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nayomi247 · 10 days

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okay okay that uh ideal partner headcannon post with lucifer where you said he would fall for you over your smile got me REELING. Can you do some headcannons (maybe a little story if your so kind o great one) about a reader who doesn't smile/laugh very often and one day Lucifer sees them just totally let loose; like maybe they see an old friend or they get super drunk or whatever, but basically they are nothing but smiles and giggles and Lucifer is 100% smitten.

You've Got A Smile That Could Light Up This Whole Town

A/N: THIS IS SO CUTE. Definitely one of my favorite requests that I've gotten. Writing Lucifer as a complete simp is my kryptonite. Thank you so much for the ask btw<3

Pairing: Lucifer/f!reader

Contents: Fluff, Pining, drunken confessions, alcohol, drinking, Lucifer being a simp

Work under the cut🤞🏻

You had never been much of a smiler. You weren't depressed of course, and you were a happy person, but you just.. didn't smile.

A lot of people had asked you if you had some sort of trauma, or even if you had something wrong with you. You never let it bother you though. You knew it wasn't necessarily 'normal' but you didn't care, you were happy with who you were.

Now, here in hell, not many people smile, for obvious reasons. It's easier to blend in now and not have to deal with constant questions. Though many people at the hotel you're staying at think it's a bit odd. They have one person who smiles constantly, and another that doesn't smile at all. They think it's best not to question it.

Though one person, Lucifer, thinks of it, or more specifically you, more than he probably should. He may be the devil, but he still smiles and what not.

You're sat at the bar, a drink in hand and chatting along with Husk. Angel sits beside you, also pitching in every once in a while. Nearby, Lucifer sits in the lobby mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

He looks up every once in a while, occasionally listening in to what you have to say or what the conversation topic is.

After a while, and an amount of drinks that you can't even count, you start to loosen up. A small smile here or there at a story Husk tells or a little giggle at Angel's jokes.

Lucifer decides he's had enough of whatever he was doing, making his way up to the bar and sits down on a stool beside you. He doesn't say much, only smiling a bit at your soft smiles or chuckling along with you.

As time goes on, your laughs get slightly louder and your smiles linger for longer. But after Husk tells what your drunken self thinks is the funniest story ever, you burst into laughter.

It takes everyone by surprise, seeing you, the person who never smiles turning red and shedding tears over a story.

Lucifer though, turns a deep shade of red at seeing you like this. You're smile is beautiful to him. He wishes he could see it all the time. If this is the way to get you to smile and laugh, then by God he'll drink with you every night.

You continue to laugh, almost on the floor as he stares in awe. Why don't you smile like this all the time? Are you insecure? If so, you shouldn't be.

Finally realizing that he's staring, like a creep, he quickly turns to Husk. He needs more alcohol in his system if he's gonna see you like this all night.

"Uh- Husk?" He stutters out and Husk looks over to him a bit confused, as well as Angel and you. He flushes a bit more at the sudden attention, but quickly composes himself.

"Can I get an um.. a- drink..please." He once again stutters. Get a grip Lucifer! "Sure.." Husk replies, almost as if to question him. "What kind?"

"Hm?" Lucifer asks, thinking he was already done with having to talk. "What kind of drink?" Husk says almost like it's obvious, which it kind of is.

"Ah, okay.. um, anything apple flavored...please." Husk nods and Lucifer pulls out his phone, trying to act like he isn't a complete mess just by hearing you laugh.

Meanwhile, you start a conversation with Angel, your laughs and snickers filling the room once more. Lucifer doesn't even pay attention to what's on his screen, instead he listens in to what you're talking about. He doesn't even really care what the topic is, just that he can hear you.

Husk hands him the finished drink and he downs it like a man who was deprived of water for days. Husk, a bit surprised, but used to seeing people this way, makes him another.

A similar cycle continues for a while, you laughing, Lucifer finishing his drink, and Husk making him a new one.

Eventually, Lucifer gets to the point where he can barely remember where he's at. The only things remaining on his mind are you and your sweet laugh.

Husk and Angel finally decide its time for bed, leaving the two of you alone, still sitting at the bar. You scoot a bit closer, changing to a chair that's beside him.

You notice the way he seems to be out of it. His eyes half lidded, mouth slack, and breathing labored. "You okay..?" You ask. Your thoughts are also all over the place. You probably won't even remember this interaction tomorrow.

He shakes his head and looks to you, blinking himself back to reality. "Y-yeah, I'm good." He laughs and takes yet another sip from the glass in front of him. You've been watching him subtly throughout the night, surprised he hasn't killed himself yet from the amount of alcohol he's consumed.

"I'm surprised you're still conscious." You chuckle, and he remembers why he started drinking in the first place. The light redness on his face from the alcohol burns darker. He chugs down the rest of what's in his glass.

"Uh- yeah.. haha. I have a pretty high tolerance with this stuff." He hiccups, his words slurring ever so slightly. "Y'know, being-" another hiccup "The king of Hell and all." He finished.

You giggle lightly, the liquor in your system making you feel fuzzy and light. He smiles at seeing that he was the one to get that reaction from you.

You both continue to talk for a while, well you do, he mostly just listens, only really focusing on your features; your eyes, hair, lips, anything he can.

Then, out of nowhere, "You're really pretty."

"What?" You ask, a bit flustered. "Where'd that come from?" You question, a small smile still on your lips as you tilt your head.

"I just-" hic "Think you're.. beautiful." He confesses. Your face flushes pink as you rack through your brain trying to find a response. "O-oh.. thank you!" You curse yourself for stuttering.

He leans forward, face only inches from yours. His face is red and his eyes are droopy. He looks like he's about to pass out. "And- your smile. Its gorgeous. It's-" hic "A shame you don't smile often. If every word I said could make you smile, or laugh, I'd never stop talking." He slurs.

"Lucifer, what are you on about?" You question with a bit of a nervous giggle. He smiles and brings a hand up to hold your cheek. You don't protest.

"I mean I like you. Like, really like you. I don't remember the last time I ever felt this way about someone other than Lilith." He smiles softly at you. "You could even say that, I love you."

You freeze and your brain short circuits. He.. loves you? The king of hell, loves... you? You can't wrap your head around it at all. Seeing how you react, Lucifer somewhat comes to his senses. "Shit. I- uhm." He pulls away from you and looks down to his dangling feet. "I probably shouldn't have came on that strong. I'm sorry. I understand if you don't wanna-" He's cut off by the feeling of your lips on his. His eyes widen in surprise, but his hand eventually finds it way back to its previous spot on your cheek and he pulls you in closer.

Once you pull away, he comes back to reality and he tries to speak, but fails to form a single word. You take it as an opportunity to talk instead. "I guess you could say that I love you too." You smile widely.

Lucifer just pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you and vowing to never let you hide that beautiful smile of yours ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm so glad I was finally able to get this out. It was a bit rushed at the end, and I'm not too haply with it but I figured this is the best it's gonna get so mind as well not fuss over it anymore.

Once again thank you so much for the request, and for anyone else that has sent any in I promise I'll start working on them and hopefully have one or two out by the end of this week.

Just a warning that I do have finals coming up, so as before I might not be as active with writing, but I'll try my best to do what I can. Sorry I was gone for so long!!

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whimzeee · 4 months

Text

Audaciously Yours,

Ramazith tower has ten billion stairs.

At least that’s how it feels to a pair of drunk fools leaning on one another while trying to climb them.

It’s late evening, perhaps a bit too late to be proper. Dinner lasted into the night and was served with one glass too many of the finest wine Dammon had ever tasted. At the hands of the three siblings he had been hosted like royalty that night. After Cal and Lia had called it a night, Rolan and Dammon stayed a bit longer. To have a conversation they could no longer pretend wasn’t needed.

They had both needed a drink or several to get through those nerves. One more so than the other. And the effect shows plainly; Dammon’s fingertips are a bit numb, but the entirety of Rolan’s legs seem to be that way.

He has Rolan’s arm hooked around his shoulders in the dimlit staircase. His warmth slumped against him. Arm around his waist, hand on hip. He’s not sure if the purple blush on Rolan’s face comes from the wine, or from the words they’d exchanged at long last. It’s no less pretty either way.

“Nearly there,” he encourages gently.

Rolan pauses, huffs an annoyed breath. “I am going to figure out portals…if it kills me.”

“Before these stairs do?”

“Mm.” Rolan glowers, but from the way his eyes blink, it seems less a glare of frustration and more just that he’s trying to see clearly. Were Dammon sober, he’d have stifled the snicker that bubbles up. He’s too tipsy to catch it in time.

Rolan’s sharp gaze is blunted and slow as he turns the glare on him. Maybe it would have been scary if he hadn’t started laughing too.

“Alright,” he slurs, gesturing loosely forward. “Laugh at me all you’d like, if you get us up these…damned steps.”

“I’m sorry,” Dammon giggles. “You’re just so...intimidating when you’re sober. It seems silly now.”

“Am I?” Is he…pouting?

“No,” Dammon corrects quickly. “Perhaps not after all.”

Rolan’s arm has begun to slip from his shoulders, so he hefts him higher—closer. Rolan's body curves to fit into his own and Dammon feels his face warming.

“I was the one intimidated,” Rolan mutters quietly. “You won’t believe how nervous I was. Still am, honestly.”

This is a brand new side of him. Rolan’s never been so honest. It’s always pomp and face, lace and ruffle when he talks. Always so concerned with decorum. Never just…real. Real like the friction between them as they lean drunken on each other in the small hours of night.

“No need for that,” he soothes, and pulls him up one more step. “It doesn’t need to be scary.”

Many missed steps and poorly stifled giggles later, they finally pour through the door to Rolan’s room. Dammon looks about with a mix of giddiness and trepidation. It feels like he’s not supposed to be here, somehow. But he is. For the first time.

It’s sparser than he’d expected. Cozy, but minimal. Organized so neatly it barely feels like a bedroom at all. But for a few books and two standing picture frames on the nightstand, one would hardly know whose room it was at all. A standing three-pronged candelabra next to the purple-quilted bed holds three perfectly un-melted lit candles, even though they must have been burning all night. Ah, right: Archmage Rolan. Downstairs he has a chandelier whose crystals lit up in different colors with a wave of his hand.

Dammon hauls the Master of Ramzith Tower's ragdoll body over to the bed and eases him down to sit. He takes this opportunity to get a closer look at the portraits. One is of Rolan and his siblings—gods help them trying to get Cal to sit still for that long. The second is quite older, faded and creased in some places. It depicts an older tiefling woman he doesn’t know, with a baby in her arms and a very young girl at her side, her hand resting on top of the child’s head. He recognizes the girl's horn shape, shared by the woman.

In the state Rolan’s in now, Dammon knows that if he asked he’d easily get an answer. So he doesn’t. It feels wrong. Like cheating at chess.

Rolan’s staring blearily at nothing, his head drooping. Dammon can’t help but smirk, biting his lip to keep from laughing at him any further. “Here,” he says gently, kneeling in front of him. “Let me help.”

Rolan’s eyes focus as he watches the blacksmith take his boots off for him. Unlaces them neatly and slides them off one by one with painstaking gentleness. When he’s finished, he’s a bit startled to see how big Rolan’s eyes have gotten, how he stares at him in…well, shock, really.

“Um… Was that okay?”

“I.” Rolan shivers, breaking the gaze as he feels suddenly self conscious. “Yes.”

No one has ever done something like that for him. So small but…just. Taking his shoes off for him. No one has ever.

“Are you. Sure?”

Rolan covers his face with his hands and falls backward onto the bed, flopping like a limp fish.

Dammon’s eyes peep over the side of the bed before he rises up onto his knees, leaning on the bed with his elbows. He observes Rolan quietly, waiting, but he doesn’t say any more.

"You've gone very quiet very quickly. Are you alright?" His smile fades to the touch of concern. "Not feeling sick are you?"

Rolan stares up at him like a first-time stargazer. His wide, shining eyes striving to focus.

"Rolan?"

"Mm. Mnyes."

"Did you hear the question?"

“Hn. 'F course."

Dammon waits, then huffs a laugh. "Would you care to answer it?"

"...I'm not sure."

"You're not sure what? ...Not sure you're going to answer or not sure if you're sick?"

"Right. Yes. You understand."

Dammon chuckles again, hanging his head. "Ohh, I wish I did."

Rolan catches his laugh, humming a lazy giggle as his sharp teeth flash in a manner he'd never allow sober.

Dammon takes a moment to admire it until it fades, Rolan's eyes slipping closed and his breath falling into rhythm. There is the faintest tug of disappointment in his heart, like when the top edge of the sun dips out of sight. He pulls himself to his feet and reaches down to lift Rolan’s legs, turning him rightways on the bed. He carefully places his head onto a pillow--fine downfeathers. Rolan must have been miserable on the road. While pulling a blanket over him, Dammon has the quite sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind doing this every night for the rest of his life.

For a moment, he waits there, staring at the gentle peace in Rolan's sleeping face. A thousand daydreams float through his buzzing mind. His hand twitches with the impulse to reach out and brush that stray lock of hair out of his face, but he's just sober enough to hold it back.

He'd better leave while he still has that much self control.

Before he can move two steps, he hears a short gasp, and Rolan snatches his wrist with surprising speed.

"W-what—"

"I am, actually," Rolan's voice tumbles over itself; he's more drunk than Dammon thought.

"Am...what?"

"I—yes, I'm. Feeling ill, actually, yes."

Dammon may have been concerned, had he not recently learned that Rolan is a terrible liar. His smile spreads slowly, like a new candle wick that must melt before it lights.

He sinks to his knees by the bedside, leaning on his crossed arms on the mattress. Rolan’s grip moves to his bicep and won’t let go. "Quite stricken, are you?"

Rolan swallows. "Terribly."

Dammon leans closer. His eyes glow in the candlelight. "Then I can hardly leave you all alone, can I?"

He can practically hear the perfectly fitted clockwork gears that power Rolan's mind grind to a halt. He looks for a moment as if he really is ill, the way his face pales and breath quickens.

"St…you must stay with me."

"Mm. Seems I must."

Despite having just insisted on it five seconds ago, Rolan shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. "No, no, of course not. It wouldn't be proper. Not proper at all."

Dammon's mild eyes sweep over Rolan as if he's never held such fondness before.

"Never much cared for what's proper," he smirks, gently prying Rolan's hands away from his face. "Unless you do."

"..."

"Would you like me to stay, Rolan?"

"Well...but. It wouldn't be..."

"But would you like it?"

"...Yes."

He smiles. So bright Rolan's eyes close against it. The hand that grips his is heavy and solid. The heat it stokes in Rolan’s chest going to make cinders of him. Once the fire hits him he’ll change shape—and does he want that? He won’t survive the night. Morning will see him darken again, made brittle by cold water. It’s not going to turn out. He’s sharp and thin and riddled with impurities. No matter how careful the hands that strike him, he will break beneath the hammer.

He jumps at the sound of Dammon’s voice. "Can you sit up a moment?"

Rolan opens his eyes just enough to glare. "Nn. Why."

"So I can take your hair down for you."

Rolan's squinted eyes go wide an soft. How is he going to say no to that? He tries to sit on his own, but because he is never one to miss an opportunity, he begins to roll and tilt toward the edge of the bed.

"Oh--gods, don't fall." Dammon catches him quickly, arm around shoulders. Rolan's entire body freezes. His face is buried in the crook of Dammon's arm, he can smell warm steelsmoke and hearth. And...rosemary. Has he used cologne?

It's too soon that Dammon pulls him back to balance, sitting him up properly. Rolan sways in place, hoping the cover of being drunk is enough to explain the starstruck glaze in his eyes.

Rolan must bite his tongue to stop himself making an absolutely unacceptable sound when he feels Dammon's fingers thread through his hair. Sharp, careful nails scrape the base of his neck and drag upward along his scalp. The violent shiver that overtakes his body is about as controllable as a sudden rainstorm in summer.

"Sorry," Dammon laughs, and begins to pull away.

"Oh don't you dare stop."

A pause, another small breath of laughter. Rolan wishes he was sober, so that he could memorize that beautiful sound in vivid detail, be sure that he could recall it at any moment he chose for the rest of his days.

With a touch so delicate as to belay fear, Dammon carefully pulls his hairtie free and shakes loose the wiry, tangled locks. With no comb nearby, he uses his claws. It's not the touch of a smith, but rather a jeweler, precise and delicate and no more than needed. So gentle. So unbearably delicate. Torture.

He wishes he’d grab a fistful and pull.

Rolan sucks in a breath and even he is surprised at the volume of the smack that comes from his hands against his own face. He's gone mad. He’s out of his godsdamn mind. He's terrible.

Dammon instantly lets go, flinching back. “What!” he pulls on Rolan’s shoulder, trying to get a look to see if he’s hurt himself. “Are you—wh-why—”

Rolan groans and flops back onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow instead. “T-thank you, that’s quite enough!” he panics.

Completely bewildered, Dammon reaches toward him, but hesitates.

He said it didn't need to be scary, but. It is. It’s still so new between them. Fragile and uncertain without structure. A seedling too delicate to bear weight just yet. It's only ten minutes ago they've confessed to feeling something more. Dammon wants this, he’s sure, but he’s painfully aware that he has no idea what he’s doing. How fast to move. And Rolan…deserves the best, after all of it. He deserves joy. Dammon wants to abandon caution and explore this newness, but more than the thrill of it all he wants this—the idea of them—to give Rolan something safe. It needn’t be painful, uncomfortable. It needn’t intimidate either of them.

“Wait here a moment,” Dammon says, his voice calm and soft. He pulls the blanket back to Rolan’s shoulders then steps softly away.

Rolan stays frozen in place, listening over the sound of his own pounding heart as Dammon leaves the room. Once he hears him on the stairs, Rolan sighs, cursing himself under his breath. The mess this man has made of him…shameful. Shameful, the way he’s acting. Drunk. Ridiculous. He’s driven him away now.

No. He said wait. Rolan does. He listens for the creak of the stairs, inexplicably desperate. He's felt this way before, hasn't he. He almost forgot being six. Listening for footsteps on the stairs.

“You won’t come back, will you.”

Out loud, he’s said that. Gods. How pathetic is he going to show himself?

Rolan opens his eyes, staring listlessly at the empty doorway. If he focuses hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of careful hands on his shoulders. If he concentrates, he can remember the warmth and weight of their sides pressed together, that hand gripping his hip ever tighter. Rolan wanted more. Still does. But it wouldn’t be…proper.

Gods. Who cares?

He doesn’t want to care. About appearance. About pretense, impression, fronts. How things are supposed to be done. Dammon doesn’t seem to. He loves that about him, admires it. The most genuine person he’s ever known. Never pretentious, never a liar. Like himself. How can he claim to care for him and yet lie to him—posture in front of him with lavish gifts and braggart peacocking in his big fuckoff tower?

It’s all he’s ever known: display. No one cares for you as you are. No one looks twice at you. No one ever gave one fuck. They struggled for so long. So long. The people most important to him in the world went hungry and abused, all the time, because he wasn't anyone. Couldn't do a damn thing for anyone. He’s better now. He pulled them out of the gutter. He’s worth something now. Isn’t he?

So why isn’t he coming back?

Rolan stares at the photos on his bedside table. He feels his eyes stinging.

“Dammon,” he calls, because he’s drunk, because it’s not fucking fair that he’s alone again. There’s a sob in his voice, anger. No dignity whatsoever. He doesn’t care. “Dammon!”

There are hurried steps in the hall, and Rolan regrets it instantly. Dammon appears in the doorway, alert, a steaming mug in his hand and a small towel draped over his forearm.

“Just here,” he assures, all soft worry and attention. “What’s wrong?” When Rolan doesn’t answer, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling gently. “Did you think I’d left?”

“No,” he lies. Because that’s all he fucking knows how to do. He groans at himself, shaking his head so that it starts to spin again. “Maybe…”

“I won’t.” He drapes the damp cloth over the back of Rolan’s neck. It’s cool but not cold and feels wonderful. “Not until you want me to.”

Rolan pouts up at him, disgruntled. “Where did you go?”

“To borrow Cal’s kitchen. Apologies to him.” Dammon reaches for the cup, little white steam rising from inside it. “Here.”

He helps Rolan rise, not really sitting up but at least leaning on an elbow so that he can take the cup. Inside is a light amber liquid which he only questions after he’s had a sip. “…Bitter. What issit?”

“Hangover killer. Smiths don’t get the next morning off. Dad set me up with the recipe; never failed him once.”

Rolan takes sleepy sips of the draught, grimacing throughout but refusing to put it aside. In the softness of the scene, Dammon sits by his side with his elbows on his knees and gazes at him.

“What are you smiling at,” grumbles Rolan, his face going darker again.

Dammon laughs softly, his eyes going shy as he turns them downward. “Only thinking.”

“…I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to share what about.”

“I’d answer anything you asked me.”

Rolan’s heartbeat is doing all sorts of wacky little tricks today. Before he can get hold of himself, Dammon continues, “Thinking how I’ve never had someone to make tea for. It’s nice.”

Rolan wants to tell him he’s the same, that there’s never been anyone in his life he’d wanted to care for so tenderly. To take off their shoes for them, carry them up the stairs, sit by their bedside until they feel safe enough to sleep again. He wants to. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a…unique idea of what tea is.”

Dammon smiles. The picture of patience.

“Thank you,” Rolan adds, so low it’s barely audible.

Dammon takes the empty cup from him, leaning across toward the nightstand to do so. It brings him quite close to Rolan. And when he begins to move away, something in him ignites—cold fire, frightened and desperate. He strikes out and snatches a handful of Dammon’s shirt collar.

Dammon’s startled, but his voice is slow, steady. Hardly a whisper. "...I meant it. I won't leave."

He's...not just talking about right now. Is he. Rolan feels himself start to tremble. So does Dammon.

“Are you alright?”

Rolan shakes his head, dismissive. “I’m fine, just. Feel a bit…dizzy, suddenly.”

“Mm…I might know the feeling.”

Their faces are so close together now, he can smell the sweetness of Dammon’s breath washing down over him. Peach and white wine. Moonlight from the window wages quiet war with the candles inside and their graceful clash drapes the room in flowing shadow. Rolan’s head spins trying to make sense of it all. He feels like they’re in another realm. A dream. Where maybe it’s not as frightening to reach out and touch whatever is hidden from light.

He does. His fingers are clumsy as they tilt Dammon’s chin and turn upward his eyes. Bluegold, like the sun breaking through a long winter’s frost.

"Did you mean what you said to me," he murmurs, his eyes flaring brightly with ache. "Would you take it back?"

Dammon holds his stare. "There's still time, you're saying?"

Rolan feels himself about to cry. He’s so afraid. So exposed. It’s here where they cut away the lifeline, or follow it back to safe ground. His voice shakes, only a whisper. "Still time. Should you have doubts."

Slow, gentle, Dammon slides his fingers beneath the palm of Rolan's hand. You'd think it was carved of precious stone, the way he cradles it so carefully. He raises it to his own face, presses it against his cheek and holds it there. Firm enough to impress his feelings, loose enough that Rolan could pull away.

"No there isn't," Dammon says, and turns his face into Rolan's palm. His lips press the softest kiss into it, a fragile thing, a clockwork butterfly that flutters so small and vulnerable inside the cage of his fingers. And then Dammon folds his hand into a fist.

"And no I wouldn't." His gaze is that of a prisoner looking out from between bars. He repeats what he’s said, nails shut his last window of escape. “Rolan. I care for you in a way I’ve never felt before. I don't know what it is exactly, yet. But I'd like to find out. And what I do know...is I want to feel like something special to you. Something you can use. I want to be for you what I’ve never been for anyone. No one has ever known me that way. I want it to be you.”

Rolan’s breath has abandoned him. He’s whimpering to get it back. His every nerve alight and shimmering like the weave. When he strikes out to grab the back of Dammon’s neck, electric tendrils spark out from his fingertips, unbidden. His eyes are glowing with white light. How swiftly, how easily he surrenders the run of himself.

Before reason can stop him, before sanity can intervene, Rolan wrenches Dammon close and crashes their lips together like tide on shore. What’s left of the wavebreak spills from his eyes, shut tight, brows arched and desperate. He feels Dammon tense, hesitate…then curl toward him. His mouth opens to his tongue and his head rocks in rhythm with the sudden seastorm.

Rolan feels as though he may faint. And like he'll never rest again. He feels awful, and ecstatic, and pathetic and happy and free. He could drink the ocean Dry.

Dammon’s hand snakes around his side and rests in the small of his back. Rolan arcs up toward him, his hands curling around the curve of his skull where it meets his work-tensed neck. Rolan lets himself explore the finely chiseled curves borne of every hammerswing he’d ever struck. The muscles so hard, sinew like braided iron cords—and yet the skin above so delicate soft.

Dammon breaks for breath.

“Rolan,” he mutters, keening, urgent. “S…stop.”

It takes a painful few moments, but Rolan does. He rips himself away with a delirious moan and buries his face instead into Dammon’s neck. His breath rasping hot and ragged. "I'm. Ngh. Sorry."

“It’s just…” Dammon sounds just as overcome. “Not that I don’t…but. You’re drunk, is why. I can’t.”

“Yes,” he whispers, teeth grinding together so tightly that they squeak. “I. Forgive me…I-I don’t know what…I.”

“It’s alright.” His hand grips the back of Rolan’s shirt, the other cupped behind his head. “Shh. Nothing’s wrong.” Dammon laughs, incredulous, giddy and tearful. He plants a kiss into Rolan’s hair, just between his horns. “Far, far from it.”

He clings to Rolan while a thousand fireflies buzz inside the hollow of his chest. He’s never been so happy, he thinks, not in all his life. Rolan is shaking, shrinking into him to try and hide. Though he’s more than a little worried, Dammon is nevertheless glad for the chance to be his haven. Honored. And he doesn’t aim to fall short of the role.

He lays the two of them down in the soft quilts, holds him against his chest. Rolan is beyond speech. For long minutes that stretch into hours, Dammon hushes him softly, repeats assurance and affirmation of safety and peace. Whether because of this, or simply from being so overwhelmed, Rolan eventually sinks below the still pond of sleep.

For a long time, Dammon stares at thin air in a wide-eyed daze. He can hardly believe…it plays over and over in his mind. He keeps still, daring not to move a muscle. He fears to wake him. Fears to shatter the wild dream they’ve fallen into. Gods above. All the fucking hardship. All the loneliness. Done. All of it behind them now. Rolan…

Rolan.

He loves him.

…Oh, gods. He needs to process this. Calm down. But his mind is spinning and he’s so emotionally exhausted, but there’s no chance in six hells he’ll get any sleep tonight. Maybe that’ just as well. He'd been invited for dinner. It would be a wild disrespect to sleep off Rolan’s wine, in Rolan’s house, in Rolan’s bed. On his first proper visit to Rolan’s home. A measure of guilt creeps into the bliss. He's always so concerned with appearances. What would his siblings think? …What would he think, more importantly, if he woke and found Dammon beside him?

As much as he'd like to get lost in the pretty dream of waking up at his side every single day to smiles and sleepsoft kisses...perhaps this time, it’ll be kindest to spare him the morning after. The last thing he wants is to imperil this…this miracle he’s just been given. He’ll wait a while longer, make sure Rolan won’t wake in the night and feel abandoned, and be gone by tomorrow. Tomorrow he will rise and run straight to the tabernacle to thank Tymora. Hells, tomorrow he will sing praise to every god he’s ever heard the name of. But tonight belongs only to himself and Rolan. To him…and the one with whom he is fully, irredeemably, fervently in love.

Audaciously.

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flowers-for-the-grave · 9 months

Text

Herons Aren't Lightweights

The Herons base was rowdy at night.

They all gathered together, tankards of beer in hand, drinking like there was no tomorrow. There may as well not have been to them.

Cleo continued brewing up drinks, adding input to the conversations going on around her.

Scott was up on the stage with Christian, asking questions in a hushed tone, yet somehow she could still hear the slur in his voice.

Eloise sat with Water, both singing somewhat poorly to bar songs and the made-up anthem of the Herons. Olive sat beside them, joining in every now and then but mostly just working on tuning their instrument.

Owen sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut.

"Guys? I think someone needs to take Owen to bed." Cleo called out.

"Really? Already?" Olive asked. "We've only had...had..." Olive's eyes began to droop. They downed another drink. "We've only had, like, five drinks."

Water shrugged. "I can take him. Be back soon!" Water stood up, staggering a little, then approached Owen. "C'mon, let's go. You've had enough for tonight."

Owen only groaned weakly in protest.

Once Water had carried Owen out of the tavern, Cleo glanced over at Scott. He was still talking to Christian, and was gesticulating madly.

Olive and Eloise seemed distracted enough. They wouldn't mind if the next round of drinks didn't come for a bit.

Cleo carefully walked up to Scott, then paused a little behind him.

"What do I do? I- is there anything I can...do for him? I mean, we've just started talk...talking to each other again!"

Christian merely shrugged in response. "I am not sure. For now, give him some space and a little time. Eventually things between you will get easier."

Scott's ears flushed. "I don't have time to wait that long! What if one of us goes out on an expedition and never comes back? I may never get to see him again in time, and I don't want thing to be tense between us if and when that happens!" His voice rose in pitch and volume.

For a brief second, Eloise and Olive glanced his way. Then the two of them slowly turned back to each other and their drinks.

Cleo set her hand on Scott's shoulder. He spun around and grasped at the handle of his rapier, then let go when he saw it was her. "I think you should sit down now Scott. Give Christian a break."

He nodded meekly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." Scott allowed Cleo to lead him to a seat at a table, then push him into it.

"Is it about Acho?"

Scott hesitated, then nodded. "I just...I just don't know what to do."

"Think about it in the morning. You're not thinking clearly right now. When you're sober, think about it then. For now, you can either keep drinking and drown your sorrows in alcohol, or you can take a rest like Owen. No shame in either option."

"Alcohol. Strong alcohol." He didn't stutter, and his voice was almost completely free of a slurred tone. Almost as if he hadn't had more drinks than most of the other Herons already.

"Sure?"

"Yes. I want you to give me so much alcohol that I can barely move around tomorrow. No, for the rest of the week."

Cleo sighed. It wasn't a good idea, but they were pirates.

Since when was anything they did a 'good idea'?

Olive let out a startled yelp, then a joyful squeal. "Cruppy! Hello!" Cruppy jumped at Olive's heels, rubbing against them and jumping like a puppy would. Olive bent down and stroked Cruppy, to which the crab-puppy-thing eagerly jumped into their lap for stroking convenience.

Smiling at the sight, Eloise was suddenly motivated to sing even louder and more joyfully than before. Olive joined in with equal vigour and Cruppy nestled in their lap peacefully.

Cleo shook her head with a warm grin, then grabbed the next round of drinks.

"To us!" She declared, holding her tankard tight and pushing it high into the air.

"To us!" The others parroted, with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm. Regardless, the sound could be heard well beyond the Herons' base and echoed through the town.

Water returned, arms free of Owen, and shouted, "To us!" at the top of her lungs. A delayed reaction, but a welcome one.

For the rest of the night, they all chanted the same thing over and over, falling asleep in the tavern.

They all regretted it in the morning.

But Herons weren't lightweights, and for some strange reason, they all wished to prove it.

#pirates smp #psmp #scurvyblr #scott smajor #dangthatsalongname #zombiecleo #owengejuicetv #watermunch #soupforeloise #olivesleepy #alcohol #getting drunk #drunken confessions #kinda #mentioned Acho

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geraskierfanficprompts · 15 days

Text

Prompt 20

Jaskier is wasted. Absolutely shitfaced. Drunk as a

s k u n k.

Geralt is exasperated, but he can't be too mad at Jaskier. Jaskier's been acting kind of sad recently. Maybe he's working through another breakup. Geralt can be concerned, but he's not angry. He'll just roll his eyes a little and drag his drunk bard to their room and make sure he passes out on the bed and not the floor. Except drunk Jaskier has quite a lot to tell this mysterious new man who came and brought him to his room. Does this man know Geralt? He's sharing this room with Geralt, did you know, mysterious man? Oh yes, dear old Geralt, his bestest friend in the world... He's also MADLY in love with him. Terribly so. Hasn't had a fling in months, not that Geralt has noticed. (And shit.. He hadn't.) Jaskier is just so stuck on Geralt. Has been for years, but lately it's gotten so bad he can't even fuck around or flirt too much without just feeling... sad. But fret not, mysterious man. As long as you don't tell any of this to Geralt, I'll bother you with my sorrowful tale no longer :)

Jaskier wakes up with one hell of a hangover, and a suspiciously antsy and overly-friendly witcher. Geralt's clearly nervous to bring up something.. But what?

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megsiepoo · 3 months

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"Hey, cool it!" the bartender warned. He was a black bat, one of the Lamb's many cultists. What was his name again, Nobre? Kallamar could never be bothered to learn names. He glowered as his hands balled into angry fists; he wasn't about to be commanded by some half-witted mortal. "Stay your hands, brother," Shamura urged calmly, gently grasping both his wrists. He had the unshakeable urge to wrench them away and strangle Shamura himself. His hands shook with pent-up fury as he desperately willed himself to calm down. "Release. Me. Now," he growled through gritted teeth. They eyed him for a moment, undoubtedly assessing his volatility, but obliged with a curt nod. "It has been an age since I've seen such fury in you. Well before Heket joined us, I'd wager." "I have several reasons to be angry, sibling," Kallamar spoke, voice quivering. He swallowed the lump that had begun to build in his throat. The bitterness and pain threatened to well up and dampen his anger. He wasn't going to allow it. He wouldn't show weakness, not now, and especially not to Shamura.

It's finally up! Been chipping away at this since the update? Can you tell what my favorite new feature is?

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Feedback appreciated as always! I'll probably start delving into my AUs unless I get distracted by another idea. So be looking forward to those!

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narukoibito · 1 year

Note

Please: The first time A is drunk (before they begin to date B) They absent-mindedly confess

Apologies for the late response! I ended up writing over 1.5k for this prompt. Hope that makes up for the delay. 💛

When the Morning Comes

AO3 | FF.net

Summary: Harry has a little too much to drink.

---

The cheers from the crowd were deafening as Ginny climbed up the stairs toward the center stage. All the lights were blinding, but she could imagine her family in the crowd, her mum wiping her eyes and her brothers cheering. Her heart clamored in her chest as she approached Gwenog Jones and her razor-sharp grin.

Ginny’s eyes slid to the Rookie of the Year award in Gwenog’s outstretched hands, pride pulsing through her veins. She was just about to touch the gleaming trophy when the cheers melted into shouts as Ron leapt onto the stage, a crazed look in his eyes. He slapped the award out of Gwenog’s hands as he shouted incoherently.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

Instead of answering, Ron lurked toward her. The crazed look in his eyes made her jerk backwards only to realize she was falling.

Ginny jolted with a gasp.The shouting continued to ring in her ears as she stared up into the darkness. It took a moment to realize she had not only been dreaming, but also that the sounds were, in fact, real.

What in Merlin’s beard was Ron doing?

Pickles, Demelza’s cat, mewed mournfully as Ginny rose from the bed. She should have known that her first opportunity to escape from the Burrow to cat sit for Demelza, Ron would find a way to ruin it. Months living at home–all she had wanted was one weekend. One. Pulling on her robe, swearing in a way that would undoubtedly make the twins proud, she tramped down the stairs.

“Ginny!” Ron bellowed.

Her Saturday was not off to the best start.

The incessant banging stopped when she swung the door open. Choice curse words on the tip of her tongue, she stilled, taking in the scene. Her eyes slid to her brother. "What did you do?"

"Me? What did I do?" Ron spluttered, indignant as he sagged under Harry's weight, his best mate's arm hanging over his shoulder.

From where he had his face pressed into Ron’s side, Harry erupted into giggles. The way his wire glasses were awkwardly pushed against his face couldn't possibly be comfortable, but you wouldn't know based on his wide grin.

Ginny gave Ron a pointed look. “Why did you show up here?”

Ron grimaced.

“Hermione warned you not to try them, didn’t she?” Ginny asked in a flat voice.

Harry seemed to perk up, looking around as if trying to locate where her voice came from. When his eyes landed on her, he lit up. “Gin!”

In no way did her stomach flutter at his childish excitement. That would be ridiculous because she was long over Harry Potter—had been since fourth year. So the fact that he was stupidly happy to see her did not add to his charm.

“Ron, it’s Ginny!” Harry moved toward her and promptly tripped.

She lurched forward, but Ron yelped and caught Harry before he fell on his face.

Ron grunted. “Help?"

If it weren’t for Harry potentially hurting himself, she would likely have left Ron to clean up his mess. Instead, she took Harry’s other arm, the two of them stumbling as Harry dragged his feet.

His proximity was completely fine. Not a problem in the least. She was only feeling flushed because of carrying half his weight. It had nothing to do with the arm looped over her shoulder, his side pressed right up against hers, or how Harry's face was close enough to her face that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

Obviously, the sparks in her stomach were from irritation.

Or so she told herself.

"Why is Harry in such a state when you're fine?" she muttered as they trudged through the family room.

"George had these new magical cocktails he wanted us to try. I’m fine, but Harry seems a bit worse for wear. Giggly and affectionate."

“Ginnyyyy.” Harry seemed amused by her name and giggled, his voice tickling her ear. She shuddered, goosebumps erupting where the ghost of his breath had brushed against her skin.

This was fine.

He tilted toward ever so forward, close enough that if he moved closer his lips just might brush against her neck.

Absolutely fine.

“I love you.”

Ginny’s heart stopped.

“Don’t worry,” Ron said, not sounding the least perturbed by his best mate’s sudden declaration, and blissfully unaware of how hard Ginny was willing her heartbeat to beat again. “He seems quite keen on telling everyone that, don’t you, Harry?”

“Ron! Ron!" Harry turned toward him with urgency. "You're my best mate, Ron. You and Hermione—everything you’ve done for me—I love you…I lovvvve...”

“Yes, yes, mate.” Ron patted Harry’s back. "Don't forget about the gallon you owe me."

"Fleecing him in this state?" Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Is Hermione here? I love Hermione too...not like that though, Ronnnnnn, Ron Ron, Ron-Won, Won-Won!" Harry dissolved into singing.

"He's going to be in a world of pain tomorrow." Ron shook his head.

“Might deserve it,” Ginny muttered. For nearly giving her a heart attack.

“He’s been a bit brooding lately. More so than usual,” Ron said. He seemed struck by a sudden thought. “Maybe I can help.”

He unhooked Harry's arm and deposited said arm on Ginny's other shoulder. She tottered backwards as Harry naturally leaned further onto her.

"Wait—what are you—"

"I’mma make him a sobering potion!”

“Ron—you git!" She buckled under the additional weight. "Don’t—”

But Ron was already bounding off to the kitchen. “I’m his best friend! He’s suffered enough, don’t you reckon?”

Merlin, that cocktail must have some sort of delayed reaction.

“This isn’t my kitchen!” she tried to remind him. The only response was a disconcertingly loud clang.

Fuck, Demenza would kill her if Ron made a mess. Say goodbye to any chance of a repeat weekend escape. Ginny started toward his direction, but Harry didn’t seem interested in letting her go. With Ron no longer holding him up, he had taken to draping himself over her.

"Ginnnnny," Harry said again in a way that made her chest tighten. He now had her head awkwardly tucked under his chin. "You're short.”

She glared daggers at his chest. "You're lucky you're drunk."

She felt him hum in agreement or pleasure or both. “It’s nice.”

"Maybe for you. Come on, you big loaf." Ginny dragged him forward, staggering left and right under his weight. Their lumbering journey was punctured by his giggles.

She meant to ease him onto the couch, but his leg caught hers and they both tumbled onto the couch in a mess of limbs. “Oof!”

Her head spun for a moment before she realized they were tangled together. The blood rushed to her face.

Ginny was not thinking of his weight over her, pinning her against the bed–couch, against the couch.

It helped that his elbow was digging into her side.

“Harry,” she complained.

He peered down at her through his crooked glasses. His cheeks were flushed a rosy hue, stretched by a stupid smile. There was always something about him that made her insides go soft, and the way he was looking at her did nothing to help.

Seeing him so disarmed was dangerous.

"I, I suppose I should go help Ron before he poisons you." She shifted, but Harry held onto her.

"Nooooo!"

Merlin, for someone so inebriated, he sure had a tight grip.

"Don't go," he pleaded in such a petulant way that she couldn't help but laugh.

"Fine, fine," she acquiesced, settling back.

Damn that residual weakness for him. She had gotten over him ages ago. They’d become friends, close friends during the latter Hogwarts years, and even were now, several months since she finished her schooling. All the recent get-togethers were fine. Friendly. She’d be lying if she hadn’t missed him.

He let out a long, seemingly satisfied sigh before pressing his nose against the crook of her neck. Her heart drummed against her chest, but thankfully he was too gone to notice.

Was he—was he sniffing her?

"Harry?" Her voice hitched slightly.

"You smell like Ginny flowers.”

“What are Ginny flowers?”

He frowned. “That’s what I want to know. They smell good, like summer. Like sunshine, and Quidditch, and…Ginny.”

"I’ll take that as a compliment.”.

"I love them," Harry murmured into her skin. “I love…I love you.”

She closed her eyes. God, was he trying to kill her?

"Yes, yes." Ginny sighed, patting his messy mop of hair in defeat.

It was really nice that he included her in his list of "loved" ones. It was great that he thought so highly of her, that they were now such good friends. She knew she should be happy, and she was, truly. She was perfectly happy with their friendship.

Except. Except this was Harry.

Unable to help herself, she leaned into his embrace, a nostalgic longing swelling inside her. At least there was no way he would remember this.

He had gone quiet long enough that she had wondered if he had drifted off when he murmured something against her.

"What was that?"

"I love you," he whispered again. It was pitiful how much her heart responded to the words.

"Harry." She started pulling away in self-preservation. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

"I mean it," Harry breathed. Eyes heavy-lidded, he looked at her with such seeming yearning she forgot how to breathe. "I fancy you, Ginny. I love you love you."

Her heart was wildly tumbling out of her chest.

Harry fancied her? He was actually in love with her?

"You what? Since when?"

“Since stupid Dean,” he said, glowering at the name.

“Dean? Since then? All this time? Why didn’t you say anything?”

He groaned, dropping his head back against her shoulder. "Well, there was the whole Voldemort thing, an’ now you’re too 'mazing..."

Ginny couldn’t even begin to process this.

"Can't work up the nerve to tell you. Thought maybe I'd get a drink and do it tonight..."

He didn't seem to realize he was actually confessing because he curled up against her in apparent contentment.

"That's why you got sloshed?"

"Mmmmm."

"How'd that go for you?"

"Eh, still scary," he said, his face scrunching up. "What if you say no?"

She was over Harry.

Wasn’t she?

"What if I don't?" Her fingers gently threaded through his hair.

"It'd be too good to be true,” he murmured, his voice tinged with wonder. A shiver ran through her.

"Harry?”

“Mmm?” He grew softer with sleep.

“Promise me you'll try?"

"Ok, but only because it's you..." He yawned and burrowed in closer. "Maybe… t'morrow..."

Ginny smiled into his hair.

Well, maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad after all.

#harry/ginny #hinny #harry potter #ginny weasley #fluffy otp prompts #anonymous #so so sorry this took forever #this is such a fluff bomb #hope you like it!#drunken confessions #drunk!harry for the win #i wrote a thing #when the morning comes

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annaberunoyume · 3 months

Text

Human!TTTE au: A Drunken Confession and an Old Iron's Song

James (drunk out of his boiler): (After Thomas and Percy helped him walk back towards Tidmouth Dormitories. He wobbles towards Edward, who is trying to get him in his (James's) bed.)

(Rather loud yawn) E-Eddie...I'm sleepy...(hugging a blushing Edward) And cold...(He just slams right onto his bed, taking Edward down with him)

Edward: Whoah!

(Thomas and Percy holds back their laughs as best as they can)

Thomas: Looks like you have a new bunk mate...

Edward: Very funny, now help me, please. (Thomas tries to pull James off, but he holds on like a vice, whimpering)

James (slurred): Nnnooo...Stay...'Love you...Eddie.

(Thomas, Percy and Edward gasps in time)

(Edward is stunned...looking down at James...Who huddles into his neck)

Edward: Bust...my...buffers...

Thomas (whispering): Maybe he didn't mean it, Edward...He drank a lot, tonight after all.

Edward: (frowning in uncertainty) Maybe you two should go...I'll take care of him...😳

Percy: Okay. (Places a trashcan close to the bed, just in case. He and Thomas tiptoes out of the bedroom.)

(A moment passes, then James stirrs.)

James: Eddie?

Edward: Sssh...Go back to sleep, James. You're safe.

James: Hmmm...I can't sleep...Can ya sing? 'Might help...

Edward: 😳 Me? Sing? But..but what?

James: 'Nything...I love ya voice...Please (sighs and peeks at him with miserable, sleepy eyes)

Edward: Alright...(He fixes James's jacket to act as a blanket. Then...he ponders for a song. He finds it.) We, three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts, we travelled so far...(humming a part) Following Yonder's star...

James (Looks in awe, then sighs in bliss, kissing Edward's chest (just a peck) as a thank-you)).

Edward: (Gasps then looks down at him, just as he huddles into him, almost cooing...He looks like a happy child...Despite the strange situation, Edward cannot help but smile warmly and keeps on holding him, getting more comfortable and stroking James's back.) Born, a king on Bethlehem's plain, gold, I bring to crown him again. King forever, ceasing never over us all to reign...Ooh, star of wonder, star of night. Star with royal beauty bright, westward leading, still proceeding... (He slows his song to an halt...He realizes that his major crush is right there in his arms...and that maybe he will never get that chance, again. He slowly kisses James's forehead. The latter humms and sighs, leaning in...)

Guide us to thy perfect light...

Good night...Splendid.

(Edward sighs and allows the heavy weight of James to trap him on the bed...But it is not exactly a burden...In fact...The warmth of him pressed against him and his even breathing begins to lull him into stillness as well... His eyes saddens as he wonders if James did mean what he said, tonight...Does not matter...He will not hear him.)

I...I love you, too.

(He curls around the red-coated, taller engineer and almost sniffs from sadness...But he pushes it away to enjoy this proximity and this serenity...Just for tonight, for sure...A splendor does not need an old iron...Right? Soon...Edward sighs and relaxes completely...Bathed in James's comforting hold...And the sounds of nature about Tidmouth...)

THE END

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boredzillenial · 11 months

Note

Do thing with miguel ohara where reader is drunk and accidentally says “dont tell this to anyone but i have huge crush on miguel” not knowing that reader was confessing to miguel

Aww Nonn this is adorable! Imma tweak it just a tad but I hope you still enjoy!

Word Count: 517

You stumble across the lobby at Spider HQ as Jessica J. attempts to stop you. “This isn’t a great idea Y/N please.” She warns.

“Jessica, ivehadit with his bullshit.” You slur “Imma givhim a piece of this.” You go to flex but it ends up more like an awkward pose.

“You’re funeral.” Jessica throws her hands up and walks away as you stalk toward Miguel’s “office”. As you enter, you see the platform he like to keep high off the floor appears empty.

“Where are you?!” You yell and it’s only the sound of your own voice in response. Maybe, if you hadn’t been as intoxicated as you were your spider sense would’ve alerted you of a presence off in the darkness. “Miguellll.” You coo in a singsong voice.

“You stupid, tall, hot, brooding…” you begin to list off a mixture of compliments and obscenities as you clumsily web your way up to his floating platform. You land with a thud and attempt to decipher the dozen screens flashing information, security camera feed and alternate dimension information but your eyes begin to cross at the lights. “Fuck how does he look at these all day.” You rub your eyes and plop down against one of the desks.

“Where are you, you big strong fucker!” You yell into the perceived emptiness. “You… you… caked-up asshat!” You began to grow even bolder as the release of anger and frustration into Miguel’s “empty” office began lifting a weight off your shoulders you hadn’t realized felt quite so heavy.

You looked around on the monitors and one in particular caught your eye. It was a smaller monitor with a repeating video and profile up on the edge of the platform. It showed Miguel’s biggest regret, images of him and a daughter. “He looks so happy…” you whisper as you lean out to touch the screen. “I wanna make him that happy…” you fought against a frown as you closed your eyes and look away from the screen.

“I could ya know!” You shout into the void. “I could make him so happy.” You slump down in a chair with your head in your hands. “Agghhh why would this fucking crush go away!!” You scream into your hands. Weeks of angry flirting, pushing his buttons, nosing into his business has only intensified your crush on Miguel. At this point it felt like the loneliness of having someone so close to you daily but not having them in that way was going to break you. You fought back tears as you continued to confess in your tipsy state.

You shake your head, stand, and march back over to the previous monitor. Placing your hand onto the screen. “Lyla, don’t tell anyone about what I said alright?” You slur as you realize his AI assistant was probably hearing every word you said.

“A little late for that don’t you think?” A husky voice spoke from behind the monitor. As you focused your gaze to look beyond the repeating images on the screen you could see exactly who had been listening in this whole time.

Masterlist

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara drabble #my asks #drunken confessions #squint and you may see him

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labrxnth · 1 year

Text

Misery Loves Company(Leon Kennedy x Reader Series)

Part 1: Misery Loves Company

CW: alcohol, drunkeness

WC: 6,711

Summary: After a shitty day of work, (y/n) does what she does best- drink it away. Hunnigan, concerned for her, texts a friend for a wellness check.

Thought about this being Re4remake Leon Specifically, but you can see it as either the Remake or the OG one. His attitude and general demeanor is more aimed towards the Remake one though.

(Y/n) was starting to really hate Stratcom. Everything that she did: working overtime, running drills over and over again, putting up with the other agents, it felt like it was in vain. All she wanted was an ounce of recognition for her hard work, maybe throw in a vacation for good measure. However, the thought of telling anyone about her craving for attention was enough to send her spiraling.

As much as she wanted someone to tell her that she did a good job, she would never ask.

Every time she deflected a higher officer’s knife and watched their back hit the mat, she looked at her mentor waiting for a smile, nod in respect, anything. But she was met with a cold, calculating stare and a mountain of paperwork.

The only thing keeping her from walking out the door was the haunting image of one of her coworkers being sent to bring her back in. That, and the pay wasn’t awful.

She was walking down the dark hallway that led from the training grounds to the offices. The hallway’s lights were always dim, but the darkness and cold were welcoming to her; they were familiar. She looked down at her hands, the knuckles bruised and bloody and shook her head to herself.

No matter how much she beat her body, it wasn’t good enough for Stratcom; it would never be.

After the usual 5 minute walk down the hallway, (y/n) stood in front of the door to the offices. She did a quick check, making sure her (h/c) hair was neat, her clothes the same. After about 30 seconds of touch ups, she walked through the door and squinted as her (e/c) eyes adjusted to the change from the dim hallway to the bright fluorescent office.

She quickly made her away around the D.O.S. cubicles, refusing to walk through them. Even though it would spare her about 30 seconds, her training session left a sour taste in her mouth. A sour taste enough to want everyone else to fuck off and leave her alone.

As she walked past a familiar figure, she begged whatever deity was watching over her that they wouldn't turn around.

“Have a bad session?” The familiar figure turned around in her chair.

This was why (y/n) wasn’t religious.

“Hunnigan,” (y/n) said. She swallowed down her frustration and tried to flash the woman in front of her a smile. Hunnigan’s dark brown eyes seemed to scan over (y/n); even through her glasses, (y/n) could feel her staring.

“You should probably take a few before you go into the agent office,” Hunnigan finally said.

(Y/n) cracked her knuckles nervously. “I’ll be fine,” She said shortly.

Hunnigan swiveled back to face her computer. “You have tear stains under your eyes.” She replied and went back to working.

“Oh shit, thanks,” (y/n) mumbled. She made her way over to the office bathroom and sighed when she looked in the mirror to see her reflection. The tears of frustration that she thought had been stifled were dried on her cheekbones. Taking a paper towel, she wet it with warm water and ran it under her eyes, sighing at the relief the warm water brought her face muscles.

After a few swipes, she threw away the paper towel and took a few deep breaths. She gripped the cold porcelain sink and dropped her head.

“Just get through today,” She muttered to herself.

(Y/n) stood up, stretched her arms, and rolled her shoulders a few times. Walking out of the bathroom and towards the agent offices, she felt more content than when she walked in.

As soon as the clock hit 6:00pm, (y/n) was logging off of her computer, getting ready to leave. She stood up, collected her things, and ducked out of the agent office before anyone could say anything.

It was tempting to sprint through the cubicles, knowing that Hunnigan would stop her on the way out. But she knew that if she did, people would talk around the office. Rumors spread around Stratcom like a wildfire; after all, people liked taking the joy in the little human things when they were literally defending the countryt.

As she walked past Hunnigan’s cubicle an arm lightly grabbed her’s. (Y/n) looked to her side and saw the dark brown eyes staring at her again, but this time they were filled with a gentleness and not calculation.

“Text me about it,” She said quietly. (Y/n) nodded in reply and felt the arm let her go.

She walked to the parking lot and made her way to her car.

She slid in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, feeling the car come to life. The radio turned on and (y/n) flipped it to a station where she could just sit and listen to. Before she processed it, her arms were already driving to the bar near her house.

(Y/n) parked her car and sat in the seat, asking herself if she really thought this would be a good thing to do. Her brain was telling her not to get shit-faced, she had work again tomorrow, but it was that exact work that was making her heart tell her to get shitfaced.

Before she got out of the car, her phone lit up with a little buzz. She held it up to her face to read the text from her friend.

What happened?

-Ingrid

Nothing, I was just overreacting

-(y/n)

Funny. I know you usually underreact to things

-Ingrid

it was nothing really… just training being a bitch

-(y/n)

You know if you told a certain someone that would change

-Ingrid

Absolutely not. Everyone will hate me more than they do. And I think you give him more credit than he deserves.

-(y/n)

I’m telling him to talk to you :)

-Ingrid

Fuck you :)

-(y/n)

(Y/n) sent the reply and sighed in frustration. She grabbed her wallet and headed into the bar, not excited about how the rest of the night was going to go. If she actually had the balls she claimed she would, she’d tell him off every time he showed up and tried to get her to stop drinking. The fucking hypocrite always took her drink and finish it himself.

Part of her was happy he was back from whatever mission he had been on for the past week, but she wasn’t happy that this was how they’d meet back up. She slid into the booth, expecting her plus one to show up sometime. It seemed that whenever Hunnigan sent him in for a wellness check on (y/n) he appeared out of thin air in no time flat. It was annoying to her self-destruction tendencies, but kind and sweet at the same time.

The weird dichotomy that their relationship walked was enough to send anyone’s head into a spiral. One minute, they were arm in arm getting coffee together, and the next they were staring daggers into the other, telling each other how much they sucked; the latter usually happened when one of them found the other making poor choices.

Sometimes, (y/n) thought that Leon would become something else to her, but she had given up that dream a couple of years ago. She knew that he was alone for safety, he didn’t want to be vulnerable to anyone, vulnerability would mean death to him. The vodka redbull sitting on the table was starting to call to her as her thoughts drifted towards her friend. No matter how much she tried to get him to open up to her, there was a wall that he didn’t let anyone pass.

Just another sign that (y/n) wasn’t good enough for recognition.

She huffed a frustrated sigh and downed the drink in one go. Afterwards, she ordered a couple of shots and threw them back as soon as they arrived at the booth. (Y/n) heard her phone vibrate in her pocket, but she ignored it.

Her mind swirled with thoughts of today’s sparring practice and everything that led up to it. She could feel the bad vibes swirling in the space around her until a familiar figure slid into the booth opposite of her.

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at the sight of her friend across from her. “Leon,” she said. He had new cuts and scars all over his arms, being accented by the dark t-shirt he was wearing. His hands were calloused more than when he left, some burn markings on them. What caught (y/n)’s attention the most was the look on his face; he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks by his hollowed cheeks, his eyes bags, and a far away, glossy stare.

Leon looked her up and down. She was waiting for him to take away the drink she was working on, but he ordered a drink for himself. As soon as the drink hit the table, it was almost gone.

“What the fuck happed?” (y/n) asked.

“I was asked to retrieve the President’s daughter from an infected village,” he said shortly. “I need a drinking buddy.”

She nodded and sat in silence with him for a while, drinking.

“So what happened to you?” He asked and nodded at her scabbed over knuckles.

“You know, the usual. Trainers thinking it’ll challenge me more if I spar higher ups. I had the bastard on the mat in no time, but I still got assigned extra drills.”

“Shit,”

“You said it,” She replied and threw back another shot. “You wanna talk about the mission orrrr…” she trailed off.

“Confidential,” he said. “But with the shit that I went through, I’m surprised I haven’t run away to be a hermit in the woods,” he snickered at his joke.

“They give you any vacation time?”

“Two days. I’m back tomorrow,”

“Shiiit,” She looked at him with an apologetic stare. “Sucks being Stratcom’s favorite, huh?” She looked down at her drink glass.

“You said it,” Leon said and leaned back in the booth. He smirked at how they mirrored each other’s words.

(Y/n) watched his ash blonde hair fall into his face and her thoughts wandered. She would’ve been able to push down the thoughts that crept into her mind if she was sober, but she couldn’t help from imagining how soft his hair must feel if she ran her fingers through it. Even after a mission from hell, he looked damn good.

“You okay? How much have you had to drink already?” Leon’s voice pulled her out from her thoughts. He was staring into her soul, an eyebrow raised.

“Not too much,” (Y/n) replied back. Leon looked at the empty glasses on the table and looked back at her with a look that said yeah fucking right.

“Hunnigan said you cried today,” His eyes kept their pointed stare at her. No matter how good looking he was, Leon wasn’t the most subtle person on the planet and it made some people unnerved, but she could handle it.

(Y/n) took a deep breath and sighed, silently cursing Ingrid. With her filter gone, she was ready to spill everything to her friend sitting across the bar; especially when he was looking at her like that. He was staring her down like he stared her down during sparring. It was a pointed stare, brows furrowed, and focused eyes; like an animal tracking its prey right before it struck.

“I just feel like I’m never enough for anything, or anyone.” She said very quietly. “Everyday feels like hell, my body gets more bruised than I think it can. I’m chasing impossible praise and I never get even a slight smile, nod, or acknowledgement.”

Leon kept his stare on her, making her stomach turn. Even if (y/n) was sober, she’d probably fold under that intense stare; he sure did know how to get a confession out of someone.

“It just feels like too much,” (y/n) said softly. She watched his face soften and he slid into her side of the booth.

“You’re a great agent. Training does suck, but you gotta get through it,” He said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Plus, I need my partner back on the field with me.”

She chuckled and looked down at the empty glass. “You’re completely lost without me,” she said.

“If I had been able to bring you with me, we would’ve finished that mission in a day,” He sighed, a bitterness in his voice. His eyes drifted off like he was lost in a memory.

(Y/n)’s body was starting to process his hand on her shoulder and the tips of her ears had a light pink blush on it. She looked up at his sky blue eyes and almost melted in them. “I missed you…. A lot,” she whispered. “Even though I’m an asshole to you, I missed you,”

Leon snapped back to reality and looked at her (e/c) eyes. “I missed you too,” he said back. “Sometimes I need someone to be an asshole to me, people here treat me too well.”

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his eyes and his lips, wanting them to be locked with hers. Her thoughts started to wander to him holding her, kissing her, saying her name filled with love and lust. She wondered what kind of sounds he was able to make, what sounds she could get out of him and what he could get out of her. “....I love you,” (Y/n) blurted out.

She saw a change in Leon’s face that she couldn’t place and he got up out of the booth. He put money on the table for the bill and looked at her.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” He said flatly. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

Her face drained of color and she nodded, knowing that she had said something wrong, but not remembering what she just said. She nodded and got up, taking the hand that Leon offered her.

The car ride back to (y/n)’s apartment was the most awkward one she had ever taken. She sat in the passenger seat, reeling over trying to figure out what she said and reeling even more from Leon’s driving. Every time she let him drive it usually was followed with obscenities and the question of how the hell he got his license. There was a reason why his driving was infamous and it felt like signing a will whenever he was given the keys. Every turn made her stomach lurch as she tried to hold onto her chair. The radio was on, but it was really quiet and Leon was humming along to it. (Y/n) stayed silent, scared to make her situation worse.

They pulled into the parking lot with a screech of the car tires. “Another happy landing,” Leon hummed. (Y/n)’s stomach felt like it was turned inside out and it took all of her strength to not puke all over the inside of his car.

He got out of the car and walked over to the passenger side, opening the door for (y/n). She unbuckled herself and almost threw herself into Leon. The air was cold, a quick change from the warm car that she stumbled out of.

Leon put one of her arms around his shoulders and put his arm around her waist. “24L right?” He asked and looked down at the slumped over woman.

She mumbled an agreement and leaned on his shoulder for some sort of warmth. Leon kicked the passenger door closed and opened the back seat door. He grabbed a tan, fluffy, leather jacket from the back and put it on her. “Better?” He asked. She mumbled something else in reply and smiled into the jacket.

Leon tried hiding a blush and felt the tips of his ears turn a light pink. “You better give that back to me tomorrow at work, it’s a replacement for one that got stolen on my mission.” He grumbled. He carried (y/n) to her apartment and looked to her for the key. After seeing that she was asleep against him, he dug through her purse to find the key.

He unlocked her apartment and brought her inside.

(Y/n) woke up with a throbbing headache and nausea that threatened to empty everything in her stomach from the past couple of days. Her hand made its way to her head and she felt something stuck to it. “What the fuck?” she grumbled and ripped a sticky note off of her forehead. After she put on her glasses, she turned the note over, seeing simple handwriting on it.

Brought you home, wiped off your makeup and gave you pjs. Dont worry, didnt see anything. Give my jacket back, its expensive. If you meant what you said, give me a call. -Leon

Confused, she rubbed her temple and looked over, Leon’s tan jacket catching her eyes on the bed next to her. She was trying to think of what Leon said by “if you meant what you said”. Her eyes went wide as she remembered saying three words to him. The three words that drew a wall in their friendship, the three words that she knew Leon was terrified of. The three words that meant that she would finally be enough for someone. Her mind raced as memories flashed in her head of her drunkenly saying them.

Leon and her both knew she’d be lying if he didn’t get a phone call.

Leon would be lying if he said he didn’t wait for it.

Can also be found on my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46581286/chapters/117301843

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #drunken confessions #slow burn #resident evil fanfiction

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