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vampiredaisiesss · 16 days ago

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things we lost in the fire | d.w. x reader

tags and warnings: angst, major character death, grieving, themes of loss, abandonment and emotional dependency, soft smut, p in v, riding, domestic dean, older dean with grey in his hair says hi.

summary: you and the winchesters go a long way back. dean was your first love—and your first heartbreak. a lifetime later, the world has burned down around him. sam is gone. and dean winchester comes back to you, seeking the only arms that ever knew how to hold him without breaking.

but grief is a fire. and love is never untouched.

The rain's always the first to arrive, isn't it? Three days of it drumming against your kitchen window like knuckles rasping against wood, like someone asking to come in. You don't know yet that it's carrying Dean Winchester back to you.

You are making tea when the headlights slice through the thunderstorm. Earl Grey with honey, the way your grandmother taught you—steep for exactly four minutes. No more, no less. Time matters, she used to say. Too little and you taste nothing. Too much and you taste everything wrong.

The car door slams. One door. Not two.

Your hands know before your mind does. The mug slips, porcelain shattering against the kitchen tiles in cloud of steam. Seven years of bad luck, grandmother would say. But you think you've already lived through yours.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there with his shoulders bent against the storm. Water runs down his face—rain or tears, you cannot tell. Will never ask. His leather jacket seems to engulf him whole tonight. You remember suddenly how he looked at seventeen, caught in a downpour after his first heartbreak, when love felt like something that happened to other people.

"Sam—" he starts, and the word breaks in half.

You already know. Have known since the phone stopped ringing three weeks ago. Have known since the dreams started, the ones where you're reaching for something that dissolves the moment your fingers touch it.

But you let him tell you anyway. Let him shape the words with his mouth, this mouth you once kissed behind the gymnasium when you thought you were invisible. Let him speak his brother's name like a prayer and a curse and an ending all at once.

"I burned him," Dean manages to say. "Spread his ashes in the wind like he was—like he was nothing."

But Sam was never nothing.

Sam, who used to steal cookies from your mother's jar and leave apology notes written in careful third-grade cursive. Sam, who cried the day you found a dead bird and insisted you bury it with full honors. Sam, who grew tall as a tree and gentle as autumn breeze and never learned how to be anything but good in a world that ate good things alive.

You open your arms. He falls into them.

He stays because where else is there to go? The bunker holds too many ghosts. His car holds too many memories. The road holds too many possibilities that end in the same nowhere.

You give him the guest room, but he doesn't sleep there. Doesn't sleep anywhere, really. You find him at three am sitting at your kitchen table, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. At four am standing at the window, watching for something that will never come. At five am with his head buried in his face.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says on the third morning, not looking up from his mug.

"I'm not," you lie. "I'm making breakfast."

"You hate breakfast."

He's right. You've lived on coffee and anxiety for most of your adult life. But Dean hasn't been eating. He needs feeding the way broken things need mending—carefully, persistently, with more patience than you think you possess.

You learn his rhythms. How he flinches when the phone rings. How he checks every lock twice before bed. How he keeps Sam's phone number in his contacts and almost calls it a dozen times a day, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Tell me something good," he says one evening as you sit on the porch, watching the day die in shades of orange and pink.

You think of the summer you caught fireflies in mason jars, how Sam insisted on letting them go because he read they only lived for two months. How Dean pretended to be annoyed but released his too, watching the tiny speck of light drift away.

"Your brother," you say, "was the only person I ever met who could make the smallest of creatures sound like the most important thing in the world."

Dean's laugh comes out broken. "Yeah. He was good at that."

Was. The word sits between you. A sound with its own weight.

The nightmares begin on a Tuesday.

You wake to screaming. Raw, animal sounds that seem to come from somewhere deeper than his throat. You find Dean thrashing in the guest bed, sheets twisted around his legs, his hand reaching out into the darkness of the room.

"Sammy!" he cries, and the name is a wound torn open. "I got you, I got you, don't—"

You touch his shoulder and he comes up swinging, eyes wild and unfocused. For a moment you think he might hit you. For a moment you think he wants to.

"It's me," you whisper. "It's just me."

Recognition filters back into his face. He collapses against the headboard, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin.

"I couldn't catch him," his voice is a child's voice, small and lost. "He was falling and I couldn't—my hands weren't fast enough."

You don't ask what he was falling from. Don't ask why Dean's hands feel responsible for every tragedy they couldn't prevent. Instead, you sit on the edge of the bed and wait.

"Will you—" he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would you mind—"

"Yes," you say before he can finish asking.

You slide under the covers beside him, careful to leave space between you. He turns toward you anyway, instinctive as a plant seeking light, and you let him. Let his forehead rest against your shoulder. Let his breathing gradually match yours.

"Tell me about before," he whispers into the darkness. "When we were kids."

So you do. You tell him about the fireflies.

Dean's breathing evens out against your collarbone. His hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining like he's afraid of getting lost.

This becomes your routine. His nightmares, your presence. The slow, careful work of learning how to exist in the same space without bleeding all over each other.

Spring arrives eventually, as spring always does, stubborn and hopeful and impossible to ignore. Dean starts working in the garden. Needs something to do with his hands, he says.

You watch him from the kitchen window as he plants tomatoes and peppers and herbs you can't pronounce. His shoulders are broader now, less weighed down with hunger and sleeplessness. His hands move through the soil with surprising gentleness, and you remember suddenly that he used to draw, before the world taught him that his hands were only good for violence.

"You could take classes," you suggest one evening over dinner. "Art classes. Like you used to talk about."

He looks at you like you've suggested he learn to fly. "I don't remember how."

"Hands remember," you say, thinking of your grandmother's fingers finding piano keys even after her mind forgot the songs. "Even when we don't."

He doesn't respond, but the next day you find sketches on the kitchen counter.

The first time you make love—and you use that phrase deliberately, make love, because what you do is less about desire and more about creation—it happens just like that.

Dean appears in your doorway at midnight, barefoot and hesitant. He's been having good days lately, days when he laughs at something on television or hums while washing dishes. Days when he seems to remember that he exists in present tense.

"Can't sleep," he says, but his voice carries something different tonight. Not the familiar weight of nightmares, but something lighter. Something that might be want.

You pull back the covers without speaking. He crosses the room one step at a time. His lips crash against your lips. They're rough, chapped from neglect, tasting of the apple pie you baked for desert and blood, as if he had bitten his lips crimson before arriving here. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking entry, and you open for him.

A soft moan catches in your throat.

His hands find your face. They're trembling a little. Trembling with a terrible responsibility of touching something you love more than yourself. Fingers of his other hand dig into the soft flesh of your hip as he presses himself closer, chest to chest, the heat of him searing through your thin shirt.

You tug at his tee, pulling it over his head, and his freckled skin gleams in the moonlight. Your fingers trace the curve of his jaw and he shudders, breath hitching, as you press your lips there, tasting salt.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, your mouth brushing the corded muscle of his neck, where his pulse leaps.

“No,” he says honestly, for once. “But I want to feel—God, I want to feel alive.”

You guide his hands to your shirt, and he pulls it off. Calluses scrape your skin, sending sparks down your spine. His fingers fumble with your bra until it falls away, and his breath catches at the sight of your breasts, soft and heavy in the dim light. He cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, which harden under his touch. You gasp, arching into him. And his mouth follows.

Ardent lips closed over one nipple, tongue swirling, hot and wet. You back arched more, letting you into a slow and languid ride of delight. His hand kneads the other breast, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

Dean moves to the other breast, leaving your tender nipple with a suckling pop. Saliva drips from his mouth, the sight of it making heat pool between your thighs.

His eyes find you like he's sketching you into existence. "You're so beautiful," he says in a brittle voice. "I'd forgotten that things could be beautiful."

You push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. His eyes, wide and searching, lock on yours. Your fingers work his jeans open, the zipper loud in the quiet. He lifts his hips as you tug them down, revealing the hard line of his cock straining against his boxers. You slide them off, and he’s bare before you, thick and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly, and he groans. His head tips back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he fights to stay present.

You shed your own pants, your underwear, and climb over him, knees bracketing his hips. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding you as you sink down, taking him in inch by inch. He’s hot, hard, stretching you, and you both moan out at the sensation. Your hips roll, slow at first, finding a rhythm, and his hands slide to your ass, urging you deeper. He thrusts up, tentative, then bolder, his cock sliding in and out. The friction sparks heat that pools in your core.

His breath is ragged, puffing against your shoulder as he sits up, arms pulling you close. Your breasts press against his chest, nipples grazing his skin, and he kisses you, desperate teeth nipping your lower lip. His hands roam, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip, guiding your movements as you ride him. Your bodies are slick with sweat. The bed creaks, a counterpoint to your gasps, his grunts, the wet sounds of your bodies joining.

“You feel so good.” he whispers, lips brushing your collarbone, voice thick with something like awe. His hips snap up, harder now, and you meet him. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moons on his skin. You clench around him, and he curses softly. A broken “fuck” erupts against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

You move faster, chasing the heat building between you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and rubbing in tight circles. The sensation is electric, a jolt that makes you cry out, and he watches you with wide eyes and parted lips.

When you come, it’s a wave crashing, and he follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he finishes inside you.

Afterward, you lie tangled in sheets and starlight, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I used to think," he says quietly, "that wanting things was selfish. That love was something you couldn't afford if you were trying to save people."

"And now?"

He considers this, his thumb finding the pulse point at your wrist. "Now I think maybe love is what gives you something worth saving."

You marry on a Thursday in October, when the leaves are dying their most beautiful deaths. No ceremony, just you and Dean and a justice of the peace and some of your loved ones. Jody. Claire. Donna.

Dean wears his father's ring on a chain around his neck—one of the only heirloom that survived all the burning—and you wear your grandmother's dress, altered to fit a life she never could have imagined.

"Do you take this man," the justice begins, and you want to laugh because take implies acquisition, ownership, the claiming of something that was never really yours to begin with.

But you say yes anyway. Yes to this man who waters your plants when you forget. Yes to this man who learned to make soup from scratch because you were down with cold. Yes to this man who still wakes up reaching for his brother but has begun, slowly, to reach for you instead.

The ring he slides onto your finger belonged to his mother. You think about that sometimes—how love travels through generations, how it survives even when the people carrying it don't.

Your daughter arrives on a Tuesday morning in March, screaming her indignation at the bright, cold world. She has Dean's eyes—that impossible green—and Sam's stubborn forehead, already set in determined lines.

Dean cries when he holds her, tears he's been saving for years finally finding their purpose. His hands dwarf her tiny body, but he holds her like he held you the first time you made love. That terrible responsibility of holding something you love more than yourself hitting him again.

"She looks like him," he whispers, and you know he means Sam. "Around the eyes."

She does. The same wide-set gaze, the same expression of intelligent curiosity.

"What do we call her?" you ask.

Dean is quiet for a long moment, studying your daughter's face. "Hope," he says finally. "We call her Hope."

It's a dangerous name, hope. The kind of word that can cut you if you hold it too tightly. But Dean says it determinedly, like something he's finally ready to believe in again.

Your son comes two years later, quieter but no less miraculous. Where Hope demands attention like a small, beautiful storm, he observes. Watches. Thinks before speaking, the way Sam used to do.

Dean teaches them both everything he knows about being human. How to tie shoes and throw baseballs and fix engines and scramble eggs. How to be kind to things smaller than themselves. How to say please and thank you and I'm sorry like they mean it.

"Why do we have to be gentle with the cat?" Hope asks one afternoon, age five and already full of so many questions.

"Because she's smaller than you," Dean explains, guiding her tiny hand as she pets your tabby. "And because being strong means protecting things that can't protect themselves."

You watch from the doorway as he shows her how to scratch behind the cat's ears, how to read the signals that mean more or stop or I trust you. This man who once thought his hands were only good for violence, teaching his daughter the act of tenderness.

Now you stand at the kitchen window, watching Dean chase your children through the meadow behind your house. They're playing some elaborate game involving dragons and knights and magic spells that only they understand.

Hope, seven now and fast as wind, dodges between Dean's arms with delighted shrieks. Your son, Sam—yes, you named him Sam, after long conversations and longer silences and finally the understanding that some names are too important not to carry forward—tackles Dean's legs with his five-year-old determination.

Dean roars dramatically as he's brought down by tiny hands and high-pitched battle cries. He gathers both children against his chest, spinning until they're all dizzy with laughter, until they collapse in a tangle of grass and happy limbs.

The afternoon light catches in his hair. It's more gray now; he doesn't want to dye it as it reminds him of the privilege of having made so far. You think about time. How it's cyclical inside of linear. How the boy you loved at fifteen became the man you married at forty-two, became the father you watch at forty-nine.

"Daddy, tell us about Uncle Sam," Hope says as they lie in the grass, clouds moving overhead them.

Dean's face goes quiet for a moment, the way it always does when the past surfaces unexpectedly. But then he smiles—not the practiced smile he wore for years, but something real and unguarded.

"Your Uncle Sam," he says, pulling both children closer, "was the kindest person I ever knew. He used to say that loving someone meant wanting them to be happy, even if their happiness looked different from yours."

"Like how Mama is happy when she's reading and you're happy when you're fixing things?" young Sam asks.

"Exactly like that." Dean's eyes find yours through the window, and his smile widens. "Love means making space for different kinds of happiness."

You look up to the sky, a soft smile playing on your lips. Sometimes in May, an ache crawls under your ribcage and squeezes your heart. And you sit with it under the blue sky, hoping Sam would be looking down at you as you look at him. So, you throw him a smile and a silent prayer.

You know he'd say that love isn't just about holding on, but about knowing when to let go. Like how Dean learned, finally, to carry Sam with him without drowning in the weight.

The timer chimes. Dinner is ready. You call them in, and Dean looks up from the meadow, grass in his hair and dirt under his fingernails and your children hanging from his arms like small, perfect miracles.

He smiles at you—this man who learned that survival and living don't have to be the same thing, who discovered that happiness isn't something that happens to other people—and you understand, finally, what it means to build a life from the ashes of an old one.

"Coming!" he calls, and his voice carries across the meadow.

You beam, satisfied. So this is how you survive the unsurvivable. This is how you survive the burning. You don't just live through it.

You live beyond it.

#supernatural #deanwinchtser #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #dean x reader #jensen ackles #spn fanfic #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #emotional smut #angst

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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my girl 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your brother’s friend from work starts hanging out a lot more often. (short!reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

After dinner, you volunteer to do the dishes. It’s an easy way out of the awkward social cues and you find, it keeps your mom off your back so you can get a chapter in. You finish up, drying each and placing them neatly in the cupboards. Having defeated the dirty plates, you grab your book and head out to the porch.

As the sun sets, the daytime heat dissipates into a mellow coolness. The smell of dew laces the fresh air. You lay back on the porch swing, feet up on the armrest as you read, the glow of the outside light giving just enough to make out the font.

You plunge into the fictional realm head first. The buzz of crickets gives way to the eerie atmosphere of the underworld caverns and the night shifts in time with imaginary shadows. You are there with the party, trekking through the treacherous, waiting for a beast to surprise you.

The front door swings open and hits the end of the swing. You squeak as the book slips free of your grasp and falls to the ground. You sit up as you crane to see over your shoulder, an orc-like silhouette adding to your fright. It isn’t real.

Your vision clears and you return to reality. It’s only Sy. His eyes look just as startled as he looks down at you then his eyes skitter over to the ground.

Before you can reach over the edge of the bench, Sy moves to grab the book. He lifts it and smooths the pages, dusting off the cover. He examines it before he hands it over.

“Sorry, I’m a big lug sometimes,” he says as you accept the book and search for your place.

“It’s fine,” you smile and keep your thumb between the pages.

He reaches to rub the back of his neck then drags his hand over his beard. You noticed the same gesture several times during dinner and before that. It seems a habit that betrays a thoughtful mind.

“Good book?” He gestures towards the novel.

You look down and tilt your head, “it’s alright. Typical fantasy, you know?”

“Ah,” he nods as the porch light leaves his features in darkness.

“Mmhmm,” you smile and sit straight on the swing, your legs dangling over the edge.

He steps closer and puts his hand on the post that holds the bench aloft, “erm, dinner was good.”

“Oh? Yeah, it was.”

“I know ya made some of it so... wanted to say so.”

“Uh, right,” you laugh nervously, “yeah, guess I did.”

He’s quiet and you’re just as speechless. The night breeze does little to cool the scald of tension all around you. Why is he talking to you? He should be grunting at Isaac’s dumb jokes.

“Anyway, gotta head out,” he shifts on his feet, “you have a good night.”

“Er, sure, you too,” you cheep.

“Mmm, sure will,” he answers and lets go of the swing, turning to continue to the stairs. He stops at the top and looks back, “don’t stay out here too late. Thunderstorm coming.”

“Is there?” You wonder as you look up at the sky, the moon clear.

“So I heard,” he shrugs and sets off down the stairs with clomping steps.

You stare after him as he stalks off, following the path down to the long driveway and to his large truck. The street light illuminates his silhouette as you feel the dampness woven into the wind. You sit back and let out a ‘huh’. You hadn’t noticed it until he said something, then again, you hadn’t been living in that world.

💕

“Peanut!” Your mom calls to you from down the hall. “Little help!”

You sigh and finish the sentence. You roll your eyes up and mark your page. You sit up, frustrated as each page seems to be interrupted by one thing or another. You roll of the bed and leave the book on your pillow.

You open your door and a roiling wall of heat blasts you in the face. You head down the hall and find your mother a humid mess as she works in her apron, her forehead sticky, and a pan in her hands. She drops it with a clang on the stove top and puffs.

“Ugh, these things are never going to cook,” she tuts and shakes her head.

“Mom?” You cross your arms and lean in the doorway. Even with central air, her broil has the house as hot as Mordor. “What’s up?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d make your apple blossoms for dessert but I just got a call from Isaac,” she shakes her head and wipes her sweaty brow. “He forgot his lunch.”

“Oh,” you purse your lips and nod.

“So, peanut, you wanna go for a ride? I’d take it myself but I’m in the middle of something,” she smiles and fans herself. “And I’m an absolute mess!”

“Yeah, I guess I could,” you shrug, trying not to let your disappointment burn through. Considering she isn’t pressuring you to get a summer job like everyone else’s parents, you won’t push it.

“You’re amazing, pea,” she trills and goes to the fridge. She pulls out a container of yesterday’s leftovers and shoves them into your hands, “and tell your brother not to be late.”

“Sure,” you utter.

“Ah, and if you run into Sy, you tell him he’s more than welcome to come by. Should be all sorts of extras tonight.”

“Right,” you take the container and find a cloth bag to put it in. You head back to your room and swipe up your book and your phone. Just in case.

You pluck your mom’s keys off the hook by the door as you slip into your sandals, the straps braided leather. You chose them because the little daisies reminded you of a woodland elf. You take your brother’s lunch and grumble as you cross the lawn.

Your mother’s car is nicer than your dad’s truck. More manageable for you. You don’t need to adjust the seat very much and you can see the road, mostly.

You take the drive slowly, enjoying the greenery of the neighbourhood. Your brother can suffer his own negligence. He’s an adult and he’s still forgetting his lunch at home. As always, someone else is cleaning up after him.

You pull up to the shop. You’ve been there once or twice but never inside. As you get out of the car, you hesitate. Should you knock? You approach the heavy metal door and peer around.

A whistle comes from your left and you turn as Sy appears from around the side of the building. His face is darkened above his beard and around his hairline with the residue of his work. The faint outline of safety glasses leaves a lighter patch in the middle of his face.

“Hey,” his voice is sonorous as he holds a pair of gauntlets. “Everything okay?”

“Um,” you blink at him then look back at the car. “Yeah, uh, my brother forgot his lunch.”

You hold up the bag in your hand. He nods, his face placid. Impossible to read. In his leather apron and with his thick arms bulging under his sweaty tea, he reminds you of a dwarf in a Tolkien tale. You gulp and fidget.

“Real nice of you to drop that off,” he says as he comes closer, “you’re real sweet like that.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” you clasp your wrist and sway nervously.

“Want me to take it into him? Wouldn’t want ya ruining your clothes with all the fire.”

“Er, I... if you don’t mind.”

“If you’re askin’, I don’t mind,” he holds out a large hand, “I’ll get him that.”

“Right, thanks,” you put it in his hand as he stares down at you, his gaze as hot as the torch he works with.

“It’s nothing at all,” he assures.

You smile nervously and back up as he towers over you. You rub your throat and look around again. You feel bad not offering now.

“Mom said if you wanna come for dinner, we’ll have extra,” you say.

He hums and puts his gauntlets against the bottom of the container as he holds it in both hands, making it seem tiny.

“Won’t say no to dinner with a pretty girl,” he intones.

Your eyes flick up and meet his. No, your mom invited him. He’s just being nice, right? The way he always is, at least when he bothers to speak up. Maybe he's even talking about her.

“I should... go,” you point with your thumb.

“If you say so,” he agrees, “drive safe.”

“Will do,” you spin and scurry off. Oof, you are so friggin awkward you could just--

You trip and stagger, keeping yourself on your feet. You cringe and turn back, giving a wave to assure him you’re not a total loss, then open the door. You keep your head down, refusing to look at him as you buckle in.

Maybe you can convince your mom to let you eat in your room.

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #sand castle #drabble #series #my girl #au

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sara-the-wizard · 8 months ago

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7 Day Camp Stay. Day: 5

WIND AND RAIN DAY BABY!!

Yeah, the day was a little hectic, but I only got a bruise on my nose, it's fiiiiiinnneeee!

(Donnie = Me.)

Hope you enjoy day 5! (Under the cut.)

7 Day Camp Stay

Day: 5

Donnie blinked his eyes open. The wind seamed reasonable that morning. But the air felt heavy. Thick with humidity. Donnie was surprised to see he was the first one awake. He got out of the tent and headed over to the picnic table. There he ate some bread and had some cheese. He decided to have them separately this time.

Donnie took a look around. It was so quiet in the morning. Donnie grabbed a folding chair and took a seat. He spent a good amount of time just watching the trees sway in the gentle breeze.

Soon the others started waking up. Mikey was the first. Mikey crawled out of the tent, rubbing his eyes.

"Good morning, Angelo."

"Morning, Dee!"

Mikey walked over to the picnic table with a yawn, grabbed the soap, and walked over to the restrooms. Raph and Leo got out of bed around the same time.

"*yawn!* What time is it?"

"It is 10:48 A.M, gentlemen."

"Wow, swimming must have worn us out, huh Raph?"

Leo got up and walked over to Donnie. Leo looked over and watched the trees gently move with the breeze.

"The calm before the storm."

Leo commented.

"Pardon?"

"Forcast says thunderstorms this afternoon."

Donnie raised an eyebrow. How could such a beautiful day like this turn into a thunderstorm? He wasn't sure, but he was going to enjoy this while it lasted.

Sense it was so close to lunch time anyway, Raph, Leo and Mikey skipped having breakfast and jumped over to have lunch instead. When they finished, the wind started to pick up. Donnie looked over to see a dark horizon. That raised his concerns slightly.

Donnie was stuck on dish duty that day, and they had some dishes left over from the other night. Donnie rolled up his coat sleeves and got to work.

While he was washing the dishes he realized the plates were really greasy and the utensils were greasy and the cooking tools were greasy and EVERYTHING WAS SO GREASY! It kept killing his soapy water dish after dish! Nothing was cleaning off like it normally would. He didn't have hot water to combat the grease! His frustrations grew quickly. Raph walked over to find that Donnie was still doing dishes after 2 hours.

"Hey, Dee? arnt the dishes clean enough?"

Raph questioned. But to Donnie, it sounded like he was teasing him. Donnie was not having it.

"No! They are not clean!"

Donnie gripped the sides of the bucket. Raph came over and touched one of the dishes. It still had a thin layer of grease on it.

"Ooooh, yeah. How about Raph takes over while you do something else, okay?"

Donnie released the bucket and let Raph take the seat. Donnie went to the restrooms to wash his hands. Exiting the bathroom, he could definitely feel the wind blowing harder! He quickly made his way back to camp. When he returned, Mikey rushed over to him.

"Donnie! Something's wrong with your tent!"

Mikey said as he pointed towards it. Donnie looked over to find his tent half collapsed. Donnie walked passed Leo, who was chopping more wood, and went over to the tent to inspect it. Once he was closer, it was easy to find what was wrong. One of the tent polls snapped from the wind.

"Of course it would! OF COURSE IT WOULD!!"

Donnie growled. His teeth grinding unhealthily together.

"If it's not one thing, it's another!"

Donnie grumbled. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself down. He could fix this. He's good at fixing things!

"Mikey, I need ducked tape, scissors, and a large metal stick."

Mikey ran off to get what Donnie requested. Donnie got down to prepare fixing the poll.

"Heads up!"

Mikey hollered. He tossed the tape and Donnie caught it. Then Mikey tossed the scissors but Donnie wasn't dumb enough to try and catch those. He dodged out of the way as they went flying past him.

"Mikey, Do not throw-"

But just when Donnie turned his head, a large metal rod hit him right on the bridge of his snout. Donnie quickly raised his hands to cover his nose.

"Oh, Sorry Donnie! Are you okay?"

Mikey yelled from the picnic table. Donnie didn't respond. He crawled over into his half collapsed tent and laid inside. It wasn't long till he started crying. His nose hurt so bad. He drew his hand away to find his fingers were just covered in tears. For a moment he thought his nose started bleeding.

"You should be more careful, Mikey!"

Leo hollered. The sound of crunching grass came closer and closer. Donnie looked up to see Leo appearing through the tent door.

"Hey, you good?"

Donnie didn't say anything. He just laid his head back down on the mat and held his nose between his hands.

"Here, let me see it."

Donnie sat up and let Leo inspect his face.

"Yup, that's definitely bruised!"

Donnie whimpered slightly as more tears trickled down his cheeks. Leo reached over and grabbed a juice box and some crackers for Donnie. He then proceeded to gently clean around the bruise. Donnie sipped on the juice box while Leo worked with putting a band-aid on Donnie's nose. If anything, it gave it a small cushion protection.

"There! Now you have a little pink kitty cat on your nose!"

"... Are you serious?"

"Kidding! It's just a boring old peach one."

Donnie wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He finished his juice and ate some of the crackers. Then they both exited the tent. Donnie picked up the repair items and started mending the broken tent poll. He used the metal stick as a splint and taped it on real good. It looked like it was working pretty well!

Off in the distance, thunder started to rumble. Guess that thunderstorm was gonna come after all. Donnie moved the folding chairs into a tent. While Donnie was setting the chairs down, rain started to trickle down onto the campsite. Leo hopped inside the tent and zipped it up tight.

Soon the small trickle turned into a downpour. Donnie laid down on his mat and watched as the raindrops hit the top of the tent. An hour had past and Donnie wondered how much longer the rain would last. What if the camp became a muddy mess? What if it rained so much they were knee deep in water?! Just when Donnie was thinking about all the ways this could go bad, the sun came out, brightening up the environment around them.

"Oh it's beautiful!"

Mikey yelled. Now Leo and Donnie were curious. They opened up the tent and saw Mikey looking up at something. They turned their heads to see a rainbow streaking across the sky. Leo scrambled out of the tent to get a better look at it. Donnie's jaw dropped. That was the brightest rainbow he'd ever seen! Donnie didn't have to worry about the campsite flooding, because the promise was right in front of him. And it was still proving true.

They ran over to the lake to get a better view. The rainbow was so bright you could see it in the reflection of the lake. White birds rose up from the lake and filled the sky. They danced around in circles, singing their song. Donnie had never seen anything like this before.

Minutes later the rainbow faded away. The birds returned to the lake, and Donnie was left with an experience that could never be recreated. They returned to the camp. The wood was too wet to start a fire with, so Mikey made salads for dinner instead.

Donnie sat at the picnic table, picking at the chickpeas and cucumbers. The winds died down, and the thunder clouds rolled away. Everyone talks about the calm before the storm. What about the calm after the storm? Nobody talks about the beauty after the rain.

Donnie finished his food, brushed his teeth, and headed off for bed.

___________

That was honestly my favorite day just because of the beautiful rainbow! Also I do kind of like thunderstorms. :)

Hope you enjoyed day 5! Lord bless you!

Last x Next

#rottmnt #riseofthetmnt #saverottmnt #rise donnie #rise leo #Rise raph #Rise mikey #Novel #based on a true story

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kittyxoxocore · 2 months ago

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The far away dreams…

(Description: Y/N in this story is yet again female, this story is ment to be Yandere as Y/N is a runaway bride to her forced to be groom, Malleus, I just feel like he just has the power to do this type of stuff. This story also mentions murder as well as kidnapping, this story also has forced kissing)

Anyways, please don’t hate this because I really did pour my heart into this! (lie)

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This day was meant to be perfect, the type of day that you dreamed about when you were a little girl. But instead of celebrating and crying from joy you were instead in your room weeping from the very thought of marrying that good for nothing prince, Malleus, you mean. Sitting on your chair you look up to the mirror you were facing, your shoulders were slumped down as you saw your mascara fall down your cheeks. Your beautiful black wedding dress now feeling humiliating, the heels you wore were already aching for freedom.

But, as you were self loathing something caught your attention, a window… more importantly it was slightly agar, meaning it wasn’t locked. Malleus has to be one stupid prince if he thought you wouldn’t go down without a fight. You took of your heels as you silently walked over to the window, before opening it all the way and ripping your silk dress to use as a makeshift rope to go down the castle like some knock of hero. The dress felt soft in your hands as you slid down, the midnight breeze feeling cold on your face and body as you silently looking around as if preparing to see somebody, luckily no one did.

As your bare feet touched the grass, you took a deep breathe and ran off hoping to get away, luckily when you were still in NRC you were in track with Jack and Deuce, oh how you wished to see their faces again before you found their bloody bodies that day. You felt the slight burn in your legs as the seconds from running quickly turned into minutes, the once clear sky turning into a thunderstorm, it was fine though. Before… CRUNCH… you stopped in a haste as you hid behind a tree, what the hell was that, you thought. You slowly peek from behind the tree, it was hard to see in the darkness but you could make out what seemed to be yellowish green eyes and green hair… oh shit, isn’t that the guy who idolizes Malleus, Sebek!?

You saw as he looked around, trying to pinpoint your exact location, before you could even react you saw that he was gone just like that, the darkness of the night enveloping him. As you were about to look back forwards you felt what seemed to be rough hands gripping your throat and hands together, you tried to fight back but it seemed the person was much more stronger then you. You saw his face, it was Sebek, oh you were in trouble.

“Mrs Draconia, why are you here, you left prince Malleus at the alter! Do you know how humiliated and angry he was! You will go back there and apologize to him and marry him! You are very lucky he loves you, Mrs Draconia!” He yelled at you, you knew he was loud but right now it felt even louder. Wait, what did he call you? Mrs Draconia?- ugh, isn’t that Malleus’s last name…

“Well I don’t love him, Sebek. For God’s sake, it’s not only about your ‘strong and handsome Prince Malleus’, in all honesty he is selfish as well as childish in the way that he is naive about stuff!” You hissed back, trying even harder to make Sebek let go, what business does he have touching a lady like you like this?…

Before you could add another snarky remark on how Malleus was just a jealous psycho that killed your friends, Sebek grabbed you and placed you over his shoulder, you tried to hit his back to let you go but he didn’t seem to care. Before running off, most likely getting you back to that emo castle where you most likely would be forcefully married off to Malleus.

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(Time skip because I really am way too lazy to write how Sebek carried you back to the castle and how you of course rightfully tried to make him let go of you)

Back at the castle you were quickly freshened up my the maids before quickly handed a beautiful bouquet made up of roses with colors shifting from a light green to an almost fully dark black. Before being almost pushed through the doors and onto the black aisle runner, you felt like hundreds of eyes were on you, looking straight forward you saw Malleus at the alter. His face showed love and the sick obsession he had for you, but underneath that you also saw what seemed like anger, most likely due to you running away.

You felt like you were a puppet on strings as your legs walked for you, slowly but surely you walked onto the alter, face to face with the soft smiling Malleus, oh how you wish you could run away again seeing that sick smile. The ceremony felt like a blur as you felt the put in your stomach settle in as you come to terms of your life now, wife to the sick fucker who killed your friends, kidnapped you, and forced you to marry him. You were about to just do that before you felt someone grip your chin and tilt your head upwards as a soft pair of lips touched yours, Malleus was kissing you, you could feel him trying to do more then just a simple kiss but took a step back when he felt how you didn’t even kiss back.

For the first time you felt hopeless, your dreams of returning back to your world and seeing your family all lying shattered like broken glass on the floor. Well, you could hear the crowd in the wedding cheer and applaud, oh how you wished that this was all just a nightmare. You even saw Silver and Lilia in the crowd looking away like they were guilty, I mean, they are but they don’t really have a choice when it comes to Malleus…

Maybe one day you could escape again, without an annoying Sebek trying to take you back, maybe, in a far away dream…

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Hoped you liked this story, I kind of cut it short since my creativity juices were running low and I couldn’t muster the willpower to keep writing, anyways, bye bye♥︎

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus x reader

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beskarinhyperspace · 1 year ago

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Through The Storm

Mando serves and protects.

Fluff, Comfort, angst, nothing explicit.

WC 1.4k // DinDjarin x GN reader

MASTERLIST

A/N: We keep receiving severe thunderstorms and tornado watches/warnings in my area. We don't usually get tornadoes and severe weather in the summer but for the past two years it's been almost every two weeks and well, I'm scared.. ANYWAYS this is my attempt to soothe and bring comfort to myself while it happens and pass. Stay safe!

The sky was gray and cloudy, with a cool breeze blowing softly. Which gave you little to no relief from the heat of this green and rocky place. Even though you kept drinking water, you still felt dizzy and heavy. It never lasted long but was enough to make you aware of your surroundings.

As you brought branches to the campsite, the Mandalorian moved his helmet in your direction. "I think it's going to rain." he said simply, while working on some parts of the ship.

You nodded, "I better hurry up then."

He didn't reply, only watched you walk back into the woods before returning to his task.

As you moved further into the greenery. You found a waterfall with some berry bushes nearby. Smiling to yourself, you walked faster to them. Ration bars were good, but they were dry and to be honest, probably expired too. You grabbed some and put it in a pouch attached to your waist. As you were carefully picking the best, you heard some thunder approaching, not really paying attention.

After a moment the rumbling intensified, and you could hear someone shouting in the distance. Oh oh, that was definitely Mando yelling. The wind had begun to pick up now, the sky was a complete dark grey with no light from the sun in sight. You knew you had to take cover and fast.

Your name being shouted again made you pick up the pace as the humidity increased. It was getting darker by the second. Making the strikes of white and dark purple lights more visible above you. The rain started to fall and after a short moment you couldn't even see what was in front of you. The pouring rain was coming in waves. Flooding everywhere and everything around you.

As your breathing and panic intensified, lightning strikes a tree about ten feet away from you. Making you scream almost simultaneously. You stood frozen in place. Terrified and lost. You closed your eyes trying to ground yourself and think quickly when a gloved hand gripped your arm.

"You scared me." he panted, the rain and thunder muffling his voice as he stood only inches from you.

"How did you find me? I can barely see a thing!" you shouted.

He looked like he couldn't understand you well over the roaring thunder. Stepping closer, closing the small gap between you, "I was calling you and I heard you scream."

As the wind picked up again, more violently this time, he wrapped his arms around your body. Picked you up and lifted you over his shoulder in one quick motion. The rain continued to pound down mercilessly on you as he ran as fast as he could while you held onto him.

Arriving to the ship, still carrying you, he rushed inside. Pushing a command into his arm brace. The trap door closed behind with a hiss, as the automatic locking system engaged. He set you gently down on your feet. Pushing back wet pieces of hair that were stuck to your cheek.

He stared at you for a moment, the dim light from within your surroundings created a soft glow on your face and his helmet as he looked over you. He could tell you were shivering. Your clothes and hair were soaked and damp and stuck to your skin. He could see your body trembling. Your clothes clinging to your curves, showing your figure underneath.

Without a word, he went to a cabinet and grabbed a towel. Walking back towards you, he started to rub the towel on your hair. Attempting to dry you off and get you warm. His motions were quick yet soft. Gently working to soak up as much of the water as possible. He could hear your teeth chatter as your body trembled from the cold.

He paused for a moment, looking at you concerned. "You're freezing."

"Yeah..." you managed to reply, shaking.

As he wrapped the towel around your shoulders, you heard the rumble of the ship as it was rattled by the storm. The Crest rocking back and forth from the strong gusts of wind. He took a step closer as his free hand came up to your waist and held you steady against him. The cold and shiver still taking a toll on your small form. Your trembling got more and more out of control.

He was secretly hoping his body could give you some heat and relief, but he was just as damp as you. Plus, the beskar of his armor wasn't really much help. He reluctantly let go and pulled away from you after the ship was steady once again.

"We need to get out of these clothes," he said in a firm tone. He took a step towards the small bunk bed at the back of the ship, where he stored a few of his things. Rummaging around for a moment before pulling out clothes from a chest. Coming back to you, he noticed the fabric of your dress clinging to your body, leaving very little to the imagination. "Here," he sighed, handing you a shirt and pants with an expression that was both firm and protective, "...change into these."

Noticing his gaze you changed yours to the floor.

"Do you need help?" he asked in a low, almost stern tone as he continued to hold the dry set of clothes out to you.

Your cheeks becoming redder, you grabbed it, shaking your head. "I'll be back..." you finally let out almost stuttering, moving to the fresher. He nodded and watched as you quietly went your way. Chuckling softly to himself, amused by the shy and timid way you were behaving.

After changing out of his flight suit and out of his beskar, he waited patiently outside as he heard you rustling about in the small fresher. His mind wandered for a moment as he sat and waited, thinking about how you felt against him earlier. Since you started traveling together, few words were spoken between the two of you and he didn't know how much longer he could last without the proximity again. He was used to being solitary, but now that he had you... The thought of not having you close was almost driving him to madness.

You stepped out of the fresher. The clothes were slightly too big for your small frame, but it gave you a cute and petite appearance. You couldn’t deny how soft and warm you felt in his clothes. Plus, it smelled like him too.

"Feeling better now sweetheart?" he asked in a low, gruff tone.

You nodded, feeling your cheek blush from the new pet name, "Yeah feels comfortable..." As you say the words, the ship began to move again.

He instinctively took a step closer to you. His hand shooting out and landing on your waist to hold you steady. He could see the worry and uneasiness in your eyes as the ship continued to shake violently. His fingers gripped tighter around your hip protectively. "It's just a storm. The ship will hold up fine."

"I believe you." You nodded nervously as another gust of wind rattles over the razor crest.

He noticed how tightly you shut your eyes, the worry and fear still apparent on your face. His hand loosening its grip on your hip but still holding onto you securely in case the ship rocked again. "You don't like storms, do you?" he asked in a low, quieter tone. You simply shook your head. "That's okay. You're safe here. This ship has survived and flown through much more dangerous things. Some rain and thunder is nothing." He reassured you.

You hummed in response. Still feeling uneasy.

He stepped closer, his body now pressed tightly against yours as he pulled you into his arms in an attempt to provide some comfort and security. He could feel you shivering slightly, the whistling of the wind doing little to help calm your nerves. His hand rested on your hip, holding you firmly against him while his other came to tilt your chin up to him.

"I've got you sweetheart. You'll always be safe with me."

#mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x you #mando fluff #star wars #mandalorian fluff

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maehwajuuuu-chu · 6 months ago

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4,10,22,43,47? >B3

HIHI BEE!! Your answers are finally here hehe *bows* (I hope you don't mind that this took a while lols) 4) Which one is more protective? Who needs to be ‘protected’?

In both of their eyes, both of them need to be ‘protected’ cause they do care for each other, but really, in most situations, they pity the person that tries to hurt either partner. Like Rai got locked in a building with a gang of treasure hoarders? Man, Kaeya’s already calling a healer, not for Rai, but for those poor idiots that decided to attempt an attack on his dear very murderous partner. And for Rai? He’s just watching Kaeya trip people over and play them like a damn fiddle. He is definitely more of the protective one out of the both of them though. He always sticks to Kaeya’s side; visible or hidden, with a weapon ready at hand. At times when Kaeya is out of the city, he leaves a moth on him, making sure that Kaeya will always be able to reach out to him when he needs help — although most of the time, he will hear Kaeya sneaking in jokes and teases instead. 10) Describe their first date.

(Okay, their first date wasn’t after the confession but on the same day just before the confession and it was very romantic so IT COUNTS, I’d love to honestly spill about everything but this is a special one and y’ALL DESERVE A FULL WRITTEN CHAPTER, so have a part of the date lols). It was during the Ludi Harpestum where the spring breeze would blow petals across the bright blue sky and the scent of cooking hamburger patties for the ‘Pile Em’ Ups’ drift throughout the city. Kaeya would be pulled into a crowd by Rai, an unusually soft grin dancing across the other’s face. A flower crown would be perched on his unruly silver hair, with the kitten he had saved earlier still sleeping in Kaeya’s arms. The melody of a lute strums and weaves in between the dancing couples, with drums pulsing behind the music. Something warm swells up in Kaeya’s chest as his friend sweeps his arms into a practiced bow before holding out a hand for Kaeya. A mirthful glint glimmers in Rai’s gaze: ‘Take my hand already,’ he seems to convey. With a chuckle, Kaeya places down the kitten on a nearby table and grabs onto Rai’s hand once again. Drawing him close, Kaeya whispers into the other’s ear with a smile. “I hope you have practiced enough, my friend. I can be a bit too good at this dance.” “I learn quick, Star-Eyes,” Rai laughs as Kaeya immediately swings him into a fast spin. “I suggest you rein in that confidence of yours first, hm?” 22) What reminds each of their partner?

Kaeya about Rai: The moon and the moonlight (it reminds him of Rai’s hair), Jasmines (Rai’s scent is jasmine), thunderstorms, cats, hot tea, silver trinkets, the night breeze, smoke, lace Rai about Kaeya: The stars (reminds him of Kaeya’s eyes), wine, snowflakes, Calla Lillies, the sound of waves and seaspray, starconches (often collects shells for Kaeya), blue shimmery fabrics and fur, leather, glasses for alcoholic drinks 43) Who would give their life for the other without a second thought?

Both of them. It would literally be on instinct too and I— Anyways, someone should tell the author to not put those guys in a situation like that huh (thankfully these guys have braincells and would try to avoid events like that) 47) Does either of them have a secret that could potentially ruin their relationship?

None —> Kaeya was there Rai at his worst and Rai has seen Kaeya make some terrible decisions, and they have already been through a really tumultuous period together. Pandora’s box has been opened long ago and there are no more rocks left to overturn. Rai does know about Kaeya’s connection to Khaenri’ah and it’s not something that would make him rethink about their relationship. Hope these answers make do hehe :D

#genshin oc #raiya #kaeya #maeanswers #ocxcanon

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stargazer-sims · 4 months ago

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Journal Entry #3

previous // next // story index

__________

Victor

Guess who’s on the beach!

This is gonna be a short entry. Mostly, I just want to check in and let everyone know I made it to Kainani Island. So far, it’s everything I imagined it would be.

The view from my campsite amazing. Here, let me turn the camera around so you can see. Look at how clear that water is! You probably can’t see the coral and the cute little fish from this angle, but I��ll be sure to take some good pictures with my new camera so I can post them to my Instagram later. It's too bad aromas can't be captured on a video too, because no description I could come up with would do justice to how it smells around here. It's salt water and hot sand and this incredible sweet, spicy scent of tropical flowers in the breeze. It smells like paradise.

We don’t have anything like this in Matsumori, and I definitely didn’t see anything like it growing up in Maple Grove. All we have back home in the Grove for bodies of water are the river and the canal, and there’s no way you could see to the bottom of those. The river’s not too bad. It's got fish and it's safe to swim in, but the canal is honestly kind of gross, and the main odours on the wind in the Grove are from murky water and factories.

But, I digress.

I actually got here yesterday, but it was late by the time I arrived and figured out where I was supposed to be going. I didn’t have much time for anything other than to pick up some supplies from the little general store in the village and then get my campsite all set up before it got dark.

Of course it rained in the night. I couldn’t sleep at first because I was scared there might be a thunderstorm, and you already know how I feel about those. Fortunately, there’s pretty decent cell service, so while I was huddling in my tent and trying not to freak out about potential thunderstorms, I was able to call Yuri. He said he missed me, but otherwise seemed to be doing okay after our first day apart, and he talked to me until I was finally ready to fall asleep.

I predict that my phone bill is going to be absolutely ridiculous by the time I get back, but you know what? I don’t care. Hearing Yuri’s sweet voice is priceless.

I was still kind of tired when I woke up this morning, but I was thrilled to see the sun was out. I cooked my breakfast over an open fire, and it was awesome. After the lecture I gave Yuri about taking care of himself and eating proper food, please nobody tell him that I had hot dogs and marshmallows for breakfast, okay?

Actually, no… never mind. He’ll be looking at my journal, so I guess he’s going to know about that, anyway. At least hot dogs have protein. I'm constantly going on about how we need to start the day with protein, so that's my justification. From now on, consider hot dogs as an official breakfast food, based on the opinion of a guy with a diploma in Health and Wellness Management.

Today, my only plan was to relax. I mostly just hung around my campsite, playing on the beach and enjoying the water. I found some interesting shells to bring home with me, and I took pictures of lots of flowers. One of my travel books has a map that shows where you can find crystals, so I’m going to take a little excursion around the island to see if I can discover anything good. Yuri might like a pretty natural crystal as a souvenir.

The good news is, getting to all these places isn't going to require much logistical planning. Something I’ve found out is that the inhabitants of Kainani Island have a very open attitude to communal property. There are bikes, boats and inflatable rafts all over the place, and anyone can just go ahead and use them without asking permission or paying a fee. You do have to pay a rental fee for power boats and personal watercraft, and there are a few rickety old buses going around that ask for a fare, but unless I'm going a really long way, I'm perfectly satisfied with using a bicycle.

In the afternoon, I got an inflatable raft that basically looked like a gigantic pool float, and settled in to listen to my audio book and work on my tan. I probably should’ve predicted I’d fall asleep on the thing. Yuri says my ability to sleep anywhere is practically legendary, and he’s not wrong. My napping skills are almost as epic as my snowboarding skills.

When I woke up, it was sunset, and I had no clue where I was. I guess I floated away from my campsite while I was napping. I also realized that I’d gotten the mother of all sunburns. Not exactly how I wanted to start out my adventure, I have to say.

I pulled the float up onto the beach, and asked the first person I saw for directions. Luckily, it was less than a kilometre back to where I’m camping, so I didn't need to ask for a boat ride or look for a bike.

Sunburn notwithstanding, the experience wasn't all bad. The walk back was pleasant, the breeze was soothing, and the scenery along the way was gorgeous. I mean, if you’re going to fall asleep and accidentally get lost on a tropical island, at the very least you can enjoy the view.

#writing #WAVYrevisited #victor nelson #sapphire writes

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musette22 · 1 year ago

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Headcanon that Bucky’s off-brand serum makes him super sensitive to everything to the point where he refuses to go outside without wearing sunglasses, the scent of flowers in the spring or laundry detergent makes him sneeze and he gets freezing even during chilly summer nights.

At one point he turns to Steve and is like, “how the hell did you deal with this before the serum?”

And Steve just laughs, wanting to wrap him up in blankets and bubble wrap.

Ok so woww, nonnie, first of all - I love this. I mean, poor Buck Buck, but at least it magnifies the good stuff too? Like the beauty of a golden sunset that he and Steve watch together while snuggling up on the Coney Island beach, on a blanket that's far too small for two supersoldiers (but that doesn't matter because they cuddle up close anyway).

Or the sweet scent of the roses Steve gets Bucky to celebrate the anniversary of when they moved in together the first time, back before the war, because he's the kind of romantic goddamn punk who remembers that sort of thing after seventy years (Bucky loves it).

Or the cool breeze coming in from the open door to the yard after a thunderstorm in August, which makes Bucky just kind of close his eyes and savour the relief of it as it caresses his overheated skin (it's almost as good as when Steve watches Bucky with that look in his eyes, the one that makes Bucky feel that despite all his sins, he must've done something right to deserve it).

Or the tenderness of Steve's touch, his hands big and sure but so gentle on Bucky's scarred body, loving and cherishing it like it's the most beautiful, precious thing he's ever held (Bucky never wants Steve to stop touching him).

Or the sweet taste of Steve's lips, when he kisses him first thing in the morning when he brings Bucky his coffee in bed, and late in the evening when he kisses him goodnight, and just whenever they pass each other in the hallway or the kitchen or the garden (they've got about seventy years' worth of kisses to catch up on, after all).

But also!! I have just been rereading the incredible Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar, and funnily enough, the Bucky in that fic is extra sensitive to smell too, and Steve brings Bucky little presents when he finds out.

"A sack full of oranges, a little bundle of jasmine flowers, a vanilla bean, a cedar box, some kaffir lime leaves. Some of the smells are just pure pleasure: Steve keeps catching Buck sniffing at the cedar box, his face calm and beautiful."

Anyway yeah, so this has been on my mind and it came at the perfect time, so thank you so much! ❤️

#stucky #fic rec #minnie answers

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fictionkinfessions · 1 month ago

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we had a spring storm last night and good gaia i forgot that the smell is like crack to me. chaos.

i used to love going for runs during spring thunderstorms. obviously first id set up a little nest for my little buddy, get some noise cancelling headphones and something for him to watch so he wouldnt get scared. usually id even wait for him to fall asleep, just to be sure, but we had our communicators regardless so he knew i was always close by

anyway, besides the point. my point is i miss how the world gets that slight green tinge, and the cool humid breeze with that smell. chaos that smell is fucking divine. the feeling of the fattest raindrops known to mobius pelting me in the face and on my arms is unmatched. sometimes it felt like running through less harmful bullets. which sounds unpleasant but like i also willingly throw myself off of cliffs for fun so.

anyway fucking hell i miss summer storms. i miss running past a likely strike zone and narrowly missing getting struck by lightning. the rush. the rain. the sounds. the smelllllll

i love spring storms. nothing else like em.

your favourite fast fictive, sonic

#tuxsys

✉

#fictionkinfessions #tuxsys #fictive #sonicthehedgehogfictive #segafictive #mod party cat

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scvcnofswords · 5 months ago

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That dialogue between Solas and Vivienne of staffs and tools having auras and how those auras are shaped by their users.....

anyways

Regin's staff isn't actually a staff persay but a hilt for a second spirit-blade [blade of Tidarion], carved of crystal from the Fade [the Nightmare's realm], stormheart metals, and ice-dragonbone [Hakkon], and hums like a thunderstorm in the palms, the energy a rolling, building maelstrom, more volatile the more emotional she's been. Happier, lighter days, it's like a playful breeze, flickering over the senses. Worse days it's the sudden pressure shift and sudden dead-stillness of the air before a maelstrom hits, before winds tear the world to shreds. She's usually very good about cleansing the energy, but she has moments of forgetfulness.

Litriu's preferred daggers [ read: one long dagger, one mismatching short sword] are dragonbone with hilts of rosewood laced with a copper-toned metal [dagger] and a whitesteel blade with a hilt of bone (wolf) and antler (hart) (both taken from fallen packmates). Not a true mage, so she cannot cleanse them; thus they carry the energy she's instilled in them from long use and fastidious care. To hold them is to feel hunter's eyes on the back of your neck, to wander a fog-filled forest without knowing your way forward and yet with the bone-deep surety that you are not lost, and won't become as such. The quiet confidence of an apex predator.

Harrow's preferred weapons switch between a short raider's axe made of silverite with a matching shield of silverite and teakwood, or a volcanic aurum and silverite glaive. All three weapons carry the same aura; steady and still like stone, a somehow overwhelming sense of calm devotion, steadfast courage in even the face of fear. These are the weapons of a defender above all, someone who took up a blade and armor not for glory or enjoyment of it, but to defend those they love. There is, however, that running thread of excitement in each; because regardless, these are legendary times, and the times in which those legends are born or slain.

tagged by: no one, but i saw a few non-rp blogs doing this for their DA ocs, and I also saw one rpblog ( skyheld ) do something like this for their muses and it just. i needed to do it.

tagging: @berthindeath [ + ALL of your sideblogs ], @blightworn , @thedaschosen (everyone!!), @abanbas , @bloodofoldtevinter , @prophetries , @enregards , @myrdr (because why should mages be the only ones with weapons that take on the feelings of their users?) [ repost do not reblog obviously ]

#[ out of thedas: ooc ]#[ dash games ] gone by the light of day leave all our secrets behind #[ litriu headcanon ] no i never sold my soul if i ever do throw my bones to the wolves #[ regin headcanon ] the sound of the wind is whispering in your head oh can you feel it coming back?#[ harrow headcanon ] everything's alive and wild and dying an there's beauty in the sweat the blood the crying #[ litriu mahariel ] i took a little journey to the unknown and i've come back changed #[ harrow rook thorne ] sun coming up on a dream come round one hundred years from the empire now #[[ this was very fun actually #[ regin lavellan ] dive into the dying light and find me here

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champion-level-astroturfing · 10 months ago

Note

✌ - a memory of a relative

[a memory...

At the bottom of the garden, beyond the neatly planted out rows of vegetables and the old shed that leaned at a near-precise 37-degree angle to the right, was a fence that had seen better days. And beyond the fence was the forest.

The forest tried, often, to encroach on the everyday humanity of the garden, sending suckers and roots creeping beyond the boundary, and spores of glowing mushrooms as sleeper agents to spring up in circles when least expected. Shardy's father pulled them up, apologised to the neighbours (whose properties did not seem ever quite as affected, somehow), and told his boys that at six-and-a-half and five years old they were too young to go exploring out beyond the fence alone.

They did anyway. He knew they would.

Today both of them are standing by the biggest gap in the fence's aging planks, regarding the dimness of the trees beyond. It is very hot in the garden, but the depths of the Tangle are always shaded, and always at least a little bit damp.

"We going to the stream?" asks five-year-old Shardy, looking up at his brother hopefully. "I'm like the stream."

"Are we going to the stream," corrects his brother, who at six-and-a-half is reading and speaking at well past their expected age level, an ability that primarily manifests in ensuring their little sibling speaks correctly. "I like the stream."

"I'm like the stream too!" Shardy returns gleefully, missing the lesson entirely- or ignoring it. "Let's go, let's go!"

He slaps his bare chest enthusiastically and scrambles towards the gap, wriggling through and peering back at his brother expectantly. His brother who is still standing where he left them, frowning just a little bit.

Shardy frowns too, at this. His brother is never as fast or as excited or as energetic as he is, but also never far behind. And they're scared of lots of things, but never the Tangle. Shardy has been scared of the Tangle before, but his brother has always been the one to teach him how not to be.

Uneasy, he dances on the spot and waves at them. "C'mon c'mon c'mon!"

They take a single step forward, then stop again. Then they shake their head.

"We're not going to the stream today, Shardy."

Shardy's unease is immediately replaced by displeasure. He thrusts out his lower lip, fully prepared to unleash the screams if necessary.

"Why nooooooot?"

"It's not safe."

This is not a good reason. Shardy glances over his left shoulder at the woodland behind him; it looks the same as always. Alright, perhaps the trees are stooping a little lower, their branches stirring gently in a breeze he can't feel on his skin, and perhaps the shadows are stretching out dark fingers further than their usual hollows- but he is five, and he is hot, and he wants to paddle.

"No! Is safe! 'm going to the stream!"

He spins round properly, ready to run, to make his brother chase him- if he could get them into one of their usual chasing games, they would forget all this silliness about safety. But instead he makes it only a few paces away before he hears his brother let out a sound he's never heard them make, a shriek of terror so piercing he claps his hands over his ears and stops in his tracks.

And then his brother is dragging him back through the gap in the fence and Shardy, baffled, is letting them do it, because his brother has never screamed like that, or pulled him around physically, or even seemed so very adamant to go against Shardy's infant whims.

He lets them pull him all the way to the house, where their father is astonished to find his older son weeping and his younger uncharacteristically subdued, and baffled at the lack of explanation either can offer. At a loss, he makes them both a mug of milky tea, and insists they sit down to watch a film so he can keep an eye on them.

half an hour later an unexpected thunderstorm breaks over the Glimwood Tangle, and the trees howl and thrash in the wind, and the rain swells the trickle of a stream that small boys love to paddle in to a maelstrom of churning mud and branches.]

#ask games #pokemon writing

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jenaeswriting · 6 months ago

Text

January 13th

The colours in Mackay are electric. A visceral green that leaks from the leafy palms and tall sugarcane and buzzcut lawns. A sky blue as blue until the sunset when humidity clouds rise up from hot concrete and descend into the sky. I run around the university oval three times in the cool breeze that only exists during dusk. Last night there were thunderstorms. I was visiting my friend on her birthday, her dad died two days ago (and yet I write about my grief!) Lightening cracked across the sky like shards of glass. Big zig zags that zig zagged into tinier zig zags. Like the universe was breaking, like something behind the sky was entrapped and raging to leave. Endless numbers of bats flocks across the grey skies, like waves rolling on the shore.

I came home at 1pm to an empty house. I pissed with the door open and took a phone call on speaker phone. Then when the call ended I was left by myself, and with my own thoughts. So I screamed into my pillow. A big hoarse dry scream. I think Gabby, my housemate downstairs heard. She knows I am sad. Everyone does. And it’s no longer worth enquiring about. I was broken up with a year ago, and the sugarcane town of north Queensland I moved to didn’t change that. And there’s other things going on I guess. I have a job I care about. But I know that love is everything, I know love is the only thing. And when I am in Mackay I am not loved.

I am romanticising the big open sky and the teenage tantrum weather and I think about my ex. I stop at traffic lights and I think about my ex. I buy organic soy milk, and pluck a splinter out of my toe, and cough and smoke and drink and fuck and lie and I try to grow up or change but I still think about my ex.

His name was T and I miss the version I had of him. He has changed and I guess I have too. And nothing in particular broke us up I don’t think, just time and circumstance and age and a longing to know what’s out there. I wonder if he likes what’s out there. I don’t. But I lie and I pretend and I can fake laugh and I can smile and I can ask people how their day was and I can report the news, and sometimes I do it well and I am proud of myself, and when I don’t I think 'that’s okay I am too creative for this bullshit anyway'. And I think of my mum back home and how I don’t show her enough love, or how I only call my sister when I don’t feel up to showing the ugly side of myself to anyone else. And I forget things all the time, things about my friends. And I am always googling the calories of meals. And it’s all the same and I have the same bad habits I had at 21 except I have a serious job where I have to take my nose ring out. And I convince myself that I am growing and changing but the more I change the more I come back to who I used to be. Before I learnt the lessons I learnt from T.

And I am lucky in ways, and I should find a new subject to write about. A year on and it's pathetic. And I can feel myself not trying now. I had something to prove because I thought T and I would get back together and I wanted to keep my friends but I come back from Sydney and realised I am good for a catch up but not for too long. 2 hours with me and I will exhaust you. I am a wind up friend. Wind me up and I can go around in circle clap-clap-clap. Perhaps I am good for a call while you’re multi-tasking on the other end of the phone line, once a week, when you remember I exist.

So I am wondering if I move to Tasmania will I be happy but I know the answer and that’s that I have never been happy not even when I was with Tom. I have the journal entries to prove it. I felt suffocated, now I feel alone. And I feel ambitious and then I feel overwhelmed. And I never know. I never never know. So I will apply for jobs because then I can tell people I am applying for jobs. And I will go to work tomorrow and the next day and I will scream into my pillow and masturbate to go to sleep. And I will wait and wait and wait and wait. And learn and unlearn and take and I buy organic soy milk, and pluck a splinter out of my toe, and cough and smoke and drink and fuck and lie and I try to grow up or change. And then what.

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orchidsncrake · 1 year ago

Text

and watch them fall

chapters 1, 2, 3, 4

pairing: joe goldberg/rhys montrose

rating: explicit (preemptive)

tags: au - canon divergence, s4 rewrite, obsession, strangers to lovers, POV Joe Goldberg, murder, bookstore owner Joe Goldberg, Rhys Montrose is a real person, developing relationship, slow build, eventual relationship, eventual smut, tags to be updated

word count: 6,640

chapter 5/?

ao3 link and fink under the break! :)

Joe might be cleaning in his sleep. Logically, he knows he isn’t – he doesn’t sleep enough to be this productive, anyway – but as he runs his fingers along the tops of his books, he can’t fathom any other explanation. After each, his finger comes away clean when it should be caked with dust. It’d be explicable if it were his contemporary literature, but his classics? It’s not often that he rereads Don Quixote – it’d been enough labor to get through it the first time. Joe drops his hands to his side and begrudgingly accepts that he must have left a window open, and a gust blew in… somehow cleaning the tops of all the books shoved into his wall-bound shelves. The TV mumbles on as he walks by it to the door to pick up his shoes, turning into words as he sits on the couch to slip them on.

“...50° and partially cloudy this fine Monday. It’s finally drying out in the heart of England, with those chilling gusts of wind slowing down to a gentle breeze just in time to save those remaining yellow maples. Later this week, we’re to expect some light passing showers with a possible thunderstorm on Friday – but don’t you worry because Saturday will be crisp and clear. Now, off to…”

At least the weather will be nice for Saturday, though Joe can’t tell if that’s good news. Accepting Rhys’ author feels like a fever dream now – something he’d done on impulse without any good reasoning. Yes, he’d like to see Rhys, but the rest? He’d realized after the fact that he hadn’t even asked for the guest list, and all he knows will be definitely attending is Roald and Phoebe. He had intended to leave it at that and learn how to appreciate the unknown, but, well, Instagram is far too easy to use, and who is he not to use the perfectly good tool put in front of him by the people themselves?

Researching Phoebe had been easy to the point that it had hardly counted as research. Everything Rhys had said about her was, unsurprisingly, true. Her Instagram posts that aren’t of her and an endlessly revolving group of friends (he saw a face repeat twice, maybe ) are promotions for a slew of charities, ranging from ending world hunger to introducing designer footwear to the impoverished youths of Yemen (that one is, admittedly, absurd, but Rhys said she was sweet, not particularly smart). Starting about a year and a half ago, Joe found her well-lit and perfectly posed selfies accompanied by a soft-faced man with a smile that screamed ‘American.’ Following the tags, he’d stumbled upon one Adam Pratt, an American expat (point Joe) and son to a wealthy East Coast businessman. Naturally, he’d taken up a loose version of entrepreneurship, which, if the lack of actual products on his Instagram means anything, is more recreation than anything.

Joe had been surprised to find his neighbor Kate in Phoebe’s birthday post from last year, and yet, there she was. Clicking through a few years of posts, he’d consistently found Kate (Kate Galvin, to be thorough), leading him to conclude that they had to be something similar to best friends. Kate’s account is dry, but he shouldn’t have expected anything more from a woman with a French bob in London. He’d quickly given up on her, just for Phoebe to be his saving grace again with a memorial post for Malcolm and, lo and behold, there was Kate. They’d dated, apparently, though the awkward distance between them in every picture suggests quite unhappily. There was no such post about Malcolm on Kate’s page, nor any pictures of him at all. Only promotions for the art gallery she directs, which brings him to Simon Soo.

Simon’s Instagram reeks of artistic douchebag, and with one Google, Joe had proven himself right. Simon, the son of a technology magnate and younger brother to Sophie Soo, another social media influencer, is a surprisingly good artist. He’s currently working with Kate on opening some exhibit at the museum Kate manages and is often promoted on his sister’s account. He’d bored Joe quickly, and begrudgingly, he’d turned to Roald. He’d only been able to tolerate that demon’s Instagram for a few minutes because, truly, he was a demon. It was full of pictures of hunting tours (a.k.a. recently dead cadavers) and oddly passionate dick-riding of oil companies, so he’d abandoned it quickly and happily resigned to knowing as little about the bastard as he safely could.

Lastly, he’d researched Gemma Graham-Greene, though he’d strongly wanted to ignore her altogether. He’d almost forgotten her until she’d shown up in the background of one of Phoebe’s posts and completely ruined the photo’s charm. She was certainly a… presence, and Joe kept having to swallow back a rising contempt for her based only on the rumor he’d heard on the news weeks ago, which he doesn’t believe. He can’t imagine Rhys being unfaithful, but then again, he has a bad habit of forgetting he’s married. Joe suspects it’s more for publicity than anything because Rhys hasn’t spoken a word about her and very notably is not bringing her to Phoebe’s party, but him. Don’t husbands typically bring their wives by default? Even if they aren’t at the risk of being Mrs. Lovett’d.

He turns off the TV, shaking his head to bring himself back to the land of the present. He braces his hands on his knees to draw himself up from the couch, then grabs his keys from their dish. One foot out the door, he turns around and takes a sweater from the back of a chair to put on over his button-up, though he doesn’t see himself leaving the building today. Locking his door, he stuffs his keys in his pocket and drapes the sweater over his arm. He makes it down three steps before his phone buzzes to life in his pocket, the screen shining through his slacks. Hope blooms ridiculously within him, but abates when he fishes it out to be greeted with UNKNOWN CALLER scrolling across the screen. Still, the last time he had picked up an unknown call, it’d been Irene Crosby, and that’d worked out… well, it’d worked out. But that’d been a call to his landline, wildly different from his personal phone, and he needs to decide already. He taps the screen.

“Jonathan Moore?” He says.

“Oh! Jonathan, I’d hoped I’d gotten the right number,” a feminine voice says, cheerful but not pitchy like Irene’s.

“Uh,” he stammers. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, it’s a bit the other way around. This is Phoebe Borehall-Blaxworth, though you can just call me Phoebe. Rhys said he’d mentioned me?”

“Oh!” Joe exclaims, surprised. He starts making his way down the stairs again. “Yes, Phoebe, he did mention you. It’s nice to meet you,” He says pleasantly, actively refusing to acknowledge how odd this situation is. Maybe the English are just more outgoing than Americans, against every stereotype. Or maybe the rich assume everyone wants to talk to them, regardless of how strange it is to call random people. But he’s not random, is he? He’s an invitee.

“It is just lovely, isn’t it?” She responds strangely. “Well, I do hope you don’t mind the phone call, but Rhys called me last night to catch up – he is a dear, isn’t he? – and asked if it’d be alright if you could be his invite, and of course I had to say yes! I love to see Rhys branch out, since – oh, well. Let’s not talk about that.” Phoebe takes a breath and sighs. “Anyway, he told me you needed a jumper for the event?”

Joe almost forgets to respond, reeling from having his ear talked off. So Rhys had asked Phoebe before inviting him? That means he had intended to go all along, or maybe he really hadn’t, and it’d just been a last-minute decision. There’s no way for Joe to know, which sets his teeth on edge. “Yes, I do. My wardrobe is a bit, uh, limited,” he admits sheepishly.

“Oh, that’s alright, dear!” Phoebe assures him. “I was just thinking that since you’d have to get it to come to my party, I’d take you shopping to get one. And I’d love to meet you beforehand. Any friend of Rhys’ is a friend of mine, and he has said wonderful things about you.”

Joe’s eyebrows shoot up. You have? He sets his pullover on the counter and flips the sign on the door. “You really don’t have to do that, though it’s a very kind offer.”

“Oh, nonsense, Jonathan. It’s the least I could do, and I really must meet you. Are you familiar with Harrods?”

Joe’s stomach almost leaps into his throat. “The luxury department store with the dress code?”

Phoebe, thankfully, only laughs. “Yes, that’s the one. We ought to get you something nice; sometimes, some of our friends can be a tad pompous,” she says playfully. “And don’t worry about the price, dear. I have friends in the company, and they’re very kind people. Well, if you know them, at least. Regardless, it should be a lovely time. So, what do you say?” Joe can practically imagine the broad smile he’d seen over and over on her Instagram, and somehow, even in his imagination, it sways him. Besides, it’d be rude to decline, wouldn’t it? He can’t very well say no to meeting a woman whose party he’ll be attending within the week, never mind refusing something as kind as taking him shopping. And she does seem sweet. Rhys had promised as much, but oh, what would Rhys think if he blew off his friend? He just cannot not accept – he has to.

“That sounds wonderful,” he breathes. He twists the thermostat, listening to the building wake and hum around him like a thing alive. Even as he accepts, he has a sinking feeling that he’s stepping into something he doesn’t understand, like diving into a sinkhole. Still, the sinkhole runs a charity for handicapped horses, so how bad can it be?

“Lovely! Oh, that’s great, Jonathan. Does Friday afternoon work? I have events all through this week, unfortunately.”

“Uh, yes, Friday works fine.” It’s not like he does much else than run the bookstore, anyway.

“Perfect. I’m truly excited to meet you, truly. I’ll send you a calendar invite, and don’t worry about transportation, I’ll come by your shop with a car. Rhys told me where it is, and I must admit, I looked it up. It’s wonderfully cozy, isn’t it?” Joe has barely enough time to agree. “Anyway, I must be going, but it was nice to meet you, Jonathan. I look forward to Friday!”

“You as well,” Joe responds feebly, groaning wearily once Phoebe hangs up. He’s going to be eaten alive. He sits down at his counter with a huff and clicks on the prompt notification from the still-unknown number, which he updates to Phoebe Borehall-Blaxworth. He adds the event to his calendar – 2:00 at Harrods – and sets his phone down when it lights up in his hand. He accepts the call quickly.

“Rhys?”

“Hello, John,” Rhys breathes, sounding weary. “I suppose I didn’t beat Phoebe’s phone call?”

Joe frowns. “Uh, no, I just got off the phone with her. Is something wrong?”

“No, no – well, actually, I’d called to ask you that.” Rhys sounds uncertain in a way Joe doesn’t like. “I didn’t mean to sic her on you, John, honestly. I’d asked her if I could bring you to the party, and she gets excited about new people, and –”

“Woah, woah, Rhys,” Joe interrupts. “It’s okay. She was very sweet and even offered to take me shopping for a sweater for Saturday, which was surprising but appreciated. It’s probably better that I meet her before the party, since she’s the hostess and all. Honestly, it’s okay.”

Rhys’ heavy sigh of relief turns into clipped laughter, and Joe’s shoulders relax. “Alright, mate. Thank god, I was so worried,” he admits, surprising Joe. He doesn’t know why, but he’d assumed Rhys was somehow incapable of worrying. “I’m glad to hear she made a good impression. And she’s taking you shopping?” Rhys asks, the familiar teasing lilt slipping back into his voice.

“Oh, very funny. I couldn’t say no, now could I?” Joe counters. “No, I suppose not. Would be kind of sick, wouldn’t it? To accept going to a stranger's party and then refusing to meet them beforehand.” It’s like you’re in my brain.

“Mhm, so really, I didn’t have a choice, and you’re the bad guy for making fun of me.” “Bad guy? That’s rich. Where’s she taking you, anyway?”

Joe rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t even want to say.”

“Somewhere luxurious and owned by old family friends of hers?”

“Y’know, your amusement with my floundering in the land of the nepotists and influencers isn’t a good look.”

Rhys barks out a laugh, making Joe smile to himself. “I beg to differ. I think it’s a great look. Speaking of looks, though, you are in good hands with Phoebe. She lets her friends wear nothing but the best.”

“Phoebe and I are friends now?”

“Oh, now, dear Jonathan, you’re properly indoctrinated. They’re going to start taxing you less and everything.”

Joe laughs, still surprised by Rhys’ sense of humor. “If all I have to do is spend a stupid amount of money on a discounted sweater to do that, then I guess I’m in.”

“Oh, Phoebe’ll be buying the sweater, mate.”

Joe sits upright in indignance. “Like hell she is.”

Rhys laughs bemusedly. “There’s that American spunk I hear so much about. You’re welcome to fight with her about it but believe me, she’ll win. Like a dog with a bone, that one. If the dog had a trust fund and a manicure.”

Joe loses grip of his momentary resentment and settles back into his seat. “I guess it’s a fight for Friday.”

“So you’re going Friday, then?” Rhys asks semi-coherently, as like he’s eating something. Joe nods, then realizes he can’t see that. “Mhm. Friday at 2. Apparently, some car is coming to pick me up? Which is kind of terrifying.” Rhys laughs through his nose. “Phoebe has a personal driver, some brash cockney bloke. Little scary, mostly because I’m fairly certain he’s killed people before and likes it.”

Joe ignores the sting. “Some people are crazy.” “Oh, that’s not why I’ve got a problem with him. It’s that he’s got these beady little eyes, and I swear he can see into my future. Probably knows when I’m going to die.”

“So murder is fine, but clairvoyance isn’t?” Joe’s head jerks up as the bell chimes, a young woman walking into the store. He smiles at her politely, then nods when she gestures like she needs assistance. “Look, I’ve got to go; a customer just walked in. I’ll bother you about sacrificing me to your cult of entrepreneurs later, okay?” Rhys hums. “Alright, John.” Joe hangs up and sets his phone down, silencing it quickly. He rounds the counter, his hands clasped together before him.

“How can I help you?”

The young woman smiles kindly at him, her pinkened lips splitting to reveal slightly uneven teeth. “I’m looking for a book for my mother’s birthday, but all I have idea-wise is that she’s looking to read more fiction.”

Joe nods and gestures towards the appropriate section. “Would you follow me, and we can find something?” The woman nods and follows Joe’s hand, and he turns around as another customer files in and beelines to the historical non-fiction. At least if it’s a busy enough day, he won’t be able to dwell on Phoebe, though he’s sure it’ll be fine. The bell chimes again as he disappears into the shelves with the woman, pointing out some of the best sellers. Rhys wouldn’t lead him astray, right?

***

The weather channel lied, unsurprisingly. Joe gazes out the window, disgruntled, as he watches rain pelt the pain. He’s already wearing a sweater and boots, but now he shrugs on a raincoat, cursing whatever rogue meteorologist dared lie to the English public. He’s already done his hair – he’s getting better at the curling method, which he holds embarrassing pride in – out of a juvenile fear of being publicly shamed at Harrods for having… curly hair or something. It’s a half-baked anxiety. He grabs his keys, wallet (he will spar this woman), and umbrella, then sets off down to the bookstore. It’s a quarter to 2 now, and Google Maps told him it’s a five-minute drive to Harrods, so he figures he ought to be in the store ahead of time. He’d decided not to open it again today, which, admittedly, he’s been doing too much recently. People will just have to find another small store to hide from the rain and buy nothing from.

The curtains of the front windows are still shut, echoing the statement ‘closed’ that the big red sign on the door shouts. The rain on the door casts a speckled shadow across the store’s wood floors, and Joe stands in its center, enjoying the image. The only sound is the pattering on glass and the faint ticking from the grandfather clock, and he lets himself be lulled into peace. Today will undoubtedly be chaotic, but in five hours, at the absolute most, he’ll be back in his bookstore. Besides, he knows he rationally has nothing to be worried about. Phoebe may be intimidatingly elite, but he was married to a literal serial killer, so he should be ready for anything. Joe’s phone dings with a notification from the woman herself, and then a black car parks in front of the store. Joe takes a deep breath to steel his nerves. Five hours at the absolute most, one new sweater, then back to his apartment. Easy. He walks onto the sidewalk, locking the store behind him, and the rear window rolls down. Joe squints into it as there’s a blur of yellow and pink, and then Phoebe’s face appears, her hand gesturing frantically for him.

“Come on, Jonathan! You’re going to catch a cold,” she chimes and opens the door. Joe rushes over, takes the handle, and slides into the backseat, pulling the door closed behind him. He sets his umbrella at his feet, brushes his hair back, stalling, and then looks at Phoebe. She’s already smiling brightly at him, her eyes squinted kindly. He tries to smile back, but he’s certain it comes off as forced and awkward. He extends her hand forward, and he shakes it, grateful. At least he knows how to do that.

“It’s even better to meet you in person,” she assures him, then gives him a bold look-over. “I love your look,” she gushes, folding her hands in her lap. She shifts to sit a bit sideways, her legs folded delicately so she can look at him head-on. The spacious backseat allows for it easily. “It’s very academic.”

Joe laughs softly, running a hand over his sweater. “Half of owning a bookstore is looking like you do,” he offers good-naturedly, smiling softly. She hums, then taps on the driver’s shoulder, who Joe had somehow managed to miss. “Vic, we’re set to go to Harrods now.”

“Alright, Lady Phoebe,” the man responds gruffly. He must be the one Rhys had mentioned. Joe looks into the rear view mirror and, horrifically, meets the man’s piercing gaze. Definitely the one Rhys mentioned; beady, indeed.

“Well, I assume you like earth tones, right?” Phoebe asks, returning her focus to Joe. It’s not as intimidating as he had feared it’d be; she seems kind and entirely harmless, not the type to try to trip him up.

“Uh, yes, I do,” he responds sheepishly. “They’re really all I wear.”

“They suit you, so I see no point in taking you out of your comfort zone. Harrods’ collection is extensive, so I’m positive we’ll find something you like,” she promises, still smiling. She tilts her head to the side, then opens her mouth as an idea dawns on her. “You have slacks, don’t you? If you don’t, we can certainly get you some.”

Joe shakes his head. “No, no, I have plenty. It’s only my sweaters that are outdated.” He looks down at his lap, playing with the top’s hem.

“We’ll fix that right up, won’t we?” She nods resolutely as if that settles it. “I did forget to mention, I invited a girlfriend of mine to shop with us since she’s been a bit of a homebody lately.” She laughs at the in-joke Joe naturally doesn’t get. “She does live right around here, but she insisted on meeting us there – some meeting or something.” Joe furrows his brows. “She lives around here?”

“Yes,” Phoebe confirms, wetting her lips. “She’s the artistic type and says she loves living in the business sector, but I think she only ever agreed to it because her ex had insisted.”

“Ex? And she’s stayed?” Joe asks, then realizes he’s prying. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“Oh, no, you’re alright, darling.” Phoebe pats his knee reassuringly. “It is quite an odd situation, but it’s still a bit fresh, so naturally, she hasn’t done much regarding change.”

Joe nods, mouth shaped around a silent ‘oh.’ “I understand.”

Phoebe hums, looking a bit concerned for a moment. “Yes, I do worry.” She seems to catch herself and goes back to smiling again. “Anyway, I hope this little outing will cheer her up a bit, though she isn’t entirely into fashion. Just sticks to black pantsuits, doesn’t she?” Phoebe laughs, and he follows along, though he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with black pantsuits.

The car slows to a crawl, then parks on the side of the street. The driver, Vic, turns around, a scarred hand hanging onto the passenger’s headrest. “We’re here, Lady Phoebe.”

“Perfect, thank you, Vic.” Phoebe collects and slings her purse over her shoulder, giving the man a soft smile. He smiles back, tipping his chin, then looks at Joe side-long. He shrinks away a bit, brows furrowed in confusion. What’s he done to him? “Let’s go, Jonathan. You can slide out this side, it’s bound to be flooded out there.” The gestures to the street, then the passenger door opens and Joe sees Vic somehow outside the car and holding it open. Who is this guy? Phoebe slides out easily with the help of Vic, and Joe hesitates to follow, not wanting to get that close to the man. Still, he doesn’t have a choice, so he crawls out and drags himself up onto one leg, his umbrella tucked under his arm. He opens it quickly and holds it over Phoebe, which Vic seems to approve of because he stops visibly trying to kill him with his mind.

“I’ll call you when we’re all set, alright, Vic?” Phoebe says.

“Sounds perfect, Lady Phoebe. I’ll run an errand while you’re shopping if that’s alright?” Joe’s never heard someone sound more like gravel on gravel.

“Of course. I’ll see you!” Phoebe waves, then holds out an elbow to Joe, which he hesitates before taking. Once they’re linked, she leads him into the store. He has to quickly close the umbrella as she opens the door, shaking it a few times. The interior is incredible, all softly lit with LEDs that make the marble floor shine. The ceiling is all Greco-Roman stone work, magnificent pillars flanking the main walkway. It’s clearly multiple stories tall, escalators tucked in the back. It looks more like a cathedral than a store and Joe feels thoroughly out of place. A young man, no more than twenty, hurries up to them and takes Joe’s umbrella. An older gentleman in a green suit approaches them, hands behind his back.

“Good morning, miss,” he greets politely, then turns and nods wordlessly at Joe. “May I take your coats?” Phoebe nods, smiling at him, and removes her overcoat. Joe follows suit, and the gentleman takes both and drapes them over his arm. He makes to leave when Phoebe holds a hand out for his attention.

“Excuse me, sir. We’re meeting a friend of ours here – Kate Galvin? She should have arrived about ten minutes ago.”

Wait, Kate is here? How did he not put that together in the car? Old friend of hers, lives near his bookstore – of course it’s Kate. Somehow, this is terrible news to Joe. Not only is he now spending time with Phoebe, but her best friend who lives across the street from him? It’s all way too close, like he’s in the center of a web that he’s just realizing the size of and will only get bigger. Despite his mounting panic, he follows Phoebe when she waves for him to do so. She leads them deeper into the store, then down a hallway to a private room. Good god, how wealthy are these people? The gentleman opens the curtain to what resembles a wedding dress fitting room, and on a settee sits Kate in, unsurprisingly, a black pantsuit. She’s holding a flute of champagne despite it being 2 pm with one leg crossed over the other. Her brows lift in recognition when Phoebe enters, then drop when she registers Joe.

“Kate!” Phoebe squeals, rushing over to hug the other, who doesn’t rise from her seat. Joe bows his head at the gentleman still holding the curtain, mouths ‘thank you,’ then slips into the room. The heavy curtain falls shut behind him, and he stands awkwardly by the entrance. “Joe, come over and meet Kate,” Phoebe instructs, curling a finger towards herself. Joe shuffles over uncertainty, and Phoebe steps to the side. Kate’s face is still one of judgment, and he tucks his chin.

“I don’t believe we’ve properly met. I’m Jonathan.” He offers his hand, which she takes after a moment of painstaking hesitation.

“No, I don’t think we have,” she replies coolly, settling back in her seat.

Phoebe cocks her head, looking between the two of them. “Do you two know each other?” Joe opens his mouth to answer, but Kate beats him to it.

“He lives in the flat across the street from mine, above the bookstore. We’ve caught each other’s eye through the window on occasion,” she explains, sipping her drink. Joe’s shoulders droop when she doesn’t mention how often the ‘occasion’ really is, but she raises her brow at him, keeping him on guard.

“Oh, how peculiar. I somehow didn’t put that together,” Phoebe says, apparently happy to accept she didn’t recognize the street being the same. She looks around until she spots a young woman in the corner that Joe, again, hadn’t spotted. What is up with me today? “You, could you please fetch us some men’s jumpers for my friend here?” She asks, gesturing at Joe. “He’s a…” Joe offers his size, medium, when she falters, “medium, right. We’re looking for something earth-toned.” The young woman nods curtly and scurries out of the room, leaving Joe to the wolves.

“So, John, you own a bookstore?” Kate starts, saving Joe from standing there eerily silent and staring at the wall.

“Yes, I do. I bought it about half a year ago when I emigrated from the States.” Phoebe perks up at this.

“Oh, I love America! They have wonderful perfumes. Where are you from?”

Joe wets his lips and considers lying before realizing he has no reason to. “New York City. I moved from there around the beginning of this year.” Well, at least that’s half-true.

“What made you leave?” Kate asks.

Joe purses his lips. “I just wanted to travel. The city is great, but I figured I should experience other places while I can,” he offers, smiling.

Phoebe nods enthusiastically. “Oh, I wish I could travel more. I already do a lot, really. Italy in the summer and Sweden for two weeks in the winter, but I do wish I could live abroad for at least a little while.”

Kate cocks her head. “Why don’t you?”

Phoebe wrings her hands. “Oh, you know, Adam and all. He’s very invested in his business and I don’t want to disrupt his process. He’s really trying very hard,” Phoebe insists, looking at Joe imploringly. Unsure what else to do, he nods. Kate only smirks at him.

“He can work without you here, he’s a big boy,” Kate needles. Phoebe only sighs at her, a look of relief washing over her as the young attendant enters the room again, arms full of a stack of sweaters ranging from blue to brown to green. Kate raises an eyebrow and sets her drink down as Phoebe rushes over to where the attendant sets the stack down, tapping Joe’s shoulder along the way to encourage her to follow.

“Thank you,” Phoebe says quickly to the young woman, who nods and settles back into silently occupying the corner. Phoebe holds up the first sweater, happy to be back in her element and free from Kate’s prodding. This first option is light blue that Joe can’t remember the name of.

“Cornflower,” Phoebe offers helpfully. “It’s a lovely color, isn’t it?” Joe only nods, then accepts the sweater as it’s handed to him. Phoebe points to a curtain-covered stall. “You can change in there, Jonathan. Then Kate and I will vote,” she says playfully, bringing her shoulders to her ears with excitement. Joe laughs softly and shuts himself into the stall, laying the sweater on the low bench. What has he gotten himself into? He pulls off his sweater, thankful that he’d had the foresight to wear an undershirt today. He’d worn slacks, as per Harrods dress code, which is an entirely different issue, for a clothing store to have rules about the clothes you come in. He slides the first sweater on, careful not to stretch the stitching, and looks at himself in the mirror. The color seems too light for him – maybe it’d suit Rhys with his eyes, but not Joe. He pulls back the curtain to show the other two, just to have the same conclusions spat at him.

“Too light for a brunette,” Kate says simply. Phoebe furrows her brows at her, then levels Joe with a soft smile.

“I do have to agree with Kate. I think the darker tones will suit you better, with your hair and eyes and all.” She sorts through the pile, immediately setting a light green one aside into the beginning of the rejects. Next, she hands Joe a dark brown one. The material is a bit softer than the first, and when Joe checks the tag, he sees it’s cashmere. What he does not see is a price sticker, which is always a bad sign. “Alright, off you go.” Joe nods and turns back to the changing room, catching Kate’s gaze on the way. He turns quicker and returns to the stall. He’s not sure what he saw in her eyes, but he doesn’t like it. He switches the brown out for the blue, then folds the first one and exits with it in his hands.

“Oh, I like it! Don’t you, Kate?”

Kate looks up from her nail beds to assess Joe, then frowns approvingly. “Definitely an improvement from the blue.”

Phoebe rolls her eyes but rushes over, walking around Joe for the full view. “It fits well, certainly. But the brown just seems a bit… much, don’t you think? Much and nothing at the same time. Will you be wearing those trousers tomorrow?”

Joe looks down, as if he’d forgotten which pants he is wearing. “Yeah, I am.”

Phoebe clucks and takes the blue sweater, then returns to the table, adds it to the second pile, then picks up a dark green one. She checks the tag first, nods, apparently pleased, then offers it to Joe. “This one will suit you nicely, I think, since your trousers are a dark brown and we’ve already decided darker tones suit you better. It is difficult to pull off jewel tones – I wish I could myself – but you can. I think it’s the eyes.” Phoebe pauses to stare at Joe, her eyes roaming over his face before locking on his. She leans back, claps once, then shoos Joe away with flapping hands. He squints at her, which gets a grin, and returns to his stall.

He really hopes they choose this one. It’s soft, like the other – the brand was the same, apparently – and fits him well without any of the waist-bunching issues he tends to have, but the color is the best part. The green is dark enough to probably look almost black in poor lighting, and Phoebe had been right, it suits his eyes. Not that he’d ever say that out loud. He opens the curtain to face the music, but is only met with Phoebe squealing.

“Oh, Jonathan, it’s perfect!” She exclaims, clapping. “Kate, look! Isn’t it just lovely?”

Kate looks up and, to Joe’s pleasure, smirks. “Much better than the blue and brown. It does suit him.” She says this last bit to Phoebe and not him, but he decides to take the compliment, which it may not even be.

“Yes, yes, wonderful. I think that was the quickest, most successful shopping trip I’ve ever had,” Phoebe gushes. “Boys just have it so easy.”

Joe laughs, running a hand over his chest to feel the material. “We have the luxury of consistent clothing sizes.” Phoebe giggles and Kate snorts quietly. “I’ll go change and be right back out.” Phoebe nods, humming affirmatively, and he tucks into the stall. He gets redressed in his clothes carefully, then takes a moment to fix his hair, which had frizzed a bit from the repeated mussing. He reemerges, a sweater in either hand, and Phoebe takes the rejected one from him and sets it aside.

“Alright, and it’s only 4 o’clock,” Kate says nonchalantly, making Joe check the time on his phone. Two hours? What is this, the upper class Doldrums? Kate finishes her drink and stands, walking over to Phoebe, speaking to her softly. “It’s been lovely seeing you, Phoebe. Thank you for inviting me. I’ve got to be off to the museum now, we’re still preparing for Simon’s exhibit.”

Phoebe sighs, wilting a little, but turns to kiss Kate on the cheek. “Yes, I understand. Thank you for coming, it really was wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, yes?”

“Yes, of course, Pheebs,” Kate promises, then turns to Joe. “Good to meet you properly, John,” she says, though he suspects it’s for Phoebe’s sake.

“Of course, you too,” he replies, watching the attendant put the green sweater in a sturdy paper bag. She comes over and hands it to Phoebe though she knows it’s for Joe, and he squints.

“Let’s go check out, Jonathan,” Phoebe sighs, disappearing behind the curtain divider. He follows after her quickly.

“Don’t you mean ‘how about you go check out?’” Joe asks.

Phoebe laughs softly. “No, silly. This was my treat, as a thank you for being so kind to Rhys.”

Joe huffs, weaving behind her as she slithers through the new crowd of customers. Her heels click on the tiles authoritatively. “That’s absurd, I can’t let you do that. You’re already being kind enough to let me come to your party, which thank you for, by the way. Buying me a sweater is too much.”

“It’s not a matter of ‘can’t,’ Jonathan, but ‘won’t.’ And since it’s a matter of won’t, you will,” Phoebe peeps. Joe stares at the back of her well-styled head, flabbergasted. She arrives at the checkout counter, which is really just an impressive slab of granite with metal cash registers set on top, and sets the back on it.

“Phoebe–” he protests, only to be silenced with a wave of her hand. Rhys was right. You’re indomitable.

“Cash or credit, ma’am?” The cashier asks, quickly answered by Phoebe’s credit card being thrust before him. He nods, rings up the sweater. There is no screen to show the amount, dear god. “Are you a member with us, ma’am?”

“Yes, I am. My name is Phoebe Borehall-Blaxworth.”

The cashier’s mouth opens in surprise. “Ah, Lady Phoebe! My apologies for not recognizing you. I’ll add your family discount right away.”

Phoebe spins around as the cashier clacks away, the round keys clicking pleasantly. “Really, Jonathan, consider it a token of my appreciation. Rhys has been having a bit of a hard time recently, and while I shouldn’t get into it, you’ve been a good addition to his life. For someone beloved by millions, he doesn’t talk to very many people.” Phoebe turns around and accepts the receipt, stuffing it into her purse before Joe can look. He frowns and she hands the bag over, then pats his arm. “You’ll be just fine.”

He follows her to the front door, where they’re returned their coats. She texts someone, presumably Vic, and in the next moment, the black car parks by the sidewalk. He follows her out, his umbrella staying tucked under his arm, the rain abating for a moment. He walks to the far side of the car, nodding to Vic on the way, not wanting to get that close to him again. They both climb into the back seat, then Vic takes off down the street.

“How was shopping, Lady Phoebe?” Vic asks, completely ignoring Joe. Fine by him.

“It went perfectly, Vic. Found the perfect sweater, didn’t we, Jonathan?”

“Yes, Phoebe did me well.” Joe smiles at her softly, her returning it.

“Well, that’s good to hear, idnnit,” Vic says.

They’re back in front of Subtexts quickly, and the rain has picked up again. Joe opens the door, opening the umbrella just outside of it, then steps into its shelter, the bag tucked safely against his side. He shuts it, and its window rolls down so Phoebe can speak out.

“Thank you again for agreeing to come, Jonathan. It was a very nice time.”

Joe smiles back at her, leaning down so she can see it. “It was, thank you for inviting me, and for the sweater. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Have a safe drive.” He pats the door’s sill, and Phoebe waves at him as Vic rolls up the window and drives away. He rushes to the store, fumbling with the keys a moment before managing to unlock it, then bursts inside. The trip up to his apartment is a race against pneumonia, and he shuts the door firmly behind him. He puts the bag on his bed, then returns to the living room to drape his coat over the armchair to dry by the fire he sets about starting. He’s just got the fire starter going when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he stands to take it out.

Did you fall to the queen? Joe smirks. What perfect timing.

You were right about the dog with a bone thing , he responds. The three dots appear immediately.

Did you find something you like?

Yeah, a dark green one. Did you know I’m best suited for jewel tones? He can almost hear Rhys’ laughter, and imagining his grin is easy.

I would’ve figured you for pastels.

That’s mean.

You’ll be fine.

Joe smiles, sets his phone down, and prods the fire, watching the beginning sparks fly up. He’ll survive the party just fine, nothing to worry about. How bad can it be? Just him, Rhys, whom he’s only known for a couple weeks, Phoebe, who he already likes an irrational amount, and the rest of the gilded bloodsuckers. Worst comes to worst, it becomes a very well-dressed game of Clue, but he’s always been good at that game.

#you netflix #joe x rhys #goldrose #rhys montrose #fanfiction #my work

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zerobaselove · 2 years ago

Text

zb1 being protective

pairing: zb1 x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: catcalling in jiwoong's, mention of thunderstorms in matthew's, mention of bullying in yujin's. lowercase intended, not proofread

notes: idk if all of these are even considered as protective but i view them that way so i hope that's okay <33

members under the cut!

jiwoong ;

window shopping was a frequent hobby for you and jiwoong. the two of you often enjoyed just walking around, drink in hand, as you browsed the store lined streets of your city. it wasn't abnormal for you to get some stares from people, but usually they were from women looking at jiwoong; you couldn't even blame them, your boyfriend was quite the sight.

this time however, the attention came in the form of calls and whistles from a group of men nearby, and you knew it was directed towards you. you were just going to speed up, attempting to drag jiwoong past the group without saying anything, but he wasn't having that.

"who do you think you are, really? do you have nothing better to do than make someone uncomfortable in your presence? no wonder you're all sitting here with nobody other than each other." he spit out, an almost venomous tone to his voice, a contrast from his usual voice. grabbing your hand and walking you around the corner, out of their sight.

pausing for a moment, jiwoong faced you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "are you okay?" he dropped his hand to grab yours, "i'm sorry they were acting like that, and i'm sorry you had to see me like that." his voice trailed off slightly, reflecting on his short tempter. "i just couldn't let them continue thinking that they could get away with that."

you simply smiled at the boy, cupping his cheek as you placed a quick peck on his lips, "it's okay jiwoong, i'm okay," you squeezed his hand lightly, "and i appreciate it, i appreciate you."

zhang hao ;

it wasn't abnormal for you and zhang hao to like to go for walks together; you both enjoyed the fresh air, especially with summer around the corner, and you enjoyed just having time to yourself to chat as you admired the breeze through the trees or the pretty flowers that lined the sidewalks.

the two of you weren't walking with much purpose, but you had ended up in the middle of town on a street lined with bakeries, cafe's and little boutiques. despite your best efforts you had come out of a few of the shops with small bags, some earrings you couldn't pass up or a small pastry.

"give me those," zhang hao said quietly, reaching out to hold the bags you've collected, adding them to his own in his hand. you tried to turn to him to respond but before you knew it he was on the other side of you, separating you from the cars on the street. you couldn't help but smile at the act.

"you didn't have to do that you know," you shook your head as the two of you continued down the street. zhang hao simply hummed, switching the bags to his other hand so he could use his free hand to grab yours, "who've you been hanging out with?" he almost sounded disappointed at the idea of you not getting this respect before him, "it's a basic courtesy."

it was foreign to you though. nobody had ever done something like that, even if it was just simple. and it made your heart speed up faster than it should've. "at least let me carry the bags." he only shook his head playfully, leaving you in defeat as he squeezed your hand, holding it up in front of you, "and anyways, your hand is already busy."

hanbin ;

hanging out with your friends was fun and all, until it wasn't. you loved your friends, you did, but your social battery only lasted so long and you were well past your limits. you just wanted to go home and wash off the day you've had, but here you were with your group of friends, unable to leave as they were your ride here.

the only thing keeping you sane at this point was texting your boyfriend hanbin, he always knew what to say and what would calm you down, and he had some good ideas rolled up his sleeves too. "do you want me to come pick you up? i can even call you with an excuse if you'd like ^^" the text read, and without any further consideration, you typed back a quick agreement and awaited the call flashing across your screen.

you muttered a small, "sorry i have to take this," before answering the call, ready for whatever fake situation hanbin had managed to come up with. as he relayed the information to you, you could hear the faint sound of his keys jingling and the door shutting in the background, signifying he was already on his way. you had to hide the smile threatening to spread to your face at the idea of getting to relax with your boyfriend instead of getting dragged to the next bar your friends wanted to hit.

soon enough you hung up, explaining the "dire emergency" to your friends. they all wished you well as you walked outside to wait for hanbin, soon seeing his car pull up. "never knew you were such a good actor," you chuckled as you got into the passenger seat. "what can i say," he smiled, "i'm a jack of all trades."

you and hanbin chatted over the soft music playing over the radio, and you had felt at ease for the first time in hours. after a moment of silence had risen, you let your words surface, "i love you hanbin," you looked over to the boy as you watched his ears immediately turn a light shade of red. he stuttered a few times before gathering a response, "i love you too," he reached over and grabbed your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze; you couldn't think of a better way to spend your night.

matthew ;

ever since you were a kid you had been afraid of storms; whether it be the loud cracks of thunder or the heavy downpour or the potential aftermath, you hated storms. you remembered countless nights as a kid when you'd seek comfort in the blankets on your bed as you hid under them in an attempt to muffle the rumbling sky. but now you were grown up, you were past that; the blankets that is.

because once again you had found yourself unable to sleep because of the raging storm outside. the rain so strong it felt like it'd break your windows at any moment. and quite honestly, you were terrified. but lucky for you, you had a new vice. matthew.

the usual blanket wrapped around your frame had been replaced with matthew's arms as you leaned into his chest, finding comfort in the heat radiating off of his body and the smell of his shampoo. while he couldn't quite drown out the noise, he did make for a pretty good distraction.

"it's okay my love, you're safe, i've got you" he whispered close to your ear, his hand rubbing circles on your back as your breathing evened out. you weren't keeping up your end of the conversation too well but that didn't stop him. whether it was reassurance or telling an embarrassing childhood story, or singing his favourite song, he found a way to keep your mind off of the outside world. and you were forever grateful.

and like always, the storm had slowed, beginning to pass as it soon became a memory of the evening. "thank you matthew," you breathed out with a shy smile. despite the storm being over you still couldn't help but cling to him. he made everything feel okay.

taerae ;

"i don't want to go," you whined, a pout prominent on your face. you hated the dentist, there was no way around it. quite honestly you hadn't been in what most would consider way too long, but you knew you had to. after some convincing, and promises of cuddles, from your boyfriend taerae, you had made the appointment.

all was fine and well until the day had actually arrived and you found yourself running through every excuse in your head on why you shouldn't go. unfortunately for you, nothing had seemed to come up that would leave you with a good conscience.

"well, if it'd make you feel better, i can come with you," taerae smiled, "moral support and all that." having him there sounded a lot better than going alone, you couldn't lie. and so, you took him up on his offer, reluctantly leaving with the boy.

soon enough you were in the waiting room being called to come into one of the offices, and to say you were nervous was an understatement. but you had taerae.

"i'll be right here okay? you're not alone, and before you know it it'll be over and you won't have to worry about it again," he placed a small kiss on your forehead, then your nose, and then a chaste kiss on your lips. "you've got this." he mumbled against your lips, causing you to smile for the first time all day. maybe things wouldn't be so bad if you had taerae by your side.

ricky ;

you had never really thought about it, but sometimes you could be quite oblivious. it wasn't always a bad thing, at least that's what ricky insisted, but it did seem more prevalent on days like today. maybe it was how safe you felt around ricky, or how it feels like you're the only people around when you're with him, but sometimes you forgot how not everyone is as kind and respectful as ricky.

you had opted for a shorter, flowy outfit for your shopping trip today, and while you thought you looked good, you hadn't considered how the clothes would be to walk around in; spending the better part of your day tugging and pulling on the fabric and being overly aware of every passing breeze.

"here," ricky stopped the two of you in your place, turning you around to face him as he tied his jacket around your waist, "don't need anyone seeing what they shouldn't." he smiled shyly, "plus you should be more comfortable this way, and you still look good." he shot you a wink and a smile before grabbing your hand to continue walking.

you couldn't help but blush at the gesture, letting your free hand fiddle with the sleeves tied around your waist as you let your mind wander. "thank you," you mumbled, getting a smile in return from the boy.

"no need to thank me," he shook his head playfully, "it's the least i could do."

gyuvin ;

gyuvin was a little clumsy to say the least. you found it quite endearing, but he had collided with one too many cabinet doors and countertops to see it the same way; and so, subconsciously he had found himself protecting you from a similar fate.

you hadn't noticed it for a while; the way his hand would hold the edge of the counter you were crouched underneath, or how his hand would cover the corner of the table you had to walk past. sometimes he would even try and physically move things out of your way if he could help it.

however, today you did notice. you noticed when you stood up too fast from trying to get something under the sink and instead of the solid countertop, you had a softer impact with his hand. you had braced for the sharp pain to rush to your head, but nothing came. "thank you," you mumbled, "do you always do that?"

he chuckled, nodding slightly, "i guess i do," he let himself think back on all the times he didn't even notice himself doing it. "gotta keep you from ending up like me." he laughed again as he rubbed the back of his neck; the memories of one too many near concussions flooding to his head, literally.

you joined him in laughter as you brought your hand up to card through the his hair, "you've gotta be more careful you know," you lightly scolded. he only let out a tsk before responding, "you try being this tall."

gunwook ;

"don't you live in the other direction?" you asked gunwook, curious as to why he was heading in the same direction as you instead of leaving you with a simple goodbye. the dim streetlights casting a glow on his skin, just enough to see the way his cheeks flushed at the question.

"i do," he paused, turning his sight from the road in front of him to you, "but i wanna make sure you get home safe." a smile spread across his face and you couldn't help but mirror it on your own. "you know you don't have to do that wookie, i live just down the street." you said matter-of-factly, knowing he knew where you lived.

he let the two of you bask in the silence for a moment. the only sound being your footsteps and the light buzz of some bugs in the summer night. "i know," he grabbed your hand in a moment of bravery, "still going to walk you home though," he beamed.

you accepted defeat in that moment, too caught up in the way it felt to have your hand in his. that wasn't something that happened a lot, but you sure could get used to it. the comfortable silence surrounded you again, this time accompanied by a faint hum from gunwook, presumably whatever song he had stuck in his head at the time. in that moment, you felt completely content.

you felt almost disappointed as you approached your front door. the two of you stood facing each other in front of the door for longer than you should've, trying to decide between making eye contact or staring at your still intertwined hands. "thank you for walking me home wook," you looked up at the boy, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. almost instantly he was a stuttering mess; his cheeks flushing a light pink as he couldn't control the smile spreading to his face. "for you, anytime."

yujin ;

before meeting yujin, your days at school were rough to say the least. hell, they still weren't the best. but they were better thanks to the boy you had befriended. you finally had somewhere to sit at lunch, finally had someone to hang out with after school, and finally had someone to call a best friend. and you were so thankful.

but life wasn't always so easy, and you didn't want to bother yujin with it, so you kept it to yourself. and today was one of those days. after one too many passing comments from classmates you had found yourself holding back tears in an empty classroom, trying to dry your eyes before going to meet up with yujin for lunch.

"what are you doing in here?" a familiar voice made your head snap up towards the door, seeing yujin's figure walking to you, you quickly wiped your eyes and stutter out an excuse. "i was just packing up." now yujin was sometimes a little oblivious, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew something was up. "was it them again?" you only nodded in return, shoving your pencil case into your bag and zipping it up before slinging the bag over your shoulder.

he let out a small sigh as he grabbed your hand, "c'mon, we are getting out of here," he dragged you by the hand out of the classroom, and subsequently out of the building, only stopping when you made it to a small picnic bench in the back of the property. "i'm sorry i couldn't protect you more," he mumbled as he fiddled with your fingers.

"yujinnie, you protect me plenty, and plus, that's not your job," you placed your free hand on top of his, "i can't thank you enough for what you do for me." a smile spread across your face, a similar one mirrored on yujin's face at the sight of you smiling. "i'm gonna do my best to make it all okay," you shook your head at his response, "you already do."

#zerobaseone #zerobaseonefics #boys planet #boys planet fics #boys planet imagines #boys planet reactions #kpop #boys planet drabbles #zb1 #zb1 x reader #zb1 imagines

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