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illuminatedvisage · 9 months

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these hands in tightly hidden fists.

Pairing: Jing Yuan x (GN) Reader Summary: It is a late night, and the General's mind wanders. Warnings: Ineffectual Pining, Smut (sort of) Notes: 1.6k words of Jing Yuan being cockblocked by his own sense of morality. Title and quote taken from "So We Must Meet Apart" by Gabrielle Bates & Jennifer S. Cheng

jing yuan notices the earrings first—small, bright gems set on a thin chain, hanging like stars from your delicate earlobes. then your hair, styled with more care than usual, and the new perfume that stains your wrist with a faint scent that he strains himself to catch, to catalogue into the breadth of information he has carefully collected about you. your clothes are as usual, neat and formal, as is your manner, except for the way you sometimes fiddle with the hem of your sleeve and cast longing looks out the window while he reads your report.

that is to say, jing yuan notices you quite a bit and today, there is something different about you.

“you look lovely today,” he says after some time has passed. the seat of divine foresight has emptied out for the day, save for the few guards that stand at attention by the door; he would have gone by now too and released them from duty, if he hadn’t been expecting you. it is rare enough that your work brings the two of you together, and since your promotion at the divination commission, the master diviner has kept you busy adjusting and readjusting the nodes on the matrix of prescience to keep up with her constant calculations. you have a talent for it, attuned to the fine details of your surroundings, so he wonders why you always seem to miss the glaring fact of his love for you.

“oh, thank you, general,” you say, suddenly going shy. your gaze travels around the room, from walls to window and even to the guards, landing on anything but him. it’s adorable, the way you avoid his eyes even though you want, eagerly, to share something—another of your mannerisms that jing yuan has filed away in his heart.

would it be too much to hope that you had dressed up just to see him? that you had made yourself prettier than you already are for his eyes alone? it is presumptuous to think that he is in your thoughts as often as you are on his, but he does it anyway. he allows his eyes to linger on your mouth, the way it curves into the trace of a smile at his next question.

“is there a particular occasion?”

“i have dinner with someone later,” you let out like a confession, in one breathless, rushed whisper. the answer is so incomprehensible that he doesn’t register it at first. not until you start fiddling with the earring that caught his eye, twisting the chain around your finger. he wonders if it’s a gift from the person you are seeing tonight. he wonders how it would feel to tug it off your earlobe with his teeth. “general?”

there is a waxy feeling in his throat, so thick that you could scrape it off with a fingernail, at the thought of you with someone else. someone you might be directing that secretive smile toward. someone whose arm you might be touching as you lean in close, close enough to let them catch a brief taste of your perfume—

“general?”

“i see.” jing yuan clears his throat, looking for his words, which have all suddenly fled him. “where will you be dining?”

“we have reservations at the sleepless earl. i know, i know,” you laugh a little, “not that exciting, but i hear the storyteller is starting a tale about the high-cloud quintet tonight and i don’t want to miss the opening. it’ll be decades before he tells it again.” the smile you give him then makes the muscle in his jaw jump. “and afterwards, we might take a starskiff to the exalting sanctum. the luofu is passing close to a binary star system tonight…”

his hands tighten around the scroll containing your report—the detection of cosmological time dilation patterns in three-body starquake ruptures—your voice gone soft and muddled in his head as he tries to get his jaw to unclench, so that he might beg you—and if we’re lucky, they might set off an aurora that we can see from the pavilion—if he could only say something that would keep you by his side, instead of, of—owing to the expansion of space in ten to the third dimensions upon point of impact, we can predict that the best course of action for the alliance—he doesn’t want to lose you, doesn’t want to give you up to this person who has done what he has failed to—it’s quite a romantic spot, actually—has caught the tail of your bright comet—

with a wash of sick, nervous heat, jing yuan realizes that he could. he could keep you from going out tonight under the guise of work, have you explain to him in charts and calculations and the graceful arc of your hands those elegant predictions which were your life’s work. he could always count on you to put your duty to the xianzhou luofu first, even if it meant making others unhappy.

one night might unfold into another into another as he lures you into his trap. he could start now. dismiss the guards. demand your time. steal a touch or two, first at your wrist, then your elbow, narrowing the distance between you by degrees as he bids you to lean over the desk and explain to him some prediction he pretends not to understand—all the while he looks not at the report, as you might have believed, but at the column of your unmarked throat that he longs to sink his teeth into like a claim. a night like that repeated a dozen times over. how long would it take you to sense him prowling at the edges of your comfort? to realize how close you have already allowed him?

how long would you be able to hold out against him?

jing yuan cares for you, cares what you think of him, and so your seduction would be as patient and meticulous as any strategy he’s executed. perhaps, after so many nights like that, alone together, he might ask you for a drink. tea or wine, whatever your preference, he’d offer to pour you a cup if you returned the favor. one drink becoming two becoming more, just like the hours he’d steal away from you, your tired head dipping into your chest as you struggle to stay awake in his company.

he’d have moved to your side of the table by then, offered you his shoulder to lean on; polite and trusting as you are, he doubts you would have questioned it as you drift into a haze of half-sleep. he’d stroke your shoulder, then your cheek, the crown of your lovely hair. he’d take the teacup from your slackening grasp and marvel at the sensation of your hand in his, at the delicate points of your fingertips, the soft cup of your palm that he cannot help but kiss. perhaps you would have woken, and if not, he’d take the time to memorize your hands, to slip his tongue between your fingers and nip at the sensitive skin between pointer and thumb.

you’d wake with a gasp, and he would turn his head to swallow the sound.

your lips—they’d be divine, he knows it, stained with the flavor of your drink, bitter and sweet as he coaxes you open on his tongue. he’d like it if you kissed him back, hand tangling in his long hair. he’d like it if you sighed, meltingly, into his embrace; if your supple body arched beneath his wandering hands. there, he’d show the first and only sign of his impatience, working them into your clothes so he could feel the heat rising beneath your skin and know for certain that you felt it too—that you were filled with a need as powerful as his own.

he’d take you on whatever surface was available, on the floor, on his desk. he would lay you out and fit himself between the spread of your legs, fingers probing inside you—at first one, then two, then three if you could take it. he thinks you could. he would do it slow, a precise calculation of what would bring you the most pleasure; if you whined, he’d only go slower. with just his fingers he could make you fall apart. he imagines you gnawing at your lips, slick with spit as you moan into the tabletop, your body slick around his fingers as he fucks them into you.

how would you feel on his cock? squirming as he splits you open or holding yourself breathlessly still? his hands on your hips as he presses himself into the heat of you, hoping to leave bruises that you’ll remember tomorrow and tomorrow after that. he’d fuck you however you’d like—slow, hard, fast, soft. he’d fuck you until you saw stars sparking beneath the cover of your closed eyes, no need to look outside, to look away from him at all. he’d make you come again and again, slack jawed, clawing at the his shoulders, addicted to the push and pull of him inside you. you’d ask him for more and he would give it to you gladly.

bent over like this, you wouldn’t be able to see him at all. he is grateful for that. what would you think if you saw that hunger so naked on his face, which he has only ever shown you so indolently calm? he is not known as a man of large appetites, but for you he is a wild, starving thing. for you— for you—

“general?”

jing yuan smiles at you, locking those thoughts of you behind the placid expression on his face. you haven’t noticed anything at all, and why should you? it is a mask that has not slipped for hundreds of years, unlike his next words, which slip loose without him meaning to.

“i hate to keep you longer than i should, but if you wouldn’t mind…”

A/N: i want him so bad i look stupid i know. i feel like jing yuan is just a little bit of an asshole but he tries hard not to be because he is also very aware of the power he has over people and knows that he could exploit them all too easily. but i really, really want him to (: anyway i like my jing yuans literally sick with longing. will i ever let him fuck for real???? stay tuned for more.

#jing yuan x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan imagines #hsr imagines #.illuminations #.xianzhou luofu #dont look at me or the way i fcked up this summary cause i copy pasted from the other to get the format #im dumb and silly!!!!!#fixed it now tho

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mandalhoerian · 9 months

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ghost to its haunt, I | leon kennedy x reader

read part 1: moth to a flame pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader summary: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt. But this time, it has to be different. word count: 6K warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, peppers of fluff as a treat, smut (blink and you'll miss it), leon being feral from day one like seriously he's unhinged, his negative self-talk notes: this installment comes in two chapters. chapter two is still being written and will be published and linked here when i'm done. header template can be found here. we're nearly at the end besties, thank you for sticking with me until the end, and please enjoy.

🌀 read on ao3! 🌀 NEXT CHAPTER

i. Leon knew right from day one when you’d breached the solitary safety of his shadowed corner in the bar of his unusual drinking choice, that you were tempting and twice as dangerous as a mirage to a parched man lost in the desert.

In the pleasantly neon-lit sanctuary of a bustling bar, amidst the cacophony of clinking glasses and spirited conversations, he stuck out like a sore thumb with the air of melancholy around him, making people near his booth uneasy with the way he was observing everything — to them, he was not to be approached, as if one look to his way would be enough for him to start a fight, but in reality it was his inability to relax in crowds, subconscious calculating for unlikely scenarios to unfold and contingency plans on how to get away. Yet he’d wanted to come here just once anyway, see what made here one of Major Krauser’s favorites, it was psychological torture, but Leon did it to himself anyway, knowing so.

You came to Leon first when nobody would approach him, setting a starting point of the pattern in your relationship where this’d be repeating over and over again.

The stifling hot humidity of the South American forest and how heavier the stench of blood stuck at the back of his nose still followed him around months after, and you tracked the trail like a shark in the water, it was in the way you’d been openly watching him upon spotting him in his corner, in the way you slid towards him in the booth, eyes glinting, seeking, curious, expecting — giving straight away of how fresh you were to this compared to the poor unfortunate soul before you chasing after Operation Javier.

You looked young, around his age, but had a certain softness and eagerness that reminded him of an unprepared rookie back in 1998, so before you could get a word in, he’d said, “I suggest you walk away for your own safety. You know how this ends.”

You know how this ends.

Such first words. What a way to doom an entire relationship and a person.

If Leon knew how his words had shaped the reality he’d chosen, he’d have gone with something promising, more open, like, “How’d you know I wanted company?” — he’d expressed himself more, made his attraction more prominent, secured you to him better, but he was always about safety and protection, wasn’t he? Paranoid beyond belief, self-sabotaging. Of course he’d warned you about taking caution so you wouldn’t get hurt, especially given what had happened to the previous journalist looking into the operation.

Your reaction to this was opting to buy him a drink instead of getting intimidated. Leon had made it clear over and over again he wouldn’t tell you anything and to go your own way. You didn’t know anything about him other than being a connection of the White House to Operation Javier somehow and he certainly wouldn’t be the one reporting this back to the base, so he made sure this was about saving one more person’s life from being ruined in vain even after this brief encounter had led to a hasty hookup in a bathroom stall and eventually to a hotel room like he was some teenager with no control over his dick —

You had ruined everything.

Unabashedly interested in him and just pushing, eager, genuine, passionate as you kept talking about your job in wanting to expose corruption the more he kept things dry and silent, and he just saw the same spark in you that he had once; how naive, how idiotic, how endearing — such respect-worthy dignity and enthusiasm and drive that you had managed to find him of all people in your pursuit. He’d never been attracted to anyone quite like this, not the same way with Ada, not in that elusively mysterious and alluring, dangerous and unapproachable, thrilling distance, but the other end of the spectrum, the sort that fed on kinship and admiration that made him want to protect you from what he knew would happen if you kept going like this.

Jesus, it should have been discouraging you from this path and nothing more, instead, Leon had been randomly snapped out of years of dissociation and autopilot since Raccoon City, and for what? Mind-blowing sex he didn’t even know was coming for his throat on a random fall night in 2002?

Really, it was his routine being broken that had done it.

His life was meticulously governed by strict routines and unwavering habits, as if each day were a precisely choreographed fight, a paragon of order and structure. Leon’s world thrived on meticulous organization, where every document, tool, and weapon had its designated place. Even the symmetry of his living space mirrored the precision of his mind, with every item aligned flawlessly, punctuality eventually becoming second nature to him, his internal clock a finely tuned instrument, ensuring he was never a moment late, not at all a result of being late in his first day as a cop. Time was a precious commodity, a resource he safeguarded fiercely, as he understood that even the smallest delay could have dire consequences. This devotion to structure allowed him to remain laser-focused on his objectives, and also avoid hellish punishments back at Offutt Air Force Base located near Omaha, Nebraska where he had spent quite some time as a special agent trainee.

Military would make a clockwork out of anyone, but being trained under Major Krauser had turned him into a well-oiled machine that only had training and mission objectives in mind. Leon used to be highly adaptable and open to surprises before, but his encounter with you had revealed just how unprepared and anxious to impulses he’d been molded to become. Spontaneity had ended up a stranger to him, an unwelcome disruption that threatened to dismantle his carefully constructed world, and as an extension, anything else was regarded as losing control — which was, an unthinkable notion; he had been trained to maintain composure in the most chaotic of situations.

There wasn’t even the semblance of composure in how he handled you.

Never in his wildest dreams would he entertain the thought of someone managing to unbelievably, randomly, turn him on so uncontrollably one day that he’d lose his mind enough to risk public indecency in a fucking bathroom stall with pants around his ankles not only once, but twice.

Sitting on the toilet with your back to his chest, one leg spread wide open over his knee and the other hiked up in the air from his elbow, you basically limp in his arms as all you could concentrate on was shutting your mouth tight enough not to make noise as he wildly bounced you up and down on his lap — and the next thing he knew after blowing his load right after with no rest whatsoever was that he had you flat against the graffiti-stained door separating a bunch of girls from what the two of you were doing, one hand clamped on your mouth, having you press your thighs together so he could languidly slip back and forth against the tight crevice of your wetness and the plushness combined that he had to use all his control for the door to not rattle and feeling your pussy spasm each time he grazed your clit, his head buried in the crook of your neck whispering filth he didn’t know his mind was capable of conjuring right to your ear with no filter —- how much of a pervert you were to be enjoying this when all it had to take was a peep from you for people right in front of you to discover you were getting off to the thought the humiliation of being looked at while getting fucked from behind, all the while it was Leon who was dying to explode from how horny he was that it was unbearably painful.

And the only thing he could think about was to hell with it all and the hammering of his heart to hear you moan uncontrollably, he could just plunge inside you right then and there, had to bite down on your clothed shoulder to hold back the impulse, hell, it took everything in him to keep his breathing steady and not heave, every second the girls didn’t leave was dragged torture, his legs were trembling from holding back and the sheer excitement, but holy shit was it concentrated ecstasy that had his eyes rolling behind his head when they had finally left and he’d rammed himself in to the hilt so forcefully that the hinges of the door had almost broken off.

You had consumed him whole, your skin, your scent, your taste, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and pleasure and just digesting his whole being that he didn’t even have one grain of logic or common sense as a pea brain or nothing — just that he wanted to keep fucking and it was so soft and everything just felt so good and good god Leon was going to have an aneurysm from overheating because of you.

The post-nut clarity after all that was interesting to say the least.

A blood clot had to have shot up to his brain for his sanity to have snapped like that … And for him to think this wasn’t enough and he wanted more as you rested in his embrace — in a fucking bathroom stall. He wasn’t a people person. He simply didn’t do this shit in the first place, what was even happening?

Leon didn’t know what to be embarrassed about: of himself for doing this kind of thing in a place like this or disrespectfully exerting a woman to this degree, he had no idea whatsoever where all the talk about getting discovered had come from, didn’t that make Leon the pervert? Good lord.

He had to be thankful that you were coming down from a high and had no energy to turn around and look at his face, because you surely would see him transition from all shades of red out of shame. What the actual hell had come over him?

Leon was made aware that night that it’d been such a long time since he’d felt such a visceral physical response to someone that his whole body was in a flushed flurry — the kind of intensity that hadn’t even scraped the top of his heated need, he couldn’t even think before suggesting you two take this to somewhere else better that he could drown in this feeling some more.

The man who said this basking in your afterglow and the man who warned you about how this ended were two different people.

The man at the very beginning of this would have known better than to let himself indulge in you.

But your pull was worse than that of a black hole’s, and in Leon’s mind, him taking you to a hotel room was equivalent in his mind to tossing you over his shoulder like an impatient caveman foaming at the mouth, and he knew he’d looked so constipated and unenthusiastic about it back then because he was trying to keep his shit together and not let his libido rush straight to his head, it was absolutely batshit crazy that his mouth was fucking salivating over you and he had to physically fight not to get hard where he stood, especially after having a taste of how you melted in his arms and he just couldn’t keep his together and — this was unreal, Leon had never went into a frenzy over someone before and you’d just taken it.

He wanted to be gentle, enjoy it, savor it, and you weren’t even going anywhere, but even after he’d gotten him and you a room, Leon had taken you like he hadn’t fucked in his life before, like his dick had gotten hard for the first time in his life, and pathetically like he was desperate for his skin to touch another human being’s — and you…

You.

You had made everything worse.

He still remembered that exact moment when your hands found his hair, the gentleness of the caressing contrasting his rough rutting, he remembered how the rhythmic squeaking of the bed stuttered and gave it right away that he was caught off guard even though his head was buried in the cushion of your tits — embarrassing, utterly disgraceful, all that you’d done was pet his fucking head and his heart had purred like a goddamn cat, and even more shameful was that he’d come right on the spot when you’d started pulling on his strands, Jesus fuck, he wanted to die on the spot.

One condom change and a carry to the bed later (because Leon had shattered upon passing the threshold of the hotel door and he’d wrapped your legs around his hips and had you against the door, again) things had finally begun to become mellow and sensual as he’d started enjoying you, significantly calmer and more collected compared to before, paying more attention to how you liked it and what you liked, where you liked better, putting those observational skills to more gratifying uses.

Somehow this was the most satiated he’d been yet, actually taking in the sight of you struggling against the pleasure brought him the unexpectedly superior fulfillment to chasing his own height. He was alerted and awake, sensitive to the very last cell watching you, endeared, wanting to give you every last drop of euphoria he could just to see how you’d react to it. And the more he explored, the more he couldn’t get enough, so adorable, so sexy, so hot, how could he take pleasure in making someone cry? How and why the hell couldn’t his dick stay down for five minutes?

By the time he’d finally become downright spent and quenched the fire inside, the sun had already risen, the floor was just littered with ripped condom packets, you were covered in hickeys, bite marks and bruises that he’d questioned if he was a feral animal, and the sheets were… disgusting.

Leon was a repenting sinner with an imaginary tail between his tails when he’d wrapped you in clean linen and laid you on the sofa, changed the sheets, and straightened the pillows, getting you to pee and drawing a bath for you afterwards, it was mortifying he’d made you basically unable to walk for the time being, and he surely didn’t deserve your insistence that you two share the bath together, twice as horrified and disturbed at the tender intimacy with which you’d washed him, warm fingers massaging his scalp almost lulling him to sleep.

Sharing the room service breakfast, streaks of golden sunlight of the early hours washing your face and making the white of your bathrobe glow as he tried not to make it obvious he was ogling, you’d tricked him into promising you a date for all that he’d put you through that night, you’d be calling in sick; and Leon was covering his face in guilt and embarrassment inside even though all that he’d presented you was an abashed grin and an, “As the lady wishes.” — stupidly giddy enough to have lowered his guard (like that idiot in 1998) that you hadn’t suggested this because you wanted information out of him but were genuinely interested in his company, in him.

He wasn’t overthinking it back then, just reveling in your presence, luxuriating in the fluffy, satisfied, peaceful feeling, new to him, not afraid of how it could be ephemeral. He was drunk, and not conscious about the fact just yet.

The withdrawals had hit right after parting ways with you — this was a mistake, this was a huge mistake, he shouldn’t have promised anything, he shouldn’t even have done this in the first place. Leon had no time for this, couldn’t even keep a plant alive if he committed, didn’t know how it’d work, nobody was allowed to know about the kind of work he did, the world of bioterrorism was a secret kept so tightly it became nooses around the necks of nosey individuals.

He just couldn’t allow himself to loosen the leash around his normal because if he did let go of himself, he would make a mistake. That mistake could doom you.

More importantly than it not being fair to you, he’d be putting you in danger just by being in your proximity.

All that fretting around, putting the stress of wishing to see you again but the garbage feeling he mustn’t (that he hadn’t expected to make him this moody) into exercising more intensely than before, and ending up scaring the folks around the office unintentionally in work, only to feel immediately like spring had come at the drop of a hat when you’d called saying because he hadn’t, apparently, and you were waiting for him.

This was terrifying. How you made him feel... It was entirely out of his control.

I suggest you walk away for your own safety. You know how this ends.

Leon should have kept telling this to himself.

ii. The date was at your place, planned from start to finish by you, an attentiveness and special treatment he didn’t deserve, but Leon got warm inside anyway, especially after you said this seemed like the better option since he didn’t seem to do well in crowds. Something about him being noticed on this kind of personal level had caused him to confuse his right from his left and he was sure his palms were sticky just from that and the way you smiled.

You’d said you wanted to get to know him, and Leon unfortunately didn’t have enough going out experience to decide if cooking together and then sitting down to solve a murder mystery game was the most creative thing ever or not, because he thought it was.

At the end of this, he knew you much better, and had shown you himself in a way that wouldn’t be possible by answering questions.

Leon had approached the murder mystery solving game with a calculated and analytical mindset, trained to think strategically, he had diligently assessed every clue, scrutinizing them for hidden meanings and connections. He hadn’t meant to get invested this much, but he had ended up approaching the game like a covert operation and a blast from the past to his police academy days, examining evidence with sharp attention to detail and requiring evidence instead of just a hunch like you kept hitting him with. Each clue was like a piece of intel, and he’d taken the murder of Mrs. Huntington very seriously. Relying on his instincts, leveraging his experience in decoding complex situations to unravel the layers of the mystery, his logical thinking and ability to tackle every single thread of this one by one had brought structure and organization to their investigative process.

In contrast, you had embraced the game with innate curiosity and unlike him, a childlike interest — like a game should be perceived. As an investigative journalist, he’d seen that you had a natural knack for delving deep into stories and uncovering hidden narratives, embarking on the game with a keen eye for the human element, looking beyond the surface level clues to understand the motivations and emotions of the characters involved. You thrived on the adrenaline rush of piecing together the puzzle, always seeking out the next lead or breakthrough, and brainstorming on the possibilities, which clashed with Leon, leading to a sort of bickering that was entertaining, really. Your inquisitive nature and intuition led you to explore alternative perspectives, constantly questioning assumptions and seeking out overlooked details.

When was the last time he’d had this much fun? Leon didn’t remember.

All that you’d given him that night was a kiss, he hadn’t minded you halting things before the heavy makeout session that had his brain melting like jello could escalate into something more, and he definitely didn’t mind being hypnotized into saying yes for doing this again sometime in the future — when he should have cut things off.

Leon really couldn’t seem to think coherently around you.

And, despite his better judgment, there was a third time. There also was a fourth. A fifth. A sixth. Seventh. Until he forgot it was a matter of numbers and he simply kept seeing you — that was it.

Amidst the unlabeled dates that unfolded between you and Leon, there was an undeniable disparity in your cooking styles. While he considered himself a decent cook, you couldn't help but find his dishes lacking in flavor and spice, often describing them as bland. Nonetheless, there was a silver lining to this culinary discrepancy: Leon's competence in the kitchen ensured that all ten of his fingers remained intact, a feat that seemed elusive whenever you attempted to prepare a meal.

Your culinary misadventures had reached a crescendo one fateful day, as Leon returned home to a scene of chaos. The kitchen lay in disarray, food scattered about, a bloody rag, and a knife ominously present. Heart shooting up to his throat, he practically shouted, "Oh my god, what the hell happened?"

It was then that you revealed your mishap, a deep and severe cut that required stitches. Despite the severity of the injury, you had opted not to seek medical attention to avoid the burden of an exorbitant bill. Unbeknownst to you, Leon possessed exceptional suturing skills, honed through the necessity of tending to his own wounds after the hazards of his missions. He hadn't disclosed this fact of course, but rather emphasized his meticulousness when it came to first aid that he’d taken a course on it in the past.

He kept on boomeranging back to you every time he regretted the previous entanglement the morning after, dreading this was bound to end badly and he should leave you alone. He could… He could get sex elsewhere, he was a dog on a leash because stumbling on physical compatibility on this level had made him an idiot, that must have been it, he thought.

But that wasn’t the issue at all. Nothing had thrown him off and even affected his daily life the way your absence did. It wasn’t craving the skin contact and fantasizing about the next affair that did Leon the damage, it was simply wanting to see you and be by you that even his appetite was lost along the way — he had been scared of what this was. The utter enormity of it made him panic.

In the depths of his soul, a bubbling longing simmered up and up, getting close to the surface the more he deprived himself of you, taking over him with an intensity that defied description. His heart echoed with the fading echoes of your laughter, a melody he yearned to hear once more and came back to him when he least expected it — in the field he could chase away all thoughts and concentrate, but in the waking moments devoid of action, his thoughts collapsed toward you, unable to escape the gravitational pull of your absence. A hunger, primal and unyielding, gnawed at his core, a hunger for the touch of your hand in his hair, the warmth of your embrace, the nightmare-free, cloud-soft sleeps by your side. He’d come to find solace in fragments of memories, savoring the remnants of your presence, like faded polaroids etched in his mind. It was unbelievable to notice the world around him grew muted and colorless, as if drained of life's vibrancy, each passing day intensifying the ache, searing his heart with an inconsolable longing, fueling he urge he kept resisting to bridge the chasm of his own making that separated him and you.

Leon had to accept he liked you despite himself, liked you to the point of no return, and that he was afraid to admit the stronger word.

iii. He couldn’t tell you who he truly was and precisely because of that, couldn’t fully let you in.

Countless reasons came up to defend why this was for the best — it not only protected his heart but also protected you by keeping you at a certain distance from all of this ridiculous baggage…

And he took notice of you noticing and being accepting regardless, settling for whatever you could when you shouldn’t.

He was such a selfish man to keep taking advantage of that to stay however he was able to, a hedgehog’s dilemma.

Leon had managed to find boundaries of your unpredictability and had managed to establish a routine, an ebb and flow of some sorts, entirely dependent on the volatile schedule of his missions that you had no idea of and tried acting nonchalant about — the absences, the bruises, the emotional unavailability after losses he had to keep to himself. He had to be wearing you down, crawling back through the dirt and the blood and the undying monstrosities only to be mute about everything and go straight for your embrace in search of a moment's peace.

And what about you?

The part of himself that was still sane knew he was making you suffer because of his selfishness, stringing you along in this unlabeled affair with the excuse it was with your eventual well-being in mind when it was easier for him — in the sense that if it came to the worst, you’d be able to come out of this on top and just hate and keep blaming him so you wouldn’t be hurt in the long run.

But it was selfish, he still wanted to keep being around you, though, didn’t have the right or face to say he wanted you, so orbiting you was the best he could afford to do.

Just for a little longer. A bit more.

Leon wished you would be done with him and tell him to leave you alone so he could finally get out of your life for good, but in all his returns you welcomed him coming back with open arms. It was the garden of Eden and he didn’t belong there, feeling like a pillager sneaking in and getting whatever he wanted and fucking right off afterwards, each and every time leaving you with less and less and a faded viridescence.

But he couldn’t stay. Not for as long as he wanted. Never in the way you deserved.

And before Leon knew it, he and you had toppled two years of his bullshit — and you were still here throughout it all..

In 2004, the truth of bioterrorism and the existence of monstrous abominations with no regard for human ethics were thrust upon the world, and wiped yet another Raccoon City off from the map of the mediterranean — and things got so much more confusing in regards to what was allowed to be secret or not.

Unbeknownst to you, it was this incident that unknowingly contributed to the growing rift between you. Leon carried the heavy burden of witnessing the President's decision to deny AUPIT’s assistance to the FBC, leaving him as a mere bystander while hundreds of lives were lost due to the incompetence and inexperience of those involved. Even Terrasave, an organization not known for its extraction expertise, fared better in their efforts.

The Terragrigia Panic became a turning point, a catalyst for Leon's introspection, the weight of the world he couldn’t lift one finger to help pressed upon him, driving him towards self-destruction and an ever-deepening spiral of despair, soul scarred by the consequences of inaction and the haunting memories of present lives lost and a past city long in the dust. He questioned the system that bound his hands, preventing him from making the difference he so desperately yearned for. It was during these tumultuous times that you stood by him, unaware of the inner battles he fought and the toll it took on his well-being, and it made him feel so much worse about everything.

His heart trammeled with the inevitable conclusion he could no longer ignore, he made the painful decision to set you free from the grip of his own shortcomings. Overwhelmed by a sense of unworthiness and consumed by his own greed, he knew he had to release you, unable to bear the weight of his own inadequacy any longer.

The timing, eerily close to the anniversary of the day he first met you, held a bitter irony. It was as if fate had conspired to test the limits of his resolve, presenting him with the most challenging mission of his life just as he made this life-altering choice. Bound for Spain, his path was paved with uncertainty, fraught with danger — but he’d sworn that things would be different this time and he could actually return, reformed and squeaky clean, somehow this mission could be his saving grace and actually wipe his brain clean of grime and rust.

The break-up had loomed before Leon like an impending storm, and he had steeled himself for the emotional turbulence that would surely follow, however, what caught him off guard was the resignation from you, as if you had anticipated his intentions and thoughts, ready to release him with open arms — eager to say yes the moment the words would slip out of his mouth.

Devastated would be an understatement to describe him — he’d sat frozen on the kitchen chair, his mind a tempest of confusion and disbelief, the composed and scripted nature of your words waterboarding him as you continued to speak, nonchalantly expressing your expectations of this inevitable departure. You seemed braced, almost as if you had been reading his mind, as if you knew this day would come. The nonchalant manner in which you spoke of his leaving, seemingly devoid of any emotional attachment, tore at his heart. It was like time itself had paused, and Leon felt the dissociation creep in, his mind unable to process the scale of what was happening, the world around him blurring, finding himself lost in a void of numbness. How could it be that you were so ready to let him go? How could you speak of no hard feelings when his heart was shattering into countless fragments?

Yeah, right.

Betrayal was it.

He’d felt betrayed by you when he had no right to be angry like that — because he had warned you right from the start.

You know how this ends.

You’d taken his advice. Leon should have, as well.

iv. It wasn’t only his jacket that’d got taken away by the village freaks, but also the watch you had given him as a gift — which the loss of was more personal and lethal to him.

And he had no time to look for it between saving and taking care of Ashley and trying to navigate a much bigger conspiracy.

Coming to terms with the fact that it was gone, just like you, seemed poetically fitting, a form of karma that he should lose a memento of you when he hadn't proven himself deserving of it in the first place.

At the back of his mind was the memory of you trying to act like it wasn’t for anything special when Leon knew it was the first anniversary of the day you and he met, you just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, walking around eggshells around him with the vaguest boundaries and definitions unspelled so he wouldn’t run away — Leon knew all too well.

He had mentioned going for some type of Casio G-Shock when recounting he’d been meaning to buy a new one, and you’d apparently paid attention to that, not at all questioning why he would want a solar powered watch with 1312 ft. of water resistance — and had given him another much more sporty Longines stainless steel chronograph watch on the side, absolutely humbling him on the spot with just how much money you had to have spent on these two — and the amount of thought you had put into it.

Modifications on both watches were specifically allowed by him, he'd gotten your initials and the Roman symbols of that day in the fall of 2002 engraved at the back of them to deceive himself, interchangeably using them, the Casio one in the missions, and the Longines in casual days, not bothering to buy any other watch for himself after that. You would see him wearing it all the time, but fortunately for his abashed pride, never commented on it, having no idea just how important they were to him.

And it was Ada who casually reunited him with it, her throw of the watch certainly gentler than that of the jet ski key’s, as she was walking away with the Amber, a mysterious, knowing glance in his way, a perfectly shaped smile on her glossy lips. “Here. Consider this an equal exchange. Learn to take better care of special things, Leon.”

Somehow she wasn’t just talking about the watch and it irritated him, but she was right.

v. The depths of Leon's feelings for you were intertwined with an overwhelming sense of terror.

It terrified him to realize how much he needs you, how your presence has become an integral part of his existence, that you were now the surface he swam up to breathe after hours in the dark of the ocean, and the desire for reciprocation, for you to need him just as deeply, and knowing that you do but unable to bring himself to do anything about it, all filled him with longing and apprehension, both holding hands hiding behind the walls of his own making, pulling each other back as they kept watching you from afar.

He feared that he may not be enough for you, that his flaws and past were going to inevitably cause harm and ruin.

The emotions that surged through him when you were near, the way his heart raced and his thoughts became consumed — it was new, it was unknown, it was exhilarating, it was petrifying. The spotlight of the vulnerability he’s put in was a double-edged sword, for it exposed him to the potential for joy, but also, immense pain.

He could lose everything and it would lay waste to his soul, yet in the face of this fear, he couldn’t bear the thought of pushing you away completely, because the terror of being without you somehow had become equally paralyzing that he couldn’t breathe in the PTSD-rooted nightmares of them anymore.

Thus, you had found yourselves trapped in a state of limbo, unsure of where to go or how to proceed, but it was his fault, he thought of himself as a flightless bird sitting up on a roof with you, who could obviously fly; if he attempted to follow you he could fall, if he let you go you would migrate to warmer lands and would never come back. so you were both stuck there, and none of the scenarios involved — what if he could also fly? What if he could do what he thought he wasn’t capable of?

The thought of losing you now, after experiencing the depth of how far he could go with you; the promise, the mirage, the illusion, the dream, was a sense of impending devastation. And yet, he was plagued by the fear that it may already be too late to salvage what he once had with you. What he could have with you, if he allowed himself to surrender —

Leon had changed, he wasn’t the same person, but he also hadn’t changed, hadn’t lost himself no matter the cost, hadn’t strayed from the original path he was treading on — he was capable of saving people, capable of changing the ending.

Spain was as traumatizing as it was eye-opening and life-changing, through the reunion with Ada, the betrayal of Major Krauser, the loss of Luis and the successful extraction of Ashley, one single thread of hope had been holding Leon up and running:

He had to get back to you.

He would come back to you, no matter what, even from the grave, even knowing there was a chance you wouldn’t take him back. To hell with taking comfort in a self-defined ending, to hell with the facade of protecting you when it was just protecting him, to hell with everything.

This time, it had to be different.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #quote in the summary belongs to baneofambitions

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honestsycrets · 1 month

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This user has been stealing my work, Mio, on wattpad. Does anyone familiar with Wattpad know how I might go about getting it removed? Thank you to the user who called my attention to this. I really do hate it when this is done.

#stolen content #writer things #I filed a takedown on it but not sure if that'll work #miguel o'hara x rader #atsv imagines #atsv fic #miguel o'hara/reader #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #miguel o'hara fiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #man they even took my summary #i just wanted to come back to prepare another piece for posting and got a whole anxiety response off this i want to cry

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ratatosk777 · 9 months

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I didn't think I will post it, but it turned out kind of okay. eh, Mothiva's happy for him anyway, but there difenetely will be a lecture about why zasp should tell some things her first :D

imagine these two making jokes about zasp/leif just cuz zasp and probably leif didn't tell them about their relationship

#idk it's a middle of the night and i don't know what am i doing #but imagine if this is what would make vi and mothiva some kind of friends #and i think all my bug fables fanart so headcanonned #so people just confused about some things #should i do some summary for it #i think i really should #though it's all the same universe here #just me making bug fables story and characters better #bug fables #bug fables vi #vi #bug fables mothiva #mothiva #leif #zasp #my art

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exhuastedpigeon · 20 days

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Buck when Eddie can’t hang out because he’s got plans with his girlfriend: Bummer man! We can hang out after our next shift then.

Buck when Eddie can’t hang out because he made friends with a hot, older firefighter with access to a helicopter: OH I SEE. I guess he hates me. Our friendship must have meant nothing to him. He’s going to leave the 118 and leave me and I’m going to be all alone forever. I guess I should try to ruin the friendship subconsciously by being a petty asshole.

#this is how I imagine the next episode going based on the stills and summary.#this is the first time we’ve seen Eddie make a friend outside the 118 isn’t it?#because besko joined the team for a bit #and even with Bosko Buck was a jealous monster #though that was because he thought the whole team was replacing him #but maybe this time around Buck won’t sue the city #though imagine that lawsuit.#peak judge Judy ass case #my best friend made another friend so I’m suing for emotional damage #Evan Buckley #911 #911 spoilers #Eddie Diaz #buddie

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throneofsapphics · 9 months

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plsss write more rowaelin x reader!! literally anything i’m obsessed with your writing <333 would love some hurt/comfort

nothing

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: "A gilded cage is still a cage, the nasty part of my mind echoed, but I let the thought drift away and disappear - melting into them instead. For now, it was easier to give into the comfort. I can let the harder parts come later."

Warnings: angst, emotional hurt, comfort

Word Count: ~1.5k

A/N: ahh thank you so much for the request I loved writing it, this took a more emotional hurt turn but if you had something different in mind please let me know!

“You’d be nothing without us.”

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The words echoed in my head like a horrible melody. I saw her parted lips and wide eyes. Regret. It’s too late, the words left her lips. There’s no taking back something like that. Even if there was, my pride wouldn’t let her. It doesn’t matter whether she’s right or wrong. What’s done is done. Over.

“Thank you for telling me how you really feel,” I said, with an edge to my voice and narrowed eyes. A tone I’ve never taken with her before, and I can tell it shocks her - good. I wanted something to hurt, to hurt the way she’s hurt me. Still, tears threatened to prick the corner of my eyes, to give away how vulnerable I felt, how five words tore me open. Never let them see you cry, my mother’s words echoed in my ears as I turned away.

There’s that part of me that wants her to call after, to say my name, to run to me, but she doesn’t. I can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

My feet traveled the well worn path, out the side gate, down the cobblestone streets, all the way to my small apartment and I started packing, throwing things into piles before realizing I don’t have any boxes. That I don’t have most of my things - there all there. The one place I won’t go back to, that I refuse to go back to.

Maybe she’s right, maybe I am nothing without them, but that doesn’t mean I can’t become something. My life revolved around them for the last year. Is it freedom? I don’t know. I don’t want to know now. No tears, I tell myself, and repeat it in my head until the words don’t make sense anymore, until they cease to exist.

A few hours later, after I’d found some boxes and started packing things away, Rowan showed up. He didn’t bother knocking, just let himself in. “This is it then. You’re running.” The last person I want to see shows up on my doorstep. “Don’t ignore me.” He said after an uncomfortable silence.

“Is the great Rowan Whitethorn begging?” My back stays turned to him, I can’t look at him - if I do I might give in. I might let those tears I’ve been barely holding back fall.

“Is that what you want?” The coldness in his voice made me want to cry. I never heard it used towards me.

“What did she tell you?” I asked instead.

“That you’re running away.”

I finally turned, looking at the clock, anywhere but at him. His scent still flooded the room, pine and snow. His presence even more. No matter where he went, he took up space. Almost overwhelmingly. “So she missed the ‘You’d be nothing without us,’ part then.”

Silence, I didn’t need Fae senses to feel his anger bubbling beneath his skin. “Look at me so I know you’re not lying.” My eyes snapped to his on instinct. Gods, that’s the worst thing I could’ve done. I can’t tell who his anger is directed to. His head tilted every so slightly, like he could see right through me into every dark thought, every bit of anger and resentment. “What did you say to her?” Oh so that’s what he wanted to know. To flip the story on me, to make me the villain.

“Does it matter?” I snapped.

“Yes.” The simple answer pissed me off even more. I snorted and rolled my eyes, knowing my indifference would be louder than any words I could’ve said. I turned my back again and re-stacked dishes I had already sorted and organized. Soft, nearly silent footsteps sounded across the room before a hand squeezed my shoulder, fingertips squeezing just enough to know he expected an answer.

Expectations. A year of living by what they want, of chasing their dreams for me. Like always with him, the words flooded out. “I told her I wanted to expand my business, to start more crafts, go to more markets, to travel further out. She asked why, why I needed to and why Orynth wasn’t enough.” I press my elbows against the cold tile, cradling my forehead in my hands. His hand didn't leave, but his thumb rubbed gentle circles into my shoulder. “When she asked why I said I was tired of living in your shadows and I think it came out wrong. I meant it, but not in a harsh way.” I felt his body stiffen but the gentle movements did not stop. “People only buy from me because of you, because I’m connected to you.” My elbows dig harsher into the cold tile, hard enough I know there will be red marks on them. I sensed he’s about to say something and whirled back around, swatting his hand away.

“That’s not true.” The smallest movement in his temple, almost imperceptible if I didn’t know better. He lied.

“Don’t lie to me.” I snarled, and his eyes narrowed.

“What’s my tell?” He tried to deflect.

“Say what you’re really thinking.” I gritted my teeth. His jaw clenched slightly.

“People… enjoy the novelty of buying from someone connected to the crown. That doesn’t make your work any less impressive.” At least he didn’t lie again. The Crown. Not the Queen and King, the Crown. I pressed my lips together in a tight line, is it possible to separate the two of them?

“I want to be something.” I tried to explain as my pitch rose and I waved my hands, quickly approaching hysterics. Everything seemed to be getting to me, all of the thoughts I’ve been suppressing crashed down on me. He grabs them, holding them gently. The rough calluses brush against my skin. He takes a few deep breaths, and I copied him, my body reacted without conscious thought.

“You are something. You’re everything to us.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I huffed, but at least he’s trying. At least he said something.

“You can be something here. You don’t need to leave Orynth to do it.”

My eyes shuttered closed. He didn’t understand, he couldn’t. This was all foreign to him. Rowan was a legend before he became King, before he met Aelin.

“I can stay here.” I started, and sensed a bit of tension leaving him - too bad I'm about to undo all of that, “but travel to other places - where nobody will know my face or who I am.”

“It’s not safe.”

I groaned. I knew that would be his answer, it always came back to my safety. To their peace of mind.

As soon as I saw her, and the broken look on her face at the boxes, the floodgate broke and the tears came loose. Along with the sobs that wrecked my body. She crossed the room in seconds, arms circling around me and I held onto her like a lifeline - like she’s the one thing anchoring me to this reality. She came, she came after me. Not from Rowan urging her, not from someone telling her to - she came on her own. For me. Swallowed her pride.

“I didn’t mean it.” Her face buried into my shoulder, “not like that.” Her words still echoed in my mind, nothing, nothing, nothing, but I shoved them away for now. Not now, not when she’s being vulnerable - apologizing for once.

“I love you,” she whispered into my shoulder and I froze. She’s never said the words before, she’s shown it - but never said them. Was this a ploy to keep me here, to try and sweeten the blow with words that don’t mean anything to her? But Aelin wasn’t like that, she might scheme and plan, but she wouldn’t lie about this. At least I didn’t think she would. “You don’t need to say it back, I just need you to know.” The truth, I decided - it has to be the truth. If it isn’t, I’d trick myself into believing it.

I felt Rowan’s warm body pressed behind me, caging me between their arms. A gilded cage is still a cage, the nasty part of my mind echoed, but I let the thought drift away and disappear - melting into them instead. For now, it was easier to give into the comfort. I can let the harder parts come later. Aelin guided me over to the couch, letting me curl into her side as she whispered sweet nothings into my ear, her hand stroking my hair in the way that made me melt as Rowan started unpacking the boxes. Before I knew it I was back in the castle with them. Back in our rooms. Rooms with my touch, with my books, with the potted plant I barely keep alive and the soft blanket I brought from my home village.

There would be more arguments, more protests and compromises - but we would figure it out. We always do.

#poly!rowaelin x reader #rowaelin x reader #throne of glass fic #aelin x reader #throne of glass #throne of glass imagine #rowan whitethorn x y/n #rowan whitethorn x reader #aelin x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #aelin galathynius x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #rowaelin x y/n #poly!rowaelin x y/n #no beta we die like men #still a bit angsty at the end #I'm horrible at summaries

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carnivalcarriondiscarded · 4 months

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ccan you share any facts about the lights out au :3

i can try!

one thing i'm trying to incorporate that they get a Lot more puppety once the lights go out - their expressions can no longer change! Frank's frown is fixed! i've been holding off on this a bit since trying to imagine like... Barnaby getting mad but it's just this fuckin blank muppet face kills me but. hey what if they all had eyebrows that were built to move- also it's Important to the "Plot". and if i need expressions to show emotion, i'm failing as a writer

Wally gets a skin cardigan

as time goes on the Goop™️ kinda gets a mind of its own. it finds spare puppets - or puppet parts - to use as a shell. mix'n'match, horror style!

my original design for butterfly Howdy was made for this au. do with that what you will

over the years, Wally reads a lot of books - they teach him quite a few things that he would have never known about otherwise, even if he can't fully understand half of what he reads. how does one know what whisky is - beyond a drink - if they don't know about alcohol is?

Wally makes "friends" with some critters that start living in the studio. though he thinks there's one rat - he doesn't know to call it that - and like... one roach - he also doesn't know to call it that. so he thinks the same few strange creatures are around, when in reality it's a bunch. they keep getting consumed by the Goop

Poppy sets up the post office to be more liveable / pleasant. both for a sense of normalcy and it's just something to do! she makes it nice and homey <3 to the best of her ability <3 she can't really see what she's doing <3

#that's a few decent things i think!#i dont think any of these are like. spoilery or anything #ive been thinking about things a Lot #and honestly! when the halloween audio dropped and i listened to sally's 'tale'#after the shock and slight fear and then the speculation and just Thorough Enjoyment #i went 'wow this lines up really nicely with lights out' lmao #because it does!#so extra fun fact im Incorporating that #honestly its helping me rope the goop into something more concrete and usable #rambles from the bog #wh lights out au #imagine pieces of your friends glued together shambling out of the darkness #You'd Get Jumpy Too!#no wonder wally nearly takes frank's head off when he wakes up #his first thought was 'ah shit. here we go again'#lights out is basically just a bunch of puppets playing deadly hide n seek in the dark #OH that's a good simple one-line summary

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greghatecrimes · 9 months

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considering writing a one-shot where after Wilson dies, House tracks down Thirteen, finds her alone in the middle of nowhere, and basically tells her she’s stuck with him until it’s time to make good on his promise to kill her. House drags her back to, of all places, a farmhouse, that looks like he’s been living in it. There are remnants of Wilson there, too; pictures from the escapades of their last months together, a jacket of James’ hung permanently over a kitchen chair. A ring on House’s left hand that most certainly was not there during his marriage to Dominika. She fights him on it at first, but eventually gives in that it wouldn’t be so bad, going off the grid and moving into the spare bedroom that’s been sitting empty since before Wilson passed. House sets up a range for the spud gun on the land. He gets a few chickens in memory of that stupid bet Wilson won ages ago. She tells him about the adventures she’d had with Amy, and he tells her about everything he and Wilson got to enjoy. It’s peaceful and quiet and Thirteen never thought she’d be comfortable with that, but they take care of each other when the days are hard (and he takes care of her as things start to get worse). Despite it all, she’s not afraid like she thought she would be. She’s not alone. She has House, who will be there to send her off and tell her, “Goodnight, Thirteen. Sleep well.” when the time comes.

edit: hiii this is a fic now! you can check it out here :)

#words dump #look i’m in a writing mood but i am so tired so i figured i’d word vomit up this summary and maybe if i let it marinate i’ll get the energy #to write for real #headcanons #i just like to imagine a peaceful ending for them after everything #also this is 100% platonic if anyone tags this as ship i will kick u in the balls #(the hilson is not platonic. thirteen and house very much is).#greg house #james wilson #hilson #remy thirteen hadley #fic: in the dirt #100 #in the dirt

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silkscream · 2 years

Text

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬.

ੈ✩ pairing: eddie munson x reader

ੈ✩ summary: the one where eddie escapes the bats and vecna, too, all so he can find salvation in a bathtub with you.

ੈ✩ warnings: spoilers, gore, angst

thinking about eddie “the freak” munson, whose macabre demeanor and all-black attire is enough to spook the hawkins high student body, meanwhile, you know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. just because his daddy taught him how to shoot a gun when he was ten years old doesn’t mean shit – eddie knows that nancy wheeler has a better chance of hitting a bullseye than he ever will. hell, he’d probably panic with a pistol in his hand as opposed to his guitar or a sword. at least then, he could pretend to be in hellfire mode.

but no, when the bats attack him, and he runs towards the defense instead of running away from it, he feels as though their sharp teeth are going to be the last thing he feels, puncturing his insides until he bleeds out.

but they don’t get him yet, not before dustin henderson throws a molotov cocktail at the swarm of fuckers so that eddie can slice a spear through a few bats at once. a shrieking roar erupts, which makes eddie follow dustin on his tail back to the portal at the greatest speed he’s ever ran. it’s strange, once he falls through the earth again, back bruising from the stiff, dusty mattress, yet dustin is nowhere to be found. when he opens his eyes, he sees chrissy cunningham floating above him, cracked limbs and bloody eye sockets while he screams and screams and screams.

“eddie! eddie, wake up, please! i’m right here. eddie!”

he jolts awake before vecna even enters the room.

dustin widens his eyes in shock as eddie collapses into your arms, stunned and panting at how quickly he’d just escaped. all from the sound of your voice.

“y/n, how– how did you do that?” dustin demands.

“do what? what the fuck just happened?” you cry, holding your best friend closer into your arms. his head lulls back, blinking rapidly at the fluorescents. anywhere but the hole to hell in the ceiling of his trailer.

“eddie just escaped vecna after you told him to wake up!”

“i-i don’t know what– i didn’t do anything–”

“CODE RED, ASSHOLE!” buzzes through dustin’s walkie, the frantic yells of erica coming through static. everyone’s eyes widen. max.

“dustin, you have to bike to the house,” you say breathlessly.

“what about you guys–”

“i’ll take care of eddie,” you say sternly. and with that, the kid’s wild curls billow into the darkness as you watch from the window.

a sudden lurch from eddie’s chest causes him to double over in pain, clutching his side. a cough of blood. a slight choke. when you turn him over, you see deep cuts torn into his hellfire t-shirt.

“hey. hey. can you hear me, eds? ‘m gonna help you clean up, okay? stay with me.”

he nods with despondence.

“fuck,” he groans as he leans into your shoulder while your arms wrap around his body. it’s embarrassing how such an exclamation can make you blush, especially when your best friend had just gotten attacked by demonic entities. the sight of eddie nearly slipping back into unconsciousness makes your heart want to crumble.

he sets himself down on the floor while you’re quick to run the bath. he watches you carefully, noticing that black sabbath shirt of his that you’re wearing like he hadn’t seen you just hours prior to entering the upside down. was he still in a vision? maybe this was purgatory. or better yet, heaven.

heaven feels a hell of a lot like home considering the aroma of tea tree-scented body wash filling his nose. eddie doesn’t quite remember getting undressed, but he’s somehow shocked to see his bloody sides and the crimson red of the water. like a baptism by the devil.

when he looks up, however, he only sees an angel. you, in your cuffed jeans and combat boots with wet hands combing through his blood-soaked curls, delicate hands rubbing the length of his back. eddie winces when you reach his sides, and when he sees your face, it almost feels like the first time.

“you still here with me, edison?” you murmur.

“man, don’t call me that,” he huffs. your giggle makes him grin. perhaps this is the closest to normalcy the two of you will get for the rest of the night.

“where does it hurt?”

“everywhere,” he responds shakily. “can- can you…”

he swallows a lump in his throat. you question him.

“can y’just get in here with me? please?”

you share a glance that feels like forever.

“i mean, drain the bloody water and shit, first. unless you don’t, uh–”

“okay.”

eddie’s nakedness makes him feel vulnerable, which is new. the two of you have been best friends since middle school. you’d gone skinny-dipping together the summer before senior year even started. why did he suddenly feel his insides melt like his limbs were on fire?

“thanks for saving me back there.” you furrow your brows.

“was that really me? i don’t know how you got out, i didn't play metallica or anything while vecna possessed you. unless you were quick with the good memories? i don’t really know how any of this works,” you ramble, shyly discarding your clothes to step into the new running water. in front of eddie, you hug your knees to your chest as you stare at your toes instead of his big, brown eyes.

“maybe it was just the sound of your voice.”

“yeah, right.”

“magic has no bounds,” eddie shrugs, flashing you a lopsided smile. “you of all people should know that.”

a sheepish grin. with a sly smile, you tuck your head into your knees for a second, but eddie reaches out to coax your hands into his. his calloused palms are rough from all that guitar-playing when for weeks and weeks he’d practiced that damn metallica solo that you couldn’t unhear even in your sleep.

“open your mouth,” you whisper.

“you getting kinky on me now?”

“shut up.”

he parts his lips while you reach over to the back pocket of your jeans strewn in front of the tub. in between two fingers, you hold a joint, to which a tiny lighter ignites it. you hold it to his lips.

“for the pain.”

“really should go into nursing, y’know,” he teases, pearly white showing through his grin. it’s still incredible to you that he can still be himself, a smiling little shit in a way that makes you preen even when he’d just escaped gruesome deaths.

“y/n.” your name echoes in his mouth, bounces off the bathroom walls like a hymn. in this hellscape, the bathtub you submerge yourselves in is the wine-dark sea, maybe, cherry waves rippling in the water from your shared exhales.

“eddie.”

slowly, he leans over. just slightly. close enough for you to notice the crimson of his once-bloody mouth. the smell of pennies. pine-scented shampoo. he gets close to you like you’re the wild animal baring teeth, and briefly you think of that stupid poem you’d copy in your notebook over and over.

sorry about the blood in your mouth, i wish it was mine.

the kiss is not all-consuming, not yet. it isn’t devouring no matter how hard your brain fills with sirens, because it’s all sedated once his hand caresses your jaw, silver rings tickling your earlobe. when your breath hitches, he dives in deeper, tongue slipping into your mouth until you mewl the tiniest bit.

yeah. maybe it really was your voice that brought him back. he’ll remember that for next time.

#stranger things x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #not the summary fucking rhyming am i dr. seuss.

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cuubism · 2 years

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actor hob, and pretentious asshole film director dream

[ this got so long and so weird and specific i'm so sorry ]

so hob is an everyman actor. a good actor, charismatic, funny, fan favorite, but not the type that gets cast in highbrow art films. mostly he does like romcoms, mid-budget action movies, feel-good family films, etc etc. and he's totally cool with that, he's good at what he does, and people enjoy those films, anyway. he might be getting a bit bored though, a bit stagnant. might be thinking it's time for some reinvention. and there might be a certain director whose ridiculous and nonsensical but dreamy films he's particularly enamored with...

dream makes REALLY pretentious art films. the types that get studied in graduate level film classes and have fifty different academic papers with fifty different theses trying to puzzle them out. dream is a master of themes and images and subtle construction. he is also a COMPLETE asshole and impossible to work with, an auteur in the most stereotypical way possible, he writes and directs, he micromanages all his projects, he asserts his vision and god help anyone who goes against it. nobody can handle him, nobody can STAND him, and the only reason he still gets funding for these projects is because they win awards, so many awards, and the studios want to ride on the coattails of those awards. but it's getting to the point where even his most ride-or-die producers are ready to give up.

right off the back of dream's most recent bafta, a rather naive Big Exec approaches him to direct the next installment of his Big Superhero Franchise. dream is immediately like fuck off with that bullshit but the exec pleads with him that the franchise is flagging and they really need something new to spice it up. plus the pay will be enough for dream to finance like 10 of his own ridiculous art films without having to rely on producers for money. and dream really is about to get cut off for being a complete insufferable asshole so he takes the gig. it kind of feels like prison though.

anyway, he gets to work trying to make this shitty boring film at least marginally less shitty and boring. he doesn't have a lot of leeway -- a lot of the story is locked in, half the cast is set from prior installments etc. dream immediately regrets taking this job, he'd rather die in actual prison than work on this mindnumbing piece of trash. it feels like it's taking an eternity and who could possibly stand an eternity of this???

well. enter hob, whose agent managed to snag him a 2nd-lead sort of role in this thing. it's not QUITE the reinvention he was going for but the pay and exposure are really good -- and even if they weren't, the moment hob saw that dream was attached he was immediately on board.

cue dream tearing his fucking hair out and basically being a complete menace and diva on set -- no that wasn't good, yes we have to do a 57th take, oh my god this dialogue is horrible give me that shitty script i'm writing my own thing, what do you mean the plot is linear???, wait there are how many cgi aliens????? i'm going to kill myself -- and Hob, pretty much Just Happy To Be There as always, takes one look at this beautiful dramatic emo asshole and is like oh. yes. i don't know what i'm saying yes to, but i'm saying yes. just immediately enamored with this bitch against all logic, he's like i've seen all your films i know how your mind works you brilliant nihilistic mess of a person. i'm on board. let's go.

first scene that hob's in dream is once again ranting about the atrocious script, which he did not write and is hardly allowed to change -- or, every change he makes is too weird and the studio keeps nixing it. everyone keeps sighing and being like oh my god can we please just shoot i wanna go home, meanwhile hob's like alright then. let's workshop it. and dream's just like. what. you aren't just gonna tell me to shut up? and hob's like no, youre right, this script is trash, but i know you're just going to write something really weird and psychedelic that they won't let you shoot. and dream's like you dare to speak to me that way??? and hob just puts his hands on his hips and is like listen, i actually know more about this sort of general audience family film thing than you do, mister arthouse, so are you going to work with me or not? and dream's just like what... is happening... because usually people who try to 'handle' him either just cave to his every demand like wimps, or just fight him on everything to 'prove' that they're in control, and hob is just kind of... not doing either of those? anyway dream doesn't know what to do with him.

so they workshop it. turns out hob actually DOES know how these sort of general audience all-follow-the-same-three-act-structure films work and how to improve things within those confines, and also he understands what like, normal people like, you know, casual feel good movies, not everything has to be a mindbender, jesus. so they bounce ideas off each other for like 3 hours until they finally get something that's okay enough that dream no longer wants to fling himself into the sun. meanwhile everyone on set is staring at them like 👀. then dream is like come back to my trailer we are rewriting the other 116 pages of this script right NOW. what else is hob supposed to do but follow.

then hob becomes the designated Dream Handler on set. dream starts using him as his barometer for what 'normal people' would like because he does not understand that at all. ("hob, will 'people' accept this?" "well considering youre spinning the camera around on a string i'm gonna go out on a limb and say no"). dream becomes kind of obsessed with him because his life is so like, normal, and he's okay with it?? he doesn't find existence to be an insufferable prison from which there is no escape?? and hob is like aw i know you're such a tortured artistic soul *pats him on the head*. plus, hob is actually a good actor, and he's able to put a lot of heart into even this mediocre big budget film, and kind of forces dream to confront the idea that there's more than one good type of story. that different stories serve different purposes and a straightforward happy story is okay, actually.

(and that the problem is the corporatization of the storytelling, not the story itself)

anyway the movie ends up being pretty good, dream still kind of hates it because he wasn't given full artistic license but he has to grudgingly admit that it has at least some merit. after the premiere hob is like (cheekily) so you gonna direct the sequel? and dream is like i did not write that to have a sequel. and hob's like it has a cliffhanger? and dream's like so???? and hob's like well theyre definitely gonna make a sequel. and dream's like i hate this planet. also no i'm not going to make the sequel. i'm going to fuck off to the woods and make a movie about teeth. do you want to star in it? and hob's like you're so fucking weird i'm obsessed with you i'm going to kiss you now.

so yeah, that.

#dreamling #the sandman #just chuckin aus into the void cuz who knows if i'll ever actually write them #sorry this au became insane XD #it got SO much longer and more meandering than i was aiming for i just wanted to write a little 2 paragraph summary LOL #then it grew several legs #long post #anyway dream doesn't have a 'full name' in this btw he just directs under Dream like he's beyonce or something 😂#you can think of dream as sort of like ingmar bergman or luis bunuel #and hob is like. mark ruffalo. so you can try to imagine that dynamic if you wish XD #sort of inspired by the way art film directors keep getting roped into directing marvel and disney films for some reason??#my writing

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