#I SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD ITS TOO LATE FOR ME | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vaaaaaiolet · 3 months ago

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Six years have gone by since 1998. Two since the death of your first (and only) love. So when the dead come knocking at your door after your life went to hell without warning, you have a tough time welcoming him back in. In Leon's defense, his hands were tied. You? You'd put your life almost unforgivably on hold after he blindsided you.

Maybe the only way to get you to listen is to tie yours.

STRICTLY MDNI!! f / m make-up sex after a reunion gone sour. ANGST GALORE. established relationship but it's Messy, plot spans pre-re2r to re4r, character study (scar tour!!), Foreplay: The Movie, good bdsm etiquette...leon doms PLS STAY WITH ME. light bondage + blindfold, The Chair™️, munch MARATHON, emotions (read: LEON) keep edging you before an extremely self-indulgent dicking down. consensual unsafe sex, PRAISE, lil bit of mean ft. leon's possessive streak + morning after <3

a/n: anon req gone wildly wrong. welcome back to ovulation week with vivi, THE MOST UNORIGINAL BITCH ON THE PLANET 😭 i read a fic about getting tied to a chair and discovered something about myself. now i’m convinced daydreaming about bondage w/ leon is how i passed finals. oops. pray i survive second sem y'all🧍

word count: 6.3k 🤡 // read on ao3

“The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.” - Blaise Pascal

Like any good breakup scene, it starts with rain.

A torrential downpour. Poseidon’s wrath lashing down the panes of your living room windows. The terrific sound of it is only drowned out by the hum of your TV set, the one source of light in this dark room and you, a moth to flame, circle it, afraid of getting too close lest you burn.

The President’s on tonight. His daughter’s back safe and sound, having been spirited away to Spain. The press release is overjoyed to report that one indomitable man brought her back in a matter of days. President Graham declares it with a triumphant fist: an American hero stands in front of us tonight, and the crowd erupts in cheers for the First Daughter’s savior, but honest to God, you couldn’t give a shit about his heroics.

Not when Leon’s right there. Suited and tied.

Or as close to living, breathing Leon as you could hope to get.

You inch closer to the screen when the camera pans over a face you haven’t seen properly in six years.

Sandy hair two shades darker, baby fat bereft on now-chiseled cheeks. It’s easy to pick apart the pixels of the man’s profile when he’s staring at the audience. Heart knocking against your ribs, you can’t help reaching out and tracing the angle of his jaw, this uncelebrated member of the President’s security entourage on national television who’s unknowingly subbing in for your once-boyfriend. Long-term, long-distance lover, if you wanted to flatter yourself.

It doesn’t matter now. It’s getting late and dreaming should be done in bed. You reach for the remote to turn the prerecorded program off, and the rain starts falling – no, knocking – exceptionally harder against your front door. Urgently, like it wants in.

And then the rain calls out your name.

The floorboards creak under your feet when you go to investigate through the peephole. A powder blue eye stares back.

“Who is it?” you call out, voice shriller than you’d like.

“Open the door, please? I’ll explain inside. It’s freezing out here.”

“I don’t let strangers in, sorry. Who are you?”

The rain answers in a familiar timbre that sends shivers down your spine. “Trust me, just this once.”

The doorknob clatters in surprise at the twist of your wrist, and swings open to reveal the man from your TV set, now escaped and peering at you through dewy lashes the pixels had hidden. Your eyes flit across his features: it’s the very same jawline, black suit identical to the one on your screen. Exactly the man your brain had tried hushing your heart from recognizing.

Your hold on the doorknob trembles.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Leon offers you a ghost of a smile as the storm pelts down his shoulders. “May I come in?”

“You watch the news a lot?” he ventures after a few minutes.

“Huh?”

Once the initial shock of Leon’s appearance subsides, something acrid settles in your bones. The silence between you two stretches like taffy waiting to be pulled. It sticks in your throat without much coming out to abate it. What else can you do when the dead rejoin the world of the living?

Make light conversation. You can do that.

“Leon, I thought you died.” Or not.

He shoots you a half-grin. “I wouldn’t die on you just like that, you know.”

“You practically did,” you retort, voice going thick.

You find old habits hard to break. It’s nothing new. You’re perched on the armrest of your couch, a familiar penchant Leon had smiled at when he shut the front door behind him. His habit of shaking his hair dry like a puppy also hadn’t gone away, much to the traitorous delight of your heart. You’d almost giggled when he accidentally sprayed you with rainwater doing it.

Now, you’re watching him fold his suit jacket over one of your kitchen chairs with his back turned to you, an odd bulge in its left pocket threatening to send the whole thing crashing to the floor at any moment. Other secrets hang in the air like ghosts. Leon’s tie sits drying on top of your radiator. You think you should tell him to peel off his soaked dress shirt, he might catch a cold otherwise, but are you allowed to say that anymore?

Worse still, why do you want to?

“I saw you on the news. That’s why,” you reply a beat too late. “You told me in your last letter that you were going to work for the government. Something to do with the President, and ever since then I…I turn it on when something big happens.”

Leon stops fiddling with his jacket, turning to you with wide eyes. “That was-”

“Two years ago?” You swallow. “I know.”

The letters sit burning holes in a box under your bed, all stamped and postmarked with no return address since 1998. The last day you’d seen him alive and breathing.

Leon was the boy you’d hold hands with under desks in high school, a high school sweetheart as textbook as they come. You’d ditched prom to wish on shooting stars in the back of his first car, let him be the first to slip off your spaghetti straps when kissing grew too chaste to convey the giddiness in your chest.

Puppy love turned into something perennial. Real. He’d carried moving boxes up the stairs of your first apartment, and you right after. You’d watched him rise through the ranks of the Academy. Cheered front row at his graduation, let him spin you in your highest heels right in front of your parents. Blushed when he’d squeeze your hand tighter walking past the jeweler’s at the mall.

And you’d soaked Leon’s chest with tears before he rushed off to Raccoon City that September night so long ago, steely resolve in his eyes and a promise on his lips to come right back after doing his sworn duty.

Leon never returned. His letters did, though.

Envelopes from seemingly nowhere – blacked out epistolary updates you’d read on your bathroom floor that grew briefer as weeks spiraled into months.

What you could piece together from what wasn’t censored under an increasingly watchful eye was that Leon was under a government contract, fighting tooth and nail in some kind of training program that couldn’t have been any run-of-the-mill police kind. Something he had as little agency over as the frequency of his letters, he’d promised you. He was going to come home one day. Just one more month of training, one more mission, one last test.

Leon was furious in his final message when he found out about the deal with the White House. The censor didn’t go through as much as it should have; you’d never been more grateful for the oversight as you tilted the page to read his scribbles in the margins.

Then came a terrifying radio silence.

You waited each month afterwards for the postman to stop by your mailbox. Waded through a snowstorm in January to make sure the post office had your new address when you moved in 2003, practically begged the lady at the counter to check if they’d mixed up your letters with anyone else’s in the meantime. Nothing.

“Two years, Leon,” you grit out, digging your nails into the leather of your couch. The tail end of his name takes on an ugly shape in your mouth when you rise to your feet, “I waited two years not knowing if you were alive or not.”

No one had answers to his disappearance except for the one you’d endured ever since he left: move on.

The way he holds his tongue now, too, sets sparks alight in your throat. “And you want to know what happened to me since then?”

“Tell me,” Leon says softly.

Your voice falters.

A dead man walking would take the breath out of you in any case, but it does even more so now that Leon looks larger than life – no longer an afterimage on TV and coming over to where you stand. Even with his shirt sleeves plastered to them from the rain, Leon’s arms look used to heavy duty; there’s a broadness in his shoulders he didn’t have out of the Academy.

His mouth pinches when he stops a tentative foot away from you. “Tell me,” he repeats, frowning at your averted gaze.

He’s waiting for you to speak. So close you could touch him, blood pumping through his veins just like you’d once prayed for until your breath ran out.

And it pisses you off.

He doesn’t get to have it this easy.

“No.”

Confusion colors his exclamation. “No?”

“No.” You smile bitterly at the ground when he backs off an inch, raising your chin to look him in the eyes as your own start to sting. “You don’t get to be the good guy. You don’t get to come barrelling back into my life, how’d you know I live here anyway…”

“I found out as soon as I could, you don’t think I’ve been worried sick about you-”

“Not after you cut me off!”

“It’s not that simple!”

Two years. 730 days. Your throat so hoarse from crying the night before that you’d called off work some mornings.

“You know what I think, Leon? I bet you thought I’d wait on you forever.”

He blinks fast, taken aback. “I wouldn’t- I couldn’t do that to you.”

“So you’d have come back even if I didn’t?”

Didn’t. A flicker of something soft crosses his face. “Really?”

With your heart beating out of your chest, you cross your arms and spit out a haughty, “Of course not.”

Leon stares.

The resulting silence stretches half a minute.

It’s a tepid standoff at first, made worse by you searching his person up and down. You wrack your brain for his old tells: a jumping muscle in his jaw, a furrow of his brow. Angry, pink cheeks accompanied by a crestfallen pout.

Nothing. He’s dead silent.

So you double down.

“My friends told me to settle down, said it wasn’t safe living alone,” you sniff, rocking on the balls of your feet. “So unless you-mmf!”

Lips, crashing onto yours. Burning warm. Two seconds of affection before a tongue flicks brashly over the seam of your stunned mouth. Your brain in overdrive. Leon no longer a foot away but pressed so fiercely against you that your camisole starts going see-through from the water still saturating his shirt.

Your hands feebly come up to his chest, not to push him off like you should, but to cling to his collar. Old habit.

Fuck.

“You’ve gotten mean, sweetheart,” Leon grins razor sharp, whispering into the corner of your mouth. “It’s a good look on you.”

“I’m not…” God, he’s kissing the sense out of your head. Your lungs suck in his breaths like a failed attempt to go cold turkey.

“Sure you are, lying to me like that. Watching the news just in case I’m there.”

Rough hands dig under your thighs. Hoist you up like you’re made of feathers.

“Only your shoes on the shoe rack. Heels I bought you.”

Your feet dangle in the air, your head’s not used to the drop in air pressure this high. You’re being lifted – where?

“You think I’m that dense, baby?”

The sound of wooden scraping scratches your ears as you register one of your kitchen chairs being dragged to the middle of the living room. You’re plopped unceremoniously down.

And with your vision swimming, you notice Leon finally taking off his shirt. Unbuttoning it with fervor, throwing the fabric onto the floor so hard there’s a wet thwack!, and suddenly, he’s knelt at your feet, looking up at you with teeth chattering from the chill and a blizzard brewing in his eyes.

The raging storm outside nearly quiets for him to tell you, “We’re gonna do it this way.”

A cocktail of resentment and curiosity churns in your stomach. You stare daggers at the ceiling. Leon snatches his tie off the radiator and wraps it around his hand, checking if it’s dry by now.

It is. Good.

“Since you don’t want to look at me so badly,” he hisses, “you won’t need to look at me at all.” He unfurls the tie and lays it flat against his palm. “This is going over your eyes so I can actually get something inside your head. And you’re going to feel everything I say, okay?”

“I feel cold. You got my shirt wet,” you spit back.

“Then take it off,” Leon says smoothly.

How rude. Utterly uncouth.

You’ve never flung off an article of clothing faster. You’ve got nothing to hide, you’re fucking better than to play meek to his games. Your bra barely hides how your nipples pebble in the frigid air, and Leon sucks in a breath at the sight. You’re wearing blue lace. His favorite.

His tone softens a fraction of a degree when he instructs, “You say ‘stop’ and it’s over. Tell me you understand.”

“I do.”

The silk wraps gentler around your eyes than you expect. The living room disappears into velvet, and your fingers twitch, itching to fly at your face and investigate the cause of this new pitch black.

“Hands down. I need them more than you do.”

Leon’s voice ripples in the darkness. Oh God. That must be why people do this sort of thing.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, almost in awe.

Fuckfuckfuck. He wasn’t supposed to tell this early.

“...a little.”

Your hand gets lifted into the air, your index and middle fingers separated from the rest. Leon touches their tips to the hollow in the middle of his collarbone, and right here, you feel the flutter of life. Wingbeats matching the race of your own heart.

So is he.

There’s movement, butterfly wings brushing against your cheek when he reaches up to press a kiss there. Your fingers fall away from the base of his throat and land on a raised patch just below his right shoulder. It’s…almost star-shaped. Rough.

“You have a scar here,” you breathe. “How’d you-”

“Bullet wound, 1998. I want you to keep going.”

You could’ve dug your nails into it. Scratched off one more reminder of the day Leon left you in the dark. His tie leaves you blind, but you don’t need sight to feel the trust Leon still has in you as he invites your fingertips to his chest. You go gentle into the good night with his voice to guide you.

“Knife scar,” he whispers. Soft, like how you trace over the mark.

Your fingertips shake over his ribs.

“Burns from saving a little girl. She had eyes like yours.”

The trek is arduous, nonlinear. The same injuries show up again and again, scattered across his body like fireworks. You think you’re fine, using one hand for the job and clutching the other to your heart so it won’t break, and then you slip, grab onto his shoulders for support, and your palms fall over the flat of his back.

Two symmetrical gashes spread across his shoulder blades – Icarus’ wings singed off.

“I’ve tried saving a lot over the years, sweetheart,” Leon goes quiet, a new grief clogging his flow of explanation. “Thought I could have it all at first, you and this job. I wrote you less, told myself you’d already moved on, but you’re right, I…I wanted to keep you.” You discover tears sound thick when he laughs. “I’ve lost so fucking much these six years and I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to lose you too.”

“The kids in high school,” trembles your own voice, “they said I’d run away with you, but you ended up running from me.”

“When you’re all I have left?” Leon brings your palm to his cheek. “How could I?”

“But you did!” you sob, banging weak fists against his chest.

You remember the pity, the snide judgment. Declining invites and frustrating friends when you’d flake on blind dates set up to get you out of the house. Switching excuses every time somebody back home called and inevitably asked, So when are you and Leon going to visit? Warring against logic (of course he’s fucking dead) and the arrested development of your heart as you rolled dice on his return. Four years in a stupor of when, two of what now?

Spending all that time at odds with yourself and the world turned you into a real tough kid. A callous bitch. Eventually, you forced yourself to explore your options like a grown woman should. Tried your hand at anything legal to forget the sinking feeling in your chest. Had a phase where you’d wake up in a stranger’s bed only to go home and collapse, rereading Leon’s letters in the cardboard box under your own. If it was steel that marked his back like this, yours is streaked with flint.

And that’s exactly what you tell him.

Immediately, his shoulders straighten. “So you’ve gone on a few dates.”

If he wanted to be polite about it, yes.

“Did they fuck you as good as I did?”

You splutter. A cold zephyr breezes over your breasts when Leon exhales. There’s a rattle of metal – his belt, you register faintly – and your eyes squeeze shut behind your blindfold when he rises from his kneel, leaving the space between your thighs empty.

“That is one hell of a greeting after six years, sweetheart.” His chuckle is dark, delightful. “Hands behind your back.”

“You’re not fucking arresting me right now, Leon, I don’t know what you’re playing at,” you squeak when he loops leather over your wrists. Annoyingly, they fit perfectly in his palm. “Have you lost your mind? You- I still can’t see!”

Leon’s hold goes still. “Is that a stop?”

You huff indignantly.

He shakes your wrists. “I don’t mess with that shit. Do you want me to stop?”

“…no.”

“Good. Comfortable?”

Embarrassingly enough, the back of your kitchen chair isn’t half bad to have your arms around. Giving your newly bound hands a wriggle, you answer Leon with a quick nod, and he presses his lips to the back of your head in confirmation. He circles back between your thighs, a vulture in the dark. Your knees shove open courtesy of two calloused palms.

“Lift your hips,” is your next instruction. And then, “These are coming off.”

Your bottoms slide off in a fleeting caress down your legs. A cushion pushes between the surprised arch of your back and the chair’s straight one, leaving your bare, trembling- oh God.

Oh God. He’s-

“You’re going to hold perfectly still and let me say hello to my favorite girl, sweetheart. Poor thing hasn’t gotten any attention since I’ve been spoiling you with all my talking.”

A kiss falls onto your clit. Your hips jerk up – oh shit!

Leon seizes the opportunity to lick into your entrance before further coherent thought can form in your brain.

He must’ve planned it, counting on your brainless reflexes to push your hips further into his scorching mouth. You get points for being brave, though: swallowing screams, pretending your thighs aren’t fighting to clamp around his head, attempting an escape to your happy place when really, this is it – this painstakingly sweet suction on your nerves.

He pops off with a wet smack! magnified by your blindfold. Slurs, “Missed this pussy so fuckin’ much,” dives back to trace figure eights around your clit with the tip of his tongue.

You pretend the icy air is curling your toes for ego’s sake. Try and stave off morbid curiosity. “You…didn’t see anyone? All this time – hah!”

“Do you have any idea,” suck, “how many times I’ve come into my hand thinking of you?”

Your heavy head falls back with a wail.

“How many times I’ve fucked my fist to your name?”

“Leon!”

He pulls away at your keening cry, deaf to any begging to come back. “You just never know what’s good for you, baby. You don’t listen to your friends, you let me tie you up like this, fuck yourself on my face…”

There’s rustling, and your living room bursts with color as a sharp tug untwists the knot of Leon's tie behind your head. You enter the world in tears all over again.

“Pleasepleaseplease, I was so close-”

And when the darkness subsides, you’re free to lay eyes on the perpetrator.

Leon.

Leon with his hair mussed to high heaven, pushed to his forehead by the greedy grind of your hips. Ocean eyes surveying you over a mouth flushed red with cheeks to match. A fallen angel at your feet, working his sinful tongue inside his mouth as he breathes.

Blood thumps through your veins. Your chest heaves. The chair is sticky, uncomfortable; entirely your fault. Your hands writhe behind your back as you struggle to sit up properly against the pillow and salvage some of your pride.

Leon’s gaze fixes on the floor. “I didn’t. Didn’t have time, didn’t want to. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat swelling with thorns, and he groans like you kicked him in the ribs.

He rises to his knees as you slump; reaches behind the chair to unbuckle your restraints, shaking his head. “Yeah, I should be. I put you through hell for six years. I came back from Spain expecting to introduce myself to your fiancé or something, you know? Should’ve brought flowers at least.”

A hot tear slides down your cheek.

It was Leon. On the news. The President’s daughter, the rescue.

The hero.

This is how you welcome a hero home?

Spying your arms wilted at your sides, Leon takes the opportunity to press his mouth to the plush of your inner thigh. This time, it’s a warming salve when he kisses into your skin, unlatching only to move an inch and repeat, sucking roses the shape of his mouth onto the softest parts of you.

He rasps into your slick flesh, “Just let me have this, and I promise I’ll go.”

And he noses his way back into your folds, quickly giving up on flowery notions to feast like a man starved. You’re lulled to sleep by the lap of his tongue before he starts working it with the prowess of a Swiss knife, soothing and scalding in turns as it digs into your now oversensitive cunt. The scrape of his 5 o’clock shadow on your inner thigh makes for a maddening mix.

It all sends you crumpling over his head with a cry.

His hungry hand pays no mind, scrambling under the lace of your bra to knead at your tender breast, thumbing at your nipple. You pay back the favor, fisting chunks of his hair as your arousal drips down his chin, and Leon’s thanks arrive in the form of guttural whines you’d forgotten you could wrench from him.

So goes Leon’s last meal. You’d be enjoying it too if your brain hadn’t finally caught onto what came out of his mouth before he turned it into a decoy.

I’ll go.

Good luck fighting the itch to interrupt.

You yank hard, and he moans complaint through a mouthful of pussy. “It’s not gonna work,” he gasps when you wrench his face from between your thighs, demanding explanation.

“So you’re just going to walk out on me again?” you snap through a haze of tears. “What about what I want?”

“You want this?”

Leon shoves your hands deeper still, wincing when he purposely digs your nails into his scalp.

“Pull. Make it hurt,” he swallows, voice cracking. “Tell me to get the hell out. Tell me you hate me for breaking your heart. Find someone who’s in your life enough to love you right, and let me set you free, sweetheart, please. I can’t take it.”

By all means, you should take his offer.

Pull out every damn strand of hair on his head. Give him a taste of his own medicine. Go on for God’s sake. What happened to drinking yourself to half to death, trying to water down the fear that Leon beat you to its doorstep?

Think about never having to wake up to the cold side of your bed again. Don’t think about how perfectly Leon’s cheek cradles into your thigh. How he lets you map the moles on his neck when you have trouble falling asleep.

Finally having a shoulder to cry on, someone who sweeps you off your feet, inside jokes that confuse everyone but you two. Forget how Leon won your heart as a teenager doing exactly that.

Getting called pet names that make you blush in front of your friends: baby, angel, darling, sweetheart. Don’t you dare imagine each one rolling off Leon’s tongue the first time he crowned you with them.

Do not, above all circumstances, remember that wrapped in your arms right now is the boy who, after saving the President’s daughter all by himself, ran back to you within hours of his return. Who’d waited for you in his own way.

Your hands drop to cup his cheeks. Wetness makes your thumbs slip when you brush them across — the rain had to have dried off long ago. And with eyes misting shut, you thread your fingers as tenderly as you can through Leon’s hair, and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re really doing this?” Leon’s whisper wavers a decibel above hope.

Hotel citrus stings your nose, and you wonder how long it’ll take to replace it with the scent of your shampoo.

You’ve missed this. Missed him.

“The clearance I have after this mission, it’s insane,” he’s twenty-one again at the touch of your lips, gushing in disbelief over his badge coming in the mail with you at the kitchen table, “I-I couldn’t believe I got them to let me go right after the press release. Alone! I can’t be home all the time but it won’t be like before, I can actually come back, and if you want me to-”

But unfortunately, the relentless throb between your legs forces you to school your expression into anything except elated at the unfolding prospects.

“Leon.”

His grin flashes white. “Yeah?”

“If you came back just to eat me out, I’ll kick you out for real.”

It must be fun, you gripe, thinking straight without soft breaths fanning embers between your legs like a sadistic bellows for the past ten minutes; ruining your cushion beyond hope of wash or repair.

Leon lets out a barking laugh, head thrown back, and aghast, you bat at his chest.

“Mean really is a good look on you. You don’t want to talk details?” he teases, pulling you in for a kiss that tastes like desire – like you.

“Not when you’re- you know-” you splutter, antsy.

“Oh, come on. Say it.”

“You used to be nice to me!”

Sadly for you, you’ve kissed him giddy, and giddy turns him cocky real fast.

“I’ll give you whatever you want if you tell me, angel. Four words.” He grins, tucking a hand between your thighs to interrupt your squirming and raising the other to count, “‘Leon. Please…’”

“Fuck me already!” you cry, and it’s three, but he sweeps you up in a blur of limbs anyway.

Bra strap falling off your shoulder. His mouth sealing onto yours. Pussy sobbing for attention over the crotch of his dress slacks. Leon groaning at the feeling of you soaking through fabric covering a held-off arousal so hard there’s no way it doesn’t hurt. His endurance training had come in handy, it seems.

There’s a blind fumbling in the dim light as he grits out a “Gladly,” and stumbles out of your living room in a mad rush, sacrificing his shoulder to several walls for the sake of kissing you breathless.

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking like Bambi. You sure you can make it?”

“Leon Scott Kennedy, if you don’t take me to bed right this second…”

“And here I was trying to be nice. Bedroom?”

“On the right,” you pant, clawing his mouth back onto yours again.

He follows through, no reconnaissance training needed to find the door you direct him towards with your foot. Either the heat’s better here, or it’s every cell in your body buzzing with anticipation when he flicks the nearest lamp to life. You pull him onto the bed with you, silk sheets caressing your bare skin as you scooch to make space for Leon to crawl up and over you.

The sharp rasp of a fly zipping undone cuts through the air. He hisses in frustration, patting his pockets. “Shit, I don’t have a-”

“Condom?”

“Yeah. You still keep them in your nightstand?”

You worry your bottom lip. “Not for a while, I haven’t, um, done anything in a bit, but I’m on the pill and I’m clean.” Please, please, don’t let this be a dealbreaker. “Is…that okay?”

“Holy shit.” Leon whooshes out a breath, grinning as he leans back on his knees. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

It’s a go. Your stomach swoops with rollercoaster adrenaline.

He balls up his slacks, kicks off his sodden boxers (your chest puffs with pride as he tosses it to the floor), and parts your trembling legs painstakingly slow in comparison. Sharp eyes rove over the love bites littering your thighs, admiring his handiwork. You bite the inside of your cheek, devil on your shoulder itching you to tease, and let your hands skitter across over the juncture of your thighs where Leon’s focus lingers.

“Spread yourself for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You do. Let your fingers dip into your arousal, gasp at the cold air kissing your folds when you bloom for him. Roses all over your thighs when you’re his prettiest one. He leans down and kisses the bud at your center, sending the most pleasant electric tingle running up your spine.

“You promised,” you whine, craning your neck to see his face framed between your thighs again. “Need you inside. Please.”

For once, Leon indulges you, but not without himself too.

“Turn over for me. Oh, I know,” he coos at your pout and the upset buck of your hips, “give me a chance, angel. I’ve been dreaming of this for years. Planned out every fucking detail.”

You flip over with a huff. One broad palm lifts your pelvis into the air, easy as anything, and the other slips a pillow between your thighs, making sure the plump cotton nestles right up against your swollen clit. You give your hips a tentative grind and promptly gasp at the shot of pleasure. Friction at your command, leaving Leon free to run wild.

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Good?”

“Mhm...”

You face the headboard, stomach to the sheets and blood roaring in your ears. Blind again to what he has in store for you. Slick pumps sound from behind – Leon finally planning to make good on his word – and the head of his cock nudges at your weeping entrance, teasing the now-fraying nerves lining your slit, so close to where you need him that your breath audibly catches.

He waits. Pulls your strings taut –

Hisses, “I’m gonna fuck out every memory of anyone you’ve been with while I was gone.”

– and cuts them loose.

Your scream ricochets off the walls when he plunges in.

It shouldn’t be pretty. There’s nothing pretty about the haze of green that clouded Leon’s vision for a selfish second while yours was at his mercy not long ago. Your one-night stands translated to competition in his head. He’s only a man. But there’s something undeniably pretty about the divine arch of your back that has him spellbound when your cunt swallows him to the root in a single go, suffocatingly sweet.

“Goddamn, you’re tight!”

Leon’s fingers sink into the fat of your hips as he fights for balance. You’ve got a mattress to claw; he’s only as stable as his pride. He lets you catch your breath after the first thrust, has your addled brain waxing poetic when you swear you feel his dick throb in time with his heartbeat inside you.

It doesn’t help that he’s got a mouth on him. “Pussy sucking me in like she doesn’t want me to leave,” he gasps when you clench.

Your fingers curl proudly into your bedsheets.

It’s a game of push and pull from here. Leon’s hips drag back, and with all the agony of too many nights with his right hand and your name for company, he starts carving into the meat of your ass.

You make a strangled noise, and eventually improve to, “Oh, ohmy- ohmygod!”

He can’t keep his hands off you. They span your lower back, cup your breasts in turns, explore the drenched underside of the pillow you rut against in time with his thrusts. You’re handled with just enough precision to keep you speared on his dick, all so Leon can watch, gobsmacked, how your drooling pussy opens up for him. In-out, in-out. A scene out of his wet dreams.

Your cries syncopate with the slam of his thighs against yours, an embarrassing, pornstar-worthy, “Ah-ah, ah-ah!” that you’d have more shame over if you weren’t busy getting the brains fucked out of you.

Leon realizes the beauty of the present tense with each inch of his length you coat in your arousal over and over again.

“Look so pretty taking me like this, my perfect girl, doing so fucking good, look at you…”

The pressure building in your stomach rears its head. Threatens to push you over.

“I missed you so much,” you sob into the sheets, “so fucking much, I can’t, I don’t know how to- oh!”

“Won’t leave you ever again,” Leon pants, tilting your chin so he can see your pretty face. “Never- oh my God, you’re close, aren’t you?”

Call it intuition, instinct. If you were close before, Leon’s fingers rushing to your clit cement your theory; he’s never been wrong about it, even as a rookie.

Your hands scramble to claw at the back of his neck.

“Fuck, you are!” he exclaims.

Home stretch. Leon’s hips threaten to stutter, so he sinks his teeth in your shoulder in a desperate bid to keep them steady.

For you, the pain of it is primal, flavored with a need for connection that has you groping blindly to lace his fingers through yours. Instinct all over again.

For Leon, it’s how you kept him going all this time; you’ll keep him grounded now. He’s not going to last otherwise.

You listen, face planted to the bed. Wait for the last thread to snap, for Leon’s gasp at the final flutter of your cunt around him. Your orgasm doesn’t come in a babbling, sputtering, break of the sound barrier, no – it comes as a gentle push.

A trust fall off the edge with Leon right behind.

You see bright light. Nothing of the abyss you plunged into when he left. There’s a jerk behind your navel, and pleasure starts curling upwards from your stomach like the licking of a comfortable fire. Your ears pop from the ecstasy flowing through your veins and it’s almost as if you can hear its crackling embers right here, right now as Leon fits so perfectly inside you.

In and out. In and out. In-out, in-out. You breathe, and he breaks.

He spills into you warmer than sunshine. Molten gold, filling your cracks like kintsugi. The air admits, “I love you”, having trouble telling apart which of you said it first.

He’s got a week on his hands. A week of wonders stretches in front of you, seven whole days to figure out how this new arrangement will work.

“It’s as much as they’d let me call off on such short notice, but we’ll take it from there,” Leon murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

He’s back in your arms where he belongs. Morning peeks through your blinds with the sun’s face washed clean from last night’s rainstorm, and if you open your window right about now, you could say hello to all the flowers blooming in celebration.

You can get to that later. You’ve got more pressing matters on your hands, like taking headcount of the constellation of moles dotting Leon’s chest and introducing yourself to the new ones. You have a feeling you’ll learn them by heart real soon.

“We can figure it out together,” you hum, content with your head propped against the headboard.

An exhilaratingly real concept.

“Together.” Leon breathes lightly. “Yeah.”

“And you know, I think that’s more than enough time to buy me real flowers.”

He chokes back a not-so-subtle cough. “You’re still hung up on that?”

“If you want to make up for how I’ll have to wear pants and turtlenecks to work for the next week, yes,” you poke into his chest, fighting the smile tugging at your lips.

“But you hate flowers! You say they always die on you!”

“No girl actually hates flowers, Leon!”

“At least I didn’t show up empty-handed. Give me a sec, sweetheart, I almost forgot.”

Leon pecks your forehead, slipping out of bed to pad to the living room. He comes back, having fetched his now dry suit jacket with the curious bulge still threatening to spill out of its left pocket, and hands it to you like a cat would a dead bird at your doorstep.

You give the creased clothing an unimpressed stare.

“Look in the pocket,” he insists, climbing back under the comforter.

You pull out a half-melted pack of Ferrero Rocher.

“Okay, well, they weren’t supposed to do that and I think I left them by the radiator…”

He’s lucky they taste just as delicious melted. You’ll have to give him a lesson in gifting before the holidays roll around because he’ll be here to celebrate them for the first time in six years – a thought sweeter than the chocolate-flavored kisses you peck onto his cheek.

And in between the shining candy wrappers and Leon’s blond hair tickling your neck when he presses you into the bed again, this time, you think everything gold might just stay.

fun (and spicy) fact about chocolate, and psst, find more of my work here!

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated, they keep fics from dying out <3 take care and i love you!

divider by @/adornedwithlight

#📮 delivery #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #ao3 fanfic #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fanfiction #vaaaaaiolet #ns/ft #re4r leon #resident evil fanfiction #₊˚🪻kilby girl irl event #fic: safe when i fall

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rosierin · 13 days ago

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some things never change │ suna rintarou

synopsis; the twins & suna decide to watch a horror movie, much to (y/n)'s disdain. later that night, when the darkness stares back at her, she's unable to sleep and asks to stay in her childhood friend's room—suna.

a/n; hi guys!!! thanks so much for the support you've been giving me lately! im starting to recognise some of my regular likers & reposters hehe, y'all are sick <33

this fic is only a short one, but i feel like i've been focusing a lot on atsumu lately, even osamu's got his own story but I haven't given suna any attention whatttt

so anyway here ya go hehe, a lil fic focusing on (y/n) and suna's relationship

also!! this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

She shouldn’t have watched that horror movie.

She didn’t even like them in the first place. Whether it was a mere thriller, downright gory, or whatever lay in between, (y/n) avoided them like the plague.

But on a random Saturday night, when boredom seeped into the apartment like a wet blanket, someone (Atsumu) decided it’d be a good idea to liven things up by putting on Rings.

Now—allegedly—this movie wasn’t actually scary. That’s what Suna had said, anyway.

“It’s corny. Barely makes it as a horror film, to be honest. More like a bad comedy.”

Bullshit.

There was absolutely nothing corny, let alone comedic, about an undead lady possessing old VHS tapes and crawling out of TVs to MURDER someone.

Didn’t matter what the twins or Suna thought.

It was terrifying.

And now—in the dead of night, when everything was silent—it was even worse.

The room was pitch black, save for the tiny red dot on her television, staring back at her like the sight of a sniper.

(Y/n) glared at it, unblinking, unwilling to look away.

Because if—God forbid—it turned blue on its own, that meant the TV had somehow switched on.

That meant she was coming.

That meant (y/n) was done for.

Her heartbeat thumped against her ribs, heavy and panicked.

Then—

Creak.

A floorboard groaned against the stillness of the room, nearly sending (y/n) into a full-blown panic attack.

Nope. Nope.

Enough was enough.

She tossed the covers aside and bolted.

Her feet barely touched the floor as she sprinted into the hallway, the cool air hitting her like a slap.

She stopped there, pressing a hand over her racing heart, trying to collect herself.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Her pulse slowly settled, but her pride took a hit. Because realistically, was she being dramatic?

Absolutely.

But could she be blamed?

Not even a little.

From a safe distance, she cautiously peered back into her bedroom—half-expecting to see Sadako standing in the corner, her long, raven hair hanging lifelessly over her face.

Instead—darkness.

Eerie. Looming. Suffocating.

A shiver crawled up her spine.

Nope.

She was not going back in there.

The twins were most likely asleep. No way was she waking Atsumu up—he’d never let her live it down. And she felt too guilty waking up poor Osamu.

That left only one option.

Suna.

He was the only one who would still be awake. And the only one who wouldn’t judge her too hard.

Well— that was debatable.

Regardless, she turned toward his room—the floor suddenly feeling way too open, way too exposed.

She scurried up the stairs to his loft.

And then, standing outside his door, she hesitated.

Would he think she was being ridiculous?

Would he even let her in?

She inhaled. Then—knock, knock.

A long pause.

Then, finally, a sleepy, unimpressed voice from inside:

“This better be a life-or-death situation.”

(Y/n) pressed her lips together, second guessing her choices.

“Rin— it’s me.”

Soft footfalls came from the other side, then it opened, revealing a very tired, very unamused Suna.

She should have known he wouldn’t be so sympathetic.

She barely had the chance to shuffle inside before he hit her with that unimpressed, half-lidded stare, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe, blocking the way in.

"To what do I owe the pleasure..."

His low, sarcastic drawl, paired with the slight twitch of his eyebrow made (y/n) shift uncomfortably.

Despite knowing each other for so long, growing up side by side, she had never grown immune to those eyes of his— always tired, always unreadable, but never oblivious.

He held her gaze in silent question, only to huff out a laugh when (y/n) picked absently at a loose thread on her sleeve, blatantly ignoring him.

“Lemme guess," he droned. "You can’t sleep after watching that movie, can you?"

(Y/n) sighed, accepting her fate.

Of course he knew.

“Yes,” she admitted plainly. She knew there was no point in lying—Suna could read her like a book. Knowing him, he probably saw this coming before she did.

“Can I sleep in your room?”

A smirk tugged at his lips, lazy and taunting. “What are you, ten?”

A pout.

An eye roll.

Then, after a dramatic sigh, Suna stepped aside. “Fine. Get in.”

(Y/n) wasted no time, practically diving into Suna’s bed before he could change his mind. She refused to spend another second alone in her room, haunted by the thought of someone crawling out of her TV.

She tugged the blankets up to her chin, peeking at Suna as he climbed back into bed beside her, moving like he’d been seconds from sleep before she knocked. His hair was slightly tousled, his expression drowsy as he got comfortable.

Then, as soon as the room settled into silence—

Creeeeak.

(Y/n) flinched so hard she nearly jumped out of bed.

Her breath hitched. “Did you hear that?”

Suna didn’t even look up from his phone. “No.”

(Y/n) swallowed, fingers clutching the blanket. “…It came from your closet.”

A slow blink.

Then, finally, Suna dragged his gaze toward her. “Don’t tell me—“

“Can you go check?”

A stare.

A beat of silence.

“Please?”

“You seriously want me to go look inside my closet?”

(Y/n) nodded, eyes wide and pleading.

Resigned, Suna let out a long, suffering sigh. “You’re a handful, you know that?”

He threw off the covers and stood up, trudging over to the closet with the enthusiasm of a man being sent to war. Normally, she would’ve bit back, tossed a jab right back at him—but right now, she couldn’t even register his teasing. Her focus was locked entirely on the closet, her pulse ticking anxiously in her throat as she braced for whatever unspeakable horror lurked inside.

She held her breath.

Suna grabbed the handle.

Opened the door.

Stared into the darkness.

Then—his body suddenly jolted back, his face twisting in alarm.

(Y/n) nearly screamed.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her soul halfway to the afterlife—

And then, completely deadpan, Suna turned back around.

“Just kidding.”

Silence hung in the air. The tense kind.

Then, (y/n) launched a pillow straight at his head.

Suna snickered, catching it effortlessly before crawling back into bed. “You make this too easy.”

(Y/n) groaned, pulling the covers over her head, sinking into the plush mattress. “You suck. That was so mean.”

“You’re welcome.”

She rolled her eyes at his sass, peeking from the duvet. “I should’ve gone to Osamu’s room instead.”

Suna hummed, lazily scrolling through Instagram reels with slow flicks of his thumb. “You say that, but you never do.” His eyes remained on the screen, the faint glow casting shadows across his face, but the amused lilt in his voice told her he was fully aware of her reaction.

(Y/n) frowned slightly, opening her mouth to respond—but then, something about his words lingered.

Because… he was right.

She always ended up here.

Even as kids, she had always ended up with him.

(Y/n) shifted slightly, glancing over her shoulder. “…We used to do this all the time, huh?”

Suna exhaled, his expression softening into something quieter— softer. “Yeah.”

Suna’s quiet confirmation sent a wave of warmth through (y/n)’s chest, a feeling like stepping into sunlight after a long winter. The memories came flooding in—hazy, golden snapshots of childhood stitched together by laughter and secrets whispered in the dark. She could almost smell the summer air, thick with the scent of freshly mowed grass and the faint smokiness of a dying bonfire clinging to her clothes. Could almost feel the heat of a cup of hot chocolate warming her palms, the crinkle of sleeping bags shifting beneath them as they huddled close in the dim glow of a flashlight. They had stayed up for hours, making up stories, daring each other to peek outside into the dark, until exhaustion finally won. The memory was so vivid, so innocent that she couldn’t help but smile, her heart swelling with a bittersweet kind of warmth—the kind that only came with remembering something you could never quite return to.

“Remember that one time we slept in your backyard in a tent?” (Y/n) asked, her voice light with nostalgia.

Suna didn’t answer right away. She watched as he lowered his phone onto the nightstand, screen dimming to black. For a moment, his face was illuminated only by the moonlight pouring through the window, his expression almost pensive. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm resting lazily over his stomach, the other tucked beneath his head. Then, a small huff of laughter escaped him, almost like the memory had tugged it out against his will.

“Yeah,” he murmured, stretching one arm out into the darkness, fingers splaying lazily before curling back in. His hand hovered there for a second, as if feeling the weight of the air, then flopped onto his chest. “You got scared of an owl and made me go inside with you.”

(Y/n) gasped, scandalized. “That’s not how it happened!”

She sat up a little, but Suna only chuckled, slow and amused. His other hand drifted absently over his bedsheets, fingertips tracing the fabric in lazy patterns. His lips twitched, but he didn’t correct himself.

“Go on, then. Tell me what happened,” he drawled, eyes glinting faintly in the dark.

(Y/n) propped herself up on her elbows, clicking her tongue. “First of all, the owl was fine. The real problem was a certain someone telling me stories about a serial killer who targets campers.”

Suna let out a quiet noise of vague acknowledgement, tilting his head back against the pillow. “Hm. I don’t recall.”

(Y/n) scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “You specifically said he only goes for ‘the one who falls asleep last,’ so then I felt so stressed to the point I wasn’t even tired anymore.”

At that, the corner of his lips twitched, like he was trying—and failing—not to laugh. “That does sound like something I’d say.”

(Y/n) huffed, flopping onto her back again. “You’re such a bully, honestly.”

“Did I not wait until you fell asleep first, though?”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but the gesture lacked any real annoyance. A coy smile crept onto her lips, the hush of an old memory settling over her. “I guess you did.”

“There you go.” He stretched an arm over his head, voice laced with smugness. “And yet I hear no ‘thank you, Rin. You’re the best.’”

“It was literally years ago.”

“And yet here you are, still asking to sleep in my bed.”

(Y/n) turned her head just in time to catch the flicker of satisfaction on his face, the way he barely concealed his smirk in the dim light. She squinted her eyes at him, reaching over to shove his arm, but he barely reacted—just let it happen, too used to her antics to be fazed.

Then the conversation faded, the teasing melting into quiet. The air shifted into something softer, something more intimate. Because really, it didn’t feel like much had changed at all.

They were older now, sure. But they still ended up here, side by side, whispering into the quiet.

(Y/n) exhaled, letting her gaze drift over the ceiling. “Feels like we never really grew up.”

Suna hummed lowly, shifting just a little. His hand twitched like he might reach for something but thought better of it. “Nope.”

Silence settled between them, rich with lingering memories of the past. If (y/n) closed her eyes, she could almost hear it—the sharp, carefree laughter echoing off sun-warmed pavement, the rhythmic splashing of pool water as they tried to dunk each other under, the rustling of grass beneath their backs as they gazed up at the clouds, pointing out shapes only they could see.

Things were different now. They didn’t spend summers chasing each other through sprinklers or racing bikes until the streetlights flickered on. Now, their time together looked a little different—late-night drives with the windows down, sitting in parking lots sharing fast food, trading woes about the weight of adulthood over the rim of coffee cups. Deadlines, expectations, the quiet pressure of figuring out who they were supposed to be. Their conversations had shifted from debating which anime protagonist was the coolest to venting about work, school, and the creeping realization that growing up wasn’t as exciting as they once thought. But beneath it all, they were still the same kids who never ran out of things to talk about, the same unshakable duo who could sit in silence and still feel understood. Some things had changed, but their friendship never had.

The thought made her pleasantly sleepy, wrapping around her like a worn-in sweater. Maybe it was the weight of nostalgia, or just the way comfort made habit so easy to slip back into, but (y/n) shifted closer without much thought, hooking an arm around Suna's torso like it was second nature. Nothing dramatic. Nothing to overthink. Just something she always did—or rather, used to do.

Suna huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing down at her with a rare kind of fondness. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”

(Y/n) only hummed, unbothered, her grin never wavering. “Maybe. But I don’t see you pushing me away.”

He didn’t. Instead, he smiled, shaking his head in quiet amusement as she nestled into the fabric of his oversized t-shirt. His body was warm—solid, safe, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat a tune she was long accustomed to.

Without a word, Suna reached over, resting an arm over her waist like it was the easiest thing in the world.

(Y/n) let out a slow breath, her body finally unclenching from the tension that stupid horror movie had left behind.

And for the first time that night, she felt safe.

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marstons-angel · 1 year ago

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WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ;

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur.

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun.

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him.

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate.

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy.

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures.

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember.

Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him.

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain.

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down.

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something.

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while.

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately.

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you.

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish.

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting.

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit.

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs.

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,”

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,”

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,”

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.”

You giggle back at him

“What kinda trouble is that now?”

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice.

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.”

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly.

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn.

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted.

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it.

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily.

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show.

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp.

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms.

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine.

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that.

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.)

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did.

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it. It was just all too easy again, to be with you.

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family.

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see. Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street.

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy. John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you.

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you.

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision.

You might turn him into a literate man yet.

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life.

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself.

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck.

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?”

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you.

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,”

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat.

“John,”

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.”

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,”

“A foolish one,”

John laughs.

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving.

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get. He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently.

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.)

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters.

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living.

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is) loyal to Dutch. To the gang.

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after.

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long.

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time. He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about.

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around.

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen. If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing.

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.)

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit.

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would.

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d never find again.

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves.

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too.

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you.

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him.

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him. You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,”

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease. All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides. You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space.

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words.

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.”

Darling as you always are, you nod softly.

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ;

Wandering.

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on.

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly.

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains.

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few.

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it.

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list.

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are.

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him.

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some.

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you. And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything.

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not.

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss.

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars.

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze.

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks.

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?”

“Well, I’m not fine with it.”

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?”

“Please, what?”

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.”

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s good to hear.”

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto.

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head.

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,”

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires.

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you.

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed.

“Kiss?”

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella x reader #charles smith x reader #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THE LAST FUCKING TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!#outlaws love letters

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daryltwdixon · 28 days ago

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Part 1 | Part 2 | masterlist

"Are you scared, little bunny?" Summary: You didn’t mean to be here. You didn’t mean to see this. The motel door had already been cracked open, a splintered frame, a hint of something wrong curling in the air. You should have turned around, left, pretended you never saw the blood on his knuckles, the way it was painted across his throat. But then he looked at you. Slow, unfazed. Like you walking in on his carnage was nothing at all. You didn’t know why your breath shuddered. You didn’t know why your fingers itched to touch. And you sure as hell didn’t know why you didn’t run. || DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT 🕊️ horror, Dark!Daryl Dixon, blood and implied violence, no walkers, motel room encounters, morally gray reader, predator/prey vibes, dubious situations and dubious consent (the reader whole heartedly consents they're just trying to reason with themselves that this is a terrible idea), serialkiller!Daryl, reader walks in on something she shouldn’t, fear-turned-arousal, misattribution of arousal, thanatos / death drive theory. || a/n: thank you so so so so much to my friend @dixonsdarkelf for beta reading & giving me the boost I needed to post this! Inspired by these gifsets x x

The drive home always dragged.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, fingers tightening on the wheel as the road stretched endlessly ahead. This wasn’t how the weekend was supposed to go. You were supposed to stay with your family for two more days—grit your teeth through the small talk, sit through the passive-aggressive questions about your job, your life, your choices. Smile. Nod. Pretend. But instead, you were barely a few hours in before it all fell apart.

Dinner had started fine. It always did. But then one question turned into a pointed remark, then into something sharper, something meaner. The same fight, just recycled into different words, but this time, you weren’t in the mood to swallow it down. This time, you pushed back. Voices rose, tempers flared, and before you knew it, you were grabbing your keys, shoving out the door, leaving behind the half-eaten meal and whatever thin thread was still holding the conversation together.

Now you were here—alone on the highway, miles of darkness stretching in every direction, headlights carving a path forward.

Traffic jams bled into one another, each red taillight blurring into the next, the clock on your dash creeping past midnight. Eventually, the further you went, the emptier the roads became, until it was just you and the long-haul truckers, their rigs groaning under the weight of whatever cargo they hauled through the night.

Your eyelids grew heavier, dipping lower with every mile. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, but exhaustion clung to you, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t just the late hour—it was the crash after the adrenaline of the fight, the weight of too many words you couldn’t take back pressing down on you.

You told yourself you’d be fine. Just another two hours to go.

Then a deafening horn shattered the quiet, and before you even realized what was happening, your tires veered across the lane. You gasped, jerking the wheel hard, the car lurching as you barely corrected in time. The highway was nearly empty, but that didn't matter—your heart was pounding, hands clammy where they gripped the steering wheel, the sudden shock of how easily that could’ve ended differently locking your breath in your throat. That was it, you knew you needed to stop, needed to pull off and find a place to get some rest before hitting the road again in the morning.

You took the next exit, into a town that was barely a town at all, just a forgotten smear of civilization on the side of the highway. The streets were empty, the buildings slumped and decayed, as if the place had given up on itself long ago. A gas station, a diner with its ‘Open 24 Hours’ sign flickering in and out of life, and a squat little motel, its vacancy sign buzzing weakly in the dark.

Pulling into the parking lot, your headlights washed over cracked pavement and weeds pushing up through the concrete. Only a few cars were parked outside, most of them old and rusted, as if they’d been sitting there for far longer than a single night’s stay. The only light came from the neon sign overhead and the sickly yellow glow spilling from the front office window, casting shadows that felt too long, too stretched.

You swallowed, gripping the steering wheel. Something about this place felt…off. Not in an obvious way—no shattered windows, no ominous figures lurking in doorways—but in a way that made your skin crawl. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting. These were the kind of motels in movies where you’d scream at the protagonist: Keep driving, idiot! Find someplace else!

But there was nowhere else, and you couldn’t risk driving another hour to find the next rest stop.

It wasn’t ideal. Hell, it was probably a breeding ground for bed bugs, or worse–the kind of place where people checked in but didn’t always check out. But the thought of curling up in your car for the night, stiff and vulnerable in an empty parking lot, wasn’t much better.

All you had to do was get the key, lock the door, and make it through till morning. You’d toss your clothes the second you got home, scrub this place off your skin like it never touched you.

It was fine. It would be fine.

The fluorescent lights in the front office buzzed overhead, their hum just a little too loud in the unnatural silence. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of something overly sweet—like someone had tried to cover up years of cigarettes and mildew with cheap air freshener.

A small bell sat on the counter. You hesitated, then tapped it once, the chime ringing out sharp and hollow.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the feeling of being watched crawling up the back of your neck despite the room being empty. Just as you were about to hit the bell again, a figure shuffled out from the back.

It was a woman, older, her expression carved from stone. Stringy hair pulled back into a loose bun, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers, her nails yellowed from years of nicotine.

“What can I do for ya?” she drawled, exhaling a long stream of smoke. It curled thick in the air, stale and cloying. You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, ignoring the burn in your throat.

“One room, please. Just for the night.”

She tapped at the ashtray on the counter, knocking the embers loose without looking. Her gaze stayed on you, too steady, too knowing, as if she was peeling you apart one layer at a time.

“You travelin’ alone, honey?”

Your spine straightened.

“No,” you said a little too quickly. “My dad’s waiting in the truck.”

She hummed, dragging another long inhale from her cigarette as her beady eyes stayed on you. Like she could tell it was a lie, no matter how sure you tried to sound.

“So, two beds?”

“Just the one is fine,” you said, tightening your fingers around your bag strap “We’ll manage.”

"Cash or card?" she asked, watching, peeling away whatever confidence you tried to have.

"Card," you murmured, fishing it out with stiff fingers.

She slid it through an ancient-looking reader, her other hand tapping the desk with the long, deliberate patience of someone who had nowhere to be. Her name tag was smeared, almost unreadable, and the glass of the front desk window was covered in a film of grime.

She handed the card back, then a single brass key, its tag worn soft with age.

“Room one eighty,” she said, sliding it forward. “End of the lot.”

You took it quickly, fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The woman leaned back, taking another drag, her lips curling around the cigarette. “You let me know if y’all need anything, alright?”

You forced a nod, but something about her stare made your skin prickle. You turned toward the door, gripping the key so tight it pressed sharply into your palm.

Outside, the air felt too thick, like the humidity had climbed in the last few minutes, settling heavily on your skin.

Then, you felt it again.

That thick, crawling awareness pricking at the back of your neck. That quiet, animal instinct that told you someone was watching. You turned your head before you could stop yourself.

Across the parking lot, just beyond the neon glow of the motel sign, a man stood under a broken street light. At first, he was nothing more than a dark shape, half-obscured by the flickering light, his face hidden in the deep hollows of shadow.

He was just… standing there. Watching.

You didn’t recognize him, and he was too far away to make out anything but his built form, the broadness of his shoulders. But there was something in the way he stood, still as stone, his body angled just slightly toward you, his gaze locked and unblinking.

The look in his eyes, dark and unreadable even from a distance, sent a shiver licking down your spine.

You turned quickly, your nerves on fire. But as you made your way down the long stretches of rooms on the outer perimeter, the railing overlooking the parking lot, you began to hear signs of life. The sounds seeped through the walls, slipping under doors and filling the narrow stretch of concrete. A bass line thrummed from somewhere nearby, muffled by thin walls as it seemed to pound with the rhythm of your heartbeat. Somewhere farther down, men shouted, their voices rising and falling, drunken or angry or both. Laughter burst out, sharp and sudden, followed by the distant clatter of something knocking against a table or a wall.

When you turned around and looked back across the parking lot, the man was suddenly gone.

TVs droned from multiple rooms, the glow of static flickering through slatted blinds. Someone had left theirs too loud, a newscaster rehashing old stories like it wasn’t the middle of the night. A couple was arguing behind one of the doors you passed, their voices biting and loud, words slamming into each other with no space to breathe. Something crashed—glass, maybe, or a chair knocking over—and you picked up your pace without realizing it.

Anywhere else, maybe it would have felt normal. Just people awake too late, passing the time, waiting for morning. Here, it only set your teeth on edge. Something about it felt wrong.

The fact that so many people were still awake at this hour made the muscles in your back pull tight. You weren’t alone here. But that didn’t mean you weren’t isolated.

Then, a heavy thump.

It came from the room to your right, sudden and jarring, loud enough to shake the thin wall between you. Your breath caught as you flinched back, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was movement, the slow creak of weight shifting, but nothing else followed. No voices, no explanation. Just silence settling too quickly, like whatever had happened had stopped the second you reacted to it.

Your feet moved faster, a reflex more than anything, carrying you down the walkway before you could think too hard about it. The numbers on the doors passed in a blur—178, 179, and finally, 180—your fingers tightening around the key as your room finally came into view.

You fumbled once, just once, hands suddenly damp, but the second the lock turned, you pushed inside, slamming the door behind you.

The second it shut, you turned the lock.

The noises outside dulled, voices and music muffled the moment you closed the door and slumped your back against it, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a half-marathon instead of walking across a motel lot. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping at nothing, your pulse a frantic beat against your ribs.

You dragged in a breath, trying to slow the restless thrum in your veins. Just get through the next few hours, get some rest, and then you’d get the hell out of Dodge.

It was fine. It would be fine.

Except, sleep didn’t exactly come easy. You tossed and turned on top of the stiff bedspread, every shift of fabric loud in the silence, ears straining for any sudden sound beyond the walls. A door shutting, footsteps outside, voices carrying just enough to make you wonder if someone was too close to your room.

After what felt like forever, you gave up, flipping on the TV just to drown out the rest. The low murmur of late-night programming filled the room, casting weak blue light over the cracked ceiling, but it didn’t do much to settle you. You weren’t sure anything would.

The one thing you couldn’t ignore in favor of sleep, though, was the slow, gnawing ache of your stomach.

You should’ve stayed for the rest of dinner. Sat through the tense conversation, swallowed the words you wanted to throw back at them, and picked at your plate even if you had no appetite. At least then you wouldn’t be thinking about stepping outside again, not in the dead of night, not in the seediest motel you could’ve possibly stumbled across.

But the longer you lay there, the worse the hunger got.

Every motel had a vending machine, didn’t they?

You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face, already hating where this was going.

You just had to be quick. In and out. Then you’d lock yourself in and actually try to sleep.

You knew it was wishful thinking to assume the vending machine would be easy to find. It was never that simple. You circled the building twice, passing the same cracked pavement, the same rusted-out cars, the same rooms with their curtains drawn too tight.

By the time you finally stumbled across the middle hallway, the glow of a single overhead light barely illuminating the space, you were already regretting this. The vending machine sat in the corner, humming under the flickering fluorescents, the metal frame dented, the glass fogged with fingerprints.

Your fingers hovered over the rows of snacks, barely able to focus on the choices, your body still on edge from the walk over. The motel felt alive, like every sound behind every door was something you weren’t supposed to hear.

The machine hummed under flickering light, the buttons worn down to the plastic. You fed it a couple of crumpled bills and tapped at one, then another, and waited. A loud mechanical churn. Then—nothing.

Great.

You smacked the side of it. Nothing again. Your stomach twisted painfully, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since you’d last eaten. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, and turned to leave.

And that’s when you noticed it.

A door, cracked open at the very end of the hall.

The frame was splintered, like it had been forced open.

Something in your gut tensed.

You should walk away. Right now. Get back to your room, lock the door, and pretend you never saw anything. But something about it—about the stillness of it, the way the dim glow of a bedside lamp barely reached the threshold—made your feet stall.

Someone could be hurt. Or worse.

You swallowed hard, pulse in your throat as you crept closer, every instinct screaming at you that this was a bad idea. The air shifted the closer you got, thick with something you couldn’t name, something wrong.

And now that you were standing at the threshold, staring at the cracks in the doorframe, splintered from some kind of forced entry, your eyes drifted lower. Something dark and sticky was splattered on the ledge of the door, thick streaks leading onto the carpet inside.

Your heart stopped altogether. It was no longer rattling in your chest from fear, but fully frozen, skipping and halting as if trying to jumpstart itself while you stared into the dimly lit room.

At first, it was just shapes—shadows swallowing each other, the motel’s tiny lamp and the flickering TV casting everything into uneven light—warm and dark one second, sharp and cold the next. As your mind caught up to your eyes, it sharpened, the darkness peeling away, and you finally realized what you were looking at.

On the queen-sized bed in the center of the room, the bedspread was untouched, barely rumpled, except for the body laying perfectly still atop it.

Like someone had laid them there on purpose.

A mess of red had soaked deep into the fabric, fresh enough that the air was thick with it. The copper scent was overwhelming, clinging to the back of your throat, so metallic and sharp you could almost taste it. There was so much blood. More than you had ever seen in one place. Too much for it to be okay, too much for it to mean anything other than the obvious. You should have turned around. You should have stopped looking. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything except stand there, heart frozen in your chest, as your brain worked double time, locking onto every detail like it needed to catalog the carnage in order to make sense of it. The body was positioned too neatly, arms at its sides, legs straight, head turned away just enough that it felt unnatural—like whoever had done this hadn’t just been brutal, but deliberate.

Your stomach clenched. The smell invaded your nose again, worse now, thick and nauseating, making something cold claw its way up your spine. You stumbled back a step, your hand flying to clamp around your mouth before you could decide whether you were about to scream or be sick. You needed to move. You needed to leave. You needed to call someone, do something, but your limbs refused to cooperate, locking up as if freezing in place would somehow make this all disappear. Your body was waiting for direction, for instinct to kick in, but it never did.

Then, the bathroom door on the other side of the room swung open, spilling yellow light into the dim space as a man stepped out.

At first, it was the fluffy pink robe that threw you off, a ridiculous contrast against the raw violence laid out before you. Your brain latched onto it, desperate for anything that made sense, anything that didn’t belong to the nightmare in front of you. But then your eyes dragged upward, and you saw it—the blood.

It was everywhere. Splattered across his throat, smeared up his neck, drying in dark, uneven streaks along his collarbone. His hand was coated in it, the thick, dried red cracked over his knuckles, like he hadn’t bothered to wash it off. Like he hadn’t cared enough to try.

Panic reared its head, shoving its way into your chest, squeezing your lungs tighter than before. It was one thing to stumble across a body, to witness a crime. It was another to look into the eyes of the man who had done it. Your body understood before your mind did—the liquid fire of adrenaline flooding through your veins, your muscles locking up in place, every nerve screaming caught, caught, caught.

His gaze locked onto you, heavy and assessing, and even from where you stood, you could tell his eyes were the deepest ocean blue you had ever seen. There was no rage in them, no madness—nothing that fit the sheer bloodshed he had left behind. He was unnervingly handsome, despite it all. Maybe because of it.

He inhaled, dragging another slow pull from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips before shifting his weight, completely unconcerned.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he muttered, voice rough and edged with disinterest as he let out a puff of smoke, “shit.”

You should have run.

You should have turned and bolted down the hallway, thrown yourself outside, screamed for help—something. But you didn’t. Your body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let you turn and run from the scene in front of you. Your limbs were locked in place, rooted to the motel floor like they had forgotten how to move, how to respond, how to do anything but tremble.

He seemed to notice, and flicking his cigarette, he made his way slowly toward you. He was so slow and careful it was almost predatory, like he was trying to camouflage into whatever normalcy was left in the room. Like he was trying to convince you that this was completely normal and he wasn’t some axe murderer in a pink fluffy robe.

“C’mon now,” he muttered, stepping toward you with zero hesitation, like your presence here was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Least shut the damn door.”

He moved with easy, unbothered confidence, reaching past you, pressing his palm against the motel door and nudging it inward. It swung heavy on its hinges, closing behind you with a soft, final click.

Your breath shuddered. You were really stuck here now, with him, and for some reason, the panic in your chest wasn’t flaring like before. You remained stock-still, frozen, waiting for him to make his move, to put you out of your misery for being a witness to his crime. What was his weapon of choice? Did he have a knife? A gun? Did he kill with his bare hands?

The man stepped in close, standing just in front of you now, close enough that you could see the uneven streaks of blood drying against his throat, close enough that you could smell the mix of cigarettes and sweat and something deeper layered with the metallic tang of blood.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, head tilting ever so slightly, like he was turning over a thought in his head, working something out.

Then he exhaled, lifting a hand—slow, deliberate, like he was giving you a second to react—and twisted a lock of your hair between his fingers.

His touch was light, but it sent a bolt of something electric straight through your spine, and yet, still, you didn’t move. You should have pulled away. You should have slapped his hand down. But your body wasn’t yours right now. It belonged to fear.

He hummed low in his throat, almost to himself, turning the strands between his fingers, studying them with an unreadable expression.

“You’re real pretty,” he muttered, almost absentmindedly, like it was a passing observation, not something meant to soothe you. His voice was low, rough, dragging over the syllables like he didn’t use them often. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Your throat locked up, lungs seizing against the flood of adrenaline. You weren’t even sure if your heart was still in your chest based on the way blood was roaring in your ears, drowning out every rational thought. He was teasing. Curious. And—God—flirty?

If you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t just stepped into this room, hadn’t seen the blood, hadn’t noticed the body stretched out too perfectly on the bed—you might’ve… you might’ve…

You swallowed hard, but your throat was too dry to get any sound out. Your pulse slammed in your ears, your heartbeat betraying everything you wanted to hide. He watched you for a moment longer, then let your hair slip from his grip, rubbing his bloodstained fingers together as if testing the softness.

“You’re shakin’,” he observed, mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but leaned in that direction, like your fear was interesting to him… like it was cute.

His fingers twitched then, and after a pause, he reached up again after sticking his cigarette in his mouth—this time, just barely brushing his knuckles along your jaw. The touch was fleeting, but enough to make you tense even more.

He made another small sound in the back of his throat, mock sympathy edging into it.

“Like a scared little bunny.”

You should have been running. Screaming for your life. You should have turned and bolted the second you saw the blood. Why weren’t you fucking running?

The part of you that should have been shutting down, the part of you that should have been clawing for survival, digging its heels into your fogged, terrified brain to pay fucking attention—that part of you…

It was curious about him too.

You watched as his face changed then, watching your reactions like a predator tracking in his prey, eyes narrowing as they darted around your face, reading you, piecing something together. His lips twitched like he was amused, like he had figured out something you didn’t even understand about yourself yet.

“No…” he said, pulling his hand away, head tilting slightly before his face split into a grin, pulling the cigarette out between his fingers, “you’re not scared, are you, little bunny? You like this.”

“No!” The word ripped out of you, barely a whisper at first, but then louder, cracking in the dim room around you., “No.” Your breath stuttered as you tried to sound more confident, your whole body wired too tight, but the denial felt weak even to your own ears.

“Oh, there she is,” he said, watching you closely, pleased that he had finally drawn something out of you. “You gotta name, sweetheart?”

Your lips pressed together, your jaw tight, but your eyes sharpened, taking him in, really seeing him now. His blue eyes were dangerous and beautiful and terrifying all at once, cutting through the haze of your fear like a blade. There was blood splattered up his face, drying along the sharp structure of his cheekbone, disappearing into the strands of dark hair that hung loose in his eyes. It should have made him look monstrous. It should have made him unrecognizable as anything human.

But it didn’t.

It made you want to lean forward. Your mind flashed with the idea, and you did everything you could to keep your body from following, the idea that you wanted to trace the sharp cut of his jaw, to drag your tongue over the remnants of metallic blood he had missed along his lip and—

No.

No no no no no.

The thought seared through you like an open flame. Your breath caught, your skin igniting in humiliation, a flush so deep you wanted to disappear. You couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe your own body, couldn’t believe the way your stomach clenched, the way something hot and ugly was overlapping the sheer horror of what this man had done. There was fear, yes—a lot of it. But there was something else crawling underneath, something just as intense, something that made your pulse skyrocket as his hand moved.

His hand pushed the cigarette into the wooden frame, the hiss of the burning end snuffing out by your head. His fingers then found the strap of your shirt, curling around the fabric, dragging it down over your shoulder with his bloodstained grip.

“No name, huh?” he murmured, watching your face, watching every shift in your expression, like he was memorizing what you looked like when you trembled. His voice was lower now, quieter, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud or obvious, but steady and unshaken. He leaned in closer, close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted over your throat.

“That’s okay, bunny,” he muttered. “I don’t got a name either.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then, to your utter horror, he kissed your shoulder.

Not deep. Not forceful. Just the slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your skin, his lips barely parted, dragging warm and rough over the place he had just exposed.

It sent a violent shudder down your spine. The sensation—the heat of him, the quiet intimacy of it, the way he didn’t move away after, just lingered there—lit something in your chest, something sharp and unbearable. Your nipples, the traitors, hardened underneath your shirt, poking through the thin fabric that stretched across your chest. A gasp left you before you could stop it, your eyes widening in shock.

The man huffed softly against your skin, something amused in the sound.

“You like this, bunny?” His voice was slow, edged with something almost thoughtful, like he was figuring it out as he spoke. His nose brushed the side of your throat, his breath warm as he tilted his head, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

“You like a man like me takin’ advantage of just how scared you are?” His hand tightened just slightly at your shoulder, his mouth ghosting along your jaw before he murmured, “That it, bunny? You like the fear?”

His lips brushed your pulse.

“The shame?”

His fingers traced along your collarbone, the metallic tang of copper filling your nose as his hand got closer and closer to your face again.

“You turned on by a little bit of blood?”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers curling at your sides, and you knew whatever you said next would change everything. You should have lied. You should have denied it, should have shaken your head, should have shoved him away and run before it was too late.

Your mouth parted, your chest heaving like you had just surfaced from drowning, but before you could answer, his hand snapped up, grabbing the nape of your neck, fingers lacing in your hair. His other hand suddenly gripped your jaw, forcing your face to tilt toward him.

It was fast, sudden, a flash of violence that slammed through you like a bolt of electricity, it made you gasp sharply, eyes going wide.

His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm, unyielding. His fingers dug into your jaw just enough that it bordered on pain, enough that you felt the quiet threat humming underneath him.

His eyes narrowed, sharp, dark, and hungry, locking onto yours like a predator seeing prey for exactly what it was. His grip tightened for a split second, his thumb dragging rough over your cheek, the dried blood flaking slightly against your skin, crumbling like dust beneath his touch.

“Say it,” he rasped, voice still calm, still steady as stone, but something inside it had changed—harder now, more dangerous.

Your body locked up, trapped between the heat of him and the cold reality of what was happening, of what had been happening for longer than just that moment.

Because it hadn’t started when you stepped into this room.

It didn’t start when you saw the blood. It didn’t even start when you heard the body hit the floor.

It started long before that.

You’d always known something was wrong with you. The way fear didn’t keep you away—it called to you, wrapped around your ribs and had you in its grip. The way you’d always looked for danger, for the spike of adrenaline that made your heart hammer against your ribs, made you feel more alive than anything else.

You could’ve stayed at your parents’ house. You could’ve forced yourself to sit through another dinner filled with questions about your future, their expectations suffocating you like a cage you were never meant to fit inside. But you didn’t.

You left in the middle of the night, peeling away from their house like something inside you was clawing to be free, chasing an impulse you hadn’t fully understood at the time.

You hadn’t stopped driving until exhaustion forced your hand. And when you pulled into this motel, when you stepped onto that cracked pavement, when you heard the distant sounds of raised voices, of something heavy hitting the ground—your pulse hadn’t stuttered in fear.

It had spiked.

And while you tried to ignore it, ignore that pull, to force yourself to sleep, you couldn’t say no to that part of you that needed to see. You’d left your room, weaving through the shadows of the motel, passing this exact door. The vending machine hadn’t been the excuse you told yourself it was. It wasn’t hunger for food that had your stomach twisting, your body restless against the scratchy motel sheets.

It was hunger to know.

To see.

To find the blood, the body, and the man who did it.

And now he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he already knew all of it. Like he’d read the answer in your dilated eyes, in the way your breath had hitched when you first saw him, in the way you were still here, still trembling under his grip but not running.

Your mouth was dry, your body refusing to move, refusing to break free of his hold. Because the worst part wasn’t that you were afraid.

The worst part was that you liked it.

You made a small, broken noise, your fingers twitching, your whole body tight as a wire as you reached up, your hands sliding around his forearm.

“Yes,” you whispered. It was barely a sound, barely more than breath, but his eyes flickered, something shifting beneath them.

The pressure released all at once.

His grip loosened from your jaw, tracing down the side of your throat with something slower now, something more deliberate. You let your hands fall, reaching for him instead. His thumb dragged along your cheek, wiping away the remnants of old blood he had left there. His lips lingered, the warmth of them stark against your skin, a slow drag over your jaw as he exhaled. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, the faint metallic ghost of dried blood—was thick in your lungs, wrapping around you, leaving no space for anything else.

His lips barely moved as they traced your jaw again when he spoke, the words slipping against your skin, low and quiet, like they weren’t meant for the space between you but meant to sink into you, settle deep, curl around something inside you that you didn’t even have a name for.

“I know, bunny.”

It was soft, almost affectionate, but threaded with something deeper. Something knowing.

Like he had been waiting for you to admit it to yourself first.

His fingers, the ones still tangled in your hair, tightened slightly—not rough, but firm, keeping you in place, keeping you still for him. He turned your head just enough to guide you, slow, like testing a skittish animal, like making sure you wouldn’t bolt the second he took what you were already offering.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name.

And none of that mattered.

Your hands, trembling but restless, lifted before you could stop them, pressing against the warm plane of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He was solid. Real. Your fingertips brushed against the edge of the pink robe he still hadn’t bothered to shed, the soft, ridiculous fabric clashing with the rough scrape of stubble along your throat as his mouth continued its path downward.

You felt the shift in him before you even saw it, the slight pause of his breath, the way his grip in your hair flexed before tightening further. His tongue peeked out from his mouth, tracing the vein of your artery along the column of your neck. You shuddered against him, eyes fluttering closed, and he chuckled, low and breathless against your skin, the sound of it vibrating against your pulse.

“That feel nice, sweetheart?”

You opened your eyes to look at him, and his were darker now, heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you, taking in every shuddering breath, every small twitch of your lips, the way your pupils had swallowed nearly all of your color.

Then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was ravenous. Not just hungry but starved. The slow, intoxicating drag of lips and teeth and heat blurred every thought, every warning screaming in your head turning into static. You felt one of his hands skim lower, tracing the dip of your waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your shirt like he was debating whether to rip it from your body or take his time peeling you open.

His mouth moved over yours like he already knew you’d open for him, like he had been waiting for it, waiting for this.

And God, you let him.

281 notes · View notes

miirohs · 1 year ago

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moon, 12:04 am [l.m.h]

pairing: Husband!Lee Minho x Fem!Reader wc: 0.7k cw: n/a an: yall am i famous yet. also stream offonoff!!! cause their music is such a vibe!! i should not be awake at 2 in the morning!!!

“Min…?” You whined, rubbing your face into the crook of your arms as you heard quiet creaks across the floorboards.

It was dead silent, aside from the occasional rustling, a warm hand reaching out to run itself through your hair. His fingers scratched your scalp, and you sighed. You could hear Pickles meowing, and you could imagine him pawing at Minho right now, begging for some of his attention as well.

“What are you doing on the floor baby?”

You curled up, bringing your arms up to shield your face as you felt him lean over you, tie dangling over your cheek. Pickles was now poking you, trying to dig into your sides.

“Aww, you’re awfully tired, did all that overthinking finally tire you out?” He huffed, crouching right next to you as you watched him through glossy eyes, hands leaving your head.

“What time is it?”

“It’s four minutes after twelve, I think.”

You jolted up, adrenaline suddenly running through your body, head colliding with his outreached hand. Forcing your head to turn to the clock that hung on the wall, you blearily looked for the confirmation of what he had said. Pickles looked at the both of you, slipping onto your lap in an attempt for some form of cuddles..

You suddenly felt cold on the floor as you read the numbers the hands pointed to, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. Guilt washed over you, the realization of unfinished chores waiting to be finished hitting you.

“Oh god, Minho- I’m so sorry, i must have lost track time playing with Pickles, and you know how its been with the whole apartment as of late-”

“You’re doing it again.”

You stopped speeding through your thoughts, stomach dropping as you looked at him.

He was just as beautiful, if not a little disheveled. His coat had been long abandoned, now wearing a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair stuck out in all sorts of directions, but the little glimmer in his eyes hadn’t been lost to the tiring office environment of his life.

“I’m doing what?”

“Rambling.”

The heat rose in your cheeks, and you looked down at the wooden floors, mapping out where you had previously been a couple moments.

“Y/n. Baby?”

You finally looked up, scooting closer into his vicinity.

“It’s cute when you do it,” He yawned, kneeling next to you, “act all worried. You don’t need to be apologizing because you didn't do anything wrong.” He pursed his lips, offering a hand to gently pull you closer to him.

“What do you wanna ask me baby? I can tell you have something to say,” He teased. You cleared your throat. “Why were you so late? I thought you’d be coming home early today.’

“I would’ve come home sooner, but Chan-hyung wanted me to stay back for something, then the bus got late so I had to take a taxi home.” He sighed and frowned, running his hand up and down your back as he held you close to him. Pickles climbed into his lap, purring as Minho finally pet him.

“Sounds like you had quite the day.” You whispered, muffled as you were pressed up against him, hand on his chest, “more so than me.”

"Yeah, it was a bit hectic," He admitted with a small chuckle,"but it was all worth it to come back home to you, and you too, Pickles." Pickles meowed, as if acknowledging that he had been recognized by Minho.

You leaned into his embrace, his lips pressing against your forehead as he kissed you tenderly. The familiar warmth of his lips sent shivers down your spine, bringing your arms up to wrap around his neck.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice soft as he pressed his face against the crown of your head.

“I love you more,” You whispered as he slipped his hands around you, surprising you as he lifted you off the floor. He carried you with ease, retracing old steps as he made his way down the hall, towards your bedroom.

As he push you down on the bed, he leaned down to press another kiss to your lips.

“I'll be right back in bed once I finish changing.”

“Don’t take too long,” You stared, watching him linger in the light of your bathroom door.

“Night baby,” He said softly, grinning as Pickles jumped up, curling up right next to you, “sleep well."

1K notes · View notes

martybaker · 3 months ago

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There was only one couch

Tfw you cannot find the jayvik fic you crave so you write it yourself 🙃

I also gotta preface this with - I cannot write science talk for the life of me, in my defense they are sleep deprived so if it doesn’t make much sense, it’s not supposed to 🙈

—————————

They’ve been stuck at this problem for hours, any potential paths they managed to come up with immediately shattering after but a couple pokes of logic aimed to test the solidity of their foundations. Like bubbles popped by a child’s finger. Like heated corn kernels. Like dreams of making a difference-

Viktor’s too tired to think in metaphors.

He drops the pencil and swivels in his chair, facing Jayce who’s already draped across their shabby sofa, long legs sticking out from one end, head inclined on the armrest on the side closer to Viktor.

“What if we…build an oven?” Jayce says. “Well not like, an oven, but reverse, a device that could contain the energy and…,” he waves his hands in the air as he talks, as if that would help illustrate his train of thought, “…uhhh, we could more safely work on directing the charges? Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Viktor chuckles. He doesn’t know why he does, it’s not even particularly funny, the exhaustion must have erased any common sense of his that was left. Yet it’s…comforting to see that same exhaustion mirrored in Jayce. The same dark circles, the same bone deep tiredness weighing him down, the same look of frustration after they’ve been hitting dead ends and running in circles. It’s a shared exhaustion, just like the hard work is shared. Probably should have called it a night hours ago. They both direly need the rest.

“An oven? That would be your hunger speaking, I’m afraid,” Viktor says, reaching for his cane, grinding his teeth to gather the energy to push himself up onto his feet.

“Nah, m’not hungry,” Jayce mumbles. “We had those sandwiches for lunch. Or was it dinner? What time is it even?”

“Too late by all accounts,” Viktor says, taking the few steps towards the couch. He looks at Jayce, who seems glued to the couch and likely is planning to spend the night there. Viktor looks towards the door, but hesitates. The idea of the track across campus to his lodgings really doesn’t sound appealing.

It’s not even that far, the university tried to accommodate Viktor’s needs as best as they could and gave him a room on the ground floor, plus the building is the closest housing to the Engineering department’s laboratories. And yet, today it feels miles away. Damn his leg, damn all the stairs, and damn his hubris for yet again pushing his body beyond its limits, knowing fully well it will backfire ten folds and render him even more useless in the morning.

Jayce notices his hesitation, damn his partner’s bright mind too. He can read Viktor too well, he guesses the reason for his histation despite Viktor’s lack of complaining.

“Oh, do you wanna sleep here? I’ll head home, no problem,” he suggests way too readily, already hoisting himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor tsks and pushes against Jayce’s chest, pushing him back down into the couch.

“Stay,” he hisses. Jayce lives off campus, it would take him much longer to get home. Viktor’s not about to kick him out. And he doesn’t care for compassion either.

Jayce knows this, yet the man cannot help but be kind and caring, and though it irritates Viktor when it's aimed at him, it is also a quality of Jayce’s that he admires. He’s kind to everyone. Meets everyone halfway. Though at times they push too far, and Jayce lets them. Too kind for his own good.

Viktor shakes his head, trying to clean it, the stacked up piles of thoughts seem to have all spilled inside his brain and are rattling around. Rest. He needs to rest.

He looks at Jayce, who is still lying down on the couch, hands raised as if in surrender, big doe eyes staring at Viktor. Was Viktor too cross with him just now? He’s unable to determine. He pats Jayce’s knee in an attempt to smooth over his own prickly temperament.

“I just…I need to take a moment. Before I head out,” he tries. He hopes Jayce won’t insist. He is too tired to come up with reasonable arguments. He doesn’t wanna fight.

But Jayce doesn’t fight, he nods, then he bites his lip and opens his arms.

Hmm.

Viktor considers.

The couch is clearly too small for one grown man, let alone two.

Still it would be more comfortable than the chair.

And Viktor’s not averse to touch. Despite perhaps coming off as such. To everyone, except for Jayce.

It is true that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, especially unexpectedly. But he is human and just like anyone else, he has moments when he would welcome touch. Moments when he finds it comforting. And Jayce is a very tactile person. He didn’t hold back from putting a hand on Viktor’s shoulder the very first day they met, and he hasn’t stopped since. Though there was a moment near the beginning of their partnership when someone pointed out Viktor’s (alleged) aversion to touch and Jayce panicked, apologizing profusely for making him uncomfortable, and it took days for Viktor to convince him he really didn’t mind. Because that was the truth, Viktor didn’t mind. Not when it was Jayce.

Of course cuddling on the couch was an entirely different matter.

They’ve never done that before, however, Viktor wasn’t a stranger to the comfort of a warm body next to his either.

From cuddling with his parents for warmth as a kid in one too small bed, to seeking the pleasures of a lover to relieve stress, the warmth of a body next to his undoubtedly had its benefits.

And he and Jayce are friends. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

And so Viktor slowly drops his cane to the floor and lowers one of his knees to the couch, trying to figure out how to arrange himself next to Jayce.

Jayce tries to help but it takes some maneuvering, what with Viktor’s leg and their sleep deprived brains, there are a couple of winces and pointy elbows and just way too many limbs, an “Oof” from Jayce when he earns a knee to his stomach, but eventually Viktor finds himself situated with his back against the back of the couch, his head on Jayce’s chest, right leg on top.

It��s…it’s warm.

It’s nice.

It’s not a big deal.

“Okay?” Jayce checks.

Viktor hums. He can hear Jayce’s heartbeat, feel his breath on his forehead. Smell the musk, the odor of an unshowered body, but he has no right to complain, they both haven’t showered for however many hours or days they’ve been locked in here.

Jayce’s heartbeat and breathing slows, but Viktor cannot slow his racing thoughts. He can feel every point of contact where their bodies are touching. He can feel Jayce’s muscular chest moving under his hand. Jayce’s right hand briefly pets Viktor’s hair before it settles on top of his shoulders. Viktor fights against the urge to burrow closer, to inhale Jayce’s smell, to place Jayce’s hand back into his hair.

Stupid sleep deprived brain. Viktor could have figured such close proximity to a warm body would reduce him to animal instincts. He can only be glad he’s way too sleepy for his nether parts to react as well.

Jayce feels his restlessness. How could he not, pressed so close.

“Viktor,” he whispers, warm breath tickling Viktor’s forehead and despite himself Viktor exhales and melts against that strong chest even more. “You can rest, V, I’ll wake you in a couple of minutes and walk you home.”

My ass you will, Viktor thinks, we’re both gonna fall asleep here, your right side will be completely numb and my back will be killing me tomorrow. He’ll barely be able to stand. But he’s too tired and too comfortable to say any of that now. It’s a Tomorrow Viktor’s problem anyways. This Viktor burrows closer against Jayce’s chest, letting all his worries and all the problems fade, falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

#jayvik #jayce x viktor #arcane #jayvik fic #jayvik fanfic #arcane jayvik #jayce talis #arcane jayce #arcane viktor #my writing #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #one (1) throwaway sentence about microwaves and now i am having a whole ass crisis #about whether they have electricity in piltover #or chemtech or magicky substances or what #sigh i need to do more worldbuilding research

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gay-dorito-dust · 10 months ago

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hi hiii its my first time ever asking anyone idk how this works ( ;｀Д´)

i rlly love your writing, i often find myself staying up late reading through your blogs!! funny bcs u were the one who got me into jason todd (ФωФ)

anyways!!! i was hoping you could pls pls pls pls plssssss write smth about Jason Todd who has a lover thats a sleep-deprived uni student having a hell week and jason is like "bitch put google docs down and get some sleep, ur ass has been awake for 48 hours" all worried and wanting them to rest and reader is like "correction, 50 hours."

i hope it makes sense (´ 3｀)

tyyyyy!!! woopee woopee

Sorry this took so long to get to anon, I hope you liked it either way. And don’t stay up too late reading fics but I truly appreciate you reading my stuff, I’m glad you like them 🦦🐿️

A week.

An entire week Jason had noticed you have been forcing yourself to stay up at the dead of night, glued to your laptop all the while chugging energy drinks and cups of coffee as though they were going out of style, and for what? An assignment that determined your future at uni should you not get straight marks.

Jason thought it ridiculous that you made yourself sleep deprived over this but he knew that if he didn’t do anything about it, then you’ll continue this habit until you were well out of university, struggling to come to terms that you had well and truly burnt yourself out before you could properly start living.

So when Jason couldn’t fell you next to him in bed one night, like you promised him you would, and groaned as he got himself out of bed before making his way towards the kitchen where he’d knew you’d be.

‘What time do you call this?’ Jason asked when he saw you in your usual spot at the kitchen counter, hunched over your laptop with a thin blanket frapped over your shoulders and a can of energy drink on one side of the laptop and a cup of coffee on the other side. He hated what this stupid university has made you do just in order to get good grades, it was harmful, damaging and it would inevitably lead to health complications later on in life; If he could Jason would more then gladly march down there and threaten the professors to stop shoving a boatload of work onto their students, but firstly he has to get you away from that damn laptop and learn how to take a fucking break.

‘Mid-afternoon?’ You asked, not looking up from the bright screen of your laptop, where the words scrawled across it in an incoherent mess for your overworked brain to comprehend.

‘It’s actually 3:30 in the morning.’ Jason replied unamused as he crossed his arms over his chest and you winced when you saw that he was indeed right about it being three thirty in the morning. ‘Don’t you think it’s time that you shut the laptop off and get some sleep?’

‘But I-‘

‘Actually sleep.’ Jason cuts you off as you slumped back into your chair, unable to come up with a decent enough response to defend yourself with because deep down you knew Jason was right, you’ve hadn’t had a decent sleep in a long while and it was definitely taking it’s toll with how lightheaded you’ve become as of late.

You sighed and ran your hands down your face. ‘Jason I can’t, I’ve got-‘

‘An assignment to complete for tomorrow I know.’ Jason cuts you off again as he crossed the room to put his hand over the top of your coffee cup upon noticing that you were intending to take another drink from it. ‘But I look at you and can tell you can barely keep your eyes open for more than five minutes.’ He adds and upon your silence, he puts the cup aside as far as he could before doing the same with the half empty energy drink, and then finally shutting the laptop close despite your weak protests for him not to.

‘No, Jason my assignment, I need to finish it.’ You told him with slow, sluggish movements as you tried to pry his hand off of your laptop, all the while biting back a yawn. ‘Just give me five more minutes please and I’ll come to bed, promise.’

Jason had enough of this habit of sleepless nights, it ends now, the professors will have to understand and extend the due date for your sake as he remembered how often you had harped on about how important this assignment was for your overall grade; However Jason didn’t take neglecting your bodily needs lightly and would prioritise that over anything else,you could hate him all you wanted but he was only looking out for you and your wellbeing.

‘Sorry chipmunk but I can’t watch you do this to yourself for any longer than I already have.’ Was all Jason said as he then lifted you out of your chair suddenly causing you to yelp in surprise and cling onto him for dear life, now being more awake then you ever have been five minutes ago, as he then proceeded to carry you back towards the bedroom before unceremoniously dropping you onto the bed.

‘Jason, I seriously needed to get that assignment-‘

‘We are going to sleep, end of discussion.’ Jason said with finality as he crawled under the covers and quickly held you against his chest as tightly as he could, rubbing his hands up and down your back soothingly. ‘I know how important this assignment was for you sweetheart but I’d much rather have you well rested, clear minded and healthy than to ever to have you pass out in my arms from exhaustion. I want my baby happy and healthy and you are neither of those things right now.’ Jason whispers into your ear, kissing the side of your head a couple of times before resting his forehead against yours so that he was looking into your weary half lidded eyes.

‘Look at you, you can barely keep your eyes open.’ He spoke with worry laced in his words.

‘You’re really warm and comfy jay birdie.’ You murmured, feeling the need for sleep grow ever stronger the longer you stayed in his arms as it fogged your mind.

‘I know, so please we can talk to the professor in the morning and sort something out, but until then no more late nights understand?’ Jason said firmly as he held you a little tighter, he just wanted you to get a decent nights sleep and be looked after properly but all these late nights weren’t cutting it and were making your situation worse, how were you meant to get anything done when you were half out of it due to overworking and lack of a sleep schedule? Were the professors at your university thinking they were teaching robots instead of humans with breaking limits?

‘Okay I understand, I love you.’ You replied sleepily as you burrowed your head into his neck, falling asleep in record time as Jason stayed awake a little longer as to make sure you were properly asleep before following suit, watching over you in the dream realm as he did the waking one.

#dc imagine #dc x reader #dc x you #dc fanfic #dc fic #dc comics x reader #dc x y/n #dc fanfiction #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagines #red hood x you #red hood imagine #red hood x reader #red hood imagines

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minisugakoobies · 1 year ago

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It's You - Choi San | 3 AM

Pairing: San x Reader Genre: smut, crack, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, BFF’s Lil Bro!AU Series Rating: M (18+) Drabble Warnings: sneaking around, sloppy making out, lots of cuddling and kissing, honestly this is super soft, drunk San is a whole different type of menace, a little angst on OC's part, pet names deployed as weapons (baby) Word Count: 2.1k Disclaimers: SFW, obviously I don’t own ATZ - they just inspire me

Summary: He was only supposed to be a temporary roommate. Your best friend’s little brother, crashing on your couch for a few weeks. That’s it. How did this happen?

A/N: This started with talking about drunk San with @minttangerines and @kiestrokes, and then @moni-logues made me miss this couple, so boom! New vignette! I should warn you that I wrote this over the course of 2 days, entirely between the hours of midnight and 5 am because I've been staying up wayyyy too late to watch the Coachella livestreams (can we talk about Chellateez?! because holy shit!), so it's probably a mess and it's unbeta'd, so… blame any typos or incoherency on my fucked up sleep schedule! 🥱

Lyrics are from "Moondance" by Van Morrison, inspired by that one toktoq of San singing that song, which absolutely killed me.

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment, or send me an ask to be added! You can also send me any ideas/thoughts you might have for a future scenario - who knows, it might end up in a drabble! 💕

It’s You Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ ATZ Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ Main Masterlist

It’s three in the morning, and you’re wide awake, at your desk, working frantically on an article whose deadline is mere hours away. For not the first time tonight, you curse your natural inclination towards procrastination and scrub your hand down your face, wishing you’d chosen a different career.

There’s some noise outside your door and you realize San must be home. He’d been down at the Blue Bird with Hongjoong, drinking and hanging out with Wooyoung as he bartended. From the way San’s shuffling around, it sounds like Woo had been his typical kind self and given San more generous pours than he should have. A loud “oof” resonates, and you hear the armchair scrape the floor a bit, as if he were setting it back in its place. You wince, hoping he didn’t wake his sister, who has an early shift and needs to be up at dawn.

“Noona. Nooooooona.” Tap tap tappity tap. “Are you up? I can see - I can see your light.”

San raps on your door, calling out to you in a voice that’s hushed but maybe not quite as quiet as he thinks it is. From his spot on your bed, Nero lifts his head off his paws at the sound, then blinks at you with his bright green eyes.

“I know. He’s loud as fuck, isn’t he?” With a cluck of your tongue, you quickly hop up and open the door. San must’ve been leaning against it, because suddenly you’ve got a mountain on top of you, a loose-limbed one at that, eagerly but clumsily wrapping its arms around you. “San!”

“Hiiiii,” San coos into your shoulder, where he’s buried his face. You shudder slightly as his breath tickles your skin exposed by the tank top you wear, and stagger away from the door enough to close it quietly as you can, not an easy task to do given the giant mass of man hanging his dead weight on you.

“You know, your sister is sleeping just on the other side of this wall,” you remind him, but he doesn’t respond, too busy lathering the column of your neck with tiny kisses. “San. Come on, sit down.”

With some stumbling from San and a not insignificant effort on your part, the two of you make it over to your bed. Your attempt at coaxing San into a sitting position fails miserably as he promptly splays on his back, pulling you on top of him. Nero hops off the bed in a huff.

You go down like a sack of flour, not a gram of gracefulness in your fall, but San appears not to notice when your chin bounces off his sternum or your knee rams his thigh. He sighs contentedly, wrapping his arms around your back, tucking you against him.

“Mmmm. So nice,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

It’s three in the morning, and you need to finish this damn article. Except that right now, your body is telling you that what you really need is to stay exactly where you are. Because the minute the warmth of San’s embrace surrounded you, your stress melted away. The steady rise and fall of his chest calms you, makes your own breathing slow. You close your eyes, nestling closer to him, sliding your own arms around his waist. You could so easily fall asleep like this.

But he can’t sleep here.

“San. San, are you awake?”

“I’m awake,” he replies, but with closed eyes, which doesn’t really give you a lot of confidence in his response. “I am,” he insists when you shake him, rolling his head away, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you warn him sternly. “I mean it!”

San smiles, the one that tells you that he knows you’re going to give in to him, which is the smile you tend to see him flash the most often, because you’re weak for him and always giving in. But this isn’t one of those times when you can indulge him. No matter how much you want to.

“Wish you’d come to the bar tonight. Wanted you there.”

You knew that. He’d told you as much when he’d texted earlier. Unfortunately, you had to turn him down for the sake of remaining gainfully employed. He’d tried to convince you otherwise at first but finally said he understood. And then sent you a series of sad selfies, each one more pathetic than the last, lips puffing to an extreme. Because he understands the power that pout holds over you.

It’s embarrassing how bad you’re down for this man.

San’s fingers dance idly down your spine, and you sigh, eyes slipping shut again as you speak. “Believe me, I would’ve rather been there with you.”

He hums, fingertips quickening their light minuet. He mumbles something into your hair, low and unintelligible from the way his lips are smushed against your head, so it takes you a few seconds to realize he’s not talking, he’s singing.

“... marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes…”

“San,” you begin, but before you can warn him not to get any louder, he does so anyway, raising his beautiful voice a little, starting to get into it.

“A fantabulous night to make romance, 'neath the cover of October skies…”

“Shhh!” Your shushing is cut short by your giggling, as you clap a hand over San’s mouth. “Oh my god, now is not the time for this!”

This is one of San’s more notable habits - when a song gets stuck in his head, you’ll hear him singing it for days, just walking around the apartment humming the melody or, if he has an audience, belting out the lines. He knows how much you love his sweet tenor. Another fact about you he’s filed away to devastate you with at the most opportune times.

Like when you need to kick him out of your bed.

He continues singing despite your hand pressing on his lips, slurring the words directly into your palm. His eyebrows are working overtime, top half of his face playfully conveying whatever lyrics are being smothered against your skin. He’s so ridiculous, so over-the-top, even at three in the morning when anyone else would be exhausted, like you felt before he walked into your room, since his energy is infectious and perked you up better than the multiple cups of coffee you downed in your desperate attempt to stay awake. That’s San for you - he’s always giving you something when you need it - his time, his help, his energy.

So you decide to give him something back, and replace your hand with your mouth, drawing him into a tender kiss, imbuing it with all those things you feel but never say. His muffled singing becomes a hum becomes a moan, at first surprised, then pleased. One of his hands drops to your thigh and with a bit of urgent tugging, he maneuvers you on top of him, chest pressed to chest.

His kissing is only the slightest bit sloppier when he’s been drinking, wetter from his tongue caressing yours with somewhat less skill than usual, but it’s never bothered you. You like seeing this side of him, looser with his inhibitions, with whatever holds him in place - or holds him back. One day you’ll ask him to show you more, when you’re both sober.

And when things are different. Less… ambiguous between the two of you.

If you reach that point.

“Noona.” San whispers, thankfully pulling you from the heavier thoughts threatening to sink you right out of the moment. You open your eyes to look at him as he pecks your cheeks. “I like kissing you.”

You grin, letting your forehead knock against his. “Yeah, I kinda noticed.”

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” The look he gives you would melt the hardest of hearts. This is why you’re not afraid to be needy with San. There’s no reason to be, not when he’s just the same.

“I like kissing you too,” you declare, kissing the tip of his nose, laughing at the way his eyes cross as he follows your lips. “But now’s not the time for that, either.”

“Then what time is it?”

Laughing, you gently guide him into a sitting position, keeping your arms looped over his shoulders. His lust is morphing into sleepiness, eyelids drooping as he gazes at you, and your heart goes so soft at the sight of him.

“It’s time for you to go to bed.”

“Okay,” he chirps, immediately flopping onto his back again.

“Ohhhh no, not here. You gotta go. I still have to finish my work, and you…” The words stick in your throat. You can’t be here. You don’t want to say them. You want him to be here. Tonight, and tomorrow, and on and on.

But that’s a conversation for another time. Not three in the morning.

“You have to go,” you groan, sliding off the bed and grabbing his arms, less gentle and more insistent this time. “Come on, get up!”

San lets out a whine of protest. “But baby, why can’t I stay here?”

Oh, he would drop a ‘baby’ now, slipping it in so casually, so naturally, like there’s nothing unusual about him calling you that. As if it’s not something new he only started doing the other day, happening maybe a handful of times since.

Since the two of you have been doing this undefined thing, there’s really only been one unspoken rule. You sleep in your bed, and he sleeps on the couch. Even on the nights when Haneul’s working the late shift, or she’s over at Jongho’s. You never know if she’ll come home early, so you don’t risk it. It’s just easier this way.

Doesn’t mean you like it, though.

“Because. If Haneul catches you coming out of here - “

The sound of a door opening makes you freeze right down to your tongue, leaving your sentence unfinished. Your head swivels towards your own door. A pair of feet pad down the hall, getting closer, then fading away, until you hear another door being closed. The bathroom.

“Noona.”

You turn to find a sober-looking San staring at you. He reaches out, hands settling on your hips, holding on to you as you stand between his legs. Clinging again.

“She’s in early today, right?”

The two of you probably know Haneul’s schedule better than she does. You nod.

“Then I’ll just stay in here. She’ll think I never came home.”

He makes it sound so simple. So reasonable. He’ll stay here until she leaves. Why didn’t you think of that? Is it because you don’t like thinking of San with someone else, even if said person is an imaginary person who exists solely to provide an excuse that will allow you to get what you want? And if you get what you want now, it’s only going to hurt more when you can’t have it anymore?

Yeah, that’s probably it.

“I don’t know…” you bite your lip.

“Come on,” he wheedles, drawing you into his lap again, cupping your face with both hands. “Let me stay with you. Don’t you want me?”

And there it goes, the last remaining bit of your resistance.

“Okay.”

San seems a little shocked, face lighting up in delight, and you wonder if it’s at how quickly you agreed, or that you agreed at all. Maybe both.

“But we have to be quiet. So, you know…” You trail off, gesturing wordlessly.

“No moondancing?” He emphasizes the word heavily, lifting a brow, and you roll your eyes but grin as well.

“Right, none of that.”

“Just cuddles?”

As if he needs to ask. You nod. “But I’m not coming to bed until I finish my work.” You reclaim your seat at your desk, folding your arms over the back of it, trying to give the appearance of someone with a solid backbone, since yours is apparently made of pudding.

“That’s okay,” San says, already tugging his shirt off, then his pants, until he’s only in his boxer briefs. He peels back your comforter, sliding into the soft sheets, and again the action is so natural, so normal, like he does this every night, that something in your chest constricts. “I’ll just wait for you.”

Your first thought is that you should inform him that he’s going to be waiting a while, but then again, maybe he won’t.

You’re feeling suddenly inspired.

(It’s three in the morning, and you’re falling in love.)

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

Taglist: @sweetnspicy-noona @krystal-a @jennylychee @hiefisch

#ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #san x reader #choi san x reader #san fanfic #ateez angst #choi san fanfic #fic: it's you

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moomuzan · 3 months ago

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⋆·˚ ༘ *𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖊

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ they find you again, after all this time

but something‘s different,

you are no longer human

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ sanemi , giyuu , obanai

The battlefield was a graveyard of still bodies and whispers, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and ash. Casting its cold, pale light over the ruin, the moon hung low as Sanemi, a man made of storms, stood at its center. His sword was heavy in his hand, a weight that pulled at his very soul, though he refused to release it. Something else weighed on him—something darker, deeper. A presence.

And then you stepped into the light.

At first, he thought it was a trick of his war-addled mind. His breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, his heart stumbling over itself in its chest. It was you—your silhouette unmistakable, the curve of your face seared into his memory. But as you moved closer, the truth unraveled with cruel clarity.

You were not you anymore.

Perfect in its monstrosity, your skin shimmered with a cold, unnatural beauty, pale as death. Your once-warm eyes glowed red, the color of fresh blood, devoid of everything he had known. And you reeked—of death, of Muzan, of betrayal so vile it made his stomach churn.

Sanemi froze, the world narrowing to just you. Memories rushed forward like a flood he could not stop. The way you used to smile at him, tentative and soft, as though you could see the fractured pieces of him and still chose to stay. The way your hand once lingered on his arm, grounding him when his anger threatened to consume him. The way your voice, so achingly gentle, had once cut through the storms raging in his heart.

But that was gone. All of it.

Now, you were a weapon. Cold, deadly, beautiful. His masterpiece.

"Sanemi," you breathed, though it wasn’t your voice, not really. It was too sweet, too sharp, laced with something cruel that made his skin crawl. "I thought you’d be happy to see me. After all, you thought I was dead, didn’t you?"

His knuckles turned white around his sword, the leather of the hilt creaking beneath his grip. "You are dead," he spat, his voice rough and trembling. "Don’t you dare use her face, her body, her voice. Don’t you dare speak to me like that."

Almost curious, almost mocking, you tilted your head. "Dead?" you echoed, your lips curving into a smile that wasn’t yours. "If I’m dead, then why does my heartbeat still haunt you? Why do you still dream of me?"

Barely perceptible, but it was there, a crack in his otherwise unyielding armor that made the Hashira flinch. You had always been able to see through him, to peel back the layers of anger and grief he wrapped himself in. That hadn’t changed. But now, it wasn’t kindness in your eyes—it was something darker, something broken.

"You should have let me go," you said, stepping closer, your voice soft but cutting, like a knife sliding between his ribs. "But you didn’t, did you? You held on. Even now, you can’t let go."

Sanemi’s chest ached, a sharp, twisting pain that spread like fire. He wanted to scream at you, to tell you that you were wrong, but the words caught in his throat. Because you weren’t wrong. Of course, he hadn’t let go. How the hell could he?

And now, here you were. A ghost, a demon, a nightmare made flesh.

"I’ll kill you," he spat, yet the words sounded hollow, even to him. His blade trembled in his hand, his resolve cracking with every second that passed. He had faced demons countless times before, had killed without hesitation, but now? Now, his blade felt heavier than ever.

"You won’t," you whispered, your voice so soft it was almost tender. "You love me too much."

Love. The word hit him like a blow, leaving him breathless. He had never said it, never dared to, not even in the quiet moments when you had been alive and whole—always having been too scared, too proud, too angry at the world to admit what you meant to him. And now, it was too late.

Swift and merciless, you attacked, and he barely had time to raise his blade. Sanemi gritted his teeth as he pushed you back; the clash of steel against your claws rang out, sharp and jarring. Being faster now, stronger, your movements were inhumanly precise. Every swing of his blade felt like fighting against his own heart.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

As the battle continued, a blur of blood and desperation, his body moved on instinct, yet his mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories of you. The way you used to laugh, the way your hand used to linger on his, the way you had made him feel something other than rage.

That was gone. He knew as much yet why…?

"You’re hesitating," you remarked, voice cold and biting as you dodged another swing of his blade. "Do you think you can save me? Do you think there’s anything left of me to save?"

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat was too thick, the words too heavy. Instead, he fought harder, his strikes growing more desperate, more erratic.

Then, suddenly, you were gone, vanished into the shadows as if you had never been there.

As he stared at the empty space where you had stood, the man fell to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. Hollering around him, the wind carried the scent of blood and rain. Still, all he could smell was you — a ghost of what was long gone.

Sanemi stayed there for what felt like hours, his chest heaving, his hands trembling. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was sit there, the weight of his guilt crushing him.

You were gone.

And he had failed you. Again.

Burdened by a silence that felt almost alive, the night was heavy, pressing against Giyuu’s chest with a weight that made it hard to breathe. The forest stretched out endlessly before him, the trees stark and bare against the pale light of the moon. He moved forward, his steps measured and careful, though his mind was a mess of unspoken thoughts. He had been restless for weeks now, the sensation creeping into his bones that something was wrong, that something was unfinished. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way—it was a shadow that had clung to him since that fateful mission, the one where he’d lost you.

You were his tsuguko, his pride, his reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was hope in the quiet void of his life. You were everything he wasn’t: warm where he was cold, open where he was closed off, curious in ways that sometimes made him envy your ability to find beauty in a world that had been so cruel. He had trained you, poured what little he had of himself into you, and though he hadn’t said it—he rarely said anything—you must have known how deeply he cared.

But then you were gone, swallowed whole by the very darkness they fought every day. He had arrived too late to save you, too late to even hold you as the light in your eyes faded. Instead, he found only blood, streaks of it painting the ground like some grim mockery of a farewell. Your body was gone, taken by the demon who had bested you, and he had searched for weeks, scouring every shadow, chasing every lead, only to find nothing.

Eventually, he told himself you vanished. Not because he believed it, but because it was easier than living with the weight of not knowing.

Yet here he was, drawn to this forest by a presence he could not ignore, a feeling wrapped around his chest like a vice. He had felt it before, fleeting moments when the air would shift, and he’d swear he wasn’t alone. But those moments passed as quickly as they came, leaving him with only the hollow ache of his own imagination. This time, though, it was different.

Stopping in a clearing, the moonlight spilled across the ground in pale streaks. The air was still, unnaturally so, and for a moment, the world felt like it was holding its breath. And then he saw you.

Similar to the movements of a ghost you stepped out of the shadows, your figure bathed in silver light. His breath caught in his throat, his heart lurching in a way that almost made him stumble. It was you—he could never forget you—but you were different. Your skin was pale, too pale, and your eyes glowed with a crimson hue that sent a chill down his spine. You smelled of blood, of death, of Muzan.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. His body, frozen in place as his mind screamed at him to make sense of what he was seeing, just couldn’t. With an unreadable expression you looked at him, though your eyes carried a weight that felt almost unbearable.

“Giyuu,” you said, your voice soft, trembling, a sound he hadn’t realized he’d been aching to hear.

Then, painfully so, his hand tightened around his sword, the familiar weight grounding him in a moment that felt too unreal to be true. “You’re... alive,” he said, though the words tasted bitter, laced with the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say.

You smiled, but it wasn’t the smile he remembered. It was colder, sharper, laced with something he couldn’t name. “Alive,” you echoed, the word falling from your lips like a stone sinking into water. “If this can be called living.”

Slowly coming undone, the silence between you lingered as the unspoken words pressed against his chest like a blade. He wanted to move, to reach for you, to do something, but all he could do was stare as the weight of his guilt threatened to crush him.

“You didn’t save me,” you said, and the simplicity of your words felt like a blow to the chest.

“I tried,” he murmured, though even to his own ears, the words rang empty.

“Not hard enough.”

Quiet, almost detached your tone didn’t reach him as angry, and that made it worse. You weren’t blaming him—not entirely—but your words carried the weight of a truth he couldn’t deny.

The grip on his sword faltering, Giyuu closed his eyes. “I thought you were gone. I looked for you, but I...” His voice broke, and he hated himself for it, hated the way his composure cracked under the weight of his failure.

When he opened his eyes, you were closer, and the scent of death clung to you like a second skin. “You should have let me go,” you said, and there was something almost tender in the way you said it, though it was a tenderness laced with bitterness. “It would have been kinder.”

“I couldn’t,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Why not?”

While the truth weighed too heavy, being too raw to put into words, he didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, he watched as you stepped back, disappearing into the shadows—the shadows he couldn’t reach—once more.

Falling to his knees in the clearing, the weight of your presence—of your absence—crushed him. You were gone, and yet you weren’t. You were out there, somewhere, haunting him with the reminder of everything he had failed to protect.

The silence of the forest pressed in around him, and for the first time in years, Giyuu allowed himself to break.

A sharp scent of blood hung heavy in the air, the battlefield awash with red. Obanai’s breath hitched, but the chaos around him blurred into nothing as he stood rooted in place, unable to move. The shadows of the trees twisted in the dim moonlight, creating a stage for the figure that emerged from the darkness. He had spent months telling himself you were gone, mourning you in silence because grief was an emotion he could barely afford in this life. But there you stood—or, at least, something that resembled you—your body wrapped in an aura of darkness that felt like the demon king himself.

It was as if the universe had stopped breathing, leaving only the low rustling of leaves and the distant cries of the dying behind him. You were there, but clearly, it wasn’t you. You couldn’t be demon.

The Obanai who had stood tall and unshaken in the face of countless battles, who had worn his stoic mask like armor, felt it crack the moment your crimson eyes met his. The warmth he had once loved so deeply in your gaze was gone, replaced by something feral, detached—an unbearable void.

And yet, despite the demonic aura, despite the unmistakable stench of Muzan’s curse on your flesh, your face was unchanged. The softness of your features, the curve of your lips, the way you carried yourself—it all lingered, mocking him, reminding him of what he’d failed to protect. You looked like a ghost, not alive, not truly dead, and far beyond his reach.

“Obanai,” you said, and the sound of your voice cut through him like a blade. It was lower now, more venomous, but it was still you. The voice that had soothed him when he doubted himself, that had laughed softly as you tended his wounds in the quiet of the night. Clenching his fists, the trembling betrayed the storm in his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice taut, forced. Painfully, his hands itched to draw his blade, to do what had to be done, but his body wouldn’t obey. Not yet. Not while the sight of you chained him to the ground.

Stepping closer, your movements were slow, deliberate, each step a challenge. “And yet I am,” you murmured. “I suppose we have to thank him for that.”

Muzan. That name was a curse in his mind, a symbol of everything vile and cruel in the world. The realization clawed at him—the same hands that had taken so much had taken you, turned you into a monster.

“You didn’t come for me,” you said softly, but there was no anger in your tone, only the empty weight of a fact. “I waited, Obanai. I waited in that darkness, clinging to the hope that you would find me. But you didn’t.”

Like a blow this accusation landed, harder than any wound he’d ever suffered in battle. The man wanted to deny it, to scream that he had tried, that he had searched, that he had torn himself apart looking for you. But what would it matter? You were here now, and the truth was written in the blood staining your claws, in the hunger lurking behind your crimson gaze.

“I couldn’t,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible.

“No,” you said, tilting your head as if studying him. “You wouldn’t.”

Ever so subtle, the bitterness in your voice dug into him like thorns, wrapping around his ribs until he could barely breathe. He thought of the nights he had spent grieving you in silence, the guilt that had kept him awake, and the endless prayers he had offered to gods who had long stopped listening.

But none of it mattered. None of it would undo what had been done.

“You were my weakness,” you continued, creeping closer still, until you were only a few feet away. “And now I am yours.”

Shattered, his hand tightened around his blade, and this time, it wasn’t hesitation that stayed him. It was despair. He couldn’t fight you—not because he lacked the will, but because he knew that no matter how sharp his blade, no matter how precise his strike, he couldn’t kill the part of himself that still loved you.

“Do it,” you said, your voice almost tender, as if mocking him. “Draw your sword, Serpent Hashira. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that your duty?”

Naturally, he wanted to tell you to stop, to beg you to leave, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The weight of his guilt and failure pressed down on him like a mountain.

You smiled then, a cruel, broken smile. “You can’t, can you? Because you know this is your fault.”

Like a dagger, those words were catapulted deep into his heart. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet your eyes anymore, because he knew you were right. He had failed you in the worst way, and this was his punishment—to see you like this, to know that the person he had loved was gone, replaced by something monstrous.

Softly, you cracked a laugh, a bitter sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Goodbye, Obanai,” you said, turning away from him, your voice carrying no malice, only finality. “This was the last thing I needed to see.”

Long after you disappeared into the shadows, he stood there, the weight of your presence lingering in the air. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his blade clattering beside him. The silence of the forest swallowed him, but it offered no solace.

The hashira had failed you, and now he would carry the ghost of that failure with him until the end.

pls don’t let this flop. i feel too deeply about kny men. 🫢

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supercutszns · 10 months ago

Note

luke castellan comforting his gf?

btw i love ur work 💗💗

wc + pairing: 0.9k, luke castellan x reader

oh i really needed this,,, if i stop writing comfort fics i’m dead i will literally write a thousand of them over and over they could be exact replicas and i would not care. sorry this took such a long time i've been in a big writing slump and i really don't like this but we have to start somewhere <3 every time someone requests a comfort fic i get very happy inside! i know this isn’t my best work like at all but hopefully it’s enough for now

Luke’s good at finding hidden things. A playing card wedged between wooden panels. A camper that always trudges at the back of the line. He can find something at its most sheltered and pluck it right back where it belongs. He’s good at that with you, too. When you wedge yourself somewhere tough, he slips through the cracks every damn time.

You’re exhausted. You don’t know what time it is, how long you’ve been here, or how you can stop it. You just couldn’t get up this morning and your siblings let you stay sick. You imagine an alternate version of this day over and over, where you’re up and alive and contributing to something. But that’s not today. But it should be. You dream it until tears press against your eyes but you’ve got no energy to push them out.

Feeling like this isn’t a constant occurrence, but it happens. Luke finds his way in each time, wedging open the slightest crack in your door or coming in through the window. He comes bearing gifts, he jokes. You don’t ask him where he gets the things he brings you—snacks, chocolate, plastic figurines to place on your windowsill. Menial things you like. Luke has his methods, and you know he loves you too much to reveal them.

“Got some offerings for a goddess here,” he says when he sits down on your bed, knuckles brushing your arm. If you’re too tired to answer he never minds, he just crosses his legs and pulls your head into his lap. He smooths the hair away from your face to massage your scalp, and lets you rest. He doesn’t ask you for anything. Doesn’t force you to speak. You do when you’re ready.

“I don’t feel good,” you admit hoarsely, blinking back tears.

“That’s okay.” He leans down to kiss your forehead. “You just rest.”

It almost makes you laugh. “I’ve been in bed all day, Luke.”

“Mm, yeah, but you’re not really resting,” he says without judgement, letting you cling to his body as you pull yourself up to a seated position. “What’s on your mind, baby?”

You press your face into his neck so the warmth can distract you. Sometimes you say a lot, sometimes you say a little, like your mouth has separated from your body. It almost always ends with, “I feel like shit. I don’t know what to do.”

Luke is patient with you, but never overbearing. He knows you shut down when things are laid on too thick. “Want to take a nap?” He offers, threading his hands through your hair. “I can take you to my cabin, it’s cooler.”

He’s right, so you let him, and he steals you away without a fuss. The sheets smell like him, so even if you want to be alone, he still grounds you. When you fall into his bed you curl into a ball like an armadillo, like you can squeeze the rot out of your bones if you compress hard enough. Luke slots himself beside you after confirming it’s what you want, pressing kisses into your shoulder, until you turn into him and starfish over his body. “You let me know if you need anything, angel,” he murmurs, swiping your hair away from your face. “I’ve got you.”

You manage to doze off, with his arms loose around your back and his chest underneath you. When you wake up later with a kiss of late afternoon breeze, you’re struck with the disorienting feeling of a good sleep. “Luke,” you mutter, digging your nose into his neck.

He rouses too. “How’re you feeling?”

“Still bad.”

“Mm.” He kisses your forehead, squeezes you against him. “That’s okay. Want me to go grab you some food?”

“Can we talk a little before?”

“‘Course,” he says gently. He ghosts a kiss over your jaw.

Sleep has pieced together some of the words you need, and Luke brings them out of you with hardly any effort. You have what’s probably a fragmented reason at best, but he doesn’t care. He keeps you anchored to him as long as you want him to, rubbing your back and letting you take your time. Once you’re done with the conversation, Luke diligently wipes your tears and kisses you. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Anytime,” he grins. “I mean, I do love you. Nothing else I’d rather do.”

You let your forehead rest against his. Your throat feels thick but you get the words out, “I’m worried I’m going to feel this way forever.”

It doesn’t feel good to admit. Luke’s face softens, and he presses a kiss between your brows. “You won’t,” he murmurs, wrapping you in his arms. “You’ve got time.”

The length of the day moving around you matters a little less when Luke shields you from it. His knuckles rub across the ridges in your back until you’re sure the texture of his shirt is imprinted on your face.

After he goes off to bring you some food, you find the strength to go wash your face in the bathroom. It’s practically nothing. Practically. At least you settle back into his bed, the blankets aren’t as heavy as before. You don’t feel better yet, but Luke’s got plenty of time for you. (He’ll pawn his kids off to Chris. None of them need this grilled cheese anyway.)

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz @ash-williamsss @sucker-4-angst @kitkat-writes-stuff @too-deviant @huang-the-geek @daughterofthemoons-stuff @jennapancake @idunnowhattonamethis @jarofshells @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not @lauraisthebestyapper @nininehaaa

#perrie’s fics #perrie’s asks #perrie's requests #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan comfort #luke castellan fic #luke castellan fluff #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x you #pjo x reader

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ghosts-to-reid · 5 months ago

Text

Neo Gothic IV

Summary: Spencer invites you to stay with him whilst you are being targetted. The journey of emotions is one you did not expect.

A/N: IM SORRY ITS SO LATE I HAD SO MUCH WORK TO DO She isn't proofread but she is LONG so i hope you enoy!

18+ Series! Mentions of murder and death.

SPENCER REID REQUESTS ENCOURAGED AND WANTED

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 5 / Masterlist / Bibliography

Spencer hasn't left your side since he parked his car in the BAU's parking lot. A lingering gaze around the room as he guides you with a soft hand, ghosting your lower back. He sits you down on a plush chair in Hotch's office, sending Penelope to fetch tea whilst he briefs Hotch on what he thinks the next steps should be. Never straying further than 3 feet away.

Meanwhile, you were still in a state of terror induced silence.

The memeory of Spencer so methodically opening that box, his almost clinical response, as if this was a normal day for him. It scared you to death. Blinking away the image of the dead raven was nearly impossible as you stared, glazed eyes pointed to the rough grey carpet. The poems once macabre comfort, noe turned sour as the stanzas float through your mind, You'd analysed this poem to death. You know the meaning behind it, all thee knowledge you had on poe began to spin throigh your head like a whirlwhind, trying to find any other meaning in the words-

"Here." Spencer's soft voice broke you from your trance, blinking away the dryness behind your eyes, you gingerly take the tea from him, taking a small sip. Spencer is crouched before you, one hand on your knee as he casts a concerned gaze to you through a furrowed brow. Hotch had left at this point, leaving the pair of you alone whilst he organises the team.

After a moment, you finally broke the silence you had kept since your abject discovery.

"The poem... It's about love. But love of a twisted kind. One that persists after death..." Your pace began to pick up as all your previous thoughts come fourth "It's about how strong love can be, hell he climbs into her grave in the end, that's what a sepulchre is you know? a tomb. and he called me 'Sanguinary' that's bloodshed, like a lot- a lot of blood- Spencer- Oh my God, does that mean he want's to spill my blood- Oh my God"

By the end, you have begun a terror filled tyrade, with all your fear and adrenaline coming to the forefront and begging to wreck your body with stilted sobs, the threat of hyperventing . Spencer has leaned forward, grabbign the mug from your hand whilst softly shushing you. Placing his hands softly on your shoulders, he squeezes so slightly, trying to bring you back from the ledge.

"Shhhh... It's ok. We're going to figure this out. The team is going to look over everything again okay? Just breathe with me." Softly, he ran his hands downyour arms, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he took slow deep breathes with you. Eventually, your sobs have stilted, and your breath returns to a normal pace. Spencer holds your hands in his "It's going to be okay, You're safe. I promise."

"But... Where am I going to stay? My... My house is a crime scene, and I can't even go back because now i'm being targeted by some guy who liked Poe a bit too much!" Pulling your hands from his, you place your head in your hands in frustration, rubbing your temples to ease the stress headache that is threatening to pentrate your brain.

After a moment of silence, Spencer pulls your hands away from your face, oncemore holding them in his. "You can stay at my house, with me. And then we can go to work together, where you'll be safe, and then i'll be there to keep you safe, okay?" His thumb rubbed your hand softly, and after a minute of hesitation you nod. agreeing to stay with spencer seems like your safest option. A moment later, the intimate scene was interupted by Hotch, calling you to go with him. Spencer explains that now you were a target, they will need to interview you to find any possible suspects.

Spencer leaves you to go and work with Emily and Derek, Hotch guides you to an interogation room, explaining the setting is purely formality. Sitting across from the pair, you fumble with your ring nervously.

"Y/N, Is there anyone in your life that you may have noticed taking a particular intrest in you in the last 3 months? It might not be in any significant way, maybe small ways." Hotch asks, his brows furrowed with cocnern.

"Think about people in your classes, we know the unsub knows your interest in the gothic as a student, was there any faculty or students who you might have spoken to, maybe even had a study session with?" JJ's voice is soft, kind as she navigates you through the interview. Your thoughts flooded with interactions you have had the past 5 years with your classmates, any significant or not, shaking your head after a moment.

"No, I can't think of anything... I've not made many connections since... since my parents died... I moved here and went head first into my studies, I haven't particularly focused on friendships or relationships until now."

"It could be an interaction as small as you lending them notes. From what we can gather, this unsub has crafted this fantasy around you and your interests. Stalkers like this can be triggered by even the tiniest moment of kindness." Hotch gazes at you softly, calmly probing you for information. After another moment, a small memory emerges.

"There was this guy... Tyler Jones. He worked with me as a TA in my undergrad, we both study the field. He asked me out once but I said no... He didnt ask again so I forgot about it. But he was really into the gothic, almost more than me."

When you mentioned a name, JJ had Garcia run it. She quickly discovered that Tyler had been studying his masters in Texas. This revaltion shook you, and most of the team quickly moved to locate him. As the three of you went to leave, JJ held your shoulder, causing you to pause

"Where are you staying?" Her voice was kind, still carrying the soft tone that everyone seemed to be coddlying you with.

"Im staying with Spencer actually, he offered before." JJ gives you a small smile, and pats your arm softly

"I've never seen him take to someone so quickly." She smiles "He's never like this with anyone new." Confusion painted your features for a moment, and with her impressive profiling skills, she of course caught that.

"You know he's a big germaphobe right? I saw him comforting you before, do you know how long it took him to get comftorble enough for him to even give me a handshake?" She laughs lightly, causing a ghost of a smile to find your features. Spencer had never shown you any indication of that, obviously. It's doubtful you would've noticed if JJ hadn't just told you. Before the conversation could continue, Spencer joins you both

"Y/N, I'm going to take you back to my apartment. Emily and Garcia are going to yours to grab some things for you, but right now we don't need much else from you, so i convinced Hotch to let us go early, Only if that's ok with you!" He begins a ramble of his own about your options, causing you and JJ to share a look of amusment. You interupt him with a small nod of your head, and a goodbye to JJ before Spencer leads you away, gathering your things before taking you to his apartment

The car ride felt odd for some reason. Either the situation of some random psycho sending you dead birds, rife with symbolism of deadly obsession, but you chose to focus on the fact that this was odd because it was the first time you were going to Spencer's apartment, instead of yours.

The ride was relatively quiet until you had turned on the radio, settling for a station playing old rock. There was silence otherwise, but there was also no tension past the obvious, there was an ease of nature between you two.

Eventually pulling to the curb, he leads you to through the old building, and into his apartment. The place embodied Spencer, The dark green walls barley visible through the expanse of bookcases, that were still too little to hold the amount of books he owned, with the remainder littering any other surface that was possible. The ebony wood of his furniture absorbed most of the light, with Spencers solution being a small army of lamps illuminating any corners that were eclipsed. Coffee and Patchouli, the scent of old books all comforted you immediatly, and you momentarily forgot your woe in the warm embrace of the domestic life of Spencer Reid.

Guiding you to his worn leather sofa, spencer exits to make the two of you tea. The day had quickly gotten away from you, the horror of the raven, the terror of being targeted, made the hours fly by and you noticed the time was nearer to Dinner than lunch, and that reminder caused a surprisng growl to erupt from your stomach. Whipping around at the sound of a laugh, you spot Spencer holding two mugs of steaming tea, slowly moving towards the sofa

"I guess dinner is probably a good idea, considering we missed lunch in the panic" placing your mug in front of you, he takes the place beside you. Sipping from his cup whilst eyeing you, gaguing your mental state.

"We could order in? It'll be my treat, as a thank you." This was the first time you had spoken since arriving, not out of horror this time, but from simple pensive thought. Though now, you were happy to focus on Spencer, and forget about the wider world outside his door. Spencer begtins to argue with you, but you're already arguing. Eventually, he submits and allows you to order you both pizza.

Emily and Pen eventually arrive to drop off your things, only stopping by briefly before they go to track down Tyler. They give you a tight hug each, before promising to do all they can. Penelope is far more concerned than you currently are, finding solace in your situation. Silver linings on all clouds exist after all...

Settling on the couch once more, Spencer turns his head to you.

"So, I guess this throws a wrench in our date plans?" He had a sheepish demenour, he was sat in one corner, facing you, whilst you sat with your legs tucked up underneath yourself in the other. Quirking your head to side you raise a brow of inquisition

"Why does it?" Is all you state simply, confusing the man beside you

"Well, I don't think it's a good diea if you go out, the unsub could follow you, and we can't do much here..." His lips form a small line, he was clearly dissapointed by the prediciment but trying not to show it.

"Why does it have to? A date is quality time after all... Hell, we could have a date tonight if we liked." Softly speaking, you shuffle towards him, closing the small gap and placing your hand on hiS "Pizza nad a movie night, under blankets, cuddling, that sounds far better to me than a fancy restraunt."

Spencer gives you a soft smile, and thinks for a moment "I think we can do that... What do we need to do?" Shifting in your position, any fear is forgotten as you eagerly explain to Spencer the idea, get into your pyjamas, pig out on pizza, talk, joke, and watch a movie. He seems caught of guard by simplicity but eagerly agrees. Changing into pyjamas, obviously picked by Penelope, as eahc pair packed are all variations of cartoon pyjamas that had been gifted to you years ago. Of course, still beggars cant be choosers, putting on your pyjamas in the bathroom, you exit to see Spencer setting up the couch with blankets and pillows. He has a loose FBI Academy tshirt on, and plain grey joggers. The pizza is on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and eventually, Spencer turns to see you watching him. He gives you a smile.

He has turned off the lights, leaving only a lamp or two lit. The cosy enviroment has made you long forget any terror, forcing you to focus on the man in front of you.

"Did I do it right?" He asks shyly as you make your way over to him, with a smile you pull him into a hug.

"It's perfect." He pulls you closer before you break a part, sitting beside one another.

The first movie is your choice, a Hammer House of Horror retelling of Elizabeth Bathory, the Vampire Countess. Spencer enjoys telling you the historical innacuracies, but you don't bother telling him you knew this already. Enjoying his enthusiasm on the topic much more. By the end of the movie, the pair of you are hip to hip.

The second is Spencer's choice. It's a film in French, that has no english dubbing. He thinks you'd enjoy it for its horror elements, and he offers to translate it for you. He pulls you in close to him, arm around your figure as he whispers softly in your ear.

By the third movie, it is late. The pair of you debate the practicality of a third film at this hour. He reassurse you Hotch has given him leave to guard you when you worry about how early he has to wake up, and you sooth his worry at the fact you may not rest. You assure him that after the events of today, you would rather watch films with him rather than your alternative of replaying the image of that raven, and igniting your fears once more.

The third movie is a shared choice, after a few minutes of searching, you discover a new release that intrigues you both. His arm is still around you as the film plays, and there is a quiet calm. Your head is laid against his chest, and you tune into his steady heartbeat. His hands trace ghosts of symbols on your skin, causing small goosbumps to form in their wake. There is a domestic bliss in this moment, as this was the most natural position for the pair of you, that you were meant to fit perfectly under his arm like this. Like, the pair of you were the creatures that Plato had described all those years ago. A perfect pair.

"This is the best date i've ever been on" You mutter softly, eyes still looking to the screen. Spencer looks down to you on his shoulder, a small smile gracing his lips.

"I think I can make it better though." His voice is almost a whisper, his confidence wavering slightly as he spoke. Moving to meet his gaze, you find him with a look of adoration in his eyes. Blinking, you hum in response to encourge him to continue. Slowly, he moves to meet your lips, placing a slow, chaste kiss where he lands. It is so tender, it surprises you. After the gruffness of the events of today, you welcome the tenderness of his lips, and return it best you can. The kiss lasts a few slow, passionate moments, before you break for air. The pair of you are awestruck by one another, film now forgotten as you lean in to kiss him again.

This time, the kiss was more feverish, more animalistic as your toungues meet. They begin to dance slowly before fignting for dominance. The kiss escalates, whilst you lie back in the sofa, his arms move to support himself on eitherside of your body. Your hads find his hair as one of his hands lightly traces your side.

When the two of you break oncemore, you are both short of breath. Spencer leans over you, panting lightly as he stares at your form, that same awestruck look painting his features once more.

"You're sublime." He whispers before dipping to kiss you softly again.

Spencer's words, his actions, are so careful and kind. He is calculated in a way that shows his appreciation for you rather than a want for your utility. He has worshipped you every moment he has been able to, and clearly has been for a long time. The safety and satisfaction that Spencer lends you in his pressance is made up of pure adoration for you.

Once the pair of you finally find your attention back on the film, you are both lost on the plot. It is now the early hours of the morning, and the subject of bed sharing was never brought up. But, as if it was your most natural state, he simply leads you to his bedroom, where you both fall asleep together once more, mirroring your positions from the hotel. His arm, protecitve around your waist, and you, snuggled tightly into his chest. This was a habit you were beggining to become used to.

As morning light creeped through Spencers heavy cuurtains, you stirred awake. The weight of his arm was still heavy agaisnt your waist, in the night you had turned away from him, ending up with your back perfecttly curved against his front as he snored lightly. It was the type of morning you fantasise about, the sun shining, birds twittering, yet you couldn't ignore the terror that haunted you any longer.

Last night, you had clung to the distraction of your date with Spencer. The night was everything you had dreamt of, the pair of you had talked all night about anything, and everything. But, that raven haunted the back of your mind.

Why would you be a victim? You knew from the team that stalkers psychology wasn't rational, but you had been a practical loner during your time studying. Study sessions with classmates, and maybe a casual conversation here and there, but no significant interactions besides Tyler sprung to mind. Most nights were spent alone, in obscurity in the crowd.

Then, you tried to look at yourself from a clinical perspective. What traits might draw in a gothic obbsessor to you?

A few moments passed whilst you complied this list in your mind, analysing yourself against every gothic story you knew.

A tight squeeze from behind you broke from your thoughts, as Spencer pulled you closer to him. He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, and a small smile found its way to your lips. Turning in his hold, your eyes met his drowsy ones, still half lidded. You utter a soft good morning, which he returns by kissing your forehead softly.

"Good morning... Have you been up long?" His voice is laced still with dreams, rough but soft.

"Not long. Just been thinking..." Keeping your voice low, you try not to break the tender moment between the two of you. He hums whilst reaching a hand softly from your side and up to your cheek.

"What about?"

"Just..." Your voice stilted, trying to find the words "Just trying to think why I might be a target... From a Gothic perspective that is... Why would I be chosen for this?"

"Maybe he saw something in you that reminded him of a story he read, or a character he liked. It wont be anything you could control though..." His hand is softly stroking yoour cheek, he is more alert now. Trying to soothe you from any worry that may be awaking with you.

"I think I figured it out..." Voice still soft, barely a whisper. You were afraid to admit it outloud, but you had figured it must be this. Spencer nods for you to continue.

"I think it's because I fit the archetype of the tragic gothic heroine. You know, the damsel in distress?" Pausing to organise your thoughts, Spencer simply waits, still softly stroking your cheek. "Im an orphan... Both my parents died when I was 19, I had to stop school for a while because of that... And now im alone, in a place where I moved without knowing a single soul. My past..." Again, another pause, your voice catches in your throat. Emotion now taking over.

A part of your past you tried not to touch was your parents death. It wasn't as if you hid it, it was just too painful a memory to recall. Tears well in your eyes as you recalln the night you discovered them, lifeless and bloody in your childhood home. Spencer moves to sit up, bringing you up with him. He cradles you in his arms as you lean softly on his legs for support. He rubs soothing circles on your arm as you gather the courage to share.

"When I was 19, I was in my second year of college... I came home for a surprise visit one weekend, and when I got home, it was empty. It was weird, my parents would be sat in the living room watching tv usually at that time, you know? So... So I called out to them. I searched the house when I didn't get a response from the. There was no sign of anything, it was like they had completely dissapered. Then I thought, You know maybe they're both in the storm sellar. My dad. H-He had turned it into a workshop, he liked to make things... He made me a great desk once, I still have it. But... But maybe I thought he wanted to show mum his new creation, so that's why they didn't hear me, you know?" Tears had began to fall, you were becoming frantic now, trying to get the facts of your parents death out before you could shy away. "I was right, they were both down there... I'll never forget the... The smell when I opened the shutters... We lived quite remote, they were quiet people, you know? So no body hearing from them wasn't strange, so when I got there... It had been 3 weeks." A loud sob broke from you and spencer pulled you closer to him, still soothing you.

"Maybe you can carry on later?" His voice softly penetrated through your own terror, but you shook your head, pulling away from him and sitting straight facing him.

"No, no I need to tell you or I never will... They were murdered. They... They had been held at gunpoint, and torutured for days..." you were trembling, but your eyes never broke from spencer's as you rushed your tale "I... The things he did... Then he killed them. He... He made my dad watch as decapitated my mother before doing the same to him. They left them like a display...." Spencer moved to hold you. You were now a wreck of shaking cries and laboured breath as you finally broke down in his arms. The man holding you was in abject shock, things beggining to make sense to him now.

The aversion to the crime scene photos wasn't due to being squeamish, it was because of the reminder of your parents. He would've also put money on the fact that your intrest in the Gothic was actually a subconcious need to find logic in your parents murder. It is after all, a historic genre of metaphorical trauma, the illustrations of mankinds sins.

"Im so sorry, angel..." He hushed you, rocking you slowly and petting your hair. He continued this motion, cardling you like a colicy child, until you finally were composed enough to continue. Eyes red and puffy, skin blotchy and red from the intensity of your cries. Almost afraid to ask, Spencer moved forward with his questions "Did they catch their killer?"

A small no was your only response "Death penalty..." was all you whispered. He took this as encouragment to further his line of questioning "Did you go to therapy?"

"Still do..."

"Where's the rest of your family?"

"It's just me, now..."

"So, how long have you bottled this up? You... You said you aren't very social, you don't date... When was the last time that you- That you let go like that?"

His question caught you off guard, but you couldn't recall the last time you had cried so hard over your parents. The thought of them was one you avoided. It only brought up memories of that storm cellar, the smell, the decay... Maggots unsettled you in a visceral way now, as did flies. You would see them in eveything, but the thought of their coporeal form was one that would rarely linger in your concious, lest the threat of their dismembered bodies haunt your mind once more. Though you loved them deeply, for your own protection you had tried to forget them in another state.

Spencer took your silence as an answer before pulling you up, he began to lead you into the living room before making quick work of getting you a glass of water. Here, you sat with him most of the day whilst he asked questions about your past, your family, your parents. You told him about how you'd grown up on the outskirts of a small town, that you were always a fan of ghost stories and would get in trouble for reading too much in lessons. Spencer was ammused by that, he was totuched to discover that your furniture in your apartment were actually pieces that your father had made, and you had brought with you. Sharing stories of holliday memories with your mother baking, even recalling the negative. Your parents arguments, the nasty things they'd say in their fury. The occasinal military style punishment you had underwent, but that also brought fourth the memories of your parents guilt, how they would show how much they'd truly love you after wards. They were imperfect, but that wasn't a problem.

Sharing wasn't only on you, Spencer shared with you his mothers condition. He told you about how he had to admit her into a home when he was just 18, The troubles he has had trying to navigate becoming the carer of the person who is meant to care for him. Tears, laughter, joy, and strife were shared between you, as you both lazed the day away, in hazy nostalgia of each others past.

In the middle of Spencer's story about his acrobatic exploits as a child, his phone rang. Excusing himself to answer, he stood a few steps away from you, just outside the door of the living room.

Moments later, he returned with a pale face. Curiosity combined with fear as you stood to walk over to him. Gingerly, you called his name.

"What happened?" He was silent for a moment, almost afraid to meet your eyes.

"Another box was delivered to your apartment today..."

Quirking a brow, you felt your heart beat quicken.

"Another raven?"

When Spencer didn't answer, and kept his eyes glued to your feet, you grew even more concerned.

"Spencer?" Your tone was impatient, but quivered still

He took a small deep breath

"It was the head of Tyler Jones."

Part 5 soon...

Tags: @pleasantwitchgarden @xamapolax @kchv

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds prompts #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst

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ghostieyanyan · 1 year ago

Text

♡~Yandere Valentine in Twisted Wonderland~♡

Yan!Twisted wonderland x mc (separated)

sorry this is a bit late but here's some of my short takes on valentines day in twisted wonderland!

Warnings: yandere, lack of proof reading (sorry), collars, pet-play, drugs, manipulation, hinting nsfw, beating someone up, dead animal, wedding, hidden camera, (if theres anything missing please do tell me)

~~~~~

Riddle

Riddle has been planning something for you before February even started, probably before new year too. He understand that he doesn't really have a nurturing touch, thanks to his mom, like the others do. But that wouldn't stop him from trying his best to make you feel special.

He'll ask you to have tea with him and if you happen to be distracted by "other matters." he doesn't mind using his unique spell and pull you around by the collar, like a dog.

"its very rude to not pay attention to the person that invited you out.."

~~~~~

Trey

As a vice house warden, he understands that you'll be busy. not just Crowley giving you either impossible or pointless work, or the fact that every boy from each and every dorm are falling to their feet just for you on valentines day, hoping you'll notice them.

Trey knows he's not like some flash students here but he knows what he's good at and doesn't need to try too hard like some other desperate students.

"Hey, perfect! i made you something, your favorite, with a little personal Trey touch~ you should probably eat it all now. Before Grim does."

~~~~~

Cater

Cater is pretty good at getting your attentions. Magicless other worlder, he just has to invite you to something outside of NRC and then watch as your eyes sparkles. Kind of reminds him of a little kid that just need extra attention which he's happy to do.

He'll show you cool different places, shops and cafes. All these cool places are picture perfect and he just loves dressing up with you. from an outside eye, it almost looks like you 2 are dating~

"Perfect! Look at this! we should totally take a picture here with our treats! Say "Happy Valentines Day~!"

~~~~~

Ace

You were very confused on why Ace has been grumpy all day. you tried everything to make him feel better but nothing. You bought him food, drinks, candy from Sam's. nothing.

After the day was over, you made it back to the dorm and Ace decided to follow you back? you tried to ask him what's wrong buy he swiftly grabbed you and rush to your room!

"All day has been a pain.. everyone gawking at you. All the meaningless gifts. All of it! Tonight, you're gonna make it up to me by letting me sleep with you!"

~~~~~

Deuce

Deuce wants to turn a new leaf and doesn't want to look back at his delinquent side every again. he's a new deuce now, a student that's just trying to get good grades and trying to be well respected. but old habits die hard.

Any and every time some one even looks in your way, he's sending daggers at them. and if they don't get the hide, he'll tell you that he needs to use the restroom and for you to stay where you are until he's back. he'll be quick...

"sorry it took me a while, there was.. a long line... wanna get lunch now?"

~~~~~

Leona

Leona, normally, doesn't care for this holiday. his brother always ask him if he's "stolen any hearts" this year? its always the same answer. but this year was different.

For once, he gotten some valentines gift. he remembered, not because he was eavesdropping, he just sleeping and you and your friends were talking about valentines gifts. how you had too many and how you might have to do several trips to bring them back to your dorm...

when you looked at your pile of valentines, instead of valentines, you saw sand.. and a plush lion with a card, flowers, and chocolate..

~~~~~

Ruggie

Ruggie cant really communicate with his grandma that much, cause they're not in a position to have phones but he does send letters now and then.

Each letter has there, 'how are you?'s to their 'are you taking care of yourself?'s. Now his letters to his grandma had this mysterious person, and how 'he's feels his heart flutter whenever they're near.' there also might be some 'I'm worried that I'm not good enough' he was very happy to get this letter back

"don't worry, sweetheart~ you should bring them over and ill give them a good talking to."

~~~~~

Jack

Jack tried everything to stay away from you all day. You're smell was just too intoxicating for him. Jack didn't want to risk spending time with you and his instinct...

he could tell, the other beastmen felt the same way. So all day, he kept his distance while also putting other beastmen in their place when they get a little too handy with you. luckily you didn't notice a thing.

But when you approached him, he couldn't just push you away. you mean too much to him. he doesn't want you to see him like.. a monster.

"Hi, prefect. how's you're day..?"

~~~~~

Azul

Azul tried to just charm you with his charisma alone, no shady actions, no "read the fine print." it seem like he was on his best behavior all day. it made you feel uncomfortable for a hot while.. but after a few hours you gotten use to it.

It was all in Azul's plan. instead of flatly telling you or tricking you to form a contact with him. he was gonna show you that you could rely on him, to trust him. so when you do sign a contact with him, you're guard will be so low, you wouldn't ever dare look at the fine print

"Prefect? Would you like to stop by Mosta lounge for lunch? there's a special i know you'll love. oh! its on the house."

~~~~~

Jade

before valentines day, Jade asked you to go out with him on a hilling trip. you'll find great mushrooms and if you find any 'shiny treasure' you could keep it as payment. you felt bored at the time and went with it. it was pretty fun. Jade taught you about wildlife and camping and you just enjoyed being out and about, anywhere than Grim's messes was a fresh air.

But on one of the day's out, Jade fell and hurt himself! it'll take a while for you guys to head back so you both decided to just wait until it heals, or when jade is "strong enough" to head back.

"aww.. prefect, you're too sweet for taking care of me~"

~~~~~

Floyd

Floyd has been a pin to your side all day. every time you were just talking to your friends or in line for lunch or whatever, Floyd comes out of nowhere, picks you up and runs away from your friends. it doesn't help that his long legs gives him a big advantage. the fact you cant struggle that much and the fact that you're friends cant keep up with Floyd...

When he finally gets alone time with you he just wants to play or just stare at you... its a mix really. sometimes he'll tell you he wants to show you a trick he learned from the basketball club. sometimes he just wants to walk around with you on his shoulders. but one things for sure, everyone is staying far away from both of you...

"Shrimpy! look at this! it kind of reminds me of you.. cause you're smol~"

~~~~~

Kalim

Lets admit it, when Kalim falls in love, he falls HARD. Like he would spoil his love rotten if he could. But he knows that you wouldn't allow him to do so, cause you're just too sweet.

Kalim loves to watch you work sometimes, you're so hard working even though you're in a situation that he couldn't imagine. Far from home with no contacted to your families, that's terrible. but he'll show you that he could help solve all your problems. But he doesn't want to overwhelm you so he'll start small.

"HEY PREFECT!!! Look what i got you! Golden bangles! they have our initials on them too! Come on, try them on! I'll help."

~~~~~

Jamil

Jamil could easily used his unique spell on you but with it being Valentines day plus every student's having their eyes on you, he cant do it without getting caught. So, he'll have have to charm you with the next best thing, food.

He understand the for some people, food is their love language. He wasn't sure if that's you but he does know that you love his food. so a win is a win.

He'll make you not only your favorite foods but his own too. As a "get to know me" dish. Watching you enjoy his hard work, was like breathing fresh air. he loves your presence.

"here prefect, you can have more. i made it for you after all. hmm..? oh repayment? just repay me by spending the day with me.. just me."

~~~~~

Vil

Without warning, on a weekend, Vil grabs you and tells you get to dress. he's taking you out. You couldn't really say no to him so off you went.

He took you to store to store to store. Each store had either something he liked or something he didn't. did you have a say in anything? no.

It felt weird a bit but overtime that feeling went away and you were left with giving Vil a mini show fashion show... with just you and him...

~~~~~

Rook

Saying Rook loved you was an understatement. he loved your hair, your eyes, your walk, your demeaner, everything. On one of his strolls by your dorm, he noticed that you were taking care of a stray animal in your backyard.

You left food for it, you made a spot it could rest, you had a whole set up. even though you don't have a lot of money, you're golden heart shined through. He felt like cupid just struck him through the heart. He would like to do the same to you...

so on Valentines day, you found a box at your door step. inside the box... was your stray friend's lifeless body...

~~~~~

Epel

Epel's family loves to send him letters, he at least gets one every week. they're all mostly asking if he needs anything or family updates, etc. But now talks about you his letter. last time he visited his family, they kept asking about you.

Epel feeling the pressure of his family, told them that you and him were together and how you had "other things to take care of" and that's why you're not with him. they seem to calm down and jumped to another family topic. Now Epel has to convince you to "pretend" hopefully don't for long, that he was your boyfriend for his family.

"umm... hey prefect? i have a favor to ask you..?"

~~~~~

Idia

Idia normally doesn't care of any holidays, in general. he mainly does them for his brother or whenever a game was having a seasonal event. but he couldn't say he had someone special to "sit by the fireplace with him with hot chocolate" or "having a picnic out in spring" or even "being or having a valentine"... He didn't mind it...

which what he'll normally say, until he saw you with your pile of valentines day gifts! augh.. why do you have to be so popular?!

With a lot of pushing from ortho, he finally gave you your gift. it was a blue teddy that looked like hades. You didn't have to know about the hidden camera and mic in it. you could just thank him by sleeping with it~

~~~~~

Malleus

Malleus couldn't really celebrate valentine's day.. he's a prince of Briar Valley, after all. Having him give a valentines day gift can be interpreted as a marriage proposal. that will look every bad for Briar Valley. But the heart wants what it cant have~

His heart belonged to you and he would gladly throw away his position as a prince for you. or... he could just ask you to marry him?

He didn't want anything to come to harm you because of him, so in secret, he made you a wedding dress/suit. Until his graduation, he'll ask you to marry him and then he'll pick you up and off to Briar Valley, ruling together~

~~~~~

Lilia

Lilia loves a good trip. So many places to see, so many things to do. He wants to take you to see it all. why stay at NRC and just reading about other places when you could go out with him. he may be older but he could still protect you with all he has and he'll still be able to show you a fun time. Oh maybe he should show you how to fight?

He's had his eyes on you since you came to the school, you were so strange but you are never boring. something always happened with you around but you all ways find a way out of it. you're, well..... perfect.

"Prefect! guess who got 2 tickets to Shaftland! why just two? for me and you silly. come on, get your things. I'm gonna show you so much more of this twisted wonderland"

~~~~~

Silver

You understand that Silver is just a tried guy. so you do everything in your power to make sure he's okay and not gonna get hurt. After a while of this, you've noticed that Silver's holds on you, when ever you go and move him to a safer place, is more forceful than normal? You just told yourself that it was just sleepy silver but it doesn't seem like silver noticed and you didn't mind.

Whenever Silver was awake, you noticed that he's always just a call away. he wasn't over your shoulder or anything but you did see him more often than you usual did... were you thinking too much on this..?

"hey prefect? i got you some treats from Sam's... happy valentines day~"

~~~~~

Sebek

Sebek is loud. that is not an understatement. bet Sebek probably knows that too. he often uses it to tell other to "respected Malleus." but today he was oddly quiet? you tried to ask him if everything was okay, he said he's fine. Also whenever the other first years asked, he'll snap but not at his normal loud tone?

Without you realizing, Sebek was actually fighting an inner demon of his. Humans, like yourself, were so small and weak. yes, Silver is human too but he's a trained human, you weren't.

He sometimes wonders... how easy would it be to over-power yo-

~❦~❦~❦~

Che'nya

When Che'nya first appear in front of you with just his head, you, ace, and deuce all screamed. he loved it~ but your little squeak whenever you get scared, gets his blood pumping. like the rush you get when you catch you first mouse~

He started to visit more often then before, but not just to say hi to trey and riddle. but to spook their little perfect. a pick to the side here. a blowing into your ear there.

He just cant keep his hands off you! the best part, he doesn't have plans on even telling you it was him.

~~~~~

Neige

but to Vil's dismay, Neige kept bugging him about you! the mysterious manager~ Vil got so tired on it that he just pointed him to your dorm. Which Neige was happy to run to see you.

When he saw you place, he's heart broke a little. how could someone so lovely as you, live in a dump like this? He found you out in the back yard cleaning. it kind of reminded him of himself, run down building taking care of others. you were perfect for him!

"Heya! perfect, right? i was wondering, would you like to go on a date with me?"

~~~~~

Rollo

Rollo will not caught walking into THAT school. but that wont stop him from appreciating you. Whether it takes a few days to a few years, Rollo swears to himself that he will save you from the hell hole your in.

but in the mean time he'll send you some flowers and a gift basket filled with Fleur City treats and fun toys that you liked when you last visit. if only you were in that school and you were in his, he'll show you so much and treat you much better than those.. "monsters."

"If though I'm not there, i hope you enjoy my gift. maybe next time you could visit again and I'll give you a personal tour."

~❦~❦~❦~

you can see this as platonic or romantic

~~~~~

Crowley

Crowley is a very strange bird man? says he cares for you then runs away with his feather tail in between his legs. Or when he just hands you work when he could easily do them himself. He's a very strange man so when he was insisting on you to stay by his side all day? it confused you.

like he'll have you in his office and when you tell him you needed to go. he'll "get sad" and say "awww.. i guess ill just power through all this paper work"

you thought he just wanted you to do the paper work (that you could do) so you did. you didn't figure out that maybe he just wanted you by his side so no one could see/ give you anything for valentines day.

~~~~~

Crewel

Crewel is a very classic man. so when he asked you to help him with some of his designs, you were quite confused. why not ask Vil or anyone from pomefiore? nonetheless, you helped as best as you can. giving your input on designs, telling him what you thought looked nice, getting materials for him, etc.

After you helped him make a set, he asked you to model them for him. he "wanted it on an actual person than a motionless mannequin."

You didnt know that he was doing this so you wouldnt be laying down with dogs with fleas today. Crewel thinks all the boys in this school are just crazy the fact its valentines day. so having you help him was just killing 2 bird with one stone.

~~~~~

Trein

Trein's cat, Lucius, seemed fine to you. but you couldn't say much when Trein asked you to help him look after his beloved pet. plus a cat that doesn't call you Hedgeman felt nice. a cat that was just a normal cat, that can understand you and talk but you don't understand it...

On Valentines Day, Trein tells you about his wife and what they do together on this day. It was really sweet to hear an old man talk about his love, plus his life too.

It felt nice and you enjoyed the time you spend together. you still couldnt tell if Lucius was actually sick or if he was just winning about food...

~~~~~

Vargas

You had no idea what came over Vargas. But when it was gym time and there was any partner exercises, it seems like he'll give the poor guys, that asked you to be partners, more hard exercises.

it could be in your head but after you're done, you see the poor student crying for squats or something? Will he be okay?

"oh, don't worry about him. he's been slacking off recently so its just catching up with him. HAHA!"

~~~~~

Sam

Sam is quite busy on Valentines day. a lot of students ask for valentines day cards, bears, to flowers. some even get the custom order. with those custom orders, he realized a lot of them were for you... he might not be able to do anything.. but his friends might help.

when same gives the students the valentines day gifts, he has a shadow follow them and when they're not looking. the shadow destroys the gift and runs away.

it kills two bird with one stone. they cant give the perfect gifts and Sam still gets the money. oohh he loves what he does~

~~~~~

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