#to tag this can u tell ...

[jamjoob]

HAPPY DUNMESHI THUR- *gunshoits*

[wreegis]

finally, a team 7 to complete the set!

[isjasz]

[Ready for a new game?]

day 11 definitelynottober - heart in your fist & week 1 weeklyhermittober - beginnings

===

IM SO READY LETSGO SO EXCITED FOR THE NEW LIFE SERIES💥💥💥💥💥💥

[inkskinned]

i'm a little afraid to go to pride this year. many of us are, a little. sitting around our tapas and video games, the silence that hangs over the discord server. it feels different, we say.

we're privileged. the community that came before us laid the groundwork so i could be raised in a different world, and i will never forget their sacrifices and dedication. they gave us this: a pride that feels like community and celebration and joy. i remember the first few times i went to a queer event - i'd been raised so catholic. feeling safe like that, for the first time... it saved my life. i go to pride to celebrate that feeling - my people, laughing. out in the sun, the way we couldn't have been even 25 years ago. that feeling: no wonder we call it "pride."

who am i to be afraid anyway. there are parts of the world where people are doing much better work than i am. but it's just: i felt at home there, you know? and this year feels different. we are waiting on the dam to break. last year, at boston pride, there was a whole gaggle of sign-holders shouting about jesus. you walk around them and try not to let it get to you.

this year, i'm going to DC's pride with my girlfriend. google sends me concerns about if it's safe to exist in trump's america, if World Pride is a bigass target on all of us. every article uses the words "safety concerns" many, many times. three days ago i witnessed a shooting.

even straight people keep telling me - people are weird lately. sometimes we blame it on Covid and sometimes we blame it on the full moon. but i do remember a time before this, right. it's not just that people are more comfortable being rude. it's this strange, outwards violence. a comfort in being cruel.

it's a big hole to fall down anyway. it's not like they're going to do anything to make pride safe, not really. i don't want a police presence as the solution. and what if this is just fearmongering! what if this is just to get us to stop attending our own events! what if everything is actually fine, and i'm just freaked out by the stated intentions of our president!

and what if i'm just listening to things that are being said. what if i'm weighing the shape and size of this america accurately.

my mother calls me. she's been getting the articles too. i assure her i'll be careful, but i put the phone down and stare at it. i'm going to go to pride. other people made it safe for me, it is my duty and my honor to show up for my community. the only thing we've ever had was each other. it was always an act of bravery. being ourselves is brave.

but i am afraid. i lay out my outfit and i kiss my girlfriend. i cut my nails and clean up my undercut. i hold her hand and hang the sunset flag. the sound of this america feels different. like a volcano trembling. i will love her and i will love being queer and i will sing over the noise of it.

but ... still. in the back of my mind. that feeling, like something terrible has been shifted. like somewhere in the night - they remembered we're different.

[emil1863]

the guys!!!

[ba1laur]

toby fox gay ungulates

[bongwalter10]

dows anyone fw my transformers warrior cats. does anyone fw warrior cats transforemrs

[tartppola]

headmage's night terrors, based on raverne = crowley theory

[princehoneytea]

[ cookie run ] wanted to jot down my headcanons...

[ashwii]

I love this stupid game and its stupid dialog options, it's the best part

[kangals]

friendly advice from vetmed: I know that when your animal has an infection that is generating a lot of discharge, you want to describe that to the veterinarian, because it’s a concerning sign. that is true. I also know that the most common word for this type of discharge is “pus,” so it’s logical that that’s the word that you’ll use when describing what’s going on. and in English, we often add a “-y” when we’re using a word as a descriptor.

but. the word. the word you are looking for. is purulent.

please stop sending in messages telling the doctor that your dog has a “pussy wound.”

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[unkn0wng1rly]

ryomen sukuna

cw: hubby!kuna x wifey!reader, tiny breeding kink, mean but nice kuna, daddy kuna

18+

you were lucky enough that sukuna gave you one child. surprisingly enough you didn’t have to beg or grovel.

he’d just seen how much you wanted one, a mini demon he referred to them as.

it truly irked him how much it was everywhere. all over your phone, over the tv and your face in public whenever a baby or child came up to you.

it kept pissing him off knowing that you wanted a child so desperately that he caved, giving you a little gremlin to shut you up.

he tried to pretend like he hated it but he fooled nobody.

his little boy meant a lot more to him than he would of liked. his hair and eyes were just like yours. he also did this stupid thing where he tried to mock his laugh which he found amusing.

he found himself harbouring the same protectiveness over him as he did with you.

but he could tell you wanted a daughter, knew you secretly always would’ve love a little girl to dress up and do girly things with. and he’d be damned but he wanted one too.

he was supposed to hate children, insufferable little crybabies who did nothing but sniffle everywhere and cause a mess.

but he’d just put down your toddler for the night which wasn’t common but it entirely uncommon either, if you were too tired or sometimes if he genuinely just wanted to, he would.

though the bedtime stories sukuna read him were slightly questionable and often had him asking questions about whether a monster would crawl out of his bed or not, it was still nice to see.

it was to your shock that sukuna had located you in your bedroom putting away the drying, shutting the door behind him and pinning you to the bed with efficiency that had you gasping.

“kuna?” you questioned, squealing when he ripped down your sweats, bunching up your shirt and bringing his thumbs to your nipples, rolling the bud in between his fingers which were hardening to the touch.

he didn’t say anything, only grunt as he came to kiss your neck fiercely, teeth baring down on the skin, daring to pierce the delicate surface as he intended to leave bruises, his marks on his wife.

“damn brats.” he gnarled, licking at the purpling skin beneath his mouth, his thigh coming and pressing between your legs, driving them apart as he knee nudging into your crotch, he could feel your panties, they were damp already.

poor you was just trying to figure out what had gotten into sukuna to pounce on you like this, not that you were complaining anyways.

“baby wha—” he swallows your words in a kiss. it’s certainly a sukuna kiss, hungry, passionate, thriving for control. he bit down on your lip, drawing blood which made you mewl.

one hand is gripping your jaw, the other is fumbling with your panties, pushing them to the side as he brings one finger to you cunt, pushing it through your slick hole, engulfed by warmth.

you moan and he adds two more without a second thought, pulling away from the kiss as he looks down at your sopping mess, pads of his fingers driving upwards and curling against that delicious cushiony spot which had your legs shaking.

“kuna, whaat are you doin?” trying to speak normally is an impossible mission when he’s scissoring his fingers and you already know he’s prepping you to take his cock.

“you still got that implant?” he asked and your mind was blank, save for the way his fingers were pumping into you, but you wanted more, way more.

you shake your head no, you’d gotten it taken out yesterday and was scheduled for your next one in 2 days, you’d forgotten to tell him so that this exact situation could be avoided.

instead of the reaction you’d expected, he pulled out his digits with a slick ‘pop’, shamelessly licking your essence which coated his fingers.

“good..” you blinked rapidly, trying to process what he’d just said.

in an attempt to sit up, you prop yourself on your elbows but sukuna pushed you back down, with a careless shove.

the words were struggling to form on your lips, your eyes trailing as he pushed down his joggers, his aching cock free from its confines, beads of pre-cum drooling down the veiny girth.

“didn’t you always want a girl?” he asks lazily, holding onto his base and his other coming to hold firm against your hip, bringing his fat mushroom tip to your pussy, teasing the slit and dragging it up slowly, mercilessly, catching against your clit which made you freeze.

“ye-yeah,” you’re breathing heavy in anticipation, waiting, begging from him to sink in, you’re coating him in your arousal as he teases your entrance a little more, bringing a whine out you.

it’s the first time he looks at you dead on, the crimson eyes that held so much hatred towards everyone else in the world were showcasing desire and his own personal version of love.

the hooded lids give you chills, but at the same time undoubtedly made you wetter, he could feel it too and a smirk curled on his lips.

“how ‘bout i stuff you up nice and full, maybe this time you’ll pop a little girl out.” he doesn’t wait any longer, sheathing himself into you with one deep thrust.

you cry out, tears threatening to spill over, bottoming out almost immediately, his tip fighting its way to rub against your cervix.

you’d been so sure he wanted no kids to begin with, then he gave you your first and now he’s willingly giving you a second.

“you’re heaving for it aren’t cha’, desperate for me to fill you up so much you’ll be swollen from it.” sukuna’s voice is a cruel gravel, hands tightening on your hips as he begins to pull back setting a brutal pace.

“you want a girl so bad, can see it in your fuckin’ eyes, s’bout time i give you one.”

he was never one to be kind or be soft, and he didn’t carry that trait to the bedroom either. there was sure to be indents from his fingers by your hips.

you’re struggling to get the words out, you nod instead, moaning like a mess as his balls slap against your ass with each thrust, the lewd sounds skin against skin, your moans and cries has his cock throbbing.

“say it.” sukuna growls, swearing under his breath. he couldn’t believe he was doing this, going to make you pregnant again, he didn’t know what came over him but he wasn’t stopping now.

“want you to—haah! breed me, pump me with your kids s’kuna, pleasee.” god he’s never getting over how pretty you beg for him.

sukuna was a big advocate against begging and hated the sound of people snivelling for their lives or something they wanted. it was irritable and annoying

but when you were begging for his cum like this? it was music to his ears.

he brings a hand down, slapping your clit which gave a filthy squelch and you sobbed instantly, the sting leaving an aftertaste of pleasure. “fuck!”

“s’pussy is so tight, fucking squeezing around me so damn hard.” sukuna’s voice is guttural, coming straight from the pools of pleasure within his body as he brings your thighs up, pushing them against your body to give him more room to annihilate you.

at this new and improved angle, he’s easily hitting the spot that makes you lose all feeling, your hands clutching the bed intensely.

“tryna fuckin’ milk me already, huh y/n? s’that it, you desperate for my cum?”

you can’t even think anymore, everything is gone. all you can see is those beady red eyes looking down at you ravishingly.

legs trembling, your abdomen tightens almost painfully, every tale tell sign of your orgasm approaching going off. his cock only punishing that spongey spot inside of you.

“c-coming~” it’s the only word you can sound out, even then it’s barely legible, but sukuna knows, he knows you so well that he knew you were close before it even registered in your brain.

he chuckled, low reverberating sound that went straight to your clit. “go on, cum on my cock, show me just how dirty my wife is.”

your back shoots off the bed as you clamp down on him like some sort of molten vice, silky walls rippling around him unforgivingly.

a voiceless scream left you, despite how gone you were, you still attempted to keep it down for the sake of your son.

“good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, j’s like i promised.” the sensation pushed sukuna over the edge, he struggled to not let out a whimper, and he was so, so close to letting you hear it.

sukuna thrusted his hips one, two, three more times before he hilted himself entirely. “fuckkk, take it all.” his head is thrown back as thick, steaming ropes of his cum burst from his tip, filling up the deepest parts of your womb within.

he could still feel you convulsing around him, milking him for every drop he was worth, his abs tensing from the intensity of his orgasm.

as the last dregs of his cum filled you, he quickly, he flipped you over, collapsing onto the bed so that you were straddling his body, his cock still plugged up inside you.

you’re only just coming down from your high, eyes un-blurring as you look down at him, your sweat slicked bodies glueing to eachother.

“th—thought you hated kids, thought one was enough.” you try and joke, your breath coming in shorts huffs as you lay against his broad chest.

sukuna grunts, hand coming down to your ass, squeezing the soft globe firmly.

“yeah? thought it’d be nice to raise an army of mini me’s, knowing my legacy will continue.” you scoff, finger coming to trace the hard lines of his abs.

“and just who is providing you with said army? i feel like two is my capacity.”

he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, that evil glint twinkling in his eye whenever he was up to something mischievous.

now that you think about it, his cock hadn’t softened at all, he was still hard, infact he was twitching inside of you.

a yelp rips from you when he grinds himself lazily over your swollen clit, stirring all the spunk stuffed inside of you, a lewd noise emitting as cum leaked out of your frothy pussy.

“blame yourself, you’re the reason we’re here. time to face the consequences of your actions.”

[beepsheeps]

pt 5! (pt 4)

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie (its rly scratching the itch atm), steve harrington being a sad drunk :(, angst with a happy ending, 1.4k

If you asked him how it transpired, Eddie couldn’t tell you — but somehow, there’s a drunk Steve Harrington on the Munson’s couch.

Physically, he’d hazard a guess Steve walked all the way from whatever party he’d been at. Which is a concern in itself—either Steve wandered through the woods or he wandered quite some way, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

The why of why Steve’s here—why he chose to sought out Eddie in particular—is another mystery altogether.

If Eddie had to guess, he’d say somewhere between the commonality of crashing at each other’s place to keep the nightmares at bay and a night of drinking is how Steve ended up here.

It’s nearing midnight the clock tells him, blinking red from the microwave. Steve’s holding a glass of water that he’s sipped from only once.

And he’s sad.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

��I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.

He should really get up and turn the lamp off, Eddie thinks to himself. Then Steve snuffles in his sleep, uses their intertwined fingers to bring him closer, and he forgets all about it.

[pencil-n-pen]

Princess ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

⊹‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

leon kennedy x fem!reader

Summary: Being an independent woman and a full time student is all fun and games until final’s season. Luckily, your not-quite academic rival Leon Kennedy is there to pick you up when you fall.

next

cw: Female pronouns and description used for reader but nothing detailed (no skin color, eye color, hair type, body type, etc.) This is basically just an x reader for my independent eldest daughters who do nothing but their absolute best all the time everyday and deep down want a hot guy with beefy arms to let them relax for a minute. So i guess expect the related issues that come with being an eldest daughter?

Tags/tropes: hurt/comfort, dom! leon if you squint, leon’s very touchy, leon being a gentleman!! probably ooc, i kinda struggled finding his voice :/

wc: 3.3k

a/n: wowee so i’m not rlly looking to be a full time author or anything but i could NOT get this idea out of my head and i figured i could give back to the tumblr fic community <3 here’s to everyone who wants hurt/comfort without smut, incest, or a needlessly specific reader! hope everyone’s recovering well from finals!

— ‎ ‧₊˚ 𓂃౨ৎ

The first time it happened, it honestly, truly, was an accident. A mistake, if you will. You would never willingly fall asleep on a random guy at a party. That is all kinds of bad for a number of reasons.

However. There were some… extenuating circumstances.

Finals. They’re a make-or-break for the first semester. Mostly just a break. In the sense that you contemplated how upset your parents would be at you if you dropped out and if the subsequent disowning would be worth it.

You did finals the same way you did everything. You worked. Studied. Borderline obsessed over it. Romanticized it so you could push through when the other’s resolve started dropping. Stayed home. Your friends bemoaned your “no-fun attitude” but they’re crying over their grades and you’re not, so.

Well. Actually you’re definitely crying over your grades, almost every day in fact. But not because they’re bad. Just because you’re tired. Really tired. The kind of tired that makes people have public breakdowns. But you can’t afford to have a public breakdown because you have to succeed at college and you have to work in order to stay on top of your bills and be able to send some money home to your family and make sure you have time to call your parents and make time for your sister to call you and vent because you didn’t have a you at her age and you wish you did so you have to be there for her and your friends need you to be there for them not to mention planning for how you’re going to use your degree after you graduate and—

Most of the time you try not to think about it.

So finals were over. And everyone wanted to celebrate. And you did, you promise. You’re totally the party girl type. Totally. (Maybe if you say it enough times it’ll come true?)

You don’t hate parties. You like dressing up and going out. It’s fun! It’s just… not your idea of an unwind. Not after you nearly ran yourself into the ground for a month straight for the sake of academic validation. You’d prefer to sleep for 72 hours straight. And maybe watch a movie at home in the sweatshirt you cried over your textbooks in. Maybe over a glass of wine? You’re not really sure. Relaxing never really goes well for you. It’s either depression-bed-rotting or full productivity.

Needless to say, you weren’t exactly thrilled to find yourself at this party. You’re not really sure how your friends convinced you.

But you’re here, in makeup and an outfit you like (you’re thankful this isn’t one of the ‘put on a tight dress and dance’ parties) and you just honestly want to go to bed. It’s a house party, so it’s not nearly as crazy as some of the other parties you’ve been (read: dragged) to, but still.

You’re on the couch, ignoring the smell of alcohol in the air and pretending the pounding baseline of the music coming from the speaker in the kitchen isn’t starting to give you a headache.

Ada Wong, a girl you’ve hesitantly dubbed your party friend, is sitting on your left, while the guy you can never quite tell what he is to her, is sitting on your right.

Leon Kennedy.

On a good day, Leon Kennedy is a smart, brooding, annoyingly capable guy who you share some of your classes with. On a bad day, he’s the bane of your existence. On a really bad day, you fantasize about all the ways you could kill him and turn the experience into a really good term paper.

It’s complicated. You’re smart. He’s smart. You tend to clash because neither of you like backing down from a challenge.

But right now, in this moment, at this party, the only thing you can think about is how fucking tired you are and how warm he is.

The music is so loud it drowns everything out in your brain. The few thoughts that make it through the overwhelm of sound are fuzzy and staticky. The cling and slip around in your head like syrup. The worst parts about parties are, funnily enough, working to cancel out the main reason you can’t fall asleep in your own bed at night: overthinking.

That and the fact that you haven’t sleep in forty-eight hours. An energy drink and an iced coffee count as a full nights sleep, right? You’re sure the heart palpitations are normal.

You manage to keep up with the steady flow of the group conversation, but as the night wears on, talking becomes harder and harder and just plain processing the words being said slowly turns into an impossible task. At some point, someone else squeezed onto the couch— you think it might be Chris? Ada did say he was coming late— so now you’re pressed against the one and only Leon Kennedy, and he’s radiating heat like a furnace.

Like you, he opted for a slightly more casual approach to the house party. Of course, he’s a guy, so his wardrobe was probably never that big, but still. It’s nice to see someone else in a sweatshirt and jeans.

You at least put on your favorite jeans! You call them your hot jeans, for self explanatory reasons. So what if you’re wearing an oversized sweatshirt? It’s cold!

You jolt in place, not realizing your eyes had slipped close and the conversation had continued on without you. Something prickles in the back of your head. An instinctual sort of thing.

Don’t fall asleep in public places.

Don’t fall asleep at someone’s house you don’t know.

You know the owner of the house, you think. You’ve been here once or twice. But you don’t know everyone at the party and where your friends have gone because they’re not in the group talking here and you should probably stand up soon, to wake yourself up, don’t let your friends down, don’t be that girl who falls asleep at the party, don’t—

You jolt again.

Wake up. You tell yourself. Leon’s looking at you out of the corner of his eye, but you ignore it.

It feels like a record skip. You’ll blink, and the conversation isn’t the same as when you first closed your eyes. The song isn’t the same. Were the lights always this bright?

“Whew!” Ada whistles from above. When did she stand up? “Someone’s got final’s exhaustion written all over their face!”

The group laughs and you do too, but it sounds different. Leon doesn’t. Why isn’t he laughing?

You jolt again. Harder this one. A full body shake. You wince as your knee knocks into Leon’s.

“Sorr—“

“Stop that.” He grumbles, and oh. A warm, solid hand snakes around your waist and pulls you closer. Closed to that warm, stupidly comfortable side.

This is wrong. It’s Leon. It’s Leon. You can’t. And this is a party, and your friends are here—

“Stop being stupid,” You can feel his chest rumble from where your cheek is pressed flush against it, and when did that happen? He picks up your left arm and drapes it across his stomach, then picks up your right arm and wraps it around his lower pack. “Squeeze.”

You listen, and wow. Who has time to go to the gym this much and be an academic rival? You feel like you’re slacking. Maybe you need to make time to get some—

“I can hear you thinking,” He says, voice deep and rumbly. It’s honestly a miracle you can hear him over the music. It’s probably because your face is pressed against his chest. If you strain, you can feel the dull thud of his heart.

“You have a heart?” You say, half-delirious with exhaustion. It comes out more as a question than a statement

“Mhm,” He rumbles. “I am in possession of one. Great observation princess.”

You frown into his chest. “Why are you always so mean? You call me that stupid name. I’m not a princess.”

“I’m not mean. Whoever said princess was a mean nickname? You decided that on your own.”

“Then how come you call me that?”

“Because,” He huffs, repositioning to a more slouched position that’s more comfortable for your neck. The arm tightens around your waist.

It’s nice. It’s possessive. Protective. No one’s ever really done that for you before. Usually it’s you doing the protecting.

You don’t want to relax. You can’t. You can’t.

“Because,” He continues, “Princesses need to be taken care of. Especially smart, stubborn princesses who never pause for one second. Not even when they should.”

You should get up. Apologize for how weird you’re being. Have another coffee or energy drink. Join the party. Do something that isn’t this.

“Go to sleep,” He says, his voice like a warm blanket settling and slipping into your mind. “Nothing‘s going to happen to you while I’m here. No one is going to be mad at you for sleeping. And if they are, I’ll kick their ass. Go to sleep.”

It’s easy to give in after that.

You sag, boneless. Like a puppet with it’s strings cut. You inhale deeply, breathing in the deep, rich scent that’s distinctly Leon.

Just for a few minutes. Because Leon’s watching. He won’t let something happen to you. Just for a few minutes. You’ll get up soon. You will.

He tucks you closer to him. “Sleep.”

You’re out like a light.

—

“No way, she’s actually asleep?”

“Holy shit Leon, did you drug her?”

“I did not.”

“Well, thanks, for whatever weird magic-spell you cast. Seriously. We’re all starting to get worried about her. She doesn’t take any breaks and she doesn’t let anyone help. Last week a librarian found her asleep on the printer. Fully standing.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m going to start inviting you to our apartment if it means she’ll actually get some fucking sleep. It’s unsettling finding her in the same position as when I left like, six hours beforehand.”

“Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”

—

It’s horrific, running into him in the library.

What makes it more horrible is the fact that you’re ugly crying silently in the English textbook section, because it’s always empty. You’re ugly crying in the English textbook section of the university library and Leon Kennedy just walked into the aisle.

You sniff, lifting your head from your knees to stare up at him from the ground. He has a knack for finding you at your lowest, it would seem.

“We’ve got to stop seeing each other like this, princess.”

“Oh?” You sniff hard, running a hand across your face as if that will clear up your red rimmed, puffy eyes, the tear tracks on your face, or the flush on your nose. The action at least wipes away the snot. “I wasn’t aware you ever fell asleep on me at a party. Did I ever find you crying in the English textbook section of the library?”

He tilts his head. “Why the English textbook section? It’s one of your best subjects.”

“It’s the emptiest section. Plus, anyone looking for an English textbook at this hour isn’t going to bat an eye at me.” You wrap your arms around your legs and hug them to your chest. “What are you doing here?”

“One of your roommates called Ada. They said you haven’t been home since this morning. They thought you might’ve been at hers, or with me.”

You snort. “It’s like they don’t even know me.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think they were hoping you’d be there. I think anyone who knows you knew you’d be here.”

“Crying in the English section?”

“In the library, dumbass.”

He stalks forward, leaning back against the bookshelf across from you and sliding his hands into his sweatpants pockets.

“Tell me. Is your pathological avoidance to asking for help conscious or not?”

You kick out, one shoed foot catching him in the shins. “Dick.”

He shrugs. “Just want to know. I can’t exactly gloat over scoring two points above you if you’re not in top form. I want a fair fight.”

“Is that what you're here for?” You ask suddenly, everything in your body going rigid. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” He says calmly. “I’m here because you’re being stupid again. You know what’s not healthy, or smart?”

He gestures to you. You, sitting on the floor, tears drying on your face. “This. Going out to parties to make your friends happy when you should be at home, sleeping. Studying for so long you end up looking like your boyfriend of eight years just broke up with you. Come on, princess. Where’s those brains you brag about?”

“They’re up here,” You tap your forehead. Against your will, your eyes burn, tears welling up, your face tightening. “And they’re tired.”

You drop your head into your hands, forgoing your silent crying of earlier in the place of open mouth sobbing. You can’t help it. You’re just so tired. So done with it all. With trying to keep up, with trying to make space, with trying to make time. With doing your best and it not being enough. You’re tired of being tired.

“Annnd there it is. Come here.”

He lowers himself to the floor next to you, tucking you close in a similar fashion as that night at the party.

“Come on, same thing as before. Hold onto me. Give yourself a minute.”

You wrap your arms around his middle, same way as last time, burying your face into his shoulder. Someone could see. Someone you know might see you crying and think—

He reaches a hand up and pulls the hood of your sweatshirt over your head.

“There. Now no one can see your face. Stop worrying. Just cry, princess.”

You sniffle. “I’m getting snot on your sweatshirt.”

“It’s had worse on it.”

“Gross.”

You can practically feel the eye roll. “Can you stop being dirty-minded and focus on something productive? Like crying? Or not crying, if that would make you feel better.”

You shift, so your head is lying against his shoulder instead of smashed into it like before.

“Why do you care if I feel better?”

Why do you care?

He shrugs against you.

“Told you,” He pushes your hood back a bit, tapping you on the forehead with his pointer finger. “My competition’s no fun if she’s not taking care of herself. How else is she gonna kick my ass?”

“I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need you to swoop in here, Leon.”

“Mhm,” He says. “And i’m sure you do great at it, considering you’re still alive and kicking my ass at those stupid socratic seminars. Consider this… self-care. In the face mask, getting your nails done way.”

“Who taught you self care?”

“Ada. We have face mask nights.”

You jolt up. “Is she—“

“She’s not my girlfriend, we’re not fucking, no she’s not going to be upset or care in any way about this. Calm down.”

You begrudgingly settle back against him.

“If anything,” He continues. “She’ll be excited to see you at more parties in the coming months.”

You frown. “I never said—“

“You only go to parties if your friends physically drag you or when you feel confident enough in your grades and the general state of your life. It’s really easy to tell which version of you shows up to the party. It’s the way you dress.”

“How so?”

He shifts slightly. Guilt twinges in your stomach as you realize how uncomfortable he must be.

“You wear your pick-me-up pants when you’re dragged there. The ones that make your ass look great.”

You sit up with a gasp. “My hot pants?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you call them?”

Your brain catches up to the rest of what he said. “Hold on. Did you just say—“

“I said what I said. I’m assuming there’s a reason you call them your hot pants.”

He smirks, and you flush.

“Moving onto more pressing matters,” He tilts his head at you. “You have two options this evening. Either I take you back to your place and you sleep in your own bed, or you come to my place and we binge watch the Oceans movies until you fall asleep.”

“How did you know I like the—“

“The icebreaker for club thing. You said they were your favorite movies.”

You look up at him. “You remembered?”

“You were wearing your hot jeans.”

“You’re the worst.”

He scans your face for a moment, eyes sparking with mirth and a little something less innocent. “Maybe.”

You sigh and lean back against him, exhaustion from all your crying hitting you at once.

“Nuh-uh, no sleeping here. You gotta pick one. My place or yours?”

You frown into his shoulder. “Ugh. Fine. Yours, but only because I wanna watch the Ocean’s movies. You better not have a disgusting frat house.”

“I do not. I do have popcorn and ice cream.”

“Ada bought those, didn’t she?”

“Nope,” He says, nudging you with his shoulder to stand. You clamber in gracefully to your feet, your head starting to pound. “Chris likes to have movie nights. It pays to be well stocked.”

Your cheeks warm as a large, steadying hand finds its way to the small of your back. “How many of my friends are you friends with?”

“I was friends with them first.”

“Ass.”

He chuckles incredulously. “For having friends?”

“Yes,” You say, letting him pull you to his side while you walk to your table where you left your stuff. Probably not the best idea to leave your entire net-worth unattended, but whatever. You were going through it. “How dare you.”

“Mmm. I see. My apologies, princess. I’ll tell Chris and Ada.”

“You get on that.”

You can’t help but smile as he helps you pack up your things, passing you items across the table and carefully zipping up your pencil case.

“Don’t touch my papers, I have a system.”

“Is the system absolute chaos?”

“Shut up.”

Once everything is packed up, you zip up your backpack, but before you can sling it on, Leon’s arm darts out and snags it right out from under you.

Your expression grows pinched. “I can carry my own bag, Leon.”

“I know you can.”

“Give me my bag.”

“No.”

You groan. “Why do you want to carry my bag?”

“See, there’s this thing called chivalry—“

“Oh my god, shut up. When have you and chivalry ever been synonymous?”

He shrugs. “Ever since I met the girl in the hot jeans who regularly kicks my ass academically.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mmm,” He hums, wrapping an arm around your waist and walking you towards the doors to the library. “And you’re stubborn. Come on. Brad Pitt and George Clooney are waiting for you.”

You sigh dramatically, hiding a small smile in your hand.

Maybe you could get used to this.

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