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this isn't anything particularly new to simon per se-- has it been awhile? absolutely. with his military status, endless and ruthless missions, fatigue, and never ending nightmares, intimacy is the last thing on his mind. still, he hasn't been out of the loop for that long. probably.
so it's only natural, the way he freezes the moment he sees tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. and when you realize that he's realized? you panic just a little bit.
"--i'm fine!" you blurt out, completely disregarding that you're nearly folded like a pretzel, pressed beneath the weight of him. and you are, really. you may have underestimated his size, just a tad bit. it's not that it hurts-- it's a different kind of ache and burn in that stretching sensation as he slowly presses into you. "you're just a lot bigger than i thought."
a pause. he stills. doesn't pull out, doesn't speak a word. the only way you know he's mildly amused and no longer concerned? that subtle raise of a brow that makes you bust out laughing because this is all a little ridiculous ; you're sure you'll feel this all too well tomorrow morning.
"i'll stop."
"absolutely not." you reply instantly, earning a semi-impressed look from him. he doesn't think he's ever heard you respond that quickly. "just give me two seconds to adjust. not my fault you're that big."
stubborn, he thinks, in every single aspect of your life. he shakes his head for a moment, one hand braced against the bed, the other running up and down your side in quiet comfort as he allows your body to adjust to the feeling of his.
a gentle squeeze of your hip, then reverence in the way he leans down to kiss your forehead.
valko's ears twitch a lot, you notice. they twitch when he's curious, when he's mildly annoyed, when he's happy... and right now? oh, you're absolutely delighted to discover that they twitch when he's flustered and particularly needy.
"be good for me."
a whimper, then a soft whine that isn't meant to be heard by anyone else but you-- only you, he'll tell you. your hands cup his face, innocence lined in the subtle curve of your lips as your body presses against his, skin against skin, warmth against warmth. you feel his cock twitch beneath you as you grind against it, slow and sweet, longing and aching, the remnants of your desire coating his body. he doesn't know how long you've been teasing him for-- one minute, two, five-- doesn't matter, it's all too long, and if he has to beg another time, then he will. gladly.
"you said that last--"
a teasing kiss, then your fingers scratching behind his ear as you let out a breathy laugh against his lips.
"not being patient enough, puppy." you murmur, hips rocking just the slightest bit, earning a groan from him as his head lulls back against the pillow. "be good and i'll let you feel all of me, hm?"
arthur morgan doesn't know tenderness like he should. he's never been meant for the good, outlaw by blood and soul, always on the run, always somewhere not meant for the belonging. but you are made of everything tender, of everything good, of everything meant for the sunlight. he doesn't understand why you'd love him-- an ugly old fool that's never done anything of worth, even if he's heard a thousand words of thanks from people all over the land.
no, he doesn't understand why you love him, but he believes it when you say you do ; some things aren't worth overthinking because he knows all roads will lead to doubt and some kind of hurt. it's only right to believe in you and your heart, always.
"what're you doin' there?"
you pause, flowers and twine in hand. it's almost funny, he thinks, the way you blink owlishly like you've almost been caught in the act. but your smile is quick to bloom and his heart is just as quick to beat faster at such a sight.
"making something, arthur." you mumble, continuing to weave the flowers in the twine as he settles next to you on the worn blanket near the lake.
"i see that, sugar."
you throw him a faint smile at his cheeky tone, patting his knee for only a moment before focusing once more. you're not talking like you normally do, not asking about his day or what he did ; instead, your attention remains captive to the flower crown, gaze occasionally flickering to his warm one. he doesn't bother you. he doesn't speak, either, just watches in mild fascination at your dexterity.
and once it's done? it's a beautiful thing-- just like you, he thinks. but he doesn't get to say that, interrupted by the way your eyes seem to light up as you place it on his head.
"...perfect!" you exclaim proudly, letting out a sigh of relief. "almost thought your head might be too big, arthur."
he blinks once, twice, tries to register your actions and words before letting out a laugh.
"sayin' my head is too big?"
"sometimes." you answer, grinning as he pulls you into his lap. "good thing this fits you just right."
another laugh as he shakes his head, arm wrapping around your waist as he peppers your face with kisses.
"...you're mighty lucky i love you, y'know that?"
"mm. mighty lucky, indeed. i happen to love you too, mr. morgan."
leon's been looking at his wedding ring more often, you notice. it's been a month since he's returned-- a miracle in itself.
you didn't know if he would, not this time. he's survived horror after horror, constantly on the verge of loss with infection running rampant in his blood, fought his way out of each and every part of hell-- and you wonder if he leaves behind a part of himself every time. there's a redemption found, maybe, somewhere, somehow, but there is also a forgiveness that is never granted.
it's been a month since he's returned. a month and the healing has only just begun, both in body and mind. the scars that adorn his skin hold some kind of hauntening, some kind of forsakening, and the nightmares remain unforgiving and unwelcoming in the late hours.
he still hurts, even if he hides it. still wonders if he's made all the right decisions. still sees the blood on his hands. still remembers those he saved and those he's lost.
you watch him, see that distant look in blues. you see it often nowadays, you think, and that's okay. he finds his way back home, even if it takes a moment or two. or three. you'll wait as long as he needs.
"...i'm right here." you murmur, offering a smile. it's a little genuine, a little teasing. but maybe it's a little forced, too. bittersweet. "the real thing is right in front of you, baby."
his gaze flickers, eyes a little bit wider before he relaxes. a huff of amusement, the softening of tired features. his fingers touch the wedding band-- gentle, sacred.
"took this off for a bit." he admits.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
you don't ask for an explanation ; you don't feel one is warranted, given the nature of his job. you sit next to him on the couch, basking in the peace and quiet of your home. he doesn't say anything, yet his mind speaks so loudly, but you are always there to listen. you don't push. you don't rush. you just rest your head on his shoulder, waiting. however long it takes, you'll wait.
a minute, maybe two. you don't know. you don't mind.
"...didn't want to lose it." a softer tone, almost nostalgic. remorseful, yet fond all the same. "first thing i did once everything was settled was put it back on."
"yeah?"
he rests his head against yours, lets out another small chuckle.
"yeah."
"...wouldn't have cared if you lost it." you tell him, hand finding his, fingers lacing together. "as long as you came back home."
"i know." a hint of finality in the still air, then quiet relief as he turns just the slightest bit to kiss the crown of your head. "there's nobody else i'd rather come home to."
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you smile at xiao's familiar tone. not laced with annoyance-- far from it, really. you recognize the faint traces of a sharpness turned dull, almost filled with something akin to fondness. how long has it been, you wonder, since you began noticing such differences? that lingering distance turned into something of close proximity, that flicker of warmth in amber hues.
"we were in the same vicinity." you remind him softly. "i spoke your name when you were a few feet away, not when we were lands apart. besides, you do not have to stay."
you say this, genuine, but both of you know he is right where he wishes to be. you both stand side by side on the balconies of wangshu inn, looking out to the peace that resides in liyue tonight.
"...i have nowhere else to be." he responds, words quiet, almost reassuring as his shoulder brushes against yours. you feel that tension in his worn muscles, wonder how you can relieve that ache that resides in a yaksha. but as time passes and the silence continues, you feel it lessen, see his shoulders relax just the slightest bit.
"i'm relieved." you finally speak, eyes surveying the land before you, not daring to meet his. there is something tender in this moment, something sacred, and you almost feel as if you could not dare bring yourself to look at him. "that means things are peaceful right now." a quiet observation. a reluctance he picks up on, a harsh swallow, and just the subtle waver of your voice. "i hope it will stay that way for as long as it's able."
he doesn't answer, not initially. you perhaps wonder if you've said too much, if you've expressed your fondness too strongly ; the comfort of the silence twists into something different, something heavier, and that frightens you so. your lips part, but before you can speak, you feel the weight of him.
it's light and it's delicate and it's sanctuary, the way he leans against you. it's something more than a brush of the hand, something more than shoulder against shoulder. but neither of you speak of it, and your heart answers with actions rather than words as you gingerly lean into him, too. this time, there is no tension in his body. you smile at such realizations.
"i'm glad i spoke your name, xiao."
a brief moment of the quiet, then a low, soft hum of acknowledgment.
"i will always be here when you call."
for the loveliest @dreaminghours ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ i appreciate you forever and always
simon likes when you smile-- thinks it's a damn ray of sunshine in a shitty, dark world ( cheeky, he knows. soap gives him enough grief over such sentiments, even if he never voices them out loud. the eyes say enough, LT, and you're bein' real loud-- or whatever bloody shit he says ). it's a reminder of what's worth protecting, of what's meant for him to return to, of what's worth bearing his heart to.
simon, however, doesn't like when you smile at him like that. means you're up to no good. means he better be on alert for whatever you're about to say next.
in theory, yes, simon riley is intimidating : rough voice, a personality with jagged edges, that cold stare-- but to you? forget any of that. strange how you always manage to humble him whenever he tries to stare you down.
"...you called me dove."
he pauses. it's a habit by now, just a mere nickname ; no reason for you to be looking at him like he's some kind of saint.
"and i'll do it again."
"don't threaten me with a good time, si."
that look of feign indifference-- one you always see through, your laughter, and a brush of your lips against his in quiet adoration.
the responsibility of a general is a heavy one-- jing yuan knows this all too well. time is a telling force, and the tales he has survived and told many a time in such intricacies and riddles serve as proof. the weight is hardly suffocating now, he'll tell you with a teasing smile, though you find yourself bearing the task of tending to him and his weariness all too frequently.
...like today, for the umpteenth time. it is not the worst thing to deal with, you suppose : sitting in the grass, hidden beneath the shade granted by the trees. it is warm outside, the birds sing their songs, and here you are, staring down at a certain nonchalant man who naps peacefully with his head on your lap.
"general, it is time to wake."
silence. you watch his breathing, slow and steady. a subtle curve of the lips, often undetected by everyone else except you.
"general. you are awake."
"hush," jing yuan says, eyes closed, that familiar smile growing despite his efforts, "i am resting."
you sigh. you think if you dared roll your eyes, they would simply roll to the ends of the planet, and surely they would not return. what a dramatic fool. two can play at this game, you suppose.
"oh, i am missing my dearest lover, my sweetest jing yuan." you say, exhaling with a small huff. "if only he would open his eyes for me so i could greet him with a loving kiss. if only--"
-- ah, there he is. he looks up at you, one brow slightly raised in amusement as you pinch his cheek.
"what a short nap that was, my general. i am glad to see you awake."
"-- jing yuan." comes the correction, fingers lacing with yours as he brings your hand to his lips, blessing your skin with the softest of affections. "you had no problem calling me by my name moments ago. now, how will you repay me since you have disturbed my rest?"
a pause, then a beat.
"...you are very tiresome, you know."
"yes, i know." a gentle hum. "you love me all the same."
you cannot help but laugh despite your annoyed facade. you shake your head, free hand cupping his cheek as you lean down, lips pressing against his in a quiet good morning.
"i'm afraid it's true." a kiss to his lips, then his nose. "i love you all the same."
i've hoarded your name in my mouth for months ;
LOOK HOW LONG THIS LOVE CAN HOLD ITS BREATH.
; ༊ character : leon kennedy
; ༊ fandom : resident evil
; ༊ synopsis : BECAUSE THE WORLD IS FULL OF MADNESS & WRETCHED EVILS, A SURVIVOR FALLS PREY TO THE DEPTHS OF GRIEF & GUILT INTERTWINED. but in the midst of chaos, beneath the catastrophe, leon knows where his heart lies all along, knows that there is always a home to return to.
it'll always be you, he tells you. it always has been.
; ༊ notes : female reader. nsfw. MDNI. quote from sierra demulder. repost.
THE PROMISE OF A TOMORROW DOES NOT EXIST IN A WORLD WHERE THERE IS AN EVIL WALKING , the dead among the living , tragedy upon tragedy in the renewal of man and MONSTER. the promise of a future does not exist in a world where the end lingers in the shadows, hungry for doom and damnation.
leon kennedy knows of horror and loss as it flourishes in his existence, feels the end of days surge in his bloodstream, but even then, he would endure heaven and hell if it meant coming home to you.
there is no belonging without you, after all, and it is in reunion that you are both reminded of this.
YOU LOVE LIKE IT IS A DESPERATION, a need, a wanting, & you are almost afraid you will choke on this heavy desire, but you succumb to the feeling, drown in the waves. lower and lower and lower you go, mind sinking until everything has consumed you and all you know is the feeling of him inside you.
"leon--" your voice is so fragile in this moment, the longing so prominent in the way it breaks, "i need you so bad--"
it's not enough-- god, this isn't enough. the distance you have shared all these months has weighed too much on the heart, the pressure so hideously insufferable, and even with him beneath you now, your palms resting on his chest as your hips move on instinct, it's still--
god, you can't even think straight, gasps harsh and haphazard, frustration pooling between your legs no matter how much you touch him. you need him more than he needs you, but if you ever dared tell him that, you're almost sure he would spend the day desperately fucking you in means to prove you wrong. your back arches at the pleasure that rushes up your spine, but you can't chase it, thighs trembling as you sink down onto him, feel his cock hit all the right angles.
"please, i--" and you just sound so pitiful ; the whimper that escapes drips with such need that you almost sound love drunk, and maybe he'll tease you, make you do all the work, but you swallow your pride anyway because damned if you do, damned if you don't.
"easy there," he tells you, hands on your waist, voice far more gentler than the way his hips thrust up into you, "you've already got me, baby. hope you didn't forget that while i was gone."
and the way he looks at you-- there is something so excruciatingly tender in his gaze, the corner of his lips slightly raised in a knowing smile. there is something about this all that makes the tears surface before you can even realize you're crying ; maybe it's the way his hands are on you or the recognition that he's home safe and sound, or maybe it's the way you are still left wondering when he has to leave again. you swallow that lump in your throat, imagine that you can rid of that sorrow and selfishness and bite your lip so hard that the taste of rust threatens to come. but leon notices all too quickly, a faint flicker of concern on his visage as he pulls you forward until he's kissing you. it's that muddled mess of love and heartache and familiarity that binds you together, and you both wonder how you have survived this loneliness.
"you've got me." he mumbles against your lips, smiling when your body rocks against his once more at the mere words of comfort. "i'm not going anywhere, so be a good girl and show me how much you missed me."
you shudder at the way his hands fall back to your waist, lips peppering kisses along your jaw, voice low and heavy with want. you inhale, shaky, nod aimlessly as you straighten your posture, nails gently trailing down his chest as you sit up. your hand rests over his heart for a brief moment and you almost think you feel that wild beat beneath it all, remind yourself of the humanity that lies under the greatness and kindness and devastation of it all. he trembles at the feeling, laughing softly at that little spark of surprise that lights up in your eyes at his reaction. his thumbs trace lazy circles into your hips as he lightly guides your movements, allows you to take control as you find your rhythm. it's slow and agonizing and tantalizing, this dance between lovers, but leon has always been patient, watching your expressions with adoration as you find the motions, head lulled back and eyes shut as you surrender modesty and humility in sacrifice for euphoria.
patience soon turns to pleasure, dwindling self-control quickly spiraling beyond recover. leon's grip tightens as he tests the waters, resolve thinning and weakening at the sight of his forever taking all of him so well. when he slams your hips down on his, he cannot tell what he loves more: the feeling of you tightening around him or the flustered cry that he drags out of you with each thrust.
"you--" you gasp when he goes faster, feel your face heat up with shame and exhilaration at the noises that fill the bedroom. "i thought you wanted me to prove how much i--" the words die down into yet another whimper at the sound of his groans beneath you. his movements become more aggressive, needy, and he shows no sign that he's willing to be merciful. "--fuck, leon-- you wanted me to prove how much i missed you, not the other way around."
heartbeat to heartbeat, skin against skin, leon knows damn well what his request was, but you are entirely too captivating that he can't help give into his senses, urged with the need to see you come undone.
"sorry," he says, breathless, grinning when you grab his hand as if it could anchor the sanity that gets lost in the flux and flow, "i'll make up for it, angel."
with one hand holding yours, the other releases its grasp on your hip, slides up your waist, frantic touch dancing across your bare skin as it grazes your stomach, pressing firmly as you jolt in response. the sound you make causes your body to burn in embarrassment, but the way leon looks up at you almost resembles something of worship, gentle reverence in blue hues. there's something so incredibly warm in his eyes that draws you in, lures you like sirens in the seas, but before you can even think to lean down and kiss him, he wets his thumb with his saliva and brings it to your clit, the dreadfully slow drawl of the circular motions making you lose your senses entirely.
you're biting your lip again, unable to silence yourself at the newfound high that sends tingles through your body, makes your skin feel like it's on fire.
"you're doing it again." leon tells you, and somewhere in the softness and concern in his voice is an underlying command to relax and give in.
you want to blame him, tell him that your first thought was to cover your mouth, silence all those filthy noises you didn't know you could make. it's his fault, you decide, because he knew exactly what you would do and held your hand tighter because he wanted to hear you. it takes you a little too long to regain your composure, but the moment you think to speak, he's picking up the paces again. you feel him so much, feel the way he fills you up as he thrusts in and out at a sickening sweet pace.
now you're the one squeezing his hand like your life depends on it and it takes everything for you to not move away, because it's all an overload on your senses-- the fullness of it all and the way his thumb applies just the slightest bit more pressure on your clit, movements quickening.
you're so close, so close so close -- and he knows this, intends to be the reason for your undoing and ruin, so he tells you it's okay, that you can let go and that you're doing so well for him, taking him so good just like he knew you would. he tells you that he misses you, misses the feeling of you, and maybe those declarations are what pushes you over the edge when you finally come, throat ravaged and raw from all the moans and pleas that spill from your lips. it's the way you clench around him, body twitching as you ride that high out, feel him follow you soon after in desperation.
his movements slow, eventually come to a stop. the silence in the bedroom is deafening -- a significant contrast to what it was minutes before, save for the labored breaths that fill the air.
something snarky lingers on the tip of your tongue, but when you open your eyes and look down at him, he's looking at you like that again -- like he's learning what love is again, like he's realizing all over again that you're his happiness, his end game, his ever after, and your mind goes blank, the haze of euphoria all too powerful. so instead, you let out a shaky exhale, smile blithely as you lean down and kiss him.
it's careful, cautious-- quiet, reverent, wanting. it's love, you think, and he tastes like safety and divinity and all you've ever wanted. you lie on top of him for god knows how long, fatigue settling in as his hand wanders up and down your back, slowly lulls you to the edge of slumber.
"i missed you, leon."
he presses a kiss against your temple, tells you he reciprocates the feeling tenfold, pulls the blanket over your bodies to shield you from the cold air.
"...love you." you mumble, body relaxing against his in the surrendering to exhaustion. "might fall asleep on top of you, sorry."
"right where you belong." leon laughs when you absentmindedly smack his chest, words of protest dying down when he holds you closer, warmth shared and known. "love you, too."
you've come to realize that valko is clingy. you ran to the grocery store while he was sleeping-- left for what, thirty minutes at most? and now you've got this pouty little wolf in your bed that keeps trying to bite your fingers in an act of pseudo-revenge.
your brows furrow as you point your finger at him, sharp look meeting his seemingly amused and puppy-eyed one. you've done this little back and forth before. plenty of times, actually, and you know the outcome of this staring contest ( spoilers : you always lose ). there's a brief silence that weighs heavy between you before he gets that one expression.
"val--"
before you can finish your sentence, much less his name, his arm wraps around your waist as he forces you to lay down with him. a little noise of protest from you, a little laugh from him -- and before you know it, your body is pressed against his, warm and safe in your apartment as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
"scent's wearing off." he murmurs against your skin, and you almost hate how every ounce of resistance leaves your body the moment you're held by him.
"i was gone for less than an hour."
"could have waited for me."
"you were sleeping."
"mm." he smiles against your skin, pulls back to look at you-- really look at you, and you almost wonder how you could ever think you'd win against those tender eyes. "i miss you even when i'm sleeping, you know?"
a sigh from you and yet another nuzzle from him as he takes in your scent, your arms wrapping around him as fingers card through his hair. ( you'll never win against him, you think, and maybe you're a little okay with that. )
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; ༊ character : michael robinavitch
; ༊ fandom : the pitt
; ༊ notes : repost!
on the eleventh hour of your shift, you break.
-- or something like that, anyway. maybe.
not in the sense of typical panic : the tears, the way your heart beats wildly, pounding so hard in means of escape from a sorrow trapped in the hollows of your chest.
no, far from it. here you are, on the eleventh hour of your shift, sitting on the floor, seeking temporary solace as you stare listlessly at the white, sterile walls. there's some chipped paint right there, there, and... there.
you stare. you break. at least you think you do, anyway. because there's this numbing sensation that overwhelms you, a strange emptiness that takes hold of your being. because the weight of everything you have done and haven't done and seen today is too much ; your heart is not meant for tragedy after tragedy. because you are human and not hero, not really.
you want to feel a little safe, if only just for a moment, and you think that is very selfish of you. you want to break and tear at the seams, just for a moment, and you think that is very selfish of you. you want to succumb to the weight of it all, but you can't, not now.
you don't like this feeling.
you think that is very selfish of you.
the hospital walls need to be repainted, you think, gaze half vacant, half scrutinizing. admin would hate if you told them that-- maybe if you got your satisfaction scores up-- have you considered not drowning beneath all the cruelty of survival and the weight of making the right choice first? perhaps you should reconsider so people would leave five fucking star reviews at the emergency room. you swallow hard, flinching slightly as doctor robby crouches before you, draping a warm blanket over your shoulders.
"doctor robinavitch." you say, tired gaze meeting his worn yet ever so kind one.
"the full last name." he points out, brows raised slightly as he adjusts the blanket a few times, eventually settling down next to you in this quiet hallway. "you never do that. must be feeling pretty bad right now."
"...mm."
somewhere in that little hum of acknowledgement is a thanks -- he's known you for too long to know anything else besides that. you sit in silence once more.
"tell admin to repaint the walls."
he laughs.
"she'd light my ass on fire. satisfaction scores are too low for a repaint, you know that."
you smile, weak. strained. he sees it.
"...need to break?"
you blink.
"i'm taking a break."
"didn't ask that." he answers. "asked if you needed to break."
"oh." you blink again, glance at him for a split second. this crushing weight that presses on the numbness is persistent. digs into your spine, sinks into your skin in all the wrong ways. "yes."
he sighs, rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms a bit before his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together. strong, warm. gentle. knowing. present. you don't know what it is about that -- that single gesture, the anchoring of the mind, the presence of another. you squeeze his hand, biting your lip as you feel your eyes well up with tears.
you don't like this feeling. you want to break, but you don't. you want to feel it all, but you hate the feeling anyway. you hate this. you hate it.
he knows. he watches you for a moment, feels the way your hand trembles slightly, sees the way your eyes get a little glossier, notices the way you suddenly find interest looking at the wrinkles in your scrubs.
"...it's safe here." a pause, then gentler words, soft spoken. "it's okay."
...so you break. you cry, grieving and aching. you break and you break, hand squeezing his so tightly it almost hurts. but he says nothing, stays with you the whole time. you mourn together in this little space between you two, in this quiet hallway where the echoes of your sobs stay resigned between two souls that slowly lose the fight against death and the knowing of it all.
; ༊ character : jack abbot
; ༊ fandom : the pitt
; ༊ notes : reader has no specific pronouns or features. nsfw. MDNI. repost!
jack abbot stares too much, you think. it's the first thing you noticed about him when you met -- the way he maintains eye contact : sharp, intense. knowing. like he sees something no one else does, like he's looking for something that isn't meant to be found. like there's something desperate in you that aches to be understood. like he's known you for a thousand lifetimes and loved you in every single one.
you've always been fascinated with it. always found it mesmerizing, even.
now-- now, you find it embarrassing.
god forbid a man looks at you while you're stark naked in his sheets, mind hazy from the overwhelming sensation of his cock deep inside you.
god forbid you instinctively slap your hand over your eyes, desperate to not be seen.
"eyes on me, sweetheart."
he stills ; you nearly whimper from the loss of friction. a pause, then a beat. tender words spoken, repeated as his fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling your hand away, revealing those eyes he loves so damn much. the gentleness in his gaze is all too much, a stark contrast to his previous movements.
"...there you are." reverence in his voice, then the subtle curve on his lips before they meet yours.
"stop looking at me like that." you murmur in half-hearted protest into the kiss. you feel him smile against you, and you cannot help but laugh.
"like what?"
"i don't know." your breath hitches when his hands find home on your hips once more, thumbs tracing circles into your skin before he presses into you, moves ever so slowly, desperate but patient in an act of worship and the wanting. "like you love me or something."
he laughs, presses a kiss to your jaw, then trails down your neck.
"or something." he pulls out nearly all the way, feels the way your hips jerk slightly in silent protest before that quiet whimper escapes you. he watches as your chest rises up and down, breaths labored and hot with desire. "thought i told you already, sweetheart," a groan as he sinks back into you, a little rougher, calloused hands holding you even closer as you tighten around the feeling of him, "that i love you."
you can't think, not really. not with the way your eyes shut from the pleasure, not with the way one hand cradles your jaw, gentle, a silent request to look at him -- one you gladly fulfill.
"oh," comes your breathless voice as he fucks you, slow and deep, "did you?"
; ༊ character : arthur morgan
; ༊ fandom : red dead redemption 2
; ༊ notes : female reader, is referred to as 'missus'. arthur is drunk. repost!
you truly weren't sure what to expect when hosea informed you that lenny and arthur were, in fact, very much inebriated-- ah, well, that was the kind and proper way to describe it, hosea said. you also weren't sure why you were so insistent this time around on tagging along and getting a certain outlaw home yourself; you knew he'd always find his way back to you, come hell or high water.
"honey bun," you say, words quiet and nearly drowned out in the chaos of the saloon, "i think you drank too much."
your touch is as tender as ever, hand gently pulling on his as you carefully, albeit clumsily try to drag him out of the building. you can see lenny laughing loudly in the corner, hosea sighing as he pats the younger gentleman on the back. you can't help but smile at the nonsense, though it falters the moment you feel arthur let go of your hand.
"...sorry, miss." he mumbles, half coherent. "i got a beautiful missus waitin' at home. can't be doing anythin' like holdin' hands."
you tilt your head, brows furrowed in slight puzzlement. must have drank more than usual, you assume.
"...arthur morgan."
"...yes'm?" he suspects you won't let up-- he's preparing for some incomprehensible ramble to shoo you, and you're very well aware of this-- as much as you'd love to hear it, you're a little tired, and you'd like to just go to sleep and be held by a certain cowboy that you love dearly.
"i am your missus."
you both just stare at each other, amusement meeting cluelessness, confusion, and...ah-- there it is. you smile when his eyes seem to brighten up at the sudden realization and recollection that you are, in fact, his.
"...so you are." he says. "well, i'll be damned. lucky me." he mumbles.
you roll your eyes, holding your hand out, the curve of your lips growing ever so softly as he gladly holds it.
i'm sorry you couldn’t find me ; i have been in the woods
i put myself there because i couldn’t be good.
i have been running with foxes and running with crows
& i have found myself a home where no one goes.
; ༊ character : arthur morgan
; ༊ fandom : red dead redemption 2
; ༊ notes : female reader. arthur refers to her as 'missus, ma'am, darling, sweetheart, honey, etc'. she is drunk ( and also very emotional and affectionate ). arthur carries reader bridal style. high honor!arthur. discusses the nature of his self-deprecation. in this house we love and support tht outlaw i dont care what he did !! he is Good to me. quote cr : florence welch. repost!
you're certainly more outspoken when you've had a bit too much to drink. scratch that, arthur muses -- a lot more outspoken. seldom does it happen, but in the far and few occasions it does, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. it's too god damn cute, the way you're much more honest, much more clingier.
( and what can he say? he loves taking care of you, loves the way you murmur those soft, half coherent love you's and thank you's a thousand times over. to be honest, he can't tell if you say it like a mantra because you're just that grateful or if it's because you're so wasted that you've forgotten you said it earlier. )
"darlin'," he can't help but chuckle, managing to shut the door to the hotel room, one arm around your back, the other under your knees as he holds you close, "you really done it now, you know that?"
an instant response.
"no, i didn't."
he pauses, shakes his head in amusement before he gently lowers you on the bed, helps you sit on the edge.
"you ain't even know what i'm talking about."
there's a feign, subtle hint of sternness in his tone, but you see through it with such ease. you just smile in return, though curiosity flickers in your slightly glossy eyes as he crouches before you, calloused hands slowly taking yours in his. he looks up at you, searching with that gentle look that only you have the privilege of knowing.
& there's so much love in those eyes, you think. you always think that, heart quickening and flourishing with affection, every beat yet another blossom in devotion. you could drown in those ocean hues, sink into reverence and reverie, forget the dangerous life you survive, and dream of better days.
this life is not an easy one, but as long as you are with him, you will make it through. you always will.
you take a deep breath, face suddenly very flushed -- and you wonder if it's the alcohol or the overwhelming feeling of his gaze on you. a serene silence between two lovers in the night, hand in hand, so terribly in love in a world in which neither of you belong except to each other.
"arthur morgan," you suddenly blurt out, slipping your hands from his, only to cup his face with such quiet veneration, "i got some words for you, mister."
he blinks in surprise, brows raised slightly. his hands now rest on your thighs, thumbs occasionally tracing small circles against the fabric of your attire.
"some words, huh? i hope they're good ones."
...well, he's joking. kind of. but with the way your brows are slightly furrowed, focus utmost sharp... ah, well. shit. maybe he's really done it now.
"...i love you, arthur morgan." you say, words a little slurred. "...i think i said that before."
he takes a moment, lets out a small sigh of relief.
"...yeah, think i heard it once or twice." he responds, though there is only tenderness in his tone. "i love you too, sweetheart."
you stare. really hard. it's not quite a moment of intimacy, really-- it's more amusement on his end, and... whatever thought and feeling you're having on yours.
"okay." you say, and he almost laughs. you pinch his cheek, teasing. "but listen... 'm not done yet, mister."
"...alright, missus. i'm listenin', loud and clear."
you stay silent for a long while, just studying him intently, though your expression has relaxed, turned into something of an aching. he's not sure what you're thinking, not sure whether it's the alcohol that's getting you or something else, something deeper.
"...arthur," you finally speak up, "you're such a good man. i hope you know that."
he feels his heart break a little-- whatever remains of it, anyway. he looks up at you with wide eyes, and it doesn't take a second before he responds.
"...you know that's not true, sweetheart." a quiet answer, excruciatingly soft, just like the way he places his hands over yours. "i'm not a good man. got too much blood on my hands. did things i'm not proud of."
"you're good to me. to thousands of other people, arthur." you whisper, and he almost wonders if you've managed to sober up that quickly. "we all got blood on our hands, love. you could bathe them in red, for god's sake, and i'll still hold them."
he stills. his heart pounds against his chest, longs to be free from the thorns of doubt that have dug themselves deep into his existence.
"honey--"
"i wish you could see yourself the way i see you." your voice wavers slightly. "i see the way you look at yourself in the mirror, arthur. i hate it." a crack in your voice, and then in the decayed humanity that lays in his chest. "i hate it, love. i wish you could see all the good in you, all that kindness you got and share. you're so good, arthur, and you won't let yourself believe it. i wish you would. i wish you'd be as kind to yourself as you are to the world."
he finds himself speechless, uncertain. afraid. he wants to protest, wants to say otherwise-- because it's all he knows. he's never been a good person. he's killed, robbed-- but he's also saved, given when he's always had so little.
"...tell me that you'll learn to believe it." you say. "i don't care if it takes a week, a year, or the rest of our lives. i don't care if we're old and gray. just tell me you'll try. please, arthur."
there's a strange numbness in the beating of his heart, and just the slightest bit of wonder -- christ, you were so drunk and nonsensical just a few moments ago, and now you're here, on the verge of tears with nothing but ardency in your voice.
he wants to refuse, wants to decline, but he can't. he can never refuse you.
"i'll..." he clears his throat. "for you, i'll try. ain't making no promises, though."
you smile, and he cannot help but return it, though there's a quiet hesitance and reluctance beneath it all, and you see it.
"thank you." you lean down, press a kiss to his forehead. "i love you, mr. morgan." a pause, then a little hint of confusion in your eyes, the intensity suddenly gone ( and ah, he realizes-- still drunk as hell ). "i think i've told you that before. maybe..." you murmur, suddenly deep in thought about something so entirely casual in comparison to the previous conversation that happened, what, a few seconds ago?
still, he cannot help but laugh, and the curve of your lips grows more gentle at the sound. it was a matter of time before you started repeating yourself, anyway.
"yeah, you might've told me." he smiles when you lean down, lips pressing against his in a blithe kiss. "love you too, you drunken fool."
( you won't remember this in the early hours of the morning, he thinks, but he will, forever and always. it's just the faintest bittersweetness that comes with that realization, he contemplates, eventually climbing into bed with you, pulling the covers up as you practically drape yourself over him.
you won't remember this, and his mind haunts him ever so, tells him that you're just being kind, just taking pity. you won't remember it, and maybe you don't really mean all of it. but you have no reason to lie, and you never would-- but the heart and soul is a cruel being, and he cannot shake the thought.
he falls asleep to such troubling thoughts-- nothing new, not really. there hasn't been a single moment in his life where he granted kindness to himself.
& so he wakes to a peaceful sunlight, a nice hotel room, a comfy bed, and a certain half-awake, hungover someone next to him. he pauses, relives the memories of last night, and his mind wanders. he sees the way you look at him : a little disoriented, a little groggy, and it's only a second before your eyes light up the moment you notice he's awake, the radiance in your features so blinding and brilliant sometimes. and it's that very moment, he realizes -- in the way you look at him like he's the god damn world, that you meant every single word last night, drunk or not.
he holds you a little tighter, offering silent greeting through shared warmth. somewhere in that little space between your bodies is a gratefulness, and in time, he thinks, he'll learn to be kind to himself. )
leon kennedy always recognizes you as his home. doesn't matter where he is, whether near or far, what time it is, doesn't matter how injured he is, how much his body and mind tire from cruelty and virus alike-- the mere sight of you, safe and happy, is enough to bring reprieve to an aching heart.
he has endured more than anyone else has in this world, but you know he'd never dare admit that. he's not allowed to, not when he's deemed himself a failure. he may have saved thousands of lives, but for the few he failed to save, he carries that with him forevermore. you know this and so does he.
but you don't recognize him as a failure-- never could, never will. but sometimes words are not enough of a reminder, and sometimes, it is not words that speak the loudest.
so you hold him every night, make sure he feels as safe as he makes you feel. even when it's a little too hot, even when you've had a misunderstanding that day. you hold him like something meant to be cherished, something meant to be protected.
you hold him like he's meant to be saved.
"...you're getting a few grays, baby." you say softly, fingers weaving through soft locks as he rests his head on your chest. you lay together in the bedroom you've shared for years and years. this is your home, your haven. your sanctuary. it's all you know and it's all he ever wants to know.
"getting old." he murmurs. "not as young as i used to be when we first met."
it's spoken in a lighthearted manner, but you can sense the weariness in his tone. you smile, press your lips against his head, feel him relax against your body even more than before.
"...'s okay. we can grow old and gray together, yeah?"
a small huff of amusement before he shifts slightly, looking up at you. there's that fondness in blue eyes you've grown to adore with all your heart ; you hope to continue protecting it with everything you have.
"yeah," he says, quiet, reverent, as he kisses you on the lips, "we can grow old and gray together."
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does it bother you, that mercy is so difficult to understand?
; ༊ character : simon ghost riley
; ༊ fandom : call of duty
; ༊ notes : quote by mary oliver. repost ( again, sorry! )
prologue :
BUT THERE IS ALWAYS A WEAKNESS IN EXISTENCE, THE CHOIR WILL SING, BECAUSE THIS LIFE IS MEANT TO BE AN EVERLASTING TRAGEDY : MEANT FOR THE RECKONING , MEANT FOR THE RUINING. THERE IS ALWAYS DEATH, ALWAYS BLOOD, ALWAYS ON YOUR HANDS, ALWAYS ON THE MASK.
YOU SAY YOU ARE MADE OF CRUELTY. THAT YOU HAVE A COLD HEART. BUT THERE IS WEAKNESS IN BEING KNOWN, IN BEING LOVED, AND YOU KNOW THIS. AND YOU ALLOW IT, YOU DO.
act 01 :
the first time simon realizes he loves you is the last time he swears to see you. best to cut off ties now, make it quick and move on. forget it all.
his life is too different from yours : wartorn . gruesome . vicious. he is the knife meant for the killing : sharp . cold . cruel. the only way he belongs in the heart of another is through the blade, and he knows this.
he's lost too many people, lost those he's cared for, over and over and over again, and if he allows this, then he'll lose you, too. he will. he knows. he knows too damn well, and he fucking hates it. he understands this more than anyone in the world.
he claims he has a cold heart ; he'd like to believe that. god, he wishes it could be true. it would be so much easier, wouldn't it? wouldn't have fallen in love with you, wouldn't have to mourn for his family and friends, his comrades. wouldn't have to feel anything, just do what he was told.
it would be so much easier, that numbness. because as much as he wants to stop this, put an end to this tragedy before it festers and blooms into something terrifying, he can't.
( how very strange, he thinks, this reminder that even a ghost was once human, too. )
act 02 :
the first time simon shows his face is perhaps the most frightening of all. there is just the faintest vulnerability that comes with being known, and he tries not to acknowledge it. yes, his comrades have seen him, but not you. never you. because this is different, and he cannot describe it, cannot describe why. it is something akin to bearing one's heart : ripping it from his chest, ugly and worn but beating and beating and beating in his calloused hands, and hoping that even then, even in the vile nature of a weapon, you won't turn away.
but when you see him, you pause for a moment, brows raised just for the slightest moment before your eyes lighten up. he doesn't quite understand. he's not sure how to react to your...reaction.
you grin.
"hey, handsome."
( you don't see his face for months after that. you don't ask to, either, but should you ever, he would have obliged in a moment's notice. what a strange thing it is, this weakness he has for you. )
act 03 :
the first time simon kisses you, he wonders if there is a happy ending at the end of this road. you've never been one to fuss over seeing his face-- something he has learned to appreciate all too well. it's almost second nature by now, though you seldom see it. a flicker of curiosity in your eyes, then a faint smile, and that's it.
but tonight is different. tonight, in quiet reverence, your hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing that little scar on the corner of his lip. it's not something born from war, but he'll tell you it is, when in truth, it was something from childhood. but you never ask because you already understand.
you stare at him, and he cannot understand your gaze. gentle. fond.
it almost frightens him, that strange stirring in the heart.
"i love you, you know." you tell him, and your words are but a whisper, yet they're so loud that it shatters the silence in ways that he will remember forever. "i do."
he swallows hard. something tells him that he cannot, should not reciprocate the words. so he doesn't.
"i know."
you smile, lean in just the slightest bit-- almost waiting with bated breath to see if he'll pull away. he should. he should stop this, stop before this turns into something that could twist joy into grief, turn this newfound home into a burial ground. but he doesn't. so you kiss him, tender, adoring, and you let out just the softest laugh, and perhaps it's the kindest thing he's ever heard.
"yeah," you say, kissing him just once more, "i know, too."
( somewhere in that kiss, there's the reciprocation of a love found and forsaken and cherished. one day, he'll say the words. it is his silent promise to you, one you somehow manage to hear. )
act 04 :
the first time simon comes home to you, he hopes it is the first of a thousand times. it has been months since you have last seen each other, and he is tired. the weight on his shoulder is a heavy one, and the ache in his bones is a dull hollowing.
you do not ask how he is. you never do. there is always love through other means. the silence is strong, but never suffocating. you welcome him home with open arms, holding him close, fingers gently running through his hair.
a kiss to the temple, then a small hum of contentment. the passage of time is a blur nowadays, simon thinks, but he would spend forever with you like this if he could.
"...'m back, dove."
you feel him hold you a little closer, just the faintest trace of his lips against your neck.
"you are." you murmur, and there is a brutality in the relief you feel in the knowing of his return. "welcome back."
( & the heart is not always meant for the destruction, simon learns, slowly but surely. maybe there's a happy ending here, somewhere, somehow. he'll be sure to find it. he has to. )
arthur morgan is not a good man. he knows this, always has. the life he leads is not a good one : an outlaw at best, scum of the earth at worst. a criminal with no means of redemption, the blood on his hands too becoming of everything he knows and everything he is. even saints cannot save him now ( and you both know this ). but you-- you are good, you are everything meant for radiance. you, who is brighter than the sun itself, always find the good in everything, even him.
he doesn't get it. tries not to overthink it, really. easier for both of you that way -- better for him to not spiral in that rabbit hole of self deprecation and doubt, and easier for you -- better that he doesn't push you away, try to get you away from a life you should not live.
"i love you, you know." you whisper one night, your hand on his cheek, lips soft against his, like something meant to be holy. "love you so much, arthur morgan."
he doesn't get it, but he kisses you all the same like it's the only thing that might save him ( as if he was meant for saving, anyway ).
"you sure about that?" he tells you, and the slight teasing in his voice is not enough to mask the doubt that creeps into his being, invades his every thought and second of existence in a brave new world. "better men to love out there, sweetheart."
you hum, gentle, never dissuaded. you and your goddamn heart of steel, so stubborn and soft all at once.
"you always say such nonsense." you kiss him again. once, twice, three times, just in case he forgets tonight. "i only want you, you fool. i love you, always. it'll always be you, you know."
he sighs into your kiss, and you feel the way he smiles against you, like a silent surrender.
( he knows. of course he does. he kisses you back. once, twice, three times. just in case you forget tonight. )
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