✧･ﾟ Summary ꒱ꪆৎ : Bob likes when his girlfriend picks him up and pins him against the wall.
･ﾟ: Pairing ꒱ꪆৎ. Robert (Bob) Reynolds x Valarie (Val) Brown (Original Character)
･ﾟ: Tags / Rating ꒱ꪆৎ. 18+/ - interracial couple ✧ blk!oc ✧ male!female ✧ heated makeout session ✧ sorta subby!bob ✧ pet names ✧ fluff (?) ✧ MDNI ✧teasing ✧ mentions of sex ✧ mature language ✧ mischaracterization ✧ character!oc ✧ mature content ✧ poorly written ✧ no real plot ✧ implied sex ✧ mentions of masturbation ✧ mentions of panty sniffing ✧ breeding kink if you squint ✧ author doesn't know what they're doing ✧
･ﾟ: Content Warnings꒱ꪆৎ. Mature content ✧ heated make out session ✧
✧･ﾟ: Timeline / AU ꒱ꪆৎ. Takes place somewhere in the three months after the movie’s main events.
✧･ﾟ: Word Count ꒱ꪆৎ. 1243
✧･ﾟ: Author’s Note ꒱ꪆৎ : MDNI, you’ll be blocked. first post! I'm both so nervous and excited sksks. The inspo for this is the scene where John slams Bob into the wall. Unashamed to say that was hot asf and when is it my turn to push Bob against a wall???? barely beta'd bc author is lazy asf. (ps: this can be read as x blk fem reader since only thing described is hair texture, color, and eyes.)
Bob couldn’t control the way his body melted in her hands the moment she kissed him.
He couldn’t control the groan that slipped out when her hands started roaming his chest. Couldn’t control the insistent, aching throb of his cock straining against his boxers. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he fell apart under her touch. Key word: almost.
Bob’s hands fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, fingers clumsy with desperate eagerness. He swore against her lips, a soft, frustrated sound, before giving up, pulling hard and sending buttons scattering across the hardwood floor.
Val pulled back with a little gasp, then a laugh bubbled out of her—a warm, rich sound he’d missed so, so badly. “That was a gift, baby.” she said, grinning up at him, dimples poking her round cheeks.
“I’ll buy you another one,” Bob muttered, voice low and rough, while brushing his fingertips over the lace of her bra. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown wide, and fixated on her face.
She just shook her head, still smiling, and slid a hand behind his neck to pull him back into a kiss. Bob’s hands moved into her hair, fingers tangling carefully in the thick, soft cords of her auburn locs.
He could smell her shampoo, her perfume, just her in general; a scent that had faded from the sheets and pillows over the long weeks. It made him groan, fingers tightening in her hair.
She patted his hips twice, a simple signal he knew so well. Bob lifted his legs obediently and her hands slid behind his thighs, her grip firm. In one smooth, effortless motion, she had him up against the nearest wall, his legs locked around her waist and pulling her in close.
The kiss turned messy, all tongue, teeth, and shared breaths. Bob broke away, breathless, and Val immediately latched onto his jaw. She dotted kisses along the line of it and down the column of his throat, sucking lightly at his skin. Squeezing his eyes shut, Bob let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, moan after moan escaping him.
Fuck, how he’d missed this. Missed her.
Val had been gone for three weeks, back to Texas to help her mom after a nasty fall. The first few days were okay. They’d text constantly and call every night. But as the days stretched, the calls got shorter and the texts less frequent.
Her mom was a handful, Val’s words, not his, she explained one night, tired and apologetic. Bob understood, really, he did.
But he missed her horribly. Missed her voice, her silly jokes, the way she hummed off-key while cleaning, and sleeping at night with her body completely on top of his.
Most of all, he missed her touch.
Some nights, the loneliness had been an unbearable physical pain. Nights like those, curled in bed, her panties to his nose and cock in his hand, always ended with him still feeling desperate and frustrated.
Because, in the end, it wasn’t her.
It wasn’t the heat from her body pressed against his, wasn’t her hands on his thighs, wasn’t her breath on his neck, or her lips hot on his skin. And it wasn’t those warm, brown, round eyes of hers, staring at him like he was the only thing she’d ever need and want.
Oh, how she made him feel so wanted.
His erection pressed against her pelvis, hard and insistent. Bob brought his forehead to her shoulder and groaned out a low, “Fuck…” He was so hard it fucking hurt.
Val gripped his thighs tighter, pressing him harder into the wall. “Guess someone’s really missed me, huh?” she murmured against his skin, her voice teasing and playful, before she bit down on the curve of his neck, leaving a mark.
Bob just nodded, words caught in his throat. Val eased up and kissed her way back to his mouth. He met her kiss with a desperate fervor, his hips rocking forward in search of some form of relief.
Val broke the kiss, leaning back just enough to catch her breath and see his face as he lifted his head up. As her gaze swept over his face, the redhead felt heat curling low in her stomach.
Bob was a wreck. Cheeks red, lips wet, puffy, and parted as he tried to get his breathing under control. His eyes, those pretty eyes, were heavy-lidded, glazed, and fixated on her mouth. When he looked up at her, his pupils were swallowing the pretty blue of his irises whole.
Val loved it. She’d spent three weeks missing him, his smiles, his dry humor, jittery antics, and this. The way he came apart for her and only her. The feverish red on his skin, the breathy moans, messy hair, and the pleading look in those pretty blue eyes of his.
“Val…” Bob’s voice was a raw, need-filled rasp. “Val, honey, please.”
A slow smile spread across her lips. “To the bedroom?” Val asked, her tone light, with a raised brow.
Bob nodded, already leaning in for another kiss. He let out a whine, small and pathetic, when his girlfriend leaned back out of reach, giggling.
“You’re so needy,” she teased while slowly lowering her boyfriend until his feet touched the ground.
The second he was grounded, Bob moved. He scooped her up, tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and made a beeline for their shared bedroom. While walking, Bob pulled both Val’s skirt and panties down and off in one move, then tossed them to the ground.
Val let out a surprised laugh that turned into a snort, then a squeal as Bob adjusted his grip. “Goodness, Bob!” the redhead gasped, body shaking with laughter, “You’re so impatient!”
“Gonna put a baby in you,” Bob muttered, mostly to himself, in a voice thick with intent as he turned the corner into their bedroom.
“What’d you sa—AH!”
Bob tossed her onto the bed, and she landed with a bounce, her red locks fanning out across the gray duvet. Before she could even catch her breath, Bob was crawling onto the bed, pulling his shirt off, and unbuttoning his jeans. He settled between her thighs, the rough fabric of his jeans scratchy against her bare thighs and sex. Bob laced his fingers with hers and then pinned her hands above her head.
“I said,” he paused to roll his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that made them both gasp, “I’m gonna put a baby in you.” His voice was a low rasp filled with the need and want built up over the last few weeks.
Surprised, Val stared up at him through her lashes with wide eyes. Bob had never said anything like that before, not even jokingly. The crazy part is, seeing the desperation in his eyes, Val was almost positive that he meant it. And honestly? The thought didn’t scare her. If anything, it made a shiver of arousal run down her spine.
Bob smiled, a small, tender thing, and dipped his head to kiss her lips. This kiss was far less sloppy than the previous. It was softer, gentler, deeper, and Val melted into it, moaning softly and fingers squeezing his.
As he kissed her and settled his body over hers with a familiarity she’d missed while in Texas, a single, clear thought floated through Val’s blissfully hazy mind.
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Leon comes home early from a mission and stays determined not to wake you by going to his apartment instead of yours. When greeted with a more than pleasant surprise he’s unable to stop himself from asking the big question.
Main Character Relations: Leon Kennedy x reader (romantic)
Word Count: 2k (a little over)
Fluff, fluff, fluff !!!
A/N: Sometimes I don’t write angst. Sometimes. Anyway, I guess you could consider this a Valentine's Day present. Personally, I hate the holiday, but I do love to treat others. Enjoy!
Leon sighed, the weight of his most recent mission weighing heavily on his shoulders. All things considered things went smoothly and everything wrapped up into a nice little bow earlier than expected. He was scheduled to be there for the next two days, but he ran into one of those rare circumstances where he made it back early.
As he looked at the door handle to his front door he seriously debated his most recent plan to retreat to the solitude of his own apartment. This isn’t where he wanted to be. He wanted to experience the warmth of your doorway. He wanted to crawl into your bed and find comfort in your embrace. But it was so late and the sun basically just set and you had to have been asleep. Not to mention he’d probably be throwing a wrench in your plans for the next day and the last thing he wanted was to be seen as a burden.
So, selflessly Leon opened the front door. The apartment was cold as he disregarded his heavy duffel bag to the side. He shut and locked the door behind him as he kicked off his boots, too tired to be bothered to put them away just then. He ran his hand down his face as he sauntered into the kitchen. Exhaustion felt like an understatement, as his limbs felt heavy as he headed towards the fridge. The bright light caused him to squint as he was greeted to the sight of a fully stocked fridge. He smiled knowing that you had already started taking care of the little things for him. He grabbed the carton of orange juice before shutting the door.
It really only made things harder as he set the carton on the kitchen island as he grabbed a glass. He had a key and he was always more than welcome, he lived there just as much as he lived here, if not more so. You have been dating for a year and had gotten the big three words out and expressed your love whenever and wherever it came about. Rather it be just an exchange of the sentiment via words or actions, he knew you loved him. He knew that you truly, deeply, genuinely loved him. You saw the good and the bad and still adored him. He couldn’t make any sense of it, but humans are creatures who are always harsher on themselves than on others.
Your apartment always felt so homey and inviting, granted that could have just been because it was considerably smaller, but he digresses. He spent more time there than he did in the luxury suite that was located on the finer side of town. Big tall windows that allowed natural light in easily, a view of the city that ‘justified’ the rent prices. In all honesty he only chose to live here due to the fact that it was so close to the office. Even though he wondered why he even bothered being close to the office when he woke up in your bed most days anyway.
Pouring his drink he started to really consider why you still remained in two separate housing units. Truth be told he never asked you to move in. He supposed you could’ve asked, but it wasn’t in your nature. You weren’t one to ask someone to pack up their life and throw everything away to be with you. He would in a heartbeat, there wouldn’t be a second thought about it; but it all goes back to people being harsher on themselves than other people. That and the fact that his work played a big factor in everything that Leon does. He was constantly stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Finishing his drink with huge gulps he was unsure if you were even willing to give your place up. It was your first apartment and the rent wasn’t too bad- all things considered- your landlord was tolerable and neighbors were friendly enough. The walls were paper thin and the unit needed a multitude of repairs. Long story short, the place was old, Leon has had a number of things redone there; in fact the first thing he did was replace the locks. He was trying to talk you into a whole security system, but you shut him down. Having to deal with your landlord over the locks was a hassle on its own, you didn’t want to bother trying to reason with him over a high tech military grade security system.
Your safety and wellbeing was on the top of Leon’s list and he used it in his arguments. But you just rolled your eyes and pointed out that he doesn’t even use his own security system. The thing did nothing but collect dust by the front door. It was your main argument and it stood firm, you told him that once he started using his own you would think about going toe to toe with your landlord over it, but until then his argument was null and void.
He countered though with the fact that his apartment didn’t hold anything valuable. Sure, it had monetary value out the ass; but anything he had that was worth anything could be perceived as trash to the naked eye. A box full of movie tickets, cards, postcards, and blurry photos was not worth a dime. The memories that the items held were priceless, but they wouldn’t do a thing for anyone else.
As he went to turn on the sink he noticed the dishwasher light was on, signaling that the dishwasher had finished its job. A crooked little smirk pulled on his face, not only did you go grocery shopping but you took care of the dishes. How lucky could he possibly be? A sense of a domestic life that he craved washing over him. It was time, he wanted you here, or he could stay there, it really didn’t matter. Either place would be home as long you were there.
Turning off the sink he heard the floor creek. He set the glass in the sink slowly as he reached for Matilda that rested in his waistband. He was careful, he was sure he wasn’t followed, whoever was here had been here. His brain immediately went to you; second guessing having you move in. He moved quickly facing the hall, his arms outstretched and his finger on the trigger, “You’ve got three seconds.” He threatened and as he heard your deep sigh of relief he softened, setting the gun on the counter. You stepped into his line of vision as he flicked on the kitchen light, “(Y/N)?” He called out your name as he watched you shake slightly. The gap between the two of you was closed quickly as he pulled you to his chest with relief.
“You scared the shit out of me.” You said setting the gun you had down on the nearby couch end table. Wrapping your arms around him you scolded him, “You got off early and you didn’t call me?”
“I scared you? You scared me.” He defended light heartly, “I didn’t want to wake you. It’s nearly three in the morning, baby.” He pulled away from you as he tucked your hair behind your ear. His lips found yours in a gentle kiss that he deepened as you hummed against him.
“Did a great job at letting me sleep then, dear.” You teased him as you pulled away from him. You brushed his hair out of his eyes, examining the bags and purple hue underneath them.
“How was I supposed to know you were here?” He defended as your thumb ghosted over his cheekbone and you turned bright red. A sense of victory on his face as a wide smile found his features.
“I just started the dishes and I didn’t want to fight traffic home-…” you peered into an ocean of blue before sighing, “I missed you. I sleep here when I miss you. I sleep here a lot.” You confessed before looking away from him, it was slightly embarrassing for you to admit. You had difficulty expressing that you craved a person. It didn’t make any sense with how open you were about him, but you just chalked it up to your miss independent complex. He just hummed in satisfaction as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. His body relaxed as he kissed your neck with a sense of glee. He went from missing you, to worrying about you, to the joy of knowing that you were within arms reach in a matter of seconds.
“I missed you more.” He cooed as he kissed your neck, “Glad you’re here.”
“I love you.” The words fell from your lips so gently and lovingly that his grip on you tightened and you giggled slightly. He made you feel like a teenage girl that was too head over heels for her own good. “Let’s get you to bed. Shower?”
“Please.” Your hands found his hands and gently pulled him down the hall and into his room. He noted his side of the bed was the one that you were just resting on; a sense of warmth washing over him. He squeezed your hand gently as you led him into the bathroom. As you let go of him you turned on the shower. He couldn’t help the smile on his face as he looked around and noticed your shampoo and conditioner, toothbrush, lotions, and other toiletries littered in his bathroom.
You approached him and helped him pull off his shirt, you looked him over. A deep sigh falling from your lips as your heart ached at the sight of bruises and cuts. It hurt to see and you could only imagine the pain he felt.
“It’s okay, I’m fine. Promise.”
“This the best they could do to patch you up?”
“Down, tiger.” He teased as he soaked up your possessive tone.
You rolled your eyes and turned back to the shower, pulling off your shirt before putting your palm under the running water. You pulled your pajama shorts off and as you turned to face him a sense of nervousness shot up your spine. You usually would tease him about a staring problem, but you were unsure of where his emotions were. Physically he looked exhausted- his movements told you he was exhausted- but mentally you had no idea where he stood.
Not to mention that you had no clue how he felt about you staying here when he wasn’t here. Sure, he said he was glad you were here, but he never asked you to be here.
“The water is going to get cold if you just keep staring. C’mon.” You nodded to the shower as you undid his pants. His hands found yours, stopping you, as he took care of the rest and disregarded them in the hamper. You tried to place what he was thinking as you climbed into the shower, him not far behind you.
As the warm water hit his back he let out a sigh of relief. The sound music to your ears as you started messing with his shampoo. You went to work the shampoo in his hair and through half lidded eyes he watched you. A little smile on your face while your tired eyes focused on what you were doing.
He could get used to this, he was getting used to it.
He loved you. He loved seeing your things in his space, he loved that you were taking care of him, he loved that you were here.
You tilted his head gently and started rinsing the shampoo out. A protest never fell from his lips as you scratched his scalp and he moaned softly. You reached for his conditioner and did the same thing, just letting the conditioner sit while scrubbing him down with his signature fresh pine scented shower gel.
You worshiped him as you bathed him, kissing the cuts and bruises softly as you rinsed him off. He deserved to be taken care of like this and you didn’t mind being the one to do it. It was slightly embarrassing, but he trusted you with his life and you knew his body just as he knew yours. “Relax.” You cooed as you went to get out of the shower, “Stay in here as long as you’d like. I’m going to get you-.” You stopped as he grabbed your wrist and his other hand found your hip. You gave him a concerned look as you scanned his face, you stepped closer to him as he pulled you to his chest. Your fingers tangled themselves into his hair as you tried to soothe him. “Want to talk about it?”
“No, not really.” He rested his head against your shoulder, “Just want you.” He’s wanted you since he got back, he’s wanted you since he left. You nodded as you held him against you.
You both stood there until the water started to run cold. It took some convincing but eventually you got him out and in pajamas. You were in bed wearing one of his t-shirts that he practically had to fight you over wearing. Your eyes shut as you listened to his movements in the bathroom, refusing sleep. Waiting for him.
As Leon turned off the faucet he took a good look in the mirror. A face that had a smile plastered on it as he thought about the woman in his bed. The woman who just doted on him like he was made of glass. The woman who held him so close and made him feel so loved that it all felt worth it. The woman that he wanted to take his last name.
He left the bathroom and stood in the doorway as the bathroom light illuminated you just enough to where he could watch your chest rise and fall. As your eyes opened he was held captive as you smiled.
“What?” You asked through a yawn as you pulled the covers up to your shoulders while you stretched.
“I love you.” He beamed as he turned off the bathroom light and climbed into his side of the bed. Your scent flying off of the fabric of his sheets as the radiant warmth of your presence drew him in. Wrapping his arm around your torso he pulled you to him.
“I love you more.” Your voice heavy with sleep as you cuddled against his chest. He adored these moments where you didn’t fight with your words and just said what you were feeling.
He chuckled, “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead as you yawned. “Go to sleep.” He cooed as he rubbed a hand firmly up and down your back.
“Leon…?” You muttered against his chest.
“Yes, baby?”
“I’m sorry if you didn’t want me here while you’re not here. I won’t do it again.” He raised an eyebrow at the apologetic sorrow in your tone. He knew your past, he knew your uncertainty, but he could’ve sworn that he told you he was glad you were here. “I just missed you and if I crossed a line-.”
“Hey, hey.” He shushed you, “I’m glad you're here, remember? I want you here. Forever and always. Okay?” You nodded and tried not to sniffle.
“Okay.” You fisted the hem of his shirt as you tried to keep yourself calm against him. He kissed your forehead before petting your hair. Your eyes were shut and your breathing was starting to slow to the pace that it does when you sleep.
He knew he should wait, but he was too excited.
“Baby?” He looked down at you as you hummed in response telling him to go ahead with his question. That you were still listening and ready to talk about whatever he needed. His thumb brushed against your cheek as he admired you, “Will you marry me?”
Your tired eyes opened, “What?” You were in a state of disbelief.
He asked again, “Marry me?” Silence fell over the room as the cold chill of uncertainty worked its way through his blood stream. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? You didn’t even live with him and you’d been together for only a year. Wasn’t the next step just to ask you to move in? That was the logical question. Was it too late to rephrase the question? Could he save this somehow?
“Yes.” You answered honestly, “Yes, I’ll marry you.” He let out a deep breath of relief before his lips found yours. His kiss was deep and passionate as he adjusted himself to be level with you. You welcomed him as you melted against him. Exchanging passion and overwhelming love within each kiss. Each parting one leaves a lasting imprint against your souls.
He regretfully parted from you to get a good look at you. To judge based on what he knew if this was truly something you wanted. Your bright smile causes him to let out a chuckle of relief before leaning his forehead against yours. You laughed alongside him as your hand intertwined with his, “I love you, Mrs. Kennedy.” He said he ran his hand through your hair. It fell so naturally from his lips that you could’ve sworn that it had always been your last name.
“I haven’t signed any papers yet.” You joked before peppering a couple kisses on his cheek, “Don’t even have a ring yet.”
He rolled his eyes before his lips captured yours, “It’s in the closet.” He mumbled as he held your face against his.
“Mhm.” You moaned against his lips, even though you didn’t believe him. He was telling you the truth, hidden in his safe was a little black velvet box that held the engagement ring he picked out six months ago.
Warnings: one curse word although it's not shed in Malice it's better safe than sorry other than that it's just fluff!
Ship: The Demon and the Choir Girl (Nero x myself)
Summary: At any formal it's almost an unspoken rule to be out on the Dance Floor for one reason or another. Another rule is you always save the Last Dance for your someone special!!
"So, how was it?" Nero asked with his words already laced with fatigue when girlfriend dusty-rose cheeked trudged into their home
From her half bent over position, due to nearly tripping through the eggshell doorway, Rebecca's earthy pools met with her love's crystal lakes. A bright smile spread upon her maroon lips before she spoke.
"Pretty good, actually! Even though I had no clue what seventy-five percent of the music was and I tried to break myself out just because I could, I had a good time!"
"I would've paid to see that." The cloudy tangled hunter quietly chortled while scratching at the side of his nose before striding over to his dolled up partner. "I almost feel bad I missed it."
Big parties had never been high on Nero's list of wants. Parties organized by school's or other uptight organizations were even lower on that list. Yet it wasn't due to those reasons that Nero hadn't accompanied his girl to tonight's event. In fact some part of him buried beneath his nonchalant exterior burned at the thought of being the one Rebecca chose and eagerly introduced as her date at some formal. Although both souls knew that was a secret between them that would never even be whispered aloud.
What happened tonight however is that when Rebecca was slipping on her dress that appeared to be crafted from the night sky itself, duty called in the form of a call from Dante and a standard job a few cities over.
So with that, and a text from Nico telling him to hurry his ass up since the van was running, the steel gazed man muttered out apologies while brushing his lips against Rebecca's cool cheek. Although as he was heading out the door, icy orbs only caught a glimpse of his partner's petal-like lips turning into an understanding smile laced with transparent disappointment.
"Hey I told you I will throw down with any teacher nowadays!" Rebecca joked, although her usual giggling was mere silence since she had all but lost her voice beneath the bass of the music from the event. "But in all seriousness, I'm glad you're home safe. No wounds or ailments??"
"Nope, just exhausted since Nico was giving me shit on the way home about getting guts all over the van's inside, as if she wasn't using it to mow them down just before. You know her." Nero complained, rolling his eyes like the thunderous clouds outside. As he did so the young hunter began leading the his stumbling partner to their room of rest.
A sunny grin spread across still considerably flushed cheeks while dusky locks were swept to and fro because of her subtle nodding. All while a comfortable silence washed over the pair in place of Rebecca's usually airy laughter.
"Anything else happen with you?"
At this questioned, arched eyebrows furrowed while chocolate irises narrowed in thought. They then shot wide open with an excited twinkle within them.
"Oh! They charged two bucks for water. I swear I saw three pairs of heels flying across the dance floor, which is also why you will never catch me in them! the turnout itself was pretty small, but I got to see some of my friends so that made it more enjoyable..." Rebecca's bottom lip protruded outward when her voice trailed off and thought once more. "Oh, oh, OH!! I definitely danced a lot and may have stolen some of your moves. Plus I even slowdanced which I'm surprised the school even allowed for that to happen!"
"With your friends?"
"Surprisingly not! Some guy asked me when the song came on!"
At this revelation, Nero couldn't help but throw daggers down at the stiff carpet beneath them as they walked. The thought of someone else pulling his girlfriend close and earning that radiant smile he had come to love was enough to leave noticeable nail imprints in the palm of Nero's hand. It wasn't that this surprised him since the twilight lady beside him looked stunning even now, yet that didn't mean that he was happy about this scenario either. Although the gentle squeeze around his strained wrist, pulled him away from his nearly spiraling thoughts.
"But that doesn't matter though. I mean, I never even got the kid's name. What truly matters is the last dance!"
"Yeah, what happened there?"
Rebecca tilted her head to the side before her expression of concern shifted to a much more light-hearted one. She then stepped in front her lover's path, stopping him within his tracks with her hand daintily held out for him to take.
"The last number there sucked and it wasn't with you. So it didn't matter either way! that being said, may I?"
With no hesitation, Nero's firm grip interlaced itself with ivory fingers. Then without missing a beat, he pulled his partner against his chest and snaked his other arm around her waist. A shadow of a smile played on his lips when he rested his chin upon silky plum locks. Rebecca had already rested her cheek against him, using the drumming of his heartbeat as her melody. Neither of them seemed to notice that a soft song had actually begun to play from the TV in the other room.
Chris was a simple man. He didn’t really need much to be happy. And if he were to list his favorite things in the world the list would be something along the lines of getting two free days in a row, managing to get his job done without hiccups for once, eating a good meal, having a long hot shower on a cold day… and yeah, of course, having Leon in his bed – their bed – eager and willing, shoulders pressed into the mattress and ass up in the air. This might actually top the list, come to think of it.
--
Or the one wherein Chris drops the question, but his timing is kind of questionable.
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Zarya immediately regret going after the nest of vamps herself. It was only supposed to be four tops she had insisted. She could have handled four vamps by herself! What she could not handle was fourteen vamps still alive after the six she already managed to kill. When they just wouldn’t stop coming out of their hidey holes Zarya ran for her life with her machete in hand. Her boots pounded across the forest floor, desperately trying not to stop or slow until she reached her car. She could hear them right on her tail. Good God why hadn’t she just listened to Sam and Dean? She was out of options and she knew it. Her lungs were growing heavy, legs becoming numb. It was only a matter of time before her knees gave in and she was vamp chow. Swallowing every bit of pride she had in an effort of choosing to live, she called out the one person’s name who could save her right then.
“Lucifer!”
The archangel’s name rang and echoed off every tree, leaf, and molecule of air in a solid mile radius. Zarya’s eyes went wide as saucers when her foot caught a thick root in the ground. Feeling it happen in slow motion, she fell forward with the sounds of the angry and hungry vampires barely inches away. One only missed grabbing her hair because she was falling forward. Before she even hit the ground there was a sudden explosion behind her. Then she didn't even hit the dirt. Instead, Zarya crash landed into someone’s arms, no longer falling towards the ground. Her machete clattered onto a wooden floor.
“I will never understand why you insist on putting yourself in such situations, Rya.”
She merely shook her head up at the archangel and his nefarious smirk. “It was only supposed to be four vamps. How was I supposed to know that was only a fifth of the damn family? You know you can let me go now, right?”
He chuckled lightly, watching the determination but playfulness dance about in her greener than blue eyes. “How am I supposed to know you’re not going to run off and nearly get killed again?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Even if I did, you’d still be there. Hunting is what I do.” She felt his grip around her loosen, so that time it was Zarya who wasn’t letting go.
“Yes, you go on bingers trying to slay hoards of disgusting monsters while your darling Winchesters seek every way possible to get rid of me. Sometimes I wonder if you hunt to avoid them so you don’t have to help get rid of me.”
Zarya scoffed and rolled her eyes before finally stepping away. “Yeah? What makes you think that?” She wandered about a couple of old book cases, running a finger along the spine of each book. She could feel his eyes follow her.
“You’ll go on certain cases with them - the easy ones; werewolves, witches, vampires. The ones with no clear ulterior motive. But when Sam and Dean get really focused on another attempt to lock me back up or maybe even kill me, you turn the other way. You go hunting as far away from their plots as possible. And so far, more often than not, you wind up in situations that cause you to call for me. Not Castiel, hell, not even Gabriel. Me.”
She had made her way to the small nook in the bow window where she sat with one lanky leg hanging down and the other bent on the bench with her. The sunlight through the window shimmered each individual indigo hair hiding amongst the dark onyx ones. “I guess I just trust you most when I need to admit I fucked up and need help. You keep coming back for me over and over, so maybe that ego of yours likes playing hero for a damsel in distress.” That time, she smirked.
He shrugged and leaned against the wall beside her with his arms crossed. “Just one. And she’s pretty good at being in distress. Constantly.”
“Come on, why do you have to do things like that?”
The smirk played at his lips. “Like what, Rya?”
“Like that. You loathe humanity because your dad turned his back on you like a dick. I even hunt with the Winchesters! What’s so special about me?”
“Well to start, you’re barely human.”
“Alright, that’s unnecessary!” She pointed a finger up at him.
He chuckled. “I don’t lie to you, Rya. You’ve always… intrigued me, I suppose. And besides, even though you try to be a little Winchester, where do you still end up? Right here, with me. I can almost guarantee they’ve tried getting information on me from you and that you haven’t said a damn thing. What I want to know is why you continuously return and defend me.”
Zarya’s eyes had turned out the window while he spoke. She was quiet for a moment after, finding the answer herself. For the first time she heard herself say it out loud. “Because somebody has to.” Her voice started off small and quiet. “You’re… you’re a real piece of work, honestly.” Slowly, her tone became more confident and a smile blossomed. “You’re an arrogant prick, and sometimes I just wanna punch you in the mouth over and over again, but you are always there when I need you. Even when I don’t think I do. Though I can’t say I approve of or agree with most of your reasons and methods, I am able to see the rationing about it. I think that’s what Sam and Dean hate most honestly.” She laughed a little.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her from the moment she started speaking. The sun had been setting slowly over Detroit and highlighted the indigo hue to her raven hair. It danced off of the blue in her eyes which brightened the emerald. There was fresh blood splatter dried across her cheeks, under her nails, visible on even her black t-shirt, and adding to the collection on her combat boots. He watched as she stood slowly, and walked up to him so they were basically toe to toe. She had to crane her neck slightly to look up at him being nearly half a foot shorter.
“Thank you,” her soft voice spoke with the warmest smile. She could see the confusion clear in his eyes.
“For… what?”
Suddenly her arms were wrapped around his abdomen with her face pressed into his chest. “Always being here,” she told him softly. “I know how selfish of me it is when I always go back to Sam and Dean, but I just can’t let go of you. So… thank you.”
Of course he reciprocated and held her closely to him. His eyes remained over her hair and out the window as night covered over Detroit. “You’ll always come back to me. That’s the only reason I continue to let you go.”
“I promise I won’t stop coming back.”
“I know.”
[~*~*~]
Notes: So I’ve been writing a few one-shots on the side when I’m a bit blocked on my actual plots (season 5 of TVD is literally killing me inside). They don’t have anything actually important to do with the real stories themselves, but sometimes might include foreshadowing because I’m mildly cruel. -shrug- I haven’t posted any anywhere yet so I thought I might post my first here.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So I finally finished my very first OneShot written entirely in English. It’s not really good, but I am still rather proud of myself for actually finishing something I started and not abandoning it in the middle ^^
So I have no excuse to write this, other than just wanting to write them again.
Napoleon had just stepped out of the shower, hair wet and tousled with a towel wrapped around his hips when he hears Illya entering his room.
“Cowboy?”
“I’m in the bathroom,” Napoleon shouts a reply when the door is suddenly pushed open and Illya steps inside before leaning against the doorframe.
“Do you even know what privacy means, Peril?” he asks in annoyance.
Illya just hums. “Not really.”
The smirk on his face irritates Napoleon further and he shakes his head at the taller man.
“When I’m shaved, dressed and have had some breakfast, then we’ll have to have a talk about your rude manners. Just because Gaby gave you the master key to the suite doesn’t mean you have the right to walk into my room.”
Despite his talk, he rather likes that Illya’s there, although suddenly he feels naked under Illya’s gaze. It takes all of his willpower not to check if his towel is still secure around his waist because Illya’s eyes are lingering where they shouldn’t. If Illya isn’t blocking the door, Napoleon probably would have reached for the robe hanging behind it.
Brushing the self-conscious urges aside, Napoleon turns his back on Illya and focuses on his reflection in the mirror. He gets his messy hair in order, humming a tune underneath his breath while all the while ignoring the Russian. Punishing him with disregard for his behaviour is a good one because Napoleon knows Illya hates it when he does it. It’s something his ego cannot take.
As he reaches for the razor next, Napoleon notices Illya’s eyes on him. It’s predatory. At that, a flush on his cheeks appears, a faint crimson tint that runs down all the way down to his neck. He pretends it’s from the heat of the shower rather than Illya’s presence, although he knows too well that isn’t the case and has to pretend further that he hasn’t realised the fact that Illya has stepped closer. The truth is he feels it; the soft sound of footfalls on the tiles, the way the air in the room seems to stifle around Illya’s presence, the rise of tension. And that’s even before Illya’s figure comes into full view behind him in the mirror.
Napoleon looks at him with one eyebrow raised. “What?” he says, still trying to be nonchalant.
But without saying a word, Illya takes the razor out from Napoleon’s hand and that startles the American. He turns and frowns up at Illya. “What are you…”
Illya’s callused fingers are surprisingly soft against his skin as he tilts Napoleon’s chin. The touch is unexpected and startling. Illya turns him around once again and their eyes meet in the mirror.
“Let me do it,” Illya mutters.
“You come barging in just because you want to shave me?”
Illya shrugs. “Yes. Is it a problem?”
His large hand is still resting on Napoleon’s cheek and neck, just above his pulse point, but close enough that Napoleon imagines Illya must be able to feel the frantic beat of his heart.
He swallows hard, doesn’t understand why Illya would want to shave him. It’s a terrible idea, not because there’ll be shallow cuts on him and blood in the sink, but because Illya touching him is a really, really bad idea.
But Illya’s blue eyes are sharper than the razor blade, and Napoleon cannot say no.
“Okay, if that’s what you want,” he agrees, so quietly he hopes it’ll mask the tremor in his voice.
The capitulation earns him a smile, almost tender, the kind of smile that is sure to have women and men willing to fall on their knees for the Russian. And Napoleon hates how he’s so easily charmed by his partner.
Letting go of his face, Illya takes the shaving foam from the tray, dispersing a generous amount in his palms before reaching for Napoleon. The first touch, spreading the soft foam across his cheek, is light and uncharacteristically hesitant, but it doesn’t take long for him to regain his confidence. He tips Napoleon’s head back when he lathers up his throat, fingers moving in tiny circles over the sensitive skin. It doesn’t feel perfunctory; it’s too drawn out, too much like a caress, and Napoleon is almost glad that the angle makes it impossible to watch Illya in the mirror.
Then the hands are gone, and Napoleon is already missing Illya’s touch.
”Stay still,” Illya orders him, and he obeys.
Napoleon expects to feel the cool, sharp blade of the razor, but it still makes him jump when it first touches the side of his throat. The movement causes the blade to slip from Illya’s hold, cutting his skin. The brief, sharp sting makes Napoleon wince, his hand coming up swiftly to feel the cut, but Illya stops him before he could do so. His finger gently traces the spot, wiping away whatever blood there was and Napoleon can almost hear the frown in his voice when he speaks. “Stop moving. I don’t want to cut you again.”
“Sorry.”
That’s all Napoleon could say and he’s well aware of the irony that he’s the one who had ended up apologising when it was Illya who had cut him.
Holding himself perfectly still, Napoleon waits for the blade again. This time, it slides a clean, straight line from the hollow of his throat to the underside of his chin without drawing blood, and Napoleon lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.
And it gets easier after that, but at the same time undoubtedly harder too. Illya guides the blade across his skin with sure, steady hands while directing Napoleon’s face with soft touches to get better access. And even though there are no further bloody incidents, nothing about the entire act of Illya shaving him feels safe. Because it feels like seduction, and Napoleon doesn’t know if he wants Illya to finish it up quickly and stop, or to draw it out for as long as he can. His fingers keep brushing against Napoleon’s throat, his cheeks, his neck, lips, and Napoleon knows that at least half of them are accidental touches. Some are not, though. And then there are those touches that are without purpose, completely, utterly gratuitous, and those are the ones that push Napoleon’s endurance to the limit.
And once it’s over, Illya mutters softly, “All done."
Napoleon looks at his reflection and makes a sound of approval. “Hmm, I look good.”
Illya only rolls his eyes at the self-complementary comment, but then whispers, “you do,” before finding himself touching the tiny cut on Napoleon’s neck where the blade had slipped. Napoleon flinches at the touch.
“I’m sorry about this,” Illya says and when their eyes meet again in the mirror, Napoleon sees a heated sparkle in the blue of Illya’s eyes. He gives Napoleon’s shoulders a brief, firm squeeze before letting his hands trail up to his neck, raising goosebumps on his flushed skin. Then, he reaches down and pulls at the towel around Napoleon’s waist, ignoring the noise of protest. The American fingers clamp down on Illya’s wrist, stilling the motion and holding him in place.
“Too early in the morning, Peril,” he warns, his voice almost breaking.
“But it has not stopped us before,” Illya replies, so sure of himself and Napoleon succumbs.
He loosens his grip on Illya’s hand, tries not to think about how the smile Illya directs at him in the mirror feels like his defeat.
The calluses of Illya’s fingers are rough on him, but his touch is gentle and just firm enough. After a few experimental strokes, Illya pulls back and spits in his palm, and the next time his hand wraps around Napoleon, it is slick and slippery and warm. Their eyes never waver from each other; Illya’s feeding on the sight of Napoleon drowning in desire and embarrassment and need. When Illya’s hand moves faster, adding a little twist to the upstroke, it tears unbidden little moans from Napoleon’s throat. He wants to enjoy it for as long as he can, wants to draw it out, but he knows he can’t last.
“Let go,” Illya murmurs, attaches his lips on the wound on Napoleon’s neck, and Napoleon comes all over Illya’s fingers, moaning his name, breathing in the scent of Illya who is all around him, who has taken over every part of his being. It’s smoldering and liberating all at once.
And it’s over too soon.
He’s still breathing heavily, riding that perfect high, when Illya steps back a little. But then his arms are around him again, anchoring him close. “I like you clean shaven,” he says in his ear, kissing him on his neck.
“But that’s just an excuse to touch me, right?” Napoleon asks, and Illya smiles.
