brought it up sooner, and then Geralt would offer to help him clean up. Jaskier looked up from his place on the stairs and met his eye, feeling the attention on him as he always did. When he saw Geralt looking he smiled, as brightly as if he’d not seen the witcher in months, instead of moments. Geralt’s chest swelled with an unspeakable feeling, thick and heady affection and trust and something else even beyond that, and he thought, Oh, I love him.

~

Geralt suggested a picnic. Jaskier was ecstatic, though he tried to act as if he had to consider the notion.

“Will there be wine?” he asked, eyebrows raised playfully.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, fondly exasperated, “we live on a vineyard.”

So they grabbed some bottles from the storeroom, packed a light cotton blanket and some food leftover from lunch and set off up the nearby hill. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the top, but once they did they were quite near the place they’d first stopped to look over the estate. It was nearing evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and making the shadows of the workers coming in stretch out long across the fields. The two men spread out their things, sitting to watch the landscape move below them as they uncorked one of the bottles.

Geralt let Jaskier chatter away about nothing for a while, letting the sound wash over him as they shared the bread and wine. After a while Jaskier fell quiet, leaving them both to gaze out at the beauty of the land around them. Geralt turned to look at Jaskier. The sweep of his brow, the soft bow of his lips. The smattering of freckles he’d collected from weeks on the road, lying in fields and letting the sun kiss his cheeks. To be jealous of the sun, Geralt thought wryly.

Jaskier turned to meet his gaze, realizing that he was being watched. “What is it?” he asked.

“Why did you come with me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier chuckled a bit, leaning back on one hand. His shirt was unlaced a ways down the front, leaving his dark chest hair exposed. Geralt wanted to put his nose in the hollow of his throat and just breathe there for a while. “I’m not one to turn down a free holiday, my dear.”

“No,” Geralt said, trying to ignore the way the pet name made his stomach flip. “I mean, why did you always come with me? Everyone… People come and go. But you always came back. Why?”

Jaskier gave him an admonishing look. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. “You know the answer to that,” he said, and his tone held a warning that the witcher didn’t understand.

“I know you value our friendship,” Geralt replied, “but I could say that of many. It’s not the same.”

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, his face full of fondness and exasperation and, strangely, an old sort of grief. “You truly are the most unobservant man in the land. You’ve been far more than a friend to me for many years.”

Geralt felt his heart rate pick up at that, the slow thud speeding up to match Jaskier’s. “You’re saying…” He found himself unable to complete the thought. Even after so many years of trying to do better, it was still impossible to form words past the thundering in his ears. This moment felt delicate, like the wrong phrase might shatter it apart.

“I assumed you knew,” Jaskier said with a shrug. The line of his shoulders was just slightly too tense, his body radiating faux casualness. Anyone else may have been fooled, but Geralt had been watching Jaskier for years. “I would never have let it change anything between us, you must know that. You were always involved with someone else - Yennefer, and then Triss and Shani… I didn’t want to get in the way of that. Something that could make you happy.”

“I thought it would,” Geralt said honestly. His gaze flickered over Jaskier’s impassive face. The bard rarely showed his nerves in his expressions, too much a performer for that. Instead it made its way to his hands, twitching over his thighs and worrying the fabric of the blanket, and his heart, which raced in his chest. “I wanted to be the right person for them. Yen wanted me to be useful. Triss wanted me to be a knight in shining armor. They made me feel like I was better than just a witcher.” Jaskier’s lovely mouth twisted slightly, a note of bitterness in his gaze as he looked out over the vineyards. Geralt hurried on. “But you’re the one who made me feel like being a witcher was already good enough.”

Jaskier turned back to him, blinking in surprise. “Well of course it is,” he said, and naturally the bard had missed the point, honing in on his favorite subject: the reputation of witchers and Geralt’s sense of self worth. “You’re already useful, and noble, and good and kind besides all that. You don’t have to be more than what you are to deserve - fuck, basic human connection and love.” He settled slightly, his gesturing hands falling into his lap once more. “Is that why you left them?”

“The Path always calls,” Geralt said with a shrug. “No one but you ever wanted to follow me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, blushing. Geralt watched the color rise up over his cheek bones with something like fascination, or maybe hunger. “Well, now you know why,” he continued, with obviously false cheer. He gave Geralt a rueful smile. “I promise I won’t make things awkward. I’ve had decades to practice. I mean, it’s been thirty years. If you were going to fall in love with me you probably would have done so already, hmm?”

“You’d think so,” Geralt agreed. “Sorry it took me so long.” And then he leaned into Jaskier’s space and kissed him.

It wasn’t a very good kiss. Barely a kiss at all, really, considering that Jaskier had frozen under him. Geralt pulled back, lifting a hand to run it gently over Jaskier’s side. The bard was absolutely still, his eyes closed tight. There was a small crease between his eyebrows that Geralt wanted to kiss away, but he wasn’t sure if he should. “Sorry,” he said softly.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. It was unfair that a man could have beautiful eyelashes, Geralt mused, but here they were. “You mustn’t toy with me, witcher,” Jaskier croaked. His voice was raw, as if he’d been singing for hours.

Geralt moved his hand to the bard’s face, his thumb following along the line of his jaw and up to trace across his cheekbone. Freckles like stars under his fingers. “I’m not,” he rumbled. “I swear it, Jaskier. I just -” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. “You were always there. No matter how shitty the Path was, or how miserable people were to you because of me, or how much I pushed you away. You stayed. You made me feel like I was worth something, and you made other people think that way too. Every day without you on the Path was always misery. I should have realized sooner, but I’m not… good at this. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s head dropped forward, his brow resting on Geralt’s collarbone. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you apologize in the span of a minute,” he said, voice thin. “This is a lot to take in. Are you saying that you… that you love me? You, Geralt of Rivia, are in love with me?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, smiling into Jaskier’s hair. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Jaskier pulled away to stare at him. Geralt tried to let his affection through, drinking in Jaskier’s beloved face like he hadn’t allowed himself before. The last rays of the sun played over Jaskier’s hair, turning some of the strands to brilliant amber. His eyes were over bright. Whatever the bard saw in Geralt’s expression must have been enough, because the next moment they were kissing again.

It was, Geralt thought, a miracle that he had ever gone so long without doing so. Now that they’d begun, he never wanted to stop. Jaskier’s lips were warm and soft against his, and when Geralt licked slowly into his mouth he tasted of old wine. They stayed like that for a long time, Geralt holding Jaskier close, decades of tension not so much breaking as releasing like a quiet sigh of relief.

Finally they pulled apart, Geralt nosing at Jaskier’s cheek as he hummed contentment into the bard’s skin. He could feel deft fingers petting through his hair, easily working around the tangles that had formed on the walk up the hill. “I love you,” he said, pressing the words below Jaskier’s ear as if he could speak them into his core that way.

Jaskier shivered once under him. “I love you too,” he said, and Geralt could feel him smiling in the way his jaw moved. He knew Jaskier in his bones. “I’ll follow you wherever you go, you know.”

Geralt pulled back, pushing Jaskier’s fringe back with one hand as he met his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just stop running from you,” he said, smiling. Jaskier grinned back, and neither of them mentioned that his eyes were slightly damp. Geralt pushed himself to his feet and reached down a hand to his bard. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

[immortalcoelacanth]

Between the Walls, Chapter 1: Roommates (Dream SMP fic)

I've noticed there's an unfortunate lack in Borrower AU content, and as that shit is my jam I'm putting forth the content I wish to see into the fandom XD

To quote my friend, "I do not control the hyperfixation"

Word count: 4497

Summary: At first retirement had sounded like an excellent idea. Make a house far away from everyone else, get some peace and quiet, no longer concern himself with the total garbage that was the local government. Nice things, relaxing things.… 

But then the scratching in the walls started happening.

Techno groaned as he flopped backwards into his chair, tired eyes staring into the glowing fireplace as he relaxed after his busy day. A day full of building, repairing the damage dealt by the creeper population, and…

A day spent trying to find any signs of his thief.

You see, Techno had assumed that retirement would be an excellent way to unwind from the massive amount of blood that had been shed after L’Manberg went up in smoke, as well as the aggravation he felt towards his sweet, innocent cows being slaughtered and his bunker being raided.

Raided and dismantled thanks to Phil stealing his bookshelves and in turn chunks of the wall.

It was scuffed, horribly scuffed, and left him with one option.

Relocation.

That, combined with the wanted posters Quackity had hung up demanding his capture and subsequent execution after what he had done. Honestly, talk about the biggest character arc for Quackity, going from fearing him to taking an active role in trying to end his life.

Too bad for him that Technoblade never dies.

But still, having to constantly deal with being attacked while no longer having a truly safe and secure base was troublesome, so he had sought out to make a new home far from L’Manberg and all other communities.

The isolation did not scare him, on the contrary he liked having a space all to his own with no worries about socialization or someone bothering him. Besides, Phil could always visit him if he wanted some company.

Fortunately, constructing his new home had taken relatively little time once he had found the best spot for it, and with some help from Phil, moving all the important resources and equally important fixtures of his home had taken even less time.

All in all, Techno had managed to acquire a new sanctuary away from all the plotting and scheming, although he had a feeling someone would try to mess with him at some point, and he had plenty of space to make a brand new vault. He had achieved peace and quiet, and was even in the process of planning on making a turtle farm. Surely all these positive developments would mean he was happy, right?

Well, he would be if it weren’t for the fact that there was a thief rummaging through his home.

It started with small things, like his chests becoming less and less organized over time. Yes, there were moments where he simply chucked whatever useless items were in his inventory into the nearest empty chest, but he would never clutter up chests containing important items, like potions and enchanted books.

So, finding several misplaced items as well as random blocks of dirt and stone, practically pebbles given their size, while also finding certain resources such as wood and leather missing was the first sign of something strange going on.

The next was the odd noises that seemed to come from the walls of his home. Faint scratches that would be inaudible to anyone but himself due to his heightened hearing. It reminded of a rat infestation, and he unconsciously shuddered.

Not due to fear or discomfort, but the sheer amount of work it would take to get rid of a pest infestation. At that point he might as well take his house apart and build elsewhere.

However, despite his suspicions and hypothesis, there was practically no evidence to support. There were, thankfully, no signs of rat activity, or activity from any other pests. No scratches, bite marks, signs of wood decaying, or anything like that. Other than the noise and the strangely messy organization of his chests, there was no sign of the thief.

And he had looked.

Intensely, as best he could. Logic and inductive reasoning had led him to this conclusion. There was a thief, so there had to be signs of this thief somewhere. A lack of footprints meant they must use pearls to get around. The fact that his rarer resources had not been stolen, his potions of strength and enchanted books, meant that his thief was either unconcerned with stealing things of value from him and just wanted to mess with him, or they were a cocky idiot.

… So it was either Ranboo or-

His ears perked up, cutting off his train of thought as he glanced over at the nearby wall. His eyes narrowed and he pushed himself up and out of his chair before striding over to the wall, cape swishing about behind him.

He pressed the side of his head against the wall, eyes closing as he tried to focus on where the sound was coming from. It was here! It had to be! There was something hidden in this very wall. The source of his annoyance, his thief.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Techno readied his axe, and swung it down-

                                                   xxxxxxxxxx

There are times where Tommy can’t stop himself from looking in the nearest reflective surface and asking how he managed to fuck things up this bad. It was painful to recall the steps that had led him to this outcome, the signs obvious but he had been too stupid and ignorant to pay them any mind.

Causing trouble was in his blood, something the local borrower community had reluctantly accepted over the years, helped by how eager he was to throw himself into dangerous situations. Something that should have been concerning to the adults who watched them, taught them how to borrow, how to gather items and even hunt in order to survive, but he had learned that lesson at a very, very young age.

The lesson that no one would step in to help him if he was in danger. That he was on his own and had to prove his worth in order to stay, constantly putting his life on the line for the slightest crumb of respect.

To hear someone say that he had done a good job, to be thanked for his hard work instead of always being brushed off and ignored.

Of course, his friendship with Tubbo helped to soothe that constant within him, dulling the sting of rejection while reminding him that there was one person who truly cared about him. One person who would always be there for him, would lift him up when he was down, and jump into any situation to protect him.

Orphans had to stick together, after all.

And it was a good thing they did end up working together as the duo balanced each other out perfectly. Tommy was far more outgoing and blunt, hotheaded being the best word to describe him. He was willing to do whatever he needed, always ready to speak up when he thought there was bullshit going on, and spoke his mind freely.

It was an ironic honesty, a trait that one assumed would help to attract friends but only aided in driving them away.

Meanwhile, Tubbo was much softer in some ways. Much more reserved than Tommy, he was more of a thinker and planner. Nowhere near as comfortable with spontaneous action as his friend, but he had the knowledge and skills to reign in those impulsive actions before things got dangerous.

They were the best of friends, pals to the very end.

Even though they would never see each other again.

And it was all his fault.

Tommy had ruined everything.

The plan had been simple, easy. All he wanted to do was mess up Mrs. Brigsburry’s house. Just a tiny touch of crime and freaking the old bat out.

She deserved so much worse because of that day. The pot that had been thrown at Tubbo and how much blood Tommy had seen running down the side of his face. The bitch’s shrieks and curses as she insulted them over and over again.

Swearing they both should have died with their parents-

How was he supposed to know he accidentally left one of her rags near the lit stove, the fire within causing the piece of fabric to ignite and in turn allowing the flames to spread to the rest of the house.

It was a good thing she lived on the edge of Borrowton, the fires thankfully only burning her home to the ground.

No one wanted to live near an asshole like her.

Tommy, who had been feeling proud of himself, quickly experienced true regret and fear once the meeting started. Shouts, demands, and insults had flown through the air, many of the people he had grown up with insisting that he be tossed out for what he had done, exiled from the only home he had ever known.

It had been terrifying to see how quickly everyone had turned against him, how they refused to give him the chance to defend himself or even explain why he had done what he did. Not even Tubbo had been able to protect him from the crowd’s wrath, his attempts at standing in front of Tommy and blocking him from sight thwarted when one of the adults grabbed his arm and dragged him elsewhere.

He would never be able to forget the haunting sight of Tubbo reaching for him, tears pouring from his eyes as he screamed his name over and over. It was the last time he had seen his friend, too.

And yet, this was not the worst part of his punishment.

He had been given an hour, one measly hour, to pack up everything he had ever owned before being forcefully exiled from Borrowton. The realization of what was happening had slammed into him all at once, leaving Tommy trembling and unable to move.

He was going to lose everything he had ever known, everything he had worked so hard to build, Tubbo-

He was going to lose his Tubbo.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

No amount of begging or pleading had stopped the adults who dragged him to his shoddy, shared home. He had groveled on his hands and knees, promising to change, to do better, to do whatever they wanted if they just let him stay.

Don’t take my Tubbo away. Don’t take him away. I need him, I need him-

Smack!

The harsh sting of his cheek and the painful sensation of his neck snapping back from the force of the slap was enough to snap Tommy out of his trance. He blinked and looked around, feeling all the more disconnected from reality as he noticed the two bags that had been placed beside him.

One for food, and one for clothes and tools.

… He was really getting exiled, wasn’t he?

“You have no one to blame but yourself for this.” The adult beside him grumbled, dragging the stunned teen up to his feet and shoving him towards the door.

“Front gate. Now. And if I find you causing more trouble, you’ll be leaving with nothing but the clothes on your back.” The man sneered.

For a moment that spark of anger rose up in him, rage flowing through his veins and making his fists clench while he ground his teeth together. The urge to lash out, both physically and verbally, was strong, and yet…

As quickly as those feelings emerged, they faded, and Tommy was left feeling hollow and drained. What was the point in fighting back if all he did was get himself into more trouble. It was obvious they weren’t going to change their minds, he would be exiled no matter what, and if he did lash out-

Tubbo screaming his name as he was dragged away, snot and tears flowing down his face. Thrashing and struggling in a futile attempt to reach him.

… The risk, the damage he could do to his friend, was far greater than the satisfaction of breaking the man’s knobby nose. So, with extreme reluctance, Tommy left the house and made his way towards the front gate. The streets were surprisingly empty, he had expected to see a mob of people cheering while watching him leave, maybe even get the occasional bit of dirt thrown his way.

Treated like the trash they thought he was.

His send off lacked all formality. Only the usual guards of the gate were present, and even then they paid him no mind. He was simply shoved towards another borrower, a lady this time who, based on the immense amount of foliage covering her clothes, spent most of her life out in the wild.

God, how would he ever survive out there. Between the wild animals, the shitty weather, and the mobs that would wander the lands when darkness fell, he was doomed.

He had only ever known how to survive in his community, where you could barter for goods and depend on someone to help you. Now he wouldn’t have any of that. There would be no shelter, no safety in numbers-

No Tubbo.

Numb, Tommy was shoved towards the woman and quietly took note of the presence of the animal he could not see before. It was a fox, quite large compared to him and the other borrowers, and domesticated since it wasn’t ripping anyone apart.

… Or maybe it was just waiting until he got outside, then it would rip him to shreds. Wouldn’t want any blood splatters staining the inside of the gate.

He was so absolutely, royally fucked.

“C’mon, we gotta get moving.” The woman barked, grabbing his arm and pushing him towards the fox with little care for his comfort and the fact that she was adding more bruises to his arm. Tommy hissed in pain and rubbed the aching spot while glaring at her.

Everyone in this place was a fucking asshole.

“Alright, alright, chill the fuck out. I’m moving.” Tommy grumbled as, after a moment of hesitance, buried his hands in the animal’s warm fur and climbed up its side. A moment later, the woman jumped up to join him, taking a seat near the fox’s shoulders while Tommy struggled to pull his bags up as well.

Finally, once his meager supplies had joined him, it was time for them to set off. He had nearly been thrown off as the fox stood up, and when the animal sprinted out of the hidden tunnel and into the fading sunlight-

Well, it was a good thing he managed to grab hold of his bags before they were knocked off. He shuddered in the sudden, stinging breeze, and did his best to hunker down into the warm fur below him. He had no idea where they were going, no clue what far away biome he would be abandoned in, and quietly decided to not think about it further. The last thing he wanted to do was to start crying.

… Even if he had been ever since they first left the front gate.

He quickly rubbed at his face, trying to dry the lingering tears so there were less signs as to his degenerating mental state, and instead decided that it would be best to strike up a conversation, something that would help to distract him from what was going on.

Tubbo, Tubbo. He missed Tubbo. He wanted to see Tubbo again-

“Name’s Tommy!” He called out. “What’s yours?”

Silence was his answer.

“... Well fuck you too then.”

Much like the start of their journey, the rest of the trip was silent as the fox ran through various biomes, fields, and forests. On multiple occasions they stopped, the woman gathering some sort of herb every single time.

… Perhaps she was making drugs.

Tommy snorted to himself at the joke, mood lifting just the slightest bit before plummeting back to bedrock. God, he was tired. His body ached from sitting still for so long, as well as the general discomfort from the fox nimbly jumping from cliff to cliff, ducking around trees, and just being an agile shitbag. It was annoying and he hated it.

… Hated the fact that he was getting further and further away from his friend. Hated the fact that the fox could cover far more distance than he could ever hope of traversing on his own, and that the odds of him managing to reunite with Tubbo at some point were growing slimmer with every block they crossed.

Eventually they reached the coldest biome Tommy had experienced yet, ponds covered by ice and snow layering the ground. The snow seemed to muffle their surroundings, the only sounds coming from the snow crunching under the fox’s paws and the animal’s panting as it started to feel the strain of their journey.

And yet, for as desolate as this tundra seemed to be, Tommy spotted something in the distance. A structure that was definitely man made and appeared to be well taken care of, which meant there was someone living there.

Someone he could mooch off of and boost his chance at surviving his exile.

It had been a stroke of pure luck that he had managed to convince the borrower escorting him to change their route, practically begging her to take him to the lit house that was just barely visible through the snow.

The sounds of Tommy sniffling and sobbing since the start of their journey had probably helped to wear down her resolve to take him to wherever he was originally supposed to go.

In the end, she had agreed and directed the fox towards the house. It was interesting to see her previous confidence of navigating the cold tundra diminish the closer they got to their destination, as though she was unsettled by the house.

Strange, but then again she probably thought the same of him and how much of an idiot he was for getting kicked out of somewhere perfectly safe.

Safe aside from the prying eyes, the cruel words and harsh hands. His salvation was Tubbo and their whispered promises. They would leave one day, set out into the world and make their own home.

The moment they arrived at their destination, the woman wasted no time in metaphorically, and literally, kicking him off the fox. He dropped into the freezing snow, landing face first, and pushing himself up seconds later to cough out the chilly substance that had invaded his mouth.

The memory of Tubbo laughing as his snowball hit Tommy in the face, the other teen turning to the side and yelling about how “cold as shit” it was.

“Maybe you should try keeping your mouth shut for once.” Tubbo teased as Tommy, snow still stuck to parts of his face, flipped him off.

“Fuck you.”

Tubbo’s laughter rang out around them, and the teen kept laughing until his face was red and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

… Damn, it was cold.

Trembling, he stood up just in time to dodge the bags that had been carelessly thrown his way, getting a concussion from one of his tools would definitely be a death sentence in this situation, and he promptly flipped the woman off.

“Oi! Watch where you’re throwing that shit!” He shouted before crouching down to inspect his supplies, quietly relieved that nothing seemed to have been damaged. “Fucking bitch...”

She just rolled her eyes in response to his insults and looked unimpressed as he grumbled, huffed, and got himself organized. No words were exchanged between the duo, no goodbyes or wishes for good luck, just the howling of the winds while the borrower made his way to his new home.

As Tommy had trudged through the too tall snow, he had been oblivious to the way the woman stared at the house, eyes wide with some sort of emotion. Was it fear? Not quite, it was more a combination of dread mixed with reverence, emotions fueled by her knowledge of the being who resided in this place. A whispered phrase floated through the air, much too quiet for him to have heard. It was a simple sentence that made her stance and understanding of the situation clear.

“Blood for the Blood God.”

Then she fled, leaving Tommy alone to deal with whatever fate he had stumbled into by breaking into the house.

And what a house it was.

All pretty and neatly designed, complete with various floors and tons of storage, and even some decorative flowers outside the windows, which meant Tommy had many things to rummage through. The roaring fireplace was an added bonus since the cold was one of the things he had been the most worried about.

Knowing those assholes, they had probably planned to abandon him somewhere in the tundra, leaving him alone and freezing in the cold…

Honestly, all things considered, this was a good place to settle down in. He had basically everything he needed, as well as access to some rarer resources too. It was ideal, practically perfect given how easy it would be to create small, unnoticeable entrances into each chest for him to use to snag items, but there was one downside to his new home.

His roommate.

He was tall, far taller than anyone Tommy had ever seen before, and he looked… weird. Like one of those pig monsters he had heard stories about back in Borrowton. Monsters from hell that craved gold and bloodshed. With his pig-like features, including a set of tusks that poked up from his lower jaw, he was a perfect match for those nightmarish beasts.

… But, they weren’t in hell, and this man seemed to be far less gold and bloodshed obsessed than the stories had said, even with the various scars the borrower had seen littering his body.

It was weird, he was weird, and the weirdness had only increased the more time Tommy spent in the house. Despite his regal attire, consisting of a flowing cape and golden crown, it was obvious that the pig-man was no prince or nobility. Plus there were those shitty reading glasses Tommy had seen him wearing once, stuck together with taping and looking like they were on the verge of breaking again. He was the strangest combination of loud-yet-awkward behaviour, something that the borrower actually related to quite a bit. His roommate was not “normal” and acted how he wanted, whenever he wanted, with little regard to how “improper”, “violent”, or “rude” he was.

Like Tommy…

He found it comforting to know that there was someone else more like him out there, someone else who was unlike everyone in Borrowton, someone else who would know what it felt like to be treated as an outcast, like he did not belong there or anywhere. Stuck in this new place, he did not feel as alone as he originally expected.  

He did not consider the possible problems this could cause in the future, of course. Tommy had never the best at planning ahead since that had been Tubbo’s specialty-  

But, the positives ended there as he realized that trying to survive in this relatively small, isolated house was going to be far more of a challenge then he had originally anticipated, with his roommate presenting the greatest obstacle to his success. Breaking in had been easy, actually situating himself and building a decent base within the walls of the house was downright impossible in these circumstances. At most he had managed to dig out a shitty hole close to the fireplace where he stashed all his stolen goods.

And even if he wanted to leave, it was impossible thanks to all the snow and how bloody cold this damn biome was!

So, here Tommy was, having essentially trapped himself with some creepy pig guy who owned too many weapons for comfort and was decked out like he was about to fight the whole damn world. Sure, his house was pretty nice, there was tons of food for him to steal and snack on, and the resources were plenty, but he would have rather had anyone else as a roommate in this situation.  

At least this guy was in retirement, or whatever that meant.

He let out an annoyed sigh, arms dropping as he allowed his axe to rest against the wooden floor of the passage he had been carving out. While most of the house was made out of concrete, Tommy had focused on carving passages through the wooden supports in order to have a network of tunnels he could easily move around in without being spotted. All in all, it was a good plan, even if it was a massive pain in the ass to make.

It was like every time he started making a tunnel, no matter what time of the day it was, that piggy dipshit would show up and start stalking the walls, looking for him!

… Granted, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to make boar-face all suspicious by messing with his chests, but Tommy needed the resources! And it was pretty funny hearing the surprised sounds the man would make echo through the house.

His trouble making nature might have been the cause for his exile, along with some other bullshit, but that did not mean he would try to suppress it, even if it would be better for him in the long run. That was like asking to stop breathing. It was just a part of him that could only be controlled and never truly stopped.

… He missed Tubbo. He missed him so much and the ache in his chest still had not faded, and he felt all hollow and empty, without purpose-

Unfortunately for the borrower, the world refused to give him a break as he spiraled, his negative emotions distracting him and preventing him from paying attention to his surroundings.

Like the footsteps that were slowly getting closer to his location.

Without warning, the wall beside him cracked and split open, and Tommy let out a terrified shriek. He jumped backwards, dropping his axe in the process as light spilled into the carved out passage.

The now exposed passage.

A passage that had been cracked open by a certain pig man who had clearly been awake instead of asleep like he had assumed. Brilliant red eyes met terrified blue, and Tommy swallowed nervously.

Of course, of fucking course! As if the world didn’t hate him enough as is! Now he had to deal with that pig shithead who’d been tormenting him for days with his stupidly good hearing, preventing him from making any progress in creating his new home.

And of course the second he tried to make a tunnel this bastard just had to appear and ruin everything!

On the plus side, he had not actually done anything yet, although Tommy was certain things would turn south soon based on the axe the man was holding. So, he would live for now, and his shocked state allowed the borrower to make the first move.

“How do,” Tommy greeted, tilting his head to the side and smirking. “You ugly motherfucker.”

If he was going down, he would go down swinging.

                                      xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Technoblade, holding up a cup containing Tommy: So I found this, anyone wanna trade a book of mending for him- Tommy: *feral screaming intensifies*

[nervousladytraveler]

The Alibi

Inspired by the kiss prompt: A + B are in an argument, then they stop, just stare at each other, and then crash their lips together, because, like i said... fuck this shit Ross and Demelza

Requested by the lovely @veryflowerobservation

---

“God damn it, Demelza! I told you not to follow me tonight!”

For the last eight miles, Ross had been looking over his shoulder while Demelza drove. No one was behind them on the dark road, and it was most likely they’d been unseen, yet he continued to anxiously watch. There was nothing that would quiet the churning adrenaline that came from such a close call.

“Well it's a good thing I did follow you, otherwise…” Demelza snapped back at him.

“Otherwise what?!” He cut her off before she continued in what sounded like another self-righteous justification. Her words rang empty to him--she’d acted impulsively and it was just dumb luck that she hadn’t made things worse.

“You seriously ask me that?”

“Demelza, I would have sorted it instead of both of us being in danger!”

“No, Ross. In case you didn't notice I just saved your skin before you had anythin’ to sort. And you can’t just sort a thing like this with the police, by the way. Not even you. But now that’s a moot point and no one is in danger. Of gettin’ hurt or bein’ arrested--precisely because I came.“

Without any warning, Demelza took a sharp left at the Blowinghouse Turn bus stop, then minutes later turned right on the B3284 towards Truro. This whole time she’d kept the tiny Kia Forte steady at 30 mph, a frustratingly slow pace that further agitated Ross--and she was well aware that it would, no doubt. But she was right in her refusal to drive any faster. The last thing they needed now was trouble for speeding.

“Why didn’t you stay on the…” he started but stopped once he caught the acid look she flashed him. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Ross. Yes, I do.”

To their relief, the road ahead remained empty. Then again people didn't really tend to be out driving at 2AM on a Tuesday unless they had urgent business. Or shady business.

“So was this all your plan all along--that you’d come out tonight and spy on me?” he asked.

“Spy? You’re not very good at keepin’ secrets, you know,” she sputtered. “Besides, you already told me what you were up to, just not when or where…”

“For good reason! Because I didn’t want you involved. But you told me that you’d stay home--you lied to me!” Ross’s dark voice filled the little car.

“Lyin’? You’re really speakin’ to me about lyin’?” Her laugh, bitter and sarcastic, met his anger head on.

Demelza Carne had worked for Ross Poldark for years now--since she was a teenager really-- first as an all around office assistant and recently as his bookkeeper. And she’d shown him time and again that she wasn't cowed by his moods. She was one of the few people in his life who wasn’t. She was also one of the few people in his life who hadn’t abandoned him once his business prospects began to fail. He shouldn’t have expected anything different from her tonight.

“But no, Ross, I hadn’t planned on interferin’ with your business. I do have a life of my own you know...“

“Demelza--wait--are you claiming I lied to you?”

“When you omit somethin’ on purpose, that’s also a lie,” she said calmly, then a moment later her agitation boiled up again. “Jesus, Ross! What were you thinkin’?! Comin out here on your own to meet those smugglers? You didn't think it was a set up?”

Smugglers. It rankled him that she insisted on calling Trencrom and his men smugglers as though this were some 18th century French scheme or an Enid Blyton novel, rather than a simple business arrangement.

But no matter what term Ross preferred, tonight proved it remained a dangerous business. And while the charge of “improper importation of goods chargeable with a duty which has not been paid” certainly sounded less exciting than smuggling, it still carried a severe penalty.

Tonight would have been Ross’s third transaction with Robert Trencrom, a local businessman who had approached him last summer with a proposition. It seemed that from time to time Trencrom and his associates had in their possession certain goods acquired through less than proper channels. What Trencrom needed was an unassuming place to store these goods until such a time when they could be distributed without suspicion. Nampara, Ross’s derelict farm, might provide the perfect cover since there were so many unused outbuildings, several that still had solid walls and intact roofs. It had been decades since the farm produced anything that needed storing, so why not let the space to others whilst Ross made a little cash on the side?

The past two times it had been Belgian cigarettes--not massive quantities but enough that the whole endeavour still carried a risk. Yet Ross’s involvement had been truly minimal, just as Trencrom had assured him. In fact, Ross had not even been home when the goods were delivered. Trencrom’s men had tucked the plastic barrels behind some rusting mowing machines, and Ross was only made aware that the goods had been removed some weeks later when an envelope of cash was left for him in his car.

And since these were cash transactions, Ross considered hiding them altogether from Demelza, who minded his books for him. But in the end, he explained in vague details what he had done and asked her not to question him further. Clearly she hadn’t approved but she said nothing.

It wasn’t drugs or weapons--or people--so it could be worse, he’d told himself. And as soon as he just got a little more out of debt, he’d cut ties with the lot.

When Ross didn’t hear from Trencrom all winter, he’d assumed the connection had faded and sighed in relief. He’d miss the income but not the entanglement.

Then a few weeks into May, Trencrom reached out again.

This time Ross was to be more involved and actually take delivery of the cargo himself. Naturally there would be considerable compensation--a figure Ross didn’t think he could refuse considering his current financial status. Trencrom hinted he’d been worried about the loyalty of such a big crew and so for this job he wanted to keep his circle small. He’d instructed Ross to meet them at the Rugby Football Club carpark just after midnight.

In the hours leading up to the hand off, Ross was determined to pass a quiet evening at home. So when his friend Dwight stopped by unannounced for a drink and a game of cards, he’d welcomed the diversion. He was also relieved that Demelza, who lived in one of the tiny cottages adjacent to the main house, seemed to deliberately be giving him a wide berth that day. She knew about the “business” Ross had later, but having already made her objections clear, there was nothing left to say on the matter. Normally she would have stayed--she liked Dwight Enys and the two of them playfully teased Ross as only true friends could. But tonight she left Ross with Dwight and went home early.

It was around 11PM that Ross received another call--the exchange point had apparently changed. He was now to meet Trencrom’s men at the airfield at 1:30 and he was to come on foot--without his car. The barrels were already loaded in a van so there was no need to remove them to another vehicle.That last detail did seem odd to him at the time. But once Ross had left for the appointment, he found it was a mild night, and figured he’d park at the beach and enjoy the walk to the airfield.

He was still almost a mile away when the familiar black Kia pulled up next to him. His every muscle tightened and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Demelza,” he’d hissed. “Get out of here!’

“Get in the car now, Ross,” she’d said simply.

“Look, Demelza, I know you don’t approve of this...” There was something in her eyes that made him take notice. Like an animal being hunted, she was on high alert.

“Get in,” she’d said again. “It’s a trap.”

“What?!” he’d asked, shaking his head in disbelief but still he climbed into the car without waiting for a satisfactory explanation.

“Seatbelt,” was all she’d said. He could hear the tension in her voice but she concentrated on the road ahead of her and didn’t even offer him a glance. “There,” she said finally and bid him to look to the right.

She drove on without slowing down so it was only a flash to him, still the chilling sight registered in his brain. Just beyond the tall hedges at the entrance to the airfield were three police cars, and two others that looked unmarked, all waiting in a circle with their headlamps off.

Demelza had been right--it had been a trap. And one he would have literally walked right into had she not shown up when she did.

It was doubtful that Trencrom was the one cooperating with the cops--it must have been one of the others in his crew. So Trencrom did have good reason to want to draw his circle closer. Ross wondered if he’d actually known there was a rat amongst them or just suspected it.

Ross knew he should be grateful for Demelza’s timely rescue but he couldn’t help resenting that she’d been right. She may have had a right to be so smug, but he didn't have to enjoy listening to her rub it in.

“I knew this would happen…” she muttered and drove on.

“Oh, you most certainly did not,” he growled. “No one did.”

“No one?” she laughed. “Well let’s see, Ross...the cops knew and someone else most certainly knew--whoever grassed on you, that is…”

“I would have thought, knowing you as I do, that you’d understand why I had no choice…”

“No choice? What sort of bullshit is that, Ross? Have you run round in your head how that really sounds? You know that's not an actual legal defense?”

“I mean I needed the money. I have a mortgage payment due and…”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Ross. Knowin’ me as you think you do, you should have talked this over with me. I’m your bookkeeper, for fuck’s sake.”

He didn’t want to think about what he should have done and whether he’d pushed her away as she claimed. He had good reason not to involve her--he’d wanted to avoid just such an argument with her.

And he also wanted to protect her.

“Turn left up here then pull over at the top of the hill and let me drive,” Ross grumbled as she rolled into the sleeping town.

“You’re most certainly not drivin’ my car!” she huffed but nonetheless turned as he had directed and pulled into the car park at the back of the Star and Garter Inn.

It was a clever move. They hadn’t spoken it but they both knew their friend Jinny Martin would be working the desk tonight. Perhaps she could get them a room and they could wait it out there until morning.

Demelza switched off the headlamps and then after a moment’s hesitation, the engine as well.

Ross heard her take in a sharp breath--more like a hiss--and waited for the tempest to continue.

“Well, yes,” he said just a beat before she opened her mouth to speak. “When the pick-up location changed last minute, I might have seen it was a set up.” It wasn't an apology but he hoped he could buy himself some time before her next eruption. “But I never imagined anyone involved in this arrangement would ever inform on me…”

“Oh Ross! I would have guessed it, and am surprised it didn't happen sooner. Honour amongst thieves and all that.”

“They aren’t--we aren’t--thieves.”

“Ok, not thieves per se but it’s still criminal activity to take delivery of smuggled cargo. Ross, you think you’re such a great judge of character but that lot...they’re greedy bastards and they just aren't your friends.”

“And you are?”

She stared at him, wide eyed and open-mouthed, unbelieving that he’d actually questioned her loyalty when she’d just saved him from a possible seven year prison sentence.

“Demelza, that came out wrong,” he said. Again it wasn’t an apology. At least not in its tone.

“Everythin’ you say comes out wrong, Ross. Or do you actually mean to be such an absolute arsehole?”

“Can’t you just admit that you could have put yourself in danger back there? With both Trencrom’s crew and the cops?” He put his hand on her arm and was surprised at how strong her muscles felt as she gripped the steering wheel. Instinctively he pulled away.

“Can’t you just admit how stubborn and stupid you can be?” Usually so bright and reassuring, her voice was hoarse from such rough use tonight.

“I’m stubborn?” he asked.

“No one saw me, Ross. And the important thing is that the police didn't see you. So you’re safe.”

“Well…”

“I suppose even if the cops had your name as someone possibly involved, since they didn't actually catch you doin’ any illegal activity, they can’t arrest you. Besides I’m your allibi for this evenin’. We can stay here overnight in case they’re watchin’ the house, and I’ll take you back to to pick up your car in the mornin’.“

“Wait! What if there’s CCTV here?” Ross felt a renewed jolt of panic tear through him.

“All the cameras are on the front of the building and the side where the guests park. This section is for employees.” She pointed to the few other cars around them. Older, tatty, bought second hand on the cheap but still at a cost as they most likely required constant maintenance. These were the cars of service workers--night clerks, cleaners, cooks. He recognised Jinny’s old Skoda with it’s Leicester City FC sticker on the rear. That car had been in the Martin family for almost two decades now and somehow, through mechanical expertise or through sheer will, her resourceful father had managed to keep it running. No one would bother these cars with the shiny new BMWs and Audis on the other side of the hotel.

“What about traffic cameras? Back along the road?” Ross asked, not sure if he was being cautious or paranoid.

“Maybe, but Ross, there’s no law against bein’ out with a woman.”

“Who happened to pick me up on the side of the road in the middle of the night…”

“Well, let’s assume we had to meet up in the cover of dark to avoid gossip since you’re my boss...and because of your jealous girlfriend.”

“Demelza, you know I don’t have a girlfriend,” he grumbled. “This is ridiculous…”

“I know that, but the police wouldn’t. A clandestine affair--a fake one of course--is a perfect cover for sketchy behaviour. But if you’d prefer I not be your alibi…”

“This isn’t a game!” he snapped again. He couldn’t stand that she’d laughed just now. Then a thought hit him and he had to ask. “How did you even know where I was going? That I’d be heading from the beach towards the airfield on foot?”

“Dr. Enys told me.”

“What? This just gets more unbelievable! Dwight knew this was top secret--why the hell did he tell you?”

“Top secret but still you told him?” she snorted. “Well, I’m glad you did, I suppose. He couldn’t follow you himself--he’d a call from one of his ‘patients’, which I think was actually code for Caroline wanted him to come round’--so he thought I might be able to stop you. At least he has some faith in me.”

“Oh come on, this isn’t about what I think of you…”

“Isn’t it though? You clearly don’t trust me and you don’t think I can handle myself and you think I’m silly.”

“Silly?”

“Oh sorry--ridiculous was the word you just used. Anyway Dwight was wary of the whole arrangement and thought it stank to high heaven.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that himself?!”

“He said he did--did you actually listen? And before you get angry at him, you should thank your lucky stars that he was still at Nampara when Trencrom sent word of the ‘new’ meetin’ point...”

“It wasn’t Trencrom who rang me,” he corrected her. “It was Charlie who told me the meet up was moved to the airfield.”

“Charlie Kempthorne? That tosser? Are you shitting me? And you didn’t think it was suspicious that Charlie would be privy to some secret revised plan and you wouldn’t?” she scoffed. “But really, Ross, you should be fucking grateful to have Dwight as a mate. He’s a real friend, you know.”

“I never said he wasn't.”

“No, you just said I wasn't,” she snorted.

“Oh come on, Demelza. You know I didn't mean that. What are you going on about?”

“In case it isn’t clear, Ross,” she hissed, “I am still so angry at you.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “That you got involved with those weasels in the first place, that you shut me out, that you almost...”

“It’s none of your business!” he shouted. “Why are you being this way?”

“Okay, it’s not my business and I’m not your friend, just some stupid girl who works for you and is used to clearin’ up your messes--and who knows she’ll be out of that job if--no, sorry--when you get nicked. Fuck this shit. And fuck you, Ross!” Without looking at him, she stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

Ross immediately followed her, afraid that she’d keep shouting and wake the hotel. She stopped in her tracks a few yards away and stood silently. It might have been the first time in nearly thirty minutes that she’d stopped yelling at him. Ross leaned against the still-warm bonnet of the car and exhaled.

Perhaps she’d known what she was doing, parking the car in a farthest corner of the lot, under a broken street lamp. They were completely hidden in shadow, still Ross could make out her face--her narrowed, feral eyes, her gnashing teeth that gleamed in the faint moonlight. For a moment he thought she might bite him.

He cautiously took a step forward then paused to read her posture.

The chill in the air--and in the words they’d just thrown at each other--was causing her shoulders to shake. He noticed she was wearing a blue jumper just a shade darker than her brilliant eyes. The sleeves were too long, and she’d had to repeatedly push them up, but they wouldn't cooperate and now hung past her fingertips.

It was his, he then realised, the old one he usually left hanging on the peg by the front door.

He almost asked her what she was wearing--or rather why she was wearing it--but instead, aware that he’d been moved and not all sure of the reason, he did something else. He made two broad strides towards her.

Startled, she looked up at him. Her shining eyes lit the night.

“Yes, like you said...fuck this shit…” he laughed and put his hand on her elbow, pulling her towards him. He expected resistance, but he found none.

It was only a moment that they just stared at each other but it felt eternal, and then at some unspoken signal, they crashed together.

It was an untidy and urgent kiss--almost violent in its clumsiness had it not been fueled by such sincere desperation. Then, as they both found their breath, their arms found each other. A great weight had been lifted--one that neither Ross nor Demelza even realised they were shouldering until that moment.

He wove his hands through her hair and kissed her again. This time their lips worked together, carried by the flood of surging desire and long-sought release.

“Demelza, I’m so sorry I got you in this.” His voice was low but soft. Now his hands framed her face, afraid she might slip away like sand through his fingers.

“Ross, I was just so scared for you.”

He could hear the tears she was trying to hold back and understood why she’d been so angry with him. He’d been such a spectacular idiot, and in more ways than one.

“Me too. When you turned up, Demelza...my blood ran cold at the thought that I'd lured you into danger. I would never let anyone hurt you…” He ran the backs of his fingers gently down her cheek then kissed her pulsing temple.

“I couldn't leave you Ross, I just couldn't,” she cried into his neck.

“Thank you for caring for me even though I don’t deserve it. Come, you’re shivering. Let's go inside. We can talk more…” But instead of letting her go, he pressed her closer until he was certain he could feel her heart beating against his.

“I don't want to talk anymore,” she sniffled.

“Me neither. I just want to touch you and know you are safe.”

“Will you, Ross?”

Good god, I’ll never let you go, he thought.

“And can you trust me?” When she looked up at him, the hunted, defensive animal was gone. Now she was raw, vulnerable. She was softly opening herself to him, and doing so completely.

Ross understood what would happen next, what was happening now. He felt it in his gut and knew things would never be the same.

“Of course I do,” he whispered. “More than anyone.”

The darkness of the night--their secret accomplice--wrapped herself protectively around them.

Demelza lifted her face towards him and Ross kissed her once more.

[justforbooks]

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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