Misc. (Leon Kennedy, Arthur Morgan, Patrick Bateman)
🔥 = alludes to NSFW
🔥🔥 = includes NSFW
🔥🔥🔥 = hardcore NSFW
➴ ᖇEᑫᑌESTS ཐི༏ཋྀ
Please keep inbox requests short (1-2 lines) so that I can write the fic in the reply to the request. Request any character (including not below) + idea. No judgement here, pervs!
I’m mostly interested in writing about:
💽 Harry Potter (all)
💽 Twilight (all)
💽 Red Dead Redemption II (Arthur Morgan)
💽 Ryan Gosling (all)
💽 Resident Evil (Leon Kennedy)
➴ TᗩGS & TᗯS ཐི༏ཋྀ
I try to hashtag my fics as accurately as possible.
I won’t specifically describe reader (eg skin tone) but they are always implied to be a woman.
The hashtag #binchithinks are just drabbles or thoughts about characters that aren’t developed into full fics.
I don’t use a TW system, but my fics tend not to include common triggers (e.g SH, SA, etc,.).
I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere.
HOLY SHIT I JUST READ TREAT YOU BETTER! PLEASE TELL ME UR GONNA DO PT 2!! 💳💥💳💥💳💥
SUV
(Dad’s Best Friend! Courtland x Younger! reader)
‘Your dad doesn’t turn up after work to give you a ride home. Thankfully, his best friend and colleague, Courtland, offers you a lift.’
The nondescript government building was unassuming to most, but for those in the know, it was the regional headquarters of the CIA, a building you had visited a handful of times thanks to your father's secretive job. You, like most people, knew very little about what he actually did on a day to day basis— you just knew that this is where he came when he wasn't out of the country for some operation.
You'd sat down on the cold kerb of the building's carpark nearly an hour ago, waiting for your dad to come out and give you a lift home, but he still hadn't turned up; you listened to the streetlights buzzing overhead or the occasional car rolling down the nearby freeway with contempt, wishing you were on your way home. Usually you'd get the bus home from work, but this morning you'd forgotten your bag, leaving you without means to call a cab or even pay the bus fare. You'd figured, being only a few streets away from your dad's office, that you'd swing by after work and catch him when he finished at eight p.m; clearly he was running late, and so you were left hanging about by the front entrance, hoping he would be out before you froze to death. You certainly weren't planning on going in and asking where he was; you weren't sure he even used his real name at work: on the phone and by colleagues he was referred to as 'Four'.
And so, you waited. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen... you were practically dozing off when dazzling LED headlights swept across the lot, forcing you to shield your eyes in the sudden brightness. You rubbed your eyes, squinting as a black SUV slowed to a stop right in front of you. The window rolled down, and a man dressed in dark clothes leaned out.
“Y/N?"
The unmistakable voice of Courtland Gentry, gravelly either from shouting all day, or from not speaking at all: with Court, you knew it could be either. 'Six', as your dad called him, had just rolled out of the carpark's lower level, heading up to the ground-floor exit when his eyes had landed on a crumpled figure, slouched on the kerb of the building's entrance. His jaw tightened as he caught sight of who it was: his ex-mentor—turned—best—friend's daughter, half-asleep with her arms wrapped around herself. Who falls asleep like that, exposed and alone at night? People without spatial awareness, he supposed— what you might call PTSD or paranoia.
Your head shot up as you squinted through the LEDs' glare: you knew it was him from his voice alone, but you couldn't quite believe it. Your dad's best friend— who you'd known forever, who made your stomach flip in a way you didn't quite understand— was here in all his glory.
"Courtland?" you called out.
Six's brow furrowed, a half-smirk on his lips as he assessed the situation.
"What... are you doing?"
"I, uh—" you paused, straightening up. You were suddenly self-conscious of your slightly pathetic situation. "I'm just waiting for my dad."
He nodded once, then drummed his fingers against the car door. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself: when you'd left this morning, it was warm, but now the sun had gone down you were underdressed.
"He not show up?" Courtland asked, a look somewhere between pissed off at your carelessness and amused by your predicament on his face. You sighed.
"Not yet, no," you admitted, avoiding his gaze. "But you know what he's like—"
"Want a lift?" Courtland interrupted, face suddenly unreadable. You smiled weakly and shook your head.
“Oh, no, it’s fine, thank you though. I can just wait—”
“I don't think that's a good idea.” His voice was calm but absolute; even in the dim light, you could see the concern on his face. “You’re not waiting out here alone. Come on, I’ll take you home. Or we can both wait together. Up to you."
You looked at him through the glare of the LEDs and thought for a moment: freezing cold kerb, or toasty warm car? You sighed and began to unhunch yourself from the floor. Courtland, ever the smug bastard, grinned and slid out of his car. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting an unreasonably tight black t-shirt, he looked every bit as handsome as last time— more so, even, now that he was at your rescue.
Courtland slammed his door shut, closing the distance between you in two large strides. Towering over you, he offered his hand to you; when you took it, he pulled you up easily, his grip warm and steady. He didn’t let go right away, thumb brushing over your knuckles once before guiding you lightly toward the passenger side of the SUV; he popped open the door and nodded toward it, stepping back to let you in. You scoffed a little, torn between patronised and endeared.
As you hopped up into the car, his hand floated behind you as if he wanted to place his hand on your lower back, to stop you from slipping. You breathed in as you settled. The interior smelled like him— clean, slightly woody, with a hint of gun oil. It felt oddly intimate to be in his space like this, and you worried that you were dishevelled or sweaty or oily from a long day at work.
When he was satisfied you were in, he closed the passenger door gently and made his way to his side; you watched him as he walked, heart pounding in your chest as you watched him round the car. Once again, he hopped into the SUV and looked over to you. In one swift movement, before you could even register it, he reached over and buckled your seatbelt, his face close enough that you could smell the faded cologne at his collar and see the slight nick on his cheek where he'd cut himself shaving. It was unnatural how quickly he moved: he was something of a predator to the average person. You pressed yourself back into the seat, worried you were somehow ogling him and he knew: you always felt like he knew what you were thinking, and it always made you blush madly.
"It's like a five minute drive—" you began to protest. Still leaning over you, he shot you a look that left no room for argument. You huffed as he clicked the seatbelt in and returned to the wheel, briefly grieving the close contact.
“What time did you finish work?” he asked quietly as you recovered. Courtland threw his arm over the back of your headrest, half turning to peer out the back window as he reversed. You couldn't help but admire his side profile, then to peer up his shirt sleeve and admire his tan biceps, forearms, and hands. Oh, his hands: everything about them screamed powerful, from the prominent veins to his angular, tactile fingers. You caught sight of a single silver band on his left index-finger and your breathing hitched (a wedding ring?) until you remembered that your dad wore the same one, a sort of signet ring for those in the Operation.
You turned away for your own sake, took a deep breath in, and tried to remember what he had asked.
"Oh— I got there at eight.”
"Jesus, Y/N, It's gone nine, now. Why didn't you call?" Courtland began to drive, gripping the steering wheel. “Woulda finished my paperwork at home if I knew you were outside," he grumbled.
“My phone died," you mumbled, scrunching your brow. "I don't wanna bother you at work, either," you scoffed. It seemed ridiculous to ask a world-class assassin for a ride home when he could be in the middle of saving the nation. Six let out a low breath, almost a sigh.
“You’re never a bother," he tutted. "And charge your fuckin' phone...”
You paused, a smile spreading across your face at the realisation of his irritation. You turned toward your window to conceal the amusement on your face.
After a few minutes of silence, he glanced over at you, huddled still in your jacket. Without hesitation, he reached over and turned on the heater, adjusting the vents so warm air brushed across your legs.
“You must be freezing,” he murmured, jaw twitching.
"I'm fine, don't worry," you replied softly. He shot you another look that couldn't be argued with, quietly turning up the heater.
The rest of the drive was just as quiet: you wanted to talk to him about work, about where he'd been, why he'd barely been round... but you didn't want to bombard him with questions. His hand eventually moved from the gear shift to rest on the centre console— close enough that his pinkie brushed against your thigh every so often— and you couldn't imagine anything other than a squeak coming out if you spoke.
When you finally pulled up in front of the house, he cut the engine but didn’t unlock the doors right away. He turned to look at you, blue eyes still intense and all-seeing in the dark.
“If he's ever late to get you,” Six said, voice low, “you call me. I don’t care what time it is. Ok? I’ll come get you.”
You nodded, chewing your lower lip to stop yourself from smiling. His expression softened and he reached over to gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, calloused knuckles lingering for just a second too long against your soft cheek. He sighed, pulled away slowly, and turned to unlock the doors. You felt mildly disappointed at the 'click' that was your cue to leave the car.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “And text me when your dad gets back. That fuckin' guy,” he ran a hand over his face, "he's been late to everything for twenty years."
"Okay," you laughed softly. "Thanks, Court."
As you turned to open the door, his hand caught your wrist.
“Hey.” His voice seemed unusually firm. You turned to meet his eyes, and he dropped your wrist, suddenly aware of the contact. “You call me next time, ok? I mean it,” he said gently. The way he looked at you, then — protective and frustrated, and something else you couldn’t name— made your heart stutter.
“I will, Court," you said. "Goodnight."
And with that, you turned and exited the car, worried that if you stayed any longer you'd do something you'd regret. He watched from the driveway as you unlocked your front door, waiting until your hallway light turned on to drive off. Only then did his taillights disappear down the street, fingers drumming ruefully against the steering wheel. Still, you had a feeling he’d be keeping a much closer eye on you than you knew.
Ryland drops food off to Henry during his depressive episodes and looks after him. Ryland even researches the best medicine for Henry's depression (Zoloft? Prozac? Supplements? He's got the medical journals DOWN PAT)
They bicker constantly but in a brotherly way. Henry calls Ryland “robot fucker” and Ryland calls Henry a “tortured artist dickhead.” You’re usually the tiebreaker
Cuddling usually looks like Henry on one side (clingy w his face buried in your neck), Ryland on the other (reading or explaining something while stroking your hair).
Or both of them staying up bc Henry's painting like a maniac and Ryland's working on something
They both are very much ADHD hyperfocus pilled I think, so you'll probably wake up at 3am to find them both still nattering away or working on their own projects
CANONICALLY HENRY GETS BETTER WITH THE LOVE OF YOU AND HIS BROTHER. I MAKE THE RULES.
Colt (32) and Lars (27)
Hello.... bc both of these men are car crashes in very different ways
incredibly protective of each other, like Colt helps Lars with social situations (he's such a wingman) while Lars calms Colt down when the adrenaline crashes and he's freaking out after a stunt or if he hurts himself on set
They really are each other's ying-yang and that makes you the perfect centrepiece to their dynamic <3
Colt teases Lars about being shy but is fiercely defensive if anyone else but you does it
Lars if you need a cosy evening in; Colt if you need a wild night out
Lars if you want a cuddle; Colt if you want the day fucked out of you
Not that Colt also can't be majorly sweet and Lars is defo a #munch but... you hear me
Colt sometimes hypes Lars up and takes him to set after dark to show him the awesome stunts he can do on a motorbike and Lars is just obviously so impressed
Lars defo nurses Colt back to health after his accident ):
I do get the vibe that they'd put each other in a headlock and you'd have to grapple them out of it when Lars gets sick of Colt's teasing
Colt (32), Courtland (38) and Holland (35)
Lets remember their jobs quick: Colt (stuntman), Court (mercenary, and Holland (detective) so as brothers it is absolute mayhem
They defo go on missions together- one or all of them is tied up in something they can't handle alone
Courtland is the only one taking the job seriously. Holland knows how to use a gun but is such a feckless bastard that Courtland only gives him unloaded guns
Actually... Court trusts Colt more even if he's only used prop guns because, even as the youngest of the brothers, he's not the most physically reckless (that would be Holland): since his accident, he's actually been very reasonable if not a little cautious
Love languages with you differ so greatly between the brothers that they don't understand each others' treatment of you: Colt = quality time, Court = acts of service, Holland = words of affirmation (mostly drunk rambling). ALL of them are physical touch (MUNCHES).
UGH you're so protected with them it's disgusting. They argue over who gets to sit next to you but will team up instantly if you’re upset
They have probably threatened/hurt/smacked around more people for you than they can count. Collectively function as a really scary identical trio. Nothing will upset you on their watch.
I'm just imagining your boss going in to his office after a long day of berating you, turning on the light to see Courtland sat in his chair menacingly, turning to his left and seeing Colt holding a bat, turning to his right and seeing Holland with his hand in his jacket just revealing his gun belt.
You’re basically their emotional support but in the most healthy way possible; they come back from whatever they've been doing and collapse around you like puppies!
Courtland (38) and Driver (29)
Like a more legitimate version than the triplets. They actually take whatever they're doing seriously and are probably the best mercenary team in the country
They communicate with you and each other through actions more than words e.g., long silences, meaningful glances and occasional touches. I get the feeling they prefer to sit close to you and squish you between them than to hold your hand: they want people to know that you're protected, but not that you're their greatest weakness.
Main source of conflictbetween you and them is that they're worried about you constantly, like how you could be used as leverage against them
Big dog privilege w these two. One of them walks in front of you and one of them walks behind you, or they're both flanking you wherever you go!!!
If one of them is busy, they're asking the other to go with you, like a 24/7 security system that you don't think you need but have regardeless
Courtland brings out the fun side of Driver, and Driver keeps Courtland alert and on his toes when he lets his guard down (he's nine years younger than Court, so he acts as his eyes and ears while Court breaks in to wherever they're going and carries out the mission)
Different ages but they give me SUCH TWIN ENERGY ARGHH
They're so in sync you think they could be telepathic... they share a glance whilst you're saying something and you're like "...what? what was that?? Tell me!!!" and they both just get this knowing smirk on their faces. FUCKERS
You make them feel safe enough to be soft. Like on a rare weekend where they don't have anything to do and you've forced them to stay home you force court to take his gunholster off and tell him to quit being paranoid. He obliges but driver makes sure there's still a bat under the sofa.
Ken (29) and Holland (35)
dating two messy himbo divas is hard work but it is a labour of love
you and ken will stay in watching movies and holland will stumble home, drunk, and flop down across your laps
Ken begs for Holland to take him out on stake-outs on the belief that they are like real life cowboys; Holland refuses, and Ken decides he not interested anyway when he finds out him and Healy don't have horses or lassoos. He stays in and watches an old western with you, instead
Don't be fooled: just because Holland knows how to use a gun (and Ken... does not) doesn't mean that Holland is the 'hard' one in the relationship. Holland can be just as soft, but Ken, being unaware of any and all social rules, shows it more often than Holland will (e.g., in public, Ken is practically bear hugging you wherever you walk. Holland will smack his arm and tell him to cool down on the exhibitionism. Ken just rolls his eyes and brings Holland into the hug, assuming it's a jealousy thing)
Holland teaches Ken how to handle a gun just in case he's out and the house needs protecting. I personally headcanon that Ken has a superhuman strength that nobody (including himself) knows about. Imagine something happens and, before Holland can ever reach for his gun, Ken has punched the guy in the face so smoothly that he drops to the ground. You and Holland look at him like ?? "Ken where did you learn that??" and Ken is like "can't everyone do that?"
Occasionally they will both go out drinking (Holland's influence) and come back home BLACKOUT (ken has 0 tolerance for alcohol) to smother you in kisses and love, waiting on you hand and foot until they pass out in front of you and the TV
they are so dramatic if one feels neglected... if you argue with both of them they will get together to plot how to 'win you back'.
Bonus Twins: Driver (29) and Ken (29) because Driver teaches Ken to fix cars and he feels SO manly about it. Ken tries to teach Driver beach, Driver obliges but decides it's not for him.
a notification appears on your monitor screen, you almost ignore it. “hello.” you freeze. ohmygodit’sthelarsguy. ۶ৎ
pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem!reader
warnings ! smuut, nsfw, mdni, +18. ooc lars maybe. reader's described as kind of an extrovert and also a girl failure because i don't believe in etiquettes (/jk). a sprinkle of angst. fluff!? and humor ? phone sex, female masturbation & male masturbation. lars is older than reader, reader is on her twenties, lowercase on purpose, english is not my first language. title from: i have forgiven jesus — morrissey
author's note ! this is definitely something! i hope you guys like it. i feel like lars is kinda ooc so sorry for that :/!! i low-key didn't know how to finish this 😭
word count ! 3,9k (long as hell!!)
karin's words linger longer than they should. “the internet. everyone's doing it now.” the sentence follows lars around for days afterwards, popping up at odd moments when he's making coffee or sorting through paperwork. maybe it wasn't strange that he was on the internet trying to meet new people. it wasn't any different than how meeting bianca had been.
karin worried about him. she tried not to make it obvious, but she wasn't particularly good at it. ever since things with margo had ended into something awkward, she'd started checking in more often, watching him from the sidelines with careful attention.
the thing wasn't exactly his idea, but kurt talked about chat rooms all the time.
“there's so many girls,” he says, sounding genuinely amazed by the whole concept.
lars nods, mostly because it seems easier than telling him to shut up.
“maybe you think it's a girl," margo says, looking everywhere but lars. “maybe it's actually some old dude.”
“ugh.” kurt visibly shudders. “you're gross. that's gross.”
margo shrugs.
“i don't believe in falling in love with someone you've never met," she says. then, after a moment, “i don't even believe in falling in love with someone you have.”
kurt immediately shoots an awkward glance at lars.
the implication lands before margo seems to realize what she's said. color rushes into her face and she stumbles through an awkward goodbye before disappearing back into her cubicle.
"damn, lars. you're a heartbreaker."
lars looks down at the papers scattered across his desk. one of the corners has folded over itself. he smooths it down with his thumb. he doesn't like that word.
heartbreaker.
it sounds like something a person chooses to be.
he hopes bianca and margo aren't proof of some pattern he hasn't noticed yet. he hopes there's an exception somewhere. something that proves he isn't simply the sort of person people leave hurt.
was that what happened? with bianca?
did he break her heart?
the question settles heavily in his chest. nobody had ever said so. nobody had ever blamed him. but sometimes the things people don't say have a way of lingering longer than the things they do.
——
the loading bar is taking forever.
that's the first thing you think that evening, which feels a little ridiculous considering the state of the world. there are wars happening somewhere; people are probably falling in love, someone is getting married; someone is getting divorced. and yet all you can think about is how painfully slow your computer is.
the blue light from the screen washes over your room. it catches on the edge of your desk, on the mug that's been sitting beside you for hours, forgotten except for the ring it's leaving behind.
the chat room finally loads.
messages are already moving faster than you can comfortably read. someone is talking about music. someone else is arguing about a movie with another user. then, suddenly, a new notification appears.
someone entered the chat.
normally you wouldn't pay attention to that. people come and go constantly. half the usernames disappear before you have a chance to recognize them.
but your eyes catch on this one.
lars.
that's a name, not an user.
you stare at it for a second longer than necessary. it's a nice name. the kind of name that feels warm somehow, soft.
you immediately feel stupid for thinking that. a name is just a name. four letters on a screen.
still, your gaze keeps drifting back towards it as new messages flood into the chat and push it higher and higher until it's nearly gone.
you wonder if it's his real name. most people use fake ones. maybe it's not. maybe it is, and he's sitting somewhere on the other side of the country with a completely different name.
your cursor blinks inside the message box.
you stare at it for a moment, fingers hovering above the keyboard. before you can talk yourself out of it, you type:
“hii :)”
you hit send, and immediately, you regret it. you tell yourself this is perfectly normal. people say hello to strangers online all the time. right?
you try reading through the general chat again, but you're too distracted to pay any mind. the tiny text below your message changes; seen. no answer.
you let your forehead fall against the desk with a dull thud. “i’m such an idiot.”
your voice sounds embarrassingly loud in your empty room. the message remains exactly where you left it, unanswered and increasingly humiliating the longer you look at it.
maybe he's busy, maybe he opened it accidentally, maybe he's one of those people who joins chat rooms just to read what everyone else is saying, you do that sometimes. you don't really have the right to judge.
still, you close the private window before you can stare at it any longer.
the rest of the evening unfolds exactly the way most evenings do. you message a few friends, you study. you walk to the market.
the strawberries looked better than they tasted, but you buy them anyway. later, you eat them from the container while watching bad television. by the end of the episode, you've absentmindedly finished all of them.
the empty carton stays on the coffee table. everything feels painfully familiar. you sink deeper into the couch cushions and listen to the television fill the silence, without really hearing the words that come out from the box.
you think, if your life continues like this… you're really considering laying down on some train rails just to feel something.
——
morrissey's voice drifts out of your dvd player.
“tuesday, suffocation,” the song says.
you stare at your advanced economics notes for a long moment. then, slowly, you lift your coffee cup in a solemn toast.
“so real, morri,” you murmur. “so real.”
at this point, you're fairly certain advanced economics is going to be the thing that kills you.
a notification appears on your monitor screen, you almost ignore it.
“hello.”
you freeze. ohmygodit’sthelarsguy. your lungs abruptly forget their purpose.
okay, okay. be normal. you're normal. be that. people say hi to each other every day. this is a completely ordinary human interaction.
you begin typing.
“hi! i'm glad you answere—” you delete it just as fast as you typed it. you try again.
“welcome back :)” casual, like you haven't been thinking about him for days.
the message is seen. you wait, another minute passes.
“okay,” you announce to nobody. “he hates me.”
you crumple a scrap of paper into a ball and toss it into the air. you catch it then throw it again.
“or...” you pause. another toss, “he's, like, eighty.” the image immediately makes you laugh.
some random grandfather squinting at his monitor. pecking at each key with one finger. trying to figure out where the letters are.
“i'm sorry. i don't really know how to do this.” he says.
the paper ball rolls forgotten across your desk and something in your chest goes embarrassingly soft.
“that's okay,” you type back. “sorry if i was too confident :/”
you hesitate, then add: “i don't really know how to not be intense.”
the typing indicator appears.
“it didn't bother me.”
you smile before you can stop yourself.
okay, he's honest. you like that. there's something refreshing about people who just say what they mean.
you've spent enough time talking to men to know that is something remarkable in one, as sad as it is.
“i'm glad, haha,” you type back. “tell me about you. how old are you?”
his answer comes a moment later.
“i'm twenty-eight.”
huh, so older than you. but not old old.
“that's cool :) i'm 21,” you reply.
you hesitate for a second before adding:
“what are you doing right now? besides chatting with me lol”
“nothing much, really.”
you stare at the message.
nothing much, really.
he's somehow quiet through a computer. which feels so unfair to you.
“i was studying for my economics test,” you type. your eyes drift towards the open textbook on your desk, calling it studying might be generous. you've spent the last hour alternating between reading the same paragraph and imagining your academic downfall.
you add: “or at least attempting to, economics is currently winning.”
the typing indicator appears almost immediately.
“you're funny.”
you stare at the screen. he's such a liar, you are not that funny.
“lmao. thanks, i try to be.”
you send it before you can overthink it, you immediately overthink it anyway.
then another message appears.
“i'm sorry, i got to go.”
your eyebrows knit together and find yourself staring at the message for a second longer than necessary.
“it was nice talking to you,” you type back.
he doesn't answer.
what a weird person. then again, it's the internet, everyone's weird on the internet. especially you.
the longer you think about your last message, the worse it gets.
it was nice talking to you.
he answered… what, two questions? suddenly you're acting like two old friends saying goodbye.
you groan. maybe you're just so desperate for something interesting to happen that you're starting to manufacture significance where there isn't any.
you toss the crumpled paper ball into the air and catch it.
——
“thursday is pathetic.”
morrissey sounds devastatingly sincere about it. you've been listening to the song all week, which probably says something about your mental state.
nothing good, admittedly.
the lars guy never texted back. honestly, it was expected. sometimes you saw his little status light flicker green. you tried not to think too much about it. maybe he was busy, maybe he was shy… maybe he was an introvert.
you could relate to that, sort of. you liked to think of yourself as an introvert. the problem was that every attempt you made to be mysterious eventually ended with you accidentally revealing your entire life.
so.
not a very successful introvert.
besides, why were you making excuses for a man you'd spoken to exactly once? you didn't even know him.
you were being ridiculous, a certified girl failure.
your computer dings, you glance over automatically. for one embarrassing second, you hope it's him. it isn't.
it's your best friend.
she's talking about another guy. a completely different guy than the one from last week, and possibly the week before that. you love her dearly, you also envy her a little. relationships seem to happen to her the way rain falls, effortlessly.
you close your eyes. you're tired and thinking nonsense. you're not physically tired, actually. it's something else.
another notification appears. you assume it's your friend again. probably another paragraph talking about every way she wants to blow him. (“there's more than one?” you remember asking her.)
“hello.” it's him.
you tilt your head. did he only know one greeting? was he secretly hannibal lecter?
“hi :)” you type back before he can disappear again. “busy week?”
the second you send it, regret arrives. it sounds passive-aggressive. you hadn't really meant it that way.
“yes, sorry.”
you let your forehead fall lightly against your desk. okay, this wasn't going anywhere.
you needed to be interesting, new strategy and… oh my god. were you trying to impress a boy? disgusting.
“what do you like to do for fun, lars?”
“i like to chop wood.”
if your best friend were here, she'd immediately declare that the answer of a serial killer. and she'd have a compelling argument.
but she's not here. and somehow the answer doesn't scare you.
if anything, it makes you more curious.
because for the first time, you can almost picture him, standing somewhere in the cold, splitting logs with his boots against the snow. he feels a little easier to imagine.
——
“top three things i hate: people that have no sense of rush, people that take calls on buses, and people that don't modulate when they speak and talk so low you can't even hear them.” you text him. “guess the three things that happened to me this morning :(”
it's become routine now, texting him. which still feels slightly ridiculous when you stop and think about it.
you exchanged numbers. yes, with a man. a real one. look at you, man-eater.
the reply arrives almost immediately, less than three seconds. you notice because, unfortunately, you've become the kind of person who notices.
“i also hate people that have no sense of rush.” another message follows. “but i normally talk real low.”
“yeah, but i bet you know how to modulate.” you say. “i don't know why i'm so mad. i don't really care about it. it's just one of those days.”
his answer appears. “i understand.”
a few weeks ago, it would've driven you insane. now you know better. or at least, you think you do.
lars seems like the human embodiment of;
‘if you don't have anything to say, don't say anything.’ meanwhile, your philosophy is closer to, ‘if you don't have anything to say, say something anyway and surprise everyone including yourself.’
“you clock in at eight, right?” you ask.
it's friday, which means your schedule is actively conspiring against you. you'd chosen your own classes, unfortunately. therefore you have nobody to blame, except yourself. which is extremely annoying.
“yes.”
“i don't know why you wake up at six like me,” you glance at the sky outside while you type, it's still dark. “i would love to spend more time sleeping.”
his reply comes quickly. “to make you company.”
for a second, you assume he's joking. then you remember who you're talking to. lars doesn't joke like that. actually, he barely jokes at all. most of the time, the only jokes he seems genuinely interested in are yours.
“i don't like the idea of you being alone the whole morning.”
it's not even true. you're not alone the whole morning, you have classmates and professors. that's not really the point.
the point is that he thought about it.
the point is that he wakes up early because he wants to talk to you.
the point is; can you fall in love with someone you've never met? the thought appears without warning. your brain immediately crashes.
“thank you, lars. that's so considerate.” you type carefully. as if your heart isn't suddenly beating much harder than before.
a few minutes later, you send him a picture from one of the university windows.
the sky is gray. winter has arrived with a personal vendetta against you. you know lars is somewhere in the midwest, so he must be suffering more than you. where exactly? you have no idea.
he sends a picture back, the view from his window. there's snow.
you stop walking for a second.
“so pretty :D” you type immediately. there's a faint reflection in the glass. just enough to tell he's standing there, too blurry to make out any features. but somehow, it's enough for you.
“really pretty,” you add.
feeling strangely confident, you take a picture in front of a mirror. your phone covers most of your face, and you add a little, “outfit check!”
the message is seen. you watch the typing indicator appear, disappear. then appear again.
“i like your scarf.” he says.
you grin. “lmao. it looks like i stole it from the fourth doctor.” you immediately cringe, girl failure. catastrophic girl failure.
“i've never seen that show, sorry.”
you sit upright so quickly you nearly drop your phone.
“what?!” you type. “i have the dvds. i'll send them to you. i'm so serious.”
“i know. you get scary when you talk about your shows.”
you can't help but snort loudly, and people look up from whatever they're doing because apparently you've forgotten you're sitting in public.
“sorry,” you type. “i get excited really easily.”
the response comes back almost immediately.
“i know. i like that about you.”
stupidly confident you type; “you like a lot of things about me.”
you consider throwing yourself into the nearest body of water after sending it.
the typing indicator appears, your pulse somehow gets worse.
“yes, i do.”
at this point, there really isn't any denying it. you're done for. you are completely and messily head over heels. stupid lars, with his stupid kindness. and his stupid messages.
if you were home right now, you'd probably be repeatedly introducing your forehead to your desk.
——
somewhere along the way, sending pictures became normal. you send him pictures of strawberries from the market, your breakfast, the view from your apartment window, fall leaves, and shoes against the city concrete.
lars sends pictures back, not as many as you, obviously. a snowy road, a coffee mug. a stack of chopped wood.
occasionally, you let a little bit of yourself slip into the pictures. a glimpse of your legs stretched out on the couch, your hand holding a coffee cup. it's never too much.
but you don't know what's gotten into you tonight. maybe it's the fact that you know lars likes you too, or maybe it's the glass of red wine you had earlier.
you're wearing a light blue babydoll pajama set, your hair cooperated for once. the lighting in your room is unusually forgiving. and for a moment, you catch your reflection in the mirror and don't immediately find something to criticize.
you take a picture before the feeling can disappear. then, before common sense can intervene, you send it.
your actual face, fully visible.
you immediately place your phone face down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
waiting.
you know lars. by now, you've learned his habits. he's probably looking at the picture right now, probably staring at it with the same concentration he gives everything else.
thinking very carefully about what to say, because lars never seems to say the first thing that comes to mind but the thing he actually means.
three minutes pass.
you know this because you've checked approximately seventeen times.
what if he hates it? what if he thinks you're ugly? what if—?
the message changes to typing…
you sit up so fast you nearly launch your phone across the room.
then it stops, starts again, stops.
oh, he's struggling. good, at least you're suffering together.
before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the call button. you let out a small squeal and bury your face in your pillow.
he's not going to answer, there's no way. people don't just answer surprise phone calls. especially not lars.
the phone rings twice. then, the call connects.
you freeze. oh my god, he answered.
“hi...?” you say. your voice comes out quieter than intended. “lars...?”
for a moment, all you hear is breathing. the sound sends an unexpected wave of relief through you.
he's real. you know that's a ridiculous thought. of course he's real. you've been talking for months. he sends you pictures, he has opinions about his co-workers, he wakes up early to keep you company.
“...hello,” his voice is soft. lower than you expected, but gentle.
“hi,” you repeat, because intelligence has abandoned you, a nervous laugh escapes out of your mouth. “i'm sorry. did i make you uncomfortable with the picture?”
“n-no,” he sounds almost startled. “you look nice. pretty.”
you press your lips together, completely failing to hide your smile despite the fact that he can't actually see it.
“yeah?”
you hear a small hum on the other end.
“mhm.”
“that makes me happy,” you admit. hand starting to lower inside your underwear. “i wanted to look pretty for you.”
lars breathes heavily. “i— i didn't know if you liked me like i liked you…”
“i do,” you interrupt him. “can i show you how much i like you? please, lars.” the last words come out a little whiny.
“yes. please, yes." his breathing is ragged. and you wonder if his dick is hard right now.
“i’m going to send you a picture, okay?” you tell him, slightly shy.
you open your folds with your fingers, angling the phone just right. wetness glistens on your inner thighs, already slick and dripping. you can’t help wondering if lars can hear the soft, wet sounds your pussy is making.
you send the photo before you can rethink every second of it.
“oh god,” comes his voice, low and whiny. “you're perfect… exactly how i imagined.”
“you thought about me?” your fingers drift over your clit without thinking, just slow circles.
“i tried not to,” he admits with a broken moan. “at first. i— i chopped so much wood trying to distract myself.” rustling fills the line, fabric sliding and a muffled thud. he’s definitely wrestling with his pants now. “tried so hard to be good for you, bug.”
“fuck,” you whimper instantly as one hand dives deeper between your legs. “lars— that’s not fair… i want to see your cock,” you blurt out before shyness can stop you, then immediately bite down on a moan at how dirty it feels saying that aloud. “it's okay if you don't want to— i just need…”
a high, whiny moan slips through the line, cutting you off before you can even form another thought.
“i can send you a picture,” he says, voice already trembling. “just like you did.”
“fuck, lars,” you whine, fingers pressing harder against yourself. “you’re really going to do that for me?”
a soft ‘uh-huh’ answers you. shy and hot all at once. and then comes the sound: low, breathy groans as he strokes himself, each whimper making your toes curl. you press deeper into your clit just from imagining it. the weight of him in his hand, how his breath hitches every few seconds.
then, the photo loads.
It’s a little blurry, probably from shaky hands or nerves. but it doesn’t matter. you see everything.
you gasp at the sight. his cock, thick and heavy, aching with need. the pink tip glistens with pre-cum, just dripping, and one of his big hands wraps around it, barely covering half of his dick.
you can’t help it; "pretty" is still the only word that fits. soft-looking veins run down the length, flushed and proud, and you’re already soaking just looking at it.
you push your fingers deeper inside yourself, thumb circling your clit fast. “it's so big, lars… fuck,” you whimper. “i need it inside me— i need you.”
“i’m going to— i feel like i’m going to…” his voice cracks mid-sentence, a stutter of breath that makes your stomach clench.
“me too,” you breathe out instantly.
your hips lift off the bed in small, desperate thrusts against your hand. in your head it’s his thick cock slamming into you over and over until neither of you can think straight. you wonder if he’d come inside even if he wasn’t supposed to, if he’d lose control like that just because you asked nicely and looked up at him all soft-eyed while doing it.
you cry his name into your pillow: “lars— ah! fuck! fuck!” legs squeezing tight as pleasure rolls through in waves, but still you don’t stop moving.
your phone finally slips from your trembling fingers onto the sheets beside you as your eyes flutter shut, rolling back with the last pulse of your orgasm.
his breathing turned ragged and uneven, then he whined your name, so raw it made your stomach clench.
slowly, you pull your fingers free with a quiet slip. they glisten, drenched in you, and you stare at them wishing they belonged to someone else.
“lars?” you murmur into the darkened screen still half-pressed to your ear. your throat is dry like sandpaper. “you okay?”
a soft whimper slips through. “…yes.”
you let out a breathy giggle “that was… very intense,” you admit. “but i’m glad i did this with you.”
holland keeping nude photos of you in his wallet… 🤤 is actually probably a really bad idea bc he keeps it right next to his cash. definitely has thrown his wallet out the car once or twice because healy has nearly pulled them out trying to pass holland a fiver for their drive thru meal
Hi!! Would you be interested in doing Leon x sex Repulsed/asexual reader? Friends to lovers if possible!! Tysm!!!!
Ugh this is so real I lowkey think I'm asexual bc if they're not fictional I don't want it. So here's some HCs.
Dating Without Sex Headcanons
(Leon Kennedy x A-Sexual! reader)
Leon is 100% respectful of your boundaries from day 1. The moment you tell him you don’t think sex is gonna be part of your relationship, he accepts it without hesitation or pressure. reassures you that it doesn’t change how he feels about you
maybe he's actually relieved in some ways bc he carries a lot of guilt and trauma himself — the idea of a relationship that isn’t centred around sex feels safer and more genuine to him in some ways + plus imagine coming home from a mission and he's got like major injuries... the last thing he wants is to feel bad for neglecting you physically. this way he doesn't have to worry that you'll think something's wrong if he's not immediately trying to fuck you touch you
still, physical affection is v present: e.g., lots of forehead kisses, back rubs, hugging you from behind while you’re making coffee, and falling asleep tangled together fully clothed or nude. he's easy like that.
lovessss the quiet domestic moments. Coming home from brutal missions and just collapsing on the couch with you, head in your lap while you play with his hair, is his favorite form of comfort.
not rlly related but he is extremely protective....he’ll check the locks twice, leave weapons hidden around the apartment “just in case,” and always makes sure you feel safe other than like having his arms round you
his love language is Acts of Service rather than Physical Touch imo.
still gets jealous sometimes, like quietly insecure or worried that bc he can’t give you “normal” intimacy, you might leave (i'm headcanoning that he's also lowkey asexual). You have to reassure him that this relationship is exactlyyyy what you need
he neverrrr makes you feel broken ugh he's the king of reassurance
(Dad's Best Friend! Courtland Gentry x Younger! reader)
Your father and Courtland had been thick as thieves since some classified op under Fitzroy decades ago: your father was older the Courtland, had been his mentor, in fact, before he'd retired. They had a list of inside jokes that could rival the bible in length (including referring to each other as 'four' and 'six', whatever that meant) and they could sit in silence for hours together. 'Best friends' didn’t quite cover it: more like the only person your dad trusted with his life, and vice-versa.
Still, he was rarely around— until recently, that is. You'd asked your dad about the sudden uptick in Courtland appearances and he'd just said that Court had 'gotten sick of Thailand' and 'wanted to come back home'. You didn't push for more information: you knew you wouldn't get it, either way. So, more often than not these days, you'd come home to find Court at the house, fixing things or showing up for Sunday dinners, always giving you that same old poker-face that he'd perfected over the years.
You hated how much you noticed him now he was around: before, he was just some guy from your dad's past. He'd been at your parents' wedding, before you were born; in and out of your life since then; now, he was here all the time, and you couldn't help but feel a little... shy around him. After all, he was six-foot something, built like a tank, and knew you well— who could blame you?
Tonight was no different: you’d come home from yet another disappointing date, heels clicking against the floor as you kicked off your shoes in the hallway. Your parents were out of town for the weekend (you suspected your dad wasn't quite as retired as he claimed he was), which left exactly one person in the kitchen, nursing a beer like he was forcing himself to relax: Courtland leaned against the counter in a black Henley, sleeves pushed up over his muscular forearms, looking annoyingly good for someone who claimed he was "losing the touch".
“Back already?” he asked, voice laced with that signature dryness. “Must’ve been a real winner.”
You shot him a glare and grabbed a glass of water.
“He was fine.”
“Fine,” Courtland repeated, tasting the word before washing it down with a swig of beer. “High praise, huh? Let me guess— talked about himself the whole time, tried to impress you with his made-up job, then invited you back to his soulless penthouse?”
You contemplated lying, but you couldn't deny that he was bang on. “He’s a finance guy. They’re all like that.”
“Exactly. They're all assholes. You can do better.” The words came out flat, but his eyes tracked you as you moved around the kitchen. There was something sharper underneath the sarcasm tonight. “A lot better.”
You turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest, now conscious of your outfit.
“You say that about every guy I date, Court. You keeping a running list?”
He took a final sip of beer, then set the empty bottle down with a quiet clink, toying with it.
“Someone has to. Your dad’s too polite to say it. I’m not.” He stood from the kitchen island and closed the space between you in some quick strides: he was close enough that you could smell his cologne (something woody, you thought?) and that you had to crane your neck a little to make eye contact when he spoke.
“The last one couldn’t change a tire; the one before that had bedsheets that were last changed before you were born! Remember him?" He scoffed and leaned over you to toss the bottle into the recycling with perfect precision. "And tonight’s finance bro is probably worse than all of 'em put together.”
You let out a frustrated laugh, trying to seem un-phased by the proximity.
“So, what do you suggest? I stay single forever while you play grumpy watchdog?”
Court's unreadable gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. His jaw tightened before he spoke.
“I suggest,” he said, voice lower, “you stop wasting your time on boys who don’t know what to do with... someone like you.” He paused, then reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. His fingers lingered for just a moment too long, and you fought to keep your eyes from fluttering closed.
“You deserve a man who, you know... actually sees you. Who’d kill for you, or die for you— eventually, anyway." He rolled his eyes. "Not some suit who can’t even keep up."
The air felt thick; you swallowed as you parsed your words.
“Right. And where exactly do you think I find someone like that,” you challenged.
He didn’t answer right away; rather, a half-smile appeared on his face, one that made your stomach flip partly because of how nice it looked on him, and partly because it was so rare to see him looking less than stoic.
“I’m saying that you can do better.” His voice dropped even lower. “A hell of a lot better.”
The tension stretched between you, years of stolen glances and sarcastic comments suddenly felt like something more coherent. Courtland stepped back first, ever the professional, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.
“Go get some sleep, kid,” he muttered, the nickname sounding anything but casual now. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”
As he walked past you, his hand brushed your arm. You stood there long after he’d left the room, heart racing. Maybe that 'someone' had been sitting in your kitchen the whole time.
Holland March with teacher/babysitter reader and she's a total sweetheart to Holly and him and she kind of likes how pathetic he is and likes to kiss him on his cheek and wave at him when he looks a mess in the morning because he's so cute when flustered and wearing that stupid lovesick smile.
One day she just plugs one cigarette out of his mouth and places it on her, taking a drag and coughing cause she's not used to it and it makes him smile cause 'holy crap. You're kind of pathetic too and that was so cute' so to stop his rambling, she kisses him silly until he manages to press her up to the column of the entrance to his place-
Sorry, I got carried away.
Patheticute
(Holland March x Babysitter! reader)
Every morning, without fail, Holland March would stumble into the living room to wave Holly off for school looking like he'd just survived a small house fire. His tie would be crooked, his hair would be sticking up in at least three directions, and he would always freeze up when he spotted you next to Holly, about to walk her to school. There was a sort of dance that you two had perfected in the mornings, wherein he'd make a total dick of himself and spend all day thinking about it.
"Bye, dad!" Holly yelled from the bottom of the stairs on one such morning. "Oh, shoot, forgot my backpack!"
You laughed as she ran up the stairs at full speed past her half-awake father, who was only now coming down to say goodbye. Once again, he seemed to have forgotten that five days a week, you would be there: he had hired you, after all.
"Morning, Holland," you said, smiling up to him. Holland froze halfway down the stairs, and quickly pushed a hand through his messy hair.
"Hi. Hi, Y/N," he replied, mouth opening and closing like he had more to say.
"...That all?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows with a smile.
"I had more," he admitted, shaking his head. "It— uh, it left."
You laughed and he visibly relaxed, like his job for the day had been done. He knew that he'd spend the next ten minutes replaying the sound in his head while trying (and failing) to get ready for work without making more of an ass of himself.
It had been weeks of little moments like this that Holland kept in mind to get through the day: sweet, teasing greetings when you arrived; your deft hands fixing his tie in the mornings as he tried not to stop breathing; your smile when he brought you flowers (as well as a generous tip) when you stayed late because a stakeout ran over.
Yet, despite how pathetic he was for you (maybe a little because of it), you felt the same way, looking forward to every shift and trying not to stumble over your own words. Which was why, one afternoon, you made a terrible decision; an incredibly attractive decision, according to Holland March.
On this particular evening, Holland was leaning against one of the columns in the house's entrance, cigarette hanging anxiously from his lips whilst he waited for you to arrive. If he was being honest, he'd smoked about five cigarettes back-to-back just for an excuse to stand outside and greet you when you got there.
Finally, he saw you walking up the driveway, walking quickly because it was raining buckets. When you saw him at the doorway you cocked your head, squinted through the rain, and smiled: he was normally gone by the time you got there. He smiled back warmly, straightening up a little as you approached.
"Hey, Mr. March," you waved, jogging to get out of the rain.
"Hey."
His gaze softened as he looked at you, soaking wet and a little windswept: you looked wonderful, as always. "It's raining," he said, then immediately took an enormous inhale of his cigarette to try and off-put what he had just said; nice one, asshole, he thought.
"Yeah," you laughed, peeling the hood of your jacket from your head. "I noticed."
He smiled down at his shoes. You leaned your back against the column opposite him, catching your breath for a moment. Without a word, you suddenly reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth. Holland blinked.
"What are you... hey!"
You placed it between your own lips, taking a drag like you'd seen him do so many times before. You, unlike Holland, however, were not used to cigarettes (let alone his cheap and unreasonably strong Lucky Strikes), and the smoke hit your throat like a freight train.
"Oh, urgh—" You tried to stop yourself from coughing, but the cigarette fell from your fingers onto the floor as you cupped your hand over your mouth and began to cough— violently. Holland watched, amused, with one eyebrow raised.
"Oh my God," you coughed. "Holy—" Cough. "Holy shit."
You were laughing through your streaming eyes, now, and so was Holland. Finally, the coughing fit subsided and Holland reached down to pluck the cigarette off the floor, inspecting it before popping it back between his teeth.
"Not a smoker?" he asked.
"Obviously not."
His face was doing something strange: trying very hard not to smile, and failing miserably as he grinned down the end of his cigarette at you.
"You stole a cigarette even though you don't smoke? Why? What's wrong with you?" he laughed.
"Sue me! I was curious," you defended, wiping your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest like you didn't nearly just die from one puff. "I see you putting those things away every five minutes, I wanted to know what the appeal was."
"You figure it out?"
"Fuck no," you scoffed.
"Thought you'd look grown up? Do you feel grown up, now?" he laughed. You didn't reply, scowling at him; he continued to grin at you. "And here I was, thinking you were far too cool for—"
"Oh my God, would you shut up?"
With one determined stride, you closed the space between you and Holland, and grabbed the front of his white vest, once again pulling the cigarette from his lips and throwing it onto the ground. You pulled yourself against his lips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other clenched by your side.
The words disappeared from his lips immediately as Holland mumbled against your mouth. When he finally caught on to what you were doing, he closed his eyes and kissed you back— deeply, needily. You pulled back to catch your breath, certain that you'd got the final word, but he wasn't having that: it was like he remembered that he was a grown man, and quite a tall one, at that.
He straightened up from his slouched position against the column, leaning over into the kiss so that your head craned upward as he walked you backward, one hand snaking around your waist and the other cupping the back of your head. You squeaked in surprise as he guided you, and a second later your back met one of the columns with a soft thump. Holland's hands rested on your shoulders, and you began to worry that you'd misread the signals.
"I—"
"There." He looked incredibly pleased with himself. "Can I finish my point, now, please?"
You paused.
"What point?" You furrowed your eyebrows.
Holland leaned closer, so that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes as he stared you down longingly.
"I was going to say... that it was actually pretty cute."
You froze, then laughed; his expression softened instantly. It dawned on you that you knew this look, the one he got whenever he saw you: it was a lovesick look. You spent a moment peering up at him before he spoke again.
"You know," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours lightly, "I was trying very hard to be charming when you rudely interrupted me."
"You were failing."
"I know."
You laughed again, and Holland's smile widened: that was his job done. God, he adored that sound. Then, he kissed you before you could come up with another comeback.
By the time Holly finally appeared in the doorway, both of you were still smiling like complete idiots as Holland leaned over you, his leg resting between your thighs and his hand next to your head to suppport himself.
"Ew," Holly announced immediately; you and Holland jumped apart in surprise. She sighed dramatically. "I knew this was going to happen. I've got bets with Healy that Y/N would make the first move. Was I right?"
Holland sighed. She really was her father's daughter.
im so curious about how rygos boys would react to reader just.. peppering them with kisses and affection unwaveringly .... ;w; mostly henry, ryland, driver, and lars, but i love all of them...
Peppered with Kisses Headcanons
Ryland Grace
Ryland is caught off guard bc he’s not used to affection (he's basically a virgin with how long it's been since his last canoodle)— especially not while he’s trying to focus on calculations or fixing something on the ship.
He freezes mid-sentence the first time you pepper kisses across his jaw while he’s working, leaning over his shoulder and pecking him.
“Do you... need something, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and slightly flustered, but he doesn’t pull away. He finds he kind of likes it, actually.
Over time, he starts leaning into it, even if he pretends to be annoyed.
“You’re going to be the reason I make a mistake in these equations,” he claims, but there’s a small, helpless smile on his face that he hopes you can't see. Eventually he just sighs, pulls you into his lap, and mumbles against your hair, “you’re ridiculous. Wait, don't stop!”
Holland March
Holland is the most dramatic about it IMO. The first time you start kissing him all over his face he’s talking about a case, back against the kitchen counter with a glass of whiskey and a smoke lit.
“You even listening?” he whines as you reach up to peck him, but he’s melting, hands grabbing your waist and trying to turn it into something more (inevitable with Holland). You squeal and shove him off, laughing at how he's almost entirely erect already.
“You can’t just do that to a man, sweetheart. I’m weak. I’m a weak, weak man!"
Eventually it stops being a (strictly) sexual thing, and he just takes the kisses for what they are: affection. He might complain if you're watching TV or something, but he’s smiling like an idiot the entire time you're clambering into his lap (this black and white noir film was his choice, and it sucks) and he keeps whispering “more” every time you pause.
Henry Letham
probably mostly happens whilst he's painting. First time, he freezes and stares ahead at his canvas with those wide eyes while you kiss his cheeks, forehead, and hair over and over. He doesn’t know how to process consistent, gentle love; it almost overwhelms him. He goes very still and tense, breathing shallow, like he’s afraid moving will make you stop; he also hopes you don't notice the effect it has on him, how such a small gesture makes him freeze mid brushstroke. He'd slowly place his brush down, spin around in his studio chair, and cup your face.
“…Why do you do that?” he asks quietly. When you tell him it’s because you love him, he kisses you hard and insists you sit in his lap as he paints.
Lars Lindstrom
Lars is shy OBVIOUSLY. Every time you pepper him with kisses (assuming you've been together long enough that your touch is a welcome thing to him), his face turns bright red and he gets all stiff and awkward. You'd be lying if you said this wasn't part of the appeal.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that…” he mumbles as you ritualistically kiss the corners of his mouth. You just hum and he never stops you. He slowly starts melting, shoulders dropping, eyes fluttering closed, a tiny, shy smile forming.
He becomes the type to follow you around the house like a lost puppy, hoping for more affection. When you kiss his nose or forehead, he gets the softest, most lovesick look on his face and whispers, “I really like when you do that.”
Ken
Ken is in absolute heaven: this man was made for attention and affection. The second you start peppering him with kisses, he lights up like the sun, grinning with eyes closed to as not to disturb you and sighing contentedly with his head in your lap. When you finish, he furrows his eyebrows and pouts. He becomes dramatically clingy, wrapping his arms around you and tilting his head to give you better access.
He will literally moan and shiver when you kiss his neck.
“I’m the luckiest Ken in the world,” he declares, burying his head wherever he has access. He gets so happy and confident from your affection that he starts calling you 'babe' and pulling you in by the waist.
If you stop for even a second he gives you the biggest kicked-puppy eyes and says, “Did I do something wrong? Why did you stop loving me?”
