#will i ever tire of monochrome? no. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

miraclewoozi · 3 months

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DO YOU DREAM OF ME? - c.hs

the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome. or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it.

pairing ; vernon x gn!reader. content ; all the tropes. 5 times fic. soulmate au. slight college au if you squint. f2l. fluff, some angst. pining. one (1) hint of suggestiveness if u squint. MINORS STILL DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT. content notes ; mentions of reader having a(n unnamed) partner & thereafter, going through a breakup due to said partner cheating. reader is maybe implied to be shorter than him but hopefully not too obviously or frequently. alcohol is mentioned & is a key theme in scene #3. pov switch for the final part (necessary for logistical reasons.) PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything. w/c ; 9.6k note ; welcome to thee most self indulgent fic ever lmao. i hope u enjoy this slight break away from what i usually post here (as if my entire brand isn’t writing losers in love. ANYWAY) -- this was very fun and a little bit special for me! <3

“What was your first kiss like?”

Initially, Vernon swears he just didn’t hear you right. It’s dark up here, where you’re hiding away from a party on the roof of his university accommodation and he’s starting to get tired. There’s some sort of siren wailing away in the distance to his left, and on the street below, a gaggle of freshmen are cackling as they walk past the building. His ear closest to you is currently listening to your favourite song.

All the signs suggest that he simply got it wrong.

But he doesn’t know if he believes those signs, especially not seeing as when he looks over at you, you’re staring pointedly up at the stars overhead. He doesn’t doubt that you’re giving yourself an ache in your neck in the process, too.

“Hmm?” He asks, taking out the earphone that connects him to you. The other one is still nestled away in your ear and he reaches to gently pull it away. “What was that?”

You still don’t look at him, but you do repeat yourself. Quietly. “What… was your first kiss like?”

“Oh.”

He was right.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you hurry to say, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself to block out the cold air that blows across the rooftop. He shrugged it off and told you to take it the very moment your teeth started chattering — almost an hour ago now. His arms are bare, shoulders and biceps only covered by a t-shirt so thin it’s practically sheer, but he isn’t cold. He’s always run hotter than most. “Sorry.”

He nudges you with his knee, silently telling you that you don’t need to apologise. He doesn’t mind — you just caught him off guard; Vernon hasn’t given this any thought in a long time, and he has to really put his mind to coming up with an answer. It was forever ago — when he was eleven or twelve, maybe, with his first ever girlfriend. They dated for a whole two and a half weeks. He doesn’t know if it really counts: the kiss was a dare, after all.

“Kinda…” He starts, trying to follow the line of your sight, wondering if he can find the exact stars you’re looking at. “She’d just put this weird lipgloss on. It was real tingly. And like, neither of us knew what we were doing? So it… got everywhere. I think I ended up swallowing some, I don’t know. My mouth felt weird after. Thought I was having an allergic reaction.”

You laugh softly at him. “I think that would put me off for the rest of my life,” you say.

“It almost did,” he chuckles. You hum at him and lean back on your elbows, leaving Vernon more than a little bit confused. He readjusts his hold on his knees, bringing them closer to his chest as he tilts his head down at you in your new position.

“…why?” He asks, just as you close your eyes and take a deep inhale of the cool air.

You just shrug. “I guess I just… wondered.”

He nods, and it’s his turn to fall short of a response, but that’s okay. You’ve known each other for too long for these silences to feel uncomfortable. He grew up with you. In fact, he’s reasonably sure he’s told you this story before. He must have done.

Then he realises, maybe he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the story behind yours, and maybe that’s just a line the two of you never came to crossing. He knows he told his other friends, back then, because he was the last one in his circle to have a first kiss and he felt like it made him more grown-up, or something. Naturally, he left out the more embarrassing details. But maybe you just told your other friends who weren’t him, and went on with your life. Maybe yours was just… normal.

Either way, he’s interested now. And there’s no time to ask like the present.

“What was yours like?” He asks, fiddling with the strap on his wristwatch. You don’t answer straight away; he doesn’t think anything of it, because neither did he, but when he’s still waiting for you to speak a small eternity later, he prompts you again. “Hey, it can't have been worse than mine.”

You snort.

“You’ll laugh at me,” you say, shaking your head. Vernon furrows his brows and drops his legs flat, twisting to one side to look at you.

He doesn’t know where you’d get that idea from, but he’s… almost a bit offended by it?

“No I won’t,” he tells you softly. Maybe at first, he might’ve laughed with you, if your story happened to be as dumb as his own. But not at you. Never at. Not when he’s been the butt of the joke in too many friendship circles, for about as long as he can remember.

You take a shallow breath, pursing your lips. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not…” you start to say, before you clear your throat and try again, this time heading in a different direction. “I don’t know. It’s dumb, I guess.”

“Don’t make me come down there,” Vernon threatens playfully, poking you in your side. You squirm, giggling despite yourself, despite the serenity of the sanctuary you two have found, despite the fact that you, too, were on the edge of falling asleep before your question came out of nowhere.

He pokes you again, and again, and then starts to tickle your ribs instead. You squeal, swatting his hands away to no avail and you move to sit up, grabbing him by the forearms to physically make him stop. The grin on Vernon’s face is wide and heart-shaped. A warm feeling spreads through him: it has everything to do with the sweet sounds of your slowly dissolving laughter.

You sit cross-legged across from each other like this for a moment or two. Your knees are touching. Your hands move down his arms until you’re holding him firmly by the wrists. Your eyes lock together: his crease with the sheer force of his boyish smile, while yours are narrowed, daring him to try and wiggle free and attack you again.

He doesn’t, but for the first time ever, he’s struck with the urge to do something maybe more scary.

The urge to just… lean in to you.

It makes his heart do a backflip, in a way that it hasn’t done since he had his last crush. His head goes empty, and he forgets what he was even asking you before: the only thoughts he can muster are ones regarding what your lips taste like, whether they’re half as soft as they look, if you’d lightly touch his shoulder or his arm or his chest or his cheek—

Do you smile when you kiss?, he wonders. Do you sigh? Do you—

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you answer, looking away now and letting go of him. He’s gone so loose in the moments since you grabbed hold of him that when you’re not supporting their weight, his arms fall like two cinder blocks onto his knees.

True to his word, he doesn’t laugh. He’s surprised by your revelation, sure, but in no way humoured; actually, he feels a little saddened by it, for a reason he can’t put his finger to. He ends up not saying anything, just biting the inside of his cheek; he wants to ask why, but knows maybe that’s a bit of a dick move, and if it’s something you’re sensitive about he doesn’t want to risk hurting you.

But he’s watched people fawn over you for years, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever been short of attention from those who have thought you were attractive. So it can’t be that you’ve been lacking in chances? Surely?

“I thought… maybe I should save it,” you go on to explain. Your hands keep busy by playing with a thread at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, wrapping it around one finger until the skin beneath it pinches before you unravel it again.

“Save it?” He asks. You nod your head.

“For when I thought I’d found them.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Like I said, it’s s—.”

“No it’s not,” Vernon says abruptly, shaking his head. He holds onto you now, one hand slipping around your back until it rests on the shoulder furthest away from him. You scoff. He squeezes you into his side. “Hey. It’s not stupid.”

He doesn’t like how this admission has, somehow, made his desire to kiss you stronger. He hates that he feels even more drawn to you, a magnet finally finding its opposing pole. It freaks him out a little. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone this badly.

Red button theory, he tells himself to try and get back on the straight and narrow. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would be happening.

“It’s romantic,” he says finally, swiping his thumb in small motions over the top of your shoulder. You nod, mumbling a ‘thank you’ (for what, he isn’t sure), and shiver. Vernon doesn’t know if that’s because of his proximity to you or because you’re finally starting to feel the cold. Either way, he takes the initiative to stand up and holds a hand out for you to take so he can tug you to your feet too. You get up with a little hop.

It’s… devastatingly cute.

“Where are we going?” You ask, brushing off your jeans before shoving your hands into the jacket’s pockets. He’s already on the retreat, walking backwards towards the door that took you up here.

“To get food,” he tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That party was dead, anyway.”

It doesn’t cross his mind again until your twenty-first birthday.

He’s not your soulmate. He couldn’t be. The thought he had on the roof that autumnal night was little more than a passing fantasy; besides, he doesn’t have a thing for you. He doesn’t want to kiss you, or date you, or have you be his soulmate. The reason you work so well together is because you’re just friends; he thinks you’d drive each other crazy if things ever went romantic between you. You bicker with him for sport. He drowns away hours at a time with his headphones clamped over his ears and forgets to answer your texts. It would be a nightmare.

Not that he’s ever thought about all that. Not actively, or even passively. Not when he should be listening to college lectures instead, for example. Not awake, nor in his dreams. He hasn’t. Not once.

He swears.

“You can save it ‘til tomorrow, if you want.”

Vernon bounces his leg nervously, fidgeting with the edge of your comforter as you sit on the floor in front of him, styling your hair for your party. He arrived half an hour ago while you were still waltzing around in your bathrobe, holding a small, neatly wrapped box in both of his hands. It’s several degrees too warm in your bedroom. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as you grumble what seems to be a threat at a strand that won’t cooperate. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. (If you do, he’s grateful that you don’t say anything.)

“But it’s my birthday today,” you pouted, taking the box from him. “Let me finish getting ready, then I’ll open it. Come on.”

His wrist still aches with the pressure you held onto him with as you dragged him up the stairs. Your parents are away for the weekend and the house is all yours, so there’s a speaker blasting your favourite playlist full volume on your nightstand and there’s nobody to tell you to turn it down. He flits his attention between his phone and watching you, but he can’t fully concentrate on either; he’s too nervous that maybe you won’t like his gift, and he’s never been the type to splash out on birthday presents before but this… well, it burned a hole in his wallet, that’s for sure.

“Okay. Wait here,” you tell him as you push up off the floor, limping on the leg that had started to fall asleep thanks to the way you were sitting.

“All right,” he says back. As if he’d go anywhere, anyway.

You grab a hanger from inside your closet and scurry off down the hall to the bathroom. For the first time, Vernon feels like he can actually breathe. He drops his phone onto the comforter between his crossed legs and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself that he needs to get it together. You’ve never not liked anything he’s given you, and you’ve known him now for more birthdays than you haven’t.

Your friends said you’d love it. So did your mother, with a sparkle in her eye as she held it delicately in her fingers. He has nothing to worry about. It’s only you.

And yet—

“You’ll be honest if it looks bad?” You call from the other side of the door, interrupting how his lips move wordlessly in an endless mantra of self-reassurances.

Vernon snaps his head up and he clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Aren’t I always?” He answers.

You click your tongue, evidently disagreeing, but you pull the handle and take a step into the room anyway. When you see him, he looks exactly as he did when you left, no trace of his anxieties anywhere to be seen on his face or otherwise.

When he sees you, he feels like the world could end any moment and he’d be okay with that.

His mouth runs dry and his eyes seem to be stuck open, unblinking, fixated on you in your all black outfit as you stand still as a statue with your hands behind your back. You cough quietly, waiting for some kind of a response other than a dumb stare, but it doesn’t come.

Eight seconds later… still nothing.

“Do you hate it?” you fret, because Vernon is a very good hype-man and you’ve never known him struggle to find something positive to say. “All right, uh— okay—”

“No!” He rushes, almost shouting in his urgency to assure you that that’s not the case at all. He scrambles up to his feet, taking a breath, and pushes a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, and he kind of hates how his fingers catch on a tangle even though he brushed it meticulously before he left his apartment. You keep telling him it looks good, though, so he hasn’t been to get it cut. “God, no. I’m sorry. You look amazing.”

It doesn’t sound like much to the untrained ear, but the warmth of his compliments comes less in the words he says and more in the sincerity he says them with. Your face softens, and Vernon can see the way the thoughts of changing into something else fizzle out behind your eyes. He takes a backwards step to try and tempt you further into your own bedroom, and you move in tandem with him, closing that space and coming better into the light.

“Wow,” he says, swallowing hard and looking you up and down. “I-… wow.”

It’s your turn to clam up, now. You look down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with your toes. “Shut up,” you say. “I’m not...”

“Yes, you are,” he protests, leaving no room for argument as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress but… yeah, it’s gonna work.”

You walk past him with a scoff, barging against his shoulder on your way; he dramatically staggers to the side, rubbing at the impact site, laughing. When he faces you again, you’ve picked the gift up from the end of your bed and are moving to sit on the mattress yourself. Your eyes flicker between Vernon and the empty space in front of you. He takes the hint, settling back down with one foot tucked beneath him, the other still planted on your rug.

His heart shoots back up into his throat and he stares down at the box, licking over his lips and frowning at how dry they feel. He glances away, lifting a hand to his mouth, running his fingertips over his lips. What would they feel like pressed against yours? He thinks, and then he cringes again.

You misread his reaction and hesitate with your finger pressed underneath a strip of tape, tilting your head at him. “What’s going to jump out at me when I open this?”

“Nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. “What do you take me for?”

“The kind of guy who puts glitter in birthday cards because he thinks it’s funny,” you retort, earning a click of his tongue.

“That was one time!”

“One time too many.”

“I swear,” he laughs, tight shoulders easing, both hands falling to his lap. “No sparkles, no loud noises, nothing jumpy. Cross my heart.“

You eye him a little suspiciously but eventually tug your finger beneath the wrapping and make the first rip in the paper, allowing you to tear into the gift after keeping Vernon on edge for almost an hour and a half. You peel it away and it falls to the bedsheets, in your hands now a small, square box not too dissimilar a shade to your comforter. You look from it, to him, and he thinks you notice how his cheeks are a little darker than they were before.

He nods at you once and you slowly pull it open. On a plush, velvety bedding sits an elegant, dainty bracelet. A small gemstone is set in the metal of the bar in the middle of the chain. You skim a thumb over it, your breath held.

“Vernon,” you murmur, tearing your eyes away from the bracelet to look at him. Now, even the tips of his ears have grown flushed, but you’re kind enough not to comment on it to avoid spoiling the moment you’re in. “This is…”

“The lady in the store said it was your birthstone,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “I mean… I’m really just taking her word for it, ‘cause they all look the same to me, but—”

He’s interrupted as all of your weight topples against him, arms thrown around his neck in a hug. He hesitates a moment before he wraps his own around your waist, drops his head to your shoulder and he smiles wider than he thinks he ever has. “Happy Birthday,” he says, dragging his thumb up and down over your hip.

“Silly,” you scold him playfully, still pressing wholly against him and showing no signs of moving. Your voice sounds thick, a little like you’re tearing up, so Vernon squeezes you tighter.

“I know you are,” he chuckles. “But what am I?”

You swallow hard, finally now pulling away from the hug but sitting entirely too close for comfort, one knee pressing into the outside of his thigh.

Your surprise attack has left him dishevelled. With a quiet apology, your fingers innocently try to smooth everything back into place, but Vernon doesn’t hear you say you’re sorry. His pulse, thundering in his ears, drowns it out while also skipping a beat with each little touch. You’re not looking into his eyes as you shyly put him back to rights, too busy working to tame his — at the best of times — unruly hair.

He’s looking into yours though, and he can’t stop.

Your eyes, which dart all over to find strands out of place, so your hands can move them to where they ought to sit and lay them down flat. Your eyes, that drop down the length of his throat as you realign the neck of his t-shirt over his broad shoulders.

Your eyes: the ones crinkled at the corners as you pick the bracelet back up from your bed and admire it under your bedroom light. Your eyes, landing on his, finally, in a silent plea for help.

“The best?” you answer, now, extending your wrist to ask him to put it on you. He takes the chain from your fingers and unclasps it, slipping it beneath your hand and holding it in place.

“I know you are,” he says again, but it’s quieter now as he concentrates on trying to reconnect the two pieces. “But what am I?”

When he successfully fastens your gift onto your arm, he looks up to see your watery eyes still staring down at it. He decides this is the time to reveal part two of the surprise. Pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he reveals his own wrist to you, and you now see there’s a matching chain hanging off it. A little stone set in the metal. His stone, presumably. You choke out a laugh around your tears, shaking your head.

“You got us friendship bracelets,” you giggle, holding your hand next to his and admiring them together. Your skin touches and he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt around you since…

He nods, breathing a chuckle too. “Yeah,” he says. His heart is pounding. “I guess I did. Is… that okay?”

“I love them,” you insist, leaning forward to affectionately press your lips to his cheek. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Your doorbell sounds downstairs and Vernon’s words die in his throat. Maybe that’s for the best, though; he’s got so much nervous energy rising up inside him and he’s scared it might accidentally force up something he’ll regret saying. You spring off the bed again, fussing in the mirror, and he watches you rush out the bedroom warbling about how you’re not ready for anyone to be here yet. It’s too early. What’s going on? Who is it?

He shifts his legs so both his feet are planted on the floor, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in.

I love them. Thank you, you said.

It’s perfect.

He groans when he stands up, too, tugging his sleeve back down as he starts to follow after you.

“I know you are,” he mumbles under his breath, hearing your relieved laughter at it just being the FedEx man on your doorstep. It makes him feel warm. Everywhere. “But what am I?”

Five hours later, Vernon is seeing double.

He has Seungkwan’s hands massaging the tops of his shoulders and there are two Juns sitting across from him at your dining table. He remembers feeling fine around 9pm, distinctly: like nothing he drank was having any kind of effect on him. Like he could walk home on his hands — like he was invincible. Now, after spending exactly five minutes out in the fresh air, he’s blinking four times for every breath he takes and his friends’ voices keep phasing in and out of focus.

“But what if they’re not?” Vernon stresses for the eighth time, fingers clumsily peeling at the label on his bottle.

“And what if they are?” Jun tries. Again. Also, for the eighth time, because apparently when Vernon gets tipsy, his skull gets really really thick and nothing in the world can penetrate it. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Vernon shakes his head, sitting back so heavily that his chair tips and he sends Seungkwan stumbling into the wall behind them. His friend gives up trying to rub the stupid out of him and settles into the chair at Vernon’s side instead.

“I don’t know-…”

“If you’re about to say you don’t know what you’ll do if it isn’t them, I’m putting you in an Uber and sending you home.” Seungkwan claps his hand down onto Vernon’s knee for good measure. “It’s not even been a day.”

Vernon groans, threading his fingers into his hair and tipping his head back. “It hasn’t, though,” he whines. “What if it’s been like this since… and I just kept ignoring…”

Jun and Seungkwan exchange a look. An exhausted one. They both know Vernon turns into a complete baby when he’s had a drink and can just about manage a trip to the bathroom without somebody holding his hand, but neither of them have seen him like this before. Neither of them want to see him like this ever again.

Hell, neither of them want to be dealing with him like this right now.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Jun’s (remarkably) calm voice repeats as he pushes up from his seat and glances towards the doorway. His ears lock onto a voice just beyond it, and in an instant, the older man recognises his chance at an exit. He casts an apologetic glance at Seungkwan, who has resorted to rubbing Vernon’s earlobes to try and get him to stop stressing, and he dips out before either of them can argue.

On his way, though, he throws in a sly little remark. One that raises Vernon’s– and Seungkwan’s– blood pressure to a level that would get them prescribed a week of strict bed rest.

“Besides – everyone can see the two of you were practically made for each other.”

Vernon whips around to face Seungkwan with shock written into every line of his face. It paints perfect full-signal WiFi creases on his forehead; it makes his jaw hang loose.

“I– what?” Vernon splutters, shooting a hand to the back of his head. Seungkwan hasn’t taken his eyes off the doorway since Jun slipped through it. Vernon doesn’t notice the fact that his older friend’s full genetic line is currently being cursed out. “What does he mean?”

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Seungkwan tries, now acutely aware of the fact that Jun has just given Vernon a nudge he should never have. There’s a fine line between bolstering a friend and straight-up causing chaos. This could get messy. Seungkwan doesn’t like messy.

But… It's too late.

Before Seungkwan can wrangle him back into his seat, Vernon has broken away from the table and is on the hunt for you. Seungkwan follows behind, doing his best to summon Vernon back, but he can’t. He’s on a mission now. And maybe that mission involves giving in to the thing that eats away at his brain when he should be waist-deep in music theory assignments. Maybe that mission is to finally, after two years, know what it feels like to kiss you. He’s going to find you, so help him God. He has to.

And yes. He does. He finds you, eventually. As soon as he reaches the top of the staircase, there you are.

Being pressed into the wood of your bedroom door, wrapped up in the arms of some pretentious looking art student in an oversized button-down and baggy, ripped jeans. Your mouth is covered by theirs, your fingers are threaded through those glossy fucking locks, both of you are laughing breathlessly as you drop one hand and it fumbles blindly to reach for the doorknob.

Vernon spins away, turning his back as he hears the door click. At this exact moment, Seungkwan comes stumbling up the stairs too and plants his forehead into Vernon’s sternum.

But his good friend’s skull is not the only thing Vernon is struck with, not the only thing knocking the wind out of him.

Simultaneously, he’s swept up with the sobering realisations that either this guy is your soulmate, or you’re not the same person you were when you were nineteen.

It’s eleven o’clock and two years later when he hears your secret knock on his apartment door.

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s fate. He only took his noise cancelling headphones off a few minutes ago before he washed up and settled into bed; his head has hardly even had time to make a dent in the pillows. But whichever force is at play, the thing that matters is that he hears you and he knows it’s you, straight away. He doesn’t remember how it started, exactly. He thinks it might have been while he was in his exam-season hermit stage in his first year of university and refused to come to the door unless it was something important.

You’ve been knocking the same way for years now though, and he slides out of bed with creased brows at how desperate your fist sounds as it pounds against the wood. He pulls on an old t-shirt and perhaps the loosest fitting pair of shorts anyone’s ever owned, at least making himself decent before he answers. He’s still tying the drawstring when he gets to the door.

When he looks through the peep-hole to make sure he’s right, you’re drying your eyes on the back of your sweatshirt sleeve. You’re shivering quite violently, and you’ve got a bag on your shoulder that’s weighing you down on one side. Vernon’s heart sinks. He unbolts the door, pulling it open just as you lift your hand to knock again; your knuckles punch the air between you as your eyes land on him, and your bottom lip wobbles in despair.

You fall into his chest with a sob. Tears start to soak their way through his shirt until it clings to the skin underneath.

“Hey,” he soothes you, locking his arms so tight around you that there’s a strong chance they’re the only thing holding you upright.

“I didn’t— know where else to go—” you choke out, your arm trapped between your chest and his as he rests his head on top of yours and pats your back softly. “I’m s-”

“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, tilting his chin down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can always come to me.”

He holds you until your shakes start to subside, trying to talk you through whatever this is with soft reassurances and gentle shushing sounds. When you pull back from him, Vernon guides you into his apartment, flicking on the lamp in his living room so he can see to settle you down on his couch. He throws a blanket over your legs before he sits down himself, pulling your hand into his lap and holding it between both of his own, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles. You’re still crying, but when you shuffle against the seat to be a little more comfortable and finally turn to face him, he finds his voice long enough to ask you what happened.

“He kissed— kissed someone else,” you tell him, sniffling and shaking your head.

His blood reaches boiling point in what must be record time and he knows he accidentally starts to grip your hand tighter, but he can’t stop.

“He what?”

Vernon knows this guy wasn’t your soulmate. You told him, a few days after your birthday. You said everything was still black and white when you pulled back from the first of — what you spared no detail in explaining was — many, many, many kisses with him that evening. But you didn’t care. Not then, and not for the whole time you’ve been together.

He asked you about it once. About four months in (when he figured things were starting to get serious), late at night, if it bothered you. Whether you were going to keep seeing him. If you still thought about finding your soulmate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what your replying message said.

I mean, sure, I’m curious. But maybe I don’t need to see in colour. I think being in love is enough :)

So… you were in love.

With someone who wasn’t him.

He didn’t speak to anyone — not even you — for two whole days after that. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a peak-form George Foreman. He felt like he’d never be able to get rid of the pit that had developed in the depths of his gut. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, he couldn’t focus: it was the worst he’d ever felt. And, well… Vernon knew it was immature. He knew he was acting like a child. If he could’ve shaken it off, the way he’s always done with so many of the things in his life that have bothered him, he’d have loved to. But he couldn’t.

Besides. Only about four people noticed his silence, anyway. You weren’t one of them; your boyfriend was keeping you plenty busy.

“He went to a club and got completely wasted and he— he—” you say, squeezing his hand even tighter than he’s holding yours. “But-… he says he-…” Hiccup. “Everything. Straight away — his…”

You don’t need to say it out loud; if anything, he’s a little disgusted with himself that he didn’t figure this out sooner. “His soulmate,” Vernon ruefully finishes for you. He groans the words out, feeling rotten to his core. “I’m so sorry…”

Your shoulders start to shake and he wastes no time in pulling you sideways against him, both his arms locked around you again, just like before.

“It’s so stupid,” you cry, laughing emptily. His stomach turns; he hates this. Your anguish is an assault on his eardrums, especially when he’s got you so close, but he tries so hard not to flinch, not to move away. You need him, no matter how agonised it makes him feel. “I knew he wasn’t mine, but I thought-…”

Your voice fades away to nothing. You shake your head.

“You thought he was happy the same way you were,” he finishes again. You just nod, sobbing harder. “That's not—… stop saying the way you feel is stupid.”

Vernon doesn’t understand how that loser could ever not have been happy with you. How could he dream about going out in search of something more? Hell, Vernon doesn’t think there’s a soul alive better than you — how could anyone stand to just throw you away?

He wonders briefly if you can hear his heartbeat, thundering in his chest with the rage he feels all the way into his bones. You’ve always told him that you admire how chilled out, how collected he is, but Vernon has never felt less calm in his entire life. It’s only as he acknowledges that he has no right to feel like this, that he takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to bring his fever down. You mimic him, trying to do the same, and by the time his pulse starts to settle, you’re back to just sniffling against his shoulder.

“Stay the night here,” he tells you. It isn’t a suggestion, or really even a request. It’s an order. There’s no room for negotiation. “We’ll go get your things in the morning. I’ll be right there with you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Vernon gets there before you do. Before you can protest the offers he’s made. Before you can ask him if he’s sure. He knows you, a little too well: he knows these are the words that are going to come out of your mouth next. “I’m with you, okay? Always.”

You sit back from him with a quiet chuckle, wiping your eyes again on your damp sleeve. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” you murmur. “You’re the best— the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He just rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head, standing up from the couch. (I know you are, he thinks. This isn’t the time for jokes, though.) He wishes you knew what you mean to him; how, in his eyes, you deserve the world, presented to you on a shining silver platter. Wishes you knew that he’d give it to you if thought he could carry it.

“Go wash up,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest at the way your watery lashes flutter when you look up at him. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

He locates a spare toothbrush from a travelling kit he’s never used and sets a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the heated towel rail, leaving you alone in the bathroom to go about your business. You emerge some fifteen minutes later to find Vernon perched on the edge of his bed, scrolling through an app on his phone. He can’t help but swallow at the way his clothes fit you. How the steam from your shower clings to your skin, casts a heavenly haze around you. He hopes it isn’t obvious. This is about more than his dumb little crush.

“Were you asleep?” You ask him, nodding towards his comforter, still pushed back on one side. He turns to glance over his shoulder, following the line of your sight, before he looks back at you and shakes his head.

“Not even close,” he says. “I’d just got into bed when you got here.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. Vernon doesn't think you look totally convinced, but he can’t force you to believe him, even if it is the truth.

It’s unspoken but accepted that you'll sleep in the bed with him; he’s never let you stay on his couch when you spend the night, and you never agree to displacing him even though he always tries to insist he doesn’t mind. You’ve been friends for enough time now that it’ll never be weird to crawl beneath the sheets with him, anyway. At first, he didn’t really like sharing (he’s a bit… particular with how he sleeps, after all), but he got used to your weight on the mattress beside him quite quickly and makes a point to say he always sleeps better with you.

He hasn’t curled up next to you for the night in over two years. It’s awful, that that’s what he thinks about now as he turns off the lights and you settle down, shuffling under the comforter until he slides in next to you in the dark and you can lay your head on his chest. He knows it’s selfish. He thinks it probably makes him a bad person, too.

“Do you think—” you start to say, cut off by a long, vocal yawn. Your breath feels so warm through his t-shirt. “If you fall out of love with them… do the colours go away?”

With his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling he can’t even see, Vernon feels his heart shatter beneath the soft cushion of your cheek. He’s suddenly grateful he’s still fully clothed, as if the cotton barrier is the only thing stopping you from getting scratched by the splinters beneath his skin. He wonders if you hear it. It would be an easier explanation for why he doesn’t say anything than whatever his mouth could come up with, that’s for sure.

“I don’t know,” he says after a few seconds too long. The arm wrapped around your shoulders slips down to your waist and he squeezes you. Briefly, he wonders if it can force your broken pieces back together.

Vernon knows he would never do this to you. He’d never hurt you this way. Out of everyone he’s ever met, he thinks you’re the sweetest, the kindest, the most thoughtful of them all. The last person he’d ever wish a heartbreak upon. He even used to joke that he’d go to war with anyone who dared to try.

But now he’s seeing it happen? He feels as if he really could.

“I just hope you never have to find out,” he follows up, blinking back the thoughts that start to bubble away as your breaths slow down.

He wrapped a band-aid around your finger when you got a papercut once and you asked him, then, if he would kiss it better.

When you bumped your head in the playground, the same.

He’d kiss it all better now too, if he could. He’d show you how you deserve to be loved.

And he doesn’t just think it, anymore; Vernon knows that this makes him a terrible person.

“I hope you don’t, either,” you mumble back. “... and I hope we find them soon.”

He’s so proud of you.

Okay, it never took much. He’s been proud of you for every good grade you’ve ever achieved, every doctor's appointment you booked for yourself, every trip to the dentist you stressed over. He’s been proud of you for finishing projects you were struggling with. Proud of you for learning new recipes. For every milestone, personal or professional, it’s the first thing he makes sure to say.

[ hey, look at u go!!! proud of u :) ]

Now? He’s seen you crawl from rock bottom to the top of the world. It hasn’t been easy. There have been hurdles and barriers and sometimes, sixty foot high walls you’ve had to climb up and over, but you’ve done it. You’re thriving. Every time he looks at you, these days, if you’re not wearing a smile there are at least traces of one in your eyes, on your face, in your voice. Happiness suits you, and he’s so, so proud of you for getting here.

He knows you’re doing better, because between Christmas and New Year, you asked him if he wanted to come to a party with you. At first, he wasn’t sure; the holidays left his wallet feeling a little light and he’s been on a really good streak of not drinking anything lately, but when you promised that you’d stay sober too, he kind of couldn’t say no.

[ i just wanna see in the new year with my favourite person ever <3 ]

[ ha. flattery will get u everywhere ]

So here he finds himself, out in the backyard of somebody he’s never met, a can of Coke in one hand and your gloved fingers holding tightly onto the other. You dragged him outside at five minutes to midnight and — though he doesn’t know why — you decided you didn’t want to let go. Vernon certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make you. Your warmth down his left side is settling the slight unease he’s felt all evening while also making him feel tipsier than he’s ever been under the influence of any amount of soju; he thinks maybe this should scare him, but he’s just… so glad he came.

With sixty seconds until the clock strikes twelve, somebody stands up on top of the picnic table in the yard and starts to try and coordinate a countdown. With forty-five, Vernon squeezes your hand, butterflies where his stomach ought to be. With thirty, he takes a long drain of his drink, finishing it as if it’ll give him some courage, maybe, or… he doesn’t know. Zero sugar, zero caffeine — there’s no logic behind his process, just a lot of bubbles and artificially sweetened syrup. All the same, he crushes the can against his thigh and slips it into his pocket to throw away later. That alone relieves a bit of his adrenaline.

Not enough, but some.

With ten seconds remaining, the first shout drowns out the white noise in his ears, the chaos of his thoughts. 10. He joins them. So do you. 9. 8. Your voice is the loudest, the most excited sounding. You want this year to be over. You want the rest of your life to begin.

7. 6. 5.

The crackers are set. Flames dance at the end of the garden on fire lighters, ready to send rockets shooting into the sky.

Some people here are going to see them as they truly are. Brilliant and vibrant and colourful against the black canvas of the midnight sky. Vernon won’t. Neither will you. But what was it you said to him once?

4. 3.

Maybe I don’t need to see in colour.

For the first time, he thinks he agrees. The feeling of loving you, even if he never knows green from red, blue from orange? He doesn’t care. He has you. He loves you. That’s enough.

Happy New Year.

As if dawn has broken early, the world becomes impossibly bright, pyrotechnics bursting not only over your own heads but everywhere, as far as his eyes can see. After the first few, he permits himself a glance over at your face: there are tears running down it, and his heart stutters, but then he hears you laugh. Brightly, wetly, more resonant than any of the booms and crackles and cheers he can feel all the way down to his toes.

For whatever reason, Vernon starts laughing with you.

You pull him closer into a bone-crushing hug and blink your damp lashes against the side of his neck. “Thank you for being here with me,” you say to him, practically shouting to be heard. “I love you so much.”

“I’m always gonna be with you,” he says as you pull back a little. Your arms are still around him. The chain of the bracelet he bought you all those years ago is bitterly cold against the back of his neck. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, all he knows is that they’re resting on the curve of your spine. He thinks he can see something in the way you look at him, so softly and tenderly and yet, in the twitch of your brow…

Like you’re searching for something that might not be there.

He knows his gaze moves in a perfect triangle — from your left eye, to your slightly parted, wind-chapped lips, to your right. He knows he stops breathing. He swears you do, too. Something builds — a spark catches, an energy festers, egged on by the curious murmurs of the people around you.

You could do it, his brain tells him.

So what if he’s a few minutes late for it to be traditional? Does it really matter?

But he’s reminded, again, this time with a whizz and a boom and a crackle, that you aren’t his to have this way. His storybook moment fizzles out, the final firework bursting into sparkles overhead. He sees every one of your perfect features brighten in wonder as you tilt your head back to look up at it. Sees it beautifully reflected in your glassy eyes. He has about enough time to commit the image to memory before you clear your throat and finally step away from him, losing all touch for the first time since you came outside.

One of your friends comes and pulls you into an embrace, before passing you along to someone else, and then someone else again. He loses you in the crowd that rushes to get back in the warm, but he makes no effort to move with them. He just stays out in the dark for a while with his own thoughts for company, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He’s happy, though. It’s like you said.

Being in love is enough.

“There’s just one more thing,” you say as the waitress returns with your bank card and a receipt. Vernon slides you a look as he stands, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair he’s been sitting in.

He shakes his head at you. “Whatever it is, it better not be edible,” he laughs. “I think this is the most full I’ve ever been.”

In other words, you’ve done enough already. Stop spending money on me. Please. Thankfully, your final surprise is in-keeping with his unspoken rule.

His birthday rolled around way too quickly. The start of the year has been so chaotically busy; you swear, you’ve hardly seen him since he dropped you off home after the party. You moved out of your parents’ house for the second time a few weeks ago and settling in, unpacking boxes, sorting through clothes and belongings and trinkets has taken you much longer than you care to admit. You’ve been busy at work, too. So has he. Your social calendars have barely lined up at all.

But you were determined to make plenty of time for him on his birthday.

To Vernon, this has always just been another day. He’s never cared too much about big celebrations: as long as he can spend some time with people he cares about, he’s happy, and this year he’s managed exactly that. He saw his family this morning, had some friends drop by his apartment later in the day, and now, he’s with you.

You’ve never been great at the laid-back approach, though. Not with him. How could you be, when he does so much for you, always without even batting an eye? When he deserves to be doted on, and adored, and thoroughly spoiled? It’s the same every year. You make a fuss, he playfully scolds you for it; you and he are creatures of habit. It’ll probably never change.

This year, you invited him to your new place to open the gifts you’d bought him: the new speaker he kept saying he couldn’t justify buying, a record he looked at in the store a few months ago but never bought, a sweatshirt to replace the one you stole off him on New Years Eve. Some candies he likes. Then, after he finally stopped pouting and sighing that you really didn’t need to go to all this effort, you took him out for dinner, making a reservation for two at his favourite restaurant.

The pouting continued.

Only up until your appetisers came out, though. The moment your food was placed down in front of you, his eyes doubled in size and his lips became a little too busy to stay pursed. Your own dinner almost went cold with how fondly you sat and watched him. This year, you even spared Vernon the embarrassment of having the restaurant staff sing at the side of your table.

All right, you have an ulterior motive, but… it’s the thought that counts, right?

He holds the door open for you now as you thank the waitress who served you one last time and without him lowering his arm, you step into place beneath it. Tucked up into Vernon’s side, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been. Nervous, too, but… you have a good feeling.

“Where to?” He asks as you fall into step together.

“This way.”

You emerge from the shelter of the canopy outside the restaurant’s front door and immediately feel the cool tickle of a snowflake landing on your cheek. They started to fall while you were eating and Vernon couldn’t stop watching through the window, small specks that grew over the hour into big clumps that tumbled towards the ground. He’s always loved the snow, and there’s no real destination for this gift, anyway. You guide him to the left and watch as peace takes its rightful home on his beautiful features.

“We’ve walked in a perfect square three times now,” Vernon says after a little while of meandering about in the dark, making comfortable small talk and laughing as the champagne bubbles in your stomachs continue to fizz away. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

You wondered how long it was going to take him to notice, or even if he was going to realise at all. Looking up and down the street you’re on, you stop in your tracks, standing beneath the same flickering street lamp that you’ve passed twice already. Your footprints trail both behind and in front of you, neither quite covered yet by the snowfall. You break into a laugh when you notice that the convenience store on your left has closed since the last time you came down this road.

“I can get a map open, if…” Vernon starts, reaching into his pocket. You stop him, stepping out from under his arm and wrapping your hand around his wrist instead.

“I might’ve told a little white lie,” you confess,

He halts with his phone only half pulled out, pushing it into his hip for fear of it falling if either of you let go. “What do you mean?” He asks.

You know he’s probably thinking back to your earlier conversations, trying to figure out which part exactly is the mistruth you’re now admitting to. But whether he gets there on his own or not, he waits for you to answer.

“I had it with me this whole time,” you explain, readjusting your hold on his covered forearm. His eyes dart downwards, looking at the site of contact, but he quickly lifts them back up to your face. “I was just… waiting for… ”

“What are you talking about?” Vernon asks.

“Close your eyes.”

You know.

Unfortunately for your best friend, as hush-hush as he’s managed to be all this time, the same can’t be said for the other person he entrusts all his secrets to. A few weeks ago, when you’d called Seungkwan to coordinate timings for Vernon’s birthday plans, he’d accidentally let something slip. It was your suggestion of taking Vernon to dinner that did the trick.

“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Seungkwan had gushed. You could hear the breadth of his smile down the phone and felt yourself growing hot at the compliment.

“You really think so?”

“Pfft. You could take him to the Eiffel Tower or to a drive-through KFC, and he’d still have hearts in his eyes – because it’s you.”

Of course, he attempted to do some damage control immediately after. Make out that he meant it in strictly platonic terms. But once the idea planted itself in your head, it sort of… made sense. You mulled it over for a couple of days but when you finally asked Seungkwan, deathly serious, if he really thought you stood a chance with Vernon?

He practically screamed ‘yes’ down the phone.

“The last time you asked me to do this, you killed me at laser-tag,” Vernon says, narrowing his eyes. He surely doesn’t think you’re hiding a plastic gun underneath the coat he literally just watched you don, but he doesn’t do as you ask and you suck your front teeth at him.

“Luckily for you, I left all my weapons at home,” you counter. “Come on, please. Just… trust me.”

“Said that last time, too,” he snickers. But, to his merit, he finally does it. He takes in a breath and follows your instruction. “I swear to God…”

Selfishly, you take a moment to bask in how handsome he really is. His eyes twitch underneath his lids and snowflakes cling to his lashes, moving with them. It’s in his hair, too. On his shoulders. Melting on his cheeks, leaving small wet spots on his face. One lands perfectly on the tip of his nose. You would immortalise this moment, if you could.

It made sense, when you found out, because thinking back? Nobody has ever loved you how Vernon does. He shows it in so many ways – he sends you the songs that he hears and thinks you’ll like, the pretty photographs that he takes when he’s away for work, some variant of a ‘good morning’ text, almost every day. He massages your shoulders, lets you fall asleep on his lap, follows you around like an obedient puppy when you have errands to run just so you don’t have to do them on your own.

He tries, and often fails, to cook you breakfast when you stay over. He brings you coffees, or lunch. He looks at you like you’re the moon and the stars. People have teased for years that you could be psychically connected. That you were cosmically united. That it was fate for Vernon to move into the house down the street from you when you were nine. To be the only other child your age on the block.

Two people, perfect for one another, lives intertwined eternally by fate. Or, in other words…

“Are you…?” He asks, breaking the quiet that has only been filled with your cloud-forming breaths.

“Give me a second,” you breathe. There’s no doubt in your mind.

One.

You lean forward to kiss him softly, free hand settling against the side of his neck. In the February chill, Vernon freezes, no part of his body reacting to you except for his lips. Though they twitch in a gasp, they press back against yours as if he isn’t even thinking about doing it. As if it’s instinctual. As if he was always supposed to kiss you – as if he’s your…

There it all is, when you finally pull away.

Brown eyes, framed by fluttering lashes that untangle from one another to finally see you, too. Brown, you know, because when you asked your mother to tell you about Vernon’s colours when you were younger, that was the only one she told you, saying everything else might change when he got older. Warm, brown eyes. Glistening with every blink, blink, blink of the bulb above you. Pupils slowly dilating, drowning the colours out of view. You see his lids shoot wide as he realises, as he glances left and right, as he takes this new world in for the first time, too.

“I knew it,” you say on a stuttered breath, so overwhelmed you could cry. “My soulmate.”

A brilliant smile threatens to split Vernon’s features in two as he cups your cheeks and pulls you back to him, kissing you again, and again, and again.

“I know you are,” he says against your lips, his bare thumbs pink and cold as they press into your skin. And, before you can kiss him quiet – “but what ‘m I?”

thank u so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3

#vernon fluff #vernon x reader #vernon chwe fluff #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #hansol x reader #hansol fluff #kpop fluff #j writes.#*#so nervous ab posting this. anyway. i wrote this for meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and my deluded ass is gonna go jump in a hole now GOODBYE <3 #vernon fanfic

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venturelovebot · 4 days

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A/N: LETS GOOOOOO ANOTHER REQUEST DOWN ONLY ONE MORE TO GO!!! Thank you again for requesting and I hope you enjoy reading! Link to request here!

Premise: Reader is extremely tired, but they have good reason to be. Good thing they have someone to protect them now!

Warnings: Probably went a little too ham on the nightmares 🫠 Body horror, blood, death... spookies... scaries... Venture is there to comfort you though! Other than that it's safe to read!

Even in the all consuming darkness you could still tell Sloan was facing you.

As your eyes adjusted you could see the general shape of their face, their closed eyes and their mouth slightly agape. It was about as peaceful as you had ever seen them before. Their hand lays on the pillow next to their head and you reach out to touch it for comfort. Their fingers twitched slightly before closing down and holding yours back.

For a brief moment you feel more secure, so you let yourself slip into sleep.

And then it happens again– another nightmare. You couldn't count how many days you've been having those because they all blended together at this point.

...

You're running for your life.

The void black street is only briefly illuminated by warped and fuzzy yellow streetlights. The sidewalk is eroded and dead grass grows through the monochrome cracks. Behind you is an amorphous fog that never seems to cease its relentless chase to kill you. You cry out for help, like always. There's no one there, like always.

You're unfortunate enough to trip and smash your face directly into the tattered concrete. Blood pours out from your mouth as your teeth crack into miniature pieces. Your skinned knees are making it difficult to get back up but somehow you recover just in time to dodge the fog and continue further down into the abyss. It feels like an endless one way road stretching out for miles and miles. You cover your ruby tinged mouth to prevent anymore blood from spilling out, but somehow in the process you swallow hundreds of bone fragments and begin to choke.

You lunge over and desperately claw at your throat before a wave of cold envelopes your body. The fear and pain are agonizing, freezing you in place from pure panic. You open your brutalized mouth to scream before it all fades away in a mere second.

Your eyes flutter open.

2:45 AM.

With your free hand you wipe the cold sweat off your face. It's not even half way through the night and you've already experienced your first nightmare. You think about waking up your beloved before ultimately deciding against it, you didn't want them to have to go to work running on steam.

You squeeze your eyes shut again and pray for time to fast forward to morning already. The sound of your pulse fills your ears with noisy, rhythmic static that drives you up the wall.

Please, just be morning already. I won't tell anyone if a miracle happens. I promise.

Your thoughts are even louder than the beating of your own heart. For a desperate moment of comfort you slide closer to Sloan without waking them from their sleep. A soft sigh escapes your mouth– if only you could sleep as peacefully as they could.

If only.

You were back in the dream world before you realized it. It certainly didn't feel like you were dreaming at all.

This time you find yourself locked inside a bedroom that you weren't familiar with. Wherever it was, it didn't seem to be occupied for quite some time. Dust particles drift slowly in the air and the only available light source is coming from a rapidly flickering table side lamp.

It's deathly quiet.

You slide out of the unfamiliar bed without making a sound. There was a sickening feeling of dread that filled the pit of your stomach. You tried your hardest to make as little noise as possible, but the creaking wooden floors provided no security. Slowly step by step you made your way down a hallway and into what appeared to be a living room.

The television was the only light in the rest of the home. Soft static white noise echoes out into the emptiness of the unknown. At least there was enough noise to cover your footsteps here. You took a minute to look around more– A sliding glass door showed the world as pitch black beyond the overgrown green grass of the yard. It somehow frightened you worse than being inside of here.

You move from the living room to the kitchen, feeling around in the darkness for any sort of light switch to no avail. Your eyes have a hard time adjusting but you can make out a landline phone dangling off of its holder. Without thinking you bolt towards it and hold the handle up to your ear only to be greeted with a low pitched disconnected tone. The buttons do not appear to dial correctly, and the numbers appear warped and blurry to your dreaming eyes.

"For fucks sake–"

Paranoia overtakes your entire mind, body and soul. You slowly turn around and the overhead kitchen light flickers on to just barely illuminate a figure sitting at the kitchens island.

If your body would let you scream then surely you would have in this moment.

The figure is slumped over clutching an empty can as if minding its own business. To the left a spatter of blood leaks out of the head from the temple, apparently having been shot without even noticing something was desperately wrong inside their own house. Seemingly against your will, your feet inch closer to the deceased and it becomes discernible.

"Oh my God..." You speak like your mouth is full of cotton.

Your eyes shoot across to the sliding glass door to a figure walking around the house. They disappear into the darkness and fear strikes your very core.

Run. Now.

It's all your brain can tell you to do– so you do it, and you run back into the bedroom you first woke up in. The curtains provide some cover but you can't shake the feeling that the murderer already knows you're in here. It's just a matter of time before you're dead, too. You hide on your hands and knees between the wall and the bed, trying your hardest to open the closet door for somewhere to hide before a window suddenly shatters.

You had no time to register what had happened before a gunshot rings out.

You shot up out of bed and hold your eye as if it had actually been shot. Tears are now overflowing and you're heaving in attempt to catch your breath... but being awake was only a tiny relief.

5:25 AM.

Dark circles are present underneath your eyes.

You are tired. So incredibly, overwhelmingly, horrifically tired.

"[Y/N]?" Your beloveds gentle voice brings you back down to earth.

You take a deep breath just like you were taught to: in through your nose, and out through your mouth.

"Yeah?" You glance back at them laying in bed. Their eyes are just barely open.

"What's wrong?" The sleepiness in their voice is evident.

You feel guilty for accidentally waking them up. For a second you wonder if it was worth it to lie but you decided not to, considering how upset you appeared.

"Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep." You turn away from them again, laying back down and pulling the cover over yourself.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sloan nudges closer to you and wraps an arm around your waist.

You instantly sink into their touch, and all the fear and panic evaporates into nothingness.

"I saw your dead body." You state bluntly, remembering the slumped over figure and its uncanny resemblance to your beloved.

They nuzzle into your neck and place a gentle kiss to your skin.

"I'm here. I'm okay, I promise."

It's surprising how six simple words could bring so much relief.

"Can you stay home today? Please...?" You beg, holding on to their arm as you feel the drowsiness returning.

"Sure thing." They nuzzle you one more time. "I'll be right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

You close your eyes again.

"I'll protect you while you sleep, so don't worry!"

You nod and let your head become heavy on your pillow.

...

You found yourself dreaming one more time.

But this time, there is light. A figure in the distance approaches you.

It's Sloan.

And they warmly reach their hand out towards you.

#here's a fun fact: the second nightmare is based off one i had awhile ago!#overwatch #overwatch 2 #venture x reader #venture x you #sloan cameron #sloane cameron #overwatch fanfiction #overwatch x reader #overwatch x you

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ellzilla · 18 days

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Laughing Jack Headcanons!

I have so many things about this rewritten clown in my brain n' I don't think I've ever like Listed ALL the headcanons in one spot? individual posts but never a hoard of them, soo. Here's all on my mind rn but i've probably forgotten some! - He can't feel pain or temperature and struggles with texture. The best way to explain it is imagine wearing super thick work gloves all the time and trying to touch a cactus and then a fur pillow, only difference you're gonna feel is that you can push into the pillow. - He also can't sleep or smell, but he still yawns when he's exhausted and sneezes when there's visibly a lot of dust or whatever in the air. -Also he can't eat food or taste. If he tries, he'll throw it up along with black sludge after an hour or so. He can drink and feel the effects of alcohol, but it makes him fucking reek because he doesn't have any organs and it just kinda absorbs into his stuffing. - He's a huge kleptomaniac! He has entire tents in his carnival dedicated to shit he's stolen from people he's killed, but he keeps his favourite items in his trailer. -His skin is a combination of plastic and rubber, despite initially being made with fabric. There's a few parts on his body where left over seems are still visible. -The only part of his body that's white is his head and most of his torso, the rest has been stained black with a faint branch pattern connecting the colours together. -His makeup isn't makeup, it's just how he looks! And he hates it! -If he wears coloured clothes they'll eventually turn monochrome and won't regain colour. -Huge egomaniac! Part of his kelptomania fuels this as he hoards things that are rare/thought to not exist anymore -Only thing close to a friend he's ever had is his relationship with Zalgo and Will. -Doesn't remember how he came to be or why he loves violence. He sometimes dwells on it but not for too long or else he gets upset. -Holy items can tranquilize him/subdue him on prolonged physical and can send him into a state akin to sleep but with none of the benefits. Having a holy item nearby simply makes him mildly less agitated and a lot more tired. -He can turn into smoke and do mild shapeshifting, mainly changing sizes or stretching things by an impossible amount. -Extremely quick to anger -Loses track of the year a lot -Has no clue why he has such a familial bond with Will and struggles with it as all he's done for hundreds of years is be either an asshole or kill people, so his nice gestures and affection sometimes comes with implied threats

-Extremely overprotective and controlling of Will to the point Will doesn't feel like he has a life of his own [Will used to love it as a kid, but now he's in his mid 20's/early 30's? Not so much] -Can use his pullstring as another limb, being able to grab things or life himself up with it. -Sometimes literally hangs around by cradling/hammocking himself with his pullstring

#creepypasta #laughing jack #laughing jack headcanons #headcannons #creepypasta headcannons

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bonefall · 6 months

Note

This is a bit of a vague, broad request (so sorry about that!) but do you have any more info on the Dappletail extended family that hasn’t made it to our ears yet? Any masterposts about them or about individual cats like Darkstripe? I loved the Cricketclaw post a lot and I’d love to see more of these complicated goobers!

Sure! But it won't be comprehensive-- I need to make them a whole post like I did for the Dragonkin family over in RiverClan.

I've been calling them Dapplekin lately, but if we zoom out a little further, I've been calling the whole family the "Tawnyrain" line. I think we could call them Rainkin for the example here.

The Rainkin family descends from Rainfur and Tawnyspots. Tawnyspots is now the FATHER of Dappletail and Thrushpelt, bringing him in line with the statement that he was an old deputy when he retired.

Tawnyspots was an old friend of Sunstar. I imagine he also had a ton of apprentices, he was a responsible and nurturing kind of guy.

Rainfur was gorgeous. She was light golden with those lighter "dapple" stripes you see in Dappletail and her kits.

She is also where the humor came from. She loved the CORNIEST jokes. For some reason I just find it very funny that every cat in BB whose prefix is "Rain" gets a sense of humor.

Tawnyspots: "Hey Rainfur!! What did the tired honeysuckle say to the oak? Leaf me alone I'm bushed!"

Rainfur: (WHEEEEEZE)

The family gets the mane from Tawnyspots.

They were just NICE people, y'know? I think Bluestar looks back at them fondly, they were like the super sweet neighbors in the apartment next to you who would bring over extra food in old, stained tupperware.

And that extended to their kids. Dappletail and Thrushpelt are extremely meaningful to Bluestar, the both of them are sweet as overripe blackberries.

Dappletail has a really BAD case of resting bitchface. I channel a bond villain when I draw her or think of her voice.

She loves telling stories and explaining things, because she is good at it.

When Ravenkit and Dustkit's mother died and their uncle was extremely sick, and she'd just lost Featherkit and Darkstripe skeddadled with Graykit, she looked after them.

I think Ravenpaw's love of storytelling comes from her. Unfortunately though, she gave him a great power, as a kid he had a bad habit of Making Shit Up.

It definitely comes from Dappletail, who never says "I don't know." She will hypothesize, speculate, and seek answers, but doesn't use idk.

"Dappletail, where is the tunnelbun?"

"I saw it last shift, Graystripe had it. He probably took it."

Her kits all actually have the same biofather. I don't know who it is though, I imagine she met him after Rosetail told her a secret story about her honor sire in Chelford, but it might be a Clan cat. But he's monochrome gray; all of her kits are the same color as him.

THRUSHPELT meanwhile, ALSO a ball of sunshine,

I wrote a joke about him saying howdy ONCE and it became a core memory. Guy who says howdy.

Thistleclaw: "THIS IS ENGLAND WHY ARE YOU SAYING HOWDYYYY"

"Well howdy doody thistleclaw"

"AUUUGH"

He definitely says Hello in some weird way. Guy who answers the phone with Yellow. Man who says shucks unironically

And then surprises you by being one of ThunderClan's strongest fighters. If you swear in his good Christian Minecraft server he'll fucking gut you

Dappletail is not the stronger twin. Thushpelt is as thick as a twig but you get in a fight with him and you hear Dark Souls

That's part of why Bluestar could never allow ThunderClan to get taken over by Thistleclaw. The strongest fighter... goes on the front lines.

Moonflower was the strongest fighter too, once.

Unlike Dappletail, Thrushpelt also never needed to know the full story. Bluemoon ADORED him. If she was ever about to overshare for his sake, with the thought that he deserved to know, he would stop her.

"If I should know it, I will learn it in StarClan."

When Bluestar picked her first deputy, she knew it had to be him.

And he was a fantastic deputy, and a great uncle. Super supportive guy, calls you Sport and ruffles your mullet.

He got taken out a few weeks after Featherkit, which was devastating to Dappletail. She is comforted, however, by the idea that Thrushpelt can look after her.

I got into Cricketclaw and Darkstripe recently so I'll try not to repeat too much

Cricket and Dapple were actually extremely upset that Graystripe halted the fight over his kits.

Cricketclaw especially, she doesn't give a shit about Crookedstar and his sadness, she would have invited him to Cry About It, "MY nespring"

Dapple is 50% more diplomatic; "Silverstream is gone. Stormkit and Featherkit's family is here."

Feathertail's name makes them both Emotional, she actually has a tail pattern a lot like Dappletail's

On that note, yeah. They both did not want Featherpaw and Stormpaw to go back. They were both actually pretty upset about it

Cricketclaw got in a FIGHT with Mistyfoot for saying they could go home

How dare you even SUGGEST that actually, go back to the Clan that WANTED TO EXECUTE THEM???

I don't think Cricket could compose herself enough to say goodbye, and she was FURIOUS at Featherpaw for taking the offer. Her final words to them was probably just at Stormpaw alone;

"Don't let your sister decide your whole life for you. You'll always be OUR family."

I don't think Stormpaw actually appreciated it much. Stop making this harder! I know this is a bad idea! I have to be there for Featherpaw when this shit all goes south, god damn it!!

Dappletail and Graystripe are sad but supportive of the twins' choice. Cricketclaw is maaaad

And Stormfur and Feathertail... man

Feathertail sees the good in everything, to a fault. She believes it will all work out if we stick together, and that everything that happens is meant to be.

Stormfur does not agree

He watched his whole ass mentor get wasted, PARTIALLY by his uncle.

He saw people he thought where his friends watch his execution, some curious, some cheerful. All of them just watching.

People don't die clean. His blood didn't anoint the earth, it just gushed and choked. There's no such thing as a noble murder

Everyone rejects the Dishonor Title they gave Stonefur, saying that Tigerstar was not ordained by StarClan.

Stormfur doesn't see how that matters. The stars watched, too.

It was Deerfoot, Swansong, Jaggedtooth, Wetfoot, Mosspelt, and others who saved him... and it was normal cats, just like them, who built the Bonehill

So again; what does it matter that Tigerstar wasn't given the authority by StarClan to change his name?

His mentor was named Heartworm. And that is the only angel he prays to.

If they hadn't gone back to RiverClan, Feathertail never would have been chosen for the journey. Never would have died.

And the destruction of the Forest killed his family in ThunderClan. Devastated them. Even Graystripe was taken.

So when Leopardstar nodded at the "sign" Mothwing claimed she saw, when RiverClan hardened in TNP, and when it kicked out the pawful of Tribe cats who had come to help these ingrates get set up in a new territory...

He was done with Clan Culture. There was nothing left here, for him.

I don't even plan for him to be in love with Brook yet, going to the Tribe was about getting the fuck away from all this.

Yes Feathertail's grave is there too, but I think his feelings are super complicated.

Cricketclaw was right, he let her decide his life, and because of her he didn't get to say goodbye to his family. He would have been in ThunderClan, maybe even been able to save some of them.

At the Tribe, he lives in the Cave Ward. The least populated ward, and practically a temple-town.

At first he thought he would be more of a hunter, but he quickly learned he really doesn't like how you hunt in the highlands. It's a VERY leggy activity, lots of hiking, running, coordination. It was different than he expected.

Anyway I'll stop there because I could write an SE on how Stormfur adjusts after his immigration and I would actually be interested in doing it. Like, really take the chance to show how the BB!Tribe works and explore the feelings of moving to a new place.

It's a theme that's personal to me as a writer tbh.

Graystripe meanwhile... he never gets over Silverstream. Not even with Millie. I don't think he realizes it, but he really is always looking for the glimpse of himself in a happier timeline

And boy oh boy does it fuck up his next litter.

I've spoken about them all before and I plan to collect it all in one place at some point, but briefly,

Graystripe can't ever take a side when Millie treats Briarlight poorly, and just ends up enabling Millie's ableism

Millie is frantic over Briarpaw's injury, and says some AWFUL things right to her face, making the entire situation about herself

But Graystripe will be like, "your mother says things she doesn't mean :( she loves you, you know"

He can't deal with the possibility of losing Millie, too. Or any of his kids. It's something that Briarlight and Blossomfall come to realize, with time and wisdom.

Bumblestripe meanwhile... he's not really smart enough to ever realize that. He just keeps breaking himself on trying to get Graystripe to see him

But Gray is ALWAYS seeing his first litter, and comparing them. No milestone goes by where he's not cheerfully bringing up some story of how their older siblings were, how he wishes they could see them.

That's where he goes, in the end. After extreme carnage from the Impostor, Graystripe decided that he wanted to spend the last of his life with Stormfur in the mountain.

(Graystripe's Vow is now Ferncloud's Parting, FERNCLOUD is gonna go confront her brother)

Thankfully, Briarlight had her mentor Honeysnake to help her realize her worth... but Blossomfall and Bumblestripe meander for meaning into really toxic, dangerous places for their whole lives.

Blossomfall trains in the Dark Forest because she feels so alienated and disconnected from the Clan at large, only stopping in the BOTTE in the last wave when she faces up against Briarlight

She confronts Briar, and she just... cocks her eyebrow. "ILL END YOU" "no you won't."

Squirrelflight actually tried to tell Bramblestar to make an exception with his Dishonor Titles for the DF trainees, realizing that that Blossomfall's problem was alienation.

She wanted Blossomfall to be put into a Secondary Apprenticeship, specifically for the Construction Patrol since Dustpelt was killed. Something where she'd see her work pay off, and she'd be helping to take care of the Clan.

But Bramblestar rejected it, because it would be unfair. If everyone else is getting Dishonor Titles she will get one too; she shouldn't be REWARDED for what she did. It's a punishment.

So she was Shredbloom for a while. None of her problems were addressed and she ended up joining The Kin later, eventually being rescued by Heathertail and her plan.

Returning to ThunderClan was on her family's vouch, bringing the kits she'd given birth to in The Kin with her, and she was on THIN ICE

She mouthed off at the Impostor in typical Blossomfall fashion once, early in his reign, and she got hit with a DEVASTATING second Dishonor Title; Clearface.

"Because it would be better off if we could see right through her."

Bumblestripe became one of the Impostor's favorite lackeys, exploiting his failed relationship and resentment of Dovewing

Briarlight was murdered in the dog attack that Sparkpelt barely survived, and Stemleaf is killed in the assassination attempt on the Impostor.

Bumblestripe accompanies the old people, Ferncloud, Cloudtail, and Graystripe, during Ferncloud's Parting. He says goodbye to his dad in the mountain, and finally meets the Famous Stormfur...

And learns that he's just some fucking guy.

You live your whole life trying to hold up to this standard of a distant, unknown brother in the mountains, and then you learn he was Just A Dude all along.

He went further south with Cloudtail and Ferncloud too, to make sure they were safe. They are old and it is a long journey.

And that's where they all are to the current point of BB! In ThunderClan, the active Rainkin Family is Bumblestripe, Blossomfall, Plumstone, and Shellfur, and all of them want to support Spotfur as she raises Stemleaf's children.

They refer to themselves as "Graykin" currently; their last relevant ancestor. In Clan Culture, families tend to split at a grandparent or great-grandparent.

#Rainkin #Dapplekin #Graykin #Better bones au

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yuckie-obsessive · 1 year

Text

Did You Miss Me?

Remembered ADWM when Dark says, “Did you miss me? I missed you- very much.” And now I wanna make a drabble on it.

Maybe a little variation on what happens in ADWM. Thinking of making a new HC where he can’t touch you unless you give him permission or initiate it first. Of course he can ask for it or give vague gestures in hopes you will accept him.

Darkiplier x Reader (gender neutral)

Set up: essentially the same intro as ADWM, but a little more intimate. Sfw only tho

~★~

You had become extremely disoriented from the rough switch in atmosphere. The ringing that echoed within your mind was not helping either. Your date was no where to be found and neither was the stage.

“Hello, darling.” A disembodied voice greeted. Then a monochrome figure appeared in front of you, though it was difficult to keep eyes on him when he was surrounded by blue and red doubles.

He straightened at your distress and the visual glitching subsided slightly.

He cleared his throat, “I missed you, dear. It’s been quite some time wouldn’t you say?” He took a step forward, extending a hand, only for you to take a step back in confusion. He clenched his hand and let it fall.

“My apologies, this must seem rather forward. Though I must admit,” his jaw clenched, “I’ve grown tired of this perpetual game we’ve been forced to play.”

He straightened his already perfect suit and sighed, “It doesn’t matter… surely you must be aware of this cycle by now?”

You had felt rather caught off by the consistent, repetitive actions you had been forced to perform. You slowly nodded.

“Then let me further enlighten you,” he waved his hand to summon different visions of your adventure so far, even things that have yet to occur. “You must understand this was all his plan (y/n). I have simply disrupted this game, if only momentarily.”

“How did you-“

“This isn’t our first encounter. We have met many times in the past.” His expression shifted, but returned so quickly that you thought you imagined it. “It was brought to my attention that he decided to drag you along once again. A shame he continuously removes your memories of his games… our little meetings. Manipulating the plot to suit his needs,” his sudden harsh tone and odd shattered reflection startled you. He took a breath so steady himself and moved closer, now towering over you. “I can take you from this wretched cycle… to show you what we had together,” once again, he offered his hand.

“Please, (y/n)…” His voice grew strained, “Let me in... Let me be everything you need,” his head tilted to whisper softly into your ear. Dangerously close yet still refraining from contact.

You looked to his hand and cautiously moved to take it, but hesitated.

“I promise you this, your every need will be met. Your heart’s desires fulfilled… Let me protect you now where I couldn’t before. Let me amend my mistakes…”

You felt a great sadness from his words. Letting your naive trust get the better of you, your hand lightly accepted his.

The moment your hands connected, he rushed to embrace you causing you to gasp. He buried his face into your neck, reciting apologies and promises of loyalty. The air grew lighter, and for the first time since you could ever remember, you felt lucid.

He removed himself and held your shoulders. His smile filled you with warmth.

“Let’s catch up, old friend.”

#ego #darkiplier #markiplier egos #dark #darkiplier x reader #reader insert #x reader #kie writes #kie’s post #gender neutral fanfic

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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months

Note

omg hi congrats on 1k!!!!! you are SUCH a fantastic writer and i absolutely devour everything you write!! that being said i have a request for your celebration: dave york w some thigh riding, doggy style, voice kink/dirty talk and free use 👀 (lmk if this is too many things at once lol) ur the best!!!

Hey! Thank you so much! And thank you so much for being one of those 1K and for always supporting me! Now, I have to tell you, that I love the Suburban Murder Daddy as much as the next person, but I wasn't expecting to produce such FILTH with him.... so I hope you enjoy! I couldn't work in free use here but someone else has requested Dave with this so I'll get around to it!

Pairing | Dave York x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.6k

Warnings | Explicit. 18+, Minors DNI. There's thigh-riding, doggy style, dirty talk/voice kink and because I can't be tamed, there's some infidelity kink in there for good measure.

Part of my 1k Smut Sensation Celebration - if you want in, check here for details - I’m accepting requests through July 15th.

Dave knew the first time it happened that he shouldn’t want you, just like he knows now, on the fifteenth time that he shouldn’t, but that’s always what keeps him coming back to you. Not the vows he made to his wife, not his children waiting for him at home, not the life that he built from the ground up, no, none of that could ever keep him away. Not when you saunter through the office with skirts that hug your curves in all the right places, or when you lean over his shoulder to place papers on his desk, letting your scent wrap around him like a noose. He wants you, he thinks he’ll always want you, because he shouldn’t.

He's stood outside your apartment building now, anticipation growing wildly in his lower belly as he thinks about what he wants to do to you tonight. He hears the buzzer and then the soft sound of the door unlatching once you buzz him in. The first time he’d opted to fuck you somewhere that wasn’t the office, he was shocked that this was where you lived. One of the more expensive buildings in the city, are we paying her too much? Is what he thought as you led him through the maze of corridors, much like he’s doing on his own right now.

You’re already leaning against the doorframe when he makes it to your door. You can’t have been home very long, but you’ve already taken your hair out of the tight bun you insist on wearing to work and kicked off your heels. He presses his whole body to yours in the doorway and kisses you. It was rule he’d tried to set the first few times, if he didn’t kiss you, I didn’t mean anything outside of getting to fuck someone in the way his wife wouldn’t let him. He lasted approximately three and a half meets with you before he was breaking his own rule, latching his lips to yours as he fucked you in the shower.

“Evening, boss man,” You purred when he finally pulled away from him, taking hold of his wrist to drag him inside, letting the door close behind you both, “Drink?” You call over your shoulder as he steps into your familiar space.

It’s small, one bedroom affair, with the kitchen and living room wrapped into one. Its cosy and homely and not at all what Dave had expected from you. You were so clean-cut in the office, a picture of monochrome outfits, clean lines and high heels. The fluffy, pale blue rug and infinite clutter was not something he’d expected, but that he’d come to actually enjoy on his frequent visits.

“I’m okay,” He replies, coming up behind you to circle his arms around your waist, “Only came here to see you.”

His hands are already working the buttons of your shirt open. He never fails to amaze you with his dextrous fingers, how he can open buttons without even seeing them. He drags the material that’s tucked into your skirt free, before the material is thrown to the floor without a second thought. Dave knows he’s strong, and never tires of the way you chuckle when he picks you up, just like he is now, walking you toward the couch.

He's settling himself down, legs spread, before he’s dragging you down onto one his thighs, your clothes core resting on his suit trousers, whilst your knees dig into the cushions of the couch either side.

“Saw you watching me in the office today,” He states, letting one of his hands tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling it back so he can latch his lips to your neck, “Thinking about me fucking you, weren’t you?”

“Always,” You groan, letting your hips move so your cotton-covered pussy is dragging against his thigh, “Always think about how you fuck me.”

“If I put my hands on your cunt, you’d be soaked for me, wouldn’t you?”

Another grind of your hips along his thigh, “Do it, find out.” You challenge him.

The hand in your hair grips firmer now, “Going to have to work harder than that for it, darling,” His lips have trailed up your neck to rest at your ear now, “Think you can get yourself off like this?” He asks, “Grinding that needy pussy on my thigh?”

He always drives a hard bargain with you, always makes you work for what you want. Whether that’s on your knees worshipping his cock, or making you touch yourself whilst he watches. This man is filthy and dangerous, and you can never get enough. You let your hands rest on his broad shoulders for purchase before you sink down as far as you can, grinding your aching sex back and forth on his solid thigh. You can’t deny that the friction is delightful, paired with the assault of his teeth and tongue over your neck and the hand fisting your hair, but it’s just not enough. It won’t ever be enough until he touches you, really touches you.

“Can’t…” You mumble, “Not enough.”

“Awww, poor baby,” He coos, any other man spoke to you like this you’d be likely to slap him, but with Dave, it just works, “Do you want me to help?” The way his voice is so calm, still so commanding when you can literally see the effect you’re having on him through the bulge in his trousers, is mesmerising as always.

“Please,” You beg, “Need your fingers.”

He’s pushing the material of your skirt further up form where it’s ridden to your mid-thigh, bunching it at your waist before he’s pushing the cotton of your underwear to the side, plunging his fingers through your folds to gather your slick before he’s drawing it up to your clit.

“Filthy girl,” He moans into your ear, “Knew you’d be fucking soaked for me already.”

You can’t speak, not now that you have his hot breath in your ear and his thumb on your clit. This man knows what he’s doing, you suppose it’s the reason he’s got three children. If you were married to him, you’d certainly never let him leave your bed. It must be his military background that means he takes you apart with precision. He’s hyper focused on you, and the tight circles on your clit have you crying out his name and clenching his thigh between yours as you come undone for him.

“Hands and knees.” He’s demanding of you, giving you barely any time to recover from your orgasm.

When you don’t immediately follow his instructions, he’s moving you himself. Your hands and knees planed on the cushions of the couch; underwear ripped down as far as your knees. You can hear him undoing his belt and the sound of his zipper, then a little shuffling as he pulls his own clothes off just enough to free his cock.

Then, he’s pressing up behind you, cock slipping through your soaked folds as he positions himself properly. Then, he’s buried inside you in one single thrust. He never waits for you, never gives you that chance to properly get used to the size of him inside you, he knows you’ll always take it, so he’s already setting that bruising pace with you. His cock is brushing that sweet spot inside you that makes you sing, and the grunts and groans he lets out as your tight walls flutter around him are music to your ears.

“Always so fucking tight for me baby,” He growls from behind you, voice barely audible above the obscene sound of his skin slapping against your own, “The best pussy I ever fucking had.”

“God, I fucking love when you talk like that.” You moan, starting to shift back into his thrusts to meet him halfway.

“Yeah?” He asks, folding himself over you so his front is pressed to your back, “Like it when I talk dirty to you?”

You groan out as his left hand comes to rest on the arm of the couch, wedding band clearly glinting in the light of the room, you catch yourself looking at it and Dave, being ever observant, catches you. He’s still pounding his cock into you when his hand comes back to fist your hair, pulling your neck backwards. It arches your back and changes the angle of his cock inside you, hitting that spot on each thrust, all you can do is whine.

“You like looking at it?” He growls above you, flexing his fingers so you know exactly what he’s talking about “Like being my dirty little mistress?”

“I fucking love it,” You sob out from your lips, “Fuck, Dave, I’m gonna…”

“Go on, come on my cock baby.”

You do just that. Spots of white burst in your vision as you convulse, the walls of your tight heat clenching around him. He lets go of your hair, letting your head drop forward as his hips continue snapping into your ass with bruising force. The hand that isn’t propping him up so he can plough into you is gripping at your hip, squeezing your skin to the point of pain, but it’s all worth it when you feel him steady himself, with that final moan of your name he always lets out, his warm cum painting the walls of your cunt.

He always waits for the guilt to build once he’s finished. Always waits for his gut to tell him he’s a piece of shit for fucking his office assistant, but he already knows. He’s been a piece of shit for a long time, he’s just adding this to the list of things that got him there. There is no guilt, only a kiss and a promise to see you again soon.

#Dave York #Dave York smut #Dave York fic #Dave York fanfic #dave york fanfiction #dave york imagine #Pedro Pascal #Dave York x you #Dave York x reader #Dave York x female reader #Dave York x F!reader #PSSC #equalizer 2

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rainily-03 · 1 year

Text

jigen has a realization.

(id, notes, and bonus sketch under the cut!)

[Image ID: a four page comic done in faded monochrome sepia tones featuring Jigen and Goemon from Lupin III. Jigen stands out on a balcony, smoking and leaning on the railing as he looks out over the city. He glances back as someone from behind him asks, "Mind if I join you?" Goemon comes to stand next to him. Jigen: "'Course not. How're you feeling?" Goemon: "Better." Jigen: "Glad to hear it." We see them closer up, and it can be seen that Goemon is very beat up, with a black eye, cuts all over his face, and bandages on his fingers and arms. Goemon: "...May I have one?" Jigen, lost in thought: "Huh? Oh, uh - Yeah, sure." He fishes out a cigarette and hands it to Goemon, who puts it in his mouth. "Do you need a--" starts Jigen before breaking off, startled, as Goemon grabs his face and leans in to light his cigarette with Jigen's. Close up on Jigen's wide eyes with the light of the cigarette reflected in them. He's having a moment. Then Goemon pulls back and leans against the railing, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Jigen stares at him. Goemon: "You're staring, Jigen." Jigen flinches and tugs his hat down over his eyes, blushing and muttering "sorry." But then he lifts his head, surprised, as Goemon puts a hand on his back and looks at him with a smile. Jigen smiles back. The final page is a single wide shot of them standing on the balcony together, leaning against each other, each with an arm around the other. End ID]

hi 🫣 feeling very shy about posting this one but i managed to convince myself to do it anyway so i hope it doesn’t flop teehee. some misc notes about this comic and its making:

it’s a scene from a wip fic of mine that may or may not ever get finished. the gist of it is that goemon gets tortured and almost dies, and it kind of forces both of them to realize how much they care about each other

the posing of jigen’s hat and the visibility of his eyes (neither, one, both) is very intentional and symbolic! see if you can kind of track that theme through the comic :]

when i was thumbnailing, the third panel on the first page gave me some grief because i couldn’t figure out where to put the speech bubbles so they wouldn’t get in the way. then i had the idea to put them in between J and G, because it adds a nice symmetry and if you squint also has a sort of symbolic meaning (something something the words are figuratively separating them from each other, exchanging pleasantries as a stand-in for saying how they really feel, etc etc)

this comic was great practice drawing profiles and hats lmao

i did a chunk of the sketching and planning for this while drunk and i honestly think it made it better

this took me F O R E V E R and i stared to get really tired of doing it by the end so you can probably see the quality decrease lmao. alas. it's not perfect but it is what it is

and finally, a little bonus that i really needed to get out of my system after drawing this:

#ITS FINALLY DONE #jigoe #lupin iii #lupin the third #jigen daisuke #daisuke jigen #goemon ishikawa xiii #ishikawa goemon xiii #jigen #goemon #skye draws

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aliorsboxostuff · 1 year

Note

Hi I was wondering if you still taking requests if you could do a Tangerine x Male reader where reader has a more dominant personality and tries to teach him how to cook? Could lead to smut or not completely up to you 😊

A/N: ohohooo i like your idea anon, nice one. Alright so we all know our twins can't cook for shit (this is true they told me themselves) and live out of takeouts so this fits them SO MUCH. I've actually never written anything involving cooking or food in general so this is gonna be interesting. This turned out more of ‘Teasing tangerine while you serve the best Stir-fry vegetables ever’ than a cooking fic my bad anon 😅

Stirred Up

Tangerine x m!merc!Reader

Tags: Tangerine x m!reader, reader is a merc, duo mission with Tangerine (Lemons taking a vacay), slight mention of violence, slutty!Tangerine, dom!reader, not brit-picked, Reader is taller than Tangerine, cooking, domesticity, five-star hotels shenanigans, fluff, fluff and smut, implied smut

Coming back from a tiring mission in the middle of the night calls for dinner, and luckily you’re skilled enough to actually cook and not call in takeouts. Tangerine is mesmerized by your arms but that's besides the point.

—

At the stroke of midnight, a very tired, very disheveled Tangerine barges into your shared hotel room with yours and his luggage. You carried the valuable briefcase that contains your mission before closing the door and double-checking the lock for it.

“Oh thank bloody Jesus,” Tangerine practically deflates into the king-sized bed in the other room, making you chuckle while you store the case inside the hotel's safe.

“You better not mess up the sheets with your dirty suit,”

“Hey! My suit ain't dirty!” He huffs when you enter the room. While you stood near the door, taking off your cufflinks, Tangerine spreads the expanse of his lean body on the dark blue sheets—silks it seems, you chuckled thinking a 5-star hotel would do any less—having shed his suit jacket, he arches into the mattress, his shirt riding up revealing a sliver of skin. You had to physically turn yourself to the ensuite bathroom before you had the mind to jump him.

“Clean up Tan, we’ll eat something after,” You started arranging your cufflinks—the expensive ones Tangerine bought for you on one leisure stroll around France—and taking off your jacket before you heard a groan from your boyfriend.

“Eat? At this hour? Don't think room service is still serving, mate,” They were, you knew, but it's not in your nature to bother some poor hotel staff, even if it's a pretentious hotel in the expensive part of America.

“Well, we’re lucky then,” You exited the bathroom to Tangerine sitting at the edge of the bed taking his shoes off. He turns when you entered. “This room was stocked earlier today, I'm sure the kitchen has something for us,”

“Would it?”

“I booked in advance, remember? They got to have something,” Tangerine follows you through the vast expanse of the room. Now that you’ve taken it in, the large room has a living space, kitchen, bedroom, and ensuite bathroom. The decoration follows a sparce and modern setting, with a generic marble counter for the kitchen, while everything else follows a monochrome color scheme with a touch of beige. You spotted a potted plant near the tall windows, no doubt fake.

Tangerine sat on the kitchen island while you scavenge the fridge. It did come stocked much to Tangerine's surprise. You pulled out enough ingredients to start a simple dinner and arrange them on the counter. While you looked around for the utensils, your eyes met Tangerine’s sly grin as you rolled up your shirt sleeves, the habit of getting ready for cooking. You chuckle, making your way to him before standing between his thighs, your arms casually resting on either side of his body.

“What?” You grin, which makes Tangerines smirk.

“Nothin’” His eyes ran down your exposed arms before you hummed, earning his attention.

“Sure honey,” Tangerine’s face promptly grows red which makes you chuckle.

“Just… Y’know,” He plays with your folded sleeves. “You look good like this,”

“Oh do I?” Your body leans closer, face inches away from your boyfriend. Tangerine cranes his neck to meet yours, his breath ghosting your lips.

“Yeah,” He grins and you nodded before capturing his lips in a slow kiss, running your tongue on his bottom lips, eliciting a moan from him. Your hands found purchase in the soft plane of his hips, pressing soothing circles, making Tangerine arch closer into your chest.

“Darling…” His voice wavers as you bite down the column of his neck, nipping slightly just beneath his jaw and making him squirm. “God please,”

“What do you need, baby?” Your voice made him physically shudder, gripping at your shirt until his knuckles ran white. Your hand rubs slightly on his inner thigh. Tangerine sighs while he displays the his neck.

“I need-”

A sudden rumble broke your and Tangerine's focus. It lasted for a minute, before you slowly lowered your head to look at Tan’s stomach, then back to his burning face. The silence stretches, both of your eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

You crumble first, a chuckle that gradually turns into a full laugh which Tangerine follows. His head falls to your shoulder, burying his giggles into your neck until it makes you continue to laugh from the tickling sensation of his curly hair, his day gell long gone.

“What you need is food, mister,” You pulled back, smiling at the mirth on Tangerine's face.

“Doesn't eating you count?” he tilts his head, an innocent gleam in his eyes, but you know better than to believe those striking blues.

“My cum does not count as a nutritious substance, my dear,”

“Yeah? Says who?”

“Every doctor within a mile radius?” You laughed, finally moving away from your boyfriend's reach, making his scowl. “Besides, I didn't pull all these out for nothing,”

You busy yourself with locating a saucepan and other utensils before setting them out on the counter. Finally gathering all the things you need, you begin to recall an easy dinner recipe you used to cook back before you joined the agency, a paid merc working for anyone. It accompanied you on most cold nights where you're going to either die from the cold from the shit motel they put you in or die from hunger—either way, not a cool assassin's way to die. Stir-fried vegetables, simple and filling even if you discount the rice.

You cleaned the dished-out vegetables under running tap water before setting them aside to dry, starting your preparation for the sauce and spices. While you poured the necessary ingredients into a bowl to mix, you found Tangerine curiously making his way beside you, watching from enough distance so as to not disturb you. When you move to your right to mince some garlic, from your peripherals you spot his head cocked to the left, eyes glued to your hands. You grin as you put the garlic inside the bowl, suddenly turning to Tangerine’s widened eyes, his arms crossed, an adorable blush colored his cheeks.

“You wanna help?” You nodded to the dry vegetables set aside. His head perks up before darting a fleeting glance at the colorful assortments beside the sink. “Your hand is insane with a knife, I’m sure you can handle that,”

“S-sure…” He coughs. Tangerine hops down from the counter and accepts the knife you handed over. He steadies a carrot on the provided cutting board, his hand shakes slightly, unbeknownst to you who’s mixing the contents of the earlier bowl.

“Just cut them slightly sideways, not too thin but small enough,” You focus solely on the mix in your hand when you hear an affirming grunt from your boyfriend. A minute passes when you finally finish mixing and sit the bowl down, you turn to Tangerine. God forbid you laugh until you cry.

There, stood Tangerine, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, beads of sweat underneath messy curls, brows furrowed while he struggles cutting up a carrot. He’s not even halfway. You stifle a laugh, instead moving behind him silently which shocks the merc, almost sending the knife flying.

“Fucking hell-”

“Baby, you gotta hold it like this,” His arms quiver as yours snakes above them, holding them firmly both on the vegetable and the knife. Leaning against his back, your lips level with Tangerine’s ears, making him twitch when you correct him.

“Your hands hold the knife like this, alright?” He nods jerkily.

“Then slice the carrot, nice-” You smirk as you lean closer. “And easy,”

“Y-yeah, I got it,” He swallowed. You grin before kissing the shell of his ear, making Tangerine shiver, then moving away from his body. He quickly misses your body heat as he glares at you, turning the blade to point at you. “Quit teasin’ me love, or you’ve got anotha’ thing coming,”

Your giggle turns into a laugh, Tangerine still glaring—quite literally—daggers at you. When you finally sober up, you quickly move to his side and hold his hip. “Cut those right and you’ll get dessert after this,” You whispered.

Tangerine could've strained his neck with how fast he turned, eyes wide. “You promise?”

“Of course dear,” You nodded, your eyes growing warm as you spot the glints in those stark blues. You reach over Tangerine to grab the other vegetables that have yet to be chopped, before getting comfortable on your own cutting board and knife. You slice them into appropriate sizes before setting them aside into their own bowl, your eyes drifting to your boyfriend who has finally succeeded in cutting his carrots.

"Well this is easy!" His lithe fingers twirl the knife, grinning in triumph. "I could cut these all day!"

"That's good honey," You answered without moving your eyes from the pan you're heating up with olive oil. unbeknownst to you, Tangerine currently has his mouth wide enough for a fly to wander in, his eyes wide when he spots the bowls of colorful vegetables next to your cutting board.

"I- what- Did you cut all those…" You finally turned to him, utterly confused by his expression. "By yourself?" his finger points lamely.

You tilted your head, before following where he was pointing and spotting your bowls. "Oh! Yeah, figured I did the rest so we can finish cooking," you shrugged.

Tangerine, either fueled with anger or embarrassment, shoves his bowl of carrots into your side and dumps his knife and cutting board into the sink. "Yeah, well, you didn't need my help then,"

Oh darling, You thought, pulling at his hips to press a kiss to his temple. "You know it's not like that Tan. I did need your help, and I appreciate what you did. Thank you, my love, you did an amazing job,"

While his lips are still pulled at the edges into a frown, his lovable stache following his top lip makes you giggle slightly as he grumbles, Tangerine can't help but sway in your direction when you bring him to press against your left. Before you could move, his hands grips the collar of your shirt and pulls. Said soft lips press against yours and you couldn't help but smile into them, hearing Tan growl slightly before pulling harder, making you bow slightly to match his height. He slowly loosens his grip, still holding you against him as you part from him. His breath ghosts your lips "That desert better be worth it," he growls.

"Of course my love," Your eyes sharpen, spotting the lake of desire slowly pooling in Tangerines eyes. "Go set the table,"

He reluctantly strips himself from you, grumbling all the way from where he retrieved the plates and utensils to the kitchen island. You chuckle, eyes watching the way your boyfriend's body arches as he grabs a plate from the cupboard, too tight dress shirt accentuates his waist. Bites and bruises flash over the sliver of skin when the shirt rides up Tangerines body, you had to physically shake yourself in or else you'll burn the already hot oil.

You dropped the vegetables from their bowl into the pan, using a wooden spatula to saute them thoroughly on low heat. When you deemed them ready, you pour in the sauce and begin stirring, making sure the sauce is mixing with the vegetables. When you turned to check on Tan, he was sitting on a barstool facing you, engrossed on his phone with a small smirk on his lips, no doubt talking to Lemon about his day. You wondered what time it would be in London while you plated the stir fry on a large plate.

"Here we are," Tangerine perks up when you present the dish in front of him. "Stir-fried vegetables, enough to get us through the night,"

You're not a great cook, god forbid you to try anything harder than a chicken pot pie, but simple dishes get the job done and most times you prefer takeouts on missions anyways. But the one thing every retired agent wants you to learn is always; cooking, so you picked up a book one day and said 'fuck it'. The stir-fry in front of you and Tan is one of those outcomes.

"Darling…" His eyes rake over the colorful assortments of vegetables, hits of brown from the sauce that peeks out from underneath entrances him. "This looks amazing,"

"Really? I think street vendors in Asia plate these better," You take a seat next to Tangerine who immediately snaps his fingers at you.

"Oi, no undersellin' yourself." He bites. "If I didn't knew any better, I'd think this is from a Michelin-star restaurant,"

"Tan we've been to a Michelin-star restaurant," You sigh as you begin plating yours and Tangerines serving.

"Yeah and this is basically the same," He scoops a spoon full and begins eating, so you do the same. Not another minute before he hums and licks a stray sauce on his lips. "And I stand corrected, this is amazing love,"

"Well, thank you then," While you continued eating, you couldn't help the sheepish smile accompanying it.

Tangerine and you ate in relative silence, the comfort of each others presence enough to compensate for the otherwise cold hotel room. while the clock turns to 1 AM, a pitter patter could be heard from the far window, the start of rain. Your eyes follow the droplets as they begin to spread on the glass, making the various lights of the city blur into no recognition. The weather coincidentally turns into the perfect condition for cuddling, you turn to Tangerine with a warm smile tugging on your lips.

Once the two of you finished dinner, you collected the dishes and began to wash them. While you run water and scrub the plates with dish soap, Tangerine plays the role of drying them. You hand him the clean dishes while he runs a clean cloth on them, making sure to get every drop of water.

Tonight was surprisingly domestic for two mercs who tortured their target, acquired the needed briefcase, and ran through an alleyway shootout from the opposing gangster not two hours ago. You recall holding Tangerine's hand while you guide him through cutting vegetables, eating in mutual silence and finally doing the dishes. Those thoughts would feed into your fantasy of living in the suburbs of London, or anywhere in the world, maybe doing woodwork or farm work while the glint of your and Tangerine's wedding ring reminds you of each other's eternal vows. You had to blink for a second in order to not let a plate slip, those fantasies stay as fantasies for a reason.

Once the last utensil is cleaned, you hand it over to Tangerine and begin to wash your hands, still slightly dazed from all the intoxicating warmth of domesticity. Strong arms suddenly wrap around you and for a second your instincts kick in, before soft curls nuzzles into your nape, followed by presses of lips and moustache, making you giggle.

"Tan, hey," You chuckle, drying your hands before your boyfriend's swaying would take you away. Demanding hands turn your body so that you face a putting Tangerine, back pressed to the counter, his leg stands dangerously between yours. His lips collide with yours in a hurry, moving in tandem with yours. He bites slightly, asking for entrance at which you grant easily, feeling his heavenly tongue take his fill. Tangerine smirks, begins biting down your jaw, he pulls at your hips, he feels your arousal and so do you, making you grunt. He has the gall to chuckle, then bites down just under your jaw, making you shiver from the way he laps over it, definitely leaving a mark in the morning. You could only grip the counter harder, suppressing the urge to slam Tangerine against the kitchen island and take him then and there.

“M’pretty sure…” Tangerines eyes sharpen, a viper slithering up your body until he captivates your eyes. “I was promised a dessert,”

You could only chuckle as Tangerine pulls you into the bedroom, closing the door with a slam, before he pushes you against it. Your thoughts drift slightly, thinking of more cooking you should do to get these rises out of your boyfriend.

My requests are open <3

#tangerine bullet train #tangerine x m!reader #tangerine x male reader #tangerine x y/n #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #tangerine fanfiction #bullet train tangerine #bullet train fanfic

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kingmaker-a · 1 year

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Not Friends | Jeong Jinsoul

Mafia AU

Universe: Infinite possibilities

Car Thief Jinsoul x Assassin Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, mentions of illegal activities consistent with Mafia AUs.

Word Count: 2.1k

Genre: Fluff

Premise: Years had been shared between the two of you, long before she ran The Akira Slide, she was your car thief best friend. Long before the legend of Strider echoed through Tiger Clan halls, you were her awkward best friend.

Even on the roughest days, you'd be there for her.

It’s not often you find yourself dragged into the orbit of Jinsoul, at least not like this. Her gaze lingers over you with a drunken haziness. There’s the briefest glimmer of a smile, a joy so bright it competes with the blinding casino lights.

You slump into the chair opposite her with a tired yawn. Was this how she felt being at your beck and call at every hour of the day or night.

“Does Lippie know you’re here?”

The question almost feels like an afterthought to her, responsibilities were nothing but a foreign concept to her alcohol addled brain.

She twists slightly under your gaze, “hm? I told her I had clan business to take care of.”

Her gaze lingers over the casino, the other patrons knew better than to sneak more than cursory glances at the two of you.

“Aren’t you gonna drink?”

You scoff, “and who would drive you home?”

Her jaw hangs open for the slightest moment, surprise etched into knotted eyebrows. A giggle trembles across her soft lips, a pointed thumb to the back rooms. "Rebel said I could crash here."

You roll your eyes, "what about your car?"

"It'll be fine, plus I can always start a new project…" Her eyes twist over you, like a shade of colour in a monochrome world.

It's a brief soft moment, wordless and drifting. You don't usually feel vulnerable or out of place but underneath the heat of her gaze it's impossible.

Her eyes whisper like gentle fingers over each bump, each scratch and bruise.

You were fine… You were always fine. Still, your suit was off kilter, messy and unprofessional.

Unbecoming.

You'd lost your tie in the midst of a struggle, an improvised weapon for a messy time.

Better than the time you had to use a shoelace… or a straw for that matter.

"What about your car?"

Suddenly everything feels normal again and there's a stone wall between the two of you. A smile bristles across your teeth. "At home, where else?"

Her brow weighs heavy, lost in the touch of your words, "so you walked from?"

"Construction site down on southside… One thing lead to another and I'm here."

That was a simple way to put it, she didn't need to hear about you playing magical cars.

Or being implicated in a kidnapping attempt.

Or having to settle a debt with the Han Mafia.

Or having to fight Black Family.

There is something slightly off kilter about her gaze, worn away by the abrasiveness of recent days. Still there's an almost ephemeral, haunting edge that lingers on the tip of your tongue.

You can't quite place what it means, but it's almost a misplaced worry.

There's a hesitance that bounces in her fingertips, as they dance ever close to your face.

So close, yet so far out of reach.

A gloved hand grips at her wrist, your gloved hand. You tug her tender reach away with a reaffirming squeeze, mustering the best smile you can.

Bruised and bloodied.

"I'm fine, really I am."

Only now do you feel the weary edge in your bones, heavy with the weight of sin. Still you hold her on your back, despite every complaint your muscles make and the rain that drips down your face, creeping into every fiber of your dress shirt.

Your blazer a haphazard attempt at shielding her from the worst of it.

Despite the chilling cool breeze of the night air and the encroaching dampness that pervades your clothes, there's a blazing unabating heat that sparks every nerve in your body.

Your skin bristles as she nuzzles deeper into you, her soft lips whisper across the bare skin of your neck like the honey soaked kisses of a lover.

Her hands snake into your dress shirt, dancing just shy of your collarbone in a desperate plea for warmth or grip.

Regardless, your heart chokes and sputters under her electrifying touch, your mind dances coyly with thoughts un-had; better left un-had.

You fight through every fibre of your aching tired flesh, slowly hauling the two of you up your stairs. The garage is almost an afterthought as her lips whisper over your neck again.

A drunken hazy murmur.

"When did you get so strong Stride?"

A smirk-lined huff parts your lips, "probably, after the second body I had to clean up?"

She nuzzles once again, the conversation makes it easier to focus, to ignore the sparks that fly at every caress.

Still, you can't help but feel a frown pressed against your skin, an imprint of her lips.

You pause in your strides, your muscles ache less than the worry that weighs against you.

"Sorry."

"It's alright… I just realised you've changed a lot."

You haul her through your front door, dancing across wooden floorboards with a practised ease; avoiding every creaky board. Still your keys bang lightly against each other, as you do your best to shift them back into your pocket.

A delicate dance to avoid waking the living embodiment of chaos that was your dog; Doki the ever loveable rascal was an added weight of responsibility you didn’t need in this delicate moment.

Still, you pause as she slips ever so slightly, an aching groan of your biceps pulls her back into place.

"For the better I hope?"

"Mm, yeah yeah of course," Despite her positive words, there's a disheartened weight to her words, melancholic and dry.

You slowly shift her weight off your back, placing her on your couch, a dull singular lamp light barely fights against the dark.

There's an anxious pace to her eyes, as a frown paints its way across her lips. Only now, do you feel the void of air against your neck.

You crouch down next to her, holding her gaze at eye level.

"What's up?"

"I-..." Her lips purse. "I miss how we used to be… Before all the mess."

"You mean before having to deal with Weaver and his lot?"

The experience had affected you both differently, unsavory methods were your bread and butter after all.

"Before Doki,” her features twitch, like each syllable is painful, “that's when you started changing."

Your features twitch and knit together begging for an elaboration.

There's a decadence to behold in her hesitation. Unspoken words whisper at the edge of her lips just out of reach. Her eyes linger against yours twisting with turmoil.

She releases a held breath.

"Do you remember the nickname JK gave us when we first started?"

You fail to see the relevance, yet you can see the waxing nostalgia that practically oozes from her lips.

"You were Carrot and I was Stick," you stretch your neck to the side. "Why?"

It was lame, yet paradoxically cool.

"We used to get paired up a lot huh?" there's a lingering reminiscent fog to her tongue, there’s a strange beauty to her caught in the basking flare of light.

It was rare for her to not say what she thought.

"Well, yeah." It's as obvious as day to you. "Social situations aren't my strong suit, even Rose knows that."

"Aggressive negotiations are far from mine," there’s the slight quirk of a frown that tugs at the edge of her lips. "How is Rosie anyway?"

A smirk lines your lips even as your eyes roll.

"Annoying as ever, she keeps inviting me to social events to help me meet people."

You can't help but notice the way her grip tightens against a cushion, with an almost desperate strength to fight against escaping sand.

A weird phenomena for sure, like an imposter that had taken the place of your best friend.

She melts slightly under your narrowing gaze, perhaps she had more to drink than you thought?

“You have gotten more sociable lately.”

Her words almost feel wrong and unnatural, a foreign biting edge. You tilt your head to the side, trying to piece together what the hell was up with her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A deepening frown burns across her lips, a gust of wind in the form of a sigh, stressed and tensed like years of weight finally made apparent, it rattles against your bones.

“You used to need me.”

You’d been through a lot in your years together in the clan, clashing blades, howling explosions and echoing bullets.

3am joyrides in a stolen car, laughter on the edge of her lips even as some bangs against the boot.

Nothing cuts or bites as deep as the twisted scorn and pain in her words. Your gloved hands grip at her calloused hands. A heart palpitating tension chokes at your core.

“Soul, you’re my best friend… I always need you.”

Even as the frown remains painted on her lips, you catch the slightest bloom of relief. Still, you realise you don’t hangout like you used to.

You adjust yourself, pulling yourself close to her even as she takes up all the couch. Your legs breathe a sigh of relief as you stretch, you lay your arm on her side brushing her bicep with a reassuring thumb.

She bristles slightly at your touch, even if the silence hangs in the air for what feels like centuries… It's comfortable.

“So… meet anyone lately?”

Her eyes roll with an annoyed smile, “who are you Rosie?”

Your hand clutches at your chest with an exaggerated grimace, "Hey now, I remember distinctly consoling someone whenever they had problems with their love life."

Tubs of ice cream and liquor had dotted your shared youth, lingering into the eves of young adulthood.

She bites back a smile, another roll of her eyes. "I somehow remember scoring a date for my absolute loser of a friend with a certain wonderful lawyer."

And she's been a wonderful asset ever since, even if a prickly thorn of curiosity when it comes to your love life.

Someone would think you and Rose had never been lovers before.

A laugh parts through your lips, a twisting jubilance gnashes at your teeth. “Your friend sounds like a catch.”

There’s the tiniest wiggle of her finger, tutting and taunting “I’m a catch.”

It’s almost habitual the way your hand interlocks against hers, a refusal. A cocky smirk lines your teeth, dances across your lips as you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, sure you are chief.”

She pulls you closer with an annoyed grimace, a tight knit dance you’re unable to avoid, your muscles ache as you try to fight back. You catch the glimmer of her competitive edge glistening in her eyes, as you roll through a slow back and forth.

A smile tugs at your lips as your fingers crest her side, eliciting a barely hidden giggle as you tickle deep into her side.

A swift kick to your shoulder is your just reward as you crumple and roll, pulling your would-be assailant with you. Air echoes and sails from your chest as she lands on you with a thud.

Laughter bounces from her lips as a groan escapes yours. Her alcohol stained breath tickles your nose with ribbed jubilance, her hand still clutched, intertwined with yours.

Her eyes linger against yours, a flash of surprise or perhaps even realisation as she inches closer, like she’s counting every individual eyelash, you can almost count each individual fleck of stardust lost in her eyes.

You hear the slightest creak of the floorboards, your senses honed to a razor-sharp edge. Yet they fade into nothingness as you hang on to every word.

There’s a hesitation, an anxiety that quivers on the edge of her lips as her lips purse.

“I know this might be dumb considering we’ve been friends for longer than I can remember…” her eyes narrow against yours, each beautiful individual fleck bounces with trepidation, gone was the hardened criminal, reduced to nothing but a hushed whisper.

The air is electric under her touch, as you hang on her silence, curiosity clawing at your chest and into your heart.

“How come we never gave it a shot?”

You pop a smirk like you’d cock a gun or sharpen a knife, razor-sharp and witty. You lean dangerously close, a whisper away from her own features.

You fight desperately against a nervous dry gulp.

“Simple, you never asked.”

She devours you the moment the words leave your lips, leaving no moments for hesitation as her lips meld against yours. Your hands rake through her hair as you pull, tugging her closer with a hungry edge.

It burns deep like a ravenous forest fire as her teeth bite against your bottom, searing her smile into every inch. The taste of honeyed sweet alcohol lingers on every inch of her lips, even if you could somehow get drunk off of her taste.

You knew it was her who was truly intoxicating.

#jinsoul #jinsoul fluff #jinsoul scenarios #jinsoul imagines #loona jinsoul #loona #loona fluff #loona imagines #loona scenarios #odd eye circle jinsoul #odd eye circle #odd eye circle scenarios #odd eye circle fluff #odd eye circle imagines #kpop imagines #girl group imagines #girl group scenarios #kpop scenarios

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imarvelatthestars · 2 months

Text

in honor of this being my 2,224th post, i present to you -

fly away with me

a cody x gn!reader drabble for our favorite commander

nothing about the war has been easy. but then again, nothing about cody has been easy either. he's stubborn and painfully strong-willed, loyal to a fault, reckless to fault. he's come home to you far too many times to count with bloodied knuckles and bruised shins, a body that's tired and beaten, but a spirit that blazes so brilliantly you're sure it outshines anything else the galaxy has to offer.

this time... this time is different.

this time you thought he was dead. this time there's no such thing as a good jedi, or a soldier of the republic. this time there is only the empire and the stormtrooper, and the empty space in your heart where cody used to lie.

he finds you in the dark of the night, a mere shadow of the man he used to be, and he tells you that he has to disappear, that this is the last time you'll ever see him. that's it's for your own good. that he loves you too much to go without saying goodbye.

you ask him what he means, you beg him to stay.

'coruscant isn't safe,' he says. there are too many eyes on men like him.

'where were you?' you ask when he lifts his helmet into his hands and stares emptily into its monochrome visor. 'what happened?'

he never tells you. he never tells you what happened when the jedi rebelled and the order was given, but you know it haunts him. long after you convince him to run away with you, long after coruscant is but an aching memory, he still withholds this piece of himself. you think this piece might be lost to you forever.

but it's okay. so long as he's with you, so long as he's by your side. so long as he tucks himself into the corner of your heart and stitches himself into the seam of your life, whatever broken pieces of him remain will be enough for you.

#commander cody x reader #commander cody x you #commander cody #tcw #rots #star wars #x reader #i realized my 2224th post was coming up literally 10 minutes ago and i panicked #i have to write something for him!!!!!!! especially since i've missed other clone numbers like 1409 and 501 and 1010 rip #also decided to try a new format for funsies. what do we think?

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cloudninetonine · 1 year

Note

*walks on in tiredly, downs coffee like a shot, waves* 'Sup, has existence been treating you well? Hopefully so.

So uh, while working on that Lora one shot I mentioned, I may or may not have done a thing- *drops this here and runs away, throws a basket of apple pie at you* It's just a snippet of a draft that I'll expand on later (maybe) and wholly unpolished, plus English ain't my first language, but thank you for inspiring me and listening to me ramble! Regularly scheduled content at another day!

-Just a Tired Summertime Musician.

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These past few months just couldn't get easier, could they?

Of course not, clearly that was too much to ask that fucking Shadow.

You never thought you could hate anyone as much as you hated it, yet here we are.

You're on a dark, deep cave system, far underground, farther than you've ever went back in your world, sure, it wasn't that uncommon for you to camp out on caves now ever since you started traveling with the chain, but none of them could compare to the deep chasm you found yourself lost in ever since the Shadow separated you all again. It had been a miracle you didn't crack your head on a rock after it had herded you into one of it's portals, it had been cornering you and Wild, losing your heads was not an option as you quite like living so you've jumped out of the way, not expecting to be pushed in, not expecting to see the horror in Wild's face as he reached for you, only to be tackled out of the way by a monochrome Lizalfo with red eyes.

Although, give the dark spots in your vision you weren't quite sure were just the luminous stones dotting the walls, and the weakness in your hand carrying a torch you'd set alight to carry with you and the twisting in your stomach you weren't quite sure was just worry for The Chain or hunger, maybe it wasn't going to matter anyway. There wasn't a single opening down below in the cavernous ceiling, so you couldn't be quite sure how long you've been trying to find your way in the twisting, oddly barren and silent tunnels like a restless ghost without at least a sign of water, and the silence of the tomb set your hair on edge.

You remember the first time the Shadow had separated you from the group quite vividly, you had no wish for a repeat performance in a place practically tailored for it to thrive in. You're getting really sick of this "Princess in another castle" routine.

"Come on now, (Player)... Just a little more, either you'll find a way out, or they'll find you." You muttered to yourself, leaning against the wall of the cavern. You had found an open space, dimly lit by the stones and fatigue was starting to overwhelm you, the rest was necessary even if you really, really, didn't want to, "You just need to press on, get out of here, see your boys, obliterate that edgy fucking, dollar store budget unversed knock off bastard's knee rights and move on to find a way home." You sigh, closing your eyes for a single moment, even if it was unwise, you'd just need to be prepared to move, allowing yourself respite for a small nap.

It wasn't as simple as that, not by a long shot. But you were really livid by now, nobody ever said you were fully rational anyway, you deserved to be angry over your circumstances, didn't you? You were tore from your home, from your world and the life and people you cherished, from your new home in the Chain, with Hyrule, Wild, Wind, Time, Twilight, Sky, Four, Warriors, yes even Legend for all he got on your nerves on a daily. You missed laying with Hyrule in the sun, missed cooking and peaceful walks with Wild, missed getting up to all sorts of shenanigans with Wild and Wind, missed late night talks with Time and caring for Epona with Twilight and cuddled with Wolfie, impromptu duets with Sky that always left your voice hoarse but you both smiling like fools before going to nap, how Warriors could always put you at ease and make you smile or laugh, how you'd help Four with smithing as you learned from him and his calm, if somewhat snarky sense of humor, you'd even take arguing with Legend right now, for all his accusations and sassy, almost cruel words grated against your skin you knew it came from a place of concern, that he cared.

... You didn't want to be alone. And for all you knew they'd be fine, you didn't want to leave them alone either.

Suddenly, something caught your ears, faint at first, but steadily louder, footsteps on cold, unforgiving stone and the faint swish of a cloak, so light one would think it a trick of your tired mind, and faint humming. You couldn't tell if the voice was male or female, but some part of you could tell you were safe. It makes the part of you that had been terrified of falling asleep for fear of getting attacked again relax, your eyelids were getting heavy, you think you feel something brush through your hair, but maybe it was a breeze? It wouldn't be unplausible, the tunnels were ascending rather than descending, after all.

You couldn't identify anything more than that, you were barely there as is, the last of your provisions and a handful of underground plants you'd scavenged hardly enough to convince your body to stay awake much longer. But you could tell the voice was bittersweet, it's tone just slightly sad but comforting.

"Hello my old heart, how have you been? Are you still beating in my chest?

I've been so worried, you've been so still... Barely beating at all...

Oh, don't leave me here alone

Don't tell me that we've grown

For having loved a little while

Oh, I don't wanna be alone

I wanna find a home

And I wanna share it with you."

'Is that...?', that was a song from your world, you were sure of it, but before you could think upon it longer, your tired mind had already taken you to dreamland, were you dreamt of soft, gentle voices, fingers gently carding through your hair, and forest green on the corner of your vision under the view of a lovely, Hylian sky on a hill.

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"There, there... Now that's a good fledgling." The person's smile was soft, as they watched over their reflections sleeping form, silently cursing Hylia for her half baked plans, and lamenting for those who must succumb to her whims, it felt like a bad joke as they chuckled, "... You're very far from your nest, little bird, sleep. I'll keep watch until help comes."

After all, birds of a feather must watch over one another, until the other is fully ready to take to the skies.

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"... H-!"

What...?

"Hey th-"

'What is it?', you though to yourself, annoyed beyond measure as you grumbled. You were having such a good rest...

"There are better places to sleep than on the ground, you know."

Yes, but also consider this, mysterious voice currently interrupting your well deserved sleep: you're tired and have no interest in those other places, so take your sales pitch and shove it-

Wait.

A voice?

A person?!

Snapping your eyes open like you've been shocked, you shoot up, the person leans back as if to avoid getting headbutted, though that doesn't matter as you grab a sharp chunk of luminous stone by your side and lobs it at their head with all the strength your fatigued body could recover.

The man shifts to the side, the rock clatters uselessy against the stone wall, damnit.

You both stare at one another for a few seconds, before the man snorts, shoulders shaking lightly, before evolving into a full laugh, warm like the flames of the campfire you use to sleep nearby with Wolfie as it echoed through the walls, his long, red-gold hair gleamed against the faint green of the stones, and when his eyes settle on you your breath is stolen from your lungs by their beautiful, cerulean shade with just the barest hints of green, reminding you painfully of your Champion but just a tad looser, wolf eyes, closer to Twilight's, he's crouched by your side on the ground, his tone amused, "That is certainly one way to greet someone upon just waking up, seems like you're my kind of company."

You flush, embarrassed, sitting up with a faint wince, sleeping against bare rocks is not good for someone's back or neck, but you'd be damned if you let yourself be open, "I am so sorry! You just startled me badly." You pause, studying his green and white tunic held together by several brown beads the shade is different from all the other's and dark brown sandals in the place of boots, and the style certainly doesn't match any of your boys, even Wild's and Legend's extensive wardrobes didn't have any similar clothing like that, for some reason, the style nags at you, like you've seen it before back in your world, but you cannot remember from where. Until your eyes catch from his chest to his arm; his clearly artificial arm. Dark against the his lightly tanned skin and stark against the pale light of the Luminous Stones, with many golden ornaments with intricate, circular design that for some reason always struck you as being reminiscent of Celtic, even before you had seen it on Wild in that trailer and could only see it through a pixelated tapestry, with clawed tips that a part of you was certain could likely cut through bone.

It hits you like a lightning bolt, even as he raises an eyebrow at you, it's not done out of irritation, like he expected a reaction like that. He's waiting, patient like a predator studying a human, deciding whether it should regard it as prey or leave it be, after you finally gather your thoughts and your voice works again you ask what's been on your mind, slightly relieved disbelief coloring your voice, because if you were right-

"Is your name Link, perchance, sir?"

He smiles, it sends a tingle down your spine, it's Wild's smile, the same unrepentant barring of teeth that on anyone else it could likely make them flinch back, but on him it just looked warm as he gets up, tilting his head lightly, "None of that, formalities give me hives. But you'd be correct, I can clearly tell, you reacted like a spooked deer, but it's understandable, it's not the strangest way I've met someone before so don't worry, alright?" His ear twitches, and he cocks his head to the side, with a frown that borders on troubled, but turns into firm determination as he glances back at you, offering his hand (not his artificial one, it seems he'd caught how you reacted to it, part of you was grateful, while the other one twisted a bit, in worry or shock you couldn't say), "You shouldn't be here, or at least linger here for much longer. Come on, you look exhausted, I know somewhere you'll be safe to at least drink and eat, then I'll get you out of here once you've recovered your strength, it's not safe."

It's the Hero from the tapestry, Wild's predecessor, the Hero from 10.000 years ago. Your mind whispers to you, as you numbly take his hand, trembling a bit from lingering exhaustion, then it hits you again once he's grasped it, gentle but firm as he pulls you to your feet, holy shit I've just tried to yeet a rock at Wild's predecessor's head, talk about fucking up a first impression, "W-wait! Wouldn't you at least like my name? And I am so sorry again for throwing a rock at you, just because it's hardly the weirdest way you've been greeted, doesn't mean it's okay for you to brush it off!"

He pauses, tilting his head to the side again (listening?) Before turning to you, amused even if still serious, "Introductions can wait, besides, I'd recognize you even blind and deaf, Guiding Light. So that's unnecessary for now, and I mean it, it's alright, no need for apologies." He gently grasps your hand, squeezing it lightly to get your attention, tilting his head to one of the tunnels, "Come on, everything else can wait. Trust me."

You study him, the words die on your throat, you can see his urgency, even if he kept his voice steady for your sake. You questioned how he could recognize you, when it usually took longer for any of the other Links to believe you, you had so many questions, how was he here? What happened? How is he still alive after so long?

But his eyes were warm, his smile like the sun, even if tired. It made you miss your Champion, but overall, it reminded you of the certainty you always had when you joined the Chain.

This was Link, still Link, your hero even if not quite the same, so even if you had questions, you'd be safe with him, he'd make sure you'd be okay.

So you squeezed his hand back and nodded silently, the man with fiery hair sending you a smile, warm and relieved and familiar, before turning and walking hand in hand with you through the dimly lit tunnels, guiding you away from danger as you've once guided him.

... You haven't noticed the green flames at his steps, or the faint scraping of metal against stone just yet, but maybe that was for the best.

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Not pictured:

Dink, rolling up of whatever dark hole he crawled out of: Aww, scared, little Guide? We both know I probably don't bite-

Craein, keeping watch over their sucessor with bared teeth, READY to shank him with a sharp rock if possible: But I do, should have know it was you when I smelt something nasty skittering up this way. Heya Killer. Missed me?~

Dink, peacing out because he remembers what happened in the Ancient Au: Oh fuck not this crazy bitch again-

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SUM I FUCKING LOVED THIS AND THAT LITTLE PLOT TWIST AT THE END, I WOULD SCREAM IF IT WASN'T 20 TO 11

#cloud answers

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threemilesup · 1 year

Text

It'll All Be Okay // Joseph Liebgott x Reader

description : Bastogne has been difficult for everyone, but between you and Liebgott, he’s been crueler than ever. After an argument and a sudden near-death experience, you’re forced to confront your feelings towards him.

pairing : joseph liebgott x reader

word count : 2.3k

tags : angst, cursing, injury, fluff

a/n : this is the first fanfic that i've ever written!! i'm pretty nervous to be posting this but cringe culture is DEAD. regardless, if i receive any hate i think i might pass away. anyway, please enjoy!!

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“You’re not going on that patrol.”

“Yeah, you know, you’re real funny,” you sarcastically quipped. With a sardonic grin plastered on your face, you turned to face Liebgott. His face displayed a much less amused expression as he stared at you, arms folded. You scoffed. “Oh, come on, Lieb. You can’t be serious!”

He deadpanned, his expression conveying his response.

You furrowed your brows, frustrated. “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t make the choices around here.” You scoffed once more before turning away, angrily tightening the grip you held on your rifle.

“I spoke to Tab, he’s taking your place.”

You froze. Turning around slowly, you glared daggers at him. “You did what?”

“Go back to your foxhole, go get some extra rest.”

Your mouth fell open. “Liebgott, you can’t–”

“Go back to your foxhole, alright?” he repeated with a nonchalant tone. He spoke as if he was doing you some service. Who did he think he was? Your face turned red as heat rose to your cheeks, and you swore steam almost shot from your ears.

“Why are you doing this?” you snapped.

“You’re exhausted. You need rest. For yourself, for the company.”

You dryly laughed. “What do you know about how I feel? Everyone here is tired.” He frowned in response. “You can’t just decide things for me, that’s not how this works. I’m perfectly capable of going on patrol, and so that’s what I’ll do.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want us to lose another man because someone’s too tired to look out for their partner,” he countered.

You gaped at him, shocked that he would stoop so low. “You were the one that told me it’s not my fault! I did the best that I could!”

“Maybe your best isn’t enough!”

You stood, astonished, boots buried in the snow. Opening your mouth to make a retort, you quickly decided against it. It was a waste of energy. He was a waste of energy. Turning on your heel, you stormed off.

The snow crunched beneath your steps as you stormed off. Even in the freezing hell that was Bastogne, it was no surprise that you were still subjected to his nasty temperament. You were used to his brash personality, but now, as you found yourself trapped in the frigid Ardennes, he was much worse.

You let out a huff, your mind racing. The way that he was bothered you to no end. It was frustrating that he would dare to make such a decision on your behalf, it was frustrating that he felt the need to do so, and most of all, it was frustrating that you cared so much.

It wasn’t like you to be so heavily affected by others, so why did this matter? Did he really think you were weak? You had put up with so much to get this far and you weren’t about to start accepting hand-outs. You trudged through the snow, mind heavy with thoughts - before a sudden flash sent you tumbling backward.

You laid in the soft, white snow, your ears ringing.

The colors of the world faded to monochrome. Time was slow.

You laid, unmoving, tired. You felt the cold earth beneath you shaking as German artillery rained from the sky.

Through the deafening silence, a voice screamed your name. Snapping back to your senses, your eyes widened in fear. Propping yourself up, you cried out in distress. You glanced down to see a sharp piece of shrapnel lodged in your right leg with a thick patch of blood pooling the area.

“Medic!” a voice shouted out only to be consumed by the thundering roar of an explosive. You clutched at your wounded leg, staring at the deep gash in horror. Sensing rapid approaching movement, your eyes darted to Liebgott, who was frantically crawling towards you.

When he finally reached you, he grabbed your shoulders, supporting the weight of your upper body. You blankly stared at him as he scanned your leg to assess the situation. “Doc!” he called.

“Joe,” you mumbled, your head lulling to the side.

“Hey, look at me. You’re fine, alright? Look at me!” His face read worry, but his voice remained steady. He moved a hand to cup your cheek and tilted your head to face him. You leaned into his warmth, entranced by the gaze of his soft, brown eyes.

“Joe,” you repeated.

“Hey, hey. You’re alright, sweetheart.” He gently ran his thumb over your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. In an instant, Eugene Roe rushed to your side and dropped to his knees by your injury. He tossed open his medical bag, making quirk work with the few supplies he had left.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” Joe cooed, bringing your attention back to him. He paid no mind to the medic, solely focused on you. A sharp pain stung your leg.

“Joe,” you echoed, your voice faltering. “Joe, I don’t want to go. Please don’t let me go, please.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay now.” He pulled you in close, allowing your upper body to fall into him. He wrapped an arm around your back and the other around your head, gently pressing your cheek against his chest. He silently cradled you, resting his chin atop your head and squeezing his eyes shut.

You were afraid. The adrenaline coursing through your body made it difficult to form rational, comprehensive thoughts. You remembered how you were mad at him. How could he be like this in your final moments? You didn’t want to go like this, you weren’t ready. You wanted to cry out and yell and tell him how angry you still were. You wanted to tell him that you loved him.

“I know, I know,” he whispered, holding you tightly. No, you thought, you don’t.

Although numbed to pain, you felt the touch of the medic on your wounded leg. As your consciousness slipped away you focused on the sensation of Liebgott’s embrace. He held you close, trembling, his fingers combing through your tangled hair. The last thing you felt was his warmth.

–

You jolted awake, jerking upright. As your consciousness slid back into your body, memories of what came before flooded your vision. Blinking away the confusion, you sat, shell-shocked.

You were on a bed–or, what felt like a wooden plank covered in scratchy blankets–in a small, tented room, likely attached to one of the field hospitals. You peered down at the shape your legs formed beneath the blanket, taking note that both remained intact. In an attempt to swing your legs over to get up, a sharp pang of pain shot through your freshly wounded leg and up to your spine, causing you to cry out.

A nearby nurse gasped and pushed into your makeshift room, scrambling to your side and throwing her arms behind your back to support your weight. “Goodness, dear! You sure gave me a fright,” she exclaimed, gently lowering you onto the rickety bed.

You took a moment to take in her appearance. She had dark brown hair that was neatly slicked back into a white nurse’s cap. Although she carried herself with a youthful demeanor, her face displayed creases similar to that of an older woman.

“I need to get back to the line,” you mumbled, forcing yourself up.

“Not in your state, you don’t!” She placed a palm on your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “What’s your name, dear?”

You frowned. “How long was I out?”

At your refusal of her question, she paused, offering a polite smile. “You arrived here just about a day ago.”

You curtly nodded in response. You observed your wounded leg. It was wrapped in thick, white bandages that were, in some odd areas, tainted with hues of red and brown.

“I’ll need to replace those bandages of yours shortly. I’ll go get some more and I’ll return in a bit, alright, dear?” She smiled once more, clasping her hands together at her front. At your lack of response she pursed her lips and saw herself out, exiting through the tent flap.

After you watched the nurse leave, you returned your gaze to your legs. With shaky breaths, you leaned back and rested against the stiff frame of the bed. You wanted to cry. You wanted to release all the emotions that came along with your freshly opened wounds, but you couldn’t. Nothing came out.

Instead, you stared ahead.

–

You awoke to the sound of the tent flap shuffling. Your head whipped to the source, body stiffening. Standing at the entrance of your makeshift room was none other than Joseph Liebgott.

He stood rigid, his helmet clutched at his side. He had shaved since you had last seen him. The two of you looked at each other in silence. Despite the emptiness that ebbed away at your mind, now that he was here, you felt your emotions beginning to trickle back.

You remembered the rage you had felt towards him. You remembered how, despite your argument, despite his cutting words, he immediately came to your side to comfort you in what you thought would be your final moments. You felt the way he held you as your consciousness crept away from you.

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore,” you uttered.

“What?” he pressed, taking a couple steps towards you.

“Joe, I’m fed up. I’m sore and I’m frustrated, and really, I just can’t do this.”

“What? What’s the matter with you?”

“You! You’re the matter!” you cried out. “You’re an ass! You make my head ache and you make me hate myself for feeling like this! And I hate that I feel this way, and I hate that I let myself feel like this, and I hate that I have to pretend that I’m okay with it when I’m not.

“I can’t stand you! I can’t stand your fucking attitude or the names you call me or the way you pick on me or how you can always find me in a group or how you always stare at me with that look of yours.

“And I hate how I allowed myself to fall into this trap, that I let you have this much power over me. If I could change the way things were, I would. But I can’t. And we’re in the middle of a goddamned war and this–this feeling should be the last thing that I’m worried about, but the truth is, I’m hopelessly, irrevocably, madly in love with you, and I can’t imagine a day where I wake up and you’re not around to bother me. And I hate that the most.”

By the time your tirade was finished, you had begun crying. Your face went hot as tears spilled down your cheeks and into your lap. Embarrassed by your explosive reaction, you tightly clenched your fists, raising an arm to wipe away your tears.

“You’re…in love with me?” he muttered, his voice a breath.

“That’s your main takeaway? Yes, you idiot!” you bawled.

Glimpsing past the cover of your arm, you caught his expression softening. As your eyes locked with his, he came to his senses and rushed to your side. He threw his arm around your shoulders and gently nudged your body towards his.

You fell into his chest, allowing yourself to let it all out. He wrapped his arms around you. You were grateful for his comfort but confused as to why he wasn’t recoiling in disgust. Hesitantly, you snaked your arms around his waist.

As your emotions calmed, he gently pulled away. You glanced up at him, sniffling. He lowered himself to your height, cupping your face in his palms. You weren’t sure if you’d seen this side of him before. He sharply inhaled a breath.

“I’m in love with you, too,” he declared. You searched his face for any trace of dishonesty but there was none to be found.

“Joe,” you breathed, bringing a hand to his cheek.

You were captivated by his beauty, taking in the sight of how handsome he was up close. Your eyes flickered down to his lips as he tugged them into a smirk.

The two of you, as if propelled by magnets, slowly drew your faces together until your lips met. Eyelids fluttering shut, you pressed your lips against his, melting into his touch. He returned the kiss, using a hand to gently adjust your head. He slid his other hand down your shoulders and to the small of your back, drawing you closer.

You were the first to pull away. You raised your fingers, pressing them to your swollen lips as if you were unsure that the kiss was real. He studied your face with interest, watching with a smile.

“You mean it?” you asked him, just to be sure.

“I do, sweetheart,” he replied, rubbing his thumb up and down the side of your waist.

Suddenly, the tent flap shuffled and in came the nurse. “Oh!” she exclaimed, abruptly stopping in her tracks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“It’s alright, I was just visiting,” Joseph said, rising to his feet and turning to face the nurse.

“I just need to replace her bandages. Is that alright?” she asked, turning to you for permission. You nodded.

She bowed her head and approached your bandaged leg. As she started to get to work, you looked over to Joseph and reached out to clasp his hand. His face flushed as he smiled down at you, lacing his fingers with yours.

“I love you,” you mouthed to him.

“I love you,” he mouthed back.

Although your mind was still swirling with many negative feelings such as hurt, shock, and frustration, none of them were as strong as the love you felt for the man holding your hand. In that moment, you knew that eventually, your wounds would heal, and it would all be okay.

#band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #joseph liebgott #joseph liebgott x reader #hbowar #reader insert

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