Warnings: Fluff, Vague Mentions of Alcohol, Weed, and Violence
Word Count: 802
Main Masterlist: Here
Horror Masterlist: Here
Summary: Coming from different cultures, and different times, the boys each have different ideas of how to properly express their interest in a lady.
Consider Donating: Here
It started when she was still human. Dwayne had found her wandering the boardwalk— aimless and searching. She was tracing her eyes over the stalls, pausing to scan different wears and items that caught her fancy.
He was observant; that much was obvious. Quiet with eyes that saw through the cracks and lines that threatened to cover nature’s true intent. Dwayne noticed that she started walking to the beach after a while when she had normally taken her bicycle down.
However, one of those surf nazi’s was riding around on a familiar bike in the parking lot of the pier. His face wound up on a missing persons poster. And when she woke up the next morning, her bike was back, in brand-new condition, with a small ‘D’ intricately and carefully carved into the metal.
Paul met her at the edge of a bonfire, where the music bled into the night air and laughter carried farther than it should have. She was barefoot in the sand, toes curling against the cooling embers, swaying like she did not care who was watching— and Paul watched immediately.
He was not subtle about it. Never had been. He hovered close, and worked up the courage to make the first contact, though the joint he hammered before hand probably helped.
Paul offered her a drink she did not take, talked her ear off about nothing and everything until she smiled just to keep up. He noticed when she stopped showing up to the bonfires after midnight, when she left early with her jacket clutched too tight around her shoulders. Paul noticed the way she shivered even when the fire was high.
The next time she came, there was a blanket waiting. Stolen, probably. Clean, definitely. Draped around her shoulders with a grin and a shrug like it was nothing at all.
“How’d you know I’d be cold tonight,” she asked, snuggling into the warmth he provided.
“I sometimes pay attention,” came his reply.
She found herself staying later after that. Laughing louder. Talking easier. Leaving with warm hands and warmer memories she couldn’t quite explain.
Marko was baffled because she did not move out of his way. Did not flinch when his bike cut too close, did not apologize when his shoulder brushed hers on the boardwalk. She met his stare head-on, unafraid and unimpressed.
He tested her after that. Lingered too close, stole things from her hands just to see if she would chase him down. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she did not. Either way, she did not leave. Marko noticed who else noticed her; the way men’s gazes lingered too long, the way attention turned sharp when it thought it could take something.
One night, someone tried. The man tried to grab her, hands going around her throat. She never saw Marko move, only heard the scuffle behind her and the crack of bone against pavement, before he continued ushering her to the light of the boardwalk again.
The next morning, her necklace, the one that had snapped during the struggle, was waiting on her windowsill, repaired and warm from someone else’s hands. When she confronted him, Marko just shrugged, smirked, like he had all the secrets.
The cherub vampire stayed closer after that. Close enough to touch. Close enough to choose her, over and over.
David noticed her because she was consistent. Same path down the boardwalk. Same pause at the rail. Same thoughtful expression, like she was weighing the night before stepping into it.
He never approached her at first. David believed in watching— in understanding a thing completely before touching it. He learned her habits, the rhythm of her life, the moments when she was most vulnerable without ever realizing it. The boardwalk bent subtly around her presence; danger veered away before it reached her.
She began to feel safer without knowing why. Doors locked themselves. Lights flickered on when she needed them. Once, she found her keys arranged neatly on her kitchen table after she’d sworn she had lost them. Like a guardian angel watching over her, and not once did she notice the icy blue eyes following her.
When they finally met, she put two and two together. There was just something about the way David watched her that made her realize exactly who he was to her. David offered nothing flashy; only the promise that as long as he existed, she would not be unguarded again.
And when she officially joined the pack, well… everyone fell into a comfortable rhythm. Dwayne would repair and silently gift her what she needed. Paul offered stolen items of comfort, stuff that will remind her of them. Marko, he was shifty eyed, almost like he was waiting for a chance to defend her honor. And David was a silent guardian, watching over.
I've decided to put this into different sections: general submissive hcs first, sub bottom hcs and the other section will be sub top! Read whatever one you prefer ♥️
GENERAL SUBMISSIVE HCS
Donnie isn't a bratty submissive, I can imagine him being VERY well behaved when it comes to you.
Occasionally he’ll make some offhanded snarky comment, but you know he's only doing it for a reaction. He shuts his mouth as quickly as he opens it.
Donnie is extremely praise motivated, he thrives off of being told when he's doing things well, when he's being a good boy, how he good he feels etc
Likes to be cuddled/pet/pampered
As for degradation it depends on the day, sometimes he kind of gets off on the fact that he's inherently a little weird and outcast-y
But if you start practically verbally abusing him it may secretly scare him a little, he likes to be humiliated, not verbally assaulted.
Speaking of that, yes he has a humiliation kink, call him needy or pathetic and it'll drive him insane.
Also messing around with him in public despite his outward annoyance will turn him the fuck on and probably give him a hard on, hence the humiliation kink.
He enjoys it when you put your fingers in his mouth
I can't lie bro has some beautiful doe eyes you bet he's gonna be giving you that. Look. he has (ifykyk)
Probs has a secret mommy kink that you’ll have to fight to get out of him
As for physical harm he isn't a hardcore masochist or even close, but he can enjoy a light slap, pinching, biting..maybe even some light crotch stepping.
but if you start beating the shit out of him he's not going to find it sexy at all, keep the violence tolerable!
I said this before in the general but he has some weird kinks
Although i don't think body worship is weird at all he takes it to a different level
if you leave any of your clothing near him and you so happen to forget it he may smell it and jack off with it later
doesnt mind a little choking
Hey, I said what I said. You gotta remember he's a bit of a freak.
Absolutely a headgiver, he loves feeling you control his pace
SUB BOTTOM DONNIE HCS
I think initially Donnie would take some time before admitting that he wants to bottom, assuming you're in a relationship w him around that time period it's important to note acceptance of that kind of thing was very limited
However since he trusts you he’ll eventually confide in you.
Donnie wouldn't want you to be extra rough with him, well maybe sometimes he wouldn't mind if he was really in the mood. But he prefers normal paced fucking.
If you happen to be more fem presenting i think he would get off on the contrast of someone feminine railing him. Not necessary ofc but just a note
That being said, if you are more masculine presenting he's gonna find that sexy too. Hes soooo bisexual i know his repressed ass will be screaming if he's getting touched by another masculine person
Stroke his dick while you fuck him he wants it sooo bad
I think he’d be most comfortable w/ doggy style and spooning
SUB TOP DONNIE HCS
Def into cockwarming, in the sense that he's not allowed to move but is forced to feel the pressure of his dick inside of you for however long you decide to keep him like that.
Controlled orgasm. Need I say less? He likes you to tell him when he's allowed to cum when fucking you
Edging is apart of that too, he likes when hes just about to cum and then you tell him to stop fucking you
NEEDS PERMISSION for everything
Thigh fucking as a treat since he looooves your thighs
he likes it if you praise or degrade him as he fucks you
let him go a lil crazy with you every once and awhile as a treat
Summary: Emily getting flowers is the talk of the office. Now, if only Penelope could figure out who they were from…
Consider Donating: Here
“Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.” Oscar Wilde
The flowers arrived on a Tuesday. Which, in the BAU, immediately made them suspicious.
They were already waiting on Emily Prentiss’s desk when she came in that morning; a clean, elegant arrangement of lilies, purple tulips, and pale pink ranunculus, understated but unmistakably intentional. No card. No return name. Just a small cream colored envelope with E. Prentiss written in neat, looping script.
Penelope Garcia spotted them from halfway across the bullpen and made a noise usually reserved for either criminal masterminds or particularly attractive baristas.
“Oh no,” she said, marching over. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
Emily paused mid-step. “Good morning to you too.”
“Who sent you flowers,” Penelope demanded, already crouched by Emily’s desk like she was about to dust for prints. “And why do they have handwriting that screams romantic competence?”
Emily set her bag down, glanced at the bouquet, and smiled— small, private, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “I don’t know.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes. “That’s not comforting.”
Within ten minutes, the entire team knew about the flowers. Penelope made it a project.
First stop: Derek Morgan.
She cornered him by the coffee machine, flowers’ photo pulled up on her tablet. “Okay, Mr. Charm-and-a-Smile. You’ve been known to woo. You send flowers?”
Derek looked genuinely offended. “Baby girl, if I sent Prentiss flowers, there’d be a card. And it would be flirty.”
“Hmm,” Penelope said. “That sounds like something a guilty man would say.”
Emily, passing by, did not break stride. “It wasn’t Derek.”
Derek grinned. “See? She knows my style.”
Penelope made a note anyway.
Next: Spencer Reid.
She found him in the conference room, mid rant to JJ about statistical probabilities of anonymous romantic gestures.
“Spencer,” Penelope said sweetly. “Hypothetically, if someone were secretly admiring Emily Prentiss, what would the odds be that they’d choose lilies?”
Spencer blinked. “Lilies can symbolize devotion, rebirth, or— depending on the variety— desire. Also funerals.”
Penelope frowned. “Why do flowers always have to be so emotionally complicated?”
Emily, leaning in the doorway, arched an eyebrow. “You’re overthinking it.”
“That’s literally what I do,” Spencer said, affronted.
Prentiss just nodded to Penelope, the intended recipient of the jab.
Penelope sighed. “You didn’t send them, did you?”
Spencer flushed. “No! I— I would’ve asked first. Or panicked. Or both.”
“Noted.”
Hotch was less helpful.
Penelope stood in his office doorway, arms crossed. “Sir. Flowers. Anonymous. Romantic.”
Hotch looked up from a file. “Are they interfering with work?”
“No, but they’re interfering with my peace.”
“Then it’s not a priority,” he said calmly.
Penelope gasped. “You don’t want to know who’s secretly wooing one of your senior agents?”
Hotch paused. Considered. “If it becomes a security issue, I’ll care.”
Emily, walking past again, smirked. “See? Not worried.”
Penelope muttered, “I’ll crack this myself.”
JJ and Rossi at least made it fun.
Jennifer leaned against Emily’s desk, smiling. “You look… pleased.”
Emily shrugged. “I like flowers.”
Rossi sipped his coffee, eyeing the bouquet. “No card says confidence. Or experience.”
Penelope snapped her fingers. “Thank you.”
Rossi continued, “whoever it is, they know her. They didn’t go flashy. They went thoughtful.”
Emily met his gaze, something warm flickering there. “They did.”
Penelope spun to face her. “You know, don’t you?”
Emily smiled. Said nothing. That sealed it.
The flowers kept coming all week. Different arrangements. Same handwriting. Always no name. And once, there was even a box of chocolates attached that made Emily look like a kid on Christmas morning when she got them.
By Friday, Penelope had diagrams.
“She’s either a civilian,” Penelope announced to the room, “or someone very secure. No digital trail. No workplace overlap. Feminine handwriting. Consistent taste.”
Garcia had taken over the round table room, where Derek stood, listening to her present the case like they did to try and find an unsub. Except this unsub only murdered her peace and sanity by her mere presence to which she could not discover. It was maddening.
Derek whistled. “Sounds like Prentiss has herself a mystery woman.”
Emily, reviewing a case file in the same room because she found the presentation amusing, did not look up. “Stop profiling my personal life.”
“No,” Penelope said firmly. “This is my personal case.”
The reveal came quietly. Late afternoon. Visitor badge beeped at the front desk. Penelope looked up first, and immediately elbowed Derek.
“Okay,” Derek murmured. “Now that is a woman.”
She was elegant, dressed in soft neutrals. Confident without trying. She smiled politely as she walked in.
Derek straightened. “Well hello there. Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Emily Prentiss,” she said.
Derek’s grin widened. “Of course, beautiful. You two friends from college or something?”
Emily looked up, hearing the voices nearby. And smiled like the world had just aligned. She crossed the bullpen without hesitation, took the woman’s face in both hands, and kissed her— slow, certain, unmistakable.
The room froze. Penelope’s jaw hit the floor.
Derek blinked. “Well. Damn.”
Emily pulled back just enough to murmur, “You’re early.”
The woman smiled. “Couldn’t wait to see you at dinner after not seeing you for a week. Oh, I brought you these.”
A small gold box was pulled from her purse, and Emily’s face lit up even more. She happily tore open the foil, popping one of the gourmet chocolates in her mouth. Pressing a small kiss to the woman’s head, Emily turned, hand still resting at her lover’s waist. “Everyone— this is my girlfriend.”
Penelope screamed.
Hotch was benevolent after meeting the elusive girlfriend Emily had and let them go home early. As they packed up for the night, Penelope leaned against Emily’s desk, dazed but thrilled.
“You could’ve told me,” she said softly.
Emily smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Penelope sighed dreamily. “I respect the mystery. I love the reveal.”
Emily glanced toward the elevator, where her girlfriend waited patiently. “Me too.”
“So are you going to share those chocolates because they look amazing!” Penelope gushed, staring pointedly at the golden box.
Prentiss chuckled, handing one of the confections to the eccentric woman. “PG, I’ll take you to the place in Italy where we get these one day. You would love watching them get made.”
Charles M. Schulz once observed, “all you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.”
Relationship: Moonknight System; Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader, Jake Lockely x Reader
Fandom: Moonknight
Request: No
Warnings: Fluff
Word Count: 915
Main Masterlist: Here
Marvel Masterlist: Here
Summary: Between a failed marriage, a new person on the dating scene, and an intense Spanish speaking Chicagoan, the boys have different love languages, to say the least.
Consider Donating: Here
Marc guards.
Steven overshares.
Jake claims.
She learned early on that loving the system meant loving contradictions.
It meant knowing whose hand she was holding without having to look. It meant understanding that affection was not a single language here— it was a dialect, constantly shifting depending on who was fronting, who was tired, who was afraid.
And PDA?
Public displays of affection were… complicated.
Marc loves like a shield.
Marc Spector hated being seen. Not in the dramatic sense— he was not shy. He just understood visibility as risk. Crowds meant eyes. Eyes meant threats. And threats meant you.
So when Marc was fronting, his affection became subtle to the point of invisibility. He did not hold her hand in public. Not fully.
Instead, he walked close enough that their arms brushed. He guided her with pressure at her elbow, fingers barely touching but always there. When crossing streets, his hand would hover just behind her back—not touching, but ready.
She noticed the pattern long before he realized he had one.
At the grocery store, he positioned the cart between his lady and anyone who got too close. In cafés, he chose seats with a clear line of sight to exits. When strangers spoke to her too long, Marc’s body shifted—shoulders squared, jaw tight, presence unmistakable.
Once, the woman reached for his hand anyway. Just briefly. Just her pinky hooking into his. He stiffened like she had touched a bruise.
“Hey,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”
Marc glanced around, eyes scanning automatically, then down at your joined fingers.
“…Don’t,” he said quietly.
Her heart sank, but then he did not pull away.
Instead, he adjusted. Her hand disappeared beneath the edge of his jacket, pressed against his side, hidden from view. His arm came down around her, not possessive, not performative—protective, shielding.
Later, when she asked him about it, he exhaled slowly.
“I don’t like people knowin’ where to look,” he admitted. “If they see what matters to me…”
He trailed off. She finished it for him. “They know where to hurt you.”
Marc did not answer. He just leaned his forehead against hers, breath warm, grounding.
In public, Marc’s love was restraint.
In private, it was devotion.
Steven loves like a confession.
Steven Grant, on the other hand, adored being seen. Not in an attention seeking way… More like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.
Dating her felt unreal to him. Like something that might vanish if he did not keep touching it, acknowledging it, proving it existed.
So Steven held hands. Properly. Fingers laced, thumbs brushing, swinging your arms slightly when he was feeling particularly brave. He leaned into his girlfriend in lines. Pressed soft kisses to her temple without thinking.
Once, at the museum, he forgot himself entirely.
She was looking at a display; rambling excitedly, hands gesturing as she explained something he already knew but loved hearing from you anyway. And Steven just… stared.
Heart pounding. Chest warm. Overwhelmed by affection.
Before he could overthink it, he kissed her.
Right there. In public. In front of God, tourists, and at least one scandalized child.
He froze immediately afterward.
“Oh— oh my God, I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked, I just— are you alright? I mean—”
She laughed and kissed him again, softer this time. Steven’s ears went pink for the rest of the day.
After that, PDA with Steven became a stream of gentle, earnest affection. Hand squeezes when he was nervous. Arms looped around her waist while waiting for the bus. Whispered compliments pressed against her cheek because he forgot other people existed.
“You’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”
“I can’t believe you chose us.”
“You look— sorry, you just look very nice today.”
He said us, even when talking about himself.
Steven loved her like he was constantly confessing— every touch an admission, every kiss a quiet please stay.
Jake loves like a promise you do not get to refuse.
Jake Lockley did not believe in subtlety. If Marc hid and Steven glowed, Jake claimed.
The first time Jake fronted on a date, she knew immediately— not because of the accent, though that helped, but because his hand landed on her waist like it had always belonged there.
In public, Jake touched her constantly. Not indecently. Intentionally.
An arm slung around her shoulders. Fingers hooked into her belt loops. A hand at her lower back that never drifted, never hesitated. When people looked too long, Jake smiled slow and sharp and pulled his lover closer.
Possessive? Yes.
Uncomfortable? Never.
He read her body language perfectly. Every touch checked in without asking. Every kiss was deliberate— slow enough to make a point, brief enough to keep her wanting more.
Someone once flirted with him at a bar. Jake did not even respond. He just turned, cupped her jaw, and kissed his girlfriend like he was signing his name on her. When he pulled back, he murmured in Spanish, low and intimate, “Mine.”
Later, when she teased him about it, he smirked.
“PDA ain’t about them,” he said. “It’s about you knowin’. And you do.”
Jake loved like a promise. Not a sweet one. A binding one.
Loving the system meant navigating all of it—the restraint, the tenderness, the fire.
Some days, you walked between worlds.
Marc watching crowds.
Steven swinging your hands.
Jake pulling you close.
And somehow, it all worked. Because no matter who was fronting, no matter how different the affection looked; they all chose her. Every time.
Summary: He might not give grand bouquets, or profess his undying love for her from the rooftops, but he made sure she knew just how much he appreciated her.
Consider Donating: Here
Logan Howlett had never been good with big gestures.
Flowers died. Words got twisted. Promises were dangerous things, especially when you would lived long enough to see how easily they broke. He had learned early that love, if it was real, was not loud. It was persistent. It stayed.
She learned this about him slowly.
The first time she realized it, she was standing barefoot in the kitchen at two in the morning, wrapped in one of his flannels because she could not sleep. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the wind rattling the windows. Children snug in their beds. Logan had come up behind her without a sound, setting a mug into her hands before she could even ask.
Tea. Exactly how she liked it. Honey, not sugar.
She had turned to look at him, startled. “How’d you know I was awake?”
Logan had shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Didn’t hear you breathing right.”
It was not romantic in the way movies tried to sell it. No candles. No declarations. Just the certainty that he noticed when something was off.
That was Logan’s devotion.
He showed it in the way he always positioned himself between her and the door in unfamiliar places. In the way his hand found the small of her back automatically in crowds, grounding and warm. In the way he listened, really listened, even when he didn not have the right words to offer back.
She used to tease him for not being the “romantic type.”
“You don’t ever bring me flowers,” she had said once, not accusing, just curious.
Logan had glanced at her, brow furrowing. “You want flowers?”
She laughed. “I’m just saying.”
The next morning, she woke up to a pot of herbs on the windowsill. Fresh soil, sturdy leaves, the faint scent of earth.
“They won’t die on you,” he’d muttered, arms crossed like he was bracing for critique. “Figured that was better.”
She had kissed him then, soft and surprised, realizing something important: Logan did not do things because they were expected. He did them because they made sense.
He learned her routines without ever asking. Knew which mug she preferred, which chair she always gravitated toward, how she took her coffee depending on the time of day. When she was sick, he hovered without hovering; placing water nearby, changing the sheets when she fell asleep, staying close enough that she could feel him without being smothered.
When nightmares woke her, it was Logan’s voice that anchored her back into the present. Low. Steady. Saying her name like it mattered.
And when things went wrong— because with Logan, they often did— his devotion sharpened into something fierce.
He did not always come home clean. Sometimes there was blood under his nails that did not belong to him. Bruises that faded faster than they should have. He never offered explanations unless she asked, and even then, he kept it brief. But every time he came back, he checked on her first.
“You okay? You hurt? They didn’t get near you, right?”
Once, after a particularly long absence, she snapped at him.
“You don’t get to just disappear and come back like nothing happened,” she had said, voice tight. “I worry.”
Logan had gone very still.
“I know,” he said quietly.
That scared her more than anger would have.
Later that night, as they lay tangled together, he spoke into the dark. “I stay away so they don’t come lookin’ for you.”
Her chest ached at the weight of it. “You don’t have to do that alone.”
He turned onto his side, forehead resting against hers. “I’m not. I got you.”
That was the thing about loving Logan Howlett. He didn’t promise safety. He promised effort. Protection. Presence. Devotion, for him, looked like choosing her again and again, even when it scared him.
Valentine’s Day came and went quietly most years.
She stopped expecting anything flashy after the first couple of times. No overpriced dinners. No teddy bears. Sometimes not even a card. But Logan always did something.
One year, he fixed the leaky roof she had been complaining about for months. Another year, he drove three hours just to replace a book she’d lost; same edition, same worn cover. Once, he surprised her with a weekend away, cabin tucked deep in the woods where no one could bother them.
This year felt no different on the surface.
Coming home, she found Logan in the garage, hands greasy, radio humming low. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
“Hey,” he said. “You hungry?”
“Always,” she smiled.
Dinner was simple. Something hearty. Familiar. Afterward, they sat together on the couch, her feet in his lap, his thumb tracing idle circles over her ankle.
She glanced at the clock. “You know what day it is, right?”
Logan huffed softly. “Yeah. I know.”
“No pressure,” she added quickly. “I just—”
He stood abruptly, disappearing down the hall. She frowned, momentarily worried she had said something wrong, until he returned with a small, battered box in his hands. Set it on the table. Opened it.
Inside was a simple necklace. Nothing flashy. Just a thin chain with a small, unassuming pendant. Metal badger-like animal worn smooth by time.
“Found it years ago,” Logan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Belonged to someone who mattered. Kept it safe. Thought… maybe it should be yours now.”
Her breath caught. “Logan…”
Meeting her gaze, he appeared serious and unguarded. “I ain’t good at sayin’ it. Never have been. But you’re my home. You’re the thing I come back to. Every time.”
She crossed the distance between them and kissed him, slow and deep, hands fisting into his shirt like she needed to anchor him there. When she pulled back, eyes shining, she whispered, “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”
Logan pressed his forehead to hers, voice rough with something dangerously close to vulnerability. “Good. ‘Cause that ain’t ever changin’.”
He did not need grand gestures. His devotion was in the way he stayed.
Summary: Everyone knows Gambit flirts. But only she notices when the flirting stops being a game. As Valentine’s Day approaches, Remy clings to the idea that his crush has gone unnoticed— unaware that she’s been watching him fall the whole time.
Consider Donating: Here
“What do ya say, chere? Dinner, just you and da Gambit under candlelight?” He would say something along that same vein when he saw her around.
“In your dreams, Cajun,” her reply came, teasing him with that grin of hers.
“You always der, mon chere.”
That was how their interactions always went when they saw each other. Remy would say something flirty, she would tease him back, and they would part without a clear answer as to what that meant. It was driving him crazy.
Ever since that gorgeous mutant had stumbled into the school almost a year ago, Remy LeBeau was a goner. They called her “Druid” in the field; flowers bent to her will, leaves covered her like an armored blanket, and animals answered when she called.
He was smitten from the very first moment his eyes landed on her. However, that was where it stayed; a school-boy level crush that he stowed away to joke about another day. It was the bane of his existence and his reason for waking up.
With the fourteenth coming closer, Remy tried to distract himself from his feelings for the mutant.
She was tending to a few fawns behind the school when Gambit found her next. He tried to keep him steps light, careful not to startle the animals or the woman. But he was unsuccessful. The baby deers’ ears shot up from their relaxed position, and bounded away with a final mouthful of berries from her hand.
“I think I’ll name them Club and Spade since you decided to join us, LeBeau.” She commented, like talking about the weather, turning slowly to see the Cajun behind her.
“How’d ya know, petite?” Remy sat next to her, marveling at the way the blades of grass wove into the comfiest seat he had ever felt.
“Your steps,” she smirked, turning back to look out to the wilderness, “and that cheap cologne you wear. Honestly, someone needs to get you something better.”
Gambit chuckled, settling into the comfy earth. “It was the best da Gambit could find while growin’ up. You don’t like?”
“I’ll help you find something that isn’t close to axe body spray,” came her tease.
They sat there in comfortable silence. Observing nature. Breathing in the crisp February, upstate New York air that stung at their lungs.
It was here that Remy saw it. The shift. He was not sure the exact moment, but he knew when it happened. She was just sitting there next to him, not bothering to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. And he felt his heart sink, and yet he continued the flirting.
“Your hair looks beautiful today, chere. It’d look better lying on my pillow.”
“Does that come with a dinner invitation?”
His heart fluttered.
“What was it like in heaven? Dey have good gumbo?”
“Certainly not better than yours, Cajun.”
Her wink made him run to the store for ingredients.
And through it all, Remy had convinced himself that this was all it was. Flirting. Harmless flirting.
So imagine his shock when he found her in the school’s kitchen, early in the morning before anyone else had awoken, cooking a beautiful roux.
“Gambit thinks Christmas came early dis year, chere. Whatcha doin’ in da kitchen?” LeBeau mumbles, fixing a cup of coffee before he leaned against the counter.
“I’m making some étouffée soon. You said you were wanting it soon, and I found a good recipe.” Her words were casual, like she had not just stopped his heart with a few words.
Remy’s mouth gaped open like a fish. “I mentioned that once in passing, chere. You remembered?”
“It sounded important to you, so it was important to me.”
Oh… that stole his breath. Gambit set his mug down before he dropped it fully. He could not even form words, especially when she turned and smiled sweetly at him.
“You thought you could be the only sweet one, Remy?” She teased, that same voice she used with him more often than not. Not letting go of the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the roux, the woman leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.
He stood there frozen as she giggled, going back to the pot on the stove. A sly smirk came across his face as he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. The two mutants stood there, cooking a roux at five o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, and enjoying each other’s presence for just a little bit without drawing attention to the feelings they both clearly had.
Summary: A normal Friday in 1985. Nothing to see here. Absolutely nothing.
Consider Donating: Here
Shermer High looked exactly the same as it had the day before. Fluorescent lights buzzing. Lockers slamming. Teachers already exhausted by 8:15 a.m. Pink and red construction paper hearts taped crookedly to classroom doors like someone had tried and immediately regretted it.
It was February 14th.
And John Bender was leaning against her locker like it was any other day.
He had one boot braced against the metal, one hand shoved in his coat pocket. The other was wrapped around her waist— not possessive exactly, but present. Always present. His thumb idly traced small circles against the fabric of her sweater. A simple red sweater with pink hearts she had worn just for today.
“Morning,” she said softly. Her locker door was opened already, but she did not bother reaching inside for her books just yet. Instead, she leaned against the firm chest beside her.
He did not answer with words. Just leaned down and kissed her; slow, deliberate, not caring in the slightest that half the sophomore class was trying very hard not to stare.
Someone coughed.
“Get a room, Bender.”
He did not even look over. Just pulled away enough to snap, “get a personality.”
She hid a smile against his chest. Everyone knew.
It was not subtle. It was not a secret. John Bender did not do subtle when it came to her. His hand found hers in hallways. His fingers hooked into her belt loops when she walked beside him. He kissed her in between classes like the bell was an inconvenience.
But Valentine’s Day was different. Valentine’s Day was… loaded.
She cleared your throat lightly, pulling back to reach into her locker finally. “So.”
“So,” he echoed.
He looked at her like he always did— direct, unflinching. No performance in his eyes. Just that sharp awareness he never let anyone else see for long.
“You know what today is, right,” came her question, trying to sound casual.
He snorted.
“Do I know what today is? Of course.” He leaned closer, voice low near your ear. “It’s February fourteenth. Do you need a calendar, sweetheart?”
She rolled your eyes, leveling a look at her boyfriend. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” His thumb stilled at her hip.
You swallowed. “I just thought maybe—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, softer than his tone suggested. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it weird.”
And that was it.
He grabbed her books from her hands, shoved them under his arm like they belonged there, and started walking, dragging his girlfriend with him by the waist.
She sighed. It was just a normal Friday.
By lunch, it was unbearable.
The cafeteria was a disaster of carnations and heart-shaped cookies. Girls comparing bouquets. Guys pretending they did not care while very obviously caring. Someone had taped paper cupids to the vending machines.
John sat across from her, boot hooked around the leg of her chair, his knee pressing into hers under the table. He stole half her fries, but she did not mind.
She watched him carefully.
“Are you mad at me?” She asked quietly, nibbling on a forgotten fry.
He looked up, offended. “For what?”
“For… wanting to do something.” Her shrug was accompanied by a dismissive shift of her glance downwards.
He leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly. Studying her.
“I don’t care about the holiday,” he said. “I care about you. There’s a difference.”
“I just didn’t want you to think I was expecting something,” she murmured.
He reached across the table and grabbed her chin gently, forcing their eyes to meet.
“Hey.” His voice wasn’t loud now.
“You don’t expect anything. You don’t ask for anything.” His thumb brushed her cheek once before he dropped his hand. “That’s kinda the problem.”
Before she could respond, someone wolf-whistled. “Bender, you gonna buy her flowers or what?”
John turned in his seat. “Why? You trying to send me some before she does?”
Laughter rippled. The moment passed.
A normal Friday.
After school, he walked her out like he always did. Cold February air. Emptying parking lot. Their breath visible in little clouds between them. He did not say much. Just held her hand. Tight.
“Hey,” he said suddenly.
“What?” She turned, fiddling with her coat buttons.
“Don’t make plans tonight.” John stated. He swatted her hands away, buttoning her coat himself.
She blinked. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” That was all he gave his girlfriend.
He kissed her once— quick this time, almost chaste— then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off toward the edge of the lot like he had not just shifted the entire axis of her day.
About an hour or so later, the sound of tiny rocks pebbling at her window caused her to poke her head out. Below, John, in his oversized winter coat was primed and ready to throw another. When he saw his girlfriend, he dropped all the rocks again.
“Come on,” he beckoned, arms opened.
She shook her head, grabbing her coat and scarf again anyways. Instead of going through the window, she went through the front door, saying a quick goodbye to her family as she rounded the house to where John was still waiting in back.
“You know you can come to the door, right?” She teased, burrowing into his arms while stealing a kiss that stole her breath.
When they separated, John just smirked. “This is more fun.”
He took her by the hand, pulling her down the sidewalk away from her home, and into the wild. They laughed, shoving each other gently before John just picked her up, making her squeal in delight. It was not until the last few paces that she noticed that they had made it to the park.
The small one near the edge of town. The one nobody really used in February because the grass was still brown and the wind cut straight through your coat.
He brought her over and placed her on a blanket. A blanket. She stopped breathing for a second.
There was a paper bag beside him when he sat. A thermos. Two sodas. A pack of cookies. Nothing fancy. Nothing pink. Nothing heart-shaped. Just… thought.
John noticed her face immediately when she realized what was going on. It made him smile shyly, like he was not sure whether he wanted to run or stay.
“You hate Valentine’s Day.” She blurted out, running her hands over the blanket.
“Yeah.” He confirmed.
“You said it’s fake.” Her eyes were now turned to him, and he could not escape.
“It is.”
“Then what is this?” He looked at you like the question annoyed him.
“This,” he said, “is Friday.”
She stared like had grown a second head.
He rolled his eyes and stood, brushing off his jeans. There was no way Bender could stay still throughout this.
“I don’t like the crap at school. The balloons and the stupid cards and everyone acting like they’re in a toothpaste commercial.” He gestured vaguely. “But I know you. And I know you like… marking things.”
Her throat tightened.
“So,” he continued, awkward now, “this is us marking it. No audience. No garbage. Just—”
He waved at the blanket. “This.”
She laughed softly through the sudden burn behind her eyes.
“You packed cookies,” she muttered.
“Yeah, well. They were on sale.”
“John.”
He kneeled before her, taking her hands.
“I’m not good at the mushy stuff,” he said. “You know that.”
“Don’t I know it.” She teased.
“But I remember dates.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And I know you wanted something.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. Not a card. Not a rose. A cheap silver lighter. Bender pressed it into her hand.
“You’re always stealing mine,” he said. “Figured you should have your own.”
She stared at it. It was not shiny. It was not romantic in any traditional sense.
It was practical. Personal. Thoughtful.
“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered, feeling the stinging in her eyes grow.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.”
She surged forward and kissed him. Not quick. Not public. Just their own little moment.
His hands found her waist immediately, like they always did. Like they belonged there. John pulled her closer, forehead resting against hers when they finally pulled away.
“Happy February fourteenth,” she said softly.
He huffed a laugh. “Happy normal Friday.”
She just smiled. Nothing fake. Nothing performative.
Just cold air, a brown park, a cheap blanket, and John Bender looking at her like she were the only real thing in a world he did not trust.
Relationship: Poly! Louis de Pointe du Lac x Reader x Lestat de Lioncourt
Fandom: Interview With The Vampire (1994)
Request: No
Warnings: Fluff, Brief Angst, Mentions of Blood and Vampirism
Word Count: 900
Main Masterlist: Here
Horror Masterlist: Here
Summary: Claudia loves watching her papas and mama interact, but she does wonder why they never seem to call each other by their names. Even Lestat is calling Louis something sweet more often with her mama around. Though he does still call his name when he’s upset.
Consider Donating: Here
Claudia noticed things.
She noticed patterns the way other people noticed weather— quietly, instinctively, long before anyone else thought to look up. Noticed how moods settled into rooms, how silence thickened or thinned depending on who occupied it. Lately, what she noticed most was the way names had gone missing.
Not disappeared, exactly. Transformed.
Her papas and her mama still had names. Claudia heard them often enough— Claudia, ma petite, chérie enfant. But between the three of them, proper names had been replaced by something softer. Something chosen.
“Mon cœur,” Louis murmured one evening, passing their lover a glass he had warmed carefully between his palms. His voice was low, reverent, as though the word carried weight, punctuated by a kiss to her temple.
She smiled at him. “Thank you, my anchor.”
Louis blinked, startled, then inclined his head as if accepting a truth he had not yet named himself.
Across the room, Lestat scoffed theatrically. “Anchor? How dreadfully practical.”
Their lover turned to him without missing a beat. “And you, my lion, are dreadfully loud.”
Lestat grinned, delighted. “Ah. A title worthy of me.”
Claudia watched from the settee, chin in her hands, eyes narrowed in fascination.
It had not started all at once. At first, the pet names slipped in accidentally—beloved, cher, darling— easy words, habitual even. But over time, they had sharpened into something precise, each name fitting its recipient like a tailored glove.
Louis used them sparingly, as he did everything. When he called their lover ”my heart”, it was quiet, almost private, as if the words were meant for her alone even in a crowded room. When he called Lestat “cher ami”, it carried a careful fondness, edged with restraint.
Lestat, on the other hand, used pet names the way he used music— loudly, joyfully, with no concern for subtlety.
“My treasure,” he would say, draping himself over their lover’s shoulder.
“My beautiful conscience,” came his tease to Louis, smirking when the brunette rolled his eyes.
“My dark poet,” he added, pressing a kiss to Louis’ temple just to see him stiffen.
And their lover? She gave as good as she received.
Louis became “my quiet heart” when his thoughts turned inward. “My steady one” when he doubted himself. Sometimes simply “love”, spoken like a vow.
Lestat became “my sun” when he glowed too brightly. “My menace” when he stirred trouble. “My beautiful disaster” when he broke something expensive and smiled through it.
She never mixed them up. Claudia found that part impressive.
“Papa,” Claudia asked one night, unable to restrain herself, “why do you never call Mama by her name?”
Louis looked up from his book. Their lover paused mid-step. Lestat, predictably, laughed.
“Because,” Lestat said grandly, “names are far too small for what we feel.”
Louis sighed. “That is not—”
Their lover cut in gently. “Because names are for clarity. What we share doesn’t always need it.”
Claudia frowned. “But you call Lestat by his name.”
“Yes,” her lover said, smiling faintly. “When he needs to hear it.”
As if summoned by fate, Lestat scoffed. “I always need to hear my name.”
Louis shot him a look. “That is demonstrably untrue.”
Later, Claudia watched them stand together by the windows, the city’s glow casting long shadows across the room. Louis’ hand rested at their lover’s back, protective without thinking. Lestat leaned close, fingers brushing her arm, possessive and unapologetic.
“My love,” Louis murmured to her, voice barely audible.
“My star,” Lestat added, softer than usual.
She turned between them, smiling. “My heart. My fire.”
Claudia felt something settle in her chest then, understanding, at last. Names were not absent. They were reserved. Used when the moment demanded precision or force.
Louis’ name was spoken when patience frayed or fear crept too close. Lestat’s name rang out when chaos needed anchoring; or when irritation boiled over.
The night it all unraveled was, unsurprisingly, Lestat’s doing.
They were preparing to go out. Louis adjusted his cuffs with meticulous care. Their lover stood between them, fastening her coat. Lestat paced like a caged animal, humming under his breath.
“Sweetheart,” their lover said to Louis, smoothing his collar, “you look perfect. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying,” Louis replied automatically.
“You are,” Lestat said brightly. “It’s your thinking face.”
Louis turned. “Do not provoke me.”
“I thrive on it.” Lestat gestured too widely. A goblet tipped. Blood spilled across the rug.
Silence.
“Lestat,” Louis warned.
“I didn’t touch it.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was expressing myself.”
“And yet—”
“LOUIS!”
The name cracked through the room like thunder.
Claudia burst into laughter, utterly unable to help herself.
Their lover sighed, long and resigned, and stepped forward. “Alright. My lion. My anchor. Pause.”
Both men froze.
She knelt, dabbed at the rug with a cloth, then stood again. “There. Problem solved.”
Lestat opened his mouth.
She raised a brow. “Don’t.”
He shut it.
Louis rubbed his temples. “You see what I endure.”
She smiled at him softly. “Yes. And you endure it beautifully, my heart.”
Lestat brightened immediately. “See? She understands me.”
“She tolerates you,” Louis corrected.
Their lover slipped her arms through both of theirs. “I love you,” she said simply.
Lestat preened. Louis relaxed.
Claudia watched them go, names unspoken but understood.
Pet names, she decided, were not replacements for love. They were proof of it. And names? Names were for moments when love needed to be loud.
