#And who's blood did he use for those pots?

[luminaryofblood]

🚶‍♂️

Thematic Headcanons. A series of subject-specific headcanons you can ask your favorite blog and muse.

🚶‍♂️Habits

Mohg's blood was unique, not just because he was the son to the queen Marika and Godfrey, the first Elden Lord.

His blood was blessed by the Mother of Truth.

Ever since he had been blessed, his blood would burn.

It was a very special boon she had bestowed upon him. It was always a joyous thing to behold, when the masked fiends would descend from above to cull the population down below.

He would laugh as he watched them dance. Dance and scream.

Like music to his ears... He rumbled softly at the memories.

... Oh, but habits?

The Mother of Truth craved wounds.

In his youth, Mohg would oftentimes bleed himself to prove his love to his new mother. As his blood never rotted or decayed, he would often take to filling discarded pots with his own blood, using them as a means of fending off intruders.

And for long overdue amusement.

He still collects them to this very day.

[neo-nomatrix]

In a world of boys, he’s a gentleman

Luke Castellan x Apollo kid!reader

word count: a little over 1k

summary: you’ve had your heart broken many times, maybe the Hermes boy will be different

You have only ever wanted to be loved. For whatever reason you haven’t had much luck. Sure, there were many guys.

Callum from Ares. The only thing hotter than him was his temper.

Ryan from Hephaestus. He would forge copper to make you jewelry, little did you know three other girls had the same gift.

Ezra from Athena. Always thought he was so much smarter and better than you. Made you want to shoot your arrow straight at him.

Aiden from Hermes. A liar who couldn’t take anything seriously.

Elliott from Ares. Was dared by Callum to lock you in a dark room. And he actually listened.

Being the child of Apollo had its perks, but it more often had downsides. Your least favorite being your ability to fall in love so easily. After Elliot you swore off falling in love. A pain even you couldn’t heal. You couldn’t understand why nothing seemed to work out for you, you were a dreamboat!

A beautiful daughter of Apollo who glowed like the sun. Not only were you his daughter, you were his favorite, the hundreds of freckles on your face proved it. You were kind and generous, always willing to take in an injured camper from dusk to dawn. Your smile quite literally lit up a room. Perhaps you were too nice? Maybe they thought they could take advantage of your kindness?

Whatever the reason was doesn’t matter. You decided to take a page from your aunt Artemis’ book. No more boys, no more falling in love. Things will be easier this way. You know it.

You should’ve been at the bonfire with everyone else. You chose to skip it tonight because you wished to be alone, at the archery range. Maybe you’d earn another freckle if Apollo saw you practicing your already perfect shot. Luke should’ve been at the bonfire too, singing with your half-siblings and roasting marshmallows.

“Hey! I need some help!” A deep, painful cry said.

Immediately worried, you turned around and saw Luke Castellan holding his abdomen. You immediately run over to him, taking his arm over yours and getting to your cabin as soon as possible. You decided the infirmary was too far and you could use the cot in your cabin.

You slam through the cabin door and lay him on the cot in the middle of the bunk beds. “Lay down.”

You pull up his blood stained orange shirt to reveal a large gash on the side of his toned stomach. You held your hand on his abdomen for a moment to assess what happened. A second degree burn and large slices, as if by a horn, caused this.

“How did this happen?” You ask as you start to transfer some of the pain to a potted plant, causing it to wilt.

“Accident with a hephaestus kid, wrong place, wrong time I guess,” He says slightly wincing.

“I can take most of the pain but it’ll still take a while to heal,” You explain.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the bonfire, leading a song with the rest of your cabin?” He asks.

“I could ask you the same thing, wandering around the blacksmiths. You know those things they make are pretty hot right?” You scoff at him.

“Yeah I guess I do now,” he rolls his eyes.

You begin to bandage the wound and give him a slice of bread. “Bread? What the hell is this gonna do?” he questions.

“My sister Melody made it, it can heal the burns for the most part,” you say.

“Aren’t you the girl who dated Aiden?” He asks bluntly, taking a bite of the bread.

“That’s none of your business,” You roll your eyes.

“If you ask me-” he begins to say before you cut him off.

“I’m not.”

“He was an idiot. All those guys were. I mean seriously, didn’t anyone teach them how to treat a pretty girl?” He continues, not fazed by you interrupting him.

“All those guys? You know about them?” You question.

“I guess. I mean after word got out about that shithead Elliot I did some asking,” he shrugs. You frown at the mention of Elliot.

“Whatever, they’re all in the past. No more guys for me,” you tell him.

“You shouldn’t give up entirely, these guys are stupid. There’s someone out there who deserves you, trust,” He assures you.

“Oh yeah? Tell me when you meet him,” You laugh.

“I think i know a guy, actually,” He responds, sitting up slightly.

“Oh yeah? Do tell.”

“Well, he’s tall, tan, and goddamn gorgeous. Has these soft brown curls, and I heard he’s the best swordsman at camp. Perfect for the best archer,” He explains to you, smiling.

“You seem to be fond of him, maybe you should go date him,” You joke.

“Nah, I think he likes this girl from Apollo. Kind, generous, beautiful, best healer and archer around,” He locks eyes with yours, darting between your eyes and your lips.

He holds your face in his hand, circling his thumb. His shirt rides up exposing his stomach and bandages.

“You like what you see?” He teases.

“You’re an idiot,” You smile.

“That seems to be your type,” he shrugs and knits his brows.

Before you can say another word he presses a kiss against your lips, moving them softly against yours. One of his hands stays on your neck while the other ventures down to your waist and then the chair you sat in. He pulls the chair closer to him and puts his hand back on your waist. You move one of your hands to his knee and the other to right beside him, leaning in closer.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” He’s whispers into the kiss.

You smile at him before pausing. “The bonfire’s almost over, maybe you should head back,” you say.

“Yeah probably,” he gives you one last hard kiss followed by another few pecks.

He stands up and steadys himself, the injury clearly still pains him. He starts to walk away but before he can leave he turns back to you and presses a few more kisses against you.

“Okay, I’m done. y’know for now,” he smirks.

“You’re welcome anytime,” You laugh and he leaves. He gives you two looks before exiting.

Maybe you’ll give this boy one more chance.

[pedrospatch]

safe and sound

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: Your daughter has a nightmare—her daddy makes it all better.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. slight canon age deviations (Joel is 56, Ellie is 17) READER’S AGE IS NOT SPECIFIED. she’s a child bearing adult woman so do with that information what you will. established relationship, reader and Joel have a toddler (her age is not specified in fic but she’s 3 ish years old), reader has NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION and neither does their child except she has Joel’s eyes and his dark curls, no mentions of her skintone. Joel and Ellie are fine bc he deserves it, Joel’s an overprotective girl dad, reader is the chill parent. implications of a toddler being told about clickers, bad dreams, almost smut, Joel and reader get cockblocked, SOFT Joel who comforts his babygirl, mention of Sarah towards the end. very minimal editing.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: listen, i love me some daddy joel but tonight i needed a bit of actual daddy joel. this was whipped up last minute bc i haven’t had the best weekend and needed some comfort. also i didn’t have the mental capacity or energy to come up with a moodboard, so gif it is.

Joel looks down at the old, worn book in his hand.

Winnie the Pooh.

He never would have imagined it. This.

Reading a bedtime story to a toddler. His toddler.

He’s in his fifties—he shouldn’t have a toddler.

He shouldn’t have a teenager, either.

Yet, he has both.

The toddler has his blood, the teenager doesn’t.

But that doesn’t matter to him.

Joel still considers her to be his own kid.

Only, she’s not a kid anymore, not really.

She’s seventeen now. She doesn’t need him much anymore, not the way that his toddler needs him.

“Ellie’s not coming home tonight,” you’d said from where you stood at the stove, stirring in chunks of potato and chopped carrots into the pot of stew in front of you. “There’s a birthday party down at the bar. She’s going with Dina and Jesse.” You can feel the look of disapproval on his face and add, “I said she could go, Joel. She asked me permission.”

“She didn’t ask me,” he’d gruffed. He looked down at the little girl sitting in his lap, scribbling away on an old state map. He had given it to her along with the pack of crayons he’d found during patrol when his group stumbled across a schoolhouse. Though crumbling on the outside, the inside had remained untouched throughout the last two decades—little coats hanging over the back of little chairs, papers scattered all over little desks, little lunch boxes still stored in their cubbies at the back of the room. He instructed the group to search for anything useful, anything that Jackson’s teachers could use for the children in their classrooms. Joel knew that taking without trading was against the rules, but that did nothing to stop him from secretly slipping the box of crayons into his jacket pocket when no one had been looking.

His daughter’s squeals of delight when he’d gifted them to her had been well worth the theft.

“Because she knew you’d say no to her.”

“I would have. Kid’s got no business going to a bar at her age. She’s fuckin’ seventeen years ol—”

The little girl had gasped and stopped coloring.

“Daddy said a bad word.”

You’d turned around and glared at him. “He did.”

She looked up at him with her wide, brown eyes.

Those she’d gotten from him. His dark curls too.

Everything else?

Her smile, her nose, her softness?

That was all you.

“M’sorry, babygirl,” he apologized, sheepishly.

“S’okay, daddy.”

And back to coloring she went.

“Joel, let’s face it. Ellie’s growing up. She’s turning eighteen in a few months and truth is, she has one foot out the door.” Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the counter. “She was telling me how she wants to turn the garage into her own space.”

“There a reason she ain’t talkin’ to me ‘bout this?”

You’d smiled wistfully at him.

“Because she knows this is hard for you, Joel.”

It is hard. Because even though she isn’t his, she’s his and he’s afraid to lose her somehow.

Joel manages to snap himself out of his thoughts.

Rosemary’s now fast asleep, her well loved stuffed bunny rabbit wrapped in her arms. She’s a handful for him during bedtime—she has too much energy and most nights, you have to step in and help him. But tonight, after her bath, he had warmed a glass of milk for her to drink and it seemed to have done the trick because within minutes of him reading to her, her eyes fluttered closed.

Joel sets the book down and leans over to brush a kiss onto her cheek, quietly whispering goodnight. “Sweet dreams, babygirl.”

He switches off the lamp on the bedside table and steps out of his child’s bedroom, being careful not to wake her as he closes the door behind him.

“I still can’t believe she fell asleep within minutes,” you say, staring at him in utter disbelief. “How?”

“Gave her a glass of warm milk before I tucked her into bed,” Joel explains, tugging on a pair of faded black sweatpants. He peels off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor before climbing into bed. “Worked like a fuckin’ charm. She’s out like a damn light.”

You set your book down and raise an eyebrow.

“Joel, I brushed her teeth before her bath.”

“I brushed them again after she drank it, darlin’.”

He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you.

Grinning, you scoot closer to him, draping an arm over his bare chest. “It’s only nine,” you tell him. “I have no idea what we’re going to do with all of this free time we have. Rosemary’s asleep, Ellie’s gone for the night.” You slowly drag your hand down his chest and over his stomach, a finger skimming the waistband of his sweatpants. You hear the way his breath catches in his throat and tease, “I guess we can actually get some good sleep for once, huh?”

Groaning, Joel rolls over and pins you down to the bed as he positions himself on top of you, his eyes glazed over with lust. “We can sleep,” he murmurs as his mouth hovers over yours. He reaches for the buttons of his flannel you’re wearing and begins to single-handedly pop them open only to find you’re not wearing anything underneath. He groans once more. “Or I can make you feel good. S’your choice, baby.”

You gasp as he nips at your chin and starts trailing his lips lower, peppering kisses down the length of your body. Heat blossoms in your lower belly as he settles himself between your thighs. Hooking both arms around them, he nibbles at the soft spot that is right below your navel, the spot you hate, but he adores. Having a child had changed your body and while you two seldom had time to yourselves to do anything of this nature, when you did find time, he never failed to make you feel like you were still just as beautiful to him, if not a thousand times more.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Please, Joel.”

“Please what, sweetheart? What do you want?”

His voice is low, husky.

Your hands reach down and tangle in his curls.

“Your mouth, Joel. Please. I need your—”

The sound of a teeny knock at the door makes you both freeze on the spot.

“You heard that, right?” you ask him breathlessly.

There’s a second teeny knock.

It’s then followed by an even teenier voice.

“Mommy? Daddy?”

“Fuck,” Joel hisses, scrambling off the bed. “What the hell is she doin’ out of bed?” Picking his t-shirt up from the floor, he quickly throws it on, ignoring that he’d put it on inside out. Watching you as you fumble to button his flannel, he calls, “Just give us one second babygirl, alright? We’ll be right there.”

“I’m decent,” you tell him, getting the last button.

Nodding, Joel opens the bedroom door. His knees protest when he squats down, lowering himself so that he can meet Rosemary’s tearful gaze.

“S’matter, Rosie Posie?” he asks her in a soft voice that he reserves for his girls. “What happened?”

She sniffles. “I—I had a bad dream, daddy.”

You sit on the side of bed and wait patiently.

Joel has it handled. He always has it handled.

He never stopped knowing how to be a father.

“You had a bad dream?” he repeats, frowning.

Rosemary nods, clutching her rabbit to her chest.

A single tear slips down the side of her little face.

Joel reaches out, gingerly wiping it with his finger.

“M’sorry it scared you, babygirl. Tell you what, just for tonight, how about you sleep with me and your mama in our bed? That sound good?” With a small labored grunt, he scoops her into his arms. She is getting heavier and you often tell him it’s not good for his back—he can’t care less. He’ll keep picking her up until the moment his little girl decides she’s a big girl and doesn’t want him to pick her up. Joel carries her over to the bed and sits her on your lap and reminds her, “But this is just for tonight, Rosie Posie. Tomorrow night you’re back in your own big girl bed, alright?”

“Okay,” she nods again and leans against you, tiny shoulders slumping.

“Rosie? What was your dream about?” you ask her gently, wrapping your arms around her. She hardly ever has nightmares—she’s too young to know the world outside the commune’s walls, smart but still too little to understand why she cannot go outside the gates. “What did you dream about, honey?”

She hesitates, then answers, “Monsters.”

“Monsters?” Perplexed, you glance at Joel.

He seems to be just as confused as you are.

“Who did you hear that word from, babygirl?”

“Robbie.”

Your neighbor’s unruly, troublemaker son.

Joel’s jaw clenches slightly. “Thought I told you he ain’t allowed to be around her. The kid is nine, ain’t got no business bein’ around Rosemary. Little brat ain’t nothin’ but a bad influence. He’s always up to no good.” He shakes his head at you. “Said I didn’t want that boy anywhere near our daughter.”

“The kids were out playing in the snow today,” you remember. “He must have been there too. It’s kind of hard to tell who is who when they’re all bundled up and flinging snowballs at each other, Joel.” You shoot him an apologetic look. “Rosie was having a blast playing with everybody—I’m sorry. I suppose I should’ve paid more attention to who was around her.”

He bites back a sigh. He knows it’s not your fault.

Rosie’s too good of a girl, too pure and innocent to know that not everybody is her friend.

“Rosie, what did Robbie say to you?”

Again, the child hesitates.

“He said—he said monsters live outside. They bite people and turn them into monsters too. He said it happened to his daddy.” Rosemary’s eyes flit from you to Joel. “He said it would happen to you, too.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “He said that to you?”

Hands curling into fists, Joel reminds himself now isn’t the time to let his anger take over. “S’not true at all, babygirl.” He reaches over and slides her out of your lap and onto his. Like you, he wants to lie—tell her those monsters she was told about are not real, that they don’t exist. But they do exist and as much as he wishes he could keep her from finding out about all that lies beyond Jackson’s walls, Joel knows that one day, she will. “Listen to me. M’real sorry to hear ‘bout Robbie’s daddy, baby. But I can promise you, that ain’t gonna happen to me.”

She points a chubby finger at you.

“What about mommy?”

“Ain’t gonna happen to her either.”

Rosemary drops her hand, fear clear in her tone as she asks the both of you, “What about me?”

“Of course not,” you say, smoothing back her dark curls. “You’re safe here, honey. As safe as can be.”

Joel nods. “Your mama’s right, darlin’. You’re safe,” he reassured her. “You’re safe and sound.”

“I am?”

He gives her body a warm, gentle squeeze. “Mhm. Always will be. Y’know how I know that, babygirl?”

“How?”

“‘Cause. As long as daddy’s around, he will always protect you,” he promises her. “He’ll never, ever let anythin’ bad happen to you, Rosie. I swear it.” Joel kisses the top of her head, his gaze meeting yours. He murmurs his oath quietly, “On my life.”

Flashing him a small, grateful smile, you reach out and touch his forearm and he places his hand over your own.

“And mommy too?” Rosemary questions him.

“And mommy too.”

“And Ellie?”

“And Ellie,” he nods, firmly. “M’always gonna keep my girls safe. S’long as I’m around, you’re all safe.”

Rosie tiredly snuggles into his chest, yawning.

“What about you, daddy?”

“Huh?”

You squeeze his arm. “Think she’s asking you who is supposed to keep you safe, Joel.”

The little girl nods sleepily. “Yeah. Who?”

“Well.” Joel’s throat bobs nervously. He knows the moment he says what he’s about to say, there’s no going back. Not that he never planned to tell Rosie about her sister, but he’d always imagined doing it when she was older and understood death. “I—uh, I have an angel in the clouds who looks out for me. She watches over me, keeps me safe and sound.”

Rosemary’s curiosity is all that is keeping her from completely passing out in his arms.

“Really? You have an angel?”

Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest. “Joel—”

He lightly shakes his head.

“S’fine sweetheart. I don’t mind tellin’ her.”

Rosie’s fighting to stay awake just a little longer.

“Daddy? What’s your angel’s name?”

Joel answers in the steadiest voice he can muster.

“Her name was—her name is Sarah.”

“Sarah,” she mumbles, her eyes closing. “S’pretty. Your angel has a really pretty name.”

“The prettiest name,” you agree, softly.

Rosie yawns again. “Daddy?”

“What is it, babygirl?”

“Will you tell me stories about Sarah? Please?”

Joel chuckles, rubbing her back. “I sure will. I have plenty of them to tell, Rosie Posie. But not tonight. I’ll save them for tomorrow ni—”

You cut him off. “Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s out cold.”

He glances down and sure enough, she’s asleep.

Moments later, the three of you are in bed. Rosie’s in the middle, curled up against Joel’s chest—your chest is pressed against her back but you’re being careful not to sandwich her in too tight in between your bodies.

In a beam of silvery moonlight shining through the bedroom window, you meet Joel’s gaze.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He chuckles. “For what? Doin’ my job and soothin’ our daughter after a bad dream?”

You smile at him.

“For being so good to her. To me and Ellie.” Lifting a hand, you reach over and cup the side of his face in your palm. “You’re so good to all three of us and I can’t even imagine what we’d do without you.”

Joel turns his face, brushing a kiss into your hand.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly. “S’long as I’m around, you girls will always be safe and sound.”

credit divider @saradika-graphics

[kwanisms]

Kinktober 「10:28」 — k.soonyoung

» seventeen menu | hoshi menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ weretiger!Soonyoung × fem!Reader wc: 3.3k summary: Normally during his heat, Soonyoung stays as far away from his girlfriend as he can for fear of scaring her away but he can’t help himself when she comes by to drop some soup off seeing as he told her he’s sick. genres/themes/au: smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, supernatural and horror themes, mentions of: food consumption, cat anatomy; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is CLOSED! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you.  MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: sorry for skipping two days in a row. I will be tacking those on at the end of Kinktober just like the others I missed so don’t worry. Jisung’s I just lost track of time and Christian’s fell on game day and I didn’t even realize it. I’ll get them done and added to the end of Kinktober, I promise lol anyway, here is our resident cult leader, Soonie and his tiger agenda. Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you thought and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), heat cycles, rough sex, unprotected sex (just don’t do this. Use protection lol), non-human genitalia (like yunho, Soon’s got a barbed d!ck because cat. Don’t like it, don’t read it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idc), scent marking (f receiving), biting (f receiving), use of pet names (hers: baby, kitten, beautiful, etc.; his: babe, Soonie, baby, etc.), I think i got all of them but let me know if I missed any! kinks: heat cycles + rough sex dialogue prompt: ❛❛ You heard me. Take. It. Off. Now. ❜❜

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════

“Kwon Soonyoung, I know you're home! Let me in, damn it!”

Soonyoung raised his head as he sat with his back against the door. He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting there while you stood outside his apartment door, knocking, ringing the bell, demanding to be let in. He'd lost track of how many times he'd almost given.

Almost.

It's not that he didn't want to see you, he did. He wanted to see you more than anything, but he knew if he let you into his apartment, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from jumping you. Especially now that he could smell you.

It was always a rough time for him when he went into heat. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't just female animals that went into heat, males also went into heat too and as a weretiger, Soonyoung was no exception. He'd spent most of his formative years dealing with it on his own and for a long time, he avoided being intimate with anyone because of the weird physiological changes to his body.

Unlike many werecreatures, Soonyoung's curse was a generational one and he was not bitten or scratched. His was passed from father to son and inherited by blood. The changes lay dormant until a boy started to go through puberty. By the time he was 18, Soonyoung had gone through just under two hundred and thirty full moon transformations.

And now, at twenty eight years of age, he'd been through over three hundred and fifty transformations. His heat always came the week leading up to the full moon. He was always consumed with an insatiable need to fuck something and he was very good at holding himself back.

Until you came along.

The sweet, caring, and unsuspecting girl who lived across the courtyard from him in the same apartment as him but on the other side of the complex. From his balcony, Soonyoung could see your balcony and the windows that looked into your apartment. 

You kept an assortment of potted plants on your balcony and had installed some sort of netting or mesh to sort of close in the area which made sense because as soon as it went up, he saw an orange tabby cat lounging at the top of a cat tree.

Know you liked cats gave Soonyoung the drive to talk to you the next time he saw you in the courtyard with what he thought was little success but his poorly executed joke still managed to make you laugh and get him your number.

From then on, he was hooked and the moment you invited him over for dinner, he was a goner. One date turned into two and then three and soon, he had the privilege of calling you his girlfriend.

You both maintained separate spaces in the building and he found it kind of cute, his girlfriend living across the courtyard from him. Your cats, which he learned there were actually two, were the sweetest creatures on earth and absolutely adored him. The girl, a white one with orange markings and long fur, was named Pad Thai and the boy, the short hair orange tabby, was named Cheezit. 

Soonyoung had taken to calling them his children and joked with his friends that you had full custody and he got visitations. It was a joke you took in stride and accepted fully, sending silly videos of the cats pretending to use your phone and making silly voices for them, speaking to their dad. It often made his day all that much brighter when he couldn’t come visit you.

Soonyoung had yet to tell you about his condition, only mentioning that he wasn’t like most guys, urging that he wasn’t just saying that and that it was a thousand percent true. He just hadn’t found the right time to tell you exactly how different he was. How does one even go about telling their partner that they’re a weretiger?

It was a conversation Soonyoung knew needed to happen but it just hadn’t yet. Which is why he was stuck in this situation now with you pounding on the door to be let in.

Soonyoung had started telling you that his once a month disappearance was just him coming down with something. He started with the usual excuses, the flu, the cold, stomach flu, even covid but he was starting to run out of excuses. He also hated using illness as an excuse because your immediate response was to offer to bring him medicine and food, usually in the form of soup, stew, or broth. He always gave the same excuse for not opening the door.

He didn’t want to get you sick.

At first, you took it as your boyfriend being cautious and caring but soon, you started to get suspicious and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade much longer. He was going to have to come clean and tell you the truth much sooner rather than later.

A conversation he had been dreading ever since asking you to be his girlfriend.

The wood behind him shook as another series of loud knocks rang out, no doubt you beating your fist against the door. “Kwon Soonyoung!” you shouted. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut, as if it might make you leave faster. He felt awful. He hated ignoring you but in his mind, it was for the best when he was in heat. He couldn’t risk scaring you off and losing you.

Another series of knocks shook the door, which was surprising given your somewhat smaller stature. For one so little, you sure were strong. And loud. “Kwon Soonyoung! If you do not open this door right now, we are done!” 

Soonyoung’s eyes opened quickly and he turned his head to look back at the door. ‘She wouldn’t…’ he thought to himself. “I mean it, Soonyoung! If you don’t open this door, consider us through!” Something in your tone made him scramble up to his feet, hastily pulling at the locks separating you from him. He could tell you weren’t kidding.

He kept the chain on, opening the door only a few inches as he looked out into the hall at you. He held his breath as he took in your frame. You’d showered recently, he could smell the scent of your shampoo and body wash, mixing with your natural scent and making his cock twitch in his pants.

On your face was a furious expression and his heart sank immediately. If he had cat ears, this is where they would flatten back against his head in fear. You were terrifying when you were mad. He’d never been on the receiving end of your anger before nor had he really seen it in action.

“H-hey,” he stammered. His eyes dipped down to see the thermos in your hand that no doubt held a homemade soup, stew, or broth of some kind but he couldn’t be sure with how tightly the lid was screwed on nor with how overpowering your scent was.

“Don’t you hey me,” you said, your eyes narrowing at him. “Open the door and let me in.” Soonyoung grimaced. He wanted more than anything to let you in but he knew if he did, there was no telling how he’d react to having you so close when he was aching, burning, to be touched. It wasn’t a good idea on many levels.

“I don’t wanna get you sick,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. You scoffed, placing a hand on your hip and looking every bit the sassy girlfriend he knew and loved. “Don’t try that bullshit with me,” you snapped. “I know you aren’t sick,” you added. Soonyoung’s eyes widened as he looked up from the thermos in your hand to meet your hardened gaze. “Wh-what?” he breathed. 

“I spoke to Jihoon,” you started to explain. “He told me the truth.” Soonyoung’s stomach sank as the realization that his best friend had outed him to you. ‘Well fuck,’ he thought. It looked like he was going to have to have a talk with Jihoon.

“So let me in. We need to talk.” Soonyoung sighed and closed the door, undoing the chain before pulling the door open for you to enter his apartment. He shut the door behind you and prepared for the storm.

You didn’t unload on him immediately, instead sliding your shoes off and walking towards the kitchen where you set the thermos down. He followed, hands tucked in his pockets as he watched you move around his kitchen, pulling out a bowl and a spoon from their resting places.

You placed the bowl down next to the thermos and unscrewed the lid silently, pouring out a very hearty looking stew. It smelled amazing, the scent of meat, herbs, and potatoes invading his senses. “Jihoon said you aren’t exactly sick. Just that during this time, you don’t feel well,” you said as you finished pouring the hot stew into the bowl, setting the thermos down and pushing the bowl towards your boyfriend, holding out the spoon.

Soonyoung glanced at the spoon and the bowl before looking at you. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” you said leaning over the counter. Soonyoung’s eyes dipped down to your chest, the curve of your breast visible down your shirt from where he stood. “You’re going to take the damn spoon and eat while I talk. Sound good?” 

Soonyoung nodded, moving to sit at the kitchen island and grabbing the spoon from your hand. The moment your skin met, electricity and heat spread throughout his body, the urge to pounce on you from across the counter trying to take the reins but he managed to push it down and simply started eating.

You watched him take a few bites before speaking.

“I know you’re a weretiger,” you said softly, drawing his attention as he looked up at you, his mouth full of bits of beef and potatoes. “Jihoon told me everything. I will admit I’m a little shocked you didn’t tell me all of this but I can’t imagine it’s an easy subject to bring up so I’ll give you a pass there,” you explained. “That being said, I wish you would have just told me the truth. Did you think I would judge you? Did you think I would leave or break up with you?” 

Soonyoung swallowed the food in his mouth before speaking. “I didn’t know what to expect, actually,” he answered truthfully. “I was less scared about you finding out about me being a weretiger and more scared that I—” he hesitated, looking down at his bowl of food. You followed his gaze. “Finish eating,” you told him. “I have more to say anyway.

By the time Soonyoung had finished his bowl of stew and ate another at your insistence, you were sitting on the couch, Soonyoung resting over your legs as he hugged around your waist, his face buried in your stomach, a deep rumbling emanating from his chest as he purred happily. You stroked his hair, massaging his scalp with your finger tips.

“This is nice,” you said softly as you combed your fingers through his hair. “Mhm,” Soonyoung hummed. Silence fell over the two of you for a few minutes before you couldn’t stop yourself from asking a question that was at the forefront of your mind.

“Soonie,” you said softly, gently tugging at his hair. “Hmm?” he asked, not lifting his head or opening his eyes. “Can I ask you what you meant earlier about being scared?” You felt him stiffen under your touch before he finally lifted his head, looking up at you. “Wh-what about it?” he asked.

You brushed his hair back from his forehead, cupping his cheek at the same time. “What are you scared of, babe?” Soonyoung took a deep breath before pulling himself up to sit. “I’m scared of frightening you,” he finally answered, glancing at your hand before reaching over to take it in his.

“Of frightening me? How would you frighten me?” you asked, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. Soonyoung looked down at your joined hands before speaking. “You know how when we’re intimate?” he asked softly, not looking up as you nodded. “Yes,” you replied, a small smile on your lips. “Well, when the week of the full moon approaches, I start to… change,” he continued.

“My body starts to change.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes as your smile spread. “Is this about your heat?” you asked nonchalantly. Soonyoung’s eyes widened as his gaze snapped up to meet yours. “Y-you know about that?” he asked incredulously. You nodded, your smile only growing. “You think I’m going to learn that my boyfriend is a weretiger and not look up what all of that entails? I know everything, baby. Your heat, your transformation cycle, all of it. I also know your curse is familial and not transferred by bites or scratches. Jihoon told me that part though,” you said, reaching up to brush his hair back again.

“And I already know what happens to your cock, so there’s no need to explain that to me.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widened comically. “I learned that on my own by reading. Jihoon did not inform me of that part,” you added, reaching up to bop the end of his nose with the tip of your finger. “I know all about the sexual changes, the heat cycle, the penile spines, copulation, all of it. I know everything.”

Soonyoung wasn’t sure whether he should be impressed, alarmed, or relieved. He felt a mixture of all three as he sat there on his couch with you. “Do you also know about the insatiable urge I have to be buried inside you whenever you’re around?” he asked, noticing how your eyes widened slightly. “No,” you answered softly before a smirk started to form.

“But now I do.”

Soonyoung could feel heat creeping up his neck towards his face at the same time heat settled in the pit of his stomach. A new smell invaded his nostrils. The smell of arousal but it wasn’t his own. He glanced down quickly before looking back up. “Can you smell me?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, the smirk still present on your face. He nodded slowly, holding your gaze.

You leaned back against the arm of the couch, spreading your legs slightly. Soonyoung’s eyes fluttered shut as the scent hit him stronger. He could feel his cock painfully hard in his pants. “Baby,” Soonyoung said softly as a shiver ran up his spine, that insatiable need to bury his cock inside your warm cunt starting to take over. “If you don’t stop me,” he continued, opening his eyes to meet your gaze.

“I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll…” he trailed off as your hands moved, sliding down your body. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said, swallowing thickly as his eyes followed your hands. “Maybe that’s what I want,” you said softly. “Maybe I want you to pounce on me.”

Soonyoung turned his head, averting his gaze as he tried to steady his erratic breathing. He felt the couch move and then your hand under his chin, turning his head to face you. “Don’t look away from me,” you said in a low voice. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Soonyoung whispered, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I promise you won’t,” you replied, leaning into his touch.

“I want you to let it take control. You need this,” you continued, taking one of his hands and guiding it between your thighs, pressing his fingers against your cloth covered crotch. “Pin me down, Soonie. Fuck me like I know you want to.”

Soonyoung let out a sound between a moan and a growl as he closed the distance,  the hand on your cheek sliding to the back of your neck to pull you into a bruising kiss, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth. You moaned as he pushed you back onto the couch, pinning you down with his weight alone. 

You could feel his erection in his pants press against you, rutting slightly. “I don’t think I can wait,” he murmured against your lips, hands moving to pull at your shorts. “Then don’t,” you urged as he pulled back, fingers working to undo the tie of your shorts. He made quick work of them, pulling them and your panties off. “Shirt off,” he grumbled as he pulled his own off.

You watched him instead as he undid his pants. He glanced up at you. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his hands stilling. “I’m watching you,” you replied. “He glanced down at your shirt. “Shirt. Off,” he repeated. “What?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “You heard me,” Soonyoung growled as he stared you down. “Take. It. Off. Now.” 

You let out a giggle before complying, pulling your shirt off as he resumed undoing his pants and pushing them down, kicking them off before leaning over you, lips kissing a path up your chest to your neck. “Turn over,” he whispered in your ear.

You did as he asked, rolling over onto your stomach as he leaned over your back. You felt him rub his cheek against your shoulder. “What are you doing?” you asked with a chuckle. “Marking you,” he replied simply. “Don’t worry about it,” he added as he grabbed one of the pillows and guided you to lift your hips, placing the pillow under you.

With your hips raised, he guided the head of his cock to your slit, gathering your arousal on the tip before starting to push into you with a guttural moan. You gasped as he stretched you, the spines on his cock creating a rough but not entirely unpleasant texture as he bottomed out.

“Oh shit,” you gasped as he pulled back, the spikes raking your walls slightly. He thrusted into you harshly and you cried out. Soonyoung leaned over your back, covering your mouth with his hand. “The neighbors will complain, kitten,” he whispered in your ear. “You have to be quiet.”

He gave you another harsh thrust, slamming into you roughly as he set a brutal and unrelenting pace. “Is it too much?” he asked breathlessly. You shook your head, biting into your bottom lip to keep from screaming out in pleasure. You couldn’t hold back when you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder. “Fuck, sorry baby,” he panted as he pounded into you.

“S’okay,” you gasped, walls spasming around him as he send you hurtling towards your orgasm which hit you, the strength making your legs shake as he continued to fuck you through it. “Are you okay?” he groaned as your cunt continued to flutter around his cock. You nodded in response. “Y-yes,” you gasped. “I’m – ah! – M’fine — oh god, Soonyoung!”

A second orgasm washed over you and still he kept thrusting, not showing any signs of slowing down. You knew by the end of it you were going to be a bruised, panting, sticky mess but you couldn’t be bothered to care now that he wasn’t holding back and showing you a new side to him you’d never experienced. As he sent you toppling over the edge of your third orgasm, he finally came without warning as he sank his teeth into your shoulder again as his load exploded inside you, painting your walls in his sticky white essence.

“Fuck!” he growled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “Sorry,” he murmured, pressing wet kissing against your skin. “Didn’t mean to yell in your ear.” You merely chuckled as you shook your head. “It’s fine, babe,” you replied. “Was I too rough?” he asked suddenly and again you answered with a shake of your head. “No,” you answered. “That was great. In fact,” you said as you lifted your head.

“I’m coming over more often to help with your heat if it means you’ll fuck me like that.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

[allllium]

Hi! I have a Jason Todd x reader request if you’re still looking for those! A little angst, a little hurt/ comfort, a little protective Jason Todd.

Soulmate AU where soulmates can feel each others feelings. Jason is on patrol and reader is at their shared apartment when someone breaks in. Jason is not nearby so he feels a lot of feelings while he frantically tries to get home. Reader may get injured but they aren’t helpless, they fight back.

Thank you!!!

Break In

~ I hope this is what you were expecting, this was so cute to me <3

~ WC: 885 [Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort]

- Things go wrong while he's on patrol

Jason is a man that loves with his whole heart. He falls hard but it takes a long time. Once you win him over, he's yours. Growing up the way he did Jason didn't think he'd ever meet his soulmate, not the way Dick and Tim did. As terrible as it is he always assumed you were dead - he never felt that overwhelming feeling of someone else's emotions that people had explained to him all his life. Not until he died.

No one knows why his soulmate bond didn't kick in until he had come back to life, but that's how it happened. Not only did he have to deal with his own problems of coming back but he finally had to get used to yours too. And he wouldn't change it for the world.

“What's got you smiling like that?” Dick asks, from his position on the roof of an opposite building.

“What? A man can't be happy?” Jason continues smiling to himself as patrol goes on. Feeling your relaxed state through bond makes him stay relaxed himself.

Jason usually tries to stay as close to your shared apartment as possible, his paranoia holding him on a strong leash. However, he was forced to step more out of his comfort zone tonight, due to Dick's excessive begging.

He's almost ready to begin heading home when he feels it, overwhelming fear rushing down his spine. He becomes breathless as he quickly starts running home. Not staying long enough to hear Dick's questioning.

So many thoughts are running through his head he can't quite decipher them from one another. What if you're hurt? It's fine you probably just fell or something. But if all you did was fall you wouldn't be so scared? What if someone got in? What if someone from his nightlife is targeting you? What if he doesn't make it in time?

Still, almost halfway to your apartment, he feels as if he can't breathe. He feels as if his heart's in his stomach and all of time has stopped. Suddenly he stops. All feelings of fear and dread have dropped out of his body. Instead they've been replaced with feelings of relief and humor?

Why the fuck would you be feeling humor? As soon as he's stopped, he's moving again. Moving just as fast as moments before, he reaches the apartment in only a few minutes. After running up the stairs and slamming the door open with unbelievable force, he is hit in the face with a pile of dirt?

“Oh Jay! I'm so sorry I swear I didn't mean to throw dirt in your face.” You immediately run over to him and help get the dirt specks off his face.

“Then why did you?” He asks, sounding more confused than ever before. Only once he's done talking does he see the man laying face down on your living room carpet, surrounded with broken pieces of a potted plant. “And who is that?”

“I have no idea. He kinda broke in.” You tell him, moving to clean up the dirt and leaves covering the floor.

“Broke in? Is that why you were scared? That was a dumb question, don't answer that.” He takes off his helmet and sets it on the coffee table. Right next to the smear of blood. “What happened, sweetheart?”

“I don't even know, everything happened so fast. One moment I was falling asleep on the couch and the next I was smacking a guy with Bob.”

“Oh you smacked him with Bob.” Jason sounds strangely disappointed in the death of his potted plant you named Bob.

“I'm sorry he was the closest thing to me, I didn't think about it.” You stand up from the floor to look at the mess still sitting. From this angle Jason can see the bruise starting to form on your jaw bone.

“What happened here? Did he hit you?” He questions, grabbing your hand and pulling you close enough to inspect the bruise.

“Only once, there was a little fight. But I obviously won so it's fine.”

“It's not fine princess, you got hurt. And I could feel that you were scared.”

“I'm alright Jay.” You smile at him and place your hand on the side of his face. “I handled it.”

He can feel your pride run through him. “I'm glad, but that shouldn't have happened. We're moving.”

“No the fuck we're not. I like it here.” You cross your arms over your chest and raise your eyebrows at him.

“Baby, someone broke in.”

“Good. That means it likely won't happen again.”

“That's not how it works.”

“Oh c'mon. What are the chances that happens again?”

“Too high. We'll move somewhere in the country, away from people.” You chuckle at his suggestion.

“As great as that sounds, not yet. I'm alright Jay, I promise.”

“I'm teaching you self defense.” He pulls you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Why? I did great here.” You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him impossibly closer.

“Because I can't promise you'll always have a Bob to protect you.”

“Fine, as long as we get to spend more time together.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart. I love you.” He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I love you too Jay.” You hum into his chest.

[shadesoflsk]

RETROSPECTION & OUTCOME

pairing: leon kennedy x afab reader.

summary: The journey of healing is not an easy one. Obstacles and doubts filled the path Leon decided to take. However, the agent had planted the seed of self improvement and with your help, a strong and resilent tree will grow.

warnings: strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of reader being a nurse, age gap (reader is 25+) angst, hurt/comfort, descriptions of gore, blood and violence, no alcohol consumption but Leon attempts to, Leon's inner thoughts, self doubts, lack of self confidence (from Leon's part) mild mentions of religion trauma, smut, handjob, Leon cries during it, kind of switch Leon, needy Leon (give him a hug please) p in v, creampie, fluffy at the end (yipeee)

word count: 14k

author's note: helloooo :] This is my first try at writing a long fic, I had so much fun writing it. It all started as a character study for Leon and then it ended up as... this lmao. For the first chapters, I had vendetta Leon in mind and at the last one we finally have DI Leon! Please... if you see any mistakes no you don't. Anyway love you guys hope you like this as much as I do.

— masterlist

I. ETERNAL DAMNATION.

His cold blue eyes are a pool of misery and misfortune. The dreadful gaze of an individual who once was and continues to be subject to the violent reality of what a government can do.

He remains stoic to whatever adversity he has to face, one look at him and you would believe this man has no feelings whatsoever. He kills, he gets paid, repeat. A never-ending loop in which many would believe Leon finds pleasure. Especially since he carries himself as the Government Golden Boy aka best weapon. To use and to dispose of, Leon S. Kennedy.

Shoulder pats and praise words stir up a pot filled with anger and hatred — emotions that Leon doesn't often feel with others, just with himself.— He tries not to dwell on them, but it gets so difficult and challenging whenever he hears that his own achievements are cause for celebration. Do these assholes know how many people, infected people, he had to kill in order to bring peace? No, they don’t. Unbeknownst to them, those people could have been saved.

At least in Leon’s mind. 

The suited men surround him. Privilege and smugness are qualities that Leon would often use to describe what those who hire his service are. Those congratulations and fake praises ring in Leon’s mind as he keeps thinking about the people he had to betray and kill for the ‘sake’ of his country, for his nation, and for the ego of his president. 

But he takes the compliments, like a good boy. The president believes he hit the jackpot with a rightful agent who is proud of his country. God Bless America and in God we trust, he says as his hand reaches for Leon’s. The blue-eyed agent hesitates each time, out of fear of tainting his oh-so-dear boss’ white shirt. Because nobody cared enough to spare him new clothes and a wet towel to clean himself. A trophy to show the world what a powerful human weapon they had. Rough, tall, and with calloused hands, hands of a killer. 

Leon S. Kennedy is proof of what the cruelty of a government can do. He is no longer a human, but the shell of a man. His name is printed in many documents which shows the gruesome acts he had to endure, in the name of the country. “Agent Leon S. Kennedy had successfully retrieved a sample of the virus.” “Condor One saved Baby Eagle.” He has received a plethora of names yet none of them really encapsulated who he was.

They have shown that they do not care about their citizens, like at all. Raccoon City was a prime example of that. He sounds like a broken record, the memory replaying in his memory every mission he gets assigned. But, for him, it was his first-hand experience with how cruel and gruesome reality could be.

Tough call, they say. We did what we could, they added. Leon knows all of those phrases by heart now. His gentle nature remains in him, even though it was covered by layers of a rough past and self-taught distrust. But even now, at his grown age, he fully believes they could have done so much more.

His mind is all over the place whenever he comes back from a mission. The usual white and never-changing walls surround everyone at the gathering that the president holds each time Leon ‘succeeds’ in a mission. His fingers seek any type of comfort, they twitch, they pinch his own clothes but nothing works. 

People notice, they do. It’s obvious that the spotlight is on him yet he never embraces it. Simple nods and awkward smiles are his way to go and signature gestures. Deep inside, he knows those white-collared dicks spare him weird and pitiful glances every chance they get.

His chest burns with a desire for solidarity and altruism. He feels a lot and feels everything too deep for his own liking. His core dances between his hatred for heroism and the need to be a hero. He doesn’t believe he’s one. Throughout his life he has contemplated who he is and the type of man he has grown to be. His mind is a living hell and he’s the demon incarnated.

He wonders when it all started. Maybe he was doomed for the start, as he stood in front of his parents’ grave asking God why. 

Deuteronomy 31:8; “The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” The catholic father who used to hold the mass every Sunday said one morning. Now, did God forget about him? He should have prayed harder, to escape his own damnation.

Strained screams and the reek of rotten flesh fill his dreams. Madness and chaos are the main plots in his nightmares in which he pleads to stop having. His own reality was a mirror of every agony he has to face every day in his line of work. Why is God punishing him even in his dreams?

Those cries of pain and the smell of both burnt flesh and gunpowder are a toxic combination to Leon’s messed up mind. To him, they served as an everlasting proof of his devilish nature. He realizes that the image of innumerable lifeless bodies’ guts all over the floor with his brains smashed over the ground is a common occurrence for him. He becomes desensitized albeit his soul hurting for those who lay at his feet.

Now, he knows that what he's doing is in the name of survival. Millions of people live unaware of the dangerous situations he has to fight on a daily basis, they get to sleep on a warm bed next to their loved ones. If he wants to keep that on, he ought to kill.

But he wouldn’t do it otherwise, he wasn’t built for that life.

But despite that, the usual eerie feeling washes over him whenever he has to pull the trigger. He has grown accustomed to them, on the battlefield he was a fiery pawn, following orders as they told him to.

But as soon as his character ends his performance, his facade and mask falls off his face. He’s no longer a puppet from his higher-ups, he was just him. Leon.

II. RECOGNITION.

He places Matilda — his brush to paint every ground with blood — on his nightstand. To be fair, that’s a habit he can’t just let go. After every mission, his mind is all over the place for the next few days. Every sound activates a fear deep within him that keeps him awake at night and worried during the day.

He washes his hands, a thorough ritual he follows step by step. His hands touch the water, lukewarm to bring him some kind of comfort. He rinses away every blood spot he may have engraved on his bruised skin. The warm and clear liquid reaches his fingernails, which he meticulously scrubs, washing away any leftover of someone’s brain. 

He takes pride in being clean. However, it had developed into an obsession at this point. Being dirty meant killing, and killing meant despair. So, he tries to avoid his gaze on the mirror each time he arrives home. Sadly, he usually doesn’t recognize the man that is staring back at him.

Eventually, he turns off the faucet and walks towards the couch. He’s tired, both mentally and physically. He doesn’t get any younger and living as an agent surely doesn’t help his case. But at last, his home. Safe.

He turns on the TV, he’s welcomed by the News Channel which he quickly changes. Nowadays, it appears that nothing good happens in this messed up world, and he doesn’t want to bring sorrow to his home too. He searches through the vast choices of channels until something catches his eye. Casablanca.

A feeble smile forms on his face, a simple thing like that brings Leon a small percentage of happiness, which it’s a lot given his constant state of dullness. 

He sometimes quotes phrases from the movies he watches. He genuinely expects someone to notice, his tired blue eyes would roam over the numerous faces of agents, hoping someone catches the meaning behind his words. He’s tired, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to chat with someone.

Nobody seemed to notice, maybe they were busy.

Curiously, he had changed the channel just at the right moment when Rick Blaine said his line. Leon’s favorite.

“I never make plans that far ahead.” Both the character and Leon say simultaneously. It brings Leon a sense of joy. Pathetically enough, his hobbies remind him that he is, in fact, still human. 

He sighs, looking around his apartment. It was dull, it showed his lack of decoration and personal touch. He believes there was no point in placing ornaments or things of that sort since he doesn’t even spend most of his time there. In recollection, he has no home. At least not physically.

He’s a man of the world, people look at him and see someone who is strong and independent rather than a simple man. But his heart’s heavy, with a burden and anguish that no painkiller could ease.

He’s tempted to grab a bottle from his cabinet. Drown in the burning liquid and pass out. He doesn’t like alcohol. But he has always been weak to addictions. So, even when he was a rookie cop and his girlfriend broke up with him, he ran to the nearest bar and took all the booze he could. Maybe he should’ve noticed the red flags, and maybe gone to therapy or something like that. But… oh, right, the next day the world literally ended for him.

But, he refrains from doing so. Deep down, he knew that letting his addiction win would be a deadly solution to his problems. Acknowledging is the first step to recovery, experts say. However, he knew that he couldn’t do it alone.

Before even letting more negative thoughts come into his mind. He gets up from the couch and walks toward the bathroom, again. He stays in front of the door for a few seconds, as if scared of going back there. Eventually, he does enter.

His hand reaches for the switch and the lights are turned on. The luminescent white light revealed his face in front of the mirror. He takes one, two, and three deep breaths before fully opening his eyes. 

He bites his lips, seeking a sort of relief from that action yet he bites too hard that almost draws blood. He’s trying his best, this mundane act is no longer something that he does daily. So, grant him some recognition. 

His eyes travel and land on the mirror and after a while, he fully sees himself. His eyes are wide open, not because he was surprised to discover the man that was in front of him. But to compare him to the one he used to be. 

Just a few years ago, his blond hair was still bright, showing signs of his thorough routine. But now, it has turned into a black mop that could no longer be compared to his past self. His stubble has grown too, he was a late bloomer, he didn’t grow a beard until he reached the age of 27 when he could finally see some signs of pores growing hair. But to see his face so… rugged and rough was definitely a slap back to reality.

He takes two steps back, his hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Swiftly, he takes it off, revealing his chest and abdomen. He was no stranger to his own physique since he obviously showers. 

However, the sight that the mirror provided was very different from seeing his point of view. His eyes were observing someone else’s perspective, if he ever had the chance to date someone they would see… that.

A chest which was filled with scars and bruises. They were like tattoos, imprinted on his skin. Those will never fade and if he grants someone the misfortune of dating him, will they be repulsed by the idea of witnessing his tainted self?

He wasn’t a hero, he was far away from calling himself that. But he is starting to think that maybe, just maybe, those marks can remind him of his arduous path. Not in a condescending way, but in a fulfilling memory.

III. FURTHERANCE.

He feels… weird. It’s been a while since he last got a haircut, and having someone holding scissors next to his neck wasn’t something he was looking for. But, there he is.

It took everything in him to call the hairdresser. He has long forgotten how to even speak to someone in a normal setting. “Agent Kennedy here, haircut, out.” He couldn’t say that! 

At last, he booked an appointment. It wasn’t the most expensive place, not because Leon didn’t have the money but rather, because he wasn’t looking to be surrounded by luxuries and opulence. A cheap but nice place would do.

Once he arrived, he noticed that he didn’t match well with the place. He knew he carried an aura of mystery and unapproachability but Jesus, it was now obvious with the way some old ladies kept looking at him as if asking: Who the hell is this man?

All of his previous actions led him to where he’s sitting now. 

The granny behind him keeps showering in compliments which he couldn’t quite understand. A few years ago, he may have blushed and waved a hand dismissively, but now? He doesn’t see how he could be called a handsome man.

For him, looking good and taking care of himself had stopped being a requirement a few months ago. But it wasn’t something that happened out of the blue. He gradually started noticing the changes and once he realized, his whole appearance had changed. 

His eyes are piercing and never changing, an unmistakable aura of exhaustion and helpness surrounds him. Yet, once the old lady's eyes land on him, he can’t help but smile back. It was always in his nature — he lives for others.

It’s always been like this. Naturally, his gullibility and his unfounded faith have shaped and molded him differently throughout the course of years. Having to survive an apocalypse, taking care of an infant, and getting betrayed by a certain someone would sequentially take a toll on him. Nonetheless, his primal wish for altruism and hope will always remain in him. They were his roots which led to creating a strong and fortified trunk. 

He’s still hoping this tree will thrive.

The lady asks him how long has it been since he last cut his hair, and he doesn’t know how to respond. Normally, he would cut it himself, since time was priceless and he couldn’t nor wanted to go to a specific place to get his hair trimmed. So he learned by himself, which wasn’t the safest option.

By the way the old woman’s hands brush on his hair, shaking and trembling due to the years, he knows that she knows. It’s obvious by the way some strands are awkwardly cut and overall most of them were misshapen. A poor attempt at maintaining his heartthrob boy hairstyle.

He remains silent — for most of the time. —  He doesn’t answer any questions that were directed at him. Not because he didn’t want to, it’s just that his line of job never prepared him for small talk. In fact, chit-chat just meant that someone was trying to gather information out of him, which prompted him to just refrain from speaking

The government has fucked him up.

He acknowledges it. But it’s not easy to make a change when that something is the only thing he has known for at least 15 years of his life. The curse of despair had so unlucky landed on him and he knew no witchcraft which could prevent him from that.

His mind register most things people would overlook. Given his duty at the job, he ought to be an observer. Yeah, he is also a fighter but he relies heavily on his analyzing skills before attacking. Knowing your enemy before striking is what has saved him every damn time.

His permanently furrowed eyebrows and cold eyes are the first thing he notices in the mirror as the woman keeps cutting some of his hair. A hand unconsciously reaches for the little space between his brows. 

Maybe if he stops frowning.

Maybe if he stops scowling.

Could he give a better impression of himself?

It’s lacking authenticity, he feels like he’s acting rather than being genuine. But for now, he tries forcing a gentle smile which doesn’t meet his eyes yet it’s better than almost pouting every time he breathes. 

All of a sudden, the bell of the door rings announcing that someone else has arrived. Some of the old ladies who are waiting for their turn start getting up from their chairs to greet the person who had just come in.

An everyday customer, that must be. Leon thought.

He was oblivious of how much you are going to change his life.

He can’t see you, not yet. But as the observer he is, he can deduce that this said individual is genuinely loved and appreciated. A drastic contrast between the way he’s received when he returns from a mission. Fake laughs, fake thankful words. 

A complete fraud.

You walk as if you own the place, but your stride doesn’t come off as haughty or arrogant. You exude an aura of familiarity, hospitality, and therefore a gentleness that it’s foreign to Leon. 

You walk towards his seat, where the granny is cutting his hair. As soon as the gray-haired woman sees you, he observes how her eyes light up with delight and joyfulness he hadn’t seen before. 

“Adelaide…” You stop before you even reach Leon. He admires the scene developing through the mirror. He sees you for the first time, you’re definitely a nurse or at least you work in the healthcare area given your uniform. You have your hands on your hips and a playful glare was formed on your face. If he could guess, you just caught this lady doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.

“I think I told you you should be resting.” You squint your eyes as you keep looking at Adelaide, Leon takes note of her name. You are accusing her, yet your friendly demeanor doesn’t falter. 

It’s refreshing to see innocent social interactions. It's a welcome-back reality check. At least, at this moment, he could embrace the tranquility. Although it will end as soon as the hairdresser informs him that his hair is done.

“You know I can’t stand still…” Her voice comes out as a booming melody. Even though the years were obvious by the wrinkles on her face, she sounded so animated and beaming. “This job is everything I have ever known.”

Now he can agree on something. However, he is fully aware the situation is deadly different. Between cutting hair and slitting someone else’s throat, there is a vast difference. But, in his mind, he could already make up a conversation based on that information.

“I know, but…” You take a step further and place a hand on the granny’s shoulder. Leon couldn’t help but feel like an outsider now that the three of them were reflected in the mirror. “You could just take a few days off… Your shoulder will thank you for it.”

As you advise the granny your eyes dart from her eyes in the mirror to Leon’s. 

For the first time.

You acknowledge his presence with a nod and a simple smile. Time seems to stop as he scans your face. You look younger, you are definitely younger than him. Not young enough for him to feel weird about it, but there was a certain glint in your eyes that told him you haven’t experienced misery and desolation in your life. Unlike him who has yet to experience happiness.

He doesn’t want to indulge so much, but his thoughts are having a blast right now. Maybe it was his lack of social interactions and meaningful relationships but he wants to know more about you. 

“It’s quite unusual to see a man here. I would have thought someone like you would go to a barber.” He comes back to reality as he notices you are talking to him. Your eyes remain fixed on his as your smile continues to be displayed on your face. 

Someone like… him? Yeah, that statement isn’t new to him. Especially since his demeanor is still so rugged. But hey! He’s making a change even though you don’t know.

“Barbers don’t know how to cut my hair.” He realizes his voice came out rigid and plain. He didn’t intend to, but he is used to his military speech and tone. “They… just don’t get it right…” His last sentence is definitely more hushed but not any less monotone. 

“Fair enough. At least Adelaide here knows exactly how to keep your hair safe from a buzz cut.” Leon lets out an amused breath as you joke about his hair. It feels like a gentle breeze, indulging in light-hearted teasing with a stranger. And not any stranger, but you.

He has felt attraction, he’s a man after all. His line of job wasn’t the most ideal to find a partner but he can’t deny how some agents were pretty to look at. However, he couldn’t form a romantic relationship there. Between death and violence, the battleground wasn’t the place to have a partner, form a family, and live happily ever after.

“Yeah…” He sheepishly responds, he doesn’t know what else to add. You had taken the reins of the conversation as soon as you teased him. Now, he hopes something comes into his mind to keep the conversation flowing.

“I haven’t seen any other gentleman wearing this hairstyle,” Adelaide says as she resumes her work. She moves the scissors gracefully. She is — with no doubt — an expert in this area. Though the simpleness of her salon tells him otherwise. “If I may say, I think it really suits you.”

“You should have seen me in the 90s.” Those words leave his lips before he even registers them in his mind. It was an innocuous joke, nonetheless, it carried a hint of self-deprecation. He doesn’t look like his old self, he knows that. Especially after seeing himself in the mirror that night. But nobody there has to know, for them, it was a simple light-hearted joke.

The whole salon erupts in laughter, he doesn’t think his words are that funny. But hey, he will take the compliment. 

However, his eyes catch a glimpse of you not laughing. At work, most people wouldn’t laugh at his own words because they weren’t needed. He knew that. But then again, none of you were in a life-or-death situation. Leon doesn’t want to overthink, but… did he come out as a pretentious dude? Or an arrogant dickhead? 

Or maybe you have caught the real meaning behind those words.

You let out a breathy laugh, not too long to be considered a giggle but not short enough to be a chuckle. You don’t add anything else, your eyes just linger on his face for a few more seconds before turning on your heel.

For a moment, he’s taken aback. He feels like he’s going crazy but for a split second, he sees himself in you. Not because you shared the same past or path and there was no way you had the same traumas. But the way you had observed him, made him feel analyzed, as if you were studying the way he talked and expressed himself.

Maybe he’s indeed going crazy.

Leon watches you taking a seat on an empty chair, next to another customer who gives you a polite smile. From there, he hears you telling Adelaide that your shift at the hospital has just ended and you just wanted to check up on her. 

For a while, he relaxes until Adelaide tells him that they are done. She persuades him to bleach his hair after he accidentally told her that he had blond hair in the past. But he escapes her attempts by telling her that he wants to pay.

He walks towards the register and pulls out a 20-dollar bill. It was quite cheap, especially when he had cut so much hair. At least he looks more presentable now.

You appear out of nowhere as he was paying. Your frame leans over the counter and for a second, you let the awkward silence linger in the air. 

Eventually, you speak.

“You don't belong here.” You say without an ounce of malice. You're expressing a fact. Leon has never been around the salon and doesn't look the part.

He frowns slightly, he was keeping up his laid-back appearance just fine until you blurted out your thoughts.

“It's my first time here.” He states before turning around and facing you. 

“That I know.” You nod.

“Then… was your comment really necessary?” Leon's words could come off as rude even though it wasn't his intention. But, it seems they don't even phase you.

“Not really.” You shrugged. Your voice was nonchalant. “But as you could already guess, I'm a nurse. And I have seen people like you come and go out of the hospital.”

He is trying to understand what your point is. Under any other circumstances, he would have told the other person off for even daring to speak about him and his lifestyle. He wasn't violent, not at all. But sometimes his limit was put to the test.

“What I'm trying to say is that…” He sees your attempt at explaining yourself. “I think It's safe to assume you're an agent or something of that sort, right?”

Leon doesn't react nor wants to. People knowing he was an agent wasn't a problem since it wasn't a secret. 

After a few seconds, he lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding and nods. Being honest could be the start of a friendship, at least that's what Leon thinks.

“Was it my frame and physique that gave it away?” If he was an artist he could easily say he was getting better at the art of improving. Just a few weeks ago, he would have never left a comment like that lingering in the air. 

“Nope.” You cross your arms at the level of your chest. 

And there you go breaking his fantasies. He thought his phrase was so flirty.

“There's a scar on your cheek, it looks pretty deep.” You gesture to Leon where the scar is on your own cheek. He instinctively brings his finger to where it is in his. 

That's one of the few scars he remembers exactly how he got it. 2004, Spain. He experienced what betrayal was beforehand. Who he used to hold in high regard was the one who didn't hesitate to hold a knife and leave a nasty reminder of his deception. 

“I got it in a fight.” He sticks with a simple phrase, not diving deeper. Nonetheless, he realized you’re a perspicacious individual, lying won’t get him anywhere.

“Fight… right.” 

Both of you smile knowingly, the smirk giving away a sense of teasing between the two of you, for the first time. Even though you know nothing about how far and wild his job actually was, you had an idea that this said fight wasn’t just a normal and common one.

“So…” Leon sees how you shift your weight from one foot to another. There hasn’t been a shy bone in yourself ever since you entered the salon but now words don’t come out of your mouth as easily as before. “If you ever need a nurse, you can call me.”

As you rummage in your bag, you speak once again. “I may not be the most experienced but believe me when I said I had experience with some military and agents.”

You hand Leon a business card, your full name was there as well as your phone number and the hospital you work in. Your name falls swiftly out of Leon’s lips as he reads the content on the cardstock.

“And senior citizens.” He flashes you a dazzling smile, he doesn’t seem to realize that it’s been a while since he last smiled so freely and so.. natural. It feels like the sun hitting on his skin after a cold day. A warmth he had long forgotten he could feel.

He knew it was soon. Too soon to even imagine being your friend. But as he puts the card in his pocket, he wishes that this could be the beginning of something more.

IV. RELAPSE & RESTART.

He almost falls once he opens up at the door that leads him to his apartment. Another gruesome mission to add to his mental diary and more scars that will adorn his already hurting body. 

The same never-ending story, the same story being told once again. He doesn’t know when it will end. 

If it even ends.

The last months have been all about his ‘recovery’. He was a patient man, he was sure of that. However, he doesn’t understand how doing mundane things would help him. He was taking baby steps and walking on eggshells, trying not to fall back into his old addictions.

Which were slowly creeping into his mind.

A call from Hunnigan was the last thing he expected a few days ago. He was surprised not to get any task earlier but that didn’t mean he wanted to go back to fight off bioweapons and kill walking undead who were once rational people, with dreams and wishes just like him. 

But as much as he wanted to hang up and leave that world behind — knowing that the government wouldn’t give two shits about him and would walk through the same door he previously did and blow his brain — he accepted the mission.

In his own story, he’s a tragic character who can’t break the cursed loop he’s trapped in. The soft sounds of the rain no longer brought comfort to his aching heart, since those constant pitty-patter reminded him of the blood dripping from the people who were killed, by no one else but him.

He often thought he was going crazy, especially now as he walked towards the kitchen and stumbled on his own feet. Seeking something to grab on while he fights off the exhaustion. This last mission had taken a toll on him, both mentally and physically.

His fingers reach for the edge of the counter as he finally stays on his feet without the fear of falling onto the floor. His tired eyes close for a moment as he takes in his surroundings, his lonely apartment and his lonely life and his lonely self and his —.

He shakes his head, he wasn’t exactly in solitude. After that hurried meeting with you, he gained a new friend. He got to know you personally, something that he had missed for the longest time. To actually know someone deeper and not only their last names and occupations.

In exchange, he gave himself the chance to be more vulnerable. He couldn’t deny the attraction that he felt. But he was too afraid to fuck up the chance to have something meaningful with you. He told you about his years at the police academy, and he briefly shared his experience in Raccoon City, trying to be as vague as possible. In other words, he bared his soul to you.

But that didn’t mean everything was filled with butterflies and rainbows.

One night when you were treating one of his injuries (which he never treated in the past) he accidentally told you about his addictions and dark thoughts. Those which showed a persistent state of numbness and trauma. It was never his intention to worry you about those minor things, which he truly believed were not important.

But, as he recalls that night, he realizes that sadly, he can’t just end it all with a bullet through his brain. He has always thought about it, it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his messed up mind on those lonely nights when he wished someone would grant him a blink of sleep without having to dream about death and despair. 

His eyes open as he once again walks through the kitchen, the moonlight provides a faint source of light that casts on his dark space of living. He remembers that you once told him he should get some lights, and he indeed bought them but he can’t just seem to find enough time to put them on.

His mind wanders through the moments he has spent with you. You always said the most soothing of things, when you wanted to. You advised him, told him how worthy he can be and how special he must be to others even though they don’t know it yet.

Another step.

He didn’t quite catch the meaning of those words. For him, he only brings despair wherever he goes. A demon of destruction and annihilation. If hell had a list of its next guests he believes his name would be on the top of that list. God wouldn’t want him in his paradise.

One more step.

Nonetheless, you weren’t a teddy bear who only chanted words of praise and fairy-tale stories. You called out his bullshit, especially when he dared to joke about going back to his old habits.

Stop.

“Would you like a glass of whiskey?” He would sarcastically ask you whenever you visited him at his apartment, knowing the kind of reaction he would get out of you. You had none of that, though. As soon as he uttered those words, the grip your hand had on his arm would get tighter to the point that Leon would beg you to stop it. 

He knew you genuinely cared for him and he convinces himself that you’re wasting your time with someone like him. Someone already broken from the start. You were younger, with a life ahead of yourself, and a career to follow. And like the devil incarnate that he is, he is stopping you from that.

The story repeats itself, everything he touches turns into dust. He’s no longer a human but the shell of a man who once had dreams of becoming a cop. To become someone who would help innocent people. But instead, he’s killing those same poor souls in the name of the fucking government.

His fingers graze over the cabinet.

He despises his life, he hates everyone who forced him to follow this path. The resentment flows in his system as his hand grips the cabinet door even tighter; if he wasn’t so tired from his mission, he would have broken the tacky wooden furniture.

Why does it have to be this way?

Why does he have to continue witnessing the horrors of his life every day? 

Why do the ghosts of people haunt him every day as he tries to close his eyes and relax? 

Why has he become so desensitized to the bloodshed and yet as soon as he comes back to reality, it knocks the air out of his lungs?

And why is he already unscrewing the lid of his whiskey?

Time slows down for a moment as he gambles his choices. It's been months since he last took a sip from his so beloved whiskey. But at the same time, just one tiny drop would crumble all of his progress.

But why is progress so important if the product is going to be the same? Even if he gets better, his life won't. The only difference is that he may smile more during missions and act like everything is fucking alright even if it isn't.

But he isn't so lucky to fall deeper into his hell that easily. As soon as the cap falls onto the floor, the front door knob twists, announcing that someone is entering.

And who else has a key to his apartment?

The last person he wants to see right now.

The door creaks, antagonizing the imminent moment when you would see him at the scene of the crime with him being the culprit of his own homicide.

“Leon?” He hears you say as you step in, the darkness of the room allowing him a couple of seconds to hide the murder weapon – the bottle – and act clueless. But it seems that not even his nervous system is on his side. He just stands still.

“Sorry for being late. I had one hell of a shift back at–...” He sees your frame as you approach the kitchen. Your face falls momentarily, taking in the sight you were watching. Disheveled hair, bruises all around his face, and dark eyebags that gave the impression he hadn't slept for weeks.

Your eyes fall on the bottle in his hand. There was no cap which leads you to believe that he was drinking. Leon wanted to scream and tell you that you got it all wrong, but no words left his lips.

“Are you drinking?” Anger-filled, you take long strides before reaching for the bottle. Your eyes scan the content, seeing that it is half empty. Your accusatory gaze falls on Leon's.

“It's not what it looks like.” Worst phrase ever. He knows that he's telling you the truth, yet he couldn’t come up with anything worse than that. 

He looks like a kicked puppy, his eyes wide open as you keep staring at him with those eyes filled with… disappointment which it's worse than being screamed at. He wasn’t built for that. He was used to resentment looks, to punches and kicks. But disappointment came every time he had to tell families that their father wouldn’t make it that night because he died on a mission. It came each time he had to inform a mother that their beloved son succumbed to a virus. 

The once rookie cop still lives within him. The one who hates disappointing people, the one who wants to save everyone. But especially the one who can’t do it alone.

“Then help me understand.” You place the bottle on the kitchen counter. Your stare doesn’t falter yet a hint of concern washes over your face. “Because all I see is you drinking after literally promising me that you’d never do it again.”

As a matter of fact,  you didn’t actually see him drinking. He wanted to say that, but he knew it would bring even more anger to your already burning expression. However, as soon as that thought left his mind, another one came.

The sole fact that he didn’t drink, doesn’t spare him from any culpability. If it wasn’t for your intrusion, he’d be lying on the couch, wasted and intoxicated waiting to pass out. 

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. Leon isn’t dumb, he’s exhausted but he’s aware of how much you’re holding back. You would never scream at him, that’s obvious. But you didn’t want to bring even more self-hatred to him.

He had his own mental battles, ones you will never understand no matter how much he describes them to you. His anxiety was always bothering him, like an annoying bug buzzing in his ear. You knew how overwhelming everything was.

And you knew how recovery wasn’t an easy step to take, but it definitely takes so much maturity and perseverance, something that Leon surrounds himself in – even though he doesn’t see it. He’s a fighter, he’s a hero, he’s a lover. He keeps fighting and fighting even when he doesn’t see an end. But he mastered the art of moving forward.

So, he’s allowed to fall from time to time.

“Did you drink?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Were you planning on doing it?”

He’s silent for a moment, he’s afraid that his answer will mean more disappointment from you. That you will get to see how pathetic he really was. 

“Yes.” He eventually confesses.

You absentmindedly nod, letting out a long sigh.

“Another mission?”

“...yes.”

You didn’t ask for the details, knowing – to an extent – about Leon’s job, you knew it must have been so impactful in order to almost throw him back to his old friend, alcohol. And you knew Leon was like a sponge, he absorbs everything he experiences and never tells anyone. You thank God that he accidentally told you about his addiction, now you can at least protect him.

“It was…” Leon continues speaking, his fingers scratching a spot on the kitchen counter. His eyes don’t meet yours, as if he’s trying his best to make the words come out of himself. “It was really bad this time.”

He lets out a dry chuckle that sounds more like an attempt to water down the situation. One thing about him is that he doesn’t cry. He wouldn’t let someone see that side of him. He’s rigid, he’s stoic, he’s unemotional. He’s a DSO agent, born to serve his country and die for it. 

But right now he wants to be a child again. 

He wants to be that same infant who would fall on purpose just to get kisses from his mother. He wants to be that same innocent child who could come back running to his mom’s arms when the world was too scary. 

He wants to stop the world for a second and cry at the top of his lungs, he wants to punch a wall until his knuckles bleed, he wants to be held, he wants to be told everything will be okay even if it will never be okay.

His thoughts drift to when he was younger – to when he could imagine himself being a better person. If he could speak with himself, what would he say? The image of a tiny him crosses his mind, a young Leon playing all by himself with tiny police cars.

Within him, there’s a rookie cop begging for help amidst the gruesome scenario he had to face back in 1998. Beneath all the layers of self-hatred and resentment, hidden in that dead gaze.

He shakes his head, in a poor effort of swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat. An imminent sign that his emotions will fall like a waterfall, reminding him of his own weaknesses. His curtain of hair falls onto his eyes, blurring his vision. 

Or was it his tears? He no longer knows.

He deserves an award for how hard he’s trying to stop the inevitable. His fingers shake, his breath gets heavier and his heart aches. But he couldn’t bear it for much longer, especially knowing that at least, he had someone to go to when his mind was too much for him.

So, he allows himself to feel human again.

“It was horrible…” He finally breaks down. He silently lets the tears fall from his eyes as he sobs. The thought of every mission is on his mind as the constant spams of his sobs control his body. 

He feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs, the uncontrollable way that he chokes on his sobs makes his throat constricted. 

He lowers his head, he doesn’t want you to see how weak he has become. A tough agent simply doesn’t cry. An agent bites, chews, swallows, and shuts up. 

Silence sets in the kitchen, occasionally broken by Leon’s tears and choked breaths. His fingers itched to grab something, to hold onto something. To feel that he wasn’t alone, that he was indeed not all by himself in this messed up world.

You slowly reach for him. Baby steps, for someone who was touched starved, even if he was unaware of that fact. For someone that’d jump whenever he feels touched, because his mind can’t let go of the fear of being bitten, of being killed. 

You quietly made your way to Leon’s hand, your fingers ever so grazing it. Feather touches brushes against the back of his hand, making sure to notice if he shows any signs of discomfort. There were none.

However, you surely notice that his sobs have stopped for the time being. He’s still sniffing though. As if on cue, his glassy eyes lock on yours, before you fully intertwine your fingers with his.

You didn’t hug him immediately, you didn’t throw your arms around his neck at the very right moment when he started crying, and you especially didn’t give him a shoulder pat as if saying “Don’t cry.” He appreciates the fact that you took it slow, you gave him a warning and proceeded further when he allowed you to.

Loving takes time, and loving Leon would surely take longer than anything you have experienced.  You have treated many patients, you know that the injuries in a body heal fairly quickly. Now, the wounds in a soul that was doomed from the start are not something that easy to mend. 

After a while of your fingers being intertwined and sweat covering the palm of your hands, you feel the faintest squeeze, coming from Leon’s side. You look at him and see a tiny smile formed on his lips with some dry tears adorning his face.

You say nothing, scared to break the atmosphere of tranquility that had formed after Leon stopped crying. It took some seconds for Leon to muster up the courage to go further, intimacy and platonic touches were already something he was unfamiliar with. Now, he had to add romantic feelings to that list.

If he had met you when he was younger, he’d have surely asked you out. Take you on a nice little date and steal a kiss or two. But now, he was trapped in the course of the years, older and supposedly wiser. However, you were the one who was being strong – for him. Not the other way around.

But, as much as he wants to pity himself and wonder about those what-ifs, he has a friend now. He would take care of that heart of his in the future. For now, he wants to embrace the one friendship he hasn’t tainted yet.

The one person who still hasn’t seen the horrors that this world has to offer.

He untangles his fingers from yours and looking at your eyes one last time, he brings your hand to his cheek. The palm of your hand bringing some warmth to his skin.

With his eyes closed now, you see an expression you haven’t seen before. A peaceful one, as if he was sleeping without his usual nightmares. It was comforting, in a sense, knowing that you have brought a moment of serenity to his tumultuous life.

You were surprised at first, not expecting Leon to show that display of affection. However, part of you understands that he was seeking comfort. It’s been a while since he last felt safe with someone, someone who he could cry with, someone who wouldn’t judge him.

Your thumb grazes over his stubbled cheek, wiping away any proof that he has been crying. 

“Thank you…” His voice is barely a whisper, you almost didn’t hear him singing his gratitude.

You want to say “You’re welcome” or “It’s okay” but none of those phrases convey what you really wish to show. Saying the first one would dismiss all of your previous actions as a simple attempt to comfort him. And the latter was a lie, it’s not okay, even if you wanted to believe it yourself.

“I got you.” You stick with that one. It wasn’t a lie but a promise you plan on fulfilling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You promise?” He asks, opening his eyes. His tone is a hopeful one.

“I do.” You reassure him.

With your free hand – the one that wasn’t on Leon’s cheek –  you reach for the bottle of whiskey that was long forgotten after their little situation.

“But before that, we need to get rid of this.” You show it to Leon before he chuckles. “We’re now only drinking apple juice.”

He didn’t miss the use of we instead of you. Maybe he’s reading between the lines, but he hopes that you’re by his side now that he wants to leave his addiction for sure. He wants you to see how much he can achieve if he sets his mind on it.

“Apple juice it is.”

V. ABSOLUTION.

The nakedness of his body didn't override the vulnerability he showed once he let you in his life, mind, and soul. But as you help him wash his back, he can’t help but reminisce about that first night when he first saw himself in the mirror.

He remembers being insecure about showing his scars to someone, scared that the other person would be disgusted by the sight of it. 

However, you weren’t repulsed, far from that. In your mind, Leon’s skin served as a canvas and each bruise and scar were strokes of a paintbrush. In this case, they showed Leon’s hard life and non-achievable freedom. They showed how much Leon had endured and how many fights he had won.

Therefore, they were proof that Leon was a lover of life. He loved everyone else’s lives that he would sacrifice his in order to protect the world.

Leon sometimes drops hints about his job. He didn’t directly tell you about the government and its fucked up methods, but you collected the clues and formed your own puzzle.

He was forced to join.

It was strange, in a way. To know that a gentle soul like him had to face the hostility of a country, of a government that could easily threaten someone into joining the force. However, you weren’t clueless about its power.

Eventually, after those hints, other hints came along the way. 

Leon was sweet, funny, and a gentleman. Your dynamic as a nurse and patient was long forgotten even though you still tend to some of his wounds. And your friendship shifted into something more, especially after the whiskey situation months ago. 

However, even though his qualities overshadow his flaws, there’s something he can’t hide.

He’s too awkward for his own good.

Ever since the alcohol incident, Leon would always try to be smooth and compliment you over the simplest things. “Have you done something different to your hair? No, you didn’t? Oh… Well, it looks good” He would often facepalm himself because he couldn’t flirt even if his life depended on it.

Eventually, after those not-so-discrete hints, he took matters into his own hands. He often faked minor injuries. “You don’t understand, my eye literally hurts” and he would have access to admire every tiny detail your face had to offer. From your moles to the way your eyebrows furrowed trying to concentrate.

And that led to feathery touches. In the name of friendship, of course.

After one dinner – that Leon so gratefully prepared – you would often find yourself sitting on the couch, shoulders pressed to one another as you played with his rough hands. You would ask him where he got that scar, how he got this one right here, wow it looks really deep. 

And he let you because he did the same. Because those angel-like touches soon turned into endlessly staring sessions where silence was more inviting than any word could be. You gazed into each other’s eyes for only God knows how long. Expecting that the other one would break the intimate moment but none of them had the heart to do so.

It would be an understatement to say that Leon felt so safe with you. Over the months, Leon had gotten to know what a home felt like. His apartment remained the same, physically and aesthetically speaking. But the way it immediately lightens up when you arrive – yeah, Leon could finally call it home.

That’s why, it was so easy for Leon to let those words slip out of his mouth one night when you were leaving.

“You feel like home.” 

And for a moment, you let those words sink into you. You thought you were merely an acquaintance, a simple friend at most. But no – there he was, Leon Kennedy, US government agent, telling you that you’re his home.

Meanwhile, the silence at that moment made Leon go insane. He thought he fucked it up, you would surely run away now. Who the fuck says that someone is their home? Shit shit shit—

“You’re my home too.” 

And that was everything he needed to hear to stop all of his dark thoughts from appearing once again. The darkness that embraced both of them set the perfect scenario to indulge in this crucial moment. A late confession, but a real one.  

As he gazes into your eyes, he can’t help but wonder if this tiny fragment of happiness would go away like everything else had in his life. You’re too precious, too important to die, to vanish from his life and never come back.

And your hand reached for his cheek, your thumb caressing the same scar you noticed when you first met him, he couldn’t help but ask God to grant him one more chance in life. He promises — in a fragment of seconds — to be a better human, to be a better citizen but please, don’t take away this last string of hope he’s holding to.

And he felt that God had finally responded to his prayers when he saw how you leaned closer, letting your lips find his in a gentle but so meaningful and awaited kiss. He hesitantly parted his lips, scared that this may be a dream. But of course, he doesn’t dream so that had to be the reality. The sorrow, the anxiety, the longing, and the expectations — all of those were long forgotten as he mentally thanked destiny for this.

“Earth to Leon” You giggle behind him as you rub a sponge all over his back. You were careful not to be so rough on his already aching back. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Of course, he found himself daydreaming. 

From that night, his relationship with you skyrocketed. And his home became your home too.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but he found himself getting even more comfortable with you. He didn’t even need to ask himself — letting you see him naked as both of you wash each other’s bodies? Yeah, it was definitely love. 

And he loves being in love.

“I just spaced out for a bit.” He responds with a yawn, the silence that surrounded both of you was inviting to just sleep throughout the night. Funnily enough, you only just sleep. Leon was grateful the first nights since he was getting used to the fact that someone else was sleeping on his bed.

But now he was growing a bit impatient.

Especially with your lingering touches.

As you let the water wash away all the soap, your lips soon find his back, pressing soft kisses on each scar that adorned his skin. “It’s okay…” a kiss on a tiny scar. “Are you going to take your sleeping pills tonight?” Another kiss on a scar that was near his shoulder.

Right… he was put on medication. He often takes sleeping pills when his eyes won’t shut down even if drowsiness is engulfing him. But lately, sleep has become easier, and his nightmares have decreased.

He’d like to think that after you started sleeping next to him, his mind started to feel at peace. But that was something unreal, nobody could fix someone. 

But he had to be honest, you surely helped him a lot.

“Not tonight.”

He feels you nodding as your chin lays on his shoulder blade. It’s in moments like these where he thinks that life doesn’t sound so bad. As he zones out and lets you do all the job, he realizes that maybe it’s okay to keep on living.

He’s a big teddy bear, to say the least. The DSO agent who once swore duty to his country was pushed aside when he was with you. Why would he need to keep up his facade when home meant security, therefore you are what makes him safe. So, as you help him out of the shower, drying him off with a towel he lets you take the reins, his body on autopilot mode.

His strong arms wrap around your frame, perfectly molding and fitting like puzzle pieces. It feels like the flow of water, gently swaying your bodies until they reach their destination, their little nest away from everything outside. 

He takes pride in serving, providing, and protecting. It was deeply imprinted in him, right in his bone marrow. The blood that runs through his veins pushes him to never stop, to continue working for others. 

However, as you help him sit down on the bed his mind shuts down for a moment. He allows himself to take this moment of peace and drown himself in it. Be a little selfish, if he can. The tranquility of a domestic setting was still so foreign to him yet he doesn’t understand how he could’ve lived without feeling this for so long.

The towel around his midsection hugs him just right to prevent the material from falling. His hair is still a little wet, and so is yours. You use the extra towel to help him dry off. 

He very much enjoys the lazy touches you share at nights like these. It was a nice reminder that the darkness of the imminent dusk will not bring more nightmares, but peaceful dreams. The ghost of his past was getting tired of haunting him, it seems.

You’re still pretty careful with him, as if you were handling fine ceramic which in a sense, he was. He was shattered porcelain, glued back together with utter care. You both were artists, who completed with great skill this piece of art called life.

And now, your lips are acting like a brush, as they touch Leon’s skin. Kisses are planted along his jaw and he lets out a sigh from the feeling of being treated with so much devotion. If he could serve as a blank canvas, he was ready to rewrite his story with you.

Or maybe not rewrite, his past made him a person as much as it hurts. His grief, his pain, and his previous solitude built up the man that he is now. So, he will add another page to his life story. He will paint another landscape where the sun rises and casts its lights on the world. 

He looks at you and sees nothing but raw love and a hint of desire hidden behind those orbs. He notices, then, that just like him you are indeed eager to please him in the other sense of the word. It was embarrassing to realize that he shouldn’t have kept quiet about his needs when you had already proved to him that it was okay to speak, to think, to feel.

It’s been a while since he last let himself be this physically vulnerable. Sure he wasn’t an inexpert in the area but it has never been this intimate. Hearts never bonded and names weren’t remembered. Never has someone truly cared about his welfare before. To put it a name, he’d have called it a trade. He let off some steam and the other part got what they wanted. No strings attached and surely no feelings hurt.

However, it would be a lie if he told himself he didn’t crave to actually make love to someone. To feel someone’s body brushed against his in a sweet and gentle motion. To let himself and his soul be kissed with so much love that it would make him cringe. 

You stop your waterfall of kisses for a while, letting the silence linger for a few seconds as you grab his hand. Slowly, you interlace your fingers with him, a well-known display of affection from you. Your signature, you may even say.

“Hey…” His eyes search yours, and he sees how you’re looking for approval, for his consent. He once heard eyes are the mirror of someone’s soul and the world suddenly feels so small as he remembers that he met those same eyes months ago, unaware of the effect you’d have on him.

“Hey.” You repeated, for the second time this night, his mind decided to wander again. “Is it okay if…” you trail off, not because of embarrassment or sudden shyness, not at all. But he can deduce that you wanted him to finish your sentence. 

I’ve been dying to touch you. I’ve been craving you touching me, he wanted to say. However, his sense of decency stops him from uttering that rather needy phrase. In a way, he can infer that you already know about his lustful desires. It was a matter of time before both of you indulged in those carnally and normal needs. 

Nonetheless, he is oblivious that you won’t let this night be like any other. No, you wouldn’t try anything too crazy — not yet — But after months of knowing him deeper and rawer, you know he’s tired. Exhausted from his life, exhausted from his job, and overall drained. He deserves to be treated right and you’ve been excelling in that task. 

But, you’ll show him that he can be as greedy as he wants to be.

“You can trust me.” You say in a hushed tone as if you were whispering a secret to him. Your hand slowly descends until it reaches where the towel meets his waist. 

“I do trust you.” He responds with a determined tone amidst the suggestive move of your hand. “I feel like I won the lottery with you.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, resuming your kisses around his stubbled cheek. Although this time, they carry some neediness in them.

“Positive.” He lets out a shaky breath as your finger ever so grazes over where the towel is tucked in. “Because you saw good in me when I had nothing to offer, you—”

“Stop.” Your voice remains soft even though your command doesn’t falter. ”None of those self-loathing words right now.”

He’s speechless for a moment before he slowly nods and lets your hand go lower. Leon feels his blood going south just from a few words.

But then again, loving you was really easy. So it was no surprise that he found himself already leaking at the anticipation of your imminent touch. 

“Let me make you feel better.” You whisper, allowing your hand to undo the towel that was previously wrapped around him. In a swift movement, it falls on the floor exposing his already hard length. 

You glance at Leon one last time and observe his reaction. There was no sight of changes of mind or hesitation, so you free his and your desire.

You connect your lips against his neck, and with gentle sucks, you prepare him for what’s about to come. Your wish —besides touching him— is bringing comfort in such an intimate act like this. He has trusted you with his soul and body before, that’s correct. But right now, you can feel the level of loyalty and therefore love he’s showing you. 

Your hand reaches for his dick, you thumb the slit of his tip collecting the precum that has already formed there, using it as a lubricant. 

Your fingers circle around his cock and, slowly, you start stroking him. You don’t want him to cum just yet, the feeling of being treated like this was something you want him to drown in. So, you keep up the steady pace. 

You disconnect your lips from his neck and focus your eyes on your ministration on his cock. The lewd sounds combined with the faint whimpers coming out from his lips were almost like background music that you are starting to love. 

He takes the opportunity of you pulling away from his neck to hide his face in the crook of yours. His breath tickles your skin as he continues letting out the most pretty sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck…” He hisses as his word gets lost between the shlick sounds of your hand jerking him off. His nose brushes against the side of your neck as his cries fill your ears. You can hear him whispering your name from time to time, as well as some other curses of his own.

However, his tiny cries of pleasure soon turned into real sobs. 

No, he wasn’t sad but Christ, it was the first time actually took their time to focus on his pleasure and his well being. He always thought that love was never meant for him, that the simple act of falling in love would be impossible and unachievable. The thought of having his life attached to someone else used to send shivers down his spine.

Now, his world is no longer black and white, your mere existence brought color to his life.

Your hand stops for a minute, worried that you may have done something wrong. That leads Leon to pull away from your neck as some tears roll down his face. 

“Sorry… I — just continue please…” The desperation in his voice didn’t go unnoticed as he went back to nuzzle against your neck. And even if he was dazed out at this very moment, you will remember to talk about this again at another time.

“It’s okay, let it all go.” You reassure him as you resume your previous motions. It doesn’t take long before your hand sends him over the edge and close to his own climax. 

You pump him, your thumb grazing over the head of his dick from time to time. He absentmindedly thrust his hips up into your hand, seeking his near release. For him, you were granting him a visit to Heaven itself. Just the mere touch of your hand had him seeing angels and cherubims. How would it feel to be deep inside of you?

His lips are red from biting them, attempting to muffle his moans. His brain is a mess, with thoughts of you and only in there and his cock is throbbing as it chases his own high. Overall, Leon was putty in your hands. 

And by the way, his hips are starting to miss their rhythm, you know that it was a matter of seconds before Leon came undone in your hand.

“You’ve been so good for me…” You coo, still jerking him off with a slightly faster pace now. “You deserve to cum, don’t you?” You were always good with words but Jesus, he didn’t expect you would literally talk him through it.

As you whisper those praise words, he can’t stop his hips from rutting and bucking into your hand. “Yeah…— fuck — I’ve been so good. Please, let me cum.”

The image of a tough agent begging for release will surely imprint in your mind for a while. 

“Of course.” Your lips tug into a smile as you pick up the pace. It was a sight to behold, seeing Leon coming undone in your hands with his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and a dazed out expression that brought butterflies to your tummy.

Eventually, your hands slow down as Leon writhes under your touch. He lets out a loud muffled whimper as white thick ropes of cum spill onto his stomach and of course, your hand. 

He stays still for a while, letting his body rest for a second. He plants lazy kisses on your neck as a way of saying “Thank you” since words couldn’t really translate what he was feeling right.

“Shit—” After a while, Leon curses as his half-lidded eyes meet yours. His expression is one of exhaustion but his lazy smile tells you he was brimming with happiness. He reaches for his towel that was previously thrown off and cleans your hand.

“Are you ok?” You ask as Leon wipes your hand, you can’t help but let out a giggle at the considerate action.

“Yeah but…” He trails off as he cleans his abdomen too. You can already predict what was going on in that head of his. “What about you?”

“I’m okay Leon.” You sigh as you bring your now clean hand to his cheek. “Your pleasure is mine. Besides, you’re exhausted.”

But as much as your statement was true, you can’t deny the desire that was dripping between your thighs. Between the intimacy of your act and having Leon so vulnerable in your hands, your system knows what it wants.

“I am.” He doesn’t deny the fact that your ministrations sucked the life out of him. But he can keep going. For the first time in his life, he is grateful for his stamina as an agent. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do it.”

Before you could even protest, Leon was already kissing your neck. The scent of your body wash filling his nostrils as his lips get hungrier and needier for the taste of your skin. And as you attempt to once again speak, he muffles your words with his mouth on yours.

You feel your reasoning go weak as well as your limbs. It took a few kisses for you to comply and let yourself be laid on the bed, strong but gentle hands holding you close even when you fell on the soft mattress.

He’s above you for a second as he admires the view. Your towel, unlike his, was still wrapped around your body. You wriggle your way to where the pillows of the bed are and you wait for him there.

He wastes no time to join you, carefully lying next to you rather than above you. You catch a glimpse of what he’s trying to do. One of his calloused hands reaches your waist and softly motions you to roll over your side. 

You roll over and you’re met with your reflection on the mirror that was next to your bed. Funnily enough, it was perfectly placed so it showed both of your bodies. Somewhere deep in your mind, you wonder if Leon set up the mirror there for this right purpose. 

But then again, Leon was spontaneous, behind all of his layers of grumpiness and sadness that once used to surround him, you knew his sappy, corny, and cheesy side that was hidden. And now, you get to notice his quirks every single day.

He grips your hips as he lays sideways too, slightly spooning you. “You no longer need this…” He murmurs as he takes off your towel, the sight of your bare body in the mirror has his mouth watering. Acting like a damn dog wasn’t on the list of things he’s proud of.

As he discards the fabric that covered your body, you feel his once again hard cock. But this time, it was painfully close to your core that you could already feel every vein brushing against your walls.

“May I?” He knows your answer, he’s just asking for the sake of it. To hear your voice dripping with lust and neediness. To hear you hum that yes in your sweet tone as always.

“Please…” Your whisper was enough to make his cock twitch. What is with you and your voice that melts Leon whenever he hears you? You’re both his salvation and weakness. He can’t function without you.

He has always wanted to leave a mark in this world. That he had indeed existed for something else than death and destruction. That he was more than Leon Kennedy, the US’ best weapon. He wanted to show the world that he, Leon — just Leon — was more than his messed-up destiny. 

He loves, he desires, he laughs and he yearns for connection. And right now, his body’s aching to feel you around him.

He snuggles closer and wraps a tight arm around your waist, hugging your abdomen just right. Instinctively, you arch your back, letting your rear brush against Leon’s dick making hiss from the friction.

For a moment, he stops hugging you. You almost whined for the loss of closeness when you feel Leon guiding his dick which easily slides through your wet folds. The tip of it bumps against your clit sending electricity all over your body.

He’s savoring this moment. Sadly, he doesn’t think he’ll last much longer once he starts. But, at least, he knows that this won’t be the last time since he finally allowed himself to be selfish, to wish happiness for himself.

Happiness has a name and is both yours and Leon’s.

At last, he pushed into you, just the tip for now. Admiring your face in the mirror, he whispers sweet nothings against your ear. Rambles about how perfect you look and feel right, how lucky he is, and so on.

“Look at you…” Leon points at the mirror and you open your eyes which are glassy from all the pent-up desire you’ve been holding back. At any other moment given, you’d have been quite self-conscious about the exposure of your naked body. But Leon — as you once did with him — is eager to show you that you’re indeed a sight for sore eyes.

“Look how perfect you look being mine.” Even though his words could sound possessive to anyone else, you know his voice brings out affection and tenderness. There are a few things Leon could call them his. And most of them are mundane items that don’t exactly bring comfort to him. 

But to call you his was something that he has always looked for. To show you off, buy you everything you’ve always desired, and tell the world that he had finally found his home. His one and only.

As he finishes his statement with a kiss on your cheek, he eases himself into you. He pushes all of his length as he hushes you once you hiss from the stretch.

“Shhh there you go…” He once again wraps his arm around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he inhales the scent he has grown to love. The same that has been lulling him to sleep ever since you decided to move in with him. 

He stays still for a few seconds, the feeling of filling you up could make him cum right on the spot but he stops himself. He distracts from your pulsating walls by kissing your neck and sucking on the skin which will clearly turn a soft purple color the next morning.

The pain soon turned into comfort and therefore it resulted in pleasure. As he hears you saying a soft “You can move” he slowly pulls out before thrusting into you with the same pace and force. He feels your walls clamping down his cock as he continues his motions. 

He slides in and out with lazy thrusts, his and your eyes are closed as heavy breaths and drowsy moans leave your lips. You were correct, he was exhausted from his previous high. But the way you drowsily made love was making this whole thing even more perfect.

“Taking me so well.” He murmurs against your skin, his breath tickling your neck as he grips your waist even tighter than before, as if he is scared that once he opens his eyes you won’t be there. “Sucking me in, like you know I belong here.”

His hand goes to your chest, where he plays with one of your nipples. His fingers pinching the sensitive spot as his hips continue lazily bucking into yours already feeling like his mind was all over the place.

You feel a heat forming on your belly as Leon continues whispering words you can’t quite register now. Too drunk in desire and too cock drunk to even care. “Fuck I love you so much…”

“I love you too.” You can’t really say anything else, everything would be sentences with no coherent meaning or sense. So you stick with your favorite phrase, you could sing every day that you love Leon, and he would do the same. Because the word love was once so far away from him.

It was poetic to see that Leon could feel his second climax of the night near as he heard you say that you love him. The back and forth of his hips slightly increase their speed but it remains true to the lazy nature of the act right now, though.

“I’m close.” Leon stutters as he says those words. “Can I come inside you? Please tell me I can.” There is some desperation in his voice, an aching and burning desire to paint your insides. 

“Fuck, yes. Yes, you can.” You manage to say before Leon lets out countless thanks you. Your body starts writhing under his grasp as your fingers start digging into Leon’s arms, leaving an imprint of your nails on his skin.

“Cum on me. Go ahead, do it for me.” He coos, coaxing more sweet whimpers out of you. “Let me fill you up.” 

You let out a muffled whimper as you came undone. He could feel your cunt gripping him as you reach your desired orgasm. Eventually, Leon’s hips which were previously rocking into your and slapping against his skin are now slowing down.

The wet noises sound so filthy yet Leon is having a blast right now. He could imagine himself getting to experience this every night with you by his side. Who could have thought that selfishness could be so rewarding?

With a low grunt, he cums inside of you as he promised. Letting his load fill your insides. He couldn’t hide the satisfied smile that formed on his lips. What a view.

He remains inside of you for a bit longer than needed. You can’t judge him, especially with the way he nuzzles into your neck letting out a yawn. Poor him was worn out. After his first climax, he had already felt that he touched the sky, and now he was in heaven.

After pulling out, he rested his cheek on your shoulder. Part of him wanted to feel you again yet he couldn’t even move an inch. However, it fulfilled him to know that you were going to be right next to him tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and for as long as you allow it.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

“We have to change those thank you into I love you.”

Leon was the sweetest guy. However, those thanks still came from a place of skepticism. 

“Sorry…”

He sheepishly said before drifting off to sleep. And, as usual, no nightmare is waiting for him to haunt his dreams.

VI. SERENITY

Attempting to get out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning should be a crime. However, your drowsy state didn’t stop you from reaching the now empty space next to you. The bed still provided you with the scent of the person you loved the most yet he wasn’t there. 

With a groan, you decide to get up from the bed. Your feet meet the cold tiles before you curse from the sudden pain you feel as you step on the remote. You have told Leon countless times that he shouldn’t sleep when he’s watching TV, yet the only response you get is “I’m just resting my eyes.” Therefore, that causes Leon to fall asleep with the remote on his chest which obviously falls throughout the night. 

After a while of inhaling and exhaling deeply from the pain, you make your way out of the room. The scenario that greets you is the same as other days just that Leon was missing in the picture. 

Your steps are slow as sleep is still running in your system, a yawn escapes you while you walk towards the kitchen counter. A note is waiting for you and you deduce it’s from Leon.

“I just went to run some errands, I’ll come back as soon as possible. Love you so so much.” 

His name was written at the bottom of the page next to a happy face that he had drawn. Silly, you thought.

You see that Leon had already prepared you a sandwich before he left. It was cold to the touch, so that means Leon has been gone for a while. He may come any time now. 

Life with him was… surely an adventure. He still goes on missions, leaving you to your own devices for days or even weeks. But they no longer haunt his mind like before. He still needs to be treated with utter care after one, though. Bruises and scars are not the only effects his journeys have on him. 

When he returns from a mission, the once dull and boring apartment welcomes him yet this time, it is full of colors and memories you have made with him. However, it’s not enough for him to completely drop his facade of a tough agent ready to end someone’s life. As you treat his wound, every tiny sound has him jumping on his seat. 

You can’t blame him, it takes a while before he can return to his usual self and be embraced by your warm body that will waste no time to hug him tight. Reminding that he was finally home.

Eventually, after settling down and returning to reality, his personality will shine again. If someone asked you to describe Leon in one word it would be impossible. The man that you chose to spend life with was everything all at once. He was definitely clingy, to begin with. Excuses were his everyday words as he tried to explain why it was completely alright for him to follow you everywhere you went.

At this point, it felt like you had adopted a puppy instead of having a boyfriend. “What’ chu doing?” He would often say as he peeked around the edge of the door frame and watched you from afar If he had a tail it’d be wagging so fast. The tough agent no longer existed in your presence, instead, a man who melted as soon as you hugged him took his place.

Loving, in his language, meant going overboard just for you. If he had to get on his knees and beg for a tiny kiss he’d do it. He’s grown needy to those sweet gestures only you could provide. But he didn’t need to win them. Loving, in your language, meant offering your heart on a platter for him.

God does he love you. You have the man whispering funny names in your ears as you wake up. You unlocked a part of him that he had long forgotten he had, he used to joke when he was nervous — freaking out because he thought he might die on a mission. But now, he invented a plethora of new pet names just to bother you and see you rolling your eyes laughing.

He’s gone through so much, he’s seen so much. Tranquility was the last thing he thought he would be surrounded with. Ever since he was forced to join the military, he made up his mind on the fact that his life would never be the same, Racoon City was his starting point and only his death would stop him from suffering.

Now, as you finally hear the door unlocking you admire how his figure appears. You squint your eyes as you try to pinpoint what’s different in him.

“Hey, you.” Leon walks towards you, closing the gap between you two as he hugs you.

“Hey, you too.” You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Missed me?”

“Not much.” You punch his side, not strong enough to make him jump but rather tell him that you were joking. “Now… On what adventures did you go without me?” 

“I just paid a visit to Adelaide.”

Adelaide, you haven’t forgotten about the old lady that you treated. However, you didn’t expect Leon to remain loyal to his service. And now that he mentions it, you realize what he has done to himself.

His hair has turned lighter. Blonder.

“Did you bleach your hair?” You can’t help but laugh at the thought, he had poor Adelaide working so early on a Saturday morning. But then again, you remember that both of them are workaholics, even though their jobs couldn’t be any more different.

“No, you’re going blind.”

God, he was so dumb.

Eternity used to sound like a cruel fate before. Stuck in a loop that he couldn’t escape from. But now, he will always look for you even in the tiniest details. He’d look for you in the darkness as two flicks of light trying to reach each other. In the universe, as two particles of stardust waiting to create something even bigger — a world for themselves, and a world to live on. 

Because, after all, you reached for him when he had nothing more to offer than his rotten self. You loved him when he couldn’t even love himself.

[stiltonbasket]

If you do Bingyuan prompts:

Bingge discovering/realizing that his children’s beloved head teacher is the friendly Shizun from the other world would be a delight!

(Shen Yuan with a miniature army of tiny heavenly demon children who adore him is just super cute!)

By the age of twenty-five, Luo Binghe possessed—or thought he possessed—all the wealth and treasures in the world that a man could want. His vengeance upon the Cang Qiong Mountain sect was complete, the mountain range burned and its peak lords slain but for the master of Qian Cao Peak and Qi Qingqi, whom he had spared for Liu Mingyan’s sake—and he had long since established himself as Emperor of the demon realm, with no small amount of influence in the world he was born to by virtue of his marriage to the Little Palace Mistress, Hua Zhihan. 

But then—half-way through his twenty-seventh year, and three years after the construction of his great fortress close to Huan Hua Palace—he stumbled through a rent in the very skin of the world and found himself back upon Qing Jing Peak, cradled in the arms of a man who wore the face of Luo Binghe’s hated shizun. 

He had hardly been there an hour before he discovered that that Shen Qingqiu had been nothing like the jealous fiend who tormented Luo Binghe in his youth. On the contrary, he had welcomed Luo Binghe into his home and bed like a new bride reuniting with her husband at the end of a long day’s work; and for several months after Luo Binghe returned to his own palace in the demon realm, he found no satisfaction in his endless riches, or the tens of wives in his harem. 

He spent a full season hunting for that Shen Qingqiu in his own world afterwards, for he knew somehow that the living Shen Qingqiu who had married the other Luo Binghe and his own former Shizun were not one and the same. The Shen Qingqiu Luo Binghe knew had nothing in common with that man other than his face, and even that had been so altered by the spirit living behind it that Luo Binghe had not recognized him as Shen Qingqiu at first sight; but the other Luo Binghe reminded him a great deal of his own child-self, and how single-mindedly he had loved Ning Yingying in those early days at Cang Qiong. 

But years went by, and Luo Binghe found nothing—no shadow or trace of that gentle Shen Qingqiu, whether living or dead—and at last, he drank himself sick on dragon-blood wine and unburdened himself to Ning Yingying, confessing that nothing under the sun had brought him joy since that one jewel-bright day with Shen Qingqiu three summers earlier. 

Of course, he did not breathe a word about what had actually happened—for Yingying and the others believed that the strange, bewildered husband who stumbled into the hougong that day was none other than Luo Binghe himself, and he had never seen fit to disabuse them of the notion—but she seemed to understand that the better part of his life’s joy had left him, and said:

“A-Luo, if we sisters can’t make you happy as we used to anymore, do you think—do you think a child might make you happy? We’ve been married for nearly ten years, and I hoped…”

Luo Binghe thought for a moment, still dizzy from the six pots of wine he drank with his evening meal; and amid the soft haze clouding his thoughts, he realized that he would have died of envy if the poor imitation of himself from the other world had had a child with his Shen Qingqiu. 

But the only children he had seen on Qing Jing Peak that day were a handful of young disciples in their early teens, far too old to belong to that pitiful Luo Binghe. It struck him that this was something that other Luo Binghe could never have—must never have, lest Luo Binghe know what had happened and find his way back to that dream-world to quell his jealousy by ripping his other self limb from limb—and then—

“It might not be a bad idea,” he heard himself say. “What about Yingying? Would you like a child?”

“Very much,” Yingying whispered, taking Luo Binghe’s hand. 

Their first daughter, Suoxin, was born the next year; and when the head taiyi placed her in Luo Binghe’s arms, a tiny mote of the tumult in his soul grew calm, and never returned to trouble him again.

The birth of Suoxin’s younger sister Changying followed exactly a hundred days later, for Hua Zhihan had demanded a child of her own as soon as she heard that Ning Yingying was pregnant, and Luo Binghe saw no reason to refuse her. Several of his lesser wives had attempted to follow suit, but he was adamant that no children should be born to them until the children born of his five chief wives had safely reached the age of about three or four: especially after the tragedy that accompanied the birth of Luo Binghe’s first son. 

The taiyi later discovered that his mother—Qin Wanyue, who had suffered a miscarriage at Sha Hualing’s hands some six years earlier—had been born with a deformation in one of the chambers of her heart; and due to her general good health and the strengthening effects of her cultivation, Wanyue never noticed it. But her cultivation was not sufficient to protect her from the strain of childbirth; and scarcely five minutes after the baby took his first breath, Qin Wanyue drew her last, dying without knowing anything more of her child than a single, snatched glimpse of his small red face.

The infant was given the name Luo Nianzu, in remembrance of his mother, and handed over to Liu Mingyan to raise. Mingyan had not wanted a child of her own, though she was more than willing to bring Nianzu up in Wanyue’s stead. 

And in the wake of Qin Wanyue’s passing, Luo Binghe vowed to himself that he would never sire another child. He had been the instrument of her ruin, wittingly or not: and with three healthy heirs, of whom one was a boy, he refused to risk a second death in the harem. 

But his resolve had not hampered Sha Hualing’s plans: and in truth, Luo Binghe should have known better than to expect otherwise. One night, she took Xin Mo from the stand beside his bed and stabbed Luo Binghe straight through the shoulder—rather more ferociously than usual, he thought—and absconded from the palace with three phials full of his spilt blood, returning a fortnight later with a fat baby boy swaddled in one of her own silk veils. 

“Did you give birth to him?” Luo Binghe frowned, after he tasted the child’s blood mites and found that they were nearly identical to his own. “You were only gone for two weeks.”

Sha Hualing only laughed at him, and asked that he give their son a name. Luo Binghe named him Shunlei, with the shun for obedience and the lei for thunder; and though Hualing took the hint at once, she was so well-pleased with Shunlei’s name that Hua Zhihan spent the next month sulking about it. 

The three years that followed Shunlei’s arrival were peaceful ones, for the demon realm had been brought to heel with Sha Hualing’s aid, and Mobei-jun grew more ruthless towards Luo Binghe’s enemies with every passing day. Yingying and Mingyan governed the harem both kindly and firmly, calming any disputes among the lesser wives and punishing those whose bids for favor put their sisters in danger; and they never faltered in their duty to the little ones, so that Luo Binghe went untroubled by the children’s needs until Liu Mingyan declared that Suoxin and Changying were old enough to begin studying with a trained taifu.  

“I already have a candidate in mind,” she said to him over dinner one evening. “Will my lord permit me to look after the arrangements myself?”

“I don’t see why not,” Luo Binghe replied. “Do what you must. Only ensure that the taifu is well educated, and knows how to teach little children without frightening them.” One Shen Qingqiu was bad enough, after all.

And so, preparations went forth for the children’s education. Liu Mingyan wrote to the prospective taifu, who accepted the offer of employment and asked for a month to settle his affairs before moving to the palace; and Yingying began teaching Nianzu and Shunlei how to read, in the hope that the taifu would agree to instruct them alongside Suoxin and Changying. 

Luo Binghe, having nothing further to do with the matter, left for the northern desert with Mobei-jun and Sha Hualing. 

Linguang-jun had decided to rebel against his nephew’s rule again, and Luo Binghe was weary of indulging him. In the aftermath of Shang Qinghua’s betrayal, he and Mobei-jun had both decided that Linguang-jun’s continued existence was far more trouble than it was worth. 

All told, he remained away from the palace for over two moons. When he finally returned, in midsummer, he went straight to his own courtyard and slept for three days without moving a muscle. 

And then he awoke, and heard a soft strain of qin music issuing from the other side of the wall.

Luo Binghe froze.

That courtyard was meant to be empty; it had been empty since the day it was built, eight months after he met that other world’s Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe had filled its four rooms with books and bamboo furniture, and even the double bed in the inner chamber had been a replica of the one the other Shizun slept upon—and the courtyard’s little garden had a pavilion with a built-in table for a qin, since the construction of that Shizun’s house and garden made it plain that he liked to practice out of doors.

Who had dared set foot in that courtyard while Luo Binghe was absent?

Hua Zhihan? Qin Wanrong? Certainly not Yingying or Liu Mingyan; it resembled the living quarters at Qing Jing far too closely for either of them to find any peace there. 

Trembling with fury, he pulled on the robes he was wearing last night and rushed over to the adjoining courtyard, where he stopped short at the threshold of its white-painted moon gate and gaped at the spectacle awaiting him within. 

There was a man sitting at the qin table in the pavilion—a man, in the compound where Luo Binghe lived with his wives—playing a rearrangement of “Flowing Waters,” with Luo Shunlei on his lap. Suoxin and Changying were seated on either side of him, armed with child-sized guqins of their own, and Nianzu was nestled against the man’s shoulder, asleep.

And his face—

Luo Binghe had never seen such a face before. It was not the face of Shen Qingqiu—not the Shen Qingqiu he knew, at any rate—but the light in his eye and the warmth of his voice as he spoke to Suoxin were very like that Shen Qingqiu’s, though Luo Binghe noticed that there was a shade of difference between the two. 

He is older, Luo Binghe realized at once, as his heart thundered inside him. The other Shen Qingqiu was young, judging by his manner—perhaps forty, at the very oldest—and my Shizun never even reached the age of fifty. 

The other Shizun had worn green, he remembered. He preferred the same clean-cut style of dress that Luo Binghe’s shizun liked to wear, and of course their bodies and faces had been the same, as well; but this man wore s different face entirely, and his worn silk robes were a clean, stark white, like the garments of the wandering rogue cultivators who used to pass through Luo Binghe’s hometown when he was a boy. 

The trappings of his flesh made no difference, however.

Luo Binghe knew him for what he was at first sight. 

It struck him then that this must be the taifu Liu Mingyan selected for the children. He could not fathom why she would have housed an imperial tutor in the hougong, of all places: but now that he was here, Luo Binghe would rather walk through the Endless Abyss again than permit him to leave. 

Luo Binghe could have stood in the doorway and stared at him for a lifetime; but then the taifu looked up and clambered to his feet, tugging the little girls along with him. Shunlei remained where he was, gripping the soft front of the taifu’s gown like a baby monkey clinging to its mother’s back; and Nianzu, securely balanced on the taifu’s hip, slept on without noticing that the man had moved at all.

“My lord,” the taifu said, bowing. “This humble servant offers his—”

“Xin’er greets Father!” Luo Suoxin cut in, glancing up at her teacher for approval. “Did I do it right, Shizun?”

“Yes, except for the part where you interrupted me first,” the taifu laughed. “Go on, Changying.”

Luo Changying nodded and stepped forward. 

“Chang’er greets Father,” she said, rather more gracefully than Suoxin. 

“Well done,” said the taifu. “Now, Shunlei…?”

Shunlei blinked and tightened his grasp on the taifu’s robes. 

“A-Shun is hungry,” he complained, refusing to meet Luo Binghe’s eyes. “Shizun, snack time.”

Luo Binghe bit back a smile. This man was somehow more indulgent with his young charges than the other Shizun had been, and the sight of him holding Nianzu and Shunlei was so desperately sweet that Luo Binghe nearly reached out and touched him. 

“Daozhang is the new taifu, I suppose?” Luo Binghe asked instead, taking another step forward. “Your name?”

The taifu nodded. 

“This one is called Zhu Qinglan, my lord,” he replied, trying in vain to coax Shunlei down to the ground. “Now, A-Shun, my good little disciple…”

“Shunshun won’t look at him,” the baby insisted, his little voice muffled in the folds of Zhu Qinglan’s coat. “I want to eat cake, not see Fuqin.”

To Luo Binghe’s astonishment, Zhu Qinglan sat down on the steps below the pavilion and drew a wrapped package of sesame cakes out of his sleeve. 

“Your imperial father has come back to see you after two months, and you act like this?” he chided, placing one of the cakes on Shunlei’s outstretched palm. “Now, eat your cake like a good child; and then you must get up and greet your father properly, like Xin’er and Chang’er.”

Luo Binghe lifted his hand. 

“No need,” he said mildly, watching with half-crazed eyes as Zhu Qinglan stroked Luo Nianzu's fluffy hair. “Shun’er is always upset after this lord returns from his travels abroad. I do not see the children as often as I would like; but I try to dine with them at least once a week, and that little demon in your arms refuses to speak to me for days on end if I ever dare to arrive late.”

With that, he turned on his heel and swept out of the courtyard. He could not stand in Zhu Qinglan’s presence any longer, lest he do something that would terrify his children and turn their Shizun against him forever; and as it was, the little demon servant who brought breakfast to his quarters ten minutes later nearly died of fright at the sight of him. 

“Zhu Qinglan,” Luo Binghe said to himself, after the petrified lackey made his escape. “The name suits him, whether it is a false one or no.”

He drained the last of his tea, and smiled. 

“I’ve finally caught you, Shizun.”

[mariacallous]

Rhetoric has a history. The words democracy and tyranny were debated in ancient Greece; the phrase separation of powers became important in the 17th and 18th centuries. The word vermin, as a political term, dates from the 1930s and ’40s, when both fascists and communists liked to describe their political enemies as vermin, parasites, and blood infections, as well as insects, weeds, dirt, and animals. The term has been revived and reanimated, in an American presidential campaign, with Donald Trump’s description of his opponents as “radical-left thugs” who “live like vermin.”

This language isn’t merely ugly or repellant: These words belong to a particular tradition. Adolf Hitler used these kinds of terms often. In 1938, he praised his compatriots who had helped “cleanse Germany of all those parasites who drank at the well of the despair of the Fatherland and the People.” In occupied Warsaw, a 1941 poster displayed a drawing of a louse with a caricature of a Jewish face. The slogan: “Jews are lice: they cause typhus.” Germans, by contrast, were clean, pure, healthy, and vermin-free. Hitler once described the Nazi flag as “the victorious sign of freedom and the purity of our blood.”

Stalin used the same kind of language at about the same time. He called his opponents the “enemies of the people,” implying that they were not citizens and that they enjoyed no rights. He portrayed them as vermin, pollution, filth that had to be “subjected to ongoing purification,” and he inspired his fellow communists to employ similar rhetoric. In my files, I have the notes from a 1955 meeting of the leaders of the Stasi, the East German secret police, during which one of them called for a struggle against “vermin activities” (there is, inevitably, a German word for this: Schädlingstätigkeiten), by which he meant the purge and arrest of the regime’s critics. In this same era, the Stasi forcibly moved suspicious people away from the border with West Germany, a project nicknamed “Operation Vermin.”

This kind of language was not limited to Europe. Mao Zedong also described his political opponents as “poisonous weeds.” Pol Pot spoke of “cleansing” hundreds of thousands of his compatriots so that Cambodia would be “purified.”

In each of these very different societies, the purpose of this kind of rhetoric was the same. If you connect your opponents with disease, illness, and poisoned blood, if you dehumanize them as insects or animals, if you speak of squashing them or cleansing them as if they were pests or bacteria, then you can much more easily arrest them, deprive them of rights, exclude them, or even kill them. If they are parasites, they aren’t human. If they are vermin, they don’t get to enjoy freedom of speech, or freedoms of any kind. And if you squash them, you won’t be held accountable.

Until recently, this kind of language was not a normal part of American presidential politics. Even George Wallace’s notorious, racist, neo-Confederate 1963 speech, his inaugural speech as Alabama governor and the prelude to his first presidential campaign, avoided such language. Wallace called for “segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” But he did not speak of his political opponents as “vermin” or talk about them poisoning the nation’s blood. Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066, which ordered Japanese Americans into internment camps following the outbreak of World War II, spoke of “alien enemies” but not parasites.

In the 2024 campaign, that line has been crossed. Trump blurs the distinction between illegal immigrants and legal immigrants—the latter including his wife, his late ex-wife, the in-laws of his running mate, and many others. He has said of immigrants, “They’re poisoning the blood of our country” and “They’re destroying the blood of our country.” He has claimed that many have “bad genes.” He has also been more explicit: “They’re not humans; they’re animals”; they are “cold-blooded killers.” He refers more broadly to his opponents—American citizens, some of whom are elected officials—as “the enemy from within … sick people, radical-left lunatics.” Not only do they have no rights; they should be “handled by,” he has said, “if necessary, National Guard, or if really necessary, by the military.”

In using this language, Trump knows exactly what he is doing. He understands which era and what kind of politics this language evokes. “I haven’t read Mein Kampf,” he declared, unprovoked, during one rally—an admission that he knows what Hitler’s manifesto contains, whether or not he has actually read it. “If you don’t use certain rhetoric,” he told an interviewer, “if you don’t use certain words, and maybe they’re not very nice words, nothing will happen.”

His talk of mass deportation is equally calculating. When he suggests that he would target both legal and illegal immigrants, or use the military arbitrarily against U.S. citizens, he does so knowing that past dictatorships have used public displays of violence to build popular support. By calling for mass violence, he hints at his admiration for these dictatorships but also demonstrates disdain for the rule of law and prepares his followers to accept the idea that his regime could, like its predecessors, break the law with impunity.

These are not jokes, and Trump is not laughing. Nor are the people around him. Delegates at the Republican National Convention held up prefabricated signs: Mass Deportation Now. Just this week, when Trump was swaying to music at a surreal rally, he did so in front of a huge slogan: Trump Was Right About Everything. This is language borrowed directly from Benito Mussolini, the Italian fascist. Soon after the rally, the scholar Ruth Ben-Ghiat posted a photograph of a building in Mussolini’s Italy displaying his slogan: Mussolini Is Always Right.

These phrases have not been put on posters and banners at random in the final weeks of an American election season. With less than three weeks left to go, most candidates would be fighting for the middle ground, for the swing voters. Trump is doing the exact opposite. Why? There can be only one answer: because he and his campaign team believe that by using the tactics of the 1930s, they can win. The deliberate dehumanization of whole groups of people; the references to police, to violence, to the “bloodbath” that Trump has said will unfold if he doesn’t win; the cultivation of hatred not only against immigrants but also against political opponents—none of this has been used successfully in modern American politics.

But neither has this rhetoric been tried in modern American politics. Several generations of American politicians have assumed that American voters, most of whom learned to pledge allegiance to the flag in school, grew up with the rule of law, and have never experienced occupation or invasion, would be resistant to this kind of language and imagery. Trump is gambling—knowingly and cynically—that we are not.

[dusterbishop]

i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?" 

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness. 

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you,  but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You are.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

 His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.

[jellyfishoreo1206]

Shush (Sebastian Solace x Reader)

Notes: Part Three of Painter and Sebastian on the surface, small bit of angst in the beginning? But it's not really angst. I apologize if Painter really isn't written that often in this little series of mine, little computer needs the attention :(

Anyways, I seriously cherish all of you who read the last ones! I hope you guys have an amazing day and a wonderful sleep :33

Also! Series will be named Slice of Life, it's a bit boring but it fits

Credit for the dividers to @cafekitsune

The distant squeak of a door opening wakes you.

Eyes snapping opening, you hurriedly sat up, glancing around your room to see if anything is out of place. Oh god, oh god what is it? Where is it? Is it a Wall Dweller? God those things can't even leave you alone-! You stopped when you realized you're still in your room, you're still in bed. Wrapped up in blankets. Nothing is coming after you anymore, nothing. Eyes still darting around the room in confused panic, attempting to find anything out of place.

Dresser by the door, your messy desk pushed up against the wall, your coats hanging off the coat hanger in the corner of the room; turning your head, spotting the potted plants growing by the window, the dark sky speckled with shiny lights. You're home, not down underneath the sea anymore.

Letting out a sigh, you slumped down, using your hands to cover your eyes. It's tiring. This has been a routine for several days now; you wake up in the middle of the night to the slightest noise, thinking you're back down in the facility back with Sebastian and Painter scavenging for supplies, attempting to avoid death and survive.

~~~

"Fucking shit-!" You turned too late, a Wall Dweller jumping onto you, the force of it causing you to fall towards the ground. Damnit, you were too busy with the circuit that you didn't hear the damn thing! Its blood-stained claws dangerously close to your throat, your arms pushing back with all the strength you could muster.

Panic swells in your whole entire body, your heartbeat beating loudly in your ears as you struggled to push that damn thing off. But to no avail, its claws were barely touching the column of you neck now.

Tears began pricking at the edge of your eyes, no no no no nononononononononono-! This can't be how it ends, you're so close to your goal-!

~~~

A light knock startles you out of the memory, head snapping up to the door. Did you imagine it? A few seconds passed.

*Knock knock*

Getting out from underneath the covers, you cautiously walked over to the door, slowly opening the door knob as you peeked in through the gap. Only did you open it fully once you saw the tear-stained face of Sebastian, concern written all over your face.

"Seb?" Calling out gently to the man, he looked down at you, a sadness in his eyes. Silently reaching up, you cup the side his face, slowly swiping your thumb underneath one of his eyes to rid of a stray tear. "Seb what's wrong?" He merely nuzzles into the palm of your hand, his eyes shut, a frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. His other hand merely grabs at the your unoccupied hand and intertwines his larger fingers with yours, the third merely resting on your forearm.

A rush of heat flushes across your cheeks, but you quickly pushed that down, scolding yourself. Sebastian needs comfort right now, no need to get flustered. You've done this several times!

But no matter how many times it happens, butterflies still erupt in your stomach.

There has been several instances where you seen Sebastian like this— all rare—where he just couldn't hold in the stress he felt or the amount of nightmares he attempted to endure by himself. So in order to combat that, you suggested something like physical touch, since that was something that helped when you when you were stressed. He rejected it at first, saying something along the lines that he, "wasn't a baby that needs to be consoled whenever it cries". But when it happened again, he went up to you and silently held your hand, eyes purposely avoiding your gaze.

A small frown settles upon your lips, your hand currently intertwined with his giving it a soft squeeze. "You wanna come in?" You whispered, sweeping a stray hair behind his ear fin. Flickering his eyes open, he merely nods, half-lidded eyes looking down at you as he nuzzles deeper into your palm.

~~~

"Careful, don't want the whole entire thing to fall on us.." Dresser pushed to the side, coats laid on your bare bed, your chair missing from your desk; all used to make a cozy blanket cove. Since your bed wasn't big enough for the two of you, this would have to suffice. You even dug around a few old boxes in your closet and found some fairy lights you had, using them to give the inside a feeling of warmth. Pillows large and small and fluffy blankets scattered the inside of the fort, even a few plushies scattered around.

You even went out of your way to grab a few snacks and drinks from the kitchen, said snacks in a little corner of the cove.

"This is stupid." The man remarked, lying down on his back, a good portion of his tail peaking out the entrance of the fort. His head resting his on your stomach as he pops in a piece of dried mango into his mouth, your legs spread out comfortable.

"Shut up, it's not stupid," Using the brush to comb out the small knot in his hair, "-it's genius." That earned a playful scoff from Sebastian, small grins appearing on both your faces. "Oh it so is stupid." He counters, offering a piece of the dried fruit up to your mouth, a quiet thanks slipped out of your mouth before you ate it.

"Shush, none of that." Once his hair was combed and fully free of knots, you began separating his hair into three sections to be braided. Now that you think about it, this kind of feels like a sleepover, the whole blanket fort, the snacks, hell even the braiding.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Just . . . this kind of reminds me of a sleepover." A chuckle leaves your lips right when you're finishing Sebastian's braid, looping the hair tie one last time before letting go, "Done."

Sebastian stays laying in your lap, now looking up at you, an unreadable expression present. You gotta say though, he looks very pretty with his hair up, all his eyes present with a few stray hairs here and there.

". . . I never had a sleepover." He mumbled sitting up, adjusting himself so he was lying down on his stomach, bringing over a pillow to rest his head and upper arms on. His third one looked for your hand, quickly intertwining them once he did. The fluttering feeling came back tenfold, a blush threatening to appear as he peered up at you with those half-lidded eyes.

Quickly brushing it off, you leaned over to the small corner, grabbing a juice with your free hand before leaning back, "Really? Not even as a kid?"

"Nah."

Silence overtook the fort, mulling over a response as you took a swing out of your juice, "Well, we're going to have to fix that now, aren't we?" You smiled broadly at Sebastian, giving a squeeze to your intertwined hands.

Genuine surprise overtook his face, the fins of his ears perked up at your statement, a blue flush flooding his cheeks. "R-Really?"

"Yes, absolutely." Turning on your phone, you took a glance at the date, "How about this, every Friday, we'll make a blanket fort. I'll go out and buy whatever snacks and drinks you want, and we'll put on a movie. Hell, even let Painter join, let them have some fun too." Turning back to him, you grin, "How about it?"

He merely stares in silence, eyes wide as the words process in his mind. "You're . . . really serious about this?"

"Of course, we'll make up some other things you missed out on as well!"

". . . you're so stupid."

"HEY!"

". . . yeah, I like that idea."

Last Part, Next Part

[dark-dragon-8]

A Supernatural × Batman crossover where the Batfam are actual cryptids and the brothers are sent to hunt them, only to find out that these guys are pretty much immortal, god like beings whose only weaknesses are each other, the sun and some weird sentient manifestation of their home city that they seem to care about, and most of them already grew out of the second one, since, apparently, the sun only affects them when they're newborns/newly transformed/changed.

The whole reason they ended up in Gotham in the first place was because of some online rumors saying that there is a demon cult in the city, as well as Blüdhaven [it's true, partially, the Bat clan has had several cults and/or religions painting them as godly beings/saviours of Gotham throughout the years, still do (imagine the colonies from F'ing Demon Bats, only this time the cryptid part of them is actually real)] along with shrines for human sacrifices.

At first they thought the locals sold themselves to a Pagan God in exchange for their safety, that the shrines and "holy grounds" spread throughout the city were for blood and human sacrifices and the creatures were feeding on the souls of their followers or something.

Turns out, that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes there were bloody sacrifices at the shrines, but most of the time those were just grieving kids bringing their dead pets to silence's holy grounds for them to be healed, or taken care of, by the spirit and have their souls at peace. But, again, that was rare, and only occurred at the holy grounds themselves rather than the shrines people attended to daily.

Majority of those shrines were filled with books, art supplies, music boxes with ballerinas and, sometimes, you could even find a few trinkets and computer parts, as well as the occasional plates and plastic boxes filled with home cooked meals, sometimes they even put pots and kettles filled to the brim with savory goods and nice tea. Nobody ever touched the food, not even the poor and desperate, when asked why all the brothers received were looks of horror and hushed whispers about how "The bats don't like thieves" and "They'll stop coming by the shrine, maybe even destroy it if we do that"

Dean didn't like it, neither did Sam, they didn't like how the locals, people who barely even bat an eye when they see a dead body on their way to work, get so scared and terrified as soon as they hear of something that might displease the Bats. They tried asking around, trying to figure out what is it that makes them so scared of their dearly beloved deities, after all, they talk about them like such a wonder, like they're the best thing that ever happened to them. Hell, one of them is named Mercy and was revered for its compassion and understanding of those around them.

They only got their answer when investigating a place called Crime Alley. They locals were all the same, if not even more reserved than their city's counterparts, but there was one person, a young girl who couldn't be older than ten that said she'll be willing to answer their questions in return for some money and stories from their time as hunters. They were reluctant at first, but seeing as they haven't had much of an option, they agreed.

"So, Masey" Dean started

"Missy" she corrected

"Right, sorry, Missy, you said that you could tell us what's up regarding those demons"

"Deities" she said sternly, the man simply nodded "And yes, I can do that, but you'll have to do something for me first"

"And what would that be?"

"You said you were a hunter, right?" He nodded "And you also said you have some money. So I want you to give me two hundred dollars, cash, and a written story containing at least three of your adventures with your partner. You can't use big fonts, lie or omit any details from the story, it needs to be one hundred percent real and legible and needs to be at least fifty pages, understood?"

Dean was confused, confused and worried. Why would this child need a story about them hunting monsters? And why did she need it to be so long and accurate? Was she trying to sell them out to the Bats or something? Why was this so important?

A million questions flooded his head and looking at Sammy, he could tell the feeling was very much mutual.

"Um Missy" it was Sam talking to her this time "Why would you want a story of us hunting like that? We could tell you about our time together on the field, if you want, but why do you need that written so meticulously?"

The little girl shook her head before he even finished speaking "No, no, I need it written"

"How so?"

"For Passion, of course"

"Passion?"

"Yeah, Passion, the component watching over Crime Alley, it loves reading stories but only when they're worth it. It doesn't like when people give them stories only to please it or for it to give them undeserved attention. It needs to be good and interesting, a story about two hunters will definitely do that"

The two hunters met each other's eyes, both their expressions filled with worry, apprehension and suspicion.

"And why all the other rules? Why does have to be so long and accurate?"

The girl tilted her head, looking at them as though they've said something stupid "Because you're introducing yourself, maybe"

"I can't just tell you guys all there is to know about the Bat without at least one of the components acknowledging you guys and giving me permission to share that information with outsiders"

"And what makes you think it won't just kill us as soon as it realizes what we do for a living?" They might've been desperate, but that doesn't mean they're going to give an essay about their weaknesses and hunting methods to a freaky, probably homicidal spirit on a silver platter

"Because they like people like you, people who put their lives on the line in order to help those around them. Also" she leveled her gaze with Dean's, which was pretty impressive considering she barely reached his hip "Had it wanted you dead, you wouldn't have been able to take two steps inside Crime Alley without having a heart attack, or your head magically disappearing"

The two brothers tensed, the taller's eyes rapidly scanning their surroundings, hands fishing out a weird cellular device, probably an EMF reader or maybe a bottle of holy water, as the shorter failed to keep up his confident facade in front of the (probably) ten year old (because Dean isn't going to be spooked by a kid that hasn't even reached the double digits yet, he's 𝘯𝘰𝘵)

The little girl laughed, completely ignoring their - very justified!!! - panic "Relax, would ya? Passion doesn't kill people unless they feel like it's necessary"

They didn't seem to be very relaxed, she didn't care, she just told them to meet her again on the border of Crime Alley and its neighbor city in a week, before leaving.

Two hours later, Carrie Kelley was skipping into the main living room of Wayne Manor, where several of her siblings played video games and with their father reading the newspaper on the side, the perfect illusion of a normal, happy, completely human family.

She walked up to Bruce, sitting on the arm of his sofa as the last of her illusion magic slipped away

"Did you do it?"

"I offered them the deal, still not sure if they'll end up actually agreeing to it"

"Mn. You did well"

The young teen preened under the praise, thanking her father before going off to boast and scheme with the rest of her siblings, they were up planning contingencies and devising plans until Sundown.

[just-some-random-blogger]

He Tells Me

Masterlist

You've fallen into psychological stalemate with a man who does things for you without needing to be asked, and neither of you want to give up the last say.

Joel Miller x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, fluff, overgiver!joel & yn, ellie 'JUST FUCKING KISS ALREADY' williams, typos, etc.

A/N: ive fallen into this song again. ITS SO JOEL CODED

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @multifandom-fangirl4

▶ ♪ Play touch tank by quinnie ♪ ◀

I love you isn't always I and Love and You; it isn't always the words that tumble out of your mouth or the lump that's stuck in your throat.

I love you isn't always a kiss and a hug; it isn't always the way lips brush against skin or chests press against chests.

Sometimes it's good mornings. Good morning, I love you. Did you sleep well, I love you. Have you eaten, I love you.

I love you, I did the dishes.

I love you, I fixed your faulty light.

Hey, let me carry that for you.

This reminded me of you, here.

I think you'd like this.

I love you.

But somehow, those I love yous read to you as you owe mes, and now, you were paying back every bit of your debt with blood, sweet, and a burnt hand.

Ellie opens the door and smiles, immediately calling your name and pulling you into a side hug. You lean into her embrace as much as the steaming casserole in your hand will allow you.

"You made it just in time for dinner!" she says, pushing you in with her.

You chuckle, "oh, Elle-machine. I'm just here to drop this off and-"

"Don't be silly," a voice cuts you off. Joel comes down from the stairs, barely glancing your way as he overtakes you both, heading for the kitchen. Still, you notice his faint smile and a shot of electricity ripples down your spine, a swell of warmth crawls up your ears.

Joel walks off, grunting as he did, "you're staying for dinner. End of story."

Ellie watches you be rendered frozen in your spot. She does not hide her grin, "he just called you silly."

You turn to her, finding the pot in your hand was feeling heavier, "... he did."

You and Ellie make it to the dining table and you set the food you prepared on a table next to the other dishes.

"Wow," you mutter, "roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and a salad," you look up at Joel, who was walking over with another pot. He sets the pot down as you turn to Ellie, "is it your birthday or something?"

"No," Ellie sit down with a smile, "Joel just knows I'm a growing child who needs her food."

You bring a hand to your mouth to hold in your giggles. Joel catches this and furrows his brows.

"Consider me jealous, honey," you tease her.

"Well, you could always move in with us," Ellie props her elbows on the table.

Before you can reply, Joel takes your hand, making both you and Ellie turn to him. Your heart pounds. His expression hardens as he takes in the cloth wrapped around your palms, "what happened to your hand?"

You watch him examine your hand a second too long. Joel looks back at out, ripping a response from your lips, "I- uh- the... the casserole."

Joel raises his brows, "you burnt your hand cooking?"

The worry in his brown eyes ate away at your heart. You clench your jaw, unwilling to admit you were a useless and bad cook, "... no."

Joel thinks back to the contents of the first aid kit in the compound.

"I- I was doing something with the pot and then I-"

"I think Tommy has burn ointment somewhere," Joel trails off, immediately releasing my hand and marching off.

Your stomach drops. You immediately catch his arm, "wait!"

Joel stops in his tracks, looking back at you.

"It's not a big deal!" you say through an airy chuckle, "I put it under running water for a while. I just put a wrap because it hurts when I-"

His hand, warm and gentle, coming atop yours cuts you off. Joel shifts in his spot; your ears perk, as they were sensitive to the sound of his boots. He gives you a look, a kind one, a patient one, a tender one, "it isn't a big deal. I'll be back in two seconds."

The moment Joel walks off, Ellie pipes up, "you should just take a seat. You know you can't argue with him. Well, I mean you can but that normally doesn't end up well." She pats on the empty chair beside her, "want to hear about what I did in school today instead?"

You release a soft breath and smile, "of course, darling."

When Joel came back, he announced there was no burn ointment, but he did find an ice pack. The only problem now, there was no ice. And so as the three of you began to eat, he explained he'd fix the broken ice cream freezer in the warehouse and make ice for you tomorrow. To which you said-

"You really don't have to," you shake your head, suddenly too embarrassed to get anymore food than you already had on your plate. You had one scoop of mashed potatoes.

Joel moves the bowl of mash closer to you then takes off the lid of one pot, "I meant to do it anyway. They found spare parts for it. Now I have a reason," he turns to you, "have some pasta. I made it for you."

Your eyes land on the pot. You begin to feel a nasty little feeling claw up your nape at the thought of Joel going out of his way for you. I mean, you made the casserole to repay him for helping you do your laundry, and if it wasn't bad enough that he saw your underwear, he made you food, one of your favorites. You offer Joel a smile, "thank you, Joel."

He reaches out to your for your plate. You hand it to him wordlessly. He mutters, "you're welcome, sweetheart."

Your lips part. He's never called you that before, only Ellie.

He stills the moment he has your plate in hand, "I- I mean-"

"NAH," Ellie cuts as she rips off a chicken leg, "you called her sweetheart. No take backsies."

Joel clears his throat as he puts pasta on your plate.

When you all finished eating, not a lick was left on your plates. You obviously insisted on washing the dishes and Joel countered you wouldn't be because you were a guest. The back and forth became so insufferable Ellie stepped up and volunteered, insisting instead that Joel walk you back home. You had no means to insist your way out of that.

And so you waited by the front door for Joel to get his jacket from the second floor. When he got it, the two of you headed out, walking quite leisurely.

"You know," you shove your hands in your pockets. You couldn't help it, "my house is literally, like, two steps away from here. You don't have to walk-"

Joel draping his jacket around your shoulders silence you. He pulls the thing by the collar, making sure it was snug on you, "yeah. All the more reason to walk you, since it's so close."

You watch him pull his pants up as he looks around. He offers, "but if it's a challenge you want, we can circle 'round the compound a bit before heading back to yours."

A warmth envelopes you, and it's not because of his jacket.

He turns to you when you don't respond, immediately blurting, "only if you want," he wipes his lips, "I'm not trying to make you do-"

"No, I know," you shake your head, "I know what you mean."

You and Joel look at each other in the quiet while walking. He takes a moment before nodding. He chuckles rather uneasily, "okay... good- that's good."

Seconds pass with just the sound of your footsteps between you.

You decide to say what's on your mind, "Uh," you turn to your feet.

Joel immediately locks his gaze on you.

"Next time," you purse your lips, "just leave the pasta to me."

Joel knits his brows. Damn.

"You know..." you look away, "like, I'm glad you invited me over and all, but you-"

"Was it that bad?"

You finally turn to him, "what?"

"Was my cooking that bad?" Joel feels his insides churn. He feels so stupid suddenly for not following the recipe to a tee. Damn his personal tastes.

You shake your head, "no. No! Your cooking was great! It wasn't bad at all. I enjoyed it. This isn't about your cooking."

He makes a face, "oh..."

You nod, clarifying, "I just- you don't have to do that for me."

He takes a moment to think. Oh... He snorts and rubs his nose, "ah... I see."

You knit your brows at that.

Joel's shoulder's slump. It was him then. Well, he doesn't blame you for not being interested. He releases a breath. It was stupid of him anyway. He thinks of a flimsy excuse to break the tension. It a horrible lie, "sorry, uh, it's just-- Ellie just really wanted to eat with you."

His words make you knit your brows deeper. You blink twice, "Ellie... wanted me to join?"

"Yeah," Joel huffs, "she thinks your great."

You nod slowly.

"But... if you don't want to eat with me, I'll make sure to-"

"Wait, what?"

The both of you stop walking.

Joel feels his insides disintegrate when you look at him the way you do. He looks away and clears his throat. Man up, "I... don't want to make you uncomfortable with any... unwanted advances."

"Wait," you quickly step forward. You rapidly shake your head, "no! I..." you raise your brows, "I just- I don't want to burden you with... with- d-doing things for me."

A deep line forms between Joel's brows, "burden? Who said anything about burdens?"

You look away as you continue to shake your head, "I- I don't know. I just- I don't want to bother you-"

"JUST KISS ALREADY!"

Both of you snap to the side There, from the second floor window, was Ellie, head sticking out of the window. She cups her mouth with her hand and screams again, "KIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS!"

You look away from her. You turn to your feet as you feel your face burn.

Joel's loud voice surprises you, "GO TO BED!"

"I'M NOT 4!" Ellie screams back.

Joel decides to end the screaming match with a grumble, "well, you're damn acting like one." He turns back to you, "sorry about her, she's-"

"I really like you," you blurt when you look back at him, "I really like being around you."

Joel feels his fingers tingle.

Your impulsiveness only now begins to feel like a bad idea, "I-" your voice gets smaller, "it's not unwanted advances... not per se... It's just- when people do things for me, I don't- well, I don't know, I-"

"You can't just accept it?"

You stare at each other for a moment. You nod. Joel nods too.

"I'm usually the one giving, ya know," you say.

Joel nods again, "I do. I feel the same way. I don't like needing to get help from anyone," he crosses his arms, "but, you know, being with Ellie... she's taught me that sometimes-"

"FUCKING KISS HER OLD MAN!"

You can't contain the snort that leaves your mouth. Joel shoots a glare to his side. Still, he breaks into a chuckle, "I'm gonna kill her."

Ellie makes a face and waves her hands, "NO! DON'T LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT- oh my god he actually did it."

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔 ║ ❝𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞❜𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝❞

(A/n) ➳ I love FF7 Rebirth but the lack of Biggs screentime breaks my heart. Anyways, I’m gonna be writing for Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Biggs (Final Fantasy), and the Witcher characters (Games), so you can expect content for them soon.

Word Count ➳ 1.2k

Content Warnings ➳ Heavy swearing, mentions of intercourse, mentions of marriage, criminal records, jealousy..

JUDAS Masterlist

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU!”

You shot out of bed with your blood pumping, hands spread out to put some distance between you and the intruder only to see Lori standing there looking very angry.

You groaned, rubbing your face as you threw yourself back down on your bed. “Jeez Lori!” You grabbed your blanket, to go back to your warmth. “If I needed an alarm I would-”

“What is the matter with you?!” Lori snatched the blankets and threw them off the bed.

You sat back up. “What are you takin’ ‘bout?”

You could see Lori seeth, her face red, eyes wide, her knuckles white. “Shane! That’s what!”

Right… You should’ve expected it.

It has been three complete days since you rejected Shane. You never spared a thought about him since Daryl kept you focused. Not with sex, sometimes but there would be times where you both just hung around.

You didn’t have a heavy heart about Shane, in fact, you nearly forgot about him. If it wasn’t for Lori interrupting your sleep, you would’ve continued on with your life.

Lori stuttered over her words. “W-Who’s shirt is that?” She demanded to know, pointing at the sleeveless gray shirt you wore.

“It’s mine.” You rolled your eyes and got out of bed, walking out of your room.

Lori followed right behind you and into the kitchen. “(Y/n)! Did you really reject Shane? Do you know how much that man loves you? How committed he is to you?”

“Yes!” You spat out. “And I don’t want it! I never did!”

You grabbed the coffee can to make some much needed coffee, placing a new filter and scooping the coffee into it.

“What is wrong with you?” Lori snatched the can right out of your hands, but you remained neutral.

You closed the lip and turned on the machine, hearing the water boil. You wanted to shout again, but you took a deep breath. Your hands clutched the counter tightly, watching the coffee drip into the pot.

“There’s nothin’ wrong.”

“He’s a good man (Y/n)! He would be a good husband and father-!”

“Then why don’t you marry him, Lori?” You shot back. “Cause you used to ogle him back in highschool!”

The shock was clear on her face even if you didn’t face her. You knew by the silence for a couple moments.

“That’s different!”

“Is it now?”

“Look (Y/n), Shane is a good man and he’s good for you. Not that biker guy.”

You froze. You felt your heart drop. “...How did you even get in here?” You tried to recover.

Lori shook her head, grabbing your shoulder to make you face her. “You still have time to fix this. Go and tell Shane that you didn’t know better!”

“I’d be lyin’ to his face and will be lyin’ to him for the rest of his life.” You told her, shrugging off her hands. “How would you feel if Rick lied to you for your entire marriage?”

“You would throw away a perfect man over a stranger?”

“Yes.” You answered without hesitation, looking straight into her eyes. “And I’d do it all over again ‘cause I don’t love him.”

Lori gave you a hard shove, knocking you back into the counter, the edges digging into your back with a sharp pain.

She pointed at you angrily. “You’re gonna regret this and none of us ain’t gonna be there to help you.”

“His name is Daryl, he has a brother named Merle.”

“Which one rides the bike?”

“Daryl! It was so cool! And his jacket!”

It was easy to get Carl to tell him what you told him, even though Carl promised to keep it a secret, the boy did love his comic books and games.

Rick whispered the names as he looked through records of those named Daryl and Merle, it was quite easy. There aren’t many named Daryl and Merle, especially if they share the last name.

He had to pull a couple of strings to get the information but once he was sure which Daryl was, he printed the brothers’ information, intent on showing Shane and you.

Daryl Dixon and Merle Dixon.

There was nothing hard on Daryl but Merle was a different story, it should be enough to convince you to not be involved with a man like Daryl.

And if you stayed, then you’d be stuck with a criminal brother in law.

You allowed Rick to enter your apartment, he could tell it was tense, might’ve because when Rick woke up, Lori was gone. He had everything printed and put into a folder.

But you were in no mood to entertain his opinions of Shane and his disapproval of your choice. “I don’t wanna hear it, Rick.” You snapped, your resentment with Lori was still fresh in your mind. “I’ve had it with all of you.”

Rick held up a hand, trying to calm you down. “I understand that but you gotta see the truth. That guy isn’t who he seems to be.”

You wanted to shatter the mug in your hands. First Lori learning about Daryl and now Rick? “Just-!” You wanted to shout at him as well. “Just… I don’t care, I don’t want to know anythin’. Nothin’ at all.”

But Rick didn’t listen, he tried to push the folder into your hands. “At least look. It might change your mind.”

You had enough. Your patience was gone. You screamed, smacking the folder out of his hands, the papers scattering across the floor.

“Why can’t y’all listen to me?!” You exclaimed. “I’m tired of everyone tellin’ me what’s right for my life!”

With that, you too pushed Rick. you pushed him out the door, ignoring his pleas to listen to him and read the papers. You slammed the door behind him, hands trembling.

You kicked the papers under your couch and marched right back with your room, you were tired. You called in sick for work and decided to order in.

Rick found Shane sitting at his desk, he was in no state to work but he refused to leave, and no sleep was getting to him. Shane had been on edge ever since the fate, and Rick’s finding didn’t do him anything better for him.

“What did she say?” Shane questioned, his gaze not looking up from his reports.

“She… She’s pissed, it seems she had enough of all of us.” He dragged a chair to sit next to him.

Shane’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the pen that he clicked. “Dammit Rick. I told you years ago that she’s always gettin’ with the wrong kind of people. Now look at her now.”

“I-I think it’s best you leave her for a couple more days, she doesn’t look well.”

Shane shook his head. “That fuckin’ redneck is gonna ruin her, none of y’all see it.”

“You say you care but-” But Shane left his desk and stormed to the bathroom. “Well shit.” He cursed under his breath.

Shane would have snapped if he found out Daryl was over your place, fucking your brains out.

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission.

Taglist ➳ @deansapplepie , @ladylincoln , @gamingfeline , @lady06reaper , @alanamarie , @daryldixmedown , @celtic-crossbow , @mrdixon , @itwasntaphasema , @duffmckagansbandana , @raspberryslxt , @itsrainingbisexualfrogs , @ingstadstarlight , @gamingfeline , @lor-geeked , @thegeorgiahuntsman , @snailss , @the-lonely-abyss , @number1bashbabe , @xmaeyonaise , @suniloli , @of-storms-and-sadness , @annhells , @sexyxdylanxobrien , @yoowhatthefuck , @mylifeinthetardisforever , @let-love-bleeds-red , @virginsexgod69 ,

⊰ Chapter 5 ⊰ » » YOU’RE HERE « « ⊰ Chapter 7 ⊰

[cheollipop]

chicken noodle soup

navi | taglist | pt.2

pairing: choi san x gn!reader

w.c.: 2.0k

tags: sick fic, fluff, so much fluff, I warned you

After a whole day without a peep from your boyfriend – someone who couldn't go an hour without talking to you – you make your way to his apartment. Panicked, you walk in, only to find him battling with a cold, hair greasy and dishevelled. Tucking him into bed, you make him soup and nurse him back to health with as many kisses and cuddles needed to see those dimples breaching the soft skin of his cheeks.

A/N: when I finished writing this, I definitely did not scream into a pillow while kicking my feet. and I absolutely was NOT smiling and giggling the whole time I was proofreading it either.

Your keys rattled and chimed in the empty hallway as you unlocked the door with the spare key your boyfriend had given you. You weren’t sure what to expect exactly – was he kidnapped, did someone break in and hurt him? He was a strong man, fully capable of protecting himself, but what if he had been ambushed? You battled these thoughts and begged them out of your mind as you stepped into your boyfriend’s apartment. No blood on the floor. You almost sigh in relief. But also no San in sight.

He often reminded you of a puppy on crack, unable to contain all the energy and excitement rushing through his system. He couldn’t go an hour without texting you – asking about what you were doing, sending you random selfies with his face smushed against the camera, spamming you with pictures of a cat he saw on the street, using anything and everything as an excuse to talk to you. So him going missing for a whole day? It’s definitely a reason to panic.

A door opened to your right – the bathroom. It’s too late to hide. The intruder will take you just like he took San.

A mop of greasy hair peeked out of the doorway; eyes wide as they took in your presence. You finally let out that sigh. San. You moved forward to wrap your arms around him, but he stepped back.

“I’d keep your distance babe, I’m pretty gross.” His voice was hoarse, eyebrows furrowing as he swallowed around his dry throat. You took in his appearance, hair sticking up, left, right, anywhere but down, his eyes bloodshot and teary, nose sniffling. You’d think he was crying if it weren’t for the painful bob of his adam’s apple as he tried to swallow around his inflamed throat.

“Are you sick? San, why didn’t you call me?” You covered his forehead with your palm, heat searing through your skin upon contact.

He sniffed. “It’s just a cold. I didn’t want you to worry.” You almost leaned in and kissed the pout off his lips, but you managed to stop yourself.

“Oh, Sannie.” You noticed the sway of his limbs as he used up the last of his energy to remain upright, taking one of his hands and moving towards his bedroom. “Let’s get you into bed.”

--

You moved the ladle around in the pot, watching the different veggies swim in the simmering broth, overlapping with the noodles and chicken. Your mind was elsewhere, stuck worrying about the man you tucked into bed two hours ago; still sleeping soundly, even with a stuffy nose. You felt silly fretting over a simple cold, but seeing San drained of all the energy he loved sharing with everyone around him was not something you were used to. You heard him cough a few times as you poured the soup into his favourite bowl – Shiba Inu’s decorating the glossy exterior. Placing it on a tray, you peeked your head through his bedroom door, checking on the slumbering man inside.

“Hello,” his gravelly voice greets you.

“Good morning, princess,” you smile, placing the tray on his nightstand, switching on the lamp. The light was bright enough for you not to trip over his mess and die, but dim enough not to hurt his sensitive eyes.

You helped him sit up against his headboard, his head tilted sideways to watch as you pull his gaming chair away from his desk, using it to sit by his bed.

“Have you always been this pretty, or is it the cold doing something to my vision?”

Your cheeks flushed, and your hands fumbled to grab the spoon set next to the bowl, the tray resting evenly over your thighs. The liquid rippled at your movement and San’s lips quirked upwards, dimples dipping into the skin of his cheeks. You scooped some soup into the spoon, blowing softly at the steaming liquid before bringing it to San’s mouth, hand cupped under his chin. He let out a prolonged moan as he swallowed, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly in delight – an exaggeration. He stopped as his headache panged harder against his temple, pressing his fingers against it, eyes scrunched shut.

“Idiot,” you said. A cute idiot, your brain added.

His hand clutched his chest, eyes opening to peer at you. “Is this how you treat a sick man, (Y/n)? I’m hurt.”

“You have a cold. You’re not dying.” You poked his cheek, where his dimple would usually be.

You resisted the urge to kiss his pouty lips yet again, your fingers twitching around the spoon you were holding idly. This task was becoming more and more difficult by the second. You settled on pinching his cheek, fingers slipping to stroke against his jawline. You shared the comfortable silence, gazing into his droopy eyes, tracing lines down his jaw, and circles on the high of his cheek.

Then he sneezed. Everywhere. And again, the second one ripping through his chest in a way that must have hurt.

He babbled apologies as you grabbed the tissue box by his bedside. “Baby, blow your nose.” You stifled a laugh as you watch him do as you said, wiping your own hands with wet wipes you pulled out of his nightstand drawer. You pull another wipe out, reaching over to San’s sulky face, running it over his skin. The wrinkles between his eyebrows smoothed, savouring the cool touch of the wipe across his heated skin. You couldn’t help yourself, leaning in and planting a soft peck against his forehead, and his cheek, then his other one.

“Babe, stop,” he complained, half-heartedly trying to push you away, yet the smile splitting his face betrayed him.

“Stop what?” you pressed your lips to the corner of his, straying down to his chin, his jaw, then back up to his nose, eyelids. Then you started over, back at his forehead.

How could he pretend not to enjoy the softness of your lips against his skin? All he wanted was to pin you down and smother you with his love, and yet he couldn’t get you sick. Even though you got all whiny and needy, clinging onto him and nuzzling into his chest, claiming he was warmer than all your blankets combined. He did contemplate it, for a few seconds maybe, but ultimately decided against it. And yet, he would never deny the love you gave him.

“You know, I heard mouth-to-mouth helps get rid of colds reaaal quick.” The corners of his mouth tilted upwards, staring up at you through hooded eyes, drunk on kisses.

“Oh, really?” You couldn’t help but smile, endeared by this sudden change in attitude. He leaned closer to your face, lips puckering.

You shoved a spoonful of soup in his mouth, laughing as his eyes went wide, trying his best to swallow the liquid without choking.

“Ya! What was that for?”

“Keep your cold to yourself, Choi San,” you narrowed your eyes at him, eventually giving in and letting the smile you’d been hiding back stretch your mouth. You swear he will be the reason you’d get premature wrinkles in your smile line.

You fed him the rest of the warm liquid in silence. San’s head rested against the wooden headboard, eyes trained on you, not even looking at the spoon as you pushed it towards him. He trusted you wouldn’t let it spill on him. Besides, your face was too distracting – the way the tip of your tongue breached the corner of your lips in concentration, how your eyebrows furrowed and you’d mutter his name o’ so softly whenever San would get too absorbed in watching you to open his mouth, when your eyes lit up after he swallowed the last of the soup you had made for him. Everything about you was distracting, from the way your fingers softly worked to clean his mouth with a napkin, to the smile stretching your face, the corners of your eyes crinkling.

“You’re so beautiful,” he blurted out.

You were taken aback, eyebrows raising in surprise at the sudden statement. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and the butterflies battled within your stomach.

“Is this the cold speaking?”

“No. It’s me,” his face remained neutral, eyes focused on you. “You’re the most beautiful person I have ever had the honour of laying my eyes on, inside and out. You always will be; I don’t think a person more beautiful than you will ever exist.”

Your lips parted, then closed, then opened again. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? That whenever you were with him, he flooded your senses with joy, happiness, comfort? That his face alone could light up your whole world, and you felt like you could weather any storm so long as he remained by your side? And when he spoke so softly to you, throwing the sweetest phrases at you like it were nothing, you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside by the voilent fluttering of butterflies in your stomach?

Love is you, was all you could think in that moment.

Before you could think of a response, a shiver ran through his body, his limbs shaking with the force of it. You stood up, tray in your hands. “I’ll grab some more blankets for you.” He took a hold of your wrist before you could move to the door.

“Don’t go. I’m okay.”

You hesitate.

“Just cuddle with me.”

You finally realized the power Choi San held over you as you carded your fingers through his matted locks. His face nuzzled against your collarbone, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Limbs tangled up under the thick comforter, you eased yourself down onto the pillow under your head, fingers scratching against San’s scalp. He hummed, soft puffs of air warming your skin. You felt him plant soft kisses along your neck, smiling against the column of your throat.

“Are you feeling better, Sannie?”

“Mm, my head still feels funny.”

You smiled, placing a kiss against the crown of his head, resting your lips there for a couple seconds before pulling back.

“Much better,” he purred, planting a peck of his own onto the nearest patch of skin to his lips.

You giggled, fingers continuing their ministrations against his scalp. The both of you laid there, bodies a tangled mess, breathing the same air, empty bowl of soup forgotten on the nightstand.

Soon, San’s grip around your waist would ease, his breathing growing even, body slumping against yours. You would lay there, marveling in the soft snores vibrating through the quiet room. He would deny this with his very being the next morning, but you’ll play along, keeping the voice notes you secretly recorded to yourself – perhaps sharing them with Wooyoung later on. Because just as adorable San was when he was sulky, you couldn’t help but try to keep him smiling. You would do anything to keep those dimples on show, every second of every day, for as long as he would allow you to remain by his side.

Soon, you’d sense your own drowsiness tugging at your eyelids until they fell shut. Your fingers would gradually cease their movements, stilling against his head, trapped between the soft strands. You’d nestle your face against San’s, unbothered by the germs that would soon sneak their way into your system. He’d take care of you if you ended up catching his cold, you were sure of it. Because just as much of an idiot San was, he never failed to make you feel safe, cared for, loved.

You surrendered yourself to the grip of sleep, San’s warm skin sending bolts of heat coursing through your body. Slipping into a comfortable slumber, your dreams – as usual – revolved around the man you were so helplessly infatuated with.

pt.2

apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

Hello there! I absolutely loved the Fellswap bros headcannons!Thankkiess so much!

How about headcannons for the murder trio (poly) w/ a reader who is really pure-hearted but is hemophobic (has fear of blood), like reader faints at the sight of small amount of blood. How's the skeles gonna react to that?

Short answer, they freak out and killer thinks you died- long answer, *gives you headcannos*

Featuring: Ted, Dust and Killer.

Masterlist

Impressive, such a pure person dating three of the most wanted murders of the multiverse...what led you to this darling?

It didn't really take much time for these three to realize you have a severe ear of blood. Especially when they tend to get very messy.

Ted and Killer freak out the moment you fall to the ground, Dust tries to calm them down while also freaking internally.

When you finally wake up, Killer's rolled up like a croissant on your lap, Ted's arms wrapped around your waist, both sleeping while Dust's next to you, looking into your eyes, observing your every move.

"....you're okay carinõ? You fainted earlier..."

And that's how they discovered you are hemophobic-

Killer immediately spits out a "Why the fuck didn't you warn us sonner!?" "Maybe because you usually pass by Nightmare's castle before coming here, so I thought it wouldn't be important." "Of course it's important!! I thought you were dead when you fainted!"

Ted's just relieved your okay, and that you didn't faint because of lack of food, he doesn't want to be like he was long ago.

After that they make sure to pass by Nightmare's castle everytime to clean themselves up before coming home, they don't want to faint again, especially because of them.

Ted's always next to you in the kitchen, not only because he likes to both cook and you, also because he wants to stay far away from Dust's and Killer's discussions.

"Now we.... Just need the.... Pasta..."

Ted says, the sound of boiling water fills the room as your hands grab the pasta from the cabinet, pouring it on the pot and covering it with the lid.

"Do you hear something dear?"

"...No.. must be... Your imagination.."

Of course he did hear, but he's with you to escape it, not to face it, Ted simply does not have the patience to handle those two idiots fighting because of stupid reasons.

"CABRON ERA MI CHAQUETA FAVORITA!"

"Hehehe! Not my fault Dusty~"

Bones are thrown in Killer's direction, who simply throws knives in return.

He knows they're gonna be at it until dinner's ready, so why bother? Enjoy his company and ignore those two, good thing skeletons can't bleed, right?

[elaemae]

The premium version of human is here to wreck house, mfs.

[Twst x Obey Me!AFAB!reader]

CHP. 6

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: PROLOGUE 5

I get really happy every time one of you guys like, reblog, or comment on my chapters, Thanks guys :3

CW: ANYTIME that MC is referred with male address or pronouns it's going to be color blue. There's also a shit-ton of cursing here.

You can feel your blood pressure ascending into the Celestial Realm (faster than a newly deceased good person) as this Azul Asheng-something mf drags you into his oh-so-fancy "Monstro Lounge" while you're just peacefully trying to fuck off from his dorm.

You were unfortunately curious enough to go poke your head into the mirrors leading to the dorms to see what they've got and use it as inspiration, but then this greasy-ass bitch sadly spotted you and literally hounded you to go in.

You would've socked him in the face for a second time but it turns out that he's a pretty important figure in this school.

You don't really wanna get in trouble for doing that.

(You may be able to do it to Crowley but you don't know if this attempted-bangle-thief has influential parents or something.. Crowley meanwhile, acts pretty parent-less for you.)

You are keeping an eye on him though.

If he tries any bullshit then he's getting his ass kicked.

Social hierarchy be damned.

You didn't rein in 10 demons, 3 angels, The greatest sorcerer in all of humanity and The literal fuckin grim reaper, (who're all constantly dragging you onto bullshit as either an accomplice or the baby-sitter) just for some dude in an Emo-friendly-cut-my-life-into-pieces college to best you.

• • • •

Jade did a double-take.

"..."

He blinked.

Azul is sending him SOS signals by blinking morse code at him.

Jade rubbed his eyes for a few seconds.

"..."

Nope, still the same.

Azul: *Blinking for help intensifies*

...Pft–

He bit his lip to stop his laughter from escaping.

Who would've thought that he'll see a day where his precious housewarden is having his face passive-aggresively squished and kneaded by a new student? And also, probably getting himself threatened based on the eerie smile on the students' face.

Azul should be grateful that floyd isn't here, lest he'll have two people on his hands that are more than happy to squish him around. He should be grateful there isn't anyone else around, really.. Lest the reputation he took so long to build crumbles.

Oh he can just imagine it at the top of his head.. The poor octo-mer will probably combust from embarrassment and maybe even go find himself an octo-pot that he can shimmy himself into.. oh how he misses those days...

(Elae: I'm just imagining baby Azul shimmying into a lil pot.. Ugh, so adorable I'm getting cute aggression.)

He does eventually step in to stop the student from treating Azul's face like a squishy piece of dough He took a couple of pictures ofc. he ain't an amateur, but not before almost getting his own face fall victim to the new students' hands.

• • • •

"You try this shit again and see what happens." You smiled at him as you squished his face.

He's still holding onto your wrists but he seems to have given up from escaping your passive-aggresive face massage. Instead, he seems to have settled in blinking so fast he can almost fly with his eyelashes.

This bitch really had the audacity to try and get you to sell your jewelry to him in exchange for a room in his frankly unimpressive dorm. (You have more than a dozen rich and powerful simps. A dorm in a college ain't gonna be enough to impress you anymore.)

"— I know that you must not have any money to pay but maybe we can compromise, it's gonna be hard for you and your friend (Yuu) to keep staying in the infirmary after all.."

"We can manage—"

"And my benevolence will not allow me to let some poor unfortunate souls be without accommodations... So what if, for a week of stay each, you give me your jewelry in retur—"

You got so pissed at the audacity that you almost strangled him but changed your tactic into a hateful squeezing the last second. (You can't be reported for physically violent behavior rn.)

He speaks as if the entirety of this college and its dorms can actually be worth even a single piece of the ring in your left hand.

But seriously? 15,000 madols (that's the price Azul told you) for one night of stay?? If you're gonna be paying that much money for a single room, then that room better solve all your problems, fulfill your greatest ambitions and then suck your imaginary dick afterwards.

Your annoyed musings were cut off when a hand tries to remove your grip from Azul's face.

You absent-mindedly reach your other hand, trying to deliver another kneading to a new victim.

• • • • •

Azul covers his face with his hand, embarrassed of how the situation played out.

It doesn't help that Floyd is cackling like a deranged maniac at him right now.

Thank goodness they're in his office.

"Can you stOp?!"

Poor bbg was so embarrassed his voice cracked :<

Hmph.

Jokes on you, even if he got embarrassed today he still got closer to your jewelry.

And now, he can 100% confirm that those ornaments aren't just for decorations.

The strong magic from your rings that were pressed against his face confirmed it.

Those things are definitely custom-made magical artifacts of the highest caliber.

Now.. How to get them...

• • • • •

You stopped walking, feeling someone's gaze on you.

Looking around discreetly, you didn't see anyone but you can still feel the eyes on your form.

Yeah no.

You continue on, ignoring the feeling of being watched, but not going to dark places or spots where you'll be all alone.

Time to check in on Yuu and their unwilling gang of window cleaners.

See if they're done already.

The sun is starting to go down, after all.

• • • • •

Mc... We're going to come find you.

Don't worry..

Please stay safe..

Please don't forget that we love you more than anything else in existence..

0u® |!gHt įN tH€ d@RkN€§$

← Pr. 5 | Chapter List | Pr. 7 →

EDIT: WTF WHY DID THIS CHAPTER GET POSTED?! I SAVED IT IN THE GODDAMN DRAFTS THIS AIN'T SUPPOSED TO BE DONE YET WHAT THE HELL?!

Oh welp, ain't nothing I can do about it now..

Thanks for reading this far, readers☺️

Reblog or I'll bite ya ankles😈

@f0uerleafedcl0ver

@leviathans-tail-scales

@a-traveling-void-human

@xingyunny

@caprinaesprout (should I put you in the permanent tag list for this series?)

Tagging isn't working for some reason so I can't tag some of y'all. The usernames I tagged just fuckin disappearing.

Tumblr is messing with me rn.

You wanna throw hands, Tumblr??