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heavenblvd · 2 months

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒.

pairings — fem!reader and rafe cameron.

summary — after rafe takes your life, he tries to move on, and simply pretends he’s the one who didn’t do so. eventually, hauntings and truths will lay themselves out to remind rafe just how sickening he is.

warning tags — adult language. details of gruesome m*rder & m*rder itself. mentions of DV relationship, (brief) child ab*se & awful parents. talks of religion and god. reader’s pov from heaven (?? just stick w the program). rafe actually going more insane than usual. overall dark content.

author’s note — this is based on and inspired by ethel cain’s song ‘strangers’ and while this song has multiple interpretations to go by, i’m taking mine by the main and common one (just without the c*nnibalism!). this also gets super dark and depressing so if you cannot bear any of it, please click off! this also isn’t revised at all so my apologies for grammar mistakes.

likes, shares & reblogs are very much appreciated ⋆୨୧ ₊ﾟ

you had tears in your eyes, body shaking to point you thought you’d convulse. you tried to be obedient by keeping in rafe’s secret of what he had done on that tarmac. he beat you to make sure you kept your mouth shut for good.

he said, “i’ll kill you if you say one word,” and it took enough fear to believe him, but you didn’t think that day would come.

murder is an evil thing, and everyone can attest to it. rafe murdered sheriff peterkin as if she was nothing, as if she was a problem in the way. bad enough, he let john b. routledge — one of your best friends — take the fall for it.

you continued to keep your mouth shut, but after rafe tried to invade the police, ward killing himself, you didn’t see a reason to keep quiet. ward was the only reason why rafe could stay out of prison, and now that he wasn’t around, you could speak.

your father preached every sunday to live by righteousness and good, to never let evil win.

rafe was that evil. he was the devil himself.

the devil that you danced with, let make love to you, kiss you, but also beat you until stars twinkled in your vision, and your breath kept getting caught in your throat.

your mother would be horrified to know that, your father too. but it was their fault in a way that you accepted this cruelty as love; your father, especially to blame.

if love is not meant to be hit at you, does it even exist? your father showed you that when he’d slap or punch you for falling out of line, but go to church the next day, and preach about being a good servant to god.

you wanted all evil out of your life. it was suffocating, it was drowning you.

rafe had to be eliminated first.

“you killed peterkin, and i’m tired of knowing it,” you said, picking up your car keys. “we are done, and i won’t even show up to your trial when you go down for it.”

rafe just stared at you appalled and puzzled, sitting on the edge of his bed. you were close to being far out enough to your car until strong, violent hand seized you.

you screamed and kicked, not being new to this routine, only knowing that he was going to harm you.

you could never predict that his violence would lead him to murdering you.

“let me go, rafe!” you screamed, being pulled inside, your pleas and cries echoing in the empty home.

expecting to be physically berated, you were being led downwards.

to the wine cellar basement.

and for once in a while, you prayed to god, and hoped he would finally listen to you this time. that he would save his child, and perform a miracle.

but a miracle never came as rafe manhandled you, pinning you down on the cement ground of the basement.

“shut the fuck up! stop crying!” he yelled, a solid punch coming to your cheek, and you yelped, an easy gush of blood rushing out of your mouth. “you’re a fuckin’ backstabber. after everything i’ve done for you, gonna treat me like that?”

you cried, shaking your head. “r—rafe, please! i’ll be good, i’ll stop!”

“don’t trust you, little one. can’t let you ruin everything,” rafe said, reaching for something out of his back pocket.

the more you fought back, the more angry he got; the more you fueled the fire that rested in his hands and body.

before you could let out another plead, a sharp pain was made into your abdomen.

rafe stabbed you — and he wasn’t planning on stopping there.

god wasn’t there. you would show up to his gates in this condition, and ask him why he let it happen. if god is real, why did he bear witness instead of saving you?

rafe doesn’t recall killing you.

he remembers grabbing, and dragging you down into wine cellar basement, but couldn’t be able to tell anyone what happened after that. all he knows your blood was quite literally on his hand, knife shaking in his grip.

your babydoll white dress was now stained with violence and scarlet red blood.

the sight should’ve made him sick, but it didn’t. he just stared at you, breathing heavy, and it didn’t strike him until a while later that he had killed you.

rafe cameron had killed the love of his life.

he only panicked when it came to how to dispose your body, take off any evidence that could trace back to him. he was more than willing to dump your body in the woods, let any gators eat at you for supper.

he tossed your body only hours later in the depths of the woods, and it didn’t take long until you were reported missing.

of course, he was questioned first. it was easy for him to play the concerned boyfriend, crying because he also hadn’t heard from you, saying he had been texting and calling you for hours.

your parents sobbed on the news and asking anyone to come forward with any information, that they’ll give up however much money for their child to come home.

rafe just stared numbly at the television screen, a cup of scotch in his hand.

your best friends, the pogues, sobbed for days, and even started a search party for you. rafe made sure to dig you levels down in those woods when the ground was wet enough to dig up, and cover you up.

sarah cameron had a feeling her brother had something to do with your ‘disappearance’ but it was only just a gut intuition, she couldn’t prove it. she always questioned why you got with her brother, always emphasizing how horrible and violent he was, but you would tell her, “you don’t know him like i do; you don’t know how much he loves me, and takes care of me.”

kiara knew how bad rafe was — for god sake, she momentarily went to the academy around the same time he was a senior. she knew he wasn’t destined to be a boyfriend, let alone even in a fucking relationship.

the boys of the group were beyond furious, the three wanting to round up and take ahold of rafe, beat some information out of him. but they knew you wouldn’t want that, and that rafe would easily get the police to arrest them.

however, months passed, and you slowly became a memory to not only the town, but to rafe himself. he went on with his days like nothing occurred, that he didn’t violently take the life of his girlfriend.

you weren’t on his mind anymore, and he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.

or so he thought.

karma and revenge go hand in hand together; they mingle and burst out, they make sure they arrive at the doorstep of the people who deserve it.

rafe always thought getting rid of you would avoid his downfall, but the murder of you was just the beginning of it all.

he slept peacefully like he had done for a while now, with him about to drown into a deep sleep. he rested with his hands laid atop of his stomach, comfortable and at solitude, a female whisper woke him up.

he peeked around, but saw no one. he assumed he was just sleep deprived and imagining things, his eyes closing again for sleep.

“do you feel sick yet?” the voice that sounded like yours came through, more clearer and visible. he shot up, and turned on his bedside lamp.

nothing. no one. not you.

why would he have to feel sick? you were gone, you were no longer a problem.

rafe shook it off, and was able to go back to sleep.

you were angry in the afterlife. you stared at rafe from heaven, trembling with rage and regret. a man you once loved, had acted as if you never existed. you adored him, and he disposed you like garbage.

you just wanted to be his, wanted him to tell you that you were his only; that he loved you as much as you did to him, that he would change and better himself for you.

that the violence would dissipate, and his rough hands would be nurtured with love and softness.

but no. that never came, and never would.

you were taunted by your murder, burning with the need to remind rafe of how sick he was.

your violent lover let you bleed before him, and without tending to your wounds or simply sitting with immediate regret, he soaked in his actions and dismissed it.

why couldn’t he be gentle? was him painting you blue and purple not enough? did he have to go as far as killing his lover to satisfy the disdain and vexation he held for you?

was that enough? was that enough to make you enough?

rafe’s nights slowly turned interrupted and sleepless. your voice was always there, and time to time, he thought he saw you standing in his bedroom, drenched in blood and with tears streaming down your face as you kept asking him, “do you feel sick yet?”

sick. not regretful. fucking sick.

sleep deprivation was catching up to him, making him more mean and angry than usual, more out of control.

the coke wasn’t even helping either, only making everything worse.

he was at barry’s trailer, snorting endless lines of the white powder, trying to shake off the sight of you from last night.

“country club, you good?” barry asked, and rafe didn’t respond. “you don’t seem well, bro.”

“just need this shit, okay?” rafe mumbled, separating another drop of cocaine. “just… just want to sleep, need it.”

barry didn’t want to push him with more questions, minding his own business as the blond haired boy snorted up excessive amounts of lines.

rafe ended falling asleep on his couch, barry mindlessly scrolling on his own phone as he laid down on his bed.

the cold air from the air conditioner ran around in the basement, making it more freezing and chilling than usual.

rafe could smell strawberry perfume, indicating you were around. he looked around, and saw nothing of you.

“where are you!” he screamed. “you can’t scare me, you bitch!”

“i’m not here to scare you,” you talked, rafe spinning around to find you perched in the corner of the basement. you careened closer, the dim light emphasizing on your mangled body.

rafe stared at your stomach, where immense stab wounds laid on it. he swallowed thickly, his breath shaking and jagged.

“do you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe looked up at you. he couldn’t move in this dream, he was paralyzed and a witness to your lacerated body.

nausea and despair washed over rafe, almost consuming him entirely.

you were finally face to face with him, your hair disheveled and bunched, face stained with tears and runny makeup, all for him to look at.

rafe could feel your physical touch, your soft hand grabbing his, and made his palm touch your abdomen. he almost fucking threw up.

you could see it, you could see he was wanting to vomit everywhere. “am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe shivered, forcing his hand to put more pressure on your stomach, blood rushing out onto it. “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe screamed and lurched up, his eyes opening and alarming barry. “woah, what the fuck, rafe!” barry shouted, and rafe breathed rapidly, his heart thumping against his chest, a need to vomit.

rafe brought his face into his hands, trying to shake everything out of his hand.

your face, your touch, your blood — he felt it all. he was being reminded of you, when he didn’t want to.

barry kept asking him what was wrong, why he was crying, if he was okay, but all rafe could focus on was your voice asking, “am i making you feel sick?”

he was no longer immune to his destruction. he was becoming infected by it. you were a disease that he couldn’t treat, a parasite that ate at his brain.

he would never get rid of you — and you would make sure that he never did.

it was month seven without you, and you became a faded name to the outer banks. the only people who lived on to tell your name was your parents, and your best friends. the pogues carved your name into the chateau’s tree, a ceremonial bench placed at the high school.

your body or you weren’t ever discovered, but the police had listed you as deceased. you weren’t a runaway, you were eighteen, and had nothing to runaway for. when you couldn’t be traced anywhere on the grid, the police pronounced you dead, and that was that.

pictures of you and any sort of evidence remained in a cardboard box somewhere in the police station. you were left to rot in every way.

you were tired of being forgotten, but more exhausted that nobody knew that your boyfriend did this, and you probably weren’t going to be the first girl he killed.

rafe cameron needed to know what he did, and you wanted to do everything you could to make him drag himself to the police station, sit down, and say, “i killed her — and i enjoyed every fucking second of it.”

madness was becoming rafe. he was already an insane, depraved fuck before, but the lack of sleep and memories of the murder were catching up to him for good.

dark circles were around his eyes, hair greasy and messy, his body tired. he felt like he was going to snap any second.

he kept drinking, smoking weed and doing coke back to back, surprised that his heart didn’t give out yet.

a random exhaustion toll pushed over him, laying him down on the floor of his bedroom, and his eyes threatened to snap shut.

he didn’t want to sleep, he was afraid to. he was afraid to see you, with your bloody dress and sad face, making him touch your wounds.

rafe didn’t win the fight of sleeping, and he knocked out cold on his bedroom floor.

he wasn’t in the basement, he was in his bedroom, and he could hear your feet padding away to the front of the house, to your car.

oh, he was reliving the night. and he couldn’t stop. he couldn’t get out of the memory — he was facing everything.

he saw you bloody by his doorframe, and you tilted your head. “why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he was trapped in a void.

you only frowned. “so you know.”

like a reflex, rafe hurriedly rushed over to you outside before you could get away, seizing you away, and taking you to the basement.

he pinned you down to the ground, and screamed at you to stop crying, upset and angry you were willing to betray him when he did everything for you.

you were sobbing, but it became echoes and his ears rang, everything around him becoming silent except his own heavy breathing. he grabbed the knife that sat in his pocket, and he could see your eyes widen with fear to the sight of the object.

“rafe!” you screamed in the first stab. he hit you sharp and right in the abdomen.

he held his knife there for a second, like time was freezing him, and he felt a hot breath at the side of his face.

it was you.

“am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe proceeded to stab you as you sobbed. you cried out his name, trying to fight away the knife, promising to be good and for him to stop.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

rafe couldn’t stop, he couldn’t control himself. he kept stabbing you as you screamed. he was a monster, with the inability to suppress his anger or violence.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

a part you thought you were making him feel sick because of how mutilated your body was; that the body he was once desired, was now filling him with disgust. you wondered if how butchered you looked, was making him uncomfortable and sick. he didn’t deserve your concern, but it happened anyway. was it making him sick?

rafe wanted to cry, but couldn’t. he was revisiting the person he was in this moment, and could see life vanish from your eyes, death taking you away.

he took one last stab, and held it there like the first one. you kneeled in front of him, looking over at your corpse for a moment before your eyes settled into his raging ones.

he held prolonged eye contact with you as you inched your face close to his, but kept a safe distance. you placed your hand on top of his murdering one, and with a blank face, lastly asking him, “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe broke eye contact with you to look at your deceased body, and realized and remembered this murder. your organs could be nearly seen, blood gushed and poured out everywhere, your body cold and still.

he dropped the knife, and eyed you. “i’m sorry.”

you shook your head, and sighed. “you will revisit this everyday as long as you live,” you said, sniffling. “all i wanted was to be yours, and be good enough, rafe. was i no good?”

he didn’t have an answer, and with that, you got up, staring over at your body. “i want you to know,” you chuckled softly to yourself, “i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. i forgive you, especially since i’m happier where i’m at.”

“heaven?” rafe asked.

you nodded. “you won’t make it here, but i’ll still hope and wait that you do — because i love you too much to let god be angry with you too.”

“he’s an angry man?”

“he’s angry and unfair,” you responded. “like someone i know. i loved god, i loved you; two men who didn’t view me as much, who don’t deserve for me to believe in them.”

rafe went quiet, and enough time went by for you to disappear for good to let rafe cry, and scream. he cried and sobbed, dry heaving as he vomited everywhere to the sight of you.

he killed you, and as long as he kept it to himself, you would drive him mad and insane with the knowing of it.

rafe cameron confessed to your murder only hours later. he drove himself to the police station, and confessed to every detail, telling sheriff shope where your body was.

they found your maimed body in the exact location where rafe told them it was, your body already decomposing into near bones, eaten by critters and bugs.

the earth was consuming you.

he was hated forever, the town wanted him torched or given the death penalty. it would be a while until he got a trial.

your funeral could be proper with your body in a casket, given a rightful way to be down in the ground, protected and secured by a box stuffed with silk fabric.

you could see your mom cry, and you wish she wouldn’t. your father had to give the prayer at your funeral, your best friends sobbing, and hating themselves for not getting you away from rafe sooner.

however, your death was simply inevitable. if rafe didn’t kill you, your love for him would. he was everything to you.

even when he was murdering you — getting a vile satisfaction from it — you were worried about him, if you and your maimed body was making him feel more nauseous and sick than the actual murder was.

rafe would live with the knowing that you truly loved him, and he took your life every single day that he spent in a prison block cell.

and your ghost would continue to linger and haunt him, never letting him know peace and serenity as he never did to you.

#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron outer banks #obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #drew starkey obx #drew starkey one shot #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #drew starkey x reader #outer banks imagine #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron x female reader

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blondephenobarbitol · 3 months

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A list of Nightmare Time episode ideas that I thought of and I think would be cool:

1.) Mr. Chasity has been trying to sell the old Waylon Place for far too long. After trying and failing over and over, he decides to take matters into his own hands by going in himself to see what all the fuss is about. But nothing could have prepared him to meet the real ghosts of Waylon Hall. And boy oh boy do they have shenanigans in store. (The episode would be called 'Unholy Ghost') .

2.) It's been a few months since Hatchetfield was destroyed in that awful 'accident'. Emma and Paul have been living under the aliases Kelly and Ben Bridges. (there can be a joke where Emma doesn't even pretend to care about her alias and Paul cares too much.) They live in Colorado now. Emma's finally started her pot farm, and Paul is working in marketing. For the most part, they have a good life. Only Paul's acting a bit different lately. Emma caught him humming company jingles, tapping his foot to a beat she can't hear. Maybe those spores he inhaled had some effect on him. It's probably nothing, but he's never sung in the shower before...(I don't have a name for this one yet.) .

3.) Max Jägerman is failing remedial algebra. In fact, he's doing so poorly that his dad shells out and hires him a tutor, PJ. (Bryce's nerd from 'Literal Monster.) He reluctantly lets her help him. At first it seems to work and his grades are rising steadily, but as PJ lets her guard down, Max starts to notice some things. Strange symbols scribbled in the margins of her notebook, almost like...jagged smiles? Weird stains on her hands, when she gets too close she smells like roadkill. And there's this white spider that keeps showing up in his room. Sometimes he feels like it's trying to tell him something. Or warn him. Without knowing what he's gotten himself into, Max has to evade getting his soul swallowed by a hungry god of darkness. (The episode is called 'Dirty Dude Soup') .

4.) Charlotte Sweetly is jealous. Her church friend, Carol Davidson, has exactly the kind of life she wants. Charlotte's seen the way her boss talks about his wife, and would give anything for Sam to feel that way about her. One day, Charlotte finally gathers her courage and asks her how she does it. Carol takes pity on her, and decides to reveal an important secret: it's all the product of a ritual, an ancient spell she stumbled upon on a trip to an amusement park. She claims that ever since she did it, her husband can't get enough of her. "I am all he sees. He calls me the apple of his eye." Charlotte doesn't believe her at first, but Carol gave her the instructions, and why the hell not? She tries it. Unfortunately, Charlotte messes up the wording. The spell still works, but not quite as intended. And an all-seeing police officer could be a good thing, but Sam is not a good police officer. (maybe let's call this one 'Omnipocop'. But that's awful to spell so suggestions are welcome) .

5.) While trying to be an assistant, Steph accidentally botches one of Pete's science projects. He forgives her, but she still feels bad even as he assures her it's no big deal, throwing the mix of chemicals out his window just to prove it. What he doesn't know is that the last family that lived in the Spankoffski house buried their dog in the backyard, and Pete's chemical slurry just brought it back to life. On a probably unrelated note, Paul has been trying to ignore the damage he's finding in his apartment. He's been chalking most of the tipped over garbage cans and torn apart cushion up to rats--giant rats?--or maybe a squirrel. But when a decades-old "missing dog" poster shows up on his doorstep, he can't ignore the truth for any longer. (the episode would be called "Patches' Revenge" and I thing it would work because it's just the right amount of weird. It would end with Paul teaming up with the nerds to defeat undead Patches with science.) .

6.) To his utter delight, Miss Holloway finally agreed to go out with Duke on a proper date. Nothing huge, just some ice cream and a walk on the beach. They're both enjoying themselves when Miss Holloway hears something. Duke can't hear it, but he still follows her down the shore to some kind of cave grotto, where she claims the noise is coming from. She tosses a pebble into the water, testing how it might react. A few moments later, the pebble come flying out again. Duke is stunned, but Miss Holloway tosses her ice cream cone. Sure enough, a few moments later is comes flying back, perfectly dry. They've clearly discovered something, and over the next few days, Duke and Miss Holloway experiment and try to learn about the grotto and the water in it. It's too deep to see the bottom, so their tests mostly involve tossing different things to see how they'll react. Little do they know, there was a reason Miss Holloway could hear a noise coming from the cave. There's a reason it drew her in, too. There's something singing to her, something that lives at the bottom of the grotto. And with each thing they feed it, it becomes a little bit stronger...(and then it's called something unassuming like "Wavecrest Cave")

So that's Nightmare Time season four all lined up. Please tell me if you have a good name idea for episodes 2 and 4. Also if anyone wants to use these as writing prompts, be my guest (just tag me so I can read them)

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queer-reader-07 · 4 months

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you know what i think really gets me as a good omens fan who also grew up catholic? the very human approach it takes to morality.

i can’t speak for every denomination of christianity, but i can speak to catholicism. i grew up in the church, i went to catholic school, i was confirmed for fuck’s sake. i know the catholic church. the ways in which it eats away at your self esteem. the ways in which it makes you feel like you are a terrible person because you’ve sinned in one way or another. the way you’re taught the concept of original sin as though it isn’t deeply unsettling to believe that all humans are born corrupt. you’re taught that you were born tainted by satan, you as a baby you as a child you who doesn’t even know your place in this world yet. you are sinful because you are human.

there is no room for shades of grey in catholicism. you have either sinned or you haven’t. you are either good or you are bad. you are either going to heaven or you are cursed to damnation. (yeah yeah purgatory and all that but if i’m being honest the diocese i was a part of never really talked about it)

we all know the church is corrupt. every catholic knows that, but whether or not we ever admitted it to ourselves and accepted it as truth is another story. you cannot deny the staggering statistics regarding catholic priests assaulting and molesting children. you cannot deny the financial corruption that has been present in the institution for centuries. but you can ignore it. you can ignore it and pretend like the church is perfect and good because if you allow yourself to admit it’s issues, you admit that maybe your entire world view is flawed. that maybe the idea of morality as being black and white is wrong.

that's what i grew up with. with these contradictory beliefs. these adults in power telling me i was inherently sinful because i was human while also being told that God loves me. that God will save me from myself. so i grew up thinking someone else could fix me. because if i was inherently bad i couldn't fix myself.

but of course, the truth is, i don't need fixing. i'm not broken or bad. i'm human.

when aziraphale described adam as "human incarnate" i got EXTREMELY emotional. because to be human incarnate is to be not good or bad. it's to just be. be whoever it is you are. make the best choices you can. will they all be perfect? of course not. but will you be trying your damndest? yes.

good omens is a breath of fresh air for me and my religious trauma because the thesis of the story is that black and white thinking is unproductive at best and actively harmful at worst. you cannot live a fulfilling life while also believing there is only Bad and Good, and that Bad and Good are inherent.

good omens is a comfort because it reminds me in more ways than one that i'm worthy of love. i'm worthy of life. i don't have to be perfect, far from it. i'm allowed to be messy and make mistakes, but none of that means i don't deserve to be here. none of that means i'm a Bad Person. i'm just, A Person.

i'm trying. i've always tried. tried to love the best i can, tried to be the best person i can be, tried to live my life to the fullest, tried to cultivate joy for myself.

my brain is a mess. and 15 years, give or take, of being fully immersed in the catholic church (including 7 years of catholic school) definitely didn't help. i am still riddled with catholic guilt and toxic mental frameworks because of the time i spent in the church.

but good omens helps me work through it just that little bit more. it's there in its corner of my heart saying "hey. you're human. you're not Bad or Good, you're You. and you're trying."

it's... comforting. yeah, i think that's the right word.

#found this one in my drafts and finally decided to finish it #good omens #good omens meta #gomens meta #cw religious trauma #religious trauma #catholic trauma #catholicism

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digenerate-trash · 5 months

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Yandere Sirris who encourages Sydney to befriend you, so you'll come over to their house and he can POUNCE without fear of anyone at school catching you and ruining his "good man" facade.

Fuuuuuuck. Damn okay, anon. You're a sick fuck. I'm into it. (I might have to do the teachers next because of this ask)

GN Sydney | GN PC | AMAB Sirris

Sirris has always been very particular about his tastes. Usually, he has boundaries and careful consideration when he is looking for someone to get romanticly involved with. He's always so careful with his feelings... he has a kid after all and he can't risk Sydney's stable home for anything less than perfection...

But that's when he met you. You're a bit off. You stand out in class. Not a troublemaker. But not a good student either. But there's something in the way you look at him that makes his heart jump. He spends all lunch period thinking about it. He wonders what he did to be cursed with these feelings...

He's upset and sick at the thought and when he goes to check on Sydney he spots you again. Leaning over the counter and talking to his son. Your hips swaying a bit as you chat with him. Sirris can't seem to tear his eyes away from you. When Sydney sees Sirris he waves and invites him over.

You quickly gather your book and head out and still Sirris can't focus.

"Dad!" Sydney says. Snapping his fingers and gaining his attention finally. "What are you doing here?" Sydney asks. He must have asked a few times but Sirris wasn't listening.

"Sorry kiddo- I just... I'm worried about them." He gestures Vaugely in the direction you left and Sydney nods.

"They've been having some trouble lately," Sydney explains. "Something with their caretaker. They refused to explain. They keep their personal life a secret... I'm getting worried about them-"

...an unstable home life is troubling... especially for someone as desirable as you, but you could keep a secret apparently, and you could probably use a safe place to go... Sirris is more than happy to provide for someone in need.

"Invite them for dinner Friday." Sirris encourages. "Maybe we can get to know your friend a little better."

Sydney smiles before the bell rings and he grabs the rest of the books that need to be reshelved. "I think they'd like that- who doesn't like us?" Sydney smiles a bit before Sirris heads back to his classroom. And as much as he wants to pretend that Friday is going to be nothing but innocent fun. He's already planning on a way to get rid of Sydney for the evening.

Friday rolls around and all throughout class you keep looking at the teacher. You seem nervous and Sirris tries to ignore it. He continues the lesson as if nothing is wrong and by the end of it you've packed up your bag but you wait for the class to leave. It's just you and him in the classroom now but Sirris keeps things professional. The door is open and he keeps the desk between the two of you as you confront him.

"Sydney invited me to dinner." You say. Your voice has a slight shake to it. But Siris doesn't seem to mind. Innocence is a virtue according to the church books his son brings home.

"And? Will you be joining us for dinner?" Sirris asks. He stays calm like his entire day won't be soured if you say no.

"...it won't be awkward?" You ask. "Since you're my teacher... I thought it might be awkward- you might not... want me there..."

Sirris chuckles a bit and he reaches over to pat your head but stops himself. Keeping the distance he's so carefully maintained. "It won't be awkward I promise." He reassures you before he pulls out some of the tests he intends on marking.

You nod and smile before you grab your things and leave. Sirris closes the door after you leave the classroom and takes a deep breath of air as he presses his forehead against it. He can't believe it... you're actually going to be in his home tonight... you're going to show up you're going to laugh politely at his jokes and be in his home. It's almost too much-

The rest of the day feels like a weird dream. He doesn't even seem to care when he spends the next hour not marking papers but instead thinking about all the things he could do to you in his own home. His work is left undone for the day and even his visit to Sydney in the library is a blur.

After school, Sydney brings you along with him, and Sirris drives. Usually, he'd let Sydney walk but today was a special occasion. You two chat and smile in the back seat. While Siris grips the wheel his knuckles are white while he hears you laughing in the back seat.

You're so close to him...

Sirris lets you two talk in the living room while he makes dinner and as he expected you are polite and helpful. You complement the house and keep your hands to yourself. Sydney even mentions that you're welcome here any time and Siris echos that as you sit down a the table to eat. And once dinner is almost done sirris gets up a moment and clears the table...

He sets the dishes on the counter and stares. Five minutes. That's what he’ll wait. He counts the seconds. He stays stark still in the kitchen as the seconds pass. Five minutes is believable he thinks as the moments tick by. He can still hear you chatting in the dining room. You are so close… so agonizingly close. Once the five minutes are up he takes a deep purposeful breath and calms his nerves before poking his head back out into the dining room.

"Sydney- Jordan just called," Sirris says alarming both of you. You jolt over to look at Siris and your eyes are a little wide. "Did you not tell him you were not going to make it tonight?"

Sydney shakes his head before Siris sighs. "Well. Get your coat then. You can't make a commitment then not show up"

"We have a guest over can't you tell him that?" Sydney asks before Sirris is practically pushes Sydney out the door. "What kind of father would I be if I let you get away with that? Now hurry up. I'll get your friend home after the dishes are done."

Sydney looks a little upset as he rushed out the door. But he says his goodbyes and leaves.

He leaves you both there. Standing in the house. The Erie quiet starts to hit you.

Siris locks the door in front of you the deadbolt clacking into place. Sirris tilts his head at you a moment before his eyes are fixed fully on you. There's something much more frightening about your science teacher as he takes slow purposeful steps toward you.

#let me know if you wanna part two!!#im all about building that dread baby #sirris the science teacher #sydney the faithful #degrees of lewdity teachers #degrees of lewdity #trash writes #trash writes shorts #made some minor edits #yan dol #yandere #tw yandere #yandere tropes #x reader #gn reader

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lelengerine · 10 months

Text

flustered by you

pairing | streamer!haechan x streamer!reader

synopsis | your boyfriend surely knows how to make you flustered, even when he’s the one who should be.

genre | established relationship, fluff, nicknames are used for reader (baby, love, lovie)

wc | 0.5k

notes | the istj teaser photos will be my final straw fr,, like have you SEEN them??? anw, here’s another one for all you streamer/gamer hyuck enthusiasts out there :> lmk your thoughts on this hehe likes are rbs are always appreciated!

m.list

"baby, did you take the switch by chance? i was going to play a game with jeno downstairs-" haechan’s fluffy locks peek out from your room’s door frame, his voice in a slight hurry to return to his friend.

"hm?" you hum from your desk, your mind currently preoccupied with placing blocks down in your minecraft world. "one second."

you were trying to finish a minecraft building before the stream you had planned for later in the afternoon so you could show chat some progress of the village layout you have in mind from behind the scenes.

the foundations of an elegant, overgrown church had already been placed — a little more work put into it and the vision you had for the building would finally take shape.

"um, i think i used it the other day. let me look for it." you pull off the earphones that rest snugly on your head, setting them down gently on your desk before getting up to find the game console.

"take your time, love. i’ll just take a lookie at what you’re making." he happily makes himself at home on your gaming chair, pretending to thoroughly inspect your work. "hey! this is pretty cute."

"mhm! it’s where we’re getting married!" you beam excitedly whilst searching your drawers, not realizing what you said until the words had already been uttered out. "uh i mean, if you wanted to get married- in game of course! not in real life that’d be silly-"

your cheeks were burning hot from the embarrassment of slipping your words out before thinking, quickening your movement even further to find the switch your boyfriend had originally came for, a small moment of eureka hitting you when you do.

"anyways! i found the switch." you laugh with an awkward tension engulfing it, "you should get back to jeno now, i think he’s been waiting for a while-"

"let’s get married." haechan abruptly states, his eyes still glued to the pearly-looking church you made. "in game of course." he adds in a snicker, teasing you with your own words from earlier.

"quit it, lee." you whine, handing him the switch with a sulky frown growing on your lips. "not funny. didn't giggle."

he gratefully takes the device from your hands, wordlessly standing up to press a kiss onto your lips in hopes of wiping that frown away.

"you can’t sway me with kisses!" you argue, failing to hide the smile that makes you feel like a fool completely in love. well, technically you are one after randomly blurting out the idea of marriage to your boyfriend because of a video game.

"uhuh, sure i can’t." he laughs, ruffling your hair as he utters a ‘thank you’ for your help, now on his way to exit your room.

"oh, by the way, i’d really marry you any day, lovie!" he speedily announces before closing your door behind him, leaving you in a speechless, dumbfounded trance that has you giggling; the smile on your lips only getting amplified by how rosy your cheeks have become.

"gosh, i can’t believe him." you mumble, sending a light slap to your cheek in hopes it’d suppress the smile on your face since you still had that build project in line for the day. still, there’s a new-found determination that runs through your veins. you’re definitely getting married – at least in minecraft – no matter what.

#nct fluff #nct dream fluff #nct angst #nct dream angst #haechan fluff #haechan angst #donghyuck fluff #donghyuck angst #nct imagines #nct drabbles #nct dream imagines #nct dream drabbles

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canisalbus · 7 months

Note

Just recently discovered your tumbler and I love everything about it. Your art style, the time period you have chosen, the background you are building for the characters. Top notch.

Though I do have a question : going back through all the asks people are tending to focus on sunny boi Vasco supporting nerve wracked Machete but a relationship needs to be equal so, what's the turn around?

When/how does Machete say 'don't worry babe, I've got this'? He is after all a very accomplished and competent person inside his areas of expertise.

Because of his trusting and altruistic nature, Vasco has been burned in relationships before. Even though he's good at reading people and might sense that he's being treated unfairly, he endures it because he doesn't want to be the bad guy and upset the other person. He's from a well known noble family, he's affluent and he's considered to be very good looking. Over the years he has met countless people who wanted to take advantage of him, his status and his assets in a way or another, and he has hard time tolerating that kind of greed and dishonesty. Machete has never been interested in his pedigree or wealth, and the way he's utterly devoted to him makes Vasco feel confident and secure.

He's been forced into various boxes and moulds all his life, his family had high expectations for him and did their hardest to whip him into a shape that satisfied them (now that I think about it, Vasco's parents probably would've been proud if their son turned out more like Machete, hard working high achiever). He tries to not let it bother him, but on some level he does feel guilty for letting them down. Machete is Vasco's biggest fan, he earnestly believes in him and loves him the way he is. He feels like he doesn't have to pretend to be something he's not around him, but at the same time Machete's influence makes him want to be a better person. Vasco admires his ambition, knowledge, diligence and perseverance. Machete tries very hard to be a good person and do a good job, but because he's so difficult to get close to and puts up such a cold facade, his efforts tend to go unnoticed. Vasco sees this side of him and finds it very charming.

Machete could use a lot of tlc and Vasco is happy to be there to provide it. The fact he's able to have such a profound positive effect on someone and their quality of life makes him feel needed, he feels like he's contributing something good to the world and that gives him strength. It's not like his only job is to pat Machete's head and tell it's going to be alright though, they enjoy each other's company and feel at ease together. In a way Machete also has a calming effect on Vasco. On his good days he can be very pleasant company, he's interesting to talk to, he's kind and gentle and even awkwardly funny at times, he has an eye for beauty and is able to appreciate small good things in their lives. He isn't an expert in expressing his affection physically, but when he does, Vasco can trust that his attempts are authentic.

Machete may not always know the correct words and gestures to comfort him, but he's a good listerer and does his best to be there for him. He never belittles or makes fun of him, he's patient and forgiving when Vasco makes mistakes, and will drop everything if he's ever in a need of help. He often makes Vasco feel seen and understood like no one else. Machete is good at solving dilemmas and coming up with working solutions (or preventing problems from ever arising, more often than not), and Vasco has the nerves of steel to keep him grounded and stable at a time of crisis. Together they make a very efficient and resourceful team.

Their jobs are very similar, Machete works for the church and Vasco is a secular politician, but they both deal with diplomacy and foreign relations. They end up working together often, and since Machete is very competent in what he's doing, he often ends up helping and advising Vasco.

I think despite their differences, they're just very well in tune with each other. In the ways that actually matter, they have common interests, tastes and worldviews. They enjoy similar things. And the parts that differ tend to augment them instead of driving them apart. A lot of their fondness stems from the fact they have a lot of shared history, they met at a young age and their friendship-turned-romantic was a very formative experience for both.

Should it be necessary, Machete would face God and walk backwards into hell to protect Vasco.

#that's how I see it at the moment #I mean there's probably more but this is already a wall of text as is #I'm imagining Vasco asking Machete's help in doing his taxes and Machete just flipping through his papers in aghast disbelief #like oh my dearest light of my life you're wonderful but this is some sloppy bookkeeping #answered #fantacyjunky #Vasco #Machete

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alitheakorogane · 1 year

Text

Freedom's Protection: A Blasphemy or The Truth?

Summary: Venti's outburst shocks everyone, making the people of Mondstadt question everything they knew about their Archon.

This is the third part of Mondstadt's storyline for the Reader Protection Squad SAGAU series.

Note: There are instances of grammatical errors, please bear with me. Also, the entire layout was now changed and I placed a title on them so I could not be confused while I write the next chapters. It's still the same story though.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3 (current), 4, 5, 6, 7

"What if your dear Anemo Archon was also like them, an imposter who also steals someone's face?!"

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

Everyone couldn't believe what the young bard was saying, especially those who are very devoted to Lord Barbatos. The Anemo Archon is also an imposter?

Bennett and Fischl who accompanied him looked at Venti with surprised looks on their faces, while Razor was confused about what happened. On the other hand, you were shocked at what the bard did, even though you had expected him to do something stupid after Eula's harsh statement regarding imposters.

To be honest, you can understand why the usual happy and mischievous bard suddenly snaps out and break down at everyone. Eula's statement may be intended for you but it also applies to Venti's situation, and her scathing words hit the Anemo Archon on a personal level. You guessed that not everyone knows his real story, not even his very devout followers in his church, as you had remembered that only the Traveler was the one who had truly opened up about his real feelings of loss by telling his story about his bard friend in his story quest.

They didn't know who he really is... because all knowledge that the Mondstadters knew about their beloved Archon is from secondary sources, from the words of other people, and not really from Venti himself.

They never knew how hard is to pretend to be someone he really isn't. You know it wasn't his choice to rule a nation, since Andrius had stepped down from being a suitable candidate but Venti had tried his best to fulfill the wishes of his beloved friend before he had died: for Mondstadt to be free.

Mondstadters from the past to the present saw his Archon persona in rose-colored glasses, portraying him as regal, poised, and hardworking as his people (they were also overworked because they thought they can emulate Lord Barbatos' 'hardworking' work ethic) who value the concept of freedom over his domain, not knowing that their Archon is actually a happy-go-lucky troublemaker who has the heart of gold, who really likes apples and Dandelion Wine to the point of breaking the records for most shots a Mondstadter can drink in one go, or how he likes to annoy people with his songs and pranks when he feels like it.

You had sympathized with him, as you and he are similar in some aspects. You always force a bright smile on your face and feel optimistic, even though there are times that you feel like you wanted to give up on everything. You can crack jokes over your so-called friends, laugh at the corniest punchlines, and put up some masks on other people, saying to them that you're okay even though it really isn't.

There is a reason why you loved playing Genshin Impact, it's not because of the waifus or husbandos or you just want to have fun and spend over nothing, but it was an escape from your loneliness and the reality. You feel loved when the game greeted you on your birthday before anyone can and was given you a digital cake even though you know it was coded to be like that. You feel happy when your favorite character had come home and when you listened to their voice lines where they said something good about you.

You think that someone took pity on you and whisk you away to the beautiful continent of Teyvat, but it seems that there's a mistake. The moment you were spat at by the same characters you really loved, you feel like you were really unloved by anyone no matter what world you've been thrown in. You're not suicidal, but at that moment, the urge to throw yourself off the cliff and unto the waters of Cider Lake to drown was very strong.

So when you met Bennett, Razor, and Fischl for the first time and they had befriended you no matter what others say something bad about you, you feel happy that someone had accepted you the way you are, and you wanna cry with tears of joy.

And when Venti, the actual Anemo Archon of Mondstadt, came to your rescue, you feel like you were lucky that someone out there still appreciated your existence. You silently thank whoever is above that gives you some mercy over this forsaken world.

Meanwhile, Barbara Pegg, the lovely Deaconess of the Church of Favonius, couldn't help but ponder over what the bard had said. You had noticed how she was not as defensive as the other nuns present, but you just brushed it off as she was just in shock. You were unfortunately wrong about your assumptions, for you underestimated her just because you know from her game appearances that she was oblivious to her Archon being literally meters away from her.

She may be a devout follower of the Anemo Archon, but as a Gunnhildr, she had access to a certain diary of one of their ancestors living at the time of Decarabian, along with her older sister Jean.

She remembered a passage regarding a wind elf and his human friend who died in the rebellion, after her mother, Frederica, had let her read the family heirloom after Barbara joined the church as a Deaconess.

"The young leader had unfortunately passed away by a stray arrow to the heart, the winds took away his young life so early. We were devastated to see the one who had awakened our hearts and fought for freedom die in the rebellion against Lord Decarabian, but no one grieves more than the Elf, who was with him till the end. The Elf has done the unthinkable after they had ascended into a god by Celestia: they had taken the form of his human friend so he could see the free world under the eyes of the Elf, who was now under the name of Barbatos, the new Anemo Archon of Mondstadt."

Imagine Barbara's surprise when she found out about that, she had never read this information in any Mondstadt history books or tomes she had come across. She knew that her ancestor had been part of the first Mondstadt rebellion against Lord Decarabian, so she could assume that it was a legitimate source.

At the time, she can't believe that Lord Barbatos' current form seen in the statues isn't his, to begin with, for it was based on his human friend who had died in the first rebellion. Today, she had doubts about the issue, especially when the bard had brought it up.

"If that's the case, then it's true that Lord Barbatos is technically an imposter, just like how Mr. Bard had said," she thought to herself, "But how he known about that if that information isn't in the books I have ever read about our Archon? Did I miss a book?"

She looked at her older sister who was still standing with Diluc with a troubled look in her eyes like she was pondering about something. She ever wondered if Jean still remembered the contents of the diary or knew something about Venti. As far as she was concerned, Venti knew the Honorary Knight, Jean, and DIluc personally due to their involvement during the Stormterror crisis.

She knew that Venti can summon Dvalin, one of the Four Winds, when they went to the Golden Apple Archipelago months ago. He is also the only one she can't heal with her Hydro Vision, the first time since she had been blessed by the gods. He had an angelic voice and an exceptional talent for playing the lyre, which to be honest, Barbara was slightly jealous of. And he just recently appeared on Mondstadt, which was coincidentally the time when Dvalin, known as Stormterror that time, had attacked Mondstadt.

Who really is Venti anyway?

"Blasphemy!" One of the nuns screamed as her fellow comrades and citizens agreed with her, "Lord Barbatos isn't an imposter, you blasphemous child. How dare you speak to the Archon that way?!"

"History books had never told the Anemo Archon's whole story!" Venti continued as he lowered his bow down, his right arm wiping the stray tears on his cheeks. You wanted to comfort him, to hug him in your arms, but the situation was so tense that you prefer not to, for now.

"You just knew him because of those books and those spoken stories that always praise him! And in every single one of them, he was portrayed as a divinity who committed no mistakes and made some exceptional deeds just because he is an Archon. You may think that he is perfect, but news flash people, he's not! He's as flawed as any other mortal out there! He should have saved his dear friend if he was as perfect and powerful as you think he was!"

He was glaring at the people in front of him, his aqua-green eyes glowing in intensity, "You had never known that he was originally a wind wisp who had taken the form of a dead friend to honor a wish. He had never saved his dear friend... if only that blasted wind wisp was a second too early, his friend wouldn't have died in the rebellion! That friend of his was the one who started the peak of the rebellion, who had sang songs of freedom, and guess what, no one remembers his name or even his sacrificial deeds!"

Venti closed his eyes as he continued speaking, a look of nostalgia etched in his eyes as he stared at the skies above, "Freedom was given to all of you due to a sacrifice of a human who was now forgotten by history, but his face... his young face now lived on under the facade of Lord Barbatos. Without the bard's final wish, Lord Barbatos would never make freedom his ideal for Mondstadt..."

"...He would never have been the weakest among the Seven Archons if he had never fulfilled his dear friend's dying wish."

"And how would you know about that? Why would you try to defame Anemo Archon Barsibato just to manipulate our minds about the imposter?!" Rosaria harshly interrogated Venti who just spewed some blasphemous information about their Archon, her polearm pointed at the bard.

The nuns of the Church of Favonius had deadpan looks on their faces over Rosaria's mistake over Lord Barbatos' name, while the citizens who believed in the Archon glared at Venti for his statement.

To their surprise, the young Anemo user smiled at them, but they could guess that he was actually smirking. He chuckled as he bowed his head, bangs covering his beautiful eyes. It left people confused and scared, especially the Knights and the Church nuns. They had never seen this side of the bard who they have just known to be as mischievous and happy-go-lucky all the time.

You felt chills when you see his smirk, as you had an image of a young-looking boy with angelic wings who looked at the people with a menacing smile, the bow on his hands was stained in blood. You then realized that you had seen a glimpse of Venti in his Archon form, and it was possible that it was him in the Khaenri'ah disaster 500 years ago!

His Elegy of the End bow was still on his hand as he dared to respond with a playful tone at the young nun, staring at her with a coldness that could rival someone with a Cryo Vision, as if he was scolding a young misbehaving child, "You could say that I am more than just a mere drunkard bard, Miss Rosaria."

"After all, how could I ever spread blasphemous words about myself?"

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

BADASS VENTI IS LIFE.

Well, this is Part 3 of the Reader Protection Squad series of one-shots, where someone is trying to protect the Reader from being pelted down by the Divine Creator's obsessive acolytes.

This one was also cut into two parts, so there is a possible Part 4 regarding Venti helping you off. (sigh) I think I will do a full-blown fanfic if I kept this up. I also write the Reader's inner thoughts, based on my experience. I couldn't help but shed a tear when I wrote this part.

To those who are new to my story, in this series, Venti is part of your protection squad in this Imposter AU concept, one of the two Archons who are going to help you. He is usually the mischaracterized character in SAGAU fics, and I wanted to do justice to my boi's character.

I made Barbara more perceptive than she was on canon, because why not? I made her a book enthusiast, she likes to read books in her free time just like her older sister (if she is not busy with her idol work, practice, healing, and church duties). Her possible favorite books are about Lord Barbatos and his deeds to Mondstadt.

And here's Rosaria and her mishaps with Venti's Archon name...🤣

-----

Taglist: @eimuros, @vvyeislazzy, @ansyistiredsstuff, @haru-tofuu, @coquettemaiden, @voidlesslove, @depressed-bitchy-demon, @yuukaaariyuuu, @g3n0dtt, @misswitchthewindborn, @lumpywolf, @c00kie-cat, @mulandi, @genshin-impacts-me, @bloop-booop

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most-datable-datable-bracket · 2 months

Text

ROUND 3 MATCH 22

Claude propaganda:

"To say Claude has trust issues is an understatement—you have to spend half the game earning his. (Claude isn't even his real name!) Once you have it, though, he's absolutely ride or die for you until the stars go out. He is so full of heart and ambition: He wants both sides of his heritage to get along, he wants to open borders and eliminate xenophobia and promote equality between commonfolk, and deep down, I think he craves a partner to stand with him at that new dawn, or an equal who sees his vision for the future and will fight for it just as hard. Nobody believed in him when he was a kid, but if you put your faith in him, he'll return it tenfold. Some people don't like that he's calculating, or has to leave the player character at the end of the game to go back to his homeland, but both are necessary elements for his goals to change things. He will always come back, and everyone who bets against him and his love for his companions is wrong with a big fat W. #KhalidForMostDatablePrez"

"Claude is a fun little onion of facades. He calls himself the embodiment of distrust, he acts like he's carefree and without worries, an unscrupulous schemer--and so many in universe buy into that hook line and sinker. He's used to others viewing him with suspicion and uses it as armor to obscure his not-so-dark truth: that he cares immensely, that he values minimizing the loss of life, and that above all he has so much hope that people will fundamentally choose to do better given the choice.

His front guards a center that his conflict filled world would be happy to tear apart. As the child of people from two nations in constant conflict--one of which is explicitly isolationist and dehumanizes those outside its church's reach--he hasn't really had a place where he can be without his facade. As a child he thought he could run, but when confronted with the fact that this hatred existed no matter where he ran, he chose to instead try to create a more just and kind world.

His inability to let others in beyond his facade at first may lead to a sense of distance, but isn't it then all the more satisfying when you're allowed in? All he wants is a little trust, a little faith, and--like what he wants to give everyone--a chance to be better.

And like that you got a charming young lad with a fun personality that your grandma would be thrilled to have stay forever."

Hades propaganda:

“Fields of Asphodel is a work in progress (but nearly finished!) text-based IF game where the MC plays the part of Persephone (you can rename your character tho) who get married to Hades at the behest of Zeus (being a giant douchebag per usual) and move to the Underworld. Hades is kind and respectful and cares deeply for his realm. He feels guilty that the MC was forced into this arranged marriage and does whatever he can to make the MC more comfortable. Even if the MC wants to leave, he puts the MC's feelings first. He drinks that respect women (gender neutral) juice everyday. Listen, this marriage is arranged by Olympus King Dick Zeus, so Hades has absolute zero problems if the MC dates someone else from his realm. Choose someone else's route (if you can!) He has the cutest kid, Makaria and of course everyone's favorite puppy Kerberos. Hades is a slow burn, he dodges and swerves the MC's flirting, pretending to be oblivious. He's not oblivious at all to the growing feelings between the two and that's what makes it sooo good.”

#claude von riegan #Fire Emblem #fire emblem: three houses #FE:3H #Hades #fields of asphodel #Round 3 #MDDC 2

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girls-alias · 3 months

Text

Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester P10

Title: Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester Part 10

Words: 1,621

Relations: Dean Winchester X Reader

TW: SPOILERS S1E12

Taglist: @deans-baby-momma , @qinnroki @moldyorange @creative-writing92 @lokischickadee , @take-it-on-the-run @daisy-the-quake @ilikw @selfdestructionandrhum

Part 9

Dean smiled at me as he approached the seats beside me. "Hey, baby," He groaned as he sat down.

"Hi baby," I mocked as I rolled my eyes and looked away. Dean chuckled so I turned to glare at him.

"You're cute when you're jealous, you know that?" He asked so I rolled my eyes again looking away. He grabbed my chin to turn me to look at him. I looked at him with puppy dog eyes. When he's better he's going to leave with some stupid blonde. "Is she looking?" He whispered so I looked at him confused but indeed saw Layla sitting in the row in front of us and was looking at us. I looked at Dean confused as I nodded softly. He just smiled and grabbed the back of my neck. We sat making out in a church tent for a good couple of minutes, everyone there must have had their thoughts on us. Dean pulled away to whisper in my ear. "I'm yours," He whispered, his breath fanning my neck and sending a shiver down my spine. I practically melted in my seat. Dean smirked seeing the effect he had on me. He continued to smirk as he paid attention to the blind man on the stage.

"Each morning, my wife, Sue Ann, reads me the news. Never seems good, does it?" He asked rhetorically making me smile as I held my laughter. What would he know about the bad things going on in the world? "Seems like there's always someone committing some immoral, unspeakable act." He continued, Dean looked at me before rolling his eyes. He also thought this guy was ridiculous. "But I say to you, God is watching." Everyone seemed to murmur an agreement.

These people are so easily persuaded to believe anything. I bet if I stood up right now and claimed God was talking to me they'd all believe me. "God rewards the good, and he punishes the corrupt," He added and I scoffed. The only noise that wasn't a laugh that I could make. Dean smirked at me finding me as his entertainment. "It is a lord who does the healing here friends, the Lord who guides me in choosing who to heal by helping me see into people's hearts." Everyone seemed to agree with him but Dean leaned in to whisper to me.

"Or into their wallets," He commented making me laugh. I pretended I was coughing when everyone looked at my sudden outburst.

"You think so, young man?" The preacher asked, I slid down in my chair a little hiding my mouth with my hand so no one could see me trying not to laugh. Everyone went silent, and even the pianist stopped playing, only making me want to laugh even more.

"Sorry," Dean announced so everyone could hear him. I saw Layla smiling to herself which only pissed me off. Who does she think she is? I should lean over and pull on her scraggly blonde hair.

"No, don't be," The preacher replied grabbing my attention again. "Just watch what you say about a blind man. We have real sharp ears," He joked and there was a stale laugh like everyone was trying to please him. Idiots! "What's your name, son?" He asked and Dean seemed confused, he looked at me like he was afraid to say.

"His name is Dean," I answered for him and the preacher smiled.

"You must be his girlfriend," The preacher smiled before nodding. "Dean, I want you to come up here with me," The preacher announced and suddenly I smiled. Dean looked uneasy and looked at me for guidance. I nodded showing him to go. Everyone clapped for him. He looked around for a second before shaking his head.

"No, it's okay," He commented so I looked at him concerned. What's he thinking about?

"What are you doing?" Sam asked thinking he had lost his mind.

"You've come here to be healed, haven't you?" The preacher asked and everyone was silent as they waited for Dean to speak.

"Well, yeah, but, uh," Dean stammered looking at me for guidance, I smiled at him. Everyone clapped for him again. "You should heal Y/N, she was struck by lightning, she's clearly in pain but she doesn't want to say anything," He commented wincing slightly like he was afraid of how I would react. I smiled knowing he cared for me. He's dying and worrying about the scars and pain that I will live through.

"Oh-ho, no. I didn't pick you, Dean. The Lord did," The preacher explained and everyone cheered a little louder.

"Get up there," Sam exclaimed but once again Dean looked at me for the answer, I smirked with an idea. I leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"If you go up there I'll take a shower with you when we get to a motel," I whispered seductively. Dean smiled as he pulled away and gestured for Sam to get out of his way. I chuckled knowing exactly what he wanted. He climbed onto the stage and looked back at me with a smile. I smiled back but it instantly faded when Layla straightened up and fixed her hair probably thinking Dean was looking at her, I was going to bite her. Dean and the preacher seemed to have a mumbled conversation.

"Pray with me, friends," The preacher announced. Everyone bowed their heads and raised their hands but when Dean looked at me like a deer in headlights I knew he needed me. I nodded with a smile. Sam and I watched intently as the preacher placed a hand on Dean's head. Dean looked like he was in pain, his eyes rolling around his head. I jumped up instantly but Sam stopped me. He only let me through when Dean fell to his knees. I wrapped my arm around his back holding him steady, His eyes rolled again before his body went limp and I held all of his weight.

I wasn't as strong as I used to be so struggled a little, the wounds on my back instantly stinging and feeling tight. I tried breathing through the pain but struggled.

"Sam," I called out and he was instantly at my side helping me hold Dean up. Everyone cheered and I looked at them like they were crazy.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked shaking Dean trying to wake him. I placed a hand on his cheek instantly worried. "Say something," Sam almost shouted as Dean gasped for air and held himself up a little. Dean's eyes widened as he looked at the preacher. I quickly looked but saw he was just smiling. I focused on Dean.

"Are you okay, baby?" I asked grabbing his attention, he looked at me a little dazed. It seemed like magic, colour sprung to his cheeks, the bags under his eyes faded and his lips looked plumper. I shook myself thinking I imagined it but there he was, a colourful man in a dull world. I smiled when I noticed him smiling at me. "Are you okay?" I asked softly. His answer must have been on the tip of his tongue as he grabbed me roughly and kissed me. I was shocked but happily accepted it. This kiss was different, it was like he was the happiest man in the world. He kissed me so rough and passionately that I wondered if he was only so gentle in the past because he was in pain. He didn't want to pull away from the kiss even as everyone was watching us and he just kept pulling me back for more.

I giggled as I pulled away, Dean's eyes searching mine, the smile plastered across his face never faltering. Dean's eyes seemed to be brighter, the once subtle but beautiful green eyes now vibrant and piercing. I chuckled realising that Dean did what I always seem to do with him, and answered a question with my actions. I chuckled just thinking.

"Come on," I added as I helped to pull him up. He stood and grabbed the sides of my face to kiss me again, I giggled as I pulled away. Dean took my hand and helped me climb off the stage, I started leading us to the back to exit the tent. Dean looked at me confused. "I want a doctor to check you over," I explained as we exited the tent.

"Baby, I feel great," He cheered but I smiled as I rolled my eyes.

"I just want to check," I explained but Dean grabbed my hand to stop me. I looked at him confused. "He might heal you next," He said hopefully.

"He only heals one a day," A random person close to us added. I smiled triumphantly continuing on my way and approaching the impala. I turned to face Dean when we got to the car and was pleasantly surprised to feel his lips on mine again. I giggled into the kiss but pulled away. "What happened to the rule of no PDA in front of Sam?" I asked rhetorically but Dean scoffed.

"He doesn't mind, do you, Sammy?" He asked looking at Sam over the car. Sam just chuckled as he climbed in. Dean smiled thinking that would make me reconsider.

"I just don't think it's something he wants to see every day, we can kiss but PG when Sam's around, okay?" I explained not asking a question. Dean sighed as he nodded making me laugh. I kissed him, and his hands instantly roamed me wanting more I laughed pulling away again.

"What he's in the car," Dean joked making me laugh. He gave me a wink before climbing into the car.

Masterlist

Working On

Taglist

#fanfiction #fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #spn fanfic #spn

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mayariviolet · 2 months

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AOT Men That Are Hozier-coded.

ft. Armin and Jean.

summary: Horny and pathetic. ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES TO YOU.

cw: slightly suggestive themes under the cut. religious guilt, specifically Catholic or Christian beliefs… obviously (y’all know me atp).

a/n: Someone who can write smut comfortably please write an armin x reader OR jean x reader fic to the tune of:

‘Take me to Church’ and ‘It Will Come Back,’ by Mr. Andrew Hozier Byrne. PLEASE

THEY ARE SO HOZIER CODED! I’m just rambling rn because I think I’m ovulating falling in love with them again. Maybe I will turn this into a series where I associate artists with certain characters… I don’t know.

✧˖°.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ✧˖°. ✧˖°.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ✧˖°. ✧˖°.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ✧˖

“My church offers no absolutes

She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom"

The only Heaven I'll be sent to

Is when I'm alone with you

I was born sick, but I love it

Command me to be well.”

LIKE TELL ME THATS NOT ARMIN… HE WOULD SO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT WANTING SOMEONE SO BADLY THAT ITS BORDERLINE SINFUL. BUT AT THE END OF THE DAY HE WOULDN’T CARE!

HE WANTS TO BE RALLIED AND HELD TO A HIGH STANDARD OR JUDGED BY SOMEONE HE REVERES, BC HE WANTS TO BE CHALLENGED. LORD HAVE MERCY. HE WOULD BE THE KIND OF DUDE TO HAVE IMPROMPTU RELATIONS IN A CONFESSIONAL. SURE HE WOULD FEEL GUILTY, BUT IT WOULD BE SO GOOD IN THE MOMENT! HE WOULD PROBABLY THINK HE FOUND SALVATION WITH YOU UNDERNEATH HIM. Impromptu, ‘Wrong use of a rosary.’

He probably sang in the choir or played the piano and just decided to drag you to church one day. Not in a:

‘I’m going to convert you’-way.

More like,

‘Look at this thing I’m proud of!’-way.

══════════════════

“Don't let it in with no intention to keep it

Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it

Honey, don't feed it, it will come back.”

THIS IS SO JEAN BC THIS BOY IS A MUNCH!!!

I AM TIRED OF PRETENDING HE ISN’T.

He is so pathetic in a way that is just so satisfying for both of you. THIS MAN LOVES YOU IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORLD AND IS SO ANNOYING ABOUT IT. ESPECIALLY AT THE END OF THE SONG WHEN HOZIER SAID

“Don’t you hear me howling babe?”

HE IS CALLING FOR YOU! AGHHH!

If ever he got in a fwb type of situation I feel like Jean would jokingly say,

“Don’t fall in love with me.” and you’d be like, “Okay? I wasn’t planning to…”

BUT THEN HE WOULD BE ALL POUTY AND TAKE IT ALL BACK WITH SOMETHING LIKE,

“Wait no I lied please fall in love with me-”

So when you do finally fall in love it’s kind of a:

“Last chance to back out because once we do this with emotion, there’s no turning back.”

MORE OF A WARNING FOR YOU BECAUSE HE LOVES SO DEEPLY.

Jean would not be one to go to Church because he doesn’t believe in God or a higher power. He’s open to discussing it, though, especially if you are. But if he could choose to worship something or dedicate his life to it would be YOU.

══════════════════

(Me after writing this…)

a/n: I have no idea why I’m so feral lately. Nor, why I keep writing head canons at like three am… I’m gonna finish editing the first chapter of my Geto fic tomorrow. Hopefully upload it by Saturday!

I should also clarify that I was literally raised Catholic.

══════════════════

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seven-stars-in-his-palm · 4 months

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okay so a couple of days ago i saw this ask on @fellshish's blog about a need for a full 1941 discorporated aziraphale angst fic, realized i had an entire outline already in the hull, and... this happened:

a "what if crowley didn't miss in 1941" fic, including but not exclusive to the moment itself, the hours leading up to it, and the aftermath; a fanfiction (chapter 3/4)

summary:

It's Fell the Marvelous' awaited debut performance on the West End. He has his marksman, his turnips, and things appear to be going as planned—that is, until said marksman does the one thing he was supposed to avoid. Not missing. (or: the bullet catch goes wrong, and due to a tiny technicality, crowley's afraid aziraphale is gone for good. and crowley himself—for the first time in quite a while—is well and truly alone.)

warnings: full of blood, sweat, kissing while crying, blown up heads, prayers, nostalgic churches, polaroids, alcohol, and aziraphale being a discorporated bastard and bitching his way back to earth while a plot we should probably be focusing occurs as we ignore it entirely. and written extremely slowly. oxymoron but i couldnt get this out of my head fast enough and now you must endure it (should you choose to accept). i think i'm gonna be pretty proud of this though. excited!

(also thank @tforthetea for the inspiration because a conversation with them helped spark this the first time. all hail)

ao3 link for those who didn't check the title, and fic under the cut! :)

chapter 1: number thirteen

One of the things Crowley liked gloating about on occasion was that he was older than Death Itself.

He wasn’t technically wrong, per se. The humans think him mad, and the demons think him stupid, but he was still right. Human concepts, despite their hold on the population and overall importance, were non-existent before or even during the Beginning. The Four Horsemen and other ideas evolved right alongside the humans, so technically, Crowley was older than all of them. He rather liked having something to lord over War (in his head), during the few unfortunate meetings he would have with her. Famine was a non-issue, and Death could not touch him regardless of how much he didn’t like him. There were failsafes.

Now, however, actually being in the room that Aziraphale could potentially walk into and never come out of, Crowley would gladly take all of it back and pretend he never even thought about it at all.

The damned magician. Crowley never caught his name, but if he had, he would wrought him with the most annoyingly small curses that no one would ever believe to be true after today. Tonight wasn’t just about impressing the audience or even repaying that wine-filled debt, it was about them. Tonight, Crowley was to play the trusted stooge, and…shoot the angel. Point blank. In the face. And make it look real. And not discorporate him. And not get them fired. And—

There were a lot of things to consider, alright? To contrary belief, Crowley did, in fact, not think Death was silly or stupid. He’d also been there when It was born, you know. Crowley liked Abel. Watching It happen was, plainly, fucking terrifying. It brought up something new, and change was just as scary as Death. Ask anyone, and they’d tell you.

Crowley has been running that unfortunate meeting involuntarily through his head for the first ten or so minutes of waiting for the actual show to begin, while also listing out the terrible things he would do to the magician man had he ever held the opportunity again. He’d been sort of gunning (no pun intended) to stay backstage and avoid the riffraff, but been ushered out the dressing room the second he’d given his (admittingly harsh) two cents on the situation. Aziraphale said he wanted privacy before the big show, but Crowley knew he was just ticked. Aziraphale was an angel who thrived with a supportive devil over his shoulder.

So, Crowley is just milling around in the crowd as the Allied soldiers and their companions filter in. They come and go—a Lady even comes to check on him at point, mentioning odd vacant gazes and looking over shoulders paranoid-like, but he waves them off before they can pry. He really shouldn’t be so worried—even if Aziraphale…‘didn’t make it through the night’, he’d eventually be fine. As long as he discorporated a certain way, nothing too lethal—some deaths were harder to come back from others.

They’ve been discorporated before, of course. That was how Crowley knew this. Six millennia offered many opportunities for the event. But never, and it was never, at each other's hand. On paper, yeah, they killed each other on occasion, but truly…

Crowley shifts nervously, sending a glare at anyone who got a bit too close, but the brief discomforts aren’t enough to lift his spirits. There was one entity faffing about who refused to bugger off even with direct acknowledgements, though that might be because Crowley was imagining It. Or It really was here, and interested in the affairs of potential angel discorporation. Or a bomb was going to fall here and It was just beating the rush. The theories were far from endless.

Death appeared back there as soon as Crowley had been kicked out. He’s simply been dealing with it since then, and It probably wasn’t helping to lift his spirits. He shouldn’t be so antsy—both logic and mechanics deemed it so.

They’d be fine, Crowley repeats to himself near constantly, finding a proper seat in direct line of sight where Aziraphale will be standing. He readjusts his tie as the humans sit around him, creating a perfectly isolated bubble of red velvet seats. What did it matter that twelve humans died doing this before? They weren’t human. Death had no claim on them. It couldn’t take them even if It so desired.

Crowley scowls at the hooded figure standing near the entrance of the theater, cold scythe gleaming under the warm bulbs of the West End. Its just…standing there. Making no move to come closer, either. Odd.

Crowley sinks lower into his plush seat, as if trying to avoid Death’s gaze. But being one of two immovable objects on this Earth, It’s always on him. If Death had a goal, there would be no point in warding It away.

Seeing Death is a famous bad omen, and would send a chill down his spine had it been anywhere else. At this moment, however, Crowley is simply irritated. If It was looking for another soul in this theater, that was fine by him, let It take them, but It would not be ruining whatever this was. Humans were ever plentiful—there was only one angel deserving of Earth.

Before Crowley can decide whether or not he should be stupid and confront the omen in the room, the lights go dim. The crowd’s murmurs die down, and Crowley has no choice but to stay seated and watch the show. Aziraphale wouldn’t be coming on until the Ladies of Camelot had their first number, but Crowley could easily endure it. The gaze aimed straight at his head could be ignored.

World be damned if It took the angel’s enthusiasm. They’d be fine. Crowley just has to remember that.

-----

Things are, indeed, not going fine.

Crowley is meant to go up on stage any second now. Aziraphale has no inkwell in his gloved hand. No amount of snapping is removing said turnip from line of sight. He reads the pamphlet—then again, then again, then again, but there is no second option for apparently miracleless individuals.

Fucking. Hell.

Whatever false bravado Aziraphale is spewing is null and void compared to the should-be-non-existent nerves running through frantic hands and finding absolutely nothing useful. Crowley flips through the same two pages—give the stooge the bullet, poise, and shoot. The miracle would’ve ensure that the bullet would never leave the barrel. But now—now, well, he really regrets not considering a Plan B. Did they ever consider a Plan B? Apparently not.

Getting there is a blur. Aziraphale is essentially shoving the rifle into Crowley’s care, which is honestly becoming a worse idea by the second. He’s switching between the demon and the audience so quickly that Crowley can’t tell who he’s addressing. They’re deathly quiet, and Crowley would feel embarrassed if his heart that shouldn’t be there wasn’t pounding with too much blood in too little time. His mind is a soup. Muddled, feverish, and incredibly foul tasting. You wouldn’t want to drink it even if you were starving.

“I would ask you,” Aziraphale says loudly, cutting through the fog of utter mental mush, “to take this bullet, and load it into the rifle. Very carefully.”

Crowley nods belatedly, squeezing and turning parts of the gun to get the non-existent warmth running back through his fingers. He takes the bullet, and turns it round a few times while Aziraphale stares at him with excruciating anxiety. Is he stalling? Honestly, even Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell you.

“It's perfectly simple,” Aziraphale mutters softly, pushing the gun a bit closer. “Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear.”

Crowley can’t find himself to agree here. He’s staring at him, and that would usually get him to listen regardless of shades, but Death is boring into them like the harshest of theater critics. His skin is slick, almost clammy, threatening to let the gun slip and fire a stray bullet anywhere but its intended target. His back is sore, oddly enough. Irritating.

Crowley has questions, like he always does, but the time has long passed. What he wants to ask is ‘do I just squeeze that little bit there?’ pointing at (what looks like) to be the trigger—but then that would just make Crowley look incompetent, so he swallows it back and nodly lightly. He’s never fired a gun like Aziraphale seems to believe whole-heartedly, but he’s certainly watched it happen. He’s picked up enough of the motions to figure it out on his own.

That thought still doesn’t help when he’s being told to insert the bullet, though. Crowley fumbles through it, opening a mislaid hatch or two, but manages before Aziraphale could raise any alarms. He’s already stood back in position (when did that happen?) when Crowley raises the loaded rifle for all to see, proclaiming as such. He bites back the tremor threatening to appear—he wasn’t nervous. Excited, more like it. Excited to finally get an excuse to make a throw at the angel non-suspicious like.

That was all it was. Really.

Crowley turns the rifle one last time as Aziraphale spins more useless pageantry for the audience to woo at. They’re both grinning, but tightly and annoyingly false. It wasn’t the eyes that were the problem—what, do you think that demons ever got stage fright? Absurd!

It was just...well, there weren’t just humans in this audience. Crowley couldn’t forget the shadow looming at the end of the theater no matter how tight he grips the side of the weapon. But, just like Someone had laid out all that Time ago—Death could only perceive them.

It could not touch them.

It would not touch them.

It would not touch him, if he could help it.

The drums begin their incessant titter as Aziraphale finally turns to Crowley properly, blue cloak glimmering under the warm light of the stage before them. “A-are you ready, sir?”

Crowley would scoff at this if he could. Sir. Only humans ever addressed him that way; angels look down on him, demons sneer at him. Though he supposes this angel would be different—always throwing the curveballs, him.

“When you hear my signal,” the angel says, voice growing quieter, “shoot.”

Aziraphale removes his tophat, revealing preciously white curls. This pings something, the remaining traces of damned sense he’s got buried inside. Crowley isn’t sure what has possessed him—but he shakes his head. It’s all he can do. Don’t make me do it, he nearly warns out loud. Not if you know what’s good for you.

Aziraphale stills, but not before mouthing words that would be akin to an ashamed mumble if he were close enough. Trust me.

Trust me.

Satan, he got him there. That’s why Crowley was here, after all. Stooge. 100% Reliable Marksman.

Right.

Aziraphale isn’t nearly as good as Crowley at hiding his anxious gaze. “Ready?”

Oh, Heavens no. He never would be, but no better time than the present. Or something like that. He can’t recall where it came from.

“Aim…”

Crowley can’t ignore it anymore—he’s shaking. Extremely so, at that. It’s knocking around the air in his lungs very unkindly. It’s quite difficult to aim. His head is bobbing around in the scope.

Just about…

There it is.

Crowley waits—just like he’s done for the last…however long. A long time. His arms are starting to hurt, frankly. He rests his finger over the trigger to ease the trembling a tad.

And the magician remains silent.

Crowley ignores the sweat crawling down his neck. (Wasn’t it supposed to be freezing?) He waits some more—it’s not like one can forget where you are. Benefit of the doubt and such.

Nothing still. Nary a nod.

He’s been staring at him for a minute. The crowd hasn’t uttered a peep. Is Crowley just supposed to…do it? Did they talk about this? They must have. They talked about this. They talked about it, right? Yeah. Yeah, they must have—

"Fire!"

He startled him.

The reason why he listens is easy to explain. Aziraphale made Crowley flinch. A bit of a spook, really, not that bad of a fright. A sudden jolt—a tap on the shoulder, one that said ‘oh, look, you’ve got perfect aim already! Shoot!’

And he did.

What’s the first rule of approaching someone with a weapon again?

Right. Don’t fucking scare them.

The handle is warm. Slick, heavy, shaky. The scope aims with guilty target missing at the helm. A puff of smoke is spewing from the barrel. A thump, a sickening thump, deafening in the cricket silence of a post-trick world.

And Aziraphale…is on the floor.

(Where else would he be, really?)

There, obviously. On the floor. With a blown-up head. Bleeding like blessed Heaven. Bleeding like bloody Heaven, while Crowley has to take in the sight and smell the blessed thing.

It fits. They fit. Like a perfect crown on a decapitated head.

God, his head’s just gone, isn’t it?

A noise cuts through the thick silence like a stubbornly determined knife. Far away, above it all, there it rings. It’s muffled, soft, and almost awkward in the way it cuts through the air. A camera click. A reluctant, malicious camera click.

And that was just the perfect way to say it, no? He blew his brains out. Crowley blew his angel’s fucking brains out with a fucking gun that he’s never fucking held before.

Trust me.

Well. That, no doubt, was Aziraphale’s fault—it’d be a funny old world if angels and demons went around trusting one another.

-----

hgh. hope that was decent. chapter two coming as soon as it can because im invested now :))

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #good omens 1941 #cw blood #cw guns #cw death #maniac writing #in a west-end town

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joenotexotic99 · 2 months

Note

Idk if you're still making this, but I want to let you know that we're waiting for BoB Lovetropes p2. My suggestions: Toye, Eugene, Malarkey, Guarnere, Luz, Sobel. Hope you're doing okay <3

A/n: I've been dealing with some stuff lately and now finally have a little time to catch up on old stuff. I also want to apologize anon I couldn't bring myself to soble. Sorry couldn't do it.

-Warnings: fluff, tiny bit of language, got wayyy to carried away with malarkey’s, oops. Might have to turn that into its own thing, if it's not already. Luz is slightly spicy, nothing crazy but you cant miss it.-

Masterlist

Joe Toye

-grumpy vs sunshine trope. Omggggg, the idea of this has me kicking my feet and giggling. Joe Toye is rough around the edges, tough skin. You on the other hand have always been the positive one, keeping the people around you spirits high. Being an optimist of sorts. Maybe not cheerful but you could definitely make someone's day. Yet behind his grumpy facade, he can't help but notice your unwavering optimism. He wasn't opposed to love; he just never expected to be swept off his feet so quickly by one person. Your personality was anything but the same. Never in a million years did he think he was going to fall in love with a bright and shiny person, which was the exact reason why he loved you so much. You two were like night and day. You were the beacon of light in all the darkness. I feel like Toye would also be super protective over you. Kinda the same vibe as liebgott. But that's for another time.

“Is that a smile I see on your face toye?” “I'm one lucky bastard you realize that?”

Eugene roe

-office romance/forced proximity. I didn't exactly know what to call this one. Both you and roe are easy company medics. Gene from the start, harbord a crush on you. And mean big time crush. Thinking about you he got butterflies in his stomach. You both spent significant time together. Typically the only times you were separated is when you were attending to fellow paratroopers. Bastogne was a turning point. You were in a jeep headed to the church, your hand and a cloth being the soul thing keeping a man alive. You almost made it before the church burst into flames. When Gene heard what happened he got the first ride possible to bastogne. When he saw you, hand now on a clearly dead man, he took you into his arms. He brought you back to the Adrennes forest. As usual you spent the night in genes fox hole the only difference was you both saw what was right in front of you for the first time and kissed. It wasn't until Austria where he gave you a promise ring where he promised to spend and devote the rest of his life with you.

“you make me the happiest man you know that y/n?”

“Tell me that again at our wedding”

Donald Malarkey

-friends to lovers? Maybe a sprinkle of enemies to lovers?? I don't know but here me out. So you join the paratroopers as a female, the reason you got in was from connections in the army. Seeing how even if you are the most talented female there is, it's still the 40s here. I wouldn't think that the Toccoa men would flat out bully you, but would more just not believe in you. Probably leave you out of a lot of things. Kind of just pretend you weren't there. But not malarkey. He saw something in you that the rest didn't. Honestly he was shocked to see how they treated you. You were the best paratrooper there was in this company. You stood your ground. You met and exceeded in all categories. Passed each test with flying colors. You also were able to do it with the most incredible smile. As much as you disliked it, he stood up for you. Complimented and congratulated you when you did well. You really liked him. He was cute, kind, and not a douche wad. But sadly, most guys here if they weren't mean, they were trying to get Into your pants. As much as you wouldn't mind that with malarkey, you weren't here for that. One day in Aldbourne England you had enough. You weren't going to get swooned into bed and he had to know it. When you had a spare moment you grabbed him and pulled him aside and told him to stop. He was bewildered that this is how you perceived him. He explained to you that was not his intention. You could hear the sincerity of his voice. He meant it. This was the start of your friendship. You both were like a thing but not? Kinda a situationship. But it wasn't official until Haguenau. The effects of war painted across your faces. In one of the houses you laid in one of the beds, trying for the hundredth time to get some rest to no avail. He came and found you. There was little and a lot to say. Instead he kissed you. The past two years of friendship melted instantly into a lifetime of love.

“god i've wanted you to do that for a long time”

“What happened to ‘I'm not here for a relationship’?”

“shut the fuck up and kiss me again would ya”

William Guarnere

-Enemies to lovers. Come on, this is so perfect. Guarnere is a natural bully. He bullies everybody all the time, but you? He loves bullying you. He always has an insult special for you up his sleeve. However, that's a lie. He hates it to his core. You are the sweetest person ever. All he wants to do is not bully you. He's somewhere in the middle of liebgott and Speers. He doesn't want to be seen as weak. He has this demnor he feels the need to uphold and that everybody around him expects. Not some ooey gooey man. Even though if he could he'd probably worship you. You were perfect in his eyes. He hates himself more and more but the more he digs himself into this hole the harder it is for him to get out. He finally cracks when someone else makes a particular mean stab at you one day at a bar in holland. He can hate himself all he fucking wants for bullying you. But somebody else is doing it? Hurting you? Not going to happen. He breaks his nose, jaw, maybe a rib or two, black eye and busted lip, all before he could get ripped off this guy. You get wind of this later. Within minutes you're confronting him. Before he shuts you up with a kiss.

“I thought you hated me”

“Hate you? No, For fuckes sake sweetheart, I'm in love with you”

George Luz

-meet cute. You originally met just before you signed up to be paratroopers. And I mean just before. You were getting blood work done to test how fit you were to fight. As you waited in the lobby to fill out paperwork, you went to reach for your pen. That's when you realized it wasn't there. It just so happens that a very cute guy next to you had an extra with him. You quickly filled the paper and exchanged names and conversations. On the way home you couldn't get him out of your head. So couldn't he. Later when you were assigned to easy company you found the one and only George luz. The same extremely handsome guy at the clinic. He immediately recognized you. How could he not? Your face and laugh had been at the front of his thoughts a lot lately. You tried to keep both of your composure during Toccoa seeing how you didn't want to get into any trouble. But that all fell apart after one weekend with a pass and some alcohol. Kisses were shared, clothes were shed and hands roamed. After that night you made it official. Luz also started writing his vows.

“you know I've never felt this way before”

“What the sex or me? Because If it wasn't the sex let me know so we can go again”

“both luz, but I can't turn that offer down now can I”

#band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers headcanon #band of brothers x reader #joe toye x reader #eugene roe x reader #Donald Malarkey x reader #george luz x reader

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