When Joel isn’t letting his mind get all grimed up with rage and disbelief, he can understand the choice you’d made then, even though it makes his stomach twist on itself now.

“He’s so sweet.” You would have said at your wedding, glowing and simpering as you clung to your new husband’s arm. “He’s always making me laugh.”

That’s the way you pick a husband when the horrors of the world are nebulous, foreign concepts, flickering at the edges of your reality like distant stars. But the horrors of the world are at your doorstep now, knocking politely, waiting to be let in. And the idiot you’re shackled to is always opening the door, greeting them like an old friend.

Joel watches your husband over the campfire. He’s sitting closer to its warmth than you are. You’ve wedged your hands between your thighs to keep them warmer. The idiot doesn’t notice. Because it isn’t in his nature to notice much of anything. The pinnacle of human evolution. The end point of an entire species that only ever survived on a planet full of things that wanted to kill and devour its kind by being observant, and your husband doesn’t notice you rubbing your palms together to generate heat.

An echo of the way he didn’t notice he was stepping into a raider trap when your group had drifted into the outskirts of a city during a scavenging trip. He’d screamed for your help like a pig realizing the axe in the farmer’s hand was for an impending slaughter and not for chopping wood. You’d gone running to rescue him without a second thought. Even as his screaming was already attracting a horde of the Infected to the store he'd gotten himself trapped in. You fought bravely, and clever, if not for the fact that the truly clever thing to do would have been to cut your losses.

But you were loyal. You’d be loyal to the bitter end of it all.

If Joel hadn’t been there—a little stronger than you, a little faster, a little more sure with the aiming of his gun—you both would have been dead. The world could do with one less idiot like your husband, as long as he didn’t get himself turned when he finally got himself killed. The world would be a darker, more miserable place without you in it. Joel’s world would be a darker place without you in it.

You deserve a long life. A happy one. You’ll be lucky if you make it another two months lugging around the dead weight that gets to lie beside you in your tent each night.

Joel takes your husband on a supply run. He comes back alone.

He hated to waste the bullet, but you would have cried yourself hysterical if you’d thought your husband suffered at the end. Joel’s conscience is clean when he holds you close and tells you it was over before he even realized.

HANNIBAL LECTER:

You are a gift, and your husband has deluded himself into thinking he is not only worthy of you—but your superior. It’s a baffling notion, one so deeply estranged from the reality of your marriage that it borders on psychosis.

Jack was entirely mistaken when he sent your husband Hannibal’s way with a personal request to mentor the man. Guide him. Hone his skills. “He’s a prodigy, Dr. Lecter,” were Jack’s exact words. From the moment Hannibal set eyes on your husband, he knew the man to be entirely mediocre. His sole talent lay in presenting himself as charming. And it was a thin veneer of charm at that. It had slipped to reveal noxious levels of insecurity the moment Hannibal had opted for polite disengagement instead of indulging the man in his posturing.

Hannibal had no intention of ever seeing the man again. A low-level irritant, like pollen during spring, your husband hadn’t even been worth the trouble of doing away with. Until Jack invited him to a dinner party—and of course, his fool’s gold of a prodigy had been sitting there when he arrived. An ambush. Jack’s dreadfully indirect means of begging Hannibal to reconsider.

You’d blended into the atmosphere of the room at first. Ephemeral. No more noticeable than the wallpaper. Until you’d spoken.

There was a vibrancy to you. A magnetism. He found that it was impossible to look away from you after your eyes had met just the once. Hannibal spent the rest of the evening trying to catch your gaze again. Your husband spent the rest of the evening growing increasingly inebriated. You’d ended the night herding him (unsteady and belligerent) into a taxi while wearing an expression of weary devotion that fit your face like an ill-tailored suit.

Hannibal took him on as a private student, taking such a keen interest in him it caused a stir among his peers. How else was he supposed to become a fixture in your life? You were reserved. Quiet. It took months to begin doing away with the armor you’d built around yourself to withstand the weight of your husband’s corrosive ego.

But for every pleasant conversation or shared laughter, there was your husband sending you off dismissively—in your own home—as if you were little more than a maid. In fragments and moments too minuscule to be considered moments at all, you bewitched him.

“Why don’t you whip up something for dinner, babe? The Doc and I are starving.” The sharp SMACK! of a hand meeting a backside as you make your way towards the kitchen. You freeze in mortification. Hannibal doesn’t so much as blink, only smiles at your husband wanly.

Your husband goes missing. You come to Hannibal sobbing, begging him to join the frenzy of effort Jack’s plunged the department into.

“Of course, of course-” he murmurs, pulling you into the soothing circle of his arms. You haven’t slept in days. Half mad from worry and grief. So many tears shed over an anchor that had been determined to drag you into the depths with it.

But Hannibal knows this is part of the process. You have to grieve the man you’re inventing in your head in retrospect—a kind and playful husband—before you can face the hard reality of the brute you’d given your hand to. He’s looking forward to guiding you through the worst of it until you’ve shed the meager remains of who you were beneath the thumb of the man who had loved you so cheaply.

“When was the last time someone cooked you a decent meal, hm?”

Hannibal relishes in the preparation of this particular feast. He watches hungrily as being looked after lights you up from the inside out, even as your shoulders tremble from bitten-back tears. Haggard with worry, you still take the time to compliment how fresh everything tastes.

Hannibal almost finds it in himself to be surprised—despite his talents in the kitchen, he’d half convinced himself your husband would taste quite rancid.

JARETH (THE LABYRINTH):

You were born to be royalty. Destined to be his.

Instead, you live a perfectly dull human life with a perfectly dull human husband. You were a creature born for elevation, but you had burrowed yourself down into the mud like a common earthworm, and you smiled as you brought this misery onto yourself. Jareth would not begrudge you this happiness if it was a mask you wore to get yourself through the long, dreary mortal days ahead of you. But it was not a mask you wore to survive. You were content. Truly content.

His temper got away from him on the best of days—but he stifled it for you. You did not know any better. Of course you’d made your peace with the meager conditions of your existence. What other choice did you have? You couldn’t have known that Jareth waited for you. Longed for you. Dreamed of the shape of your soul before he had ever set eyes upon your person.

A human man would not rob the Goblin King of his consort.

Feeding poison into your husband’s mind was a small thing. Human hearts were fickle. It was foolish, really, to have given the entirety of yourself to something so volatile. You’d be in much safer hands with Jareth. There was not a power in all the worlds known and unknown that could change the course of Jareth’s heart or his love for you.

He liked to sit at your windowsill, wings fluttering against the glass as he imagined the day when you’d become his. Satisfied to watch as you go from falling asleep in your husband’s arms to sleeping on opposite sides of the bed. You fight more. About money. About intimacy. About nonsense. Insecurities that had never before been spoken aloud now sat between the two of you like a third person. You begin to sleep in the guest room.

Jareth leaves a copy of the Labyrinth on your pillow; you wake up beside it the way you’ll soon wake up next to Jareth. He can close his eyes and imagine the warmth of you.

You read the play. Over and over, you read it. But you never call for him—never ask him to take you away from your suffering. You drag your husband to couple’s therapy, sit across from him, and beg him to see you and hear you no matter how cruel and apathetic he becomes. Your devotion is admirable. It’s also misplaced. You have the heart of a Fae, steadfast and unchanging, obsessive over what draws your eye. There is no spot for Jareth or all the magic and miracles he can offer while your husband soaks your life in all that is ordinary.

The coroner tells you it was a heart attack that took your husband. He was dead before the ambulance arrived. You plan the funeral in a haze. Utterly alone in a way your worst nightmares couldn’t have prepared you for.

You’re getting dressed for the funeral, cloaking yourself in black and the appropriate level of misery for a widow. You stop. Pick up the Labyrinth, flipping through the pages in silence. And then you say the words he’s been waiting desperately to hear—“Goblin King, please take me away from here.”

The crown he’ll place upon your brow will be as breathtaking as you are.

NORMAN BATES:

Norman can’t understand it. He’s turned the shape of your marriage inside out and can’t even begin to understand what you see in your husband.

The man is a brute. Worse than a brute, actually. He's an animal. Mindless and cruel—no better than the coyotes Norman has to occasionally run off the property. But a coyote knows what it is. A low predator, taking meat wherever it can. Your husband would consider himself a far prouder animal, like a lion, king of some distant jungle. He’d spent the last week walking around the motel with his nose scrunched in distaste at anything and everything. Like he thinks he’s better than the air Norman breathes. All the while you wander behind him, like a dog beaten into submission, shooting Norman pitiful looks of apology.

“I’m so sorry for him,” says a glance out the corner of your eye. “I wish he wouldn’t act that way,” goes another. "I’d stop him if only I were brave enough." Your eyes drop to the floor; so much shame is gathered in the slump of your shoulders that it makes his chest ache for you.

Norman knows plenty about not being brave enough to escape. He wonders how quickly your husband broke your spirit. Had it taken years? Months? Or maybe you’d said your sweet “I do’s” with a heart already broken and defeated. He can’t look at the ring on your finger without feeling sick.

“Do you always let him treat you so badly?” Norman had asked suddenly, his tone too biting, revealing too much.

You’d flinched at the familiar sound of an irritated man. Norman pulled himself away from that open chasm of rage immediately. Eyes going soft like candle wax for you. Curling in on himself so that he might seem smaller. He hated the way you held your breath as you watched him calm himself. You didn’t even speak until his jaw unclenched.

“I didn’t at first. But I was only making life harder for myself. It’s easier this way. I’m only sorry you have to see it. We’ll be out of your hair soon, Mr. Bates.”

But Norman doesn’t want you out of his hair. Not soon, or ever. He wonders if you’ll survive your husband. You’re already so tired. He’s met a great deal of tired strangers while running the motel. He’s never wanted to save any of them as badly as he wants to save you—free you. And he knows just how to do it.

You burst into the front office the next morning in a small panic. “He’s gone, Norman! He’s taken the car, and he’s taken all his things, and he left me here! He left me here like garbage! Oh, Norman, what will I do—what am I going to do?”

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing the side of your head reassuringly, “Why, you’ll stay here, of course. You’ll stay here as long as you need. Don’t cry. You’re going to be alright. I’ll make sure of it.”

You go limp against him, trusting and sweet. Norman holds on a little tighter. It’s been so long since he’s had anyone to take care of.

SHANE WALSH:

Your husband was the type of man Shane loved to put behind bars back when the world ran on law and order instead of chaos.

Was there anything more pathetic than a man who stood at an altar, promising “to have and to hold, to love and to cherish,” and then a few years later turn around and start putting his hands on what he was meant to protect? It made Shane mad enough to spit. And the way you defended the man drove him to the very brink of sanity.

No matter how he asked the question—or how clear the answer already was—you always denied the plain truth. Ducking your head, unable to look him in the eyes as you began your usual song and dance, “He’s never laid a hand on me, Shane.”

He must have missed the memo on when bruises and busted lips started falling out of the sky.

Your husband was dangerous. A man that could bring himself to hurt what was (allegedly) most precious to him was a man that didn’t value anything at all. Shane cleaned his gun and surveyed the camp and its makeup—all the kids, the women, the old and sick—taking a mental tally of all the people too weak to defend themselves if your husband decided to take his violence a step further. Lash out just a little more wildly.

You were standing at the edge of camp together. Your husband flinging around his arms, voice on the edge of yelling. He liked that volume. That way, when you’d step closer, begging him to lower his voice, with your face burning from embarrassment, he could start yelling in earnest in order to “show you the difference between goddamn talking and yelling.”

Shane couldn’t watch another second of this. It was his job to protect this group, and the biggest threat right now wasn’t Walkers or a group of violent strangers waiting to strike under the cover of night. The threat was right here. Eating up camp supplies. Scaring the kids. Scaring you. Hurting you. The threat had just given you a shove he could pass off as playful when you tried to press a soothing hand to his arm.

You covered your face. Shane knew you were crying, even from a distance. The tremble in your shoulders gave it away.

“Hey, man! You’re with me today! Need someone light on their feet for this supply run!” Shane called over to your husband, who was all too quick to agree. He always shape-shifted into something polite and obliging in the face of someone bigger and stronger than him. Fucking scumbag.

The plan was to put him down clean. A single bullet in the head, and problem solved. He’d lived like an animal. He should die like an animal. But Shane had thought of all the nights you’d spent cowering at the man’s feet, under his fists, his boot—and a cold rage washed over him.

Your husband was a shitty fighter when it got down to it. It was always that way, though, with men like that. If he’d been any stronger, he wouldn’t have felt the need to make you feel so small.

Shane walks back into camp with his knuckles bloody and raw. He brings back plenty of supplies. He does not bring back your husband. He does bring back the memory of the man’s last moments—begging Shane to stop. Snot, blood, and tears were running down the man’s face in equal measure.

“Did you ever stop when they asked you?” But they both knew the answer to that.

That’s not the story Shane tells you, of course. What you get is soft hands cupping your face, a thumb caressing the apple of your cheek, and “He told me to look after you, so you don’t gotta worry about a thing. Ain’t gonna let a dying man’s wish go to waste.”

HOMELANDER:

How could you love something so fucking ordinary? How could you stand to look at your husband—let alone roll over and let him touch you?

Homelander couldn’t stop looking at the two of you. Shouts of ‘Over here, Homelander!’ and ‘Can you give us a smile!’ would draw his attention away for seconds at a time, and then it would fall back to you like gravity. You were further down the red carpet than you should be. You’d stopped to sign something from some nobody. You were sweet like that. Not sweet for the cameras, or only when important people were watching. Just sweet. It was your nature.

Your husband wraps an arm around your waist. It’s a scrawny, ordinary human arm; he uses it to cinch the lines of your bodies tightly together. You look like a team, the two of you against the world. Despite being surrounded by all these cameras and eyes and insincerity, none of it seems to touch either of you. Nothing is capable of piercing the bubble of your love, which you seem able to manifest anywhere and at any time.

You lean into your husband easily, joyful about it. The back of your head finding his shoulder, and you peer up at him, lovestruck. You’ve got a grin on your face that only a teenager should have. Not someone who’s been married for years.

He cuts his way back towards you, uncaring as he interrupts photos and poses to get to you. “Hey, you crazy kids!” He tries for playful and just barely hits the mark. “We gotta get a move on, or we’ll miss the start of the movie. You can’t miss the start of your own movie!”

His hand lands on your shoulder, heavy and broad. You beam up at him. It’s not the smile you’ve been giving your worthless husband all night, but it’s a good smile. Earnest.

“Oh my gosh, you are so right!” You gasp and pull away from your husband to hurry inside. A wave of triumph washes over Homelander to finally see you unsmothered by your husband’s relentless affection. Needy fuck.

You reach back for your husband’s hand, intertwining your fingers, dragging him behind you. He looks like a hapless duckling following its mother. Homelander’s eye twitches; it’s been doing that more and more lately. You stop, realizing Homelander hasn’t moved, and double back for him. You link your arm through his, pulling him alongside you so confidently it feels like you’ve done it a million times before. You make everything feel familiar.

Homelander spends the entire movie watching you and your husband out of the corner of his eye. Whispered jokes. Holding hands. You’re the type of couple everyone rolls their eyes at in public but wishes they could be like in private. Homelander crushes the armrest beneath his fingertips, wishing he was the one holding your hand, wishing he was the one whispering in your ear.

“Do you ever think you got hitched a little too soon?” He asks you the next day, after the rest of the Seven have all trickled out of the debriefing room.

“Huh?” You blink up at him, guileless.

“Do you think you got married too soon? I mean—you didn’t know you’d end up here, in the Seven, back when you got married, right? You were a small-town Supe back then. Barely on Vought’s radar, let alone payroll. You didn’t know you’d have so many options, one day.” He’s spent plenty of sleepless nights wondering how you wound up in the marriage you did. With someone so beneath you. With someone who could never hope to be your equal.

“Sometimes you don’t need to know how your whole future is going to look to know what the best part of it is gonna be. From the moment I met him, I knew my husband was the one. He was the one back then, and he’s the one now.” You say the words so softly. Devoted. Loyal. Interpreting Homelander’s words in the best light, the same way you look at everything else: the bright side.

You deserve the world. Deserve to be with someone who isn’t beneath you on the gene totem pole. You deserve to be with someone who can lift you up—make a god out of you. Or help you see that you already are one. Your husband is keeping you trapped in the muck of humanity by proximity alone. But Homelander can fix that easily.

His only regret is not making it last. Not relishing the moment to the fullest. He’d put his hands on either side of your husband’s skull and squeezed until it had burst like an overripe fruit, spraying his face and suit with viscera and bone fragments. It was instant relief, like swatting a mosquito out of the air before it could bite you or bzzz past your ear.

Vought held a press conference a week later. You stood behind a podium looking weak, terribly alone. You were meant to be part of a pair. “If anyone has any information, please come forward. And honey—if you’re watching this—I love you; we’re gonna get you home soon, okay?”

Homelander steps up beside you, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. “We won’t rest until you’re back home where you belong, buddy.”

A/N: This is my first time writing for anyone in the husband gang in forever. I hope I’m still doing them justice! Also—I finally gave in and tried my hand at Homelander. It had to happen eventually lmao.

if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer's fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

Leon Kennedy doesn't try to hide the fact that he loves you. He always looks at you with wonder and adoration in his eyes. He kisses every inch of you, trying to prove (mostly to himself) that he's real, that he's here, that you two are together and that he loves you.

And even though he's hesitant, he'd always get worried that he'll go too far and that you'll look at him with less affection in your eyes for being so clingy. Please take care of him, deep down he's a bit of an insecure man.

At night, he’ll curl up next to you and cling to you, terrified of waking up without the feeling of your body against his. He also writes down a lot of stuff about you in a small notebook where he usually keeps important notes.

"My love likes to help others; seeing them run back and forth to look after everyone brings something inside me to life"

"Also carries more responsibilities than they should; they're so kind, so attentive"

"My love likes to listen to me talk about whatever I have to say, and when they kiss me, those lips are so sweet I wish I didn't have to stop kissing them"

Leon Kennedy is obsessed with you, obsessed with how you feel when you’re in his arms, like the most precious thing he’s ever touched. To him, you taste like honey. You smell like the last time he remembers being happy; he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his entire life.

"I will love you until you are ready to love. And then, I will love you more, and I will never stop loving you. As long as you live on in my memories, I will not be able to love anyone else. No one else. And if the day comes when you leave, take me with you, cause I cannot exist in a world without you"

"Leon? What's wrong?" You whisper in the silent room as Leon takes your hand in his and lifts it up, staring at it intently.

"Nothing." He says quickly, a light pink blush spreading across his cheeks and nose. "I was just comparing our hands. I like your hands."

You hum, watching his reaction as he turns your hand to one side, before turning his to the other side and gently holding yours; his tired eyes shine brightly as he whispers. "Look, we're holding hands." A smile as bright as his eyes he looks so peaceful like this.

You look down at your hands now intertwined. "You're so clingy when you're sleepy, you know?" He only whines at that.

You smile at the tenderness this brings you, and let your hands fall between the two of you. His grip remains gentle yet firm. He’ll never let you go, and he knows you wouldn’t let him go either, even when he feels insecure. It was a kind of silent pact, something only the two of you and your love could understand.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Any suggestions or requests are welcome <3

-----

“Love, what would you do if I wasn’t human?” Your boyfriend’s voice is soft, words muffled by the way his face is pressed into your shirt. He’s laying on top of you, his head on your chest, the same way he always does when he gets back from a particularly grueling rehearsal.

A huff of laughter escapes you and you reach up to card your fingers through his hair affectionately. Your heart melts a little at the way he melts into your touch - all those big strong muscles and towering frame and Abby’s putty in your hands at the lightest brush of your fingers. Oh, what his fans would say if they could see him like this. “Yes, Abby, I would still love you if you were a worm.”

He pulls back a bit to look at you, bright eyes puzzled. “A… worm?” He laughs, lips quirking up into that smile you love so much, “That’s - I appreciate the sentiment, but, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant.” 

His expression settles then, grin fading and brows tightening. Abby moves to let you up, sitting beside you instead of laying on you. He’s tense, shoulders curled like he’s trying to make himself small. Your joking subsides - it’s clear he’s serious about whatever he wants to say and you won’t make him feel like his thoughts are unimportant. He gets enough of that from his fans and the other Saja Boys, if your boyfriend wants to discuss something, you’ll take him seriously. 

“What if I told you,” he pulls in a breath, eyes flicking down to his hands, twisting them in his lap, “that I’m a demon?”

When he looks back up at you, the pretty pinkish-brown of his eyes is gone - replaced by a glowing gold color, his pupils have shifted - slitted like a snake’s. Bright, burning purple lines sear paths over any exposed skin, bisecting his face and arms, run jagged paths up his neck - He smiles at you and you see fangs, sharp, pointed - perfect for ripping someone to shreds.

It takes a minute to find your voice, to make yourself move. You can see the way he tenses when your weight shifts, like he’s preparing himself for you to run. He seems shocked when your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and pull him closer, even more surprised at the feeling of your lips against his. 

“I’d say,” you murmur between the little kisses you trail across his face, following the lines of those glowing patterns, “that it’s a good thing I’m a monster fucker.”

Unfortunately, with KATSEYE forming and the intense rigidity of being in a global girl group, you had never had the opportunity to cut it. Recently though, your manager had notified you that the company was willing to relax their standards and allow a higher degree of self-expression in the group's outfits and hair styles. 

That was how you found yourself at the hair salon, hesitating outside the door as your nerves started to get the better of you. You hadn’t told anyone about your plans except for Missy, who had given you the green light to chop. After a few more seconds of hesitation, you shake yourself out of it and make your way inside.

A nice young woman greets you, introducing herself as Samira and telling you that she will be the person cutting your hair today. She brings you over to the hair-washing station, washing and shampooing your hair before bringing you back and getting you situated in the salon chair. As she cuts, some of your fears start to seep into your thoughts. 

What if it looks ugly? What if I hate it? …What will Megan think about it? 

That last thought makes you blink, forcing that idea away. Your raging crush on your best friend and groupmate had started in your trainee days, and had only gotten worse since KATSEYE had debuted. The pink-haired girl was the subject of many of your thoughts, and you couldn’t help but hope that maybe her seeing you embrace your most personal self-expression would cause a… realization of sorts for her. 

You are pulled from your own head by Samira wrapping up, turning you towards the mirror to show you the finished product. She grins as she hands you a mirror to see the back. “So… what do you think?”

You let yourself take it in for a second, letting the shock wash over you as you see your hair as you’ve always imagined but never been able to actually execute until now. 

You meet the woman’s eyes and grin. “It’s perfect.”

The hairdresser smiles back at you before giving you some styling tips and advice for taking care of your new hair. You gratefully pay her and leave the salon, feeling more comfortable and confident in your own skin than you have in what feels like forever.

—

Megan leaned in towards her phone, squinting at the rapidly passing comments from fans, her screen showing her current livestream. Every once in a while she would catch one and answer it, usually leading to some kind of tangent or another.

User36: i love you megan!!!!!

User59: give us a spoiler for the album 🙏

User26: what are the rest of the kats doing?

User87: where’s y/n???

“Y/n?” Megan replies, thinking for a moment before realizing you hadn’t told her where you were going for the afternoon. “I’m…not actually sure where they are. Out somewhere, I think. Lara’s out too. I have the whole house to myself right now.”

Suddenly, she hears the front door to the shared apartment unlock and then close behind you. She glances over at her closed bedroom door, a soft smile taking over her face. “Speak of the devil. They just got home.” 

Her smile only grows as she hears you shuffle around, settling in after being out all afternoon. Because of her distraction, she misses the comments zooming by at an even faster pace than before.

User99: Y/N!!!!!

User67: she can recognize them by the way they close the door? Literally soulmates.

User54: the way her face lit up, ooo that girl is in loveee

Your footsteps only get closer as you make your way towards the pink-haired girl’s room. You knock on the door, nervously wringing your hands together as you prepare for her reaction to your new look. 

You hear Megan eagerly jump up off of the floor. She throws the door open, already starting to greet you. “Y/n! You’re home-” She abruptly cuts herself off as she finally sees you for the first time that day. The grin on her face morphs into a look of shock and something else that you can’t fully describe. 

You awkwardly rub the back of your head, running your fingers through the freshly cut hair. You give the shorter girl a soft smile, inquiring, “What do you think, Mei?”

Megan just blinks, still staring at you. Finally, she manages to shake herself out of her stupor. “You look… wow.” She tries again, “You look like… woah.” She shakes her head, trying to get the words straight. Taking a deep breath, she tries one more time. “You look incredible. Like, really really good. It suits you really well. You look hot.”

Her face turns bright red at that last sentence, as does yours. Suddenly, she turns on her heel and rushes back into her room. You are left standing awkwardly in the doorframe as you watch her snatch up her phone. The hurt that had begun to creep in was dispelled by Megan stumbling over her words to end the live you hadn’t realized she was on. “Gotta go guys, stay safe out there!”

User98: theres no way

User54: megan u cant leave because of gay panic we wanna see too

User22: megannnn let us seeee

She hits the ‘end live’ button before taking a deep breath and turning back towards you. “So, when I said ‘hot’, what I meant was-” She sheepishly starts, but you cut her off, waving a dismissive hand as you try to ignore the disappointment filling you up at the fact that of course Megan didn’t mean anything deeper by it, of course she doesn’t like you like that. 

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. No need to make it weird or awkward or anything.” You reply, thinking that you’ve masked the hurt you’re feeling well enough. You begin to turn away, about to start heading to your room to hide from your best friend who may have just broken your heart.

Suddenly, you feel her smaller hand wrap around your wrist and yank you back. You have to look down, as she pulls you back much closer to her than you were before. She takes a deep breath before looking up into your eyes. “What if I did mean something by it?”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Megan finally seems to realize just how close you are to her, a deep blush taking over her face. She doesn’t make any move to step back, though. “What if I did mean something by it?” She repeats.

“Did you?” You shakily ask. 

Megan takes a step even closer, a sense of hesitant confidence taking over as she gives you a questioning look, slowly wrapping her arms around your neck, and finally settling them on your shoulders as you nervously nod your approval. 

You are now so close that you can feel her breath on your lips. She runs her nails through the newly cut hair at the nape of your neck, causing a shiver to run through your body. “You really do look hot,” she murmurs, your noses lightly brushing against each other.

“Yeah?” You whisper back, your nerves lighting on fire with every soft scratch she lays on your head.

“Yeah,” she nods lightly, before finally closing the gap between you.

You easily melt into the kiss, letting out a light groan as Megan’s nails bury themselves further into your hair, your own hands finding space on her waist. Her lips are soft as they move against yours, and you notice that they taste like vanilla and cherries.

Cherries… that's a funny coincidence.

You lose track of time, not knowing if you stood there kissing your best friend for 30 seconds or 30 minutes. Finally, though, the two of you slow down and break apart. You keep your foreheads pressed together, just breathing together until your breath evens out.

“That was… unexpected,” you exhale.

Megan finally pulls back, but not too far, looking up at you with her big brown eyes filled with hope. “But not unwanted, right?”

Instead of answering with words, you just lean back in and press a smaller, much more gentle kiss to her lips. She smiles up at you, before grabbing your hand and pulling you further into her room and pushing you down onto her bed. 

She easily follows, situating herself and manipulating your body so that you end up with your arms wrapped around her. She grins up at you, before teasingly asking, “So. How long have you liked me for?”

—

The two of you talked for hours, wrapped up in each other’s arms. You discovered that Megan had liked you since KATSEYE’s trainee days too, but had always been too scared to say anything. You discussed anything and everything, sharing slow kisses as you talked about everything you were always too scared to say to the pink-haired girl.

You were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear Lara finally returning from her day out, and making her way towards Megan’s room. Right as she enters the doorway, Megan leans up to press another kiss to your lips. A loud squeal makes the two of you jump apart, looking up to see an excited Lara Raj staring back at you. 

“Oh my god, finally!” She grins at you guys for a second before turning on her heel and running off, exclaiming, “I’ve got to tell the others. They’re gonna freak!”

You and Megan slowly turn to look at each other, before bursting into laughter. You pull her closer in your arms, still shaking with laughter as you start to calm down. 

After a moment, Megan looks up at you with a soft look in her eye. “Hey,” she gently calls for your attention. You make a questioning noise, shifting so you can see her face better. She sighs, smiling up at you. “Thank fuck you cut your hair. The short-circuit it caused led to me actually being able to confess.”

You snicker lightly, responding, “You confessed because I was too attractive.” Megan slaps your shoulder, causing you to laugh even more. Finally, you settle down. “I’m glad you told me.” And then even softer, you add, “You make me happier than you know.”

Megan’s eyes soften. “You make me so happy.”

You pull her closer to you, both of your eyes starting to drift close as the excitement of the day starts to hit you.  As you drift off to sleep, the last thought that flits through your mind is, thank god for my haircut.

—

“Aragorn! Aragorn!”

Aragorn steadies you with a chuckle.

“Yes, yes. I am here. How much have you had to drink?”

You cast a glance over your shoulder at the collection of empty tankards that have accumulated on the table. It’s hard to tell which are yours, which are Gimli’s and which are Legolas’.

“Not much,” you reply with an innocent shrug. “I have given up on trying to win. Legolas has outdrinked both Gimli and me combined.”

Aragorn nods to the jug in your hand. Its contents threaten to slosh over the sides as you sway.

“And, yet, you continue to drink.”

You ignore what he says and the parental tone in which he says it. Instead, you turn to point at Legolas, who chugs down pint after pint as though it is water. When he notices you and Aragorn looking at him, he nods in acknowledgement with a faint but genuine smile. You give him a wave, which he returns. However, as the seconds pass and the pair of you continue to stare at him, he knits his brows. Aragorn shares the confusion, his gaze flickering from you to Legolas, back to you again. Then, he realises what this might be about. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

You lean close to Aragorn’s ear and say in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, “Isn’t—isn’t Legolas the most beautiful Elf you have ever seen?”

Aragorn can’t help but tip his head back and let out a laugh. Legolas continues to eye you both with polite curiosity.

“I am afraid he is not.”

“But, look at him! He is such a sight to behold.”

Aragorn pats your shoulder. 

“You have definitely had far too much to drink.”

You shake your head.

“Even when I am sober, looking at him makes me want to weep.”

“Then, perhaps you ought to tell him of his beauty when you are sober.”

“I will not have the courage to tell him when I am sober. Maybe you are right. I ought to tell him now, while I still have the nerve.”

“That was not at all what I said—”

Before he can get another word in, you are stumbling over to Legolas, who steps forward and holds you by the arms to keep you from toppling over. Aragorn joins you and flashes him an apologetic but nevertheless amused look. You grin at Legolas and he offers you a puzzled, warm smile in return.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Aragorn and I were just talking about how you are the most beautiful Elf we have ever seen.”

Legolas’ eyelashes flutter with surprise, but his smile doesn’t falter. He looks between you and Aragorn.

“Oh?”

Aragorn clears his throat.

“I did not say that. What I did say was that you ought to save this for when your mind is not so clouded.”

It is then that Aragorn is summoned from across the room. By whom, you are far too drunk to tell. Before he leaves, he says to Legolas, “I suggest that you do not let them have any more to drink.”

Legolas’ smile broadens and he nods.

“No, I should think not.”

Aragorn leaves, or, rather, flees with a wave. Legolas returns his attention to you, much to your delight.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he tries.

“Will you sit with me?”

“Of course.”

He takes your drink from you and places it on the table, where it joins the many, many empty mugs the three of you have left. Then, he is careful as he lowers you onto the bench. You beam at him.

“Thank you!”

He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“It is my pleasure.”

At that, you giggle and it sounds almost like a squeal. Bashfully, you turn away a little. You catch a glimpse of Gimli, who appears wholly unimpressed. But, given he’s only half-conscious at this point, he holds fire on his usual remarks. He can’t seem to formulate words, so he gives a disapproving grunt.

“I have not seen you like this before,” Legolas says, affection in his voice.

You shake your head, still grinning like a fool.

“I am not a sensible drunk. No doubt I will apologise to you come morning, if I am not too busy being sick, that is.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Do I not? Already, I realise that I might not have appreciated such compliments.”

“So, would it be best that I not tell you how beautiful you are? And that, come morning, I will not regret saying so?”

It takes everything in you not to melt at those words. His warm gaze is unwavering. Your cheeks ache from the smile and the heat that has flooded to them.

after the first few times, your boyfriend ryomen sukuna still had some fight left in him… but after the nth time…

he had no control over his body, flinching and shivering at every touch. his back was against your chest, his head thrown back on your shoulder.

no more snarky comments - reduced to a shaky mess.

it’s the way your hand was wrapped around him, touching him in such a specific way. you knew what made him tick and if he cut the wrong wire, he’d explode. he wasn’t sure if he should like you for that.

“head up, sweetheart.” you remind, your lips ghosting the shell of his ear.

“i-i… can’t—!” sukuna sobs, his already shaking thighs jumping as you run your free hand down his inner thigh so gently, it hurts.

“some king of curses you are,” you tease into his ear and he lets out a choked whimper, “can’t even handle a little overstimulation.”

he didn’t even have it in him to say something snarky back to you.

but to your surprise, sukuna pushes his head up. his hazy eyes watched as you teased him with lazy yet delicious strokes. he wanted to pass out right then and there. but you would never let him off that easy, huh?

“toooooo m-m-much—fuck!” he cried when you ran your thumb over the head of his dick and he’s digging his fingers into your legs.

you’re surprised he can even make out a single word except your name.

“oh—pleaseeee—!” sukuna is not even sure what he’s asking for. if he asked, you wouldn’t listen anyway.

it’s not long before his back is arching into your touch and he’s asking you for more. please.

“d-don’t stop, unghhh!”

the sounds coming out of him were almost… girlish. how cute.

your hand that was working his cock sped up and your grip tightened and that made his hand reach out and grab your wrist. loosely. i mean, he wasn’t asking for a death wish.

sukuna trembled against your grasp, his body wracking with sensation as the waves of ecstasy crashed over him. he let out a gasp when he felt your teeth graze his ear which made you chuckle.

for a such a grumpy man, he was pretty when he came. so carefree. your thumb pulled at his bottom lip, as you heard him let out a sharp “hic—!”

you let him sit there until he’s able to breathe normally without a sharp inhale.

“another round then?” you chime teasingly.

sukuna rolled his eyes,

“oh f-fuck off.”

a/n: i wanted to write this but i had no idea how to write it. anyway, hope you liked it :)

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