The kind where devotion borders on obsession, where love isn't just tender—it's consuming.
"I'd do anything for you, love," he murmurs, voice smooth, unwavering. "Anything you desire, and it's yours."
And the other doesn't hesitate, voice laced with something raw, something desperate.
"I want her to split me open—dig her fingers into my ribs and pry them apart. To hold my heart in her hands, feel the pulse of it against her palms, my blood staining her skin. I want her to pick my bones clean, crack them open, suck the marrow dry. I want to be ruined by her, consumed until there's nothing left of me but the taste of her name on what's left of my tongue."
Because love, when it’s deep enough, is a hunger—one that begs to be fed.
How would the batboys react to seeing s/o!reader having to kiss someone for a play and or musical. They're all briefed that its gonna happen, doesn't mean they have to feel good about it. S/o!reader apologizes afterwards by taking them out on a stupid cute date askksfdjfakl
Batboys reaction to kissing someone else for a game
Dick Grayson Aka The Golden Boy™
He says he’s fine. He acts like he’s fine. But he is absolutely not fine.
He claps for you after the play with that tight-lipped, polite smile. The one where he’s trying so hard not to be petty because he respects your craft. But the second you two are alone?
"You were amazing up there... but, um, did he have to touch your waist like that?"
He’s not mad at you, he just needs a little emotional CPR. You take him out for a late-night milkshake and fries run, and let him pick the jukebox songs. You tease him, whispering : "If I wanted someone else, you’d know it. But I like my sweet dork with the gymnastics booty."
He melts. He’ll pretend to pout a little longer, but by the third fry in your mouth, he's already kissing your cheeks
Jason Todd aka The Hot-Tempered Softie
Jason hates it. His jaw clenches. He sits through the entire play with his arms folded like he’s holding in the apocalypse.
"It’s just acting" he grunts. But his eyes say: I will destroy that guy’s entire bloodline.
You have to drag him out of his broody thundercloud with an aggressively cute date. Like matching outfits, couple selfies, stupid heart-shaped sunglasses-level cute.
You kiss his cheek and say "You’re the only guy I’d kill for, you know that right?"
He finally breaks into a smirk.
"I better be. That guy’s lucky it was a stage kiss."
By the end of the night, he's holding your hand and growling low : "Next time, I’m playing the love interest. I’ll memorize the whole damn script."
Tim Drake aka The Overthinker
Tim spirals.
He intellectually knows it’s acting. He respects the craft. He even helped you rehearse lines. But when it actually happens on stage? He dissociates into another dimension.
Post-show, he's awkward. Fidgety. Avoids eye contact like he just watched his laptop die during a dissertation.
"I’m not mad. I just... I don’t know, I didn’t expect to feel this weird."
You take him out for a "soft boyfriend therapy" date.. warm drinks, cuddly bookstore stroll, holding his hand while you ramble about your dreams. You throw in a spontaneous forehead kiss : "You’re my real-life love interest, Tim. You win."
Cue Tim.exe rebooting.
"Okay... but just don’t fall for any method actors, alright?"
Damian Wayne aka The Possessive Gremlin Prince
He watches the kiss and immediately texts Alfred: "I require a list of every acting school within a 200-mile radius that teaches swordplay."
He is SEETHING. Not at you. But at the impertinent peasant who dared touch what’s his.
You have to drag him out on a date to the petting zoo or something equally disarming, and keep feeding him compliments.
"You looked disgustingly hot sitting in the audience, you know. All broody. Made me forget my lines."
He tries to hold onto his pride, but melts when you feed a llama together. Eventually grumbles: "Next performance, I’ll be your stage partner. We’ll rehearse. Thoroughly."
If your still taking requests, please can I ask for piers nivans (resident evil 6) with afab reader ??
Something something he's just come home from a mission and the reader wants to show how much she missed him (maybe both smut and fluff??)
Thank you :)))
A/n : this baby is criminally underrated.. like girl.. barely enough fics to satisfy our thirst for him..
I say and repeat I rarely write for smut but I tried to sprinkle some lil ✨, I'm all about the emotions at the moment, if you wanted it rough daddy type then sorry you came to the wrong person 🤍😊
Post-Mission Reunion
Featuring : Piers Nivans, Leon Kennedy, Chris Redfeild, Carlos Oliveira, Jake Muller.
✦ Piers Nivans :
He wasn’t supposed to be back yet.
The mission had been extended.. some complication on the ground, and the last comm you’d received had been almost two weeks ago. For a whole twelve sleepless nights, you’d wrapped yourself in the blanket that still smelled faintly like him, whispering his name into your pillow as if the wind might carry your words to wherever he was.
Then, out of nowhere in a rainy thunderous night, the front door clicked open. The sound was so ordinary, so domestic, it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.
You stood in the hallway like you'd been struck. Frozen.
And then there he was.
Piers.
He looked like hell.. drenched from the rain, dirt streaked along his cheek, his duffel hanging off one shoulder like dead weight. His mouth was slightly parted like he hadn’t even expected to make it home, and when his eyes found you?
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
"...I’m home."
The tears blurred your vision before your feet could even move. You ran.. no grace, no hesitation.. and collided into him so hard he stumbled back a step. His arms wrapped around you instantly, tight, anchoring. He was shaking.
You barely recognized his voice when he whispered, "Tell me I’m not dreaming.."
You felt him tremble in your arms. Not from cold..but from release. From the pressure of surviving another mission with blood on his hands and your face in his thoughts.
He buried his face in your shoulder, voice rough and raw "I thought I was gonna die out there."
Later, the rain still patted the windows, but the world inside your bedroom was silent. He’d showered. You’d tended to the minor cuts on his arms with trembling fingers. Now, the only light came from the small lamp on your nightstand, casting a warm halo over his bare chest as he sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, lost in thought.
You moved behind him, arms sliding around his waist, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.
"You don’t have to carry it alone" you whispered.
He covered your hands with his. "I didn’t let them take me. I kept thinking about you.. how your voice sounds when you’re sleepy. How you hum when you cook. How your laugh makes my chest ache.."
He turned slowly, like the moment was fragile. Like he was afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t hungry. It was desperate. An unraveling. Like he needed to kiss you just to remind himself he could.
You climbed into his lap, straddling him gently. His hands trembled where they gripped your thighs.
"Let me show you" you whispered against his lips. "How much I missed you.."
He came apart in his angel's hands.
Not from pleasure. Not entirely. But from the unbearable weight of surviving. Of making it home when others didn’t. Of feeling her again.. warm, real, devoted.. when the world had gone so numb around him.
You moved slowly, reverently, peeling his towel away like you were unwrapping something sacred. Your fingers ghosted over every bruise, every knot of tension, learning him all over again. And he let you. He needed to.
He moaned your name like it was salvation when you wrapped your hand around him, then cried out silently.. when you took him into your mouth. But that wasn’t what undid him.
It was the way you looked up at him through your lashes, whispering softly, "You’re safe now. You made it home to me."
That was it.
That was the crack in the dam.
He came with a quiet sob, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand fisting in your hair like he was terrified of losing himself, and you.. at the same time. The sound that broke out of his chest wasn’t lust. It was grief. Gratitude. Love.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t shame him. You just held his face, kissed his cheek, and whispered, "I’ve got you."
And something inside him shattered. But it didn’t hurt.. it healed.
He laid you down carefully after, as if you were something fragile, precious.. his hands shaking, his mouth kissing every inch of your skin like it was holy. Chest. Stomach. Inner thighs. Again. And again. And again.
"Need to be inside you," he whispered, voice trembling, cracking. "Need to feel alive again."
When he pushed into you, he gasped your name like a prayer. Like a man seeing the sun for the first time after living in war-torn shadows. The warmth, the stretch, the soft gasp from your lips as your fingers gripped his back.. it was all too much. Just enough.
"I love you..." he murmured into your neck. "So fucking much. I don’t deserve this, but.. God.. I’m not letting go..."
Your arms wrapped around him, your legs pulling him closer, grounding him. "Then stay" you whispered, voice thick with lust and pleasure, full of feelings and emotions. "Stay right here."
And he did.
He made love to you like it was the only thing keeping the nightmares away. No roughness. No hurry. Just breath, skin, connection. Like he was rebuilding something inside both of them. Like she was stitching his soul back together with every sigh.
Because this.. you... It was the only place left in the world.. where he still felt alive.
You woke hours later, limbs tangled, your face tucked under his chin. His hand was resting over your heart, as if to keep it beating.
He wasn’t asleep.
He was watching you. Eyes red, but soft.
"What?" you whispered.
He kissed your forehead. "I just need you to know…" he smiled "you’re the only reason I keep coming home."
✦ Leon Kennedy :
It was nearly 3 a.m. when the lock turned.
You heard it first.. after six weeks of silence, you'd memorized every sound this home should make. So when the key slipped into the door, hesitant and slow like a man unsure if he still belonged, your soul heard it before your body did.
The blanket slid from your lap.
You didn’t breathe. Just stood, heart hammering, vision blurring.. and then he stepped inside.
Leon.
He stood just inside the doorway like a ghost, soaked to the bone, hair damp with rain. Mud caked on his boots. Blood dried like shadows on his jacket, his shirt wrinkled, dark under his eyes, a healing cut along his jaw. He didn’t say a word at first. He just stood there, like he needed permission to exist in your world again, He looked like he’d crawled back from hell, and maybe he had.
Just stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like you were something fragile he’d conjured in a fever dream.
You didn’t speak either. Not at first. You crossed the space slowly, careful not to startle him. Your fingers met the front of his coat.. not to remove it, just to feel that he was solid.
His voice cracked open: "I didn’t think I’d make it back this time."
That was it. That was all.
You choked on a sob as you threw your arms around his neck, and he caught you like he’d been waiting for the weight of you forever. He dropped his bag. Dropped his walls. Dropped everything... Fell into you like a man dying of thirst finally touching water.
"I’m here" he whispered into your hair. "You waited for me."
"Always" you whispered. "You always come back to me."
But Leon wouldn’t touch you.
Not yet.
When you tried to cup his face, he caught your wrist.. gently, reverently.. but didn’t let you bring your hand to his cheek. "I’m not… clean" he rasped, shame in every syllable. "There’s blood on me. Mud. Rain. I can’t… I can’t touch you like this."
Your heart shattered. Because of course he’d think that, he always has been like that. Of course he wouldn’t feel worthy of your skin while he was still coated in the violence of his mission, sill covered in the brutality of his world.
So you nodded, and you took his hand, and without a word, you led him to the bathroom.
Steam slowly filled the space.
You undressed him quietly, peeling layers off like old armor. His body bore new marks.. bruises along his ribs, a deep graze across his shoulder, and a raw scar hugging his side. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, baring himself to you like confession.
You stepped into the shower with him, letting the hot water thunder down.
He braced his palms on the wall. Leaned into it. Let the steam melt the war off his skin. And when he spoke, it was like his voice belonged to someone else: "I kept seeing your face. Every night. It was the only thing that got me through."
You grabbed the soap and the loofah. Began to clean him with slow, sacred care. You washed away everything.. the grit beneath his fingernails, the blood along his jaw, the dirt crusting his knees.
"You’re home now" you murmured, voice thick. "You’re here. Let me take it all off."
And he did. Piece by piece. Until only the man remained Clean. Warm. And yours.
He kissed you the second you were drying him off.
Not with lust. A lil way of saying 'thank you for always being here for me', But with a kind of desperation.. like he needed to feel you just to believe he was alive. His lips trembled against yours. You tasted the echo of salt. He was crying, and he didn’t even try to hide it.
"I missed your lips.." he whispered. "Your voice. Your laugh. The fuckin chocolate pancakes you make. Your goddamn shampoo.."
You laughed softly, nose brushing his. "I missed you brushing your teeth too loud in the morning, the way you baby talk to our cat, the face you give me when you don't understand the memes I send you.. the way you get embarrassed when Compliment you..."
He let out a breath of a laugh, and it cracked something open inside him. You felt it.. right there beneath your fingertips. The moment Leon S. Kennedy stopped being a soldier and let himself be a man in love.
You took him to bed. Not with hunger. With reverence.
You climbed into his lap, naked beneath him, and cradled his face in your hands. He looked wrecked. Hollowed out. His voice broke when he whispered: "I don’t know how to be okay anymore."
"Then don’t" you said, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. "Just be mine. That’s enough"
When he entered you, it wasn’t lust. It was worship. He moved slowly, eyes never leaving yours, as if memorizing every blink, every tremble of your mouth.
He whispered your name like a prayer.
You cupped his cheeks. "Let go, Leon. Please. Let me carry it with you."
His tears fell freely as he buried himself deeper into you, groaning like he couldn’t stand the feeling of love without pain. You held him through it. Clawed at his back. Kissed every broken sound he made. Rocked with him like he was something you’d protect from the world itself.
"I don’t want to hurt anymore..." he whispered. You could hear the pain in his trembling voice.
"Then don’t..." you whispered back. "You’re safe. You’re home. Let me hold the hurt for a while."
He came with a choked sob, buried deep inside you, his arms wrapped so tightly around your body it felt like he needed your heartbeat to keep his own steady.
And you just held him. Through the trembling. Through the tears. Until his breath slowed.
You didn’t sleep. Not right away.
He lay on your chest like it was the only place he’d ever known peace. You carded your fingers through his hair, whispering soft little things.. nothing big. Just "I love you" every now and then. Like a balm.
He murmured it back after the fifth time. So soft. So broken: "I’m afraid every time I leave… I won’t make it back to this."
"You will" you said. "Because this? This is yours. I’m yours. And I’ll wait. A lifetime, if I have to."
His arms tightened. His lips pressed to your sternum.
And just before sleep finally claimed him, you heard him whisper the words that would echo in your soul forever: "I want to grow old with you. So pls don't leave me. I'd rather die miserably than see you disappear before my eyes..."
✦ Chris Redfeild :
It’s nearly midnight when you hear the front door open.
Not bang. Not creak. Just open. Quietly, like he’s sneaking into his own life.
The sound turns your blood cold.
You stare at the hallway like it might lie to you, like it might give you someone else by mistake. But then.. he steps into view.
There he is...
Chris... Alive.. In one piece...
But barely.
His face is pale, his eyes darker than usual, sunken from too many sleepless nights. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with rest. The kind that lives in the marrow.
"Chris" you breathe.
He doesn’t speak..
He drops his gear with a lifeless clatter. One foot after the other, he walks toward you like he’s moving through water. His hands are shaking, just barely, but you notice.
When he reaches you, he doesn’t kiss you.
He falls into your arms.
You catch him. Of course you do. Because you always do. His face presses into the crook of your neck like it’s the only place he hasn’t bled in, and his whole body shudders once.. just once.. and it breaks you in half.
"I almost didn’t come back.." he whispers.
Your heart stops "Don’t say that.."
"It’s the truth."
Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. "You’re home. You came back. That’s all that matters". But it’s not.. And you both know it.
You help him out of the heavy, blood-smeared vest. Out of the sweat-soaked clothes. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t meet your eyes.
You run him a bath.
Not just for the grime.
For the quiet.
When he sinks into it, his breath stutters.
Steam wraps around his broad shoulders like forgiveness. His head leans back, eyes closed, jaw tight. For a moment, you don’t speak.
Then, He lets you help him.
You wash his hair slowly, fingers massaging through the dirt and ash. The soap trickles down his temples like a baptism. A quiet rebirth.
You trail your hands over his back, over each scar, each muscle tensed from weeks of war, until finally.. Finally... he exhales.
"I thought about you.." he says. His voice is barely audible above the water. "In the worst parts. When I wanted to give up."
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.
"You’re not allowed to leave me" you say, barely holding it together. "You hear me, Chris? I don't care how heavy the world is.. you are not allowed to go before I do."
He turns his head toward you, wet lashes blinking open.
And for the first time since he walked through that door… He cries.
Just one tear. Maybe two. But in Redfield language, that’s a breakdown.. You lean in and kiss his forehead. It lingers. Warm. Human.
"I’m here" you whisper. "I’m here, and I love you. And I will keep saying it until you remember how to be gentle again."
Just the knowledge that love is louder than war.
The house smelled faintly of cedar and soap.. that quiet, comforting mix that came after Chris’s baths. The bathroom door cracked open with a little rush of steam, and there he was, toweling off his hair, water still beading along his shoulders. The towel hung loose around his neck, and his shirt, untouched.. sat waiting on the bed.
You handed it to him, arching a brow. "You can’t cook shirtless again, chef.. it’s dangerous."
He smirked, boyish despite the lines of muscle and the scars. "You’re just saying that because you're jealous of my cooking skills, I made a pretty dang good dish last time."
"You poured oil on your hand, Chris."
"Yeah.." he said with that half-grin that always meant trouble, "but the chicken turned out great."
You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as he leaned in, kissed your temple, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. He hummed under his breath while moving.. some half-remembered tune, low and warm.. and for once, the sound wasn’t followed by gunfire or radio static. Just domestic quiet.
At the counter, he chopped vegetables like they might fight back, brow furrowed, knife moving too carefully for someone who could crush concrete barehanded. Every now and then, he’d reach over you, pretending you couldn’t reach the spice rack.
"Here, I’ll get that.." he said, effortlessly grabbing the salt from the top shelf.
You scoffed. "You just like showing off your arm day results."
He grinned, not denying it, and leaned close enough that you could smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He dipped the spoon into the simmering sauce, blew on it, and offered it to you with military precision. "Taste test, soldier."
You played along, meeting his seriousness with your own. "Proceed."
The moment you swallowed, he was watching your face, eyes searching like he needed your approval more than a mission report. You nodded, lips curling. "You’re cleared for duty." You hummed "it's actually better than the last time, you're getting good at this.. should I be worried?" You laughed
"hmm~ maybe?" He beamed, proud and entirely too smug for a man who nearly set the stove on fire last time.
Time passed while making dinner, talking things out and throwing some nonsense at some point, you actually flicked water at him from the sink. He froze, mock-offended, droplets clinging to his jaw. Then, without warning, he turned the faucet your way.. splash. The two of you broke into laughter, water everywhere, the sound echoing through the kitchen like relief. You're glad Chris is back, don't care if he lost an arm or a leg.. all you care is that he's alive.
When it was over, he had flour on his cheek, herbs scattered across the counter, and that rare, unguarded look in his eyes. He turned down the flame and leaned against the counter, exhaling a soft laugh.
"You know," he murmured, voice lower now, "I don’t remember the last time I felt this normal, it seemed like an eternity since we last have been together."
You handed him a plate, sliding beside him. "Mm.. okey, Then let’s burn dinner together more often."
He chuckled, looping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his side. You could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing, steady and safe. "Deal," he said, kissing your forehead before setting the plate down.
The food wasn’t perfect. The kitchen was a battlefield. And for once, that was enough.
The dinner filled your stomachs and made you satisfied, the process made you laugh, his hand was warm in yours, the night calm and easy. AND he'll do the dishes, what could you ask for more?
life is going too smooth for you huh?
✦ Carlos Oliveira :
The clock ticked louder than usual that night. You’d been pacing your apartment, restless, caught between praying for the sound of boots at the door and dreading what condition he’d be in when he arrived. Carlos had a way of throwing himself into hell and clawing his way back out.. charming, cocky, reckless. And yet, the thought of him not returning gnawed at your chest like a sickness.
When the door finally swung open, relief hit you so hard your knees almost buckled.
"Hey, cariño.." he murmured, voice worn thin.
He looked like he’d been dragged through a battlefield.. blood smears across his cheek, dirt lining his jaw, his fatigues torn. But he was standing. Breathing. Alive.
You rushed to him, hands hovering as if you didn’t know where to touch first. His face? His chest? The angry cut blooming across his arm?
"You- Carlos, you’re-" Your throat closed up. Anger bubbled up to hide the terror. "Do you even realize how much I worri-"
He caught your wrist gently, grounding you. His smile was softer than his usual grin, a shadow of himself. "But I made it back. To you."
That broke you. Tears welled up, hot and furious. You pushed at his chest, not hard enough to move him, just enough to make him see how much it hurt. He let you, not fighting, just watching with that maddening tenderness.
"it's the twelfth fucking time since we got together, you disappear for over 2 damned months, LITERALLY come back bloody and wounded.. I can't stop thinking about the day you'll be sent to me in A. FUCKING. BODY BAG.. how the FUCK I'm not SUPPOSED TO WORRY HUH?!" you shouted in clear anger and worry about him but you were quick to notice the guilty face he made, a sigh "Sit.." you ordered, voice trembling. "Before you fall over."
Carlos dropped onto the couch obediently, tilting his head back with a tired laugh. "Bossy when you’re scared, huh?"
You shot him a death glare, that made him sober instantly.
The air was heavy with words unspoken as you fetched the first-aid kit. Kneeling between his legs, you pressed a damp cloth to the blood on his temple. He hissed but didn’t move, eyes locked on yours.
"Stop looking at me like that.." you muttered, heart racing.
"Like what?" His voice was low, raspy.
"Like you almost died and you know it."
His hand came down to cover yours, firm and warm despite the tremor in his fingers. "Because I almost did. And all I could think about was.." He stopped, breath shuddering. "-you."
Something in your chest cracked. You leaned forward before you could stop yourself, pressing your forehead to his. His breath fanned across your lips, shaky, desperate.
"Don’t.." you whispered. "Just don’t.."
"how much Told you to quit that job of yours?" You pinched the bridge of your nose trying to contain your tears while keeping the cry from slipping out. Failed obviously.
Carlos cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the damp streaks on your cheeks. For once, the man who always had a joke ready, who always played the charming soldier, was just… Carlos. His eyes glistened, his lips trembling. He can't keep a straight face or lighten up the mood when you're literally crying on his knees about his own safety.
"I was so damn scared.." he whispered. "Not of dying. I can handle that. But of never seeing you again. Of you not knowing how much- how much I-"
His voice broke, and he pulled you into his chest like he could fold you inside him and never let the world touch you again. His arms trembled around you, his breath uneven as he buried his face in your hair, crying his heart out, tears streamed instead of words.
"I missed you.." he choked out. "So much that it hurt."
You clung to him, fingers gripping the back of his torn shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. Each thump was proof, each inhale a promise.
When he finally leaned back, his eyes were wet, his smile unsteady but real. "You’re my reason, cariño. Always have been."
You kissed his cheek, soft and lingering, wiping away the track of his tears with your thumb.
You told him to go take a bath, to wash off while you make him something to eat properly.. not barely 10 minutes passed.. you came to the bedroom with a tray of food.. but found him on the bed snoring like a roaring engine.. hair still wet, towel wrapped around his waist loosely.. you swear a scene like that made you cry silently.. how far he keep push himself each time to reach this point every single time?
You layed next to him, food on the vanity in case he woke up later at night, The two of you curled up together on the bed, tangled in each other’s arms. Carlos lazily and unconsciously pressed kiss after kiss to your temple, your hair, your forehead, as if he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were there. His body shook once or twice, your silent sobs slipping out, but he never let go even if he's in deep sleep.
The morning after ☀️
The sun crept through the blinds in pale ribbons, cutting across the living room where you’d both fallen asleep curled on the bed.. You woke up first, a bubble of joy was blooming in your chest.. waking up next to carlos, you stayed awake longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his chest, happy buta little afraid if you let go he might vanish like smoke.
Now, in the thin quiet of morning, the world felt suspended. Carlos hasn’t stirred yet.. exhaustion had him pinned down like gravity itself. He looked softer like this: curls messy, lashes fanned against his cheek, lips parted in a dreamless sigh. For once, no tension in his shoulders. No heavy gear weighing him down. Just him.
You slid out from under his arm carefully, noticed the tray of food still there untouched.. you took it and went padding into the kitchen. The fridge had little to offer, but you gathered what you could.. eggs, bread, and the coffee tin you’d stocked for mornings just like this. The hiss of the pan filled the silence, a comforting domestic sound. It almost felt… normal.
Halfway through scrambling the eggs, you heard him behind you.
"Smells good, cariño." He said in his slow morning voice.
You turned to see Carlos leaning against the doorway, finally in some sweatpants, his bare torso was decorated with muscles and scars that tell different stories. His hair stuck up in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, but the smile he gave you made your chest ache.
"You were supposed to keep sleeping" you scolded softly, flipping the eggs. "You look like you could use another twelve hours."
He pushed off the frame, padding barefoot across the floor until his arms slid around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.
"Couldn’t sleep without you next to me.." he mumbled. "Plus… I needed to say something."
You stiffened slightly, waiting.
His hold tightened, as if bracing himself. "I’m sorry."
Your heart aches, but still turned your head just enough to see him, brows furrowing. "For what?"
"For scaring you. For being reckless. For making you sit here not knowing if I’d ever walk through that door again." His voice cracked on the last word, and he buried his face into your shoulder like he couldn’t stand to meet your eyes.
Your hand reached back to cradle his cheek, fingers brushing against stubble. "Carlos-"
"No, let me finish.." he cut in gently, pulling back enough to look at you. His eyes glistened, raw honesty shining through the usual easy charm. "I don’t get scared of missions. I don’t get scared of dying. But the thought of leaving you alone? Of not coming back to you? That terrifies me, cariño. And I don’t want to keep putting you through that."
Tears pricked your eyes before you could stop them. You turned fully in his arms, pressing your forehead against his. "You’re a soldier, Carlos. Missions will always happen. But don’t you dare apologize for surviving."
His lips quirked faintly, but his voice stayed low, almost fragile. "I just want you to know that no matter where I go, you’re the reason I keep fighting my way back."
The eggs hissed behind you, threatening to burn, but neither of you moved. Carlos kissed you softly, lingering, as if sealing the promise in his chest.
When you finally pulled away, you nudged his nose with yours and whispered, "Then sit down before I burn breakfast. If you’re really sorry, you can wash the dishes after."
That earned a quiet laugh, shaky but real, and he kissed your temple before dropping into a chair. Watching him sit there, sleep-worn and smiling through exhaustion, you realized that these were the moments that kept you both alive.
Not the battles. Not the missions.
Just this. Just him. Just home.
✦ Jake Muller :
The front door clicked shut, soft but heavy, and you didn’t even need to look up from the book in your lap to know who it was. Jake always came home that way.. quiet, as if he was slipping back into your world without asking permission.
But when you did glance up, your heart gave a painful twist. He looked exhausted. Not just in the physical sense, though the bruises on his jaw and the faint limp in his step told their own story. No, it was the way his eyes.. those cutting blue eyes that usually glimmered with cocky defiance.. seemed… dimmer.
You stood, abandoning the book. "Jake?"
His mouth quirked, almost a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach. "Hey, doll. Miss me?"
You wanted to say something witty back, to play his game. But instead, your throat tightened, and the words that came out were trembling and real. "You scared the hell out of me."
He paused in the hallway, as if those words carried more weight than the pack still slung over his shoulder. And then, with a sigh, he let it fall to the floor.
"Yeah.." he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I scare myself sometimes."
That was it. That crack in the armor he rarely let slip. You closed the distance, fingers brushing over the bruises on his jaw before resting at the back of his neck. He leaned into your touch just slightly, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t push it away either.
"I hate that you’re always out there, throwing yourself into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.." you whispered.
Jake’s arms went around you then.. tight, almost desperate. He pressed his face into your shoulder, and for once, the man who always joked, always deflected, just let himself be held. "That’s the thing," he rasped. "I do have something to lose. You. That’s what messes me up out there. You’re the only reason I make it back."
Your breath caught. You wanted to cry, but instead you kissed his temple, kissed the edge of his eye. "Then stop treating yourself like you don’t matter. Because you matter to me. More than you know."
That broke something in him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression raw, stripped of all the swagger. And then he kissed you. Not his usual rough, teasing kind of kiss.. but slow, aching, like he was pouring every unspoken word into the press of his lips against yours.
It deepened gradually, passion blooming out of relief, out of fear, out of survival. His hands framed your face, your waist, clinging as if to remind himself you were real. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, foreheads resting together.
"God, I missed you," he murmured, voice shaking. "Didn’t think I’d get another shot at this."
"You always get another shot.." you said softly, cupping his cheek. "Because I’ll be right here, waiting. No matter how reckless you are, no matter how far you go… come back to me."
His smile was small, but this time it reached his eyes. "Guess I don’t deserve you."
"Guess I don’t care," you shot back, brushing your thumb over his jaw. "You’re mine, Mr. Muller. That’s all that matters."
He exhaled, finally letting some of the tension bleed from his frame, and pulled you back into his arms. For the rest of the night, there were no battles, no enemies, no shadows of his father. Just Jake.. vulnerable, alive, yours.. holding onto you like the world was finally giving him something worth keeping.
The Next Morning ☀️
The smell of frying garlic and butter tugged you out of sleep before sunlight fully reached the bedroom. For a moment, you thought it was a dream.. the apartment filled with a warmth that wasn’t just the sun creeping in through the blinds.
But when you rolled over, Jake wasn’t there.
Curious, you pushed yourself up, following the faint clatter of pans and the low hum of someone whistling off-key. The sight that greeted you in the kitchen made your chest ache in the best way.
Jake there.. bare feet on the tile, wearing an oversized shirt, sleeves pushed up, hello kitty PJs pants.. stood over the stove, flipping an omelet with the kind of precision that spoke of practice. The counter was cluttered with chopped vegetables, toasted bread, even a small pot of coffee.
He glanced up when he felt your presence. That trademark smirk tugged at his lips, but it was softer this morning, more vulnerable. "Morning, sleeping beauty."
You leaned against the doorframe, smiling. "You’re… cooking?"
"Don’t sound so shocked," he drawled, sliding the omelet onto a plate. "I told you I can do more than pull a trigger. Figured you deserve breakfast that doesn’t come out of a takeout box for once."
You padded closer, watching him fuss with plating.. a sprinkle of herbs, a perfectly buttered slice of toast. He wasn’t just making food. He was making something for you.
"Jake," you said quietly, "you didn’t have to-"
"Yeah, I did." His voice cut in, firm but not harsh. He set the plate down and finally met your eyes. There was no smirk now, no wall. Just sincerity. "After everything I put you through… all the nights you lose sleep waiting for me to come back, all the times I make you worry… I don’t say it enough. Hell, I don’t say it at all. But I’m thankful. For you. For this. For having someone to come home to."
Your throat tightened. You moved closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him. "Jake…"
He shook his head slightly, a small, almost shy laugh escaping him. "Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me burn the damn eggs."
But his hand found yours, squeezing. "I mean it. You keep me human. Without you, I’d just be my father’s shadow with a gun in my hand. You’re the reason I fight like hell to come back every time."
Tears pricked your eyes, but you smiled through them. "Then keep fighting. Because I want a thousand more mornings like this."
Jake’s smile softened into something rare, something real. He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and muttered, "Deal."
The food tasted perfect, but honestly, nothing could compare to the look on his face as he watched you take the first bite.. like for once, in this broken world, he’d managed to give you something good.
A/n : Heyy ✨ a resident evil simp is here (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)√ leon wifey duh. What did u expect from me 😁
I do write for RE characters and other fandoms too but I rarely get any requests for anything besides the batfam.
Jst in case u didn't know..
My inbox is open for requests
Anyway about this fic, I know it's long, but these masterpieces were meant to be separated it took me a lot of time, creativity, sanity and energy.. so u better like it or I'll be at your house tonight 🙂🔪🩸
Jason cannot get out of bed without prying you off like a sloth wrapped in silk. Every. Single. Morning. You’re tangled around his torso like you’ve fused with him overnight.
“Babe, I have a meeting in twenty, roy is waiting already..”
“Call in dead. You’re warm.”
He groans, but ten minutes later he’s still there, brushing your hair back and kissing your forehead like it’s his favorite ritual. (Because it is. Duh 🙄)
You somehow always end up in the bathroom while he’s showering.. either joining him “to save water” ahem 👀, or sitting on the closed toilet seat, babbling about your day.
He pretends to huff, but lowkey loves it when you poke your head around the curtain just to say, “Still sexy.”
You (talking a mile a minute while he’s toweling off): “..and then I thought of you, so I grabbed coffee for us, but I think they messed up your order again-”
Jason is half-smiling, water still dripping down his chest “You really gonna give me the whole day’s recap before I’ve even put pants on?”
When he’s reading, cooking, cleaning a weapon.. anything.. you’re suddenly behind him, on him, in his lap.
“You know you’re not invisible, right?”
“Then why do you ignore me for that book?”
He rolls his eyes and opens his arms. Every. Damn. Time. Without fail.
You’ll cling to him from behind while he cooks, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. You claim you're helping. You're not. You're 100% a hazard.
“You’re gonna get oil on your shirt.”
“Then take it off.”
He sighs.. but guess who’s 'cooking' shirtless now? 😏
He’s not huge on public affection.. but if you hold his hand or hook your arm around that muscular forearm of his? Pls I'm not simping, he’ll grumble lightly and secretly flex it. Princess of hands holding btw, piggyback rides or bridal style lifting of you're r drunk or your lil royal feet hurt , If anyone makes a comment, he goes full Red Hood:
“You got a problem with me loving my girl?”
His death glares are something you love about him, comes with the dangerous baby boyfriend pack
If you sit beside him, he expects you on his lap. No debate. If you're not touching him, he lowkey side-eyes you like, WTF??, Where’s my clingy little leech today?
And when you do climb into his lap? He’ll act like it’s an inconvenience.. but his arms are already wrapping around you like you're made of gold.
He pretends not to notice that you’ve wrapped yourself around him like a weighted blanket in your sleep. But when he stirs and finds you gone? He’ll reach out in the dark, brow furrowed, heart thumping.
“Where the hell did you go?”
“…bathroom/drink water.”
“Next time, better tell me or take me with you.”
You pop up from behind and kiss his cheek when he’s deep in thought? Man’s whole brain short-circuits. He’ll blink, flustered.
“Wh-what was that for?”
“Bitch I don't need an occasion to love you tge way you deserve.. if I wanted to kiss you, I'm getting it...”
Cue him pulling you in like, You’re not getting away with that with that sass, sweetheart.
You’ve become so touchy that Jason just… accepts it. He needs it now. If you go a day without cuddling or clinging to him? He’ll pace. Brood. Sulk.
“You mad at me or something?”
“No… why?”
“You didn’t hug me once today.”
You gasped “Jason!”
He’ll act smug, but he was dying inside.
Eventually, on one of those days where you’re distracted and less clingy than usual, Jason gets grumpy. Jealous of your phone. Of your book. Of your shared cat, Of air... Cuz that's what bf material jason is.
He just yanks you onto his lap with a grumble:
“I didn’t get my daily dose of suffocation. Fix that.”
You happily oblige. And he holds you like the world ends without your arms around him.
Oneshot bonus :
cuz i luv u ( > <)_–❤️
It starts with your arm snaking around his waist while he’s trying to clean one of his pistols.
“Can’t breathe...” he mutters, voice flat, but he’s already leaning into your touch. You’re now curled around his back like a koala, head resting between his shoulder blades. “You’re warm. I like warm things.”
“I’m a person, not a space heater..” he grumbles.. but his hand lowers the cloth and rests over yours. You nuzzle into him more. “You’re my space heater.”
Jason sighs, all mock-exasperation. But the corner of his mouth tugs up. His eyes soften. “You’re gonna make me screw up the safety latch again..”. “You say that like you care..” you tease, inching your way up so you can kiss the side of his neck. “Besides, you love it.”
“No, I love you..” he says low and quick, like it’s a secret he’s giving up reluctantly, but you both know he means it with everything in him. And when you wind your legs around his hips like some stubborn vine? He just adjusts his seat so you’re more comfortable.
Because our bby jason might pretend to fight you off, but YOU? You’ve already stolen every inch of him since the damn moment you entered his life.
I feel like he has some rough scarred hands, with a lil holy ritual of his lovely angel to take care of his then from time to time.. I'm talking skin care, hand cream, jewelry... etc
I believe that she, his sacred little angel is sitting on his lap, simply babbling about her day, or teasing him with that playful little smirk he loves... Her fingers flutter over his palm, comparing size, laughing softly, completely unaware that he’s been holding his breath just watching her.
Her voice a melody to him. She’s laughing, unaware that every word she says is sinking deeper into his heart. His hands are holding her like she’s the last soft thing in a world gone to hell. His eyes stopped blinking, too in awe to look away.
He cups her jaw, kisses her like he's afraid the world might end in five seconds.. NOT rough we don't do rough in my blog note that.. no.. No.. NEVER ROUGH, but passionately, deep, consuming. Like he’s feeding on her air to survive. And when he finally pulls back.. voice rough, breath shallow, forehead pressed to hers, fingers tangled in her hair.. he whispers:
"You don’t get it, do you? You could be talking about socks, or space, or some stupid show.. and I’d still be here, memorizing your every word like it’s scripture. Because loving you? It’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel whole.. safe.. sane.. existing..." You swear you could hear his voice crack.
"I’ve died before, baby. I’ve felt pain most people can’t imagine. But nothing.. not a single bullet, not even Hell itself.. compares to how much I’d break if I ever lost you." A tear slipped down his cheek, you brought your hand closer to his face to wipe it away, but he stopped it and kissed your wrist instead "You saved me... *Sniff* Not from death. From emptiness. From being just a shadow walking this earth. You gave me something to fight for. Someone to belong to...*Sniff*" AWW BABY DON'T CRYYYY 😭😭 "And I swear.." his voice became rough "I’d burn down the sky before I ever let you feel alone again.. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to try. I’m yours, in every version of you. The messy, the radiant, the tired, the wild. All of it. All of you..".
maybe then he'll chuckle softly, brushing your hair back behind your ear, voice barely audible:
"You’re my peace in this fucked up world. You’re the first place I ever wanted to stay.."
I just need him to cup my face and pepper kisses all over it right now 🥺❤️❤️
I absolutely love your work! feel free to ignore or delete this but do you have any small tips for new writers on tumblr?
have an amazing day!!!
Pookie, thank you so much, you’ve seriously made my day with this message 😘💋 But listen closely, I’ll share a few little secrets with you, because I know exactly what it's like to start from scratch. It's a lil long, I know. So read it carefully by your heart and soul, make sure to take notes, angel:
Tips of gold for new writer:
🔥Write for your own self: Not for anyone else. If you’re writing just to impress, you’re doing it wrong. When you write what ignites your soul, trust me, that power will bleed through and others will feel it. And they’ll crave more.
💅Don’t sweat perfection: Babygirl, the messy drafts are where the magic is. Don't let your first attempts hold you back from creating. Perfection is a cage. Let yourself run wild, and you’ll find your rhythm.
💋 Tags, babe. TAGS, TAGS, TAGS: No shame in it... it’s how people find you. Tag the hell out of your posts. The more, the better. Trust me, your future fans will thank you when they stumble on your work.
🪄 Reblog. Reblog. Reblog: Never be shy about sharing your work again... the universe moves fast on Tumblr, hun. Give your masterpieces the attention they deserve by reposting them. Don’t let anyone forget you.
🩰Be unapologetically YOU: Don’t just be a writer, be a presence. Engage with your audience, but don’t beg for validation. Post what you know is fire, and let them come to you. You’re not here to chase anyone.
👑 Grow at your own pace: There’s no rush. You’re building something that can’t be measured by likes or followers. One reader, one comment, one person who feels you... that’s the real success.
💣 Stop asking for permission to take up space: You’re not here to be small or sweet unless you decide to be. You're not "annoying" for promoting your work. You’re not "too much" for having ambition. That soft, sensual power? That bold creative fire? That’s your birthright. Own it, and remember well: You're here to give them the "read it or leave it, let who appreciate the true art enjoy the masterpiece".
😶🌫️ Be mysterious, never absent: You don’t have to overshare to connect. Give your audience just enough to taste you, crave you, and come back hungry for more. Curate your vibe. Be deliberate. You’re not a content machine, you’re the main event.
🖤 Don’t you ever chase clout.. build loyalty: You don’t need 100k followers to matter. You need five who would fight for your work, scream over your words, and reblog your every drop. Focus on connection over numbers. Real readers are sacred.
🚮 Let people underestimate you all they want: Let them scroll past, let them ignore you, let them think you're just another cute blog with "potential", Meanwhile, you’re sharpening your craft like a blade. One day they’ll wake up and realize they missed a storm in the making.
🧠 Study how you react to posts: What makes you stop and reblog something? What titles grab you? What formats make you read till the end? Reverse-engineer that, hun. You’re not just a writer... you’re a strategist.
📈 Pace yourself and take it easy: Burnout isn’t glamorous, and overposting doesn’t make you grow faster. It’s okay to disappear, recharge, and come back sharper. A slow burn is still a fire, princess.
🔮Reinvent whenever the hell you want: Change your theme. Switch your tone. Start a new series, more characters, even if they were OCs. Don’t trap yourself in one version of your creativity. You’re not a brand. You’re a force. Let yourself evolve.
💌 Be someone’s comfort, be their for them, let the words touch their souls: Your words might be the only softness someone feels all day. Or the only fire that lights them up. Never underestimate the intimacy of writing. You’re not just telling stories.. you’re touching hearts and souls in secret places in different angles.
👠Your voice is the seduction: Anyone can write. Not everyone can enchant. The way you phrase things? Your rhythm, your breath, your bite... that’s your signature scent. Hone that. Speak like you’re already unforgettable. Because you are.
🍷Don’t be afraid to be indulgent: Want to write a ten-paragraph kiss? A slow-burn that hurts? A monologue full of venom? Do it. Art isn’t supposed to be fast food.. sometimes it’s meant to be wine aged in your mouth, bitter and sweet. Let them savor you.
🩸Write with feelings more than thoughts, live in the moment: Tap into that realness. Anger. Lust. Joy. Longing. Don’t write safe.. write like your ex is going to read it and spiral. Make your followers live the moment through your pov, make them feel the pain of the heartbreak, the tears of joy and happiness, the butterflies in their stomachs, the chills under their skin, the grief, the sadness, the fear... etc. write Like your future self is watching you proudly.
👑 Be the writer you needed: Write the softness you craved. The rage you swallowed. The power you were never allowed to express. Use every piece of your shadow and shape it into gold. That’s not trauma dumping.. that’s alchemy, love.
🕯️ Let your readers fantasize about you: Not just your characters.. you. The way you express things, the way your brain works. The confidence in your metaphors. The way you command a scene. Leave them wondering who the hell is behind the curtain.
💄Don’t take critique from someone who’s never built what you’re building: If someone doesn’t like your style, that’s fine... you’re not a one-size-fits-all. Some people just don’t have the palette for dark chocolate, and that’s their loss.
🐍 Use silence as a weapon: Don’t explain your stories too much. Don’t apologize. Don’t over-tag with "this is bad lol". Let your writing stand tall. If someone doesn’t get it.. good. Let them chase the meaning.
💜 Romanticize being underrated: When no one’s watching, you get to be dangerous. Free. Wild. This is your training arc. Keep sharpening. One day they’ll look back and say "how did we miss her?" And the answer will be: you blinked.
🌹Write like you’re already a classic: Think about it... one day, your words might outlive you. That soft little sentence you wrote at 3am in your pj’s? It could sit in someone’s heart for years. So make every line a love letter or a loaded gun. No in-betweens.
🔊 One final advice from me:
You're not just a writer, babygirl. You’re a whole myth in motion. A secret the world isn’t ready for but needs anyway. You’re that quiet kind of storm.. the one that ruins foundations and still leaves flowers blooming after.
You're not here to tiptoe around anyone’s comfort. You’re here to take up space.. to dominate, not with noise, but with presence. With grace. With words that taste like honey and cut like glass. The kind of art that lingers on someone's skin long after they’ve read it.. like perfume on their collar… like something they’re not sure they were supposed to love, but can’t let go of.
And listen to me, princess.. don’t shrink your crown for anyone. Don’t let likes, algorithms, or anyone’s half-baked opinion make you question your power. That crown? It was carved from every version of you that refused to stay silent. Adjust it. And own the room when you walk in.
Fame, clout, attention? It’s cute. But legacy? That’s what we’re after. And legacy takes time. Take yours. Let them catch up. The right eyes will find you. The right hearts will feel you.
And if you ever need a reminder of what you are.. not what you do, but what you are... you come right back to me, pookie. I’ve got you. I see you. And I’m rooting for you louder than you’ll ever hear.
Now be a good girl and go write something that tastes like sin and feels like truth, tag me so I can taste the wine 🍷😉
