#AU: Forever Halloween | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

macabrecake · 2 years

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I'm way too lazy to put a proper title and such but this is basically a fluffy little Slasher RE6!Leon x Reader drabble that absolutely no one asked for 🥲

The moment you nearly jumped out of your skin when the door slammed shut, you knew who it was. By the eerie silence and the overwhelming sense of unease that just his presence alone is able to blanket all four corners of the house in, you knew Leon had returned from 'work.' Having entered through the backdoor as usual, he's done it so many times to the point where it's become second nature that you keep it unlocked.

Another odd component to this extremely bizarre roommate set up that you and he have created.

You feed him, give him shelter, and he doesn't end your life like the many others he's taken before. You know it's wrong, aiding a felon- an extremely dangerous, wanted killer to be more specific. You know you should call the police, or Chris, already aware about his own encounter with Leon that night.

"I swear to you y/n, the moment I see him again. I'm gonna make sure I put a bullet in him. Rip his mask off and watch whatever semblance of life he has drain from his eyes. He's cast his shadow of fear and grief over this city for too long…"

"I'll keep you safe from him, I promise."

Your face finds its way into your hands with a deep sigh of guilt. That classic damned if you do, damned if you don't is why you keep quiet. Or that's what you tell yourself at least, since you can't bring yourself to think about the real answer. Chris is trying to protect you… from the very thing that you're harboring in your home right now. You know that if you do say anything about Leon, that's not just your life that's cut short, but Chris as well, and anyone else who gets in his way. Who, now that you're finally tuning into what's going on, is making a lot of noise.

Being around Leon long enough has caused you to inadvertently pick up some of his patterns. Like how he's normally much quieter than that. Only ever making a subtle amount of sounds to lure his victims where he wants them. It's also just a means to scare you, everytime you think Leon is in one part of the house you turn around, only to find him standing there staring at you. It's part of what amuses him. His routine. Which he also hasn't done yet since he got home.

You shouldn't care enough to turn and call out his name, yet you feel that you just need to, even if he doesn't answer. Before you can open your mouth, however, it seems Leon knew you were going to. Making you jolt slightly when you find him already standing in the kitchen. You would ease down a little, which is still a strange thing for you to do around him, but it's short lived when you see the blood.

There's a very obvious crimson trail following behind him, smeared all over his clothes, still dripping from his hands and knife. You don't wanna know who it could belong to, though you're probably gonna find out anyway when it shows up on the News tomorrow. But, by his stature alone, you could see it's not just some unfortunate civilian. Leon's shoulders were more hunched than normal, and the breath that escapes through his mask is loud, ragged. It connects the dots for you quickly.

He's hurt.

"Holy shit." You whisper past your fingertips when your hand goes to your mouth in shock. Again, you really shouldn't care, you should be praying that he'll finally drop dead where he stands. You shouldn't be reaching into the cabinet for the first aid kit, shouldn't be asking him if he needs help and wait for an answer. Yet, that's exactly what you do.

There's a brief minute of silence until Leon slightly turns his body to the side to give you a path out of the kitchen. You act swiftly and head for the bathroom with the medical necessities, hearing his boots hit the hardwood as he trails behind you. Once in the bathroom, you set down the supplies while Leon sits on the toilet lid with what you could assume is a quiet sigh of exhaustion. Probably sitting down for the first time this whole night.

It's things like that that often makes you realize he's still human, to an extent at least. You've still witnessed him do things that are beyond the capabilities of an ordinary man. So much that he's survived. Things that would kill anyone else. Maybe that's why just being in the same space as him is still deeply upsetting at times. Especially when all you can smell near him is the strong scent of iron.

He's pretty unpredictable.

Even now, Leon could very easily kill you if he wished. Whether it's because he doesn't see usefulness in you anymore, or if he just suddenly gets bored. He's smart enough to take care of his own wounds after all.

So what is his purpose for keeping you alive?

You don't know, nor will you ever try to gain the courage to ask, as you take a small shaky breath to calm your nerves before turning to face the man. As usual, those dark eye sockets of his mask are already peering back at you. Fighting to contain a small shudder, you point to his bloodied coveralls, "I'm gonna need to move your clothes out of the way so I can see where you're hurt, ok?"

Once again, Leon is still for a short moment before he straightens his back up more. Keeping his hands in his lap so you have room to work on him. After you get permission, you step closer to unbutton the flap and unzip the top part of his suit down. You see his plain black T-shirt underneath, torn in some areas, very clearly red and sticking to his skin in others. Your brows lightly furrow in concern, almost hesitant to lift his shirt up now. But with the way he leans forward for your hands to lightly splay against his chest, you make yourself carry on. Carefully, you remove Leon's shirt. But this time with extreme caution to not take his mask off with the ruined fabric.

That's when your concern turns to horror.

For one, you can't tell what's fresh wounds and what's old scars that the blonde obtained from Doctor Benford shooting him the first time he escaped all those years ago. Everything is caked in a layer of dried blood, dirt, sweat, and grime.

The darker spots on Leon's torso yielded some clues at least, more bullet wounds for sure, as well as some deep cuts and heavy bruising. Like he was beaten with something, or numerous things, who in the world managed to get ahold of him to do all of this? Nevermind how he survived it, that's a question you long gave up trying to answer. Much like how, considering that he's sitting here right now, tells you that the one's who did this most likely aren't around anymore.

"Fucking hell…" You mumble as your eyes drift across the vast sea of injuries before settling on what you know is probably gonna take the most work. "Jesus Christ Leon, you got burned too?" The response you get is a low huff, it's a long story that he's clearly still mad about, which obviously would suggest that you don't mention it. Now, you know you're not a doctor, but anyone knows a burn when they see one. They stick out, and are never pretty. It cascades over his left shoulder, seeming to creep upward before going to hide away under his mask, which also looks rather charred on one side now that you've gotten a closer look.

There's so much going on around Leon's chest and abdomen, you don't know where to begin. You opt to clean the mess away for starters, let you see where the wounds are and also prevent any infection. If he's even capable of getting sick. Nearly an entire roll of paper towels, tissue, and cleaning wipes later. You finally get an eyeful of the damage that was done, and a little extra…

You already knew Leon was fit. However, it's one thing to imagine, another to actually have your face up close and personal with it. Now you have details. Now you get to see what lies beyond those dangerous hands- that have yet to lethally turn against you. Following one of the protruding veins on the back of his large palm, it runs up through his muscled forearm before disappearing into the hearty meat of his bicep.

Along the way you find another old bullet scar, stamped right below where Leon's shoulder meets with his collarbone. A roadblock, or perhaps an important landmark. Your eyes continue their journey along the bone before dipping down to pass between a valley of pure muscle that makes up the natural pecs and abs of his strong chest.

You know you should probably stop, you know Leon can see what you're doing- you're kneeling right in front of him for God's sake. So maybe it's a good thing that before your eyes could follow the happy trail and obvious indent of his V-line, Leon suddenly shifts to lean forward and tilt his head at you. Course it makes you jump a little, avoiding his gaze with a small 'sorry' as you search for the tweezers. Search, more like you passed your hand over the tool a couple times before you finally grabbed them and got to work plucking out the bullets.

Though you think Leon is now annoyed with you, that ghost of a smirk hiding beneath his mask while he stares down at you would say otherwise. He knows you were looking, and sees it in your burning cheeks how flustered he made you. Maybe he should do this more often.

Curious about what other reactions he'll get out of you, he patiently waits for you to finish wrapping some gauze around his torso. Add some bandaids to the smaller injuries on his hands and arms, then stand up to get a closer look at the burn on his shoulder. The man would almost chuckle at how gentle your dainty hands work, as if you're scared of hurting him more, carefully padding the burn ointment onto his seared skin before stopping at the edge of his mask. You then step away, which leaves some vague sense of disappointment in Leon.

A small gasp falls from your lips as you're suddenly stopped in your tracks, making you turn your head to look at the man and ask what's wrong. Course you get no vocal answer, but Leon still makes it clear when he pulls you back to him for his other hand to latch onto your hip and make you sit down in his lap. Others. Strangers he doesn't like touching his face.

"I know you don't like other's touching your face. Thought you might feel more comfortable working on it alone." You explain in that tone that's always so soft around him, as you throw away the blood soaked trash before turning to exit the bathroom. Knowing he hardly takes his mask off unless he's alone or extremely tired. That's when Leon's brows furrow as he moves into action, letting his hand shoot out to grab your wrist.

You're different.

A shy smile graces your lips, just as your heart decides to leap around in your chest. Meanwhile your lungs seem to forget how to provide air for a moment. You manage to stay composed for the most part as Leon keeps a hold on your wrist to guide your hand up and place it against the cheek of his mask. That answer is definitely loud enough.

It takes you a second to get over the small shock, because, over all, the only one allowed to touch that is him. Regardless, you don't pass up the opportunity as you bring your other hand up to grip the edge and carefully peel the mask away from Leon's face, uncertain of what other injuries he could possess.

You would focus on the burn once you set the mask on the floor, but it's such a rare occurrence to fully view his face, so the moments you get to see him, are captivating everytime. Like how long his hair has gotten as the golden strands fall around his shoulders and frame his fierce blue eyes. It's something truly magazine cover worthy, he could definitely be voted as the sexist man alive in a heartbeat.

It's to the point you can't help but admire as you let your fingers part his bangs so you can see him better, "Would you be offended if I got you a haircut at some point? Could make it easier to manage." You muse as you move his hair away to start working on the rest of the wound. Seeing now that the burn took a little of his stubble away before stopping around his cheek, close to the scar that runs through his eye. Said eyes narrow at you just a fraction while his hands press more into the flesh of your hips and actually rub up and down your sides a little. That's new.

Even when he's tired, Leon normally isn't this cuddly. Which lends you the realization of how gentle he's trying to be. It makes your stomach flutter with a strange giddiness as a quiet giggle passes your lips while you apply the same burn ointment near his Adam's apple. "Just an idea, don't worry."

Though Leon will never ever admit it in anyway, it does mean a lot that he views you a little differently than anyone else. Hell if anyone else was this close to him, they would most certainly be dead already. But, again, it's different with you. So if a haircut means feeling your fingers gently touch him like this, he's all for it. He's not even gonna question why he wants it. He just… does.

A few more minutes pass, before the final bandage is placed on his cheek. As well as a couple little kisses- one to his nose, and the other to his lips. Which he actually lets you give to him and even deepens the last one.

Damn it. Maybe it's whatever sweet poison is on his lips, but it's no wonder you don't say anything to anyone. Because you know you'd miss him. You don't let yourself think on it longer, instead you smile brighter with another little giggle at Leon burying his face in your shoulder, his breath coming out faster and heavier from the kiss. "Be careful next time, ok?" You whisper to him.

Your butt receives a soft squeeze in response.

#aka the fic where Leon is so bloodthirsty he doesn't realize how touch starved he actually is #this has been in my drafts forever #and I wanted to hurry up and finish it before Halloween #but I got sidetracked #so here it is #on the Day of the Dead #so technically Halloween somewhere #leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil 6 #re6 leon #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #slasher!leon kennedy au

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happi-tree · 7 months

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midnight (close to you)

Taylor ❤️‍🔥 just now u up

Lincoln grimaces at the 03:27 in bold numbers across the top of his screen before swiping on the message and unlocking his phone to type out a quick reply.

Me Yeah.

Lincoln is no stranger to seeing Taylor up at weird hours, but as he glances at past messages (filled on Taylor’s part with lots of exclamation points and cutesy little emotes), he suddenly feels a bit more awake.

A chat bubble appears below, animated dots appearing and disappearing as he waits.

Taylor ❤️‍🔥 🕯️?

Me On it.

Or: Taylor has a bad night, and Lincoln tries his best to make it more bearable.

ao3

Swiftli time, lovebirds!!! Here’s my fic for day 5: demons/nightmares. Like days 1 and 3, this is part of the supernatural au @llumimoon, @kaseyskat, and I planned out together. Hope you enjoy!

(Title taken from "Sleep-walking" by Dreamcatcher).

Lincoln Li-Wilson is tossing and turning in a vain attempt at sleep when his phone buzzes.

Blearily, he wipes at his eyes as he focuses on the screen, wincing at the sudden brightness.

Taylor ❤️‍🔥 just now

u up

Lincoln grimaces at the 03:27 in bold numbers across the top of his screen before swiping on the message and unlocking his phone to type out a quick reply.

Yeah.

A chat bubble appears below, animated dots appearing and disappearing as he waits.

Taylor ❤️‍🔥

🕯️?

On it.

Lincoln pushes himself out of bed, making his way over to turn on his fairy lights (a joke gift from Normal, tiny pairs of butterfly wings casting the room in warm-tinted pinpricks of light) and opens one of his dresser drawers, pulling out the components he needs.

Next to go is the area rug, rolled up and pushed to the side to uncover the large pentagram painted into the floor, encircled by runes Lincoln had checked and double-checked, written in Taylor’s steady hand.

He places the red taper candles in the direction of each of the four winds, scatters coarse salt atop the inked circle (a formality at this point, but he can never be too careful). He fumbles with the lighter, trying a few times before remembering to shut off the ceiling fan.

Lincoln makes sure to crack the door open (the increasingly invasive questions from both of his dads had been downright embarrassing the last time they did this and he is not in the mood for a repeat experience). They won’t mind, he knows.

Besides, there are many worse things a teenage boy like Lincoln could be doing than ritually summoning a demon. Half-demon. Whatever.

At each point of the star, he places small offerings: an unopened box of strawberry crunch Pocky; a Garfield plush (which he deeply hopes Taylor will give back to him, since it’s one of his favorites); a room-temperature Ramune; a sparkly sticker; a homemade charm bracelet (no iron or silver, of course, warded for protection and serenity).

In the very center of the pentagram, Lincoln carefully places the Hatsune Miku keychain Taylor had lent him for this exact purpose.

Lincoln pricks his finger and lets a drop of blood fall to the outer edge of the circle, lets the sizzle of it drown out the soft mutterings of the incantation.

Five pinpricks of flame flare higher, brighter, and brilliant ribbons of fire spread outward to conjoin in the center of the circle. Lincoln watches warily as the ball of flame grows and grows, expanding outward and beginning to color with the reddish-magenta hue of his friend’s aura, casting the room in stark maroon shadows.

Before his eyes, the blaze grows brighter, burns hotter, practically pushing at the bounds of its ink-carved confinement, and Lincoln feels the heat lick at his face, warm against his cheeks.

As suddenly as it began, the light is extinguished, revealing the hunched pajama-clad form of Taylor amidst the embers and smoke, the faint cerise glow around him fading until he’s backlit by Lincoln’s fairy lights.

It’s an enchanting sight, normally, one that Lincoln cherishes, but not when Taylor’s glancing down at the painted floorboards with glossed-over eyes, trembling slightly.

“Hey,” Lincoln says, breaking the line of salt with a nudge of his socked foot, crawling forward until their knees touch.

A single, long strand of Taylor’s fringe is still aflame, so Lincoln leans inward and pinches it gently between his thumb and forefinger and extinguishes it with a hiss.

“Taylor,” Lincoln calls, voice hushed in the night but hopefully loud enough to get through to him. He tucks the midnight-dark strand behind the delicate, reddened point of Taylor’s ear.

When he doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up, worry settles further in his stomach, a leaden weight.

His hand cups his best friend’s face, carefully guiding upward until Taylor meets his gaze.

Glazed-over and deeply tired, Taylor stares blinkingly at him for a moment, eyes welling with tears.

“Hey,” Lincoln tries again, “what’s going o-” The air is knocked out of him in a quiet oof as Taylor lunges forward into his chest. He’s uncomfortably warm to the touch in such a way that would burn most people but only leaves Lincoln with a tingling sensation, kind of like sitting by a fireplace for a bit too long. He can feel the fabric of his sleep shirt growing wet where Taylor’s buried his face into his shoulder, and his arms come around to encircle his friend instinctively.

“You’re burning up,” Lincoln frets as he touches the back of his hand to Taylor’s forehead. It feels like stretching his hands out over a bonfire rather than a candle, like usual, and he frowns at the way the heat pushes angrily against his wardings, making his hand glow a barely-perceptible gold. He frowns even deeper when Taylor only wriggles further into his arms, making a sad, distressed sort of sound.

Lincoln notices the way Taylor presses his ear into the left side of his chest, pushing against him like he’s searching out his heartbeat, and something in him twists a little.

This floor can’t be comfortable for him, especially not when he’s shaking and breathing unevenly.

Lincoln looks behind him, opens more of the salt circle with his bare foot, knocks over a crimson candle in the process.

Whatever, he’ll clean it up in the morning.

“Gonna pick you up now, okay?” Lincoln murmurs, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to speak too loud and making sure to keep his voice slow and steady and reassuring.

Taylor nods against him, and Lincoln allows himself a shadow of a smile.

“Good,” he says, and adjusts his hold, sliding one arm under Taylor’s knees and another along his back (beneath his shoulder blades, just in case). Something thin and warm coils itself around his forearm and squeezes, and Lincoln doesn’t need to look to know that Taylor’s wrapped his tail around him for support as his clawed hands scramble for purchase on his upper back. The fabric of Lincoln’s shirt shreds a little, but as always, Taylor’s scratching doesn’t manage to break through the latent magic just atop his skin.

“Up we go!” Lincoln says, and Taylor clings to him even tighter as he holds his smaller friend aloft, carrying them both to his twin XL bed and depositing Taylor as gracefully as he can.

Which isn’t very graceful at all, since Taylor refuses to let go of him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lincoln soothes - or at least tries to. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I just need you to let me go, ‘kay?”

Taylor shakes his head, mumbling something almost inaudible into his chest.

“What was that?” he says, even though he knows he heard the muffled no, not again the first time.

“Can’t,” Taylor says instead, leaving Lincoln leaning awkwardly over the edge of the bed, feeling oddly cold despite the feverish boy in his arms.

“Okay,” Lincoln mutters, shifting his hold a little (because while Taylor is relatively easy to pick up, soccer has, admittedly, not done much for his arm strength). “Can I move my hand so you can hold it, maybe? So I can be next to you?”

Taylor hums in the affirmative, so Lincoln slides a hand from beneath his friend’s back, and Taylor takes it the second it’s offered, clutching it with clawed fingers like a lifeline as Lincoln climbs into the narrow bed beside him.

That doesn’t last long, though, because Taylor is quick to throw an arm across Link’s shoulders and drape his leg across Lincoln’s own in a strange, full body half-hug.

Lincoln hums a little in concern, worry pulling at his brow. Taylor really must not be feeling well with the way that every point of contact between them burns the tiniest bit, despite the layers and layers of enchantments and wards and immunities that have woven themselves into Lincoln’s cells.

Taylor’s head buries just below Link’s jaw, the way Normal tends to do when he’s feeling needy or sad and wants their pack’s scent around him. His horns, still growing by the day, clip against the side of Lincoln’s face harmlessly as he shuffles into him.

Lincoln takes a minute to marvel at the close bond he has with his friends that defies human description. To go from having nobody his own age to talk to, much less be around, to having three people who care about him - despite rocky introductions - who love him enough to call him family, to be pack, to choose him, to come to him for comfort and camaraderie, to want him… it’s a lot.

Sometimes, if Lincoln thinks about it too hard, the way his friends give him affection so freely - the way Normal nearly tackles him to the ground with the force of his hug and calls him by Name when the world gets to be too much, the way Scary leans into him without hesitation, the way Taylor curls into him now without reigning in his infernal traits - he could almost cry.

Taylor’s tail wraps around Lincoln’s waist, steadfast and needy, the spaded tip of it thumping irregularly against Lincoln’s side.

They rest like that for several moments that seem simultaneously like an instant and like they stretch on into eternity, eons passing with each movement of Lincoln’s fingers through Taylor’s sleep-mussed hair.

Since Lincoln can’t really look at Taylor without craning his neck awkwardly, he chooses a spot on the ceiling to stare at, reveling in the feeling of Taylor cuddling up against him and taking obviously deep, slow breaths so that Taylor can match them. The heat at his side slowly abates from almost-singeing to a comforting warmth, and just as slowly, Taylor’s breath evens out from where it fans against his neck.

Lincoln lets the relative silence wash over him, waiting.

“Link?” Taylor asks, voice slightly muffled.

(Taylor’s lips brush against the side of Lincoln’s throat in a way that makes his breath catch, sends his heart fluttering in his chest, but that’s not something he wants to think too hard about right now.)

“Yeah?” he responds quietly, and thankfully his voice doesn’t sound too strangled as he whispers.

“Thanks.” Taylor doesn’t look up, doesn’t let go, but he’s relaxed more fully into Lincoln’s side rather than grasping in a desperate panic.

“Anytime, man.” It’s amazing, the way Taylor’s presence can warm him from the inside out without even trying, without even factoring in his demonic abilities.

Lincoln doesn’t press for answers.

At this point, he doesn’t really need to. It’s become something of a routine for them over the past few months - whenever Taylor is left in an empty house and craves company, whenever Lincoln is feeling a little too cold, whenever sleep eludes them, the summoning circle is there, just to the side of Lincoln’s bed, and suddenly, things are a little less lonely.

Sometimes, Taylor wants to talk. Sometimes, he keeps to himself, and Lincoln tries not to let it worry him too much.

Anxiety meds are great for that, but the haunted look in his friends’ eyes is an unknown that Lincoln can’t protect them from, can only try his best to understand, fumbling and human as he is.

“I, uh. Had a bad dream,” Taylor starts, tucking his head out of Lincoln’s neck to face him.

Ah. Tonight falls in the former category, then.

“Yeah?” Lincoln hears himself say, though he had figured as much.

“Yeah. Really, uh. Really bad.”

Taylor’s voice sounds so small in the mostly-dark quiet of the room.

Lincoln squeezes their hands, still conjoined, a tiny, wordless reassurance.

“You’re safe now,” Lincoln tells him. “My dad’s warded this entire house like crazy.”

Taylor scoffs. “Yeah, like I could forget after the first time you snuck me in.”

“I thought we agreed we would never talk about that again,” Lincoln responds, mock-shuddering.

“You begged me not to bring it up, I promised nothing. Not the same thing.”

Lincoln likes seeing Taylor’s smile again, even if it’s just the barest flash of fang glinting in the soft glow of his distant fairy lights. Even when it fades a few seconds later.

Taylor’s tail squeezes around Lincoln’s middle, and Lincoln brings a hand to rest on his shoulder.

“Hey,” He murmurs. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Taylor laughs again, but it’s a shaky, mirthless sound, this time.

“I know you wouldn’t,” He says quietly. Then, “You didn’t, in my dream. You, uh, died.”

“Oh,” Lincoln says.

“Didn’t wanna bother you with it, but you were awake, and it’s stupid, but…” Taylor’s voice trails off.

Lincoln exhales, holds his friend closer.

“I wouldn’t wanna lose you, either,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, just between his horns.

Taylor’s warmth flares in his hold, just a little bit, and the corners of Lincoln’s lips turn up a fraction. Even despite everything, his best friend is incredibly easy to fluster.

“There were… hunters,” he mumbles, looking down at Lincoln’s orange-and-black striped comforter, grasping for his hands and fidgeting with their loosely-locked fingers to distract Lincoln (and maybe himself, too) from the way his shoulders still tremble. “They were coming for us - Norm, Scary, Hermie. Me.”

Something in Lincoln’s stomach feels like it just twisted, and pressure builds behind his eyes - half-exhaustion, half-sorrow.

“Taylor - hey, Tay, look at me, please?”

Lincoln sees the way that Taylor’s downturned, red-tinged mahogany eyes brim with tears, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks.

Lincoln gently extricates a hand from Taylor’s grasp, brings it to rest under his chin, tilting it upward until they are face to face again and he can peer into his eyes.

Taylor’s eyes have a fire lit behind them, one he’s always noticed in the back of his mind before either of them were aware of his demonic heritage. It’s captivating, the way that they catch in the light, spark to match the bright burn of Taylor’s convictions. Again and again, they’ve drawn Lincoln in like a moth to a flame, crimson-brown-black and enchanting in an entirely different way than anything of the fae.

Lincoln thinks he would jump into the fire and set himself ablaze if it meant that he would never have to see the light behind his eyes shrink to the pinpricks that he sees now.

Hot tears stream down Taylor’s cheeks, silent except for the small hiss the droplets make as they hit the fabric of Lincoln’s bedspread.

Lincoln thumbs the rest away as Taylor leans into the affection, catlike, and the thing in Lincoln’s stomach writhes again.

“Taylor,” he says again, “Look at me.”

Dark eyelashes flutter open, and Taylor looks so, so tired, so haunted.

(Lincoln’s seen that look before on the face of someone else he loves, and he’d give anything to never see it on either of them again.)

“I need you to listen to me.”

Lincoln has… a hard time making eye contact, sometimes, but this is important, so he stares into his friend’s eyes, doesn’t back off or let his gaze slide away.

“You know my family wouldn’t let that happen. That - my dad - it’s his whole thing, you know?”

“Your dad wasn’t there,” Taylor says. “Just you.”

“Then I wouldn’t let that happen. You know I wouldn’t, if it came down to it.”

“I know,” Taylor replies, miserably. “That’s the problem.”

Oh.

“The jackass - in my dream, y’know - the guy that shot you, you know what he said? He said that it was a shame that he had to waste a silver bullet on a pesky human. That it was sad that we’d, like, magicked you into siding with us. Which was so fucked up and I - I couldn’t move, I was so angry. And scared, god, I was terrified, and Norm and Scary were, too, and then it all went black, and-”

“And you woke up?” Lincoln guessed.

“Yeah,” Taylor says. “Nearly melted my phone trying to text you.”

Lincoln frowns, scooches closer to him. Rests a hand on Taylor’s cheek, leans in to press their foreheads together.

Taylor’s horns poke uncomfortably against his skull, but Lincoln ignores it - besides, with all of the immunities he’s built up, the pain barely registers.

“I’m here,” Lincoln says.

“I know,” Taylor responds, and his voice is hoarse.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You - Link, you can’t just say that. I know you’ve got some weird, fucked-up magic shit protecting you, but you’re human, and I’m -”

“Half-human,” Lincoln reminds him, not unkindly. “You didn’t ask for this.”

“Well, you didn’t, either!”

“I know,” Lincoln responds. “We’re both new to this, and there’s horrible people out there that have it out for us, and we just gotta… live with that.”

“It’s not fair,” Taylor groans, resting his face in the crook of Lincoln’s neck again.

“It isn’t,” Lincoln agrees as he begins to card fingers through warm, dark hair. Taylor makes a soft, whispery sort of sound like the crackling of a campfire, resonating from his chest in the demonic equivalent of purring.

“You’re right. I’m human, even if I’m harder to mess with than most,” Lincoln says. “But I chose this, at least a little bit. I chose you, all of you. And I’m not gonna back out. We’re in this together, dude. As long as you’ll have me?”

“You say that like it’s a question. I’ll always want you. I’m a selfish bitch like that.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my best friend like that,” Lincoln teases, and presses another kiss to the top of Taylor’s head for emphasis.

He chuckles. “You keep that up, and people are gonna think we’re more than best friends.”

“Pretty allonormative of you, Taylor,” Lincoln snipes. “Plus, I don’t see anyone else here…”

“Well, then, I guess I can retaliate without an audience,” Taylor responds, and Lincoln can hear the familiar mischief in his voice.

“Retal- ah,” the air leaves Lincoln’s lungs as Taylor presses his lips against the side of his neck, purposefully lets a fang graze against the delicate skin there.

“Mm,” Taylor hums. Lincoln can feel the vibration of it against his throat, and the sound goes straight to his head, warm and sleep-fuzzed and more than a little deliriously dizzy.

“Sorry,” Taylor says, not sounding the least bit apologetic as he pulls away after a moment with a soft popping sound. “You were saying?”

Taylor’s tail sways back and forth behind him, giving him the appearance of a predator ready to pounce.

“Guh,” Lincoln responds intelligibly, trying to get his brain back online. “You’re the worst, sometimes, you know that? Like, I was going somewhere with that, and then - you -”

“I am pretty insufferable, huh,” Taylor says with a close-lipped grin, sounding far too self-satisfied.

“Guess I’ll just have to suffer you, then,” Lincoln replies with a small grin of his own, dragging Taylor down into his arms.

Taylor gives in easily, tail brushing against the side of Lincoln’s leg affectionately.

“Taking one for the team,” Lincoln says. “I’m pretty good at that.”

“Too good,” Taylor says, looking up at him from the circle of his arms. “I don’t need you throwing yourself into the, like, line of fire for me when I’m immune, yeah?”

“The dream wasn’t real, you know.”

“Could be, someday,” Taylor muses, and though the tear tracks have evaporated from his face, there’s still a twist of uncharacteristic melancholy in his expression.

Lincoln hums. “Well, in the meantime, maybe we can protect each other? And the others. That sound okay?” he asks. “Because I’m not gonna stop having your back anytime soon.”

“Same here,” Taylor says. “You’re ours, and anyone who comes at us can take you away over my dead body.”

“Possessive,” Link notes, pointedly ignoring the way his heart jolts. “And kinda morbid.” “Eh, it’s a demon thing, I think,” Taylor shrugs.

“Dork.”

“I dunno, I think it’s kinda hot.”

“Taylor, you’re part demon. Being hot is your thing.”

“Oh, so I’m attractive to you, huh? What are you gonna do, kiss me about it?” There’s a single fang poking out of Taylor’s smile, and Lincoln fails not to think about the way it felt brushing over his pulse.

“Maybe. If we both go to sleep after this.”

Taylor blinks lazily at him. “Sleep sounds nice,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Think you could keep the nightmares away?” His eyes, as tired as they are, are so deep and dark and beautiful.

“I’ve got a few charms for that,” Lincoln answers, pointing around the room at bundles of herbs and twine and rune-inscribed parchment that Marco had strung up along corners of the ceiling.

“Link, I was trying to be flirty.”

“Oh,” Lincoln says. Then, “So if I kiss you, you’ll go to sleep?”

“Mm, that can be arranged,” Taylor agrees, his tail snaking around to tap against Lincoln’s nose affectionately before wrapping around his waist.

“Good,” Lincoln breathes, and he leans in to meet Taylor halfway.

In the end, Lincoln loses count of how many lazy kisses they exchange in the faint glow of the fairy lights before they succumb to slumber, but when he wakes, Taylor is still in his arms, a faint smile on his face in his sleep.

Lincoln can feel his face mirror the expression as he wipes a bit of Taylor’s drool away with the back of his hand. He leans down and ghosts his lips over Taylor’s temple, tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, filled with an uncomfortable-yet-comforting warmth wherever their bodies overlap.

Lincoln basks in it as he closes his eyes again, resting against the pillows, and knows that whatever dangers lurk ahead, they’ll face them together.

#ah. swiftli my beloveds <333 feels good to post them again!!!#ideally. i would've posted day 2/4's fic yesterday for More Context purposes but alas 😔 the eepy got me and we have a schedule to keep #i don't think it's toooooooo hard to read between the lines for this one? v light to nonexistent detective work here methinks #but i'll let y'all be the judge of that!#anyway. the li-wilsons have made me particularly unwell in this au and i will be abnormal about them FOREVER #anyway uh. boys cuddling and kissing perhaps queerplatonically. what then 😳😳😳#tbh you can read this anyway you like! just know that neither of them are completely allo in my head (happy belated ace week)#and also. there's a couple little nods to link having autism here and there <3 bc i am an autistic link truther #and an autistic taylor truther too btw it's just not as obvious here #okokok now for actual tags #dndads #fic #swiftli #dndads halloween week 2023 #happi scribbles #bat and wolf #happi rambles

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