Misc. (Leon Kennedy, Arthur Morgan, Patrick Bateman)
➴ TᗩGS & TᗯS ཐི༏ཋྀ
🔥 = mild NSFW
🔥🔥 = medium NSFW
🔥🔥🔥 = major NSFW
I only write for female or unspecified anatomy. Skin tone and body type will not be specified.
The hashtag #binchithinks are edits, thoughts, and fics I like. Everything else is fics.
Anything I deem to be NSFW will be tagged at the beginning of a fic.
➴ ᖇEᑫᑌESTS ཐི༏ཋྀ
Please keep inbox requests short so that I can write the fic in reply to the request.
I’m mostly interested in writing about:
💽 Harry Potter (all)
💽 Twilight (all)
💽My Chemical Romance (all)
💽 Ryan Gosling (all)
💽 Resident Evil (Leon Kennedy)
I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere nor being fed to AI. If you wish a part two of something, request it, do not AI generate it: that constitutes intellectual theft.
Ok it's not the same but it's more Ray. Will this cut it?
Big Dog Privilege
(Protective!Ray Toro x reader)
~1.3k words
SFW (sexism)
'Ray— usually soft-spoken and easy-going— doesn't like the way a member of crew speaks to you.'
The gig had ended over an hour ago, but you still couldn't wipe the smile off of your face as you stood in the parking lot outside the small Boston venue. Life with the band on their first-ever tour was exciting, to put it mildly: living out of the back of this eight-seater van was tiring and often sweaty, but it was all worth it to see Ray in his element on stage.
While they were now well-known enough to play a couple of dates across the East Coast, they were far from having a full crew, and so would have to load and unload the equipment at every gig. While you'd prefer to help load the van up, Ray insisted you just stay put and let your "big, strong boyfriend" deal with it; you'd rolled your eyes but obliged him.
And so, you leaned against the side of the van, arms crossed against your chest and a sappy smile on your face, watching as the guys loaded up the van with endless guitar cases, drums, and cables. You were, frankly, pleased not to have to help: it was sweltering hot, and you'd much rather stand and admire your boyfriend's muscular arms than throw your back out lifting a speaker. Ray gave you a small wink and a kiss on your temple every time he passed.
“Five more minutes,” he reassured you as he emerged once again through the fire exit. “Then we’re outta here.”
"Sure," you nodded with a quiet smile. You didn’t mind waiting; you never did.
The other band with a bigger crew had already cleared out, leaving the backstage quiet, except for the occasional shout from inside and the double-doors swinging open as the guys went in and out. You always enjoyed watching the guys after shows: it was obvious they were still basking in the glow of what had been a great performance, and you were just happy to soak it up from the side lines.
Unfortunately, your peace was broken when a man in a high-vis vest and a clipboard began to walk over. He stopped a few feet in front of you, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin crawl.
"Sweetheart. It's crew only back here."
“Oh, no, I’m waiting for someone,” you smiled politely.
"Sure," he shrugged. "You can wait for them out front with the rest of the girls."
Your eyebrows shot up. The rest of the girls?
"No, I mean that I'm with the band," you explained, dumbfounded.
“You're...with the band?” he repeated, smirking patronisingly.
You didn't reply, merely blinking at him. He chuckled, tapping his pencil against the clipboard.
"Right," he drawled, stepping closer conspiratorially. "So, how does that all work? Do you stick with one guy, or are you just…available?”
Your mouth fell open. You crossed your arms tighter over your chest, balling your fists.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on," he rolled his eyes, words dripping with condescension. "Seen plenty of girls like you in my time. Hanging around the vans after shows, hoping one of the guys notices..."
Before you could even think of how to answer (which was probably for the best), the back door of the venue banged open again: Ray stepped out with an amp braced against his hip. He paused at the fire exit when he saw the expression on your face: whilst he wasn't necessarily conflict averse, he'd never step in if he thought you had it handled. The look on your face and the man's proximity made him decide to check what was up.
“Heyyy," Ray greeted sheepishly, setting the amp down in the back of the van before turning to you. "Everything okay?”
“Oh, she’s just fine, man,” the guy answered. “I was just letting her know it's crew only back here."
Something in him cooled: he didn't like how the guy was answering for you one bit, let alone the substance of his reply. Ray was bigger than people usually clocked at first glance: his big hoodies and quiet demeanour hid his broad shoulders and solid arms until he decided to use them. He straightened up to his full height and shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking irritably on his heels.
“I was asking her, man.”
The crewmember raised his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. “My bad. Didn't know groupies counted as crew, these days.”
The word landed ugly in the air between them. Ray’s head tilted and his eyebrows scrunched in confusion, before he went very still, realisation of what the guy had meant by 'crew only' dawning on him.
“What's wrong with you? Don’t call her that.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I don’t really care what you’re saying.” Ray took his hands out of his pockets and stepped forward half a pace— not quite in the guy’s face, but close enough that the height and build difference became obvious. “She’s not a groupie: she’s my girlfriend. And," he scoffed, "even if she wasn’t, you don’t talk to anybody like that. It's not cool.”
The guy’s smile faltered. He glanced between the two of you, clearly recalculating his approach. Ray stood solid and quiet at your side until the man shook his head and backed away toward the venue.
Only when he was gone did Ray’s shoulders loosen. He turned to you immediately, the hard edge vanishing like it had never been there as his hands came up to cup your elbows, thumbs brushing gently over your sleeves.
“Jesus,” he muttered, glancing toward where the guy had wandered off to. “I’m really sorry about that. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine," you nodded reassuringly. “Just... not a great conversation,” you laughed dryly.
Ray shook his head, already frowning like this was somehow his fault. "That fuckin' guy," he grumbled. He stepped forward and tugged you carefully into his chest, one hand settling between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head. He was warm and solid and still a little tense, like part of him was ready to deal with anyone else who might try something.
“M'gonna complain about that douchebag,” he muttered into your hair.
"That bad, huh?" you giggled against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your face into the soft fabric of his shirt; he smelled like fresh sweat and the faint metallic edge of stage gear. With your head at his cheat you could hear his heartbeat was still a little quick. It was funny to see him like this: the most easy-going guy with his hackles up the second someone bothered you.
After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, brown eyes as warm as usual. The fire exit doors swung open again as Frank, Gerard, and Mikey filtered out of the backdoor, chatting enthusiastically about something with a few final bits of gear in their hands. Ray pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before reluctantly letting you go, not wanting to risk being accused of 'grossing them out with your love', again.
“Alright,” he said, looking around at the guys as they slammed the van's trunk closed. "Let's get on the road, then." He turned back to you and grabbed your hand lightly. "Ready? Need anything before we go?" he whispered to you.
You shook your head with a smile: you loved how he looked after you.
With that, Ray led you to the front of van, hauling the passenger door open for you to climb in. He lightly kissed your knuckles then closed the door gently, all but buckling you up himself. The guys filtered into the van, still buzzing, as Ray slid into the driver's side. He glanced over at you as he turned the engine on, taking your hand and putting it on top of the console, so he could hold it as he drove.
You squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, gentle as ever.
oh my GOD this song makes me think of:
drunken make outs upstairs at a shitty party with your best-friend-turned-boyfriend Ray &
figuring out you really have got the hots for him the first time you see him shredding guitar in his absolute element on stage because my GOD that man is talented &
he's so shy when he sees you in the crowd bc that's his pretty best friend looking up at him with big adoring eyes &
he has to stop looking because FUCK it's his solo and he's missing notes!!!!!!! &
after the show Ray trails behind you with his index finger looped through your jeans' beltloops because he doesn't wanna lose you in the crowd &
you have big dog privilege (looks like a doberman; is actually a golden)
'Your best friend Ray picks you up from a shitty date with the promise of a consolation sleepover. You want to get something off of your chest before you go back to his, though.'
You knew the date was going to be a disaster from the moment it began— or, you should say, fifteen minutes after it had begun, because he'd turned up fifteen minutes late, wearing a dirty T-shirt and way too much cologne. You excused yourself to the toilet and texted Ray pleading for a lift somewhere between the guy talking over you and 'jokingly' criticising your outfit. Ray’s reply came almost instantly:
kk. b there in 10
Shoving your phone in your bag, you sighed headed back to the table. You mumbled a semi-believable excuse to your date and left without finishing your drink.
True to his word, the familiar, beat-up, silver Honda had pulled up opposite the bar, its low headlights cutting through the dark. From across the street, you could see Ray's arm hanging out the window, drumming his fingers against the door: he never went anywhere without music on. He looked nice— he always looked nice, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't begun to notice how especially nice he looked, recently. This date had been, if anything, a reminder that it was hard to find someone who truly understood you: someone like Ray.
So, giddy with relief, you practically skipped across the road and slid into the passenger seat as you’d done a hundred times before. Ray looked over at you with a smile as the door opened, curly hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it away with one big hand.
"Hey!" His eyebrows scrunched in concern, his voice softening slightly in case you'd had a really terrible time. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," you nodded reassuringly, buckling in. “Just…ready to not be there anymore.” You laughed dryly and flopped your head against the headrest.
He nodded, put the car in drive, and pulled off with a cursory glance over his shoulder. That was something you loved about Ray: he never pushed.
The stereo played low, some old punk song he’d burned onto a CD months ago; streetlights slid over the dashboard as he drove. After a few minutes of comfortable quiet, he glanced over at you.
“You look really pretty tonight,” he said enthusiastically, then immediately grimaced like he hadn’t thought it through. “I mean— not in a weird way, and not that you don’t always look pretty. I just…” he trailed off.
You fought down a laugh as you turned to look at him fully. Ray’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. He kept his eyes on the road, but a flush was creeping up his neck and his Adam's-apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard.
“Ray.”
“Mm? Yep?”
“Pull over.”
He blinked, opening his mouth to speak, then carefully guided the car into an empty parking lot behind a closed laundromat.
When he turned the car off, the engine ticked in the silence, the familiar rhythm of metal contracting and cooling. You both sat there for a second, the air suddenly heavier than it had been all night. Shit, you thought. Was this a terrible idea? Before you could think too hard about it, you forced yourself to speak.
“I’ve been trying to be normal about this,” you said, fiddling with your thumbs and avoiding his gaze. “For, like, a really long time. You huffed a laugh. When you finally looked up at Ray, who had been staring at you with concern, his eyes were wide: a little scared, a little hopeful.
“Yeah?” His voice came out higher than usual. “Normal how?”
You weren't sure what to say. Instead of trying to articulate a feeling you didn't really understand, you made up your mind, leaned across the console and pressed your lips to his, eyebrows furrowed in determination. Before you knew it, Ray’s hand had come up to cradle the back of your head like you might change your mind; in turn, you balled your fingers in the front of his top to pull him closer. He made a quiet sound against your mouth— surprised and relieved and ecstatic all at once— and kissed you deeper, like he’d thought about it more times than he’d ever admit; you brought your free hand up to his shoulder, hoisting yourself closer to him. You didn't have to try too hard with Ray: you didn't care if your mouth tasted of cigarettes and what you'd been drinking at the bar; you just knew that, from the way his mouth moved against yours, this was mutual desperation.
When you finally broke apart, Ray leaned back, flopping against the headrest as he caught his breath. His hands had come to rest on your hips as he spoke; yours remained on his shoulders.
“I’ve wanted to do that since junior year,” he smiled, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “Just… didn’t wanna fuck up being your friend.”
“You didn’t,” you shook your head. “Not possible.”
He smiled and darted forward to peck you once more, quick and sweet, before you returned to your seat, blushing. He drummed his fingers against the wheel pensively.
“Your parents aren't home tonight, right?”
“Right.”
“So come back with me.” It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t pushy, either. “Not to—" he blushed again, "we don’t have to do anything. I just…don’t wanna take you back to an empty house after all that.”
You nodded once, and that was all the affirmation Ray needed.
Ray’s house was quiet when you got there. His parents were already asleep, not that it mattered: you'd stayed over plenty of times before. He grabbed you both a glass of water and led you upstairs to his room with your bag slung over his shoulder. With its familiar posters, the unmade bed, the faint smell of laundry detergent and cologne he always wore, you instantly relaxed. Having not prepared to stay overnight, Ray dug you out a pair of old, plaid pyjama bottoms and one of his cleanest band tees from his dresser. He handed you the clothes and politely turned around, ears red. You giggled as you stripped.
"You scared you're gonna cum your jeans if you turn 'round?"
"N—no! I'm being a gentleman, actually!" he protested, still with his back to you.
When you both climbed into bed, him in his sweats and a T-shirt, it felt easy, as natural as it always was with him. Ray flicked off the bedside lamp and settled onto his back.
"Well— uh, goodnight," he mumbled.
"For God's sake, Ray," you giggled, lifting his arm so you could half-lie on his chest. You flung one leg over his thighs and settled against his side, head resting over his heartbeat. It was like you’d always belonged there.
"Oh—right," he murmured, his hand settling lightly between your shoulder blades, slow and warm, tracing absent patterns through the fabric of his own shirt. "This okay?" he mumbled into your hair.
You pressed closer, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
“Mm," you agreed. "Wish we'd done it sooner, actually.”
He pressed a quiet kiss to the top of your head and tightened his arms around you.
"Just gotta make up for lost time, I guess."
'Fun Ghoul comes back from a raid with a nasty cut along his mouth. It's sure to scar, but you patch it up all the same.'
Ghoul kept one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to his face as the Trans AM hummed contentedly across the desert, wincing slightly every time the car hit a dip in the sand. The supply run had gone sideways fast, and when the Dracs boxed him in he’d moved to draw fire but caught a blade across the face. The cut ran deep, starting high on his cheekbone and slicing clean down to the corner of his mouth.
The fingers of his left hand were sticky with blood that still hadn’t clotted. He glanced in the cracked rear-view mirror: blood had run down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, drying in a way that made his skin crawl— that and the wound pulling every time he breathed too hard. He tried to grin at his own reflection just to see if he still could: the movement split the cut wider and sent a fresh trickle down his chin.
“Fuck,” he muttered to the empty road. “She's gonna be so pissed.”
The neon sign of the old diner finally flickered into view through the cracked windshield; half the letters dead, the rest buzzing like they were on their last legs. Still, Ghoul was relieved to be home, or as close as any of them got to one these days. He killed the engine in its usual spit, but sat there for a while longer than he needed to, drumming his fingers against the wheel as he plucked up the courage to face you. Finally he sighed, shoved the door open, and walked toward the diner, slamming the door shut behind him with a determined thunk.
You heard the car before you saw it, the familiar roar of the engine that indicated you could relax because Ghoul wasn't dead: you couldn't have anticipated what you were going to see. The diner’s front door banged open and Ghoul walked in with his head down, like he was hoping the dark curtain of hair would distract you from the immense gash on his face.
You glanced up from behind the counter, where you were trying to fix the radio Kobra had karate-kicked across the room by mistake.
"Hey, Gh—ohmygodwhathappened?"
The smile was wiped off of your face as you did a double-take: Ghoul's mask was resting on his head, the underside soaked in blood; the left side of his face was a mess of blood and open skin, the cut running from his cheek straight down to the edge of his mouth. He caught sight of your shocked face and attempted a smile that immediately turned into a wince.
“Before you say anything,” he said, words garbled and slow from his trying not to move his mouth too much, “I know I fucked up.”
You shook your head in disbelief and began to move across the room.
“Sit,” you told him, pointing at the nearest booth. "And pull your hair back."
Before you'd even finished your sentence he was obeying. He dropped onto the cracked vinyl seat and tipped his head back against the wall, watching you wash your hands and grab the med kit. When you came back and tilted his face toward the light, he didn’t pull away, just watched you guiltily as you lightly held the uninjured parts of his jaw in your hand.
“You’re going to scar," you said flatly, eyes slightly squinted in concentration.
“Cool.” He tried to smirk again and failed.
"Don't."
"Sorry."
You cleaned the wound as carefully as you could, standing between his legs. He hissed through his teeth but stayed still, one gloved hand resting on your hip like he needed the contact.
“You went alone,” you said softly as you dabbed the cut.
“Yeah.” His voice was smaller than usual. “Was stupid.”
You briefly glanced up at his eyes and hummed in agreement.
"Think this is punishment enough, though." Ghoul was pleased to hear sympathy return to your voice, though he knew your anger was masking concern.
You kept working: antiseptic; gauze; sterilised strips to hold the worst of the split closed until it could heal. His hand stayed on your side the whole time, thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke as he considered how lucky he was to come back to you, to not have to worry whether you'd find the scar ugly or not.
When you finished, you sat back a little. Ghoul reached up, touched the bandaging lightly with two fingers, then looked at you.
“Thanks, doll” he said with a small nod of appreciation.
You brushed a bit of dried blood off his jaw with your thumb.
“Try not to do it again.”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, holding it gently as he raised your knuckles to his lips; his other hand's fingers slipped through the belt-loops of your trousers. You tilted your head and smiled down at him, letting the fear and anger melt away.
“I will,” he said. Then, quieter, “As long as you're here I'll always make it back, you know that, right?”
You sighed, then perched on his thigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your head in the crook of his neck.
"I know," you mumbled into his shoulder. "I just worry."
Ghoul didn't reply: he felt guilty and loved to the point he felt he might explode. Instead of trying to articulate that feeling (he never was a man of many words) he snaked his arms round your waist and pressed soft kisses to your hair.
