Kita - Tumblr Posts

is this bc of kaos...

if so THEN OMG THIS IS SO PERFECT OMLLLLL ORPHEUS N EURYDICE IS SO LIKE FUNNY TO ME BECAUSE ORPHEUS ENDS UP BEIN GAY SO LIKE 🫡🫡

no but all things aside this was actually rlly good!! super desperate leyawn and thats what i like to see 😭😭

Because I love you enough to turn around

(I will never turn from you)

leon kennedy x f reader

wc: 1k +

warnings : alcoholism, self guilt, self shame, mention of a noose as imagery, angst into like hurt comfort sort of thing

sorry im sick n also been thinking heavily about orpheus and eurydice and what it means to love someone enough to turn around (promise it's not all angst but it's pretty heavy on it)

You're in that twilight space between sleep and wakefulness when the door opens. There's no need to startle because you already know who it is, know from the heavy footfalls that make a particularly loose board on the floor groan as he slips off his boots. Know from the softer padding you catch turning the left hand edge, into the bathroom and just as you think it you hear the light click on.

Not every day can be a good day.

It's what circles around and around in your mind as you catch the sound of the taps squeaking on, the sink running at full blast. At least he has the decency to not climb into bed with you reeking of whiskey and possible bile. But you don't resent him for it.

You've never resented him for anything. Never begrudged him anything. Not the constant distance, the secrecy, the occasional white lie you knew was for your own comfort so you never told him you knew he was lying. Never asked him about details, never pressed him, never let yourself get so overwhelmed you dissolve into hysterics no matter how many times you felt yourself reaching that point.

And you don't do any of that now, as you feel the mattress dip with the additional weight and feel him staring at your back. You'd forgotten you put on one of his old t shirts, just to comfort yourself against the uncertainty of if he'd be back before the sun, aggressive and ever constant, demanded you get up and face another day.

Being with Leon was like being stranded on a sheet of ice. Uncertain of its thickness, if it could handle any fluctuation in weight or pressure. Terrified of every crack and fissure that threatened to spread, to send the portion you found yourself on plunging into subzero depths that would stop your lungs and squeeze like a vice grip over your heart.

But it was exhausting to constantly monitor for those hairline fractures, to be the loving partner while wishing you could just grab his shoulders and scream in his face about how desperately you needed him to get his shit together. But you'd never do that, know he doesn't need it from you of all people.

But you don't turn around. You don't give any indication that you're awake and aware and grieving like some old war widow for the millionth time in your short life for a man that still has breath in his body.

Not even as his fingers run down your bicep, hesitant as if he's touching spun sugar that threatens to melt with the slightest heat.

"I know you're awake."

You don't respond, let the silence hang heavy and imposing as a noose from a solitary beam, but you do turn then to finally take him in. And fresh chips are dug out of your own heart as you do, a proverbial ice pick gradually working to cleave you in half.

God has he always looked so tired?

"You should get some sleep," your hushed voice sounds flat, even to your own ears and you hope he doesn't take it as cruelty when it's not. It's a kind of bone deep, spiritual exhaustion. An unspoken wish for a rest so deep the entire world could collapse around you and you would be none the wiser, uncaring as the sky above and just as unseeing.

"I'm sorry." He says it to no one in particular as he turns away from you, stripping off socks and pants.

As you turn back over your eyes burn in the dark, like someone stuck two searing hot coals into the sockets and you bite your bottom lip hard enough to feel a sting. It's good, it's grounding. You shouldn't cry, not like this, not now. Just another burden added to the lump sum is all it would be.

So you don't, you level your breathing as best you can as you feel him climb back into bed fully this time, tentatively putting a hand on your hip as his chest presses against your back. He touches you like he's afraid.

And you're powerless against the way that one single touch acts as a battering ram, destroying the hurriedly constructed emotional dam in a spectacular splintering of wood, and you feel yourself start to tremble. The moisture from your nose is the next signal of disaster, the sign that there is no undoing what has just occurred. And your eyes are suddenly full of all the water in the world, as if you've drunk dry every sea and river on earth only to refill them from yourself.

It feels more like watching someone else weep and sniffle as if their life depends on it, being the unattached observer before turning away, hand over the mouth to hide the shape of words. Glad it isn't me.

But it is.

His arm comes around you, tightening up as he presses his own face against the back of your neck. And the tears flow ever faster, spurred by the shame of being the emotional one. The one that can't help but be naked in their weakness.

You don't move to shift him away, don't move to get up or hurry to the bathroom. You simply can't be bothered. If nothing else he can witness your grief, and there is a strange sort of comfort in that.

You could wail, berate him about breaking his promises of things being different, being better but what's the point of shooting at something that's already dead?

And it's then that you feel it: wetness spotting against the skin of your neck, rolling down your back before being absorbed by the well worn cotton. You feel it and you turn and your heart breaks again seeing his blue eyes twinged in red, one of the many different shades regret dresses itself in. Your reflection is drowning in saltwater, as if trapped in the sea with no hope of rescue.

So you cling to him, arms around his neck and fingers lacing a crown as you hold each other and you cry as if it might be endless. As if all that might exist for eternity is this: the longing and the waiting and the grieving and the sobbing. But in his embrace there is a hope, a small light that peeks through the cracks, so faint you could almost swear you imagined it.

He doesn't smell like liquor.

And for some reason it makes you sob harder, like you're trying to form the shrieking gale force winds of a hurricane from one small human vocal chord.

"I got hung up when we got back, I tried calling- figured you were asleep." His voice is a fragile thing, shaking as a newborn foal on its unfamiliar feet.

For all that you don't begrudge him neither does he towards you. He can't muster up indignation that you doubted him, not when recently he's given you no reason to believe in him. He knows the biting amber liquid is both a crutch and a dog collar with inward facing spikes. Hasn't ever been able to trace the exact point when he stopped seeking comfort in you and instead sought it in sticky bar tops and grimy shot glasses, a flask snuck into a jacket pocket. But it hardly matters when the damage is done.

He spends every day choking on each word he can't say to you. Each time he comes home like a stray that got in a fight to collapse on your doorstep, it bulges and sticks fast in his throat. Every time you cradle his jaw with your fingertips and clean blood from some fresh wound his esophagus caves in on itself. Every time your eyes get unfocused as they linger on his drunken form before you turn away he feels more of the paint peeling off himself.

All of you has felt so out of focus. So he clings to you now, squeezing your body against his like he might be able to absorb you into himself, tuck you away for eternal safekeeping, if he just tries hard enough. Like if he presses his lips to your cheeks, nose, forehead, again and again you'll gain more opacity with each one, be returned to flesh and blood like a princess turned to stone in a story. Awakened by true loves kiss.

So he kisses you, over and over and over. With each pass of his lips you seem to reanimate, hands fliting around his body like you can't decide where they belong, can't decide what part of him to touch or if you should touch all of him. His own drag the worn out shirt over your head, bare your body to his stinging eyes and it's like a salve for all the wounds that still feel like they're split open and oozing all over the floor.

Your kiss tastes of salt and of pain and of loss and of guilt. He wishes he could unhinge his jaw like a snake, swallow all of that ugliness in one pass and leave you as pristine as you were in the beginning. Before he ruined you. Turned you into a hollowed out city, teetering on the edge of uninhabitable.

But renewal, rebuilding, it's all possible. Crumbling structures can be fixed without ripping down the entire framework. They do it every day, how many does he drive past at any given time?

So his lips carve a tender path down the column of your throat until he's hovering over your heart, placing a kiss so chaste against the skin of your chest it's almost religious. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck to hold him still, hold him in just that perfect space above the thundering muscle echoing in his ear as it presses against your warm body.

Not since he was a child has anyone held him so firmly, so tenderly. Not that he would even allow it anyway, not from anyone outside of you. You were the first taste of softness. The first time you whispered that it wasn't selfish to want to be held he felt the fault lines erupting inside himself. It wasn't brave or righteous to continually deny himself or to self flagellate through every word and action, it was nothing but one continual act of self desecration.

But you poured all your love into an empty man, made him whole again and watched as he wasted it. Fresh tears pooled between your breasts, dislodged to drip down your ribs with every breath. He could cry for eternity and it would still never properly express the depth of his shame. Shaking fingers crawl spider like up your sides as he struggles to keep a firm hand on his own breathing, not give into the temptation of rapid, lightheaded madness.

Your fingers marking light trails through his hair soothe him, like calming a thrashing rabbit kicking against its cage. Slowly he can hear his own heart falling into sync with yours, his own chest expanding and sinking in time with yours.

It feels like maybe the world has stopped, stopped and fallen away and all that's left is this room and the two of you. One eternal embrace, stretching out across time like summer saltwater taffy.

And he swears a new promise, whispering against your skin like he could brand the words there forevermore.

I won't waste it.

this website is horrible and everyone is mean as fuck. with that being said reblog and compliment the previous person in the tags ✨

before I forget

Musings of a Fool in Love

leon kennedy x reader

wc: 1k+

warnings: none, sfw, just a sweet moment of both seriously and not seriously discussing marriage, thinking about what it means to exist in perpetuity with another person

I wanted to do something sweet especially after all the angst ive been inflicting on everyone <3 so here's a lil thing inspired by the old love songs I was listening to this morning. (i also didn't have a specific iteration of him in mind for this so it can be interpreted with whichever one you want) if there's mistakes I simply pretend i do not see lol

Soft chords of music fill the apartment, the last dregs of daylight washing you both in hues of honey gold and peach tinged pink, catching in his softly focused blue eyes like those novelty crystals that sit on their tiny, LED powered pedestals refracting the manmade light an infinite number of times. 

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the hand lightly holding yours giving a gentle squeeze while the other remains restfully perched on your hip as you bodies move slowly with the melody. 

You don’t speak immediately, relishing in how he looks at this moment and contemplating dodging the question. It’s silly, nonsensical but just serious enough that it could shatter this dreamlike moment, leaving it as insubstantial as the last twinges of a dream that cling to the mind like a mist. But you decide against subterfuge, willing to risk cracking the tranquility apart. 

“I was thinking about what it would be like to get married.”

There’s no dramatic pause, he doesn’t bring your combined motion to a halt; that doesn’t stop his expression from changing although not into what you expected. Leon gives you a soft smile, hesitant, but seemingly chooses to indulge your line of thought.

“What about getting married?” His tone is hushed, like you’re two children whispering secrets and it makes you giggly, nervousness bubbling in your throat like a bird flapping it’s wings against it’s cage. 

“Just… What it would be like.” You shrug, shyness wrapping around your body like spectral hands. The wine you’d indulge in at dinner encouraging heat the spread lazily beneath your skin.

“What do you think it would be like?”

You could hold his gaze forever, you think. Maybe forever does exist that way: two people who live in one anothers faces, and you think again of those childhood crystals with their dazzling displays of endless light frozen inside. 

“Hm, something like this, I think.” 

“No specifics?” He teases you, extending the hand that holds yours to make room for you to lightly spin, laughing a little bit louder now. 

“You’d hate them,” You say through more glittering peels of laughter.

“Mm, try me.”

“I’m picturing something like a courthouse, nothing as imposing as a cathedral or a big church.”

“How romantic,” He gives you a faux roll of his eyes, still smiling. 

“Do you want a cathedral, a church?” You ask, genuinely curious now. 

“It doesn’t really matter to me, I guess all that would matter is that you’re there.”

“Now who’s the sappy romantic?” It’s your turn to tease him and he takes it in stride, drawing you in and placing a wet, exaggerated kiss on your cheek that makes you dissolve into yet more unbridled giggles. 

“And what else?” He encourages, the hand on your hip traveling to rest comfortably, solidly against your lower back. 

You pretend to eye him critically before continuing. “I could wear some gaudy dress shaped like a puff pastery.”

That makes him laugh, a full body, bone deep laugh, the kind that makes satisfaction ooze through your own form, warm and sticky as maple syrup and you can’t help but resume your own silvery laughter. The sounds of your mingled gasps for air against the rush of joy mixes with the song, a unique sound that is wholly, unequivocally yours. 

“You’d be the most beautiful puff pastry.”

And despite the absurdity of that sentence you can’t help the swell of adoration in your chest, can’t help but press kiss after kiss against his lips until you’ve both stopped moving, his eyes roaming your face in soft attentiveness as your fingertips brush against his jaw and the sound of music is drowned out by your mingled breaths. 

He brings your hand to his lips, leaving a trail of kisses so chaste, so sweet they make your teeth ache as he makes his way from your knuckles to your inner wrist. His breath fanning across your skin grips you in a sudden lightheadedness and your heart pounds so hard you think there’s no way he can’t also hear its reckless rhythm. 

“If I asked you right now, would you say yes?” 

And all is quiet. Gone is the overpowering sound of your heart, the soft twinkle of music, the sound of breath leaving body. The question hangs frozen, suspended in the air between you two like a single perfect, encapsulated snowflake. 

“I would always say yes to you,’’ Your voice breaks, just the tiniest fraction of a crack and he huffs out another low breath of laughter, pressing your wrist to his lips with more firmness, more intensity present than before. Slowly he lowers your arm, holding your hand once more and resting his forehead against yours, searching for something in your wide eyed gaze. 

The quiet that descends on you doesn’t do so as a threat, not with speed nor discomforting awkwardness. It’s the quiet of two lovers, content to rest in the moment with one another before moving to the next. 

“There’s no rush,” You whisper, your voice a tender, furtive thing not unlike a newly hatched little bird hesitantly peeking into the sunlight for the first time. 

And your words bleed out around the tiny little living room, like dye dropped into water, spreading and curling into even the farthest corners of your apartment as your eyes close and you tuck your neck against his chest, neither of you moving and it’s wholly possible that you could stay that way for an eternity, ivy growing thick and wild as it winds around your legs, drips down your fingertips, takes the place of your hair. 

Maybe eternity only exists in the fleetest, most foolish of moments. 

“You’re right. And it would be disappointing, getting proposed to with no ring.”

“You could give me one of those candy ones,” you say without moving from his chest and you feel more than hear the light chuckle it earns you.

“We’ve gotta work on your taste.”

“Are you saying I have bad taste?”

“I mean, look at your choice of man.”

At that you laugh again and the motion of your bodies resumes along with the music, in the lamplight glow of evening now, that perfect glimpse of eternity resting in the cradle of your memory. 

AH IM SO HAPPY YOU'RE BACK ON THE DASH I MISSED YOU!!! <333

AHHHH KITA HIIII I MISSED U SO SO MUCH!!!

🥰🥰🤩😍🤩🥰🤩😍😍 CANT WAIT TO SEE U ON MY DASHHHHHH

kita... you've literally done it... how'd u manage to do this <3

Your illusion of control is shattered as the voice breaks out into a laugh, the kind that borders on hysterical as if you’d told such a funny joke they couldn’t hold it back.

ITS AN ILLUSION NOT FOR HER BUT FOR HIM... IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT HE THINKS HES THE SCARY ONE BUT LATER WE REALLY FIND OUT.. erm... NO.

You're about to masturbate in front of some masked stalker that threatened to kill you. What does it matter anymore if you’re afraid or not?

girl... are you insane (UR SO SO REAL FOR THIS ONE LITERALLY I WOULD DO THE EXACT SAME THING FOR LEON because i'd recognize him he'd probably smack into the sliding door before he opened it so...) ugh you're literally so nasty (I LOVE IT)

"Its so fucked up, but you know, this isn't even a deal breaker for me." And at that revelation you laugh, staring into his ice blue eyes like you've just shared an intimate joke.

cause you have... erm... you know that saying "if at first you don't succeed try try again" actually no thats not the right one WTV THERES A SAYING ABT HOW you're supposed to like watch your back or smth idfk.. but like its leon WTVVVV

"That was you?" His tone is critical and you do your best not to bristle, you have to tread carefully now.

CRITICAL?? WDYM CRITICAL ARE YOU ABOUT TO SAY "well erm actually according to my calculations the correct sequence of actions would've gone in the order of" DONT EVEN BRO YOU'D LIKE SCREAM AFTER KILLING SOMEONE GO SIT IN TEH CORNER.

At that he cracks a small smile, eyes glazed over in awe as he stares at you and it makes you preen. He's just like you. A perfect match. Leon doesn't keep you waiting, just as eager and clumsy as he was when you first met and it endears you to him all over again.

just like you... yeah... psycho x psycho makes such a good pairing doesnt it... ugh im desperate for him i need him to get freaky with me he would be SO into knifeplay aeriuweroiuweriopuwerup

kita u r an angel never stop writing u r so creative and ilysm literally u write so sos os os os os soos soos so sooooo well like im not even kidding ughghghghhghh

SLAS(HER) - LEON KENNEDY

SYNOPSIS... ❛ you really shouldn't answer strange phone calls. or leave your doors unlocked. or decide you're going to try turning the tables on a masked intruder with one demand: give him a show or it's your guts on the floor.❜

WARNINGS... creep leon, written with re2r in mind, no outbreak, stalking, voyeurism, guided masturbation, fuck or die, threats of violence, mentions of blood, death and injury, dissociation in a little bit of readers part, home invasion, inspired by ghostface/scream franchise, oral, use of a belt as a restraint

WORD COUNT... 7k+

˗ˏˋ kinktober masterlist ˎˊ˗

It started with an eerie feeling. The nondescript sensation of being watched, by someone just out of reach, just out of sight yet keeping you in theirs from some invisible vantage point. It was something you brushed off through the evening as just a weird vibe because it was Halloween and rather than go out as you’d done in the past you decided to stay home, enjoy the company of your cat and some cheesy slasher flicks they always have running on nearly every channel this time of year. 

That feeling could also be motivated by worry for your friend, working Halloween night was always hectic for everyone on duty at the station. You and Leon had been nearly attached at the hip since you met, not long after he arrived in Raccoon City. The details were a bit muddled but you knew he’d been through a rough breakup, started a brand new job, all at once. An overwhelming amount of stress for anyone, and you were a secretary at that very same job he was the fresh faced rookie in all of a year or so ago. In truth you’d been the first to greet him that day, all nervous and eager to impress. It was cute, really. 

And from that very first day he always seemed to seek you out, handing you a warm cup of coffee at just the right moments, like he knew you usually ended up with headaches by mid afternoon and relied on the caffeine and excedrin combo to make it until the end of your shift. He was always friendly, not overly gregarious but always there to chat about how your day was, if you needed help with anything. He’d even stayed late one day because your cars battery had been on the fritz, gave you a jump so you could drive home. 

A gentleman, through and through, you decided. Soon enough you were dependent on seeing him at least once a day in the cramped old breakroom or coming to loiter by your desk so he could procrastinate his reports (which you would playfully give him shit for later) or else the entire day would feel off, unsatisfying.

All in all, you considered him a friend with some… complicated feelings. You liked him, truly, but knowing he got out of a relationship at the time you met was what gave you pause. You didn’t want to push something that may not be there, after all you might be confusing his nicety for flirtation or just projecting your own attraction. And acting on that, especially if you were right, would be not just humiliating for your ego but would mean you’d lose someone you quickly came to consider a good friend. 

So, just like on many previous nights, you resist the urge to text him. To check up, make sure nothing too wild had come in over dispatch. A casual friend wouldn’t do that, would they? Instead you remain stretched out on the couch, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth and absentmindedly stroking the sleeping cat on your lap while images your mind doesn’t register flash over the tv screen. 

Maybe it would be better to get some sleep. You’d see him tomorrow and could ask about how tonight went for him, you could even bring some of those muffins from the little cafe a few blocks away from the station since most of the officers seem to enjoy them. It’s not weird if its for everyone, technically. Right?

As your mind wanders between how to walk the delicate line between your feelings you fail to realize how heavy your eyes were, how you closed them just for a second, just to take a moment and then you’d get up for bed…

~

The chime of your phone is what rouses you, blinking bleary, fuzzy eyes into the darkness of your living room. 

With a little groan you heave yourself up into a sitting position, your joints popping from being folded in an awkward position as you’d jammed yourself into a corner to curl up in your sleep. Before you can rub your eyes, readjust to consciousness, your phone is blaring like a shrieking car alarm that shatters the quiet nighttime fuge. 

With fumbling hands you grab it off the coffee table in front of you, flipping it open and hitting answer without a second thought, body working on auto as your mind catches up. 

“Mh, hello?” you ask, tongue feeling thick in your mouth after your sudden reentry into the world of the living.

“Hey there sleeping beauty.”

The tinny, computerized voice startles you, snapping you into full awareness with how alien and threatening it automatically came across,, making the skin of your arms rise with gooseflesh.

“Who is this?” you ask hesitantly, one hand clutching the phone to your ear while the other cast off the rumpled blanket so you could rise from the couch, feeling suddenly vulnerable and restless.

The voice makes a tut tut sound over the line before speaking. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, I’ll forgive you since I did wake you up. You look real cute in your sleep though-”

“I’m hanging up, don't call again.” You huff into the receiver, hands shaking as you snap the phone shut, practically throwing it back down on the wooden table as if it were made of molten lava. 

Standing you begin to pace, your cat skulking from underneath the table, clearly sharing in your distress as you rake a hand through your hair. Its okay, you reassure yourself, nothing but some bored kid pulling a Halloween prank. They sell those voice changers at all kinds of stores around this time, they probably just dialed random numbers for shits and giggles. Most importantly: no one was actually watching you sleep. Thats impossible, you live alone and no one outside friends or family know where you live. 

That last rushed thought snags in your mind and you cautiously pick up the phone, pressing the keys to see the last number in the incoming call log. Not one you have saved, and also not one you recognize anyway. The area code is local, but again that doesn’t mean it’s anything but some kid screwing around. 

You exhale long and steady through your nose, feeling your erratic heartbeat slowing down and you shake your head at yourself for being so quick to panic. 

Now it’s really time for bed, you decide, scooping up your furball before making your way towards the bedroom, keeping your eyes trained away from the window so you wouldn’t fall into the trap of peeking out of its glass panes in paranoia.

There's nothing and no one there. 

Before your cat can even finish stepping from your arms to the bedspread, your phone went off in your hand again, it’s familiar ringtone far less inviting under these circumstances. This time you don’t feel afraid as you angrily flip it open, mashing the answer button. 

“I told you not to call again. I don’t care about kids playing pranks, but find someone else to mess with, okay?” Annoyance drips from every word but before you can hang up with a satisfied smirk the voice cuts in. 

“Oh but I know you’re fun to play with, sweetheart.”  

“Do not call me pet names you freak-”

“What, you don’t like it? I think it fits you, sweetheart for a sweet girl.” It mocks you over the line, making your body flush with heat as your anger and your fear mingle into a noxiously overwhelming combination. 

“I work at the police station, quit fucking with me or I’m calling the cops and I know they’ll take it seriously.” You cross your arms, as best you can while still holding the phone. You feel smug, knowing that at least that must spook whoever it is no way they want to potentially deal with the police over a prank call-

Your illusion of control is shattered as the voice breaks out into a laugh, the kind that borders on hysterical as if you’d told such a funny joke they couldn’t hold it back. You bite your lip again, this time giving into the instinct telling you to look out the window, scan the yard outside for any sign that someone was creeping around. But nothing except the faint glow of distant streetlights are reflected back at you. 

“Oh no, please don’t call the cops on me!” the voice breaks into giggles again, “I know we’re gonna have so much fun together.” He says your name and it’s like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over your head, a million sharp pin pricks that scream for you to stop, leave, run away, do anything to get this to stop. 

“How do you know my name?”  Your question is barely a whisper.

“I know everything about you. Everything.” The emphasis on the word makes you shiver, tears burning in your waterlines. “But you know what I’m really curious about?” 

Your stomach drops but you respond despite yourself, your fingers curling around the phone's little plastic shell so hard you hear it crackling ever so slightly. “What?”

“Do you always keep this sliding door unlocked?”

It feels like your heart fell out of your ass as you break into a run, breathing harshly and hearing that unnerving, electronic laughter once more over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. To your horror the door is ajar, pulled open with the flimsy little curtain blowing in the chill breeze, and you can’t do anything but continue staring even when you know you need to run, you need to do something, anything to get yourself out of this. 

Why is this happening to me?

As the details of the world soften at the edges, sliding down and blurring with the tears running down your face you fail to hear someone approaching from behind, fail to register anything at all until a black gloved hand claps over your mouth to muffle your shrieking. You thrash against the muscled chest of your assailant, the grip of their arms feels more like being encased by perfectly molded steel, and as you quickly exhaust yourself you’re half guided half carried back towards your bedroom. 

Alarm bells, like emergency sirens, bounce around your head, knowing in some inexplicable way that going into that room will seal your fate. There won’t be any getting out of this, any way to stop what's coming. You honestly don’t know if there ever really was. Regardless, you use up the last bit of adrenaline you have to struggle once more as you’re unceremoniously dragged into the bedroom, the darkness now feeling threatening when it was once relaxing. It’s a valiant effort, you even manage to bite down on his wrist, but it’s still not enough. Even with the bite, all you felt was cloth snagging against your teeth rather than flesh. Whoever it was must be covered head to toe in clothing, completely obscured.  

As you’re pushed down on your back against the mattress a worse sight greets you: one of those halloween costume masks staring back, your breath dies in your lungs as you freeze beneath him, feeling the planes of his body through the layers of clothes as he keeps one hand covering your mouth. 

Slowly he removes his hand and you can’t help but dissolve into a fresh round of tears. 

“Why- why are you doing this?” You can’t help the hitches in your speech as you struggle to remain focused on the man on top of you, the weight of his ribs consuming your awareness as he lies between your legs.

He doesn’t answer you, tilting his head to the side as you shiver below, bile rising in your throat as his hand drifts to caress your jaw, trailing down the sweaty column of your throat. He stops just before your chest, to your shock. 

“Don’t worry,” his voice is still masked by that chilling overlay, built into the mask itself clearly. “I’m not gonna lay a hand on you. Well, not like this.” As he speaks he lifts himself off you, sitting back on his knees against the heels of his shoes. “But you’re gonna put on a little show.”

Confusion bullies its way in front of your other more primal emotions, scooting up until your back hits the headboard and you can wrap your arm around your knees, curl inward no matter how futile the attempt at shielding yourself might be.  

“Not feeling talkative anymore, huh? That's okay, you don't really have to talk for this anyway.” You swear you can hear the smile in his tone, can tell by the way he shifts his hips that he’s getting off on this, on your fear. 

“You’re insane, some kind of freak.” You whisper, voice crackling as you try to hold back sobs. 

“Now come on, let's play nice. It doesn’t have to be all bad, sweetheart.” He shifts again, those black, endless voids staring back into your own aching, burning eyes. “It’s simple: you give me what I want, and we can both still have a good time. No harm done.” 

Only an objectively insane person would present that like a real option, as if he hadn’t terrorized you in your own home, hadn’t violated your safety, hadn’t manhandled you into compliance. 

You sneer at the mask, nearly bearing your teeth like some kind of cornered animal. “Fuck you and fuck your good time.”

His hand moves, significantly faster than your reflexes, and grips your jaw painfully, so tightly you’re afraid he might shatter the bone. “You can be such a shit listener.” It throws you for a loop, hearing him speak like he knows you, and your eyes widen while a whimper spills past your lips. “Theres plenty of time for that later,” his thumb moves to brush back and forth over your bottom lip, a gesture so tender it’s wildly at odds with the present situation. “But right now, you’re gonna give me what I want or else those cops you work with might be cleaning your guts up off the carpet in the morning. And I’d really, really hate for it to end that way.”

In the silence that descends over you both you realize there’s realistically no other way. You can’t overpower him, your phone vanished in the struggle, and even if you could get away, who's to say anyone would believe you needed help? You could be brushed off as just someone with an overly elaborate costume. Despair seeps through your body, oozing thick and sticky as tar, a pitch black loss of hope that could swallow you entirely. You can only pray he’s telling the truth, that once you’ve done what he asked you’ll at least be alive when the sun rises. Whatever consolation that may be.

He sees it, he must, because you notice the way he relaxes ever so slightly before pulling away from you again. You feel both in and beyond the confines of your body as he grabs your ankles, yanking you back down into a lying position, like you’re just a doll that needs posing. 

“Good girl.” That electric voice purrs and you can’t help the bodily reaction those words produce in you, tiny shivers quaking down your spine and spreading out over your ribs. Maybe if you pretend it’s someone else that’ll make it easier, at least bearable. His hands feel hot even through the gloves, like he could brand you with imprints of his grip right on your calves. 

“The pajamas are cute,” He gestures to the fuzzy pants covered in a cartoon cat pattern and you feel embarrassment curling around the edges of your brain, “but I’m more interested in whats under them.” 

It doesn’t shock you, in fact his words produce no reaction in your head. You were already preparing for something like this. With a pathetic whine your arms move mechanically, hesitating as they rest against the waistband of your pants. Point of no return. That's what this is, isn’t it? Would it be better to be gutted in your own bedroom, but at least have your pride intact? No, if you’re dead you’re powerless to prevent anything being done to you after that. 

So your thumbs hook in the waistband, pulling them down as your entire body is wracked with tremors so violent you almost lose your grip but with one lift of your hips they’re down past your ass and he's pulling them the rest of the way off, icy mid autumn air kissing the skin of your thighs like a reverent lover. Once those are tossed into some corner of the floor his attention returns to you, grabbing your legs again to position them wide, spread eagle and with a jolt of shame you realize you can feel your clit starting to throb against your underwear at the attention. 

“Bet you got a really pretty pussy, huh?” His fingers delicately travel up and down your calves, like hes trying to both soothe you and rile you up. Unfortunately for you, your body seems to welcome the touch, the tremors morphing into a wholly different sort of twitching as you lay there feeling moisture slicking the gusset of your panties. 

You close your eyes, steeling yourself to feel his touch moving higher but it never comes, instead it vanishes altogether and you almost whine at the absence. You feel delirious, like you’re quickly losing the thread of your previous conviction, crumbing after just a few gentle touches. It makes you feel weak, disgusted with yourself. 

“Ah ah, open your eyes for me. You have to do the work, it’s your show.” He settles back on his knees once more, clearly waiting for you to continue, play your part. 

It’s like stage fright, the nervousness you feel with his eyes on you yet wholly beyond your own vision. It’s not like you’ve never masturbated, as a grown woman you’ve confidently explored your body as thoroughly as possible, it’s the fact that a masked stranger is waiting in eager anticipation to watch your fingers dive into your cunt. 

But it’s also oddly… thrilling. Your heads all fucked up from the mixed singles between body and brain, like you fell in water and aren’t able to properly orient yourself right side up but maybe it would be easier to give in, accept it at this stage. It’s already progressed this far, right?

Maybe it is my show.

You feel light, somehow untethered as your breathing settles down, one hand running over the peaks of your breasts and down your stomach, creeping towards the waistband of your underwear. As your fingers toy with the elastic your eyes never stray from the mask, watching as his hips adjust again. It’s flattering in its own messed up way, that in this situation you do hold a particular kind of power over him. Your teeth snag against your lip as you tug the silky pair down, painfully slow, just to torture him a little bit. And you would be the biggest liar on earth if you were to say it didn’t inflate your ego like a helium balloon when you heard his sharp inhale as more of your pussy came into his view. 

“Oh shit,” he says and you laugh, despite yourself you do, dissolving into barely contained giggles. 

“What, are you a psychotic virgin or something?” you tease, forgetting momentarily that he very well could make good on his threat of spilling your organs across the floor a la Jack the Ripper. 

“Look who's enjoying herself now, huh?” 

You laugh again, at the naked absurdity of it all this time. You're about to masturbate in front of some masked stalker that threatened to kill you. What does it matter anymore if you’re afraid or not?

Your shaky laugh dips off into a soft moan as your fingers brush through your folds, finding them slick and your hips jerk as your index bumps against your clit, sensitive and needy. Under normal circumstances maybe you’d take a little more time but a part of you does want this over with as soon as possible. You just hope you’re able to come, because that’s probably part of what he wants to see. 

But it’s better to not focus on it too hard or else you probably won't be able to, so you decide to veer in a different direction, wield a little more of this newfound power over the situation. 

“Why can’t I hear your voice?” You ask, making your voice as sugary as possible, letting your lips stay parted as you rub slow, loose circles over your clit. His eyes have to be devouring the sight, you’re sure of it, but to make sure you adjust your hips a bit so they’re as wide as you can accommodate. 

He doesn’t answer you, but you remain undeterred. “I could probably come if I heard you.” 

“Don’t tease so much.” He tries, and fails, to sound firm but you hear the crack in his voice regardless of the masks alteration. You’re wearing him down, at least a little bit. 

“Don’t you wanna watch me come?” Your other hand comes up to squeeze and grope at your clothed chest as you gently swirl two fingers around your entrance before slowly pushing in, your mouth dropping open in a silent keel. The only sound in the bedroom outside your own heavy breathing is the soft, sticky squelching of your fingers curling against slick walls, plunging in and out of yourself at a languid pace. 

“Fuck, yeah I do.” The fake voice carries with it an honest tone of wonder, of bare and dangerous craving. 

“Want you to touch me,” you gasp out, rolling one of your nipples between your fingers. “Please.” You can see how hard he is, the black tactical pants doing absolutely nothing to hide the full erection he's clearly sporting because of you. 

And it works, you know it’s working, that he must be doing some kind of cost benefit analysis of it all in his head without realizing you’re laying the foundations of a sort of psychosexual coup. Without a word he climbs off the bed and your self ministrations halt, curiosity and a twinge of that fear return as you watch him unlace heavy dark boots, letting them thump against your carpet, before you watch with wide eyes as he undoes his belt, painfully slow.

It’s obvious he’s well built, you could feel that when he had you locked in his hold earlier, but as you catch a glimpse of his lower abdomen as he strips off the dark, heavy material you find yourself struggling to keep a hold of your sanity. Before you can even think to yourself, god he must be huge, you’re getting a perfect eyefull of him as his cock springs free from the confines of his boxers. Painfully girthy, just the sight makes your eyes water all over again, and hit cut tip was flushed a pretty shade of blush pink, shiny with smeared precum and you can’t help but think of how much it sucks that a dick like that is attached to a guy like this. It's a shame, really.

Either way, you’re glad to have given yourself some prep via your little “show” for him. As long as he doesn't say something like-

"Put your arms up, above your head."

You don't let on that you've got anything in your head besides fear tinged lust, obediently raising your arms up and making sure your wrists are together so he can loop the belt around. It'll be easier if he truly believes you're beaten down, pliant, rather than frantically flipping through a mental index of potential options. You weren't totally screwed even with your arms bound. With any luck, he'll tie it loose without realizing and you could slip the belt at the perfect opportunity.

But you panic, far too early, and grab the leather strap as soon as it's in reach. Of course he anticipated it, but didn't predict you'd have some renewed energy after your previous adrenaline crash so he doesn't quite block you from it in time. Or rather, he doesn't block your hand that comes down on the mask in your mixed tangle of limbs, knocking it askew and in a snap decision you yank it off revealing blonde strands and a pair of shockingly, stomach churningly familiar blue eyes.

The world holds still. More accurately, it's like a miniature atomic bomb has detonated in your home, only instead of blowing out windows and collapsing the roof it brings your racing mind and overactive nervous system to a screeching halt.

As you both breathe heavily neither of you moves a muscle, not even by one miniscule inch. With all the speed of a drop of pitch landing in a dish you feel your features twist, your hands shake so badly with anger, with disbelief. With want.

"You know I was thinking about you, before I fell asleep?" You say, barely audible but you know he hears by the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. "I was thinking about how god, you're just so nice and what if I was confusing that for something romantic?"

Your hands move as you speak, coming to cradle his face in your hands, moving in until the tip of your nose is almost touching his. You can hear the way he swallows, hard and thick, his entire body as tense as a live wire in your grasp.

"Its so fucked up, but you know, this isn't even a deal breaker for me." And at that revelation you laugh, staring into his ice blue eyes like you've just shared an intimate joke. "You said you know everything," you pull the word out, like it's stuck between your teeth, "well, there are some things about me no one knows."

Smiling now, you feel more whole and in control then you have all night and it's reflected in your movements all lithe and predatory as you straddle him, feeling the head of his still semi hard cock brush against your cunt. That sends satisfaction licking, white hot, down your back and you can feel yourself getting wet again. The truth feels fizzy, tight, in your chest as if you swallowed a baby bird that was now frantically beating its wings against the cage of your stomach.

"I'll tell you this, and we can call it even, okay?" You stare into his eyes again, hunting for anxiety or trepidation, but find none.

"Okay." He says it slow, distrustful. Well, you'll see in a moment how trustworthy your little crush really is.

"I know you were there, on scene, with some of those bodies they found in the forest out by the lake last Halloween?" He nods and you continue. "Mhm, that last girl? A screamer. God it was horrible, she just wouldn't shut the hell up. Finally I just ended up jamming the handle of the axe right in her mouth. Have you ever heard a jawbone splinter?"

"That was you?" His tone is critical and you do your best not to bristle, you have to tread carefully now.

You nod. "It was. It's a bit of a... Family tradition, basically. All those disappearances every so often, always on Halloween? They weren't all me, that'd be impossible, but I did learn from the best." You smile at him again, tasting fresh blood in your mouth as you brush a stray bit of hair from his face.

To your surprise he follows your touch, like he's chasing after it, and you're nearly overcome with giddiness. Is this what they mean when they say that people feel lighter after telling the truth?

"Are you gonna kill me?" This time it's his turn to wonder, to ask in that adorably nervous tone they all do. The same one that gets you unbelievably wound up, a spring loaded bearing just waiting to snap.

You giggle again, all sugar and syrupy sweetness. "Of course not, I really do like you, you know. That's not a lie or a trick."

To emphasize it you push yourself down a little, just enough that you can fully feel him pressing against your soaked pussy, and enough to feel that he's unbelievably hard. It's enough to make you feel dizzy, lightheaded. You genuinely believed there was never, would never, be anyone who really understood you. And more than that: could love you regardless.

"Y'know, we can still put that belt to use... If you want." Your lips ghost over his as you whisper it, and you can hear his breathing freeze in his throat.

"You still up for that?" He sounds both incredulous and horny, hands running up and down your sides, bunching your top up until you reach down, pulling it over your head to be cast into the abyss with your other clothes with a grin.

"No mask this time, I wanna see you." You coo at him, clambering off his lap to stretch out on your back against the bed.

At that he cracks a small smile, eyes glazed over in awe as he stares at you and it makes you preen. He's just like you. A perfect match. Leon doesn't keep you waiting, just as eager and clumsy as he was when you first met and it endears you to him all over again.

His lips capture yours in a kiss full of heat, like opening an oven door only to be blasted in the face with searing air, and your teeth clack together as your tongues slip serpentine over and under one another. By the time he pulls away to trail spit slick kisses down your throat you feel that ache coming back into your clit full force.

You whimper, clutching at his shoulders and tugging at the shirt he still had on, desperate for full skin to skin contact. Luckily he obliges your neediness quickly, yanking the offending cotton barricade over his head and adding it to the forlorn pile.

With a shy smile he grabs for the forgotten belt and you once more obediently raise your arms above your head, this time with no ulterior motives than the selfish anticipation of pleasure. You do make a mental note however to ask how he feels about asphyxiation later.

As the leather settles against your skin you give a few light, experimental tugs, gasping when you feel his lips travel across your chest, between your breasts, and over the plane of your stomach until hes scooting back, warm breath fanning over your inner thighs and causing a fresh round of goosebumps to rise over your arms.

You can't help but squirm as he kisses the side of your knee, your thigh, coming so so close to where you want him but then veering to give the other leg the same treatment.

"I should have figured you're, ah, a huge tease." You barely get the words out as his tongue flicks, light and gentle between your folds.

After that one taste the man between your legs transforms in some way you can't identify, like some new neural pathway was unlocked the moment his tongue touched you and his arms hook around your thighs, fingers digging so harshly into the flesh you can feel the sting of his nails threatening to break the surface and he sucks in your clit with abandon.

You can't help the way your mouth drops open in a silent wail, hips lifting up from the bed as if you're trying to make sure he doesn't let up for even a second but you don't have to worry, the slurping and suckling noises crowding your bedroom emphasize just how focused he is on lavishing you.

It's unlike anything you've ever had before, the feeling of his mouth overpowers your other senses, leaves no room in your head for anything except him, him, him. Your fingers grip his hair, pulling less than gently on his silken locks, but it doesn't deter him or even slightly distract him.

The pressure in your abdomen quickly builds to catastrophic levels, and his name is ripped violently from your throat in a primal wail as your hips grind against his face, the burn in your legs coming from both the overextended muscles and the fact that his nails have broken skin, little beads of bright crimson dotting the surface.

Pain and pleasure in equal parts, to you that is bliss of the highest order. And finally, like a gift fallen from the sky right into your lap, there's someone who might understand that.

As you come down from your orgasm visions of blue eyes, bloodied floors, a boyish grin, and steaming viscera blend behind your eyes and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

relatable literally "___ [insert absurd number here] wips and counting" is my motto

I need to stop having ideas when im working on a totally unrelated thing. wip hell

FUCK I ALMOST FORGO5 😭

ALSO KITA UR A AESPA FAN 💍💍💍

AESPA SOLOS RELEASE TOMORROW !!!