slashire

[slashire]

again.

Summary: you were in a very toxic and abusive relationship with your ex, until you had the courage to leave, but that decision still haunts you and so does your ex. But this time it was so much worse to the point that Eddie found out what he had done to you.

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Notes / Warnings: Domestic violence, description of bruises and wounds, very detail oriented this time. This was a request from someone who didn't want their request attached to this post so I hope I did this justice. I took forever to write this cause I am also working on other fanfics including part 5 of one hell of a headache but it's no where near done. Not proofread

Words: 5270

The night still burned behind your eyes like an old film reel scratched and skipping in all the wrong places. You'd barely managed to lock your front door behind you after stumbling in, every breath like fire in your ribs, every blink forcing back the threat of unconsciousness. Blood drying at your temple, the sting of split skin blooming somewhere beneath your hairline. You didn't bother to check. The bastard had left you bleeding, dazed, and alone, again. The house was spinning, and you hadn't even made it to your bed. Just the floor by your couch, your knees gave in and your fingers tangled in the carpet like you were trying to fuse into the world.

When morning came, you woke in a daze, your head throbbed like it was pulsing against your skull. The sun burned through the window. You couldn't even lift your arm without feeling a pull deep in the muscle, a fire set off beneath the skin. You had bruises on your sides, your ribs, your lower back, your thighs, fingerprint shaped, blooming all kinds of colors. But you got up. You had to. School waited for no one.

Your stomach screamed when you rolled to sit up, you couldn't take a full breath without pain cutting across your ribs like a knife. You stood up, slow, clutching the cushions of the couch.

By the time you were walking through the front doors of the school, you were already running on fumes. Every sound was too loud, every light too bright. Your steps were slow, deliberate. Your hoodie, too big on purpose, hung low and heavy, masking the way your shoulders sagged and how you were clenching your jaw so tight it ached. 

Your legs barely held. Every step was shaky, your breath catching in your throat like it was snagged on barbed wire. The blood behind your ear had dried. It crusted into your hair, hidden beneath the hood you weren't going to take off today. No one had noticed. Not when he shoved you. Not when he throws you to the floor. Not when you'd barely managed to crawl away from him and out the back door once he passed out drunk again. 

No one ever noticed you thought.

The hallways blurred like watercolors bleeding together. Every step you took down the hallway was too loud in your ears. Every locker slamming shut felt like a blow to your already throbbing head. You held your books against your stomach like a shield, wincing when they shifted against the deep bruises beneath your hoodie. Bruises that bloomed in shades of violet and ugly storm gray and many other colors but you hadn't even looked at all of them, didn't need to. You could feel them every time you moved, or breathed. 

You almost fell twice during second period but laughed it off when someone looked your way. Third period came around and you nearly threw up from the spinning in your head. But you kept going. Eddie didn't see you until then. He'd been caught up running around with Hellfire prep and Dustin, always too much going on in that brain of his. He didn't notice right away. He was his usual chaotic self in the back of your third period class, feet propped up, twirling a pencil between ring covered fingers, mouthing off to Mr. Palmer just enough to piss him off without getting kicked out. He winked at you when you walked in late, and you managed the weakest half smile you could.

You hadn't even brushed your hair that well. You could feel it in the way it clung to your neck, a little damp still, like you'd been in a rush. You had. You'd barely made it to school.

By lunch, your hands were shaking so badly you couldn't even open your soda. You weren't hungry, you hadn't eaten since yesterday, but the thought of food turned your stomach anyway. The pain in your side was screaming, the swelling in your temple pulsing beneath your hood, hidden under the drawstring you kept tugged to tight. You were swaying a little in your seat when Eddie slid into the spot next to you in the cafeteria.

He nudged your leg with the side of his knee under the table. “Hey. you look like you got hit by a truck. No offense.”

You swallowed down bile. Gave him a smirk that looked more like a grimace. “Didn't sleep.”

“Yeah?” he popped a fry in his mouth, chewing. “Late night party without me?”

You shrugged, trying not to wince. Your ribs were screaming at the motion. “Something like that.”

His brow furrowed. “What? You mean we’re both sleep deprived and you didn't even call to keep me company during your midnight existential spiral? I'm hurt.” he tried to coax a smile from you. You gave him something that almost counted, but it faded just as quick.

“You eat anything today?”

“No,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the table.

“Well, we're fixing that after school,” he declared, stealing the soda from in front of you and cracking it open himself. He slid it back toward you. “Youre coming to my place. I'm making… well, something edible. Possibly.”

You nodded. It was easier than arguing. Easier than speaking. His worry deepened. “Hey,” he said more softly. “You sure you're alright?”

You nodded again, too eager to end the conversation. He didn't press. Not then. He just sat beside you until the bell rang, fingers twitching at his knees, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. Watching as everyone dismissed from the table in twos.

By the end of the day, your vision was starting to go fuzzy again. You clutched your locker door for support and prayed no one saw how hard you were gripping it. Every few seconds, the world tilted just enough to make you nauseous. Your backpack felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. You blinked hard, over and over, trying to focus, trying not to stagger, trying to look normal. Your feet barely lifted off the ground as you walked. Each step scraped your bootsole across the floor like your legs forgot how to function.

Shutting your locker and making your way outside you swore you heard someone behind you but couldn't turn your head, your only goal was to make it out to the parking lot to wait for Eddie. You made it out to wait by the fence near the building, hunched slightly trying to steady your breathing, hoping he will see you standing there where you don't have to walk all the way to the end of the lot.  The late afternoon heat clung to your skin like glue, but you were freezing inside. Wrapped in a thick hoodie despite the sun, arms locked tight around your stomach, you swayed slightly. Your body was screaming for you to lie down, and your head, god, your head was splitting. 

Every breath stung. Every breeze burned. Your back ached, your ribs pulled with every inhale, and something in your side felt…wrong. Real wrong. Internal wrong. Like something had shifted when he kicked you, and now it throbbed with each jolt of movement. 

You wanted to sleep. No, you wanted to lie down on the ground and stop existing for a while. Just a few minutes. Just long enough to make the pressure behind her eyes go away. The pounding in your head was growing louder, deeper, every pulse like a drumbeat in your skull. You didn't even notice the silence creeping up around you. The way the leftover buzz of students faded. The lot was mostly cleared now.

But then you heard his voice. Your ex behind you, too close. You stiffened before you turned.

Like a shadow crawling out of the pavement. His voice cut through your haze before you could even react. “You ignoring me now?” he growled, stepping closer. “You run off last night like a little bitch and you're just gonna pretend nothing happened?”

You tried to back away, your heart punching your ribs. “Dont-”

He grabbed your wrist. Hard. yanking you back against the fence. The flimsy metal slammed into your back, and your head reeled from the impact. “Im talking to you,” he hissed, breath sour with anger. “You think you can just blow me off? Huh?”

Your knees buckled slightly, but you didn't fall, you didn't want to give him the satisfaction. “Stop.. please, just leave.” He grabbed your hoodie, twisted it in his fist. “You think Munson’s gonna save you? Guy’s a freak. He doesn't give a shit.” your breath hitched as he gave you one more shove, sending you stumbling backward into the fence again, pain shot up your spine. You started to frantically look around for your curly headed best friend but couldn't see him anywhere. 

Where are you Eddie?

“You gonna run to your freak boyfriend?” he sneered, stepping closer. “Gonna whine to him about how rough I was?” his hand shot out, grabbing the strap of your backpack, yanking you forward. Your injured ribs collided with his arm and white hot pain rocketed through your torso. You choked on your breath. Your knees buckled. You clenched your jaw to keep from screaming.

“Dont touch me,” you gasped, voice thin.

He grinned. “Or what? You’re gonna limp away again?” he shoved you back. Your foot twisted and you stumbled into the metal fence again, the chain link rattling behind you. 

“I swear to god-” you started, hand trembling as you pushed off the fence, “just leave..”

But he didn't, he stepped forward again, one more shove. You cried out as your hip struck one of the metal poles in the fence. The pain crawled up your back, behind your eyes, until everything blurred with tears brimming your eyes. “Dont,” you rasped, already retreating back into the fence. “Dont start again.”

He laughed. “Start? Baby, I already started. I'm just waiting to see what you say to him. Bet you haven't even told him.” grabbing your arm once again.

Then you saw Eddie's van pulling up through the side lot, your ex did too. And he dropped your arm like it burned. “Cute. Of course.” his eyes flicked back to yours. “Better hope he doesn't find out how much of a mess you are.” and then he turned and walked off like nothing had happened. Like you weren't seconds away from collapsing.

Eddie hadn't seen any of it. He was climbing out of his van when you walked over to him from where you were somewhat standing, waving, curls bouncing as he jogged around to the passenger side. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he called out, flashing a sheepish grin. “Got held up by Henderson. You know how he is when he gets in a DnD mood. Wouldn't shut up about this new campaign we’re- hey, you okay?”

You nodded. 

“C’mere.” he opened the door for you, gesturing like a chauffeur. “M’lady.” you forced a smile, sliding gingerly into the seat. Every muscle in your body screamed. Every breath felt shallow and sharp. You barely heard him close your door. He quickly jogged back around to the drivers side and hopped in, putting it back in drive.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he frowned as he pulled out of the lot. “Youre gonna waste away, huh? Don't worry, we'll get some food in you soon.”

You let him ramble. Let his voice fill the space between you like cotton stuffing, something to lean on. You kept your eyes forward, hoping he wouldn't notice the way you were holding yourself so still. Like you'd shatter if you moved. Halfway there, your vision went double. Then triple. The world was dipping and darkening at the edges, and your fingers kept clenching in your lap, trying to fight it off.

“Youre really quiet,” he said softly, glancing over at you. “You sure you're okay?”

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Like I said you'll feel better once I feed you,” he promised. “And if you don't, we’ll put on something dumb, and you can crash on my couch. Deal?”

You agreed.

By the time you pulled into the gravel driveway, your eyes couldn't focus anymore. Eddie parked, killing the engine. “Aliright, give me a sec, I gotta clear some shit off the counter, but then we’ll-” he was already out of the van, voice trailing as he walked ahead. You reached for the door opening it, and the second your foot hit the ground everything dropped out from under you. Your knees buckled. Your hands didn't catch you in time. The sky swung hard and fast, your head felt like a hammer. Except arms caught you mid fall. 

“Hey, whoa hey, hey, hey! Whoa! Shit!”  his voice was suddenly everywhere, urgent and panicked. “Sweetheart? Sweetheart? What the hell?!” you could barely hear him. You were warm and dizzy, falling even though you weren't. 

“Jesus, you're burning up. What-? What happened? Talk to me, hey, open your eyes, c’mon-”

You blinked slowly, just enough to see his terrified face hovering over you.  “He did it again…” you whispered. Your lips barely moved. “What? His voice broke. “Who?” 

“He..” your eyes rolled back before you could finish. He caught you to his chest as your body went slack. “No. No no no no no. Fuck.” 

He didn't waste a second. He lifted you up, cradling your body carefully, whispering your name the entire way inside. “It's okay, I've got you, sweetheart, I'm right here…”

He laid you on his bed, tried not to panic, tried not to cry. And then your hoodie rode up, his breath caught. The bruises were everywhere. Across your hips, your ribs, blooming down your back in grotesque shapes. Fingerprints. Kicks. Blows. He stepped back like he’d been stabbed. Then he stepped forward again, leaning down, checking your breath. You were breathing, shallow, ragged, but breathing. He stood and his face changed, the panic, the softness, gone. All that was left was fury. Cold, coiled fury. A rage that burned low in his gut like fire in the pit of hell. He stormed out the door, teeth gritted, jaw locked, eyes burning.

And when the van roared to life, gravel spraying as it tore out of the driveway.

The van's engine snarled beneath Eddie's hands like it shared his fury, like it wanted blood just as much as he did. He could barely see straight, white knuckling the steering wheel so tight his rings dug into his fingers. The gravel left on his tires churned behind the tires, spitting dirt and dust into the air like the world itself was reacting to the storm boiling in his chest. He couldn't stop seeing it. The bruises, the way your body felt limp in his arms. The way your voice cracked when you said he did this.

That son of a bitch.

His mind wasn't even forming thoughts anymore. Just flashes of rage and instinct, everything in him screaming that someone had hurt you. That someone thought they could lay hands on you and walk around like they didn't just commit something unforgivable.

He hit the turn hard, tires squealing, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His foot slammed the gas, engine roaring down the empty stretch of road toward the old neighborhood on the east side of Hawkins, the one with the broken fences and beer cans in the yards, where your ex still lived with a dad who wasn't much better than he was.

He pulled up in front of his house and charged up the pathway towards the front door. He didn't knock when he got there. Didn't bother with a polite warning. He kicked the goddamn door in. It flew open with a crack, slamming into the wall behind it. The house stank like stale smoke and cheap liquor, the TV blaring some game show no one was watching, a beer bottle half empty on the table, and there he was on the couch.

Shirtless, cocky smirk halfway up his face, at least until he looked up and saw Eddie Munson standing there like something dragged up out of the dark, breathing like a man one second from snapping.

“What the-?” he didn't get to finish. Eddie was already across the room. Already grabbing the front of his shirt and slamming him up against the wall so hard the drywall cracked beneath his shoulder blades 

“You piece of shit,” Eddie spat, voice low and venomous, nose to nose with him now. “You laid your hands on her?”

Your ex sneered, trying to play it cool, even as his lip curled in a snarl. “Who the hell do you think you are-?”

Eddie punched him, just once. Just once to get it through his head. Across the jaw, bone to bone. Rings scraping skin. Your ex reeled, stumbled back into the wall with a grunt, spitting blood. “You crazy fuck-!”

“You left bruises all over her,” he growled, advancing slowly towards him again, eyes wild. “She couldn't walk, you sick bastard! She passed out in my fucking arms!” another hit, this time to the gut, a brutal hook that made him double over, wheezing, stumbling toward the table. “She kept saying she was just tired, that she didn't sleep well,” he said, voice shaking now, not from fear, but from fury so sharp it could cut. “She was scared, you fucking coward!”

Your ex lunged, maybe thinking he could get the upper hand, but Eddie was faster. His hand closed around the guy's wrist, twisting, and slammed him into the table hard enough that the leg of it snapped under the weight of him. “I should kill you,” he snarled through his teeth. “I should fucking end you.”

Your ex struggled, breathless and red faced. “It wasn't even that bad, she-”

“Say her name,” Eddie hissed, grabbing him by his arms and shoving him back into the wall. “Go on. Say her goddamn name.”

Silence.

Your ex's eyes darted around, for a weapon, for an escape, for anything. Eddie's chest heaved, heart racing, blood roaring in his ears. He stared down at the pathetic shell of a man in front of him, shaking now, a split lip and a bruised ego, and still too damn smug for what he'd done.

“You don't get to touch her again,” he said slowly, voice full of steel and hate. “You don't get to look at her again. You dont get to exist in the same fucking vicinity as her.” he stepped back, not because he was done, but because if he kept going, he wouldnt stop. And you needed him back, still breathing, still yours, so he walked toward the door, but before he stepped out, he turned back, eyes dark as sin, lips curled.

“If she so much as sees you again,” his voice dropped to a whisper, dangerous and cold. “I wont stop at your fucking jaw.” Then he left, slamming the remaining door behind him so hard a picture frame fell off the wall.

Back in the van, his hands were shaking. Not from him but from what he saw earlier, you folded up in his bed, pale and hurt. He peeled out from in front of his house, engine screaming, and the whole ride back was a blur of fury and guilt and panic crashing together. He should've noticed sooner. Should've seen it at school, at lunch, in the way you barely spoke. He should've pulled over when he saw how quiet you were in the van. He should’ve fucking known.

When he pulled into the driveway again, he practically jumped out before the engine stopped, he ran for the door.

“Sweetheart-” he called out, voice tight with fear. “Im back, baby, im here…” he didn't know if could hear him. Didn't know if you were still asleep, or if you'd even woken up since he left. All he knew was that he needed to see you. Now. To make sure you were still breathing, to lay beside you and not leave your side again.

And when your body trembled in your sleep again, just a soft, almost imperceptible shudder under the blankets, he was already moving before he realized it. His hand flew to yours. “Hey…hey, shh, you're okay,” he whispered, his voice trembling as badly as his fingers. He cupped your palm with both hands, rubbing warmth into it like his skin could somehow transfer safety. “Its just a dream. You're safe now, sweetheart, I swear.”

You didn't wake, didn't even stir. But that little tremor had set his heart racing again, thudding against his ribs like it wanted to burst through his chest. He leaned in slowly, shifting closer, propping himself on one elbow beside you. His curls dangled over his cheek, and his eyes scanned every inch of your face like he could read your condition just by looking, the bruising around your temple, the little cuts along your cheekbone, the color of your lips. Your lashes twitched, but your face stayed slack. Your breathing shallow, tight.

Still burning up, still too pale. He reached for the cloth again, running it down your cheek with soft, trembling fingers, just enough to cool the heat radiating off your skin. He pressed it across your forehead for a few seconds, then gently against your throat. You let out a faint, pained breath at the touch. He froze. But you didn't flinch away.

You were still somewhere far beneath the surface, and he hated it, hated not being able to reach you. Not being able to do anything. So he did the only thing he could, he stayed. 

He fixed the blankets where they’d slipped from your shoulder. He adjusted the pillow to keep your head elevated. He wrapped the cool rag filled with ice in an old band tee and slid it carefully beside your hip, where the bruising looked the worst. He made sure every window in the trailer was locked, and he shut the curtains tight. And when you shifted again, letting out a soft moan, a sound that cut right through him, he whispered. “Im here. You don't have to be scared anymore. I'm right here, baby.”

He lowered himself back beside you again, slower this time, his chest barely touching the edge of the part pulled over your ribs. His arm curled up near your head, the other still resting protectively by your hand. The dim lamplight lit his face with a warm glow but the expression it revealed was anything but calm. His brows were tight. Eyes bloodshot and glassy. His lower lip pulled between his teeth, like if he didn't bite down, the grief would come pouring out of his mouth and drown him.

“You don't know what it did to me,” he whispered after a long moment, voice almost inaudible. “Seeing you like that. Holding you in my arms and watching you just…drop.” his throat bobbed.

“I thought I was too late.” 

The words tasted bitter in his mouth, like failure. He reached out and slowly brushed your hair back again. His rings were cold against your overheated skin, but his touch was careful, reverent. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known,” he whispered, pressing his forehead gently to the side of the pillow, not quite touching you but close. “You were so quiet. At lunch…in the van…I kept talking. God. I kept talking like an idiot while you were sitting there dying next to me.”

He laughed softly. It wasn't amused. It was the kind of laugh that came with tears clinging to your lashes and a weight pressing down on your chest. His eyes shifted back to you again. “Youre the strongest person I've ever known. And you still thought you had to hide this,” he said, more to himself than to you. “What the hell did he do to you to make you think you had to stay quiet? That you deserved this?” his voice cracked again.

He reached down, not to shake you, not to wake you, but to lay his hand gently over yours again. Just so you'd know he was there. Even in your sleep, even in whatever hellscape your brain was locked in. “im not leaving,” he promised, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Youre gonna wake up, and I'll still be here. Every second. You're gonna open your eyes, and I'll be right here. Ill make you soup, or…hell, toast if that's all I can manage. You can sleep in my bed, take my favorite shirt, break my damn stereo- whatever. Just please…” 

He let the words hang there.

Just please wake up.

Your chest rose and fell. Your skin was flushed. But your body was still, save for the occasional twitch, and he was still holding on, like he could transfer his strength through his fingers if he just willed it hard enough. He sat back again after a long while, his body tense and exhausted, and pulled one of the old beanbags from the corner of the room. He set it near the bed, curled himself into it like a watchdog, and dragged his denim jacket over his shoulders. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the occasional creak of the trailer settling. 

The room was dark this time. Quieter than before. Still. 

The curtains had been drawn shut, but a sliver of the night sky crept in through the edge of the window, just enough to paint the ceiling with a faint glow. The air was warmer now, the heavy scent of old incense lingering in the corners, weed and everything smelled faintly of eddies cologne. That cheap, woodsy, smoky stuff that always stuck to his jackets and made your chest tighten.

Your chest.

You stirred with a soft, pained inhale, the pressure flaring again around your ribs, like your whole torso was bound in invisible barbed wire. The bruises throbbed with every breath, dull and constant. Your head still pounded. The weight of your own body hadn't changed. But something had. You weren't alone. You turned your head, slowly, so slowly it felt like your neck was rusted shut, and your eyes landed on the slumped shape next to the bed.

Eddie.

He was asleep, somehow, in that tiny beanbag that didn't even belong there. Probably dragged in from the closet. His head had fallen to the side and was propped awkwardly against his shoulder, mouth parted slightly, curls a little wild. One hand dangled from the beanbag, and the other was still clutched in yours, fingers threaded through your own, holding on even in sleep. His rings were ice cold against your skin. Yours were clammy.

Your lips barely moved when you whispered. “Eddie?”

It was barely audible. Just a broken scrape of your voice, like air through cracked glass. But he stirred instantly. A sharp breath caught in his chest. His eyes opened, wide and immediately alert. He blinked once, then snapped upright with a jolt that made that beanbag fold weird under him.

“Shit- sweetheart?” his voice cracked, raw from sleep. He scrambled forward, knees hitting the side of the bed, both hands reaching now, hovering inches above your face like he didn't know where to touch first. “Are you awake? Are you really-? Shit, hey. Talk to me, baby.”

You swallowed against the dry ache in your throat, tears already stinging behind your eyes. “I'm here…”

He made a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and immediately lowered his head against your hand, kissing the inside of your palm like a prayer. “Youre here,” he repeated, quieter this time. “God, you're here. You scared the shit out of me, i…i didn't know if you were gonna-” he cut himself off, pressing his eyes shut. “You were out for so long.”

You blinked slowly, disoriented. “How long…?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” he murmured, brushing your hair off your forehead. His hand was shaking again. “Almost eleven hours. You woke up once, real quick, but then you were gone again. You had a fever and your breathing was-” his voice cracked, he took a breath and tried again. “I barely slept. I didn't leave. I didn't even blink, I swear.” he lied about not leaving only because he didn't want to worry you.

He looked exhausted. His eyes were pink rimmed, dark underneath, like he hadn't closed them in years. His leg was bouncing faintly, a nervous tick he hadn't managed to quiet. But he still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like your heartbeat kept his going.

“It's okay, I'm okay,” you whispered. “I think.”

“You're not,” he said quickly, but without accusation. It was soft and honest. “Youre not okay. But you're here. You're awake. That's all that matters.”

You turned your face into the pillow slightly, hiding your expression. “I didn't think I'd make it home yesterday night…”

He didn't say anything for a moment, you felt the mattress shift as he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle anything. He reached down and brought the blanket up a little more around your shoulders. Then quietly, “you could've told me about it.”

You let that hang in the air for a moment, until the guilt twisted tight in your gut. “I didn't mean for you to see me like that.”

He reached down, slowly, gently, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You mean hurt? Or scared? Or so strong that you dragged yourself through hell and still somehow made it back?” you looked up at him, blinking through the fog in your eyes. He gave a soft smile, broken and tired but real. “You can show me everything, sweetheart. I don't care how ugly it feels. I'm not going anywhere.”

The silence that followed wasn't awkward, it wasn't heavy, it was something else, something tender. Like the hush after a storm, when the wind has died down but the air still buzzes with what just passed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, featherlight, barely there, careful not to touch the bruised side of your face.

“Im gonna get you something to drink,” he murmured. “Maybe some toast or something? I know you said you hadn't eaten, and i don’t wanna push, but-”

“Stay?”

He froze. You looked up at him, voice barely above a whisper. “Just a little longer.”

He exhaled slowly and nodded. “Of course, sweetheart.” He kicked his boots off, crawled up slowly beside you, not to close, not touching anything unless you moved first. He laid on his side, one arm under his head, the other stretched above the blanket to gently thread his pinky around yours. The room was warm. Safe. You didn't need to run, not this time, not with him.

“Ill stay.” 

[slashire]

do you want a kiss?

Summary: you hang out with Eddie on his couch while watching the latest movie he picked up and things go down a path that you've been hoping for forever.

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

notes/warnings: best friends to lovers, candy play, praise kink, hair pulling, grinding, p in v. i was eating Hershey kisses when i thought of this tbh.  MINORS DNI

Words: 2515

The smell of weed, popcorn, and that musky cologne Eddie swore wasn't cologne but just his ‘natural scent’ lingered thick in the small living room of his trailer. The couch squealed beneath your weight every time one of you shifted, which was often given how many times Eddie had accidentally elbowed you or kicked your ankle during the horror flick he insisted was so bad it's good.

You were curled up beside him, his blanket thrown loosely over your legs, your socked feet brushing up against his denim clad calves. The old VHS was halfway through its runtime, grainy visuals flickering across the screen while a cheap synthesizer score buzzed through his living room speakers. You glanced over at him, he was sitting lower now, legs stretched out, one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, the one that just happened to be behind your shoulders. His fingers tapped at the fabric, then slipped back into his coat pocket again, fiddling with something you couldn't see. 

“Okay, but seriously,” you muttered, shoving another handful of popcorn into your mouth, “this is actually terrible. Like irreparably bad. I think I'm losing brain cells.”

“Thats the point,” he grinned, slouched low with his boots kicked off and socked feet resting near your thighs. “It's cinema, sweetheart. Not all of us can handle such high art.”

“You bought it at a gas station,” you deadpanned. 

“Exactly. Only the finest.”

You rolled your eyes, but focused on the way your knees were brushing his. Being this close to him that wasn't new. You were best friends, grew up half wrapped around each other like cats on a porch. But lately, the warmth in your chest when his hand brushed yours had started to feel more loaded. More on the side of dangerous territory. And Eddie, ever the flirt, didn't help, even if you sometimes couldn't tell when he was joking or not.

He looked relaxed, slouched and half lidded like always, but you knew him too well. The tension wasn't in his face, it was in his hands, the ones he kept flexing like he wanted to do something with them. It was in the slight twitch of his jaw every time you moved. He fidgeted suddenly, like he remembered something, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket with that signature dramatic flair. “Hey,” he said, turning his wide brown eyes toward you. 

“Do you want a kiss?”

Your hand froze midway to your mouth. Your eyes flicked to his. Your brain, maybe broken by the bad movie and a lazy saturday full of his thigh pressed to yours, stalled out.  “I-what?” suddenly very aware of the thin stretch of space between you and the way his body heat had  been bleeding into yours for the last hour.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying not to grin. “You heard me.”

You should've known he was messing with you. Should've seen the twitch in his lips, the way he was clearly waiting for your reaction. But something in the way he looked at you, that low, playful drawl in his voice, made your mouth dry out. 

You blinked, unsure whether he was teasing or- holy shit, actually making a move? “I mean… yeah,” you said slowly, heartbeat stumbling. “Yeah, okay.”

His grin bloomed then, smug and crooked. Then he pulled a small foil wrapped hershey's kiss out of his pocket with a magician's flourish and placed it gently in your palm. You stared at it like it had personally offended you. “You asshole.” you hissed, cheeks heating as Eddie cackled, already digging for another. 

“You should've seen your face,” he wheezed. “Like I was about to sweep you into some passionate, romantic movie moment-” he was already unwrapping the candy, crinkling under his rings.

“I was confused!” you defended, but you were laughing now too, face warm for an entirely different reason.

“I mean,” he said, voice lower now, shifting closer on the couch until his shoulder bumped yours, “if you really want that kind of kiss…”

You swallowed, smile flattering slightly, heart kicking up again, but this time, he didn't tease. He was watching you now. Still half laughing, but quieter. Like he was holding his breath to see if you'd meet him there. The foil dropped to the coffee table beside the overflowing ashtray, and before you could argue further, he leaned toward you, closer than before, too close, until you could smell the faint chocolate on his breath and popped the Kiss between his lips. But he didn't bite down.

You narrowed your eyes. “Eddie-”

He mumbled with the chocolate in his mouth, voice thick. “Wan’ one?”

The look in his eyes changed then, soft but dark, something unspoken. His eyes lowered just a little, and his mouth curled with challenge. He wasn't teasing anymore. Your stomach flipped violently, and your breath caught in your throat. Still, you moved toward him, slowly. 

As if you weren't sure what you were doing or maybe as if you were, and the anticipation was the best part. Your eyes never left his and he didn't blink, just watched you with that steady, burning gaze while the Kiss melted between his lips. The space between you shrank. One second you were half lounging next to your best friend like always, the next you were tasting him.

His lips were soft but sure, a little rough from chapped skin but so warm as they slotted against yours. He kissed you like he was trying to make up for every time he didn't, every joke that came out instead of the things he wanted to say. His hand slid up behind your neck, curling into your hair, and you grabbed his shirt without thinking, yanking him closer until he groaned quietly into your mouth. The movie flickered, forgotten in the background.

The chocolate passed between you warm and melty, your mouths sliding together with sticky sweetness and heat, one of his hands already cupping your jaw to keep you there as long as he could. The candy now melted in your mouth as you bit down on it and ate it fully.

You climbed into his lap like your body had been waiting for the green light all this time. Like the second his hands found your hips, fingers squeezing the fabric of your shorts like he was starving for it, you were done pretending this was innocent. Your kiss turned messy, breathy, his tongue flicking the chocolate off yours as if he could taste the Hershey’s still on you. You moaned into him when his hips shifted under you, grinding up with slow, needy rhythm. That hard line against your core made your thighs clench.

“Jesus Christ, youre…” he muttered against your lips, gripping your hips tighter. “You sit on my lap one more second and I'm not gonna be able to play the ‘just best friends’ card anymore.”

You rolled your hips teasingly, watching his eyes squeeze shut. “Maybe I don't want to be just friends anymore.”

He surged up, kissing you more now, hands slipping under your shirt like he needed to feel every inch of you. You gasped as his fingers traced up your spine, unsnapping your bra with frustrating ease. He pulled your shirt over your head, tossed it, then followed it with kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, down to your chest. His hips bucked under you once, and your gasp made him smirk again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring at you like he couldnt believe it. “Youre… youre perfect.”

You huffed a laugh and tugged his shirt off in return. “Shut up and touch me already.”

He groaned as you reached between you, palming him through his jeans, hard and twitching under your touch. “Shit, sweetheart-”

You leaned in and kissed him again, slow and almost taunting, your fingers teasing at his waistband. “Still want me to believe you just wanted to share your candy?”

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, voice wrecked, "I definitely got the candy just to get you on my lap.” 

You laughed, flushed and buzzing, as he finally pushed your shorts down and ran his fingers between your folds, groaning when he found you soaked and ready for him. “Fuck,” he whispered, “Can i…?” 

You nodded fast. “Please.”

“Still want that kiss?” he asked, voice thick, eyes heavy lidded.

“Yes.” you nodded, flushed.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I've got a lot of kisses to give.”

He didn't tease this time. Didn't make another joke. You realized chocolate wasn't the only thing he wanted to melt in his mouth tonight. He quickly unzipped his pants while you hovered above, watching him, eyes slightly widen at the sight. He guided himself into you slowly, shaky, like he wanted to feel every inch of how you stretched around him. And when he bottomed out, both of you gasped. He kissed you through the first thrusts, slow and deep, hands gripping your waist, dragging you down against him again and again.

“You feel so good,” he whispered into your skin. “Been thinking about this…fuck-for so long.” 

You couldn't form a word, only desperate moans as he rocked into you, pace picking up, your hips rolling with his until the whole couch squeaked beneath your frantic rhythm. It didn't take long. You were already halfway gone just from the way he looked at you, like you were everything he ever wanted. And when he brought one of his hands between your bodies and rubbed quick, tight circles over your clit, you came apart with a loud cry. He followed with a broken moan, clutching you to his chest as he spilled inside you, breath ragged.

Silence fell, sticky and sweet, broken only by the sound of the movie's end credits rolling. He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “So…still mad about the candy?”

You snorted into his shoulder. “Yeah. you owe me a real kiss now.”

He grinned. “Thought that was what that was.”

You leaned up, kissed him and whispered. “No, eds. That was just the beginning.” you shifted in his lap, hips rolling slightly, and his breath caught hard against your ear. “Fuck, sweetheart-” his voice was raspy, strained. “Youre gonna kill me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, flushed cheeks, messy curls clinging to his face, sweat glistening on his chest. He looked like a goddamn dream wrecked beneath you, pupils blown wide and lips kiss swollen. And he was still hard inside you, twitching and sensitive. “You can take it,” you whispered, rocking again, slowly. “Cant you, Eddie?"

His groan was borderline desperate. “Fuck yes i can,” he breathed, hands digging into your hips like he was trying to anchor himself to the earth. “You want more? I'll give you everything, just don't stop moving like that.”

You kissed him, tongues sliding together while you started riding him again, slower this time, dragging him through the aftershocks, making him feel how wet and warm you still were. His head tipped back against the couch. You took advantage, licking a hot stripe along his throat before sucking a mark into the space under his jaw, just above his chain. His moan cracked in the middle, and he bucked up into you like he couldn't help it.

“Shit,” he gasped. “That mouth, that fuckin’ mouth-”

“You love it,” you purred, nipping his earlobe. “Bet you've thought about it. Thought about me on top of you like this.”

He didn't even try to lie. “All the goddamn time,” he gritted out. “Couldnt look at you in those little shorts without getting hard. Had to go jerk off in the van more times than i can count just ‘cause you bit your lip around me.” you clenched around him just from the words, and he felt it.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You like that? Like hearing how fucking crazy you make me?” you didn't answer, just rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing that tight, aching pressure again. His hands flew up to cup your tits, thumbs flicking over your nipples as you rode him like you'd owned him all along. “God, eddie,” you gasped, “you feel so fucking good…im so close…”

“I got you,” he grunted, fingers back on your clit in an instant, rubbing fast circles while you bounced on his cock, your slick sounds filling the air between messy kisses and needy groans. And when you came the second time, back arching, moaning his name like it was a goddamn prayer, he nearly came with you. But not yet, this time, he wanted to drag it out.

Before your orgasm had even fully faded, he gripped your thighs and flipped you onto your back on the couch cushions. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was over you, in you, pounding deep again from above. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper.

“Still want more?” he growled against your lips.

You nodded frantically. “Please…dont stop.”

Eddie bit your shoulder gently, voice going low and mean in the best way.

“You gonna let me ruin you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” you whimpered.

He drove into you with a brutal rhythm now, not holding back, sweat dripping down his spine as he slammed into that spot inside you over and over until you were shaking. He brought your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle just enough to make your back arch off the couch and your mouth drop open in a wordless cry. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking pretty like this…all messy and mine

You scratched your nails down his back, and he hissed, eyes rolling back at the sting. Your third orgasm tore through you before you could even speak, everything clenched tight, muscles spasming around him. You sobbed out his name, voice wrecked, and that pushed him over the edge. With a broken, throaty moan, Eddie buried himself deep and came again, harder this time, hips jerking against yours as he gasped and choked on your name. He didn't stop moving until he'd milked every last drop, collapsing against you, chest heaving.

Silence fell again, save for the wet sounds of your bodies still tangled, the slow trail of his fingers brushing through your hair as both of you tried to remember how to breathe. Then he chuckled. “Still mad about the Hershey’s kiss?“ he rasped.

You laughed weakly, pulling him close. “I dunno. Might need a few more to make up for it.”

“Oh, I got a whole pocket full,” he smirked. “And I plan to feed you every single one.”

[slashire]

finally

Summary: another random party to pass the night, turned to be just what eddie needed to get you in his arms finally.

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

notes/warnings: NSFW, friends to lovers, alcohol/weed use, semi-public (outside + car), oral (fem receiving), praise kink, slight biting kink, p in v, pinning. I think that's all. MINORS DNI.

Words: 3700

The music thudded through the walls, rattling picture frames and vibrating up from the floors like a second heartbeat. Bass heavy, too loud, too distorted to even place what song it was anymore. The living room was packed, sweaty bodies, red solo cups clutched like lifelines, everyone riding the high of the night. But Eddie had stopped paying attention to any of it hours ago. You were the only thing in focus, you always were.

Your laugh had been echoing in his ears all night, every time you turned your head toward someone else he had to resist the instinct to pull your attention back. You were his best friend, since middle school, since braces and band tees and climbing over each other’s houses’ fences like feral little animals. But lately, no, not lately, for a long time now, there’d been this…something. A burn in his chest every time you touched his arm. A pit in his stomach when you smiled at someone else too long. And tonight? You looked like sin wrapped in sunshine. That low cut top you probably didn’t even think twice about. That gloss on your lips that caught every colored light. He was hopeless.

He’d been telling himself for years he couldn’t ruin it. Couldn’t lose you. So he didn’t say a word.

But then the joint had gone around, and the beers had gone down too smooth, and when you leaned against him on the back deck laughing at something he’d said, head thrown back, eyes sparkling like you were fourteen again and he just said something dumb to make you spit Coke through your nose, he felt it. Something unspoken crackling between you.

“C’mon,” you whispered, tugging his wrist. “Too many people. Let’s get some air.”

He followed you back out past the porch and down into the unlit yard, you pulled him into a far corner behind the shed where no one could see. A dim trail of light from the kitchen window barely reached this far. Trees clustered at the edges. Crickets buzzed. And you were close, so close the warmth of you hit him harder than the beer. You didn’t let go of his hand right away.

“I missed this,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “Us, I mean. Just us.”

Eddie swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah… yeah, me too.” You were swaying a little, just slightly, the way people do when they’re tipsy and trying to look steady. Your shoulder bumped his. You didn’t apologize. “Didn’t think you’d come out tonight,” you said, voice low.

“You were going,” Eddie answered. He didn’t even have to think about it. “Where you go, I go.”

That made you smile. Small. Soft. But something flickered behind your eyes. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, and his whole world tilted. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, voice uneven, because he had to say something before his own stare got too obvious.

“So are you.” You took a half-step closer. “But I’m not that drunk.” It was a challenge. A dare. A confession with no label, and fuck it, Eddie had never been one for self-restraint. His hand came up to cup your jaw like he’d thought about a thousand times, tentative at first, thumb brushing your cheek like he was testing if you were real. Your breath hitched. You didn’t pull away.

And when you leaned in, Eddie met you halfway.

Eddie kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. His hands couldn’t stay still, dragging down your sides, gripping your hips, skimming up under your top like he needed to memorize every inch of you right here, right now. Your back thudded gently against the shed again as he pressed in harder, caging you in with his hips, his arms, his heat. His rings were cold against your bare skin, your waist now fully under his greedy hands. When his mouth broke from yours, he didn’t go far, trailing kisses down your jaw, sucking lightly at the corner of your throat where your pulse jumped like crazy.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he mouthed at your neck. “Eddie…”

That made him groan. That voice, your voice saying his name like that, he was going to hear that in his dreams for the rest of his life. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, tongue dragging along your pulse point before biting gently, just enough to make your breath catch. “You never fucking have.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging it up until your hands met bare skin. Warm, soft over muscle, with the dip of his waist just beneath the edge of his jeans. You scratched lightly at his sides, making his hips twitch against you. He hissed through his teeth and bucked forward before catching himself with one palm against the wall behind you.

“I shouldn’t…” he whispered, but he didn’t back off. He looked at you, really looked, eyes blown wide, lips wet and pink, curls a halo of chaos around his flushed face. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Instead, you grabbed the waistband of his jeans and pulled him back into you, hard. He surged forward with a low growl and kissed you again, deeper now, teeth dragging across your lower lip before he sucked it into his mouth. Your hands went to his hair, pulling him closer, messier, tongues sliding together in an open-mouthed frenzy. You could taste the weed, the beer, and him, something darker, something Eddie. It was intoxicating. You felt drunker off him than anything else.

One of his hands slid under your top, finally cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. You gasped into his mouth and your hips bucked forward, grinding instinctively. That tiny friction between you sent sparks jolting up your spine.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice low and wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

He popped the button on your jeans before he even realized what he was doing, fingers trailing just under the band of your underwear, pausing, not out of hesitation, but out of sheer overload, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

And God, the way you were looking at him.

Your pupils were blown, your lips kiss bruised and parted. You rolled your hips again, grinding against his thigh as you grabbed his wrist and guided his hand lower.

“Eddie,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Don’t stop.” He kissed you again, rougher now, one hand tugging your top up over your chest so your bra rode high. He ducked down, mouth on your skin, sucking at the soft flesh just above your breast, fingers finally slipping beneath your panties to stroke where you were hot and slick for him. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, baby… you’re soaked,” he groaned, voice full of awe. He pressed his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours between every desperate breath. “This whole time? You wanted me this bad?” you nodded, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, just moaned when he pressed a finger between your folds and stroked your clit in slow, teasing circles. Your hips stuttered forward.

You were clinging to him now, legs shaky, breath stuttering into shallow gasps. He kissed down your throat again, leaving a trail of bruises like he couldn’t help it, marking you up like he was afraid someone else might get to look at you tomorrow. “Need you so bad, sweetheart,” he rasped against your skin. “I’ve been losing my fucking mind for years.”

You finally got his jeans undone, your hands trembling as you pushed them down his hips far enough to get your hand in. You found him hot and heavy, already throbbing in your palm, and his whole body shuddered when you wrapped your fingers around him.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, hips twitching into your hand. “You’re really trying to kill me, huh?” you just smiled, dragging your thumb across the tip. His eyes fluttered shut, head dropping to your shoulder. You leaned up, kissing behind his ear, breath hot and filthy.

“I think about this all the time,” you whispered. “How you’d feel. How you’d sound.” he let out a breathless laugh that sounded like it was half agony. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

You were both panting now, grinding together with just enough friction to make your legs shake. His hand never stopped working you, slipping lower, fingers curling into you slowly stretching you open, curling just right. His lips came up to meet you once more, you cried out against his mouth and he swallowed the sound greedily, like he’d been starving for it.

Everything around you faded, the party, the music, the whole damn world. It was just Eddie. Eddie, who knew every part of you. Eddie, who touched you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Who kissed you like he’d never get the chance again. 

Your orgasm hit hard, your hips stuttering, mouth falling open against his. He caught you, held you through it, lips dragging across your cheek, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and shaky as he watched you unravel under his touch. “So fucking beautiful when you cum.”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to breathe. His fingers were still buried deep inside you, still curling, still stroking that spot that made your thighs twitch around his wrist. You gasped, hips jerking, hand scrambling to grip his forearm. “Eddie-” He looked up at you, wide eyed and high off the sight of you falling apart. “One more,” he rasped, jaw clenched tight, breath fogging against your neck. “Come for me again, baby. I’ve got you.”

You were already there, already so close again you could taste it. Your head fell back against the wooden wall of the shed with a dull thud, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was the drag of his fingers, the steady pressure of his palm against your clit, the hot roll of your release building again, sharper this time, cruel in how fast it climbed back up.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Eddie groaned, voice full of need. “Dripping for me. For me.”

You bit your lip to keep from crying out too loud, the party was still just around the corner, but Eddie didn’t care, he leaned forward and sank his teeth lightly into your shoulder, muffling his own broken moan against your skin as your body clamped down around his fingers.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he breathed, thrusting deep and slow as you clenched around him. “Goddamn, sweetheart…”

You came again with a sharp gasp, thighs trembling, hips stuttering, and he held you through every second of it, his hand steady, mouth hot and open against your neck, drinking in the feel of you like he’d never get to do it again.

But then you grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up to kiss you again, messy and breathless and completely uncoordinated. He moaned into your mouth as your fingers slid down to his waistband again.

“No more teasing,” you panted against his lips. “I want you.”

He didn’t ask if you were sure. He knew. The way you looked at him said more than any drunken slurred “I love you” ever could. You’d both been starving for this, burying it under inside jokes, drunken shoulder bumps, and midnight phone calls no one else ever got. And now?

Eddie’s hand found yours without a word, fingers lacing tight, and he was already tugging you with him, off the wall, away from the shed, toward the shadows near the back gate. He started tugging down your shirt and zipping up your jeans along the way, shoving himself back inside his jeans. The grass was damp beneath your feet, the party still raging in the distance behind you like background noise to a completely different life.

You glanced at him through the darkness, his curls a mess, belt hanging undone, jeans barely buttoned, lips raw from kissing you like he meant it. You were sure you didn’t look much better, hair most likely everywhere, your thighs sticky and your body aching in the best fucking way. He didn’t look at you, he just pulled you faster. You knew exactly where he was taking you the second your boots hit the pavement.

Eddie’s van sat crooked at the curb, under the soft orange glow of the streetlamp, its back windows fogged slightly from the heat still rolling off the asphalt. The old rust spotted heap that smelled like weed, motor oil, and Eddie himself, comforting and filthy all at once.

He opened the side door and helped you climb in without a word. The second it slammed shut behind you, he was on you again. His hands went straight under your shirt, pulling it off over your head with a groan as he pressed you down into the blankets piled in the back. You fell with a breathless laugh, knees parting automatically as he climbed on top of you, mouth already seeking yours again. But this time it wasn't desperate. This time, it was like he was starving.

He kissed you like he’d gone too long without water, hands roaming every inch of you like he couldn’t decide where to settle, your ribs, your waist, your breasts. He slid his palms up under your bra and finally pulled it off completely, hissing when your nipples pebbled under the air, and again when he took one into his mouth.

“Fuck,” you moaned, back arching, thighs spreading wider as he sucked gently and then scraped his teeth over the swollen bud. “Eddie…” He popped off your breast with a wet noise and looked down at you, pupils blown wide, mouth slick and pink.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered, kissing a slow trail down your stomach, “and I’ll thank you for it.”

You sucked in a breath when he started tugging your jeans off again, taking your panties with them this time. When he saw the mess between your thighs, his mouth parted slightly, and he fucking groaned.

“Jesus Christ, look at that,” he muttered, dragging a finger through the slick at your entrance and up to your clit. “You’re dripping for me, baby.” you whimpered, legs twitching.

“I want a taste.” he lowered himself between your thighs, shoulders pinning your legs wide as he buried his face in you like a man obsessed. The first long lick of his tongue up your folds made your hips jerk hard off the blanket. You tried to muffle the cry that came out of you, but Eddie gripped your thighs and pulled you in closer, humming low like he liked it loud.

He licked and sucked like it was the only thing that mattered, like he’d dreamed about this, like he was trying to make up for every goddamn year he hadn’t had his mouth on you And when he flattened his tongue over your clit and rolled it slowly, hard, your vision blurred. You grabbed a fistful of his curls, pulled, and he groaned into you, sending vibrations straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he mumbled against you. “Use me, baby. Fuck my face if you want.” your hips bucked, riding the rhythm he gave you, chasing that second high like it was the only thing keeping you alive. You were panting, eyes squeezed shut, your thighs trembling against his cheeks.

“I’m gonna…fuck…Eddie-” He latched onto your clit and sucked. You came with a broken cry, shaking under him, back arching off the blanket like something had split you open from the inside out. But Eddie didn’t stop. He licked you through it, moaning softly at the taste of you, only coming up for air when you pushed at his shoulders with a wrecked little gasp. He looked up at you, chin glistening, eyes heavy with lust and worship and years of restrained insanity.

“Come here,” you breathed, voice trembling.

He crawled up your body, and the kiss he gave you was filthy, hot and deep and tasting like you. He ground his hips down, his cock hard again and rubbing against your thigh, slick with your mess and his. “You want more?” he rasped against your mouth. You nodded, wrapping your legs around him.

“Then I’m gonna fuck you right this time.”

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, thank fuck he still kept one in there, and tore it open with shaky hands before rolling it on. You watched him the entire time, breath still catching at the sight of him, hard and flushed and perfect. He quickly took his shirt off to join yours somewhere in his van.

When he slid into you, it was slow and deep. You both moaned in sync as he bottomed out, hips pressing flush to yours, chests slick with sweat and breath tangled together. He started moving, grinding deep, thrusts long and filthy slow, like he wanted to savor every second. You clawed at his back, wrapped your arms around his neck, and kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it. The van rocked with the rhythm, windows fogging fast, sealing you both in like a secret, like nothing existed outside the heat of his body slamming into yours. You could barely breathe. Could barely think. Just the sound of skin on skin, the wet drag of your bodies colliding, your name rasped over and over again from between Eddie’s bitten lips.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, voice low and ragged. “I’m not gonna last, baby…Jesus, you’re fucking perfect…” you didn’t care, you didn’t need him to last, you needed more.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper. Every thrust knocked a breath out of you, rough and needy and delicious. His chain dragged against your chest with every movement, cold against the slick heat of your skin, his hips grinding just right, his cock stroking that spot inside you that made your whole body twitch. You buried your face in his neck and bit down hard.

Eddie groaned so loud it bounced off the metal walls. “Do that again,” he gasped, snapping his hips harder. “Fucking bite me…mark me up, baby.”

Your teeth sank into the curve of his shoulder, muffling your cries as he fucked you into the blankets, into the mattress, into the damn floor of the van. There was no rhythm anymore. Just raw, messy thrusts and slick skin and heat and the creak of the suspension with every slam of his hips. He was everywhere. Fingers tangled in your hair, his mouth crushed against yours, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your throat. He licked into your mouth between gasps, needy and wild and a little broken, like he was chasing something he’d been starved of for years.

“You gonna come for me again?” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking. “Let me feel it, sweetheart. Wanna feel you squeeze me while I fill you up.”

You moaned, high and helpless, and nodded, hips rolling up to meet him stroke for stroke. “Can’t stop,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering. “You’re so fucking deep, Eddie…don’t stop.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he kept pounding into you, filthy and perfect and relentless. The coil in your belly snapped hard, your body arched, muscles locking tight, a broken cry spilling from your throat as you came with a full-body shudder. You clenched around him so tight it made him stutter, his breath caught, and he slammed into you one last time with a strangled moan.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m cuming.”

He buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded half pained, head dropping into the crook of your neck, body shaking from the force of it. You felt every twitch, every pulse of him inside you, his cock jerking as he spilled into the condom, his whole body going tense and then slack against yours. The van was filled with the thick scent of sweat, sex, and something sweeter, warmth, closeness, the kind of aftermath that left your lungs burning and your limbs shaking. Eddie was still inside you, still buried as deep as he could get, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling.

His curls stuck to his temples. Your lips were swollen, your thighs sticky, your whole body wrecked. You reached up and touched his face. Just a brush of fingers along his cheekbone. Nothing soft. Nothing romantic. Just a grounding reminder that this was real. He was real. Eddie’s mouth twitched, just slightly. He pulled out slowly, and you both hissed from the sensitivity, from the rawness. He slipped the condom off, tied it with a lazy flick of his wrist, and tossed it somewhere out of the way. Then he flopped beside you in the tangle of sweat-damp blankets, chest still rising and falling hard. He ran a hand through his hair, then let it drop over his face as he laughed breathlessly.

“Holy shit.”

You huffed a laugh too, rolling onto your side to face him. His mouth was still red, his neck a mess of bite marks and blotchy kisses. He looked so fucking good like this, wild and ruined and flushed, like he’d been yours forever. You just reached over and grabbed his chain, the one resting against his collarbone, twisting it lazily around your finger.

He looked at you, eyes still heavy, still hooded with leftover lust, but something sharper lingered underneath. He leaned in and kissed you again. Slower now. Way too full of meaning for either of you to acknowledge out loud.

“I finally have you in my arms like this.”

[slashire]

wear me, babe

Summary: after a long day, you and stu went to the thrift store, although you didn't stay very long and ended up back at his place.

Stu macher x fem!reader

notes/warnings: semi-public, oral (fem receiving) teasing/bratty Dom!Stu, overstimulation, handsy, mirror use slightly, dirty talk, power dynamic, rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, possessiveness, praise kink, shower sex, fingering, p in v, clingy stu, aftercare. Just basically porn with little plot! Not proofread. lil off character Stu, but it's fine, It was fun. :)

Words: 5215

The bell over the door jingled as you stepped into the thrift store, your eyes lighting up at the racks of clothes. The thrift store smelled faintly like old wood and worn denim, dust and faded perfume, the kind of place with more potential than organization. Racks of mismatched clothes surrounded you, and the broken speakers overhead buzzed with some old song playing low in the background. You were in your element, browsing, flipping through hangers, already holding two oversized flannels and a soft-looking sweater over one arm.

Stu? Not so much.

He trailed behind you with all the patience of a kid on a sugar crash, his arms swinging lazily at his sides. But unlike a bored boyfriend, Stu didn't know how not to touch. His fingers brushed the hem of your shirt when you reached overhead. His palm pressed low across your back when you moved to another rack. When you stopped to compare the sleeves of two jackets, he took the opportunity to slide up behind you, nudging your hips with his lazily.

“God this place is a gold mine,” 

“Looks like a gold mine for your ass, babe.” stu muttered, pressing a hand against the small of your back, then lower, until his palm cupped you through your skirt. You swatted his hand. “Stop it.”

“I am helping. Feelin’ for texture,” he teases, leaning close enough that you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Might need to try this one on…in private.” you gave him a quick glare over your shoulder, but you were too distracted flipping through a pair of jeans to stop him when his hands slid around your waist. He pressed himself behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, swaying you both slowly with the music playing in the background. His fingers slipped under the hem of your sweater, just barely tracing the skin of your stomach.

You were mid sentence about color palettes when you felt his hand squeeze your ass, casual as anything. And his other breaks the band of your skirt. 

“Stu,” you warned under your breath, swatting his hand away without even turning. “Stop.”

“What? Just seeing if these pants have…uh…” he asked, voice lower than necessary. “Stretch.”

“Yeah right, you idiot.” 

He snorted and backed off only slightly, but you could still feel his gaze tracking every movement you made as you grabbed a few pieces off the rack adding to the pile you were going to take to the dressing room. You pulled a corduroy skirt from the rack and held it against your waist, inspecting the length in a nearby mirror. He leaned against the wall behind you, watching. “Cute. Bet it looks better off.”

You ignored him. He didn't stop touching you the entire way through the racks, hips bumping yours, fingers brushing the top of your thigh, a palm at the base of your spine that stayed just a little too long.

He moved again, closer this time when you stopped when something caught your eye. When you reached for the hanger, his hand brushed against your bare hip, just under your shirt. His thumb dragged slowly along the waistband of your skirt. You stiffened, but he just leaned in and murmured.

“Can I help you change?”

“Not a chance.”

He grinned. “I'm really good with zippers. Come on, babe. Let me supervise.”

“No.” 

“I could just hold the hangers…”

You turned, pressing the armful of clothes into his chest. “You wanna be helpful? Carry these.”

He made a dramatic groan but took them anyway, following you toward the dressing room like a dog on a leash.

“You better stay out here.”

“Mhm. Sure thing, babe.”

When you slipped behind the curtain, he waited a beat…and then you heard it, the soft scrape of rings against fabric. And suddenly, he was in there with you, eyes already dark with mischief.

“Stu-!” 

“Shhh,” he pulled the curtain shut behind him, pressing a finger to your lips. “Public place. Try to keep it down.”

“Were in public.” you said. He looked around the tiny dressing room like he was judging it. “Barely.” 

Your jaw dropped. “Get out!”

Your mouth opened to scold him again, but he was already pressing close, hands grabbing your hips and spinning you gently around, “Nah. I think I'll stay. You looked way too hot flipping through those sweaters. Got me thinking.” he said, already closing the space between your body and the full length mirror behind you. The tiny room felt smaller with him inside it. His presence swallowed it whole. You gasped softly when he did so, one palm on the glass beside your head, the other slipping down your thigh again. “Thinking what, exactly?”

Roaming his hands everywhere, one large hand settled at your hip. The other slid beneath your sweater, fingers brushing bare skin, nails grazing lightly. “That maybe you should try something else on.” he whispered, and kissed your neck slowly. “Like my mouth.”

“I was shopping.”

“And I was watching. So technically, we were both doing our favorite things.”

You shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge, lips catching the side of your neck again.

“Bet no one even comes back here.”

“Get out-”

“Nope.”

And then he sank to his knees like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath caught. “Stu-” you whispered, panicked, but your thighs tensed when his hands slid up under your skirt. His fingers were tugging your skirt up, bunching it at your hips as he looked up at you, tongue wetting his lips, pupils blown wide. “Gimme a taste,” he muttered. “Swear i'll be good.” he whispered, dragging your panties down in one smooth motion, lips brushing your skin the whole way up.

He did not stay good.

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it was routine, like this was a normal thursday afternoon. His tongue dragged slowly over your skin as he nudged your legs apart, lifting one onto the bench for better access. Your panties hit the floor. Cold air kissed your skin.

Then he leaned in, and nothing was cold anymore.

He moaned as soon as he tasted you, loud enough that your hand flew to slap his head in panic and then over your own mouth at the same time. “Shh!” you hissed. But he didn't care. If anything, it spurred him on, he just smirked against you, devouring like he didn't hear a thing. His mouth was messy, open, tongue flattening and curling with fast, filthy strokes. He devoured you with no restraint, like he needed it.

His tongue was fast, eager, curling and storking in ways that had you shaking almost immediately. The cramped room, the distant murmur of shoppers outside, the mirror rattling behind you every time your back shifted, all of it felt surreal and dangerous, and so good. Your fingers dug into his hair, your legs quivering around his shoulders.

You struggled to keep quiet. The dressing room floor creaked under the shift of your weight. The mirror behind you clattered softly as your back pressed into it. One of your hands gripped his hair, the other white knuckled around the edge of the wall.

“Fuck…Stu-” you breathed out, already trembling.

He didn't let up. He groaned into you, and the vibrations made you clench. His hand splayed across your thighs to keep them spread open wider as he fucked you with his mouth, his other hand slipping up to tease at your enterance while his mouth stayed locked on your clit teasing you in little cirlces while his tongue worked lower, slow, then fast, switching patterns right as your knees buckled. He knew what he was doing, and he loved that you were struggling to stay quiet.

Then someone walked by just outside.

Your heart stopped, but Stu didn't even flinch, he groaned into you, like the risk only made it better. His fingers slid in slow and deep, his tongue flicking in quick circles now, building your orgasm with maddening precision.

You were close, embarrassingly fast, but it wasn't your fault. He was relentless. Loving the way you struggled to stay silent. His tongue flicked just right, and suddenly your whole body locked up. You felt the pressure burst like lightning,  your body twitching as the wave hit you hard, heat blooming low in your stomach and tearing through every limb. Your body pressing into the mirror as waves of heat rolled through you. You bit down on your fist to muffle the whimper that almost escaped. You nearly knocked over the bench trying not to cry out.

Stu kept going, he held you, licking you through it,  tongue lapping up everything, fingers still stroking slow, moaning softly like he was enjoying every second of your aftershocks. He only pulled back when your legs were shaking too much to stay standing.

When he stood, his mouth was wet, his chin glistening, his expression smug as hell like he just won a prize at the fair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and licking the rest off his lips.

“Y’know,” he said, breathless, “I deserve an employee discount for that.”

You were still trying to breathe.

He reached for your sweater, smoothing it down with infuriating care, even tucking your panties into your purse like some twisted trophy. Then he kissed your cheek like nothing had happened.

“Wanna head back to mine?” he asked casually. “I think I forgot what your scream sounds like.”

You stared at him, flushed, ruined.

“Let's go.”

He grinned wide. “Atta girl.”

You barely made it out of the thrift store without crumbling. He had that look in his eye, like he wanted to finish what he started right there in the parking lot. You didn't trust him to behave, but the fastest way out was to get behind the wheel and drive. So that's what you did. 

Big mistake.

Not even two minutes into the ride, he already had his seat leaned back, one arm draped over the headrest behind you, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there. His fingers were not still. They traced slow, lazy patterns over the inside of your leg, dipping higher with every red light.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice pitched low and husky, lips dangerously close to your ear, “you should get an award or something.”

You glanced at him, tense. “For what?”

“Walking out of that dressing room without begging me to fuck you in from of the flannel section.” his fingers slipped higher. “Real restraint. I'm impressed.”

You gritted your teeth, eyes back on the road. “Hands to yourself.”

He laughed quietly. “Nope.”

He let his fingers dip between your legs, over the fabric of your skirt. You clenched your thighs reflexively and that only made him grin wider. “Sensitive still?” he whispered, his lips ghosting over your cheek. “God, you were shaking. Could feel it in my mouth.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Stu…seriously.”

“I am serious,” he said, dragging his fingers slowly up your thighs again. “Serious about how fuckin’ good you taste. Serious about how I can still smell you on my face. Wanna crawl into your lap and finish what I started.”

“While I'm driving?”

“Wouldn't be the first time I made someone swerve off the road.”

You shot him a warning glare. He smirked, leaning in closer, and kissed just below your ear, soft, wet, and intentionally slow. “I can be nice,” he whispered, voice gone silk and sin. “Wanna rub you just a little. Over your panties this time. Let you soak through another pair.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, trying not to press your thighs together. “You already took them off in the dressing room.”

He paused.

“Oh fuck. That's right.” you could hear the grin in his voice.

“Thats so fucking hot,” he muttered, sliding his hand beneath the hem of your skirt again. “Driving with nothing under this pretty thing. All fucked out and flushed. You're gonna let me touch you, aren't you?”

You didn't answer, you knew what you were going to say anyways.

His fingers found bareskin, and you gasped, hips twitching slightly as he brushed over your slit, already warm, still sensitive. He groaned softly like he was the one being touched.

“Oh, baby.” he breathed. “Still dripping. Can't believe I didn't just bend you over the hood.”

You hit another red light, and his fingers took full advantage, circling your clit lightly, just enough to make your eyes flutter and your jaw clench. You jerked slightly in your seat. “Focus,” he teased. “You wouldn't want to crash.”

“Stu.” 

“I'm being gentle.” he whispered, his lips grazing your neck. “Wait til we get home. Gonna ruin you on every surface I own.”

He dragged his fingers down again, slow and teasing. “I'm gonna make you scream so loud the cops show up.”

You groaned, exasperated and turned on and just barely keeping it together as you hit his street. He leaned back smugly. “You're soaked. Look at you.”

“Your fault.” you said, breathless, pulling into his driveway.

He undid his seatbelt with a little click and leaned in one last time. “Not yet,” he whispered in your ear, palm sliding possessively over your thigh again. “But it's about to be.”

You watched as he jumped out of the car and ran over to open your door and his hands back on you like they never left.

He yanked you toward the house, fingers laced tight in yours, walking backward with that crooked smirk like he was already planning five different ways to break you. “Get inside,” he muttered. “Right now. I'm done waiting.”

You weren't sure your legs were even working properly, your thighs still slick from what his fingers had done in the car, heat pulsing between them, your breath caught somewhere in your chest. The second the front door slammed shut behind you, it was on.

His hands grabbed at your waist, spinning you into the wall with a solid thump. His mouth was on you, wet, open, needy, kissing you like the car, the store, the dressing room hadn't been enough. Like he needed to devour you just to breathe.

“I've been hard since you picked up that first damn sweater.” he growled against your mouth. “Watching you bend over like you didn't know i was about to fuck you stupid.”

You gasped as he pushed his thigh between yours, grinding up into your still sensitive core. “Still wet for me?” he asked, voice all low heat and smug breathlessness. “Felt it soaking through the seat. You're a mess, baby. Look at you.”

You tried to say something, some kind of retort but your words melted into a moan when his hand slid under your skirt again, rough fingers pressing directly against your clit. “No panties still,” he whispered with a sharp grin, teeth grazing your jaw. “You came to my house like this?”

“I drove-”

“And I touched you the whole way.” he pulled back just enough to look you over, eyes blown and dark. “You should've pulled over and let me eat you out on the hood.”

You didn't have time to answer before he was dragging you toward the bedroom upstairs. The hallway blurred. Your clothes didn't survive the trip. He tugged your sweater over your head halfway through walking up the stairs, tossed it somewhere off the railing over a lamp. By the time you made it into his room, your skirt was hanging off one hip, your bra strap twisted down your arm, and he was already kicking the door shut behind him. His shirt hit the floor next then his belt.

He pushed you onto the bed, and you bounced once, catching yourself on your elbows as he climbed over you, taller, flushed, already rock hard through his jeans. “Lie back,” he ordered, voice rough and low. “Legs open.” you hesitated for half a breath. His head tilted. “You wanna be a good girl now, right? After teasing me all day?”

You dropped back, breathing shaky, and spread your legs for him. Stu groaned. Groaned. He knelt between your thighs, kissing the inside of your knee. “That's it. There she is” then his mouth was on you again.

He didn't ease in this time, he devoured. Sucked your clit into his mouth with a groan like he was starving, tongue flicking hard and fast. His fingers dug into your thighs to keep you still while he worked, and your entire body jolted with overstimulation.

“Fuck, stu-” you gasped, hips twitching. He moaned into you and kept going.

Your thighs shook as the pleasure ripped through you, your second orgasm of the night hitting fast, messy, almost too much. You writhed under his mouth, grabbing at the sheets, his hair, anything. When your voice broke on a gasp, he pulled back just slightly, his mouth wet and swollen, chin glistening, the smirk still firmly in place.

“You gonna pass out on me?” he whispered, teasing, draggin his fingers through your slick and rubbing slow, taunting circles over your clit. “That’d be so hot.” 

You barely managed a dazed glare. “Oh, you're still with me?” he licked a stripe up your thigh. “Good. ‘Cause I'm not even close to done.”

He yanked open his jeans, shoved them down just far enough to free himself, and grabbed you, flipped you over effortlessly, dragging your hips up into the air and lining himself up without hesitation. And then he slammed into you. You let out a full broken scream into the mattress as he buried himself to the hilt in one thrust. “Oh fuck yes,” he moaned, already moving, pounding into you hard and fast. “You feel that? Feel me stretching you out? So fucking tight still, Jesus-”

The bed creaked beneath both of you, the headboard slamming once, twice, rhythm syncing with his thrusts. He wrapped his hand in your hair, pulled your head back, and growled right into your ear. “I want them to hear you, baby. No more quiet. No more holding back. Scream for me.”

You did.

You were so loud you barely heard your own name as he chanted it under his breath, over and over, like a prayer and a curse. His hand slid up around your throat, not tight, just grounding, and you thrived under it. He slammed into you harder, every stroke deeper, filthier. “You take it so fucking good. Look at you. My perfect little mess.”

He leaned forward, angling his hips just right, and you shattered.

You came with a sharp cry, eyes rolling back, your body shaking so violently your elbows gave out, he groaned deep, hips stuttering before he came right after you, hot and thick, grinding into you with a final thrust as he filled you, panting like he'd run a goddamn marathon. The room went still except for the sound of your ragged breathing. Then stu collapsed half on top of you, arm slung across your waist.

You both laid there, completely fucked out, skin sticky, chests rising and falling like you’d survived a war. After a long moment, he murmured, lips against your bare shoulder. “...Think they heard us?”

You huffed a weak laugh into the pillow. “If they don't, they’re deaf.”

He chuckled, breath still uneven. “I'll test that theory on round two.” you groaned and turned your head just enough to glare at him. He looked down at you, flushed, glowing, hair a wreck, and smiled like he'd never been more proud of anything in his life.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly, heart still racing. “Yeah. you?” 

His grin widened. “Never better.”

The bedroom still pulsed with heat and the faint scent of sweat and sex when Stu pushed his face into the curve of your shoulder and murmured, “Come shower with me before I drag your ruined ass back into round one and call it round two.”

You were already limp beneath him, but the way he said it, low, raw, still riding the high, had your stomach clenching all over again.

Before you could answer, he was already pulling you upright, leading you toward the bathroom with that loose, hungry confidence in his stride. He didn't even check the water temp, just cranked the handle all the way to hot, steam filling the space before you stepped in. the moment the first cascade of heat hit your skin, stu was on you.

You barely had time to blink before your back hit the tile wall, cool contrast to the hot water pouring over your chest. His mouth crashed into yours, breath damp and open mouthed, tongue claiming your mouth like he had something to prove. Water streamed off his hair as it hung around his face, dripping onto your collarbone as he pressed every inch of his soaked body against yours.

“God, you taste like heaven,” he growled against your lips, licking your bottom one, then biting it gently. “Bet your whole body does right now. Let me check.”

You moaned as he dropped to his knees, right there in the tub, water hammering over his shoulders as he grabbed your hips and yanked you forward like he owned you. One leg was slung over his shoulder before you could brace yourself, and his mouth was back on your pussy like he'd missed it the second he pulled out of you earlier.

He groaned loud, loud enough to echo.

“Still so fucking sweet.” he muttered, tongue already flattening against your clit in long, practiced strokes. “You can't not be ready for me, huh? I ruin you once and your cunt’s still begging.”

You whimpered, bracing both hands against the slick wall behind you, struggling to stay upright. The steam made every inch of your skin hypersensitive, from the heat on your chest to the cold of the tile against your back to the maddening friction of his tongue. Stu ate like a man on death row, greedy, thorough and filthy. His lips latched around your clit, tongue flicking in a quick rhythm while one hand held your thigh and the other snuck up to rub slow, teasing circles around your entrance with the tip of his finger.

“You're gonna cum in my mouth again, aren't you?” he said between licks, voice shaking with heat. “You're gonna give it to me because you can't help it. So good. So fucking easy for me.” 

You were shaking. The water rushed over you, hot and relentless, cascading down your breasts as your thighs trembled around his head. He slipped two fingers in without warning, thick, deep, curling perfectly, and your moan cracked apart as your back arched hard against the wall. “Stu-”

“I got you,” he whispered, lips slick against your clit. “Come for me, baby.” your orgasm hit like a wrecking wave, all consuming, toes curling, hand slamming against the tile for support. Your entire body jerked as the pleasure tore through you, liquid heat pouring down your spine and locking your thighs around his face. He moaned like it turned him on just as much and didn't stop until you were twitching from overstimulation, panting, drenched inside and out.

He stood slowly, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, all the way back up to your lips. “Still alive?” he murmured against your mouth. You nodded weakly, and that's when he caught you in his arms, spun you, and pressed your front to the wall. “I'm not done.”

You gasped as he pressed his hips flush against your ass hard again, impossibly, achingly hard. He reached down, grabbed himself and dragged the head through your folds, groaning low. “Still so warm for me,” he muttered. “You're insane.”

“Youre the one that- fuck!”

He thrust in without warning, deep and hard, burying himself in one stroke and punching the breath out of you. His hands braced your hips as he started to move, rough, water slicking both your bodies with every stroke. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the wall above your head, mouth at your ear. “Take it,” he growled. “Fucking take it.”

You moaned for him, loud, the wet slap of your bodies bouncing off tile as he rutted into you like he wanted to carve the shape of his cock into your body. His rhythm was punishing, his breath hot against your neck. “Mine,” he gasped. “Mine. Say it.” 

“Yours…yours- fuck, yes..” 

He groaned, slamming in harder. “Cant ever let anyone else hear these sounds. You get that?”

You nodded, head banging lightly against the wall as he pushed you closer to the edge again, impossibly fast. His hand snuck down between your thighs, fingers fast and messy against your clit as he panted at your ear, body shaking with effort. “Come with me. Right now.”

Loud and unfiltered, full body tremors gripping you as the orgasm tore through you, walls fluttering around him. His own release hit a second later, with a strangled groan and one final, sloppy thrust that buried him as deep as you could take him. Both of you stood there, breathless, dripping, wrecked. The water kept running. Neither of you moved.

Finally, he collapsed against your back, forehead resting between your shoulder blades. “Next time,” he panted. “Im just going to fuck you in the car. No waiting.”

You laughed, ragged and wet, out of breath. “Next time,” you whispered, “I’m not letting you touch me in the store.”

He kissed the back of your neck. “You say that now…” then he slowly pulled out, gentle this time, and helped you turn around into his arms. He cradled you against his chest, both of you standing under the stream, the world outside fogged away in the thick curtain of steam and silence. For a few seconds, there was just breathing. 

The water shut off with a cough of pipes and steam still curling around both of you like fog in a horror movie. Stu’s hand immediately slapped to the wall, his chest rising and falling like he'd just outrun something. You barely had the strength to move, but he already had the curtain pulled open and turned around to face you, grinning through wet bangs.

“Still standing?’ he asked, stepping out like a dripping menace. “Because I might need you to carry me if my legs stop working. I saw heaven for a second, no joke.” 

You rolled your eyes and followed, bare feet hitting the bath mat just as he threw a towel around your shoulders. His hands immediately went to drying you off, but his version of ‘drying’ was mostly groping disguised as affection. “Oh my god, look at this.” he murmured, dragging the towel over your ass with slow fingers underneath. “Look at you. Fuckin’ glistening. Like some fresh outta the lake slasher babe. Like you just walked out of a scene where you survived and everyone else died because you were too hot.”

“Stu,” you warned, but your voice was weak. 

He snorted. “What? I'm complimenting you. Jesus, don't punish me for having eyes.” he worked the towel down your legs, kneeling as he went, completely naked and not caring at all that his hair was dripping onto your thighs. When he stood, his hand dragged along your stomach on the way up, fingers brushing under your tits like it was accidental.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, and I'm gonna make this a trilogy. You want a part three, final girl edition? Huh?” you didn't answer. He grinned. “Thought so.”

You reached for your clothes from earlier. He made a noise like you just stepped on a puppy. “Babe, no. Nooo. those are dead to me. Those clothes got thrift store stink and shame on them. You think I'm gonna let you walk around in that when I've got like-” he yanked open a drawer, “a whole drawer of oversized t-shirts that would look way hotter on you than me? No. put this on. Put this on right now.”

He threw a black shirt at you. It hit you in the face, you peeled it off, smirking. “What is this? Its got blood on it.”

“Yeah. Sexy, right?”

You pulled it over your head and it dropped down to your thighs. He stared like he forgot what words were. “I-” he blinked. “Nope. Nah. You… uh-uh. That's not allowed. You cannot be walking around in my shirt like…like that. Thats so fucked up. You trying to make me propose?”

You laughed. “Youd propose over a T-shirt?”

He looked you dead in the eyes. “If you look like that in my shirt, ill get on my fuckin’ knees.”

He followed you into the kitchen like a cursed man, barefoot, still damp, towel barely holding onto his hips, muttering nonsense under his breath while watching your legs as you walked. When you opened the fridge, he groaned behind you. “Dont bend over. Dont-oh, come on! You're doing that on purpose.”

“I'm literally grabbing a drink.”

“Yeah, and I'm grabbing your hips in two seconds.” hands planted firm on your waist as you stood, tugging you back into his chest. He nuzzled your neck like it was instinct. His fingers slid under the hem of the shirt, just brushing over the back of your thigh. He didn't even try to hide it. “Fuck, youre warm,” he muttered, voice low. “You smell like me. You're wearin’ my clothes. Im..babe.”

You snorted. “So no food, then?”

“Oh no, i'm starving,” he said, spinning you to pick you up and put you on the counter like it was nothing. “But I figured I'd feast on you first. Just a little taste. Starter course. Appetizer. Treat.”

You laughed as he pushed between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs dragging warm against your skin like he couldn't stop touching you. His face was all flushed, pink from the steam and exertion, hair curling as he leaned in close, his nose brushing yours.

“Im serious,” he whispered, barely. “You're not leavin’ tonight. Ill block the fuckin’ door. You're staying, and I'm waking up to you in this shirt tomorrow or I'm committing crimes.”

You whispered back, “Yeah?”

He nodded, “And if you're not still wearin’ it, you better be naked. Either way, i win.” he kissed you, hot, open mouthed, no hesitation, all teeth and tongue like he didn't know how to be gentle for longer than three seconds. When he finally broke the kiss, panting against your lips, he just stared at you. Still holding your thighs. Still pressed up between them. Still shaking a little from how badly he wanted to start again. 

“Yeah, nah. You're mine now.” 

[slashire]

Jinu x Rumi short blurb (Kpop Demon Hunters i love)

The city’s neon glow filtered softly through the window, casting flickering colors across the cluttered room where Jinu and I had settled in for the night. No alarms blaring, no urgent summons, just us, tangled up on the couch with half-empty takeout boxes and a playlist humming quietly in the background.

Jinu was sprawled out beside me, one arm lazily draped over my shoulders, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead in that way I liked to tuck behind his ear when he wasn’t looking. We weren’t saying much, didn’t need to. The kind of comfort between us now was easy, a quiet understanding that no words could disrupt.

I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my ear. It was the same rhythm that had steadied me in the middle of every fight, the one constant that made all the chaos fade into the background. He hummed softly, a sound I couldn’t help but smile at.

“Feel like we’ve earned this,” I murmured, tracing a lazy circle on his skin.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Earned what?”

“This,” I said, lifting my head just enough to catch his eye. “This mess of takeout and terrible movies and just... not having to fight for once.”

Jinu’s eyes softened, and he tilted his head down to press a lazy kiss against my forehead. “Yeah. I like this. You.”

I smiled, heart a little too full, and let my fingers wander up to tangle in his hair. We sank deeper into the couch, the world outside forgotten. No demons. No danger. Just the soft warmth of each other, and the slow, lazy promise that whatever came next, we’d face it together.

I pulled back just enough to look up at him, catching that mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey, you’re kinda distracting when you look at me like that.”

He smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. “Distracting, huh? Didn’t know I had that effect.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at my lips. “Yeah, well, try not to make me blush too much. It’s unbecoming.”

Jinu laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where my head still rested. “Unbecoming? Coming from you, that’s rich.”

I poked him lightly in the ribs, and he jerked away with mock offense. “Hey! I’m delicate, don’t forget.”

“Delicate, sure,” he teased, stretching out and wrapping an arm tighter around my waist. “You’re the toughest person I know.”

That made me pause, my fingers stilling in his hair. “You really think so?”

He nodded, eyes steady and sincere. “More than anything. You’re the reason I’m still standing.”

The weight of his words settled between us, heavier and warmer than the summer night outside. I tilted my head up and kissed him again—slow, soft, the kind of kiss that didn’t need words to say everything.

When we finally pulled apart, Jinu’s grin was lazy but full of that familiar spark. “So, what terrible movie are we watching next?”

I groaned. “You know I only watch the good ones.”

He shrugged, mock innocent. “Hey, you started it with that cheesy rom-com. I’m just trying to balance the universe.”

I laughed, squeezing him close. “Fine, but next round’s on you.”

“Deal,” he said, pulling me into a comfortable silence as the city hummed quietly around us, and the night stretched on just for us.

[slashire]

drunk on you

Summary: going to a party and bumping into Erik there wasn't your plan for the night but it was interesting. Drinking and flirting with him you could get used to, and making out with him.

Erik Campbell x gn! Reader 

Notes / Warnings: gn reader because i don't think i mentioned anything gender wise, drunk makeout session.

The music was already loud when you stepped through the front door, a heavy, pulsing beat that you could feel deep in your chest, like your heartbeat was trying to sync with the bass. Bodies swayed and danced in dim, colored lighting, laughter spilling through the hallway in waves, and the distinct sharp smell of cheap beer and something sugary that definitely had vodka in it hung in the air like mist. You weren't planning to stay long. Parties like this always made you feel a little on edge too many people, too many flashing lights and too much everything. But Tiffany had begged you, and you figured a quick appearance wouldn't kill you. One drink, maybe two, smile, nod, disappear. Easy.

Except then you saw him leaning against the far end of the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in hand, head tilted back slightly as he laughed at something someone said, that familiar cocky smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. The kind of smirk that could get you into trouble without him ever saying a word. His tattoos peaked out beneath the rolled up sleeves of his hoodie, dark ink against his skin and he looked far too comfortable here, like he was part of the scenery. Like he owned it. He looked up, and of course caught you staring. His eyes flicked over you with deliberate attention, and when he smirked this time, it was for you.

“Well, well,” he said as you finally made your way to the kitchen, voice low and amused. “Didn't expect to see you here tonight.”

You gave a little shrug, grabbing a clean cup from the stack and pretending you weren't already a little flustered. “Didn't expect to come. Tiffany pulled the guilt trip.”

“Lucky me,” he said smoothly, lifting his cup in a mock toast before taking a sip. You tried not to stare at his mouth when he did. Tried and failed. “You look good.”

“You're drunk,” you said flatly, pouring yourself a bit something vaguely labeled ‘party punch’ in thick black marker. He grinned. “I'm buzzed. Not blind.” you rolled your eyes and leaned against the other side of the counter keeping space between you. Or trying to. “Surprised you're not passed out in a hallway somewhere.”

“Im pacing myself,” he said, holding his hands up like it was something noble. “You think I can keep up this level of charm without a strategy?”

“That's what you're calling this?” you raised your brow. “Charm?”

He gave you a little mock bow. “I prefer the term devastating charisma. But sure let's go with charm.”

You snorted trying to hide the smile that was tugging at your lips. “You're an idiot.”

“And yet,” he said, taking a slow step toward you, “you're still talking to me. Interesting.” 

You didn't move. Not back. Not forward. Just stood there, the music muffled in your ears now, your drink suddenly tasting stronger than it had a minute ago. He was closer, not close enough to touch, but enough that you could smell the mix of cologne and whatever he'd been drinking. Warm, spicy, and a little hint of trouble. Like him

“It's a party.” you said finally, lifting your drink. “Talking is part of the deal.”

“So is dancing,” he said, glancing toward the packed living  room. “But I have a feeling you're not a public dancer.”

“You don't know what kind of dancer I am.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with playful interest. “True. I don't. But I'd like to.” the wright of that look, the calm boldness of it, seat heat crawling up your neck. You took another sip of your drink to cover it, then another. Fast. too fast.

The party bled around you. Time went fuzzy at the edges. You weren't sure when the two of you migrated from the kitchen to the couch, or how many drinks had passed your lips, but you were warm now. Too warm. Your skin buzzed with that alcohol fueled hum, soft and lazy. Erik was next to you, closer than he should have been and every time he laughed, it sent a little flicker of heat curling in your stomach.

He leaned in again, voice lowered like it was just for you, even though the room was still full of people. “You always this pretty when you're tipsy?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You always this obnoxious when you're flirting?”

“I'm not flirting,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I'm confessing.”

You blinked. “Confessing what, exactly?”

“That I've been waiting all night for you to get this close to me.”

Your heart stuttered. He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like it wasn't the kind of thing that made your stomach flip and your face flush. His knee bumped yours. You didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned into the moment, into the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth every few seconds. The room felt dimmer. Closer. Quieter. The kind of quiet that buzzed with anticipation.

“You're drunk,” you repeated, softer this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “And so are you.”

That wasn't a denial. You should've said something clever. Should've backed off. But you didn't. Instead, you watched his mouth as he talked, his lips slightly parted, breathing warm against your cheek from the proximity. His hand brushed against yours where it rested on your thigh, just a gentle slide of skin, nothing more. But it felt electric. Like you'd been waiting for it without realizing it.

“Are we gonna keep pretending this isn't happening?” he asked, voice almost inaudible now over the bass vibrating through the floor. 

The kiss wasn't clean. It wasn't careful. It was drunken and eager. His mouth crashed into yours like he'd been waiting for permission all night and finally got the green light. You gasped against his lips and he swallowed it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, hands slipping around your waist to pull you closer until your thighs were draped over his. You could taste the liquor on his tongue, feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your shirt and his hoodie. His fingers gripped your hips like he didn't want to let go. Your own hands were in his hair now, tugging gently, guiding him as your lips moved together in sync. Sloppy and addictive.

He pulled back just a little, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. “I've wanted to do that since the first time you rolled your eyes at me.”

You laughed, breathless, fingers still curled around his collar. “That was five minutes after we met.”

“Exactly,” he said, then leaned in again slower this time. His lips brushed yours once, then again, soft and lingering. One of his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, not touching anything, just resting there, warm on your bare skin like a silent promise.

“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” you asked against his mouth. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then one to your neck. “Only if you pretend it didn't happen.”

“Don't tempt me.”

“Oh, I'm always tempting you.”

That earned him a kiss that shut him up. Long and hungry, the kind of kiss that made the room disappear, that made the alcohol fade and the noise dim until all you could feel was him, his lips, his hands, the lazy drag of his tongue against yours, the way he sighed into your mouth like this was something he'd needed for a while. And maybe it was. Maybe you both had.

You weren't sure how much time passed. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been thirty. you'd lost track after Erik kissed you like he meant it, like he didn't want to stop. Now now, not after all the lingering glances and sarcastic back and forths that clearly meant something more than either of you admitted out loud.

You were halfway through catching your breath, lips tingling and cheeks warm, when Erik looked at you again and there it was. That look. The one where his brows pull together just slightly and his mouth goes a little slack, like he's stuck between being patient and completely losing it. He looked down at your lips again, thumb brushing along the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah. No. I'm definitely not done kissing you.”

You blinked. “I kinda figured.”

He grinned, cocky. “Yeah? What gave it away? The part where I cant stop touching you or the part where I'm actively fighting the urge to pin you to this couch?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. “That second part came through loud and clear.”

“Well, good,” he said, leaning in again, voice amused. “I like being clear.”

You barely had time to process that before his lips were back on yours slower this time. Like he was taking his time now, like he was savoring it. You let yourself melt into it, your fingers finding their way into his hair again tugging softly as his hand cupped your jaw and tilted your face toward him. His other hand slid to your hip, pulling you flush against him until you were properly straddling his lap, knees pressing into the couch on either side of his thighs.

He groaned, quiet, right into your mouth and your head went a little fuzzy again. “You're not helping  me behave,” he murmured, lips trailing along your jaw, finding the curve of your neck. “Not even a little.”

You gasped when his mouth brushed your pulse point, your nails digging lightly into his shoulders through his shirt. “Pretty sure we passed the point of behaving like…ten minutes ago.”

“Fair,” he said, and you felt his smirk against your skin right before he kissed you there, slow, open mouthed kisses that made your spine arch slightly. “God, you smell good. Like sugar and bad ideas.”

You laughed. “You're drunk.”

“And yet still very motivated.”

His tongue flicked against your throat, teeth grazing lightly against the sot beneath your ear, and your hips shifted against his without thinking. The friction made bot of you inhale sharply. He cursed under his breath and gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging in just enough to make you feel every inch of contact between you. You pulled back a little, just enough to look him in the eyes. “Erik?” 

He was flushed, pupils blown wide, lips pink and swallowed. He looked at you like you were something he'd waited way too long to taste. “Yeah?”

“This is still just…making out. Right?” 

“Unless you tell me otherwise,” he said, sincere. “This isn't about getting laid. Not tonight. I just-” he cut himself off, looking you over again. “-i just like kissing you. A lot. Like, maybe a little too much.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, brain trying to keep up with how warm and giddy and stupidly turned on you were by how earnest he looked when he said it. You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his, lips ghosting over his mouth. “Then dont stop.”

He kissed you again like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, hands roaming just enough to drive you crazy without crossing the line. Your shirt started to ride up and his fingers brushed your bare sides with the lightest touch, just his palms holding you there, guidinging your hips in slow, teasing movements that made you forget what planet you were on. You kissed like the room had melted around you, like the music was nothing more than background noise to the shared, electric beat between your mouths, your breath, your bodies.

He kissed you until your lips were swallowed and your thighs were shaking, until your heart was thudding like it might break out of your chest. He kissed you like he didn't care who saw, like this whole party was just an excuse to finally get you into his lap. And when you finally rested your forehead against his again, both of you panting and flushed, he smiled up at you, gentler this time. Soft and a little messy.

“You sure you didn't come to this party just for me?”

You laughed, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. “Guess you'll never know.”

“Rude,” he said, nuzzling into your touch. “I make out this well and still get mystery answers.”

“Earn the rest of them.” you whispered and his grin returned full force.

“Oh, I plan to.”

[slashire]

private sessions

Summary: it's late at night, and you are waiting for Erik in the alley behind his work to see him...or maybe you have other reasons why you're there. He doesn't complain anyways when he gets you to himself.

Erik Campbell x fem!reader

Notes / Warning: 18+, rough makeout, oral (m and f receiving), semi public, dom!erik, cursing. That's about all.

words:2667

The alley behind the tattoo shop was narrow and dim, framed by worn red brick, with a busted neon sign flickering faintly above the service door. The sharp buzz of an air conditioner vibrated from an upper floor window, and the faint scent of rubbing alcohol and ink still lingered from inside. A busted light overhead cast a sickly yellow glow across the pavement, making the whole place look like the kind of spot people were warned to stay away from. Which is exactly why you were there. Leaning back against the wall, boot propped up behind you, arms crossed, you waited.

Then the door creaked open. Heavy boots hit pavement. A familiar silhouette stepped into view, hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw clenched like it always was after a long night of needles and back-to-back clients.

He pulled the door closed behind him with a sharp click and turned, his head tilted slightly when he saw you, but he didn't flinch, didn't pause. Just smirked.

“You stalking me again?”

“What can't I just stand here?” you shrugged. “It's cooler back here.”

He glanced down the alley once, then back at you with that flat, unreadable gaze, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a grin. “Hope you're not expecting anything romantic. I've still got ink on my hands.” 

You stepped off the wall, slow and deliberate. “Good. I didn't come for roses and soft lighting.”

Erik scoffed, rolling his shoulder. His hoodie pulled tight across his arms, inked skin, toned but lean, dusted with old bruises and fresh smudge from work.

“You always dress like this when you're trying to distract me?” he asked, voice low, eyes dragging from your boots up to the exposed skin under your cropped jacket.

“Who's distracted?” you stepped closer, until the toe of your boot touched his. “I just wanted to see what you look like after you've spent six hours putting art on strangers.”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze not leaving yours. “And?” 

You ran your tongue along your bottom lip. “You look like someone who needs to blow off steam.”

He dropped the cigarette behind him without lighting it. One step forward, then another, until your back hits the wall with a soft thud. His hands came up, not touching yet, just braced against the brick on either side of your head. 

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice lower now, breath brushing your lips. “And what exactly do you think i'm gonna do about that?”

You responded by taking the first move. You gripped the front of his hoodie and yanked him forward, mouths colliding in a kiss that was all teeth, lips, heat. He didn't hesitate, didn't waste time. His hands dropped to your hips, fingers digging in as he pulled your body flush against his. His mouth tasted like spearmint gum and cheap coffee. You gasped when his teeth grazed your bottom lip and he took the opening, tongue sliding against yours, aggressive and confident.

The sound you made earned a sharp inhale from him, and then his hands were slipping under your shirt, palms dragging up your sides, rough and hot against your skin. The metal of his rings were cold and jarring in the best way. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl softly against your mouth. He pushed you harder into the wall, thigh slotting between yours like he belonged there.

“Been thinking about this,” he uttered between kisses, lips brushing your jaw, yout neck, back to your mouth. “Every goddamn time you walk past the shop like you're not looking in on purpose.”

“And you always stare.” you whispered, breath catching when his teeth scraped your throat.

“Because you wear shit like this,” he said against your skin, hand sliding down your thigh, under the hem of your skirt. “Like you want me to grab you.” 

“I do.”

He groaned, kissing you harder this time, messier, deeper. The kind of kiss that left your lips bruised and breath ragged. The kind that wasn't a question, but a statement. You grinded against his thigh, nails digging into his shoulder through the fabric, and he laughed low in his chest, cocky and hot.

“You're trouble,” he muttered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And I don't even care.”

“Good,” you breathed, “because I'm not stopping.”

His hand slid between your thighs again, up, over, possessive. Not tender. He kissed you again, and it was like he was claiming your mouth, his tongue dominating yours, his hand gripping your body like he wanted to leave fingerprints.

Like he wanted proof, physical evidence that he'd had you right there, pinned to cold brick with the world disappearing around the edges. And the way his fingers spread low on your hips, sliding down to grab the back of your thighs, said he didn't care if you bruised from it.

You let out a low breath when he hoisted one of your legs up, anchoring it against his hip. The movement slammed you back against the wall with more force than finesse, the edge of rough concrete biting into your spine through your clothes. You didn't flinch, you liked the bite. Liked the way he manhandled you like a problem he intended to solve with his mouth.

He ground into you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel the outline of him through tight denim. You inhaled sharply at the pressure and he caught the sound with his mouth, swallowed it in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue curling past your lips like he owned your next breath.

You barely had time to react before his hand slid up under your shirt, skin to skin now, his palm skating over your ribs, fingertips dragging just beneath your bra. His touch was rough, confident, not hesitant in the slightest.

“You're warm,” he muttered against your mouth, voice frayed. “Like fuckin’ fire under here.”

You smirked against his lips, biting his bottom one just hard enough to make him grunt. “Then touch me like you mean it, before you get burned.”

He dropped one hand to your throat, not choking, just holding, controlling, fingers resting beneath your jaw like he was testing how fast your pulse was racing for him. You felt the weight of his rings, the drag of calloused fingers, the scape of his nails as he tilted your chin up and kissed you again, slower now, the kind of kiss that stole your balance.

Your back arched slightly as his free hand pushed your shirt higher. Knuckles grazing the curve of your chest. He didn't say a word, just dragged his thumb along the edge of your bra like he was debating whether to rip it or work around it.

The heat between your bodies climbed fast, oppressive in the best way. You could feel the slight grind of his hips with every kiss, his thigh pressing tight between yours, the alley wall behind you doing nothing to cool the burn building low in your stomach.

His lips ghosted along your jaw, down your neck, stopping to suck hard just beneath your ear. You hissed and clutched the back of his hoodie tighter, dragging your nails down the back of his neck until he groaned into your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “I should take you inside.”

You shoved him lightly with a grin. “And miss getting felt up in an alley like a bad decision?”

His eyes flashed, and for once, that smirk of his turned sharp. “You're worse than I thought.”

Then he pushed your leg higher on his hip and pressed into you harder, just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your thighs clench around him. His hand dragged down your body again, slipping under your skirt now, knuckled trailing up the inside of your thigh.

“You're soaked,” he muttered, half in awe, half smug. “You like this way too much.”

“So do you.” you whispered, arching into his touch.

His mouth slammed back onto yours, kiss turning frantic again, messy, open mouthed, the kind that left both of you breathless and wanting more. You could taste the heat on his tongue, the faint salt on his neck, the tobacco clinging to his skin even though he never lit the cigarette.

The alley faded. The night blurred. All you could hear was the slap of hands on skin, the soft grunt of his breathing, the drag of clothes shifting and mouths moving too fast to care. There was nothing sweet about it. It was hunger. Pressure. Lust laced with recklessness. And you were going to let him take whatever he wanted, right here, right now, until both of you were marked up and ruined for anyone else.

His fingers curled tight around your thigh, pushing the fabric of your skirt up higher with not subtly whatsoever. The concrete at your back scraped with every movement, but the sting was nothing compared to the burn between your legs as Erik pressed his hips fully into yours, letting you feel exactly what kind of effect you were having on him.

And fuck, he was hard. Very hard.

“Christ,” he muttered against your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna let me keep doing this out here like a fuckin’ delinquent, or are you gonna tell me to stop?”

“Do I look like I'm telling you to stop?”

His hand slipped up, two fingers rubbing over the damp fabric of your panties, slow, testing, smug. “Not even close.”

You spread your legs wider, giving him room without needing to say a word. His knuckles dragged your underwear to the side with a practiced flick of his fingers, and he growled under his breath when he found you bare and slick beneath.

“God damn.” His voice was quiet, but sharp, hungry. “You're really soaked for me huh?”

You barely managed a nod before one thick finger slid between your folds, teasing just enough to drive you crazy but not enough to satisfy. His thumb pressed against your clit while he kissed you again, deep, greedy, like he needed your mouth to stay occupied while he worked you open.

You bit his lip this time, tugging, grinding down against his hand. “What, you tattoo people all day and don't use your hands for this?”

He chuckled, sliding a finger inside you slowly, knuckle deep. “I use ‘em for a lot more than art, babe.”

 A second finger followed with little resistance, and you let your head fall back against the wall as he curled them just right. Your hips bucked up into him, moaning softly, half lost in the feeling of his thumb circling your clit while those long, inked fingers thrust in and out with building pace. Erik watched your face while he worked you like he wanted to see the exact moment your control snapped. 

“Louder,” he muttered. “You wanna act like a tease, you better be willing to let someone hear what i'm doing to you.”

You whimpered when he thrust his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding hard against your clit now. Your legs trembled, your nails scraping down the fabric of his hoodie, grabbing at the waistband of his jeans as your orgasm coiled hot and fast in your gut.

“I'm close,” you breathed, voice cracking. “Fuck, Erik-”

“Then cum,” he whispered, voice sharp against your ear. “Right here. Right now.”

You came hard around his fingers, biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud, your thighs trembling against his hips as he kept his hand moving until you were twitching and squirming. 

He pulled back slowly, slipping his fingers out and sliding them past his lips with a grin that was pure sin. He sucked them clean like he wanted to watch you squirm.

“You taste just as good as I figured,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. Still dazed, you pushed off the wall and sank to your knees on the cold pavement without hesitation, not caring about the dirty concrete digging into your skin. Your eyes stayed locked on his, smug, as your fingers made quick work of his belt, leather sliding through the loops with a snap. The sound echoed just faintly in the alley, mixing with the faint buzz of a far off streetlamp and the pulse hammering in your ears.

His brows shot up. “Oh. That's how this is going?”

You nodded slowly, hands already on his belt. “You got yours,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes. “Now I want mine.”

Erik didn't move, didn't say another word. He just watched you with that sharp, unreadable expression, jaw clenched, lips parted slightly, chest rising with tight control. But when you tugged his jeans down just enough to free him, already hard, thick, and flushed, he let out a breath that sounded more like a growl.

“Shit.” 

You smirked. “Still think I came out here to ‘stalk’ you?”

He chuckled low, almost breathless. “Im starting to think youre the best fuckin’ idea ive had in weeks.”

You wrapped your hand around him, firm grip, slow stroke, just to tease. He was hot in your palm, already twitching with need. You leaned in, licking up the length with one long drag of your tongue, watching his head tip back as a low groan escaped his throat.

Then you took him into your mouth, slow at first, tongue swirling, lips slick and tight. Careful around his piercing. Erik hissed a curse through his teeth, one hand instantly tangling in your hair, the other braced against the wall behind you.

“Fucking hell-”

You set a rhythm, deep, steady, wet, and he started moving with you, hips rocking forward in sharp, shallow thrusts. His grip in your hair tightens, guiding you, controlling just how deep you went, how fast you swallowed him down.

“Just like that,” he grunted, his voice rough and raw. “Fuck, you look good like this…”

You moaned around him on purpose, feeling the way it made his thighs tense. He was close already, his breathing was uneven, the curses coming faster, lower. “God.. your fuckin’ mouth,” he muttered. “Gonna make me lose it if you don't stop-”

But you didn't stop. You sucked harder, went deeper, letting your throat tighten just enough to make his knees buckle slightly. He bit down a sharp groan and slammed his palm against the wall in front of him.

“Jesus…fuck-”

With a broken sound buried in his throat, hips jerking forward, one last ragged gasp spilling from his lips, Erik came hard down your throat, holding you there, every muscle in his body tense and twitching. You swallowed every drop, slow and smooth, then pulled back with a pop of your lips, mouth swollen, chin wet, smirking like you'd just won a bet. Erik stared down at you, chest rising fast, hoodie pushed up on one side, sweat beading at his temple despite the cold.

“Goddamn,” he breathed. “Youre gonna be a fucking problem.”

You stood, fixing your skirt like nothing happened, brushing off your knees. “Only if you're lucky.”

He zipped up, still catching his breath, still trying to school the look on his face.

“Round two?” he asked, eyes scanning you head to toe like he was already undressing you again. “Or you just planning to walk off after that like a damn thief in the night?”

You arched a brow. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you're done working…or I should come back for a private session.”

His smile turned wicked. “Door’ll be unlocked."

[slashire]

late nights

Summary: after a note from a very known, very popular girl in school ended up in Spencer's locker, you agree to keep a close distance in the parking lot just in case something goes wrong, and it turns into a late night hangout which he thinks he messed up. 

Highschool senior!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

notes/warnings: highschool AU like senior year for both 

words:1845

It was late September in Vegas, the kind of afternoon where the sun hit the pavement just enough to make it shimmer, but not enough to make you sweat. The air held the first hint of fall, cooler in the shade, a little crisper in the lungs. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, school books scattered around in a circle, but neither of you were remotely focused on homework. Spencer was lying on his stomach beside you, long legs stretched out and his hair slightly disheveled from where he’d kept brushing it back. He was halfway through a passionate explanation of Schrödinger’s cat and how it related to quantum superposition, his words tumbling over one another with excitement.

“I mean, think about it,” he said, his voice light and full of energy. “You don’t actually know if the cat is dead or alive until you observe it. So, it’s both, in a way. That’s the beauty of theoretical physics. The possibilities are layered, uncertain until we collapse them into one.”

You were smiling at him, not because you understood every word (he was three textbooks ahead of you in AP Physics), but because he was radiant when he talked about things he loved. There was something magical about how alive he became when he was in his element.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “You’re the only person I know who could make theoretical death traps for cats sound poetic.”

He gave a soft, amused breath through his nose, his eyes flicking toward you. “It’s not a real cat, you know. It’s just a metaphor-”

“I know, Spencer. I was joking.”

A comfortable silence settled for a beat before he looked away from the spiral notebook in front of him and said casually, “Oh, by the way… I got a note today.”

You raised a brow, curious. “What kind of note?”

“From a girl,” he said, eyes still not on you. “It was in my locker when I went to get my calculus book. It said ‘meet me by the parking lot after school’ and it was signed. By Katie Shilling.”

You blinked, processing. Katie Shilling. Blonde, cheerleader, loud laugh in the hallways—she was popular in that low-effort, effortless kind of way. Pretty, always surrounded by people, not the type you'd ever imagined would pass notes to Spencer Reid. You tried to keep your face neutral.

“She signed it?” you asked.

“Yeah. In purple ink. Her handwriting has that… bubbly roundness to it. I compared it to a worksheet she turned in last week in chem.”

Of course he did. You tried not to smile. “And… what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. Statistically, high school pranks increase in frequency after senior year starts. Especially targeting those perceived as…” he paused, hesitating.

“Different?” you offered.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were glassy, distant, like he was bracing himself. Your heart sank a little. You knew how often Spencer was underestimated or mocked, how people could be cruel simply because he didn’t blend in. He was smarter, quieter, and kinder. And that made him a target.

You reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Do you want me to come with you after school?”

He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “Could you… stay hidden? Just in case it’s nothing. Or something.”

“Of course,” you said, instantly. “We’ll treat it like a stakeout.”

A small, grateful smile ghosted across his face.

The next day dragged by, every ticking clock hand slow and full of tension. You caught Spencer glancing at his locker between classes, his brows furrowed. You knew he was turning it over in his mind, trying to calculate the odds of something real versus something malicious. When the final bell rang, you followed him outside, ducking behind the old oak near the edge of the parking lot. Spencer stood where the note said, backpack slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap, eyes scanning every person that passed.

You crouched lower behind the tree. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

And then, they showed up.

Three guys. Not jocks, not that obvious, but loud enough. Familiar troublemakers from third period. They moved in like shadows, too casual, too slow, and then it shifted. One of them shoved Spencer’s backpack from his shoulder. Another smacked the books from his hands. Names started, quiet at first, then louder, sharper. “Freak.” “Robot.” “Too smart to function.”

You didn’t wait.

Before the third guy could land another jab, you pushed off from behind the tree and stormed toward them.

“Hey!” you barked, stepping directly between Spencer and the guys. “Back off.”

They blinked, surprised. One of them smirked. “What, is he your boyfriend now?”

“Would it matter if he was?” you snapped. “You three idiots have nothing better to do than ambush someone after school? Real tough.”

They muttered, one scoffing, another looking vaguely embarrassed. The third rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. This is boring anyway.”

And then, they turned and left, just like that. Like it wasn’t worth the energy.

You turned to Spencer, who was crouching, picking up his books without a word. His hands were trembling. You knelt beside him, silently helping gather everything back into a messy pile. His notebook was crumpled, the corner bent inwards. You gently folded it back.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “You’re coming to my house.”

He looked at you, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

“My parents aren’t home tonight. I can make popcorn and we’ll watch something stupid and loud. You’re not being alone after that.”

He gave the faintest nod.

The drive to your house was quiet. He sat beside you in the passenger seat, legs curled up just slightly, his hands still twitchy. You put on the radio, you both liked instrumental stuff, soft piano over ambient soundscapes, and let it fill the silence. When you pulled into your driveway, he followed you inside like a shadow.

The rest of the evening felt like a soft blur of trying to forget.

You both changed into more comfortable clothes. He wore one of your oversized hoodies because his shirt was torn at the sleeve, and it looked ridiculously big on him, but he didn’t complain. You made popcorn, added M&M’s to it like you always did, and threw a blanket over the both of you on your bed while some old sci-fi movie played in the background.

You kept the lights dim, fairy lights around your window the only glow in the room. You made a few dumb jokes, he laughed once or twice, and slowly, that tightness in his shoulders eased.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time the world felt like it had stilled. The movie had long since ended, the credits a distant memory, and only the soft hum of your fairy lights buzzed faintly in the background. Your room smelled faintly of popcorn and vanilla, and the blanket wrapped around both of you had slipped lower, pooled at your waists.

He had barely moved in the last half hour, lying on his side with his head propped on one arm, facing you. His other hand was idly tracing invisible patterns into the comforter, a small nervous tick you’d seen before. He hadn’t said much since earlier, just little sentences, half-thoughts, but now, in the low light, his eyes looked darker, deeper, heavy with something else entirely.

You weren’t sure who was studying who more.

“I used to think if I just… kept my head down, no one would notice me,” he said softly, his voice carrying in the quiet. “If I didn’t correct people or answer questions too quickly or… quote weird facts. I thought maybe they’d stop.”

You kept your gaze on him, gentle. “But you didn’t stop.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how to not be me.”

There was something so raw in the way he said it, so completely unguarded, that your chest ached. You reached over and placed your hand over his, fingers brushing his knuckles, and that seemed to quiet something inside him. He looked down at where your hands met, his thumb brushing the back of yours, almost absentmindedly.

Then, with the faintest inhale, he lifted his gaze again.

You watched something shift in his expression, eyes lingering on your face, flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again. There was a hesitance to it, a tension coiled in his posture. He was thinking too hard. Calculating it. You could almost see it happening behind his eyes.

“Spence,” you murmured.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, before you could ask why, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Barely there. It was the kind of kiss you almost imagined you dreamed, gentle pressure, a warm breath, the ghost of his lips touching yours like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He lingered only for a moment before pulling back, eyes wide, full of guilt before you’d even said a word.

“I’m…God, I’m sorry,” he blurted, pulling back further, already shaking his head. “That was, stupid, I don’t know why I did that, I didn’t mean to make it weird-”

“Spencer-”

“I don’t want to ruin anything, I just…It’s late and I’m tired and you were being nice to me and I think maybe my brain misinterpreted-”

“Spence.”

“-and I promise I wasn’t trying to take advantage or anything-”

You reached out, grabbed the front of your hoodie that he was still wearing, and tugged him forward before he could spiral any further.

And then you kissed him.

This time, deliberately. No hesitation, no accident, no uncertainty.

His lips were soft again, but this time his breath caught against yours, his hand gripping the blanket for balance. You could feel him exhale slowly through his nose, feel the way the tension bled out of his shoulders as you pressed in gently.

When you finally pulled back, your hand still lightly resting against his chest, he looked dazed, blinking like he wasn’t entirely sure what plane of reality he was on.

You smiled a little.

“Wasn’t weird,” you said softly.

He blinked once. “It… wasn’t?”

You shook your head. “Not even close.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, like somehow, you’d just redefined the edges of his world.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said, voice low. “Not when it’s real.”

And just like that, he smiled, shy, relieved, like a weight had quietly lifted off his chest. He didn’t say anything else.

[slashire]

wings

Castiel x fem!reader

The air was thick with smoke and tension, that uncanny stillness just before everything goes wrong. You were crouched low behind the crumbled remains of an old stone altar, shotgun gripped tight in your hands, your breathing shallow and uneven. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, nerves crawling along your skin like static. Castiel was knelt beside you, expression as unreadable as ever, his trench coat dusted with dirt and soot. His blue eyes flicking between you and the clearing ahead, methodical, calculating, always a step ahead, even now.

The hunt had already gone sideways. This was supposed to be simple, nothing fancy. What was supposed to be a routine salt and burn turned into something much darker. A haunting reported in a real worn down abandoned monastery on the edge of town, standard stuff. You, Cas, and dean had split up to cover more ground. Dean had gone to the catacombs below, and you'd taken the ruins above. He stayed close, at your insistence. Something had felt wrong the second you crossed the threshold to where the doors used to be. Too quiet. The air was too cold.

And then you'd found the circle.

Etched beneath the floorboards and hidden beneath layers of rot and filth, it wasn't just some spirts playing field. This was something much, much older. Carved into the stone itself were sigils hidden beneath layers of decay, a summoning circle carved deep into the earth, the scent of blood too fresh. Archaic symbols tangled like a nest of thorns, pulsing faintly with an unnatural green light. The moment Castiel stepped near it, his posture shifted.

The sigils had begun to glow with an eerie, sickly green, pulsing with the rhythmic beat of something alive. You looked over at Cas, trying to steady your voice. “This isn't right.”

He nodded once, jaw clenched. “It's a binding circle. Demonic… but old. Babylonian, maybe older. Someones trying to open a gate.”

Before you could respond, the wind shifted. The trees groaned, the sky above cracked with a low rumble like thunder, but no storm came. Your heart skipped. The circle flared, too fast. The energy surged. Something had been triggered. Like someone had flipped a switch or spilled gasoline over a sacred flame, the ground beneath your feet vibrating with an  otherworldly hum. A sharp, shrieking sound split the air like a scream without a mouth, tearing through the clearing like a blade. The summoning circle cracked wide open, glowing veins spreading across the earth.

“Get back!” he barked, reaching for you.

You tried to step back, but it was too late. The blast was sudden, seismic, a burst of ancient magic that tore through the air with a blinding light. The force of it knocked you off your feet. The energy surged toward you like a wave, faster than your eyes could track.

“Y/N!” Cas shouted, voice edged with something alarmingly close to fear. 

One second you were falling, weightless, the blast about to consume you whole, then strong arms caught you mid air, pulling you into the safety of a chest that radiated warmth and something more, something divine. Castiel’s arms locked around you with a force that was both desperate and precise, and then, wings.

They exploded outward with a gust of wind that sent the smoke spiraling. Massive, celestial, impossibly soft and impossibly strong, they wrapped around you in a single fluid motion. The feathers blocked out the light, the flames, the sounds, everything but Castiel. The pressure of their span, the sound like sails catching the wind. Feathers, massive and soft and indestructible, cocooned around your body just as the fire from the explosion rolled over the treetops. You were encased in him, his warmth, his presence, his power.

Everything outside his wings was chaos. Flame and ash, screaming winds, branches snapping like brittle bones. Heat licked at the edges of his protection, but never touched you. The world was collapsing just beyond the veil of his grace, and all you could hear was the dull thud of your heart, and his voice, low, firm, a prayer in Enochian as he held you tighter.

Inside the shield of his wings, there was silence. Only your heartbeat, ragged and quick, and his, the steady rhythm of a creature older than the world. You could feel the tension in his arms, how tightly he held you, how every muscle in his body fought to keep the world out. His wings trembled at the edges, feathers shuddering with each new shockwave.

He was speaking still, chanting ancient words under his breath, pouring his grace into the space around you like armor. You tilted your head weakly to look up at him, but everything was spinning. Your limbs were numb. Your vision blurred, only catching silvers of blue flaring in his eyes as he focused all of himself on protecting you.

Another hit, stronger. The sigils outside exploded in a ripple of green fire that splashed against the edge of his wings. He grunted softly, and you felt it vibrate through his chest. The force of it slammed into the protective shield of his wings again and again like a tidal wave against a cliff. He gritted his teeth, wings straining to hold. You were limp in his arms now, the last flickers of your consciousness dimming. You heard his voice say your name, sharp, almost panicked. That wasn't like him.

“Stay with me,” he said, tone cracked. The words felt far away. Your head lulled against him, eyelids fluttering. 

But the last thing you saw was the flicker of celestial blue in his eyes as he poured every ounce of power into shielding you. The beat of his wings folding tighter, the warmth of him surrounding you, the pulse of his grace…then darkness.

When the fire finally died down, and the circle burned out, there was nothing but scorched earth and silence. The sigils were gone. The earth cracked and smoldering. The world around was deathly quiet, as if it too was stunned by the force of what had just occurred.

Castiel slowly unfurled his wings.

He was kneeling in the dirt, still holding you. Smoke drifted through the clearing in soft tendrils. His trench coat was torn, the hem burned, blood drying along a cut near his temple, but he didn't care. His wings were scorched at the tips, feathers singed and bent, but intact. The only thing that mattered to him right now was you. 

Your body lay limp in his arms, face slack and pale against the dirt covered fabric of his coat. He shifted to cradle you more securely, one hand pressed gently to the side of your head, the other around your waist, protective even now. He knelt, holding you close, one wing still partially draped over your body. His jaw was clenched, eyes darting over your form for injuries. He brushed a thumb gently against your cheek.

He looked down at you, searching. A flicker of panic, true, human panic, twisted behind his eyes for a split second. “Y/N.” he murmured, voice lower than a breath.

You didn't stir.

“You're safe,’ he said, more to himself than to you. “You're safe.”

He pressed two fingers to your temple. Nothing serious. Healing the worst of what you took, internal bruising, the gash at your shoulder, the shallow brun on your wrist. A concussion. Starin from the magical blow. He could fix that. He would fix that. His hand soft against your forehead as his grace flowed into you in soft pulses, stitching you back together. Still you didn't wake.

Castiel exhaled slowly through his nose, then leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours. One wing still hung protectively over your shoulder, half sheltering you from the outside world. His voice was almost too soft to hear.

He looked to the sky, jaw tight. “You're not taking her,” he said softly, as if daring something unseen to try. The trees whispered in the breeze. A distant crow cried.

Only once your pulse settled into a steady rhythm beneath his fingers did he finally shift. He pulled you against him again, tighter this time, anchoring you to his chest like he could will you back to consciousness through sheer closeness.

His wings folded once more, curling you both in a soft darkness unmarred by the world's violence. He waited there, unmoving, until you stirred.

And when you finally did, when your lashes fluttered and your fingers twitched against the fabric of his coat, he let off a deep sigh of relief. Then with a flicker of his wings and a low hum of displaced air, he vanished, leaving nothing behind but ash.

[slashire]

Hiii! Me again... Could you do a part four for sebastian fic where reader moves on and flirts with someone? Like jelous Sebastian. In a demonic way? I wanna see it after last episodes.

you know i love your requests at this point. you just read my mind.

one hell of a headache pt four

Summary: after weeks of nothing but normalcy, one stroll through the garden with another seems to get on Sebastian's last nerve, and he just won't admit it. Still protective, possessive old Sebastian, who also has jealousy issues.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings just typical banter. 

WC: 5352

part one part two part three

You walked through the estate gardens. The weather was temperate, the hedges perfectly sculpted. The gravel crunched softly beneath your heeled boots as you walked with measured steps, the delicate stitching of your dress hem trailing just above the ground. It was a deep navy blue today, high-collared with a fitted corset bodice and black lace trim that looped along the cuffs and neckline, modest by design but sharp in detail. Your gloves were a fine cream color, imported. You haven't worn them since early spring. You held your parasol at a precise angle to shade your face, matching the etiquette expected during an afternoon garden walk.

It had been weeks. Weeks since that night in the library. Since the corridor. Since you’d clawed each other to pieces, collapsing between body heat and bitterness. You had not acknowledged it, you hadn't let it show. But you hadn't forgotten either, you remembered everything.

The way his hands undid the laces at your back. The quiet growl in his throat when you cursed against his skin. The exact way he looked at you right before he stopped pretending he had control. And then he vanished before morning like nothing happened. As if nothing had been torn apart.

Lord Hadrian, of the derby estate strolled beside you with practiced confidence, though his steps faltered whenever you turned to look at him. His waistcoat was slightly over-buttoned, and his gloves were a size too large. His posture stiffened each time he spoke. Incredibly average. Charming in a harmless way. He stammered when you complimented his waistcoat and turned red when you laughed at his clumsy compliment. It was innocent. Almost sweet. His hand brushed yours once, and you let it stay. Let the air between you warm just slightly. You smiled. You tilted your head. You let him look. 

You weren't trying to flirt, not really. You'd just gotten good at pretending. And when Lord Hadrian, sweet doe eyed, painfully polite, offered you his arm during the afternoon garden stroll, you took it. Why not? He was harmless. Harmless was safe. 

“I daresay these roses rival the ones back home in Chesterfield,” he said, offering a hopeful smile. Attempting conversation, it was passable.

You turned your head slightly, the ribbons from your hat brushing your shoulder. “You should congratulate the gardener. I hear the soil here does all the work.”

He laughed. It wasn’t unpleasant, just poorly timed. Before he could reply, a soft cough from behind interrupted the moment. Crisp, brief, intentional.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sebastian stood several paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, coat perfectly pressed, his gaze unreadable. But you could feel him, sharp and simmering, more shadow than servant. His eyes were cold, ancient, barely leashed.

Hadrian blinked. “Erm, am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly, smoothing your skirt and glancing back. “My butler simply had indigestion of the soul.”

Sebastian, perfectly composed, offered a single nod. “I apologize, my lady. I was merely startled. The sunlight, you see. It caught Lord Hadrian’s collar in such a way I briefly mistook him for a doily.”

You smirked. Hadrian blinked in confusion. 

“I think it's rather charming,” you said. “He's got the personality of one too.”

“I agree. Disposable, and stains easily.”

You coughed to cover your laugh. He didn't get it. Poor thing.

The stroll continued, awkwardly. Hadrian tried to recover with small talk about horses. You responded with gracious nods, flirtatious smiles, and the kind of laughter that he could pick apart in his sleep. It was a performance, and you played the part beautifully.

Hadrian cleared his throat. “I was wondering, my lady, if you might allow me the pleasure of your company this Friday, my family is hosting a small gathering. Private, of course. Nothing elaborate.”

“She will not,” Sebastian said without inflection.

You stopped walking. The parasol lowered slightly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hadrian asked, blinking toward him.

You turned fully toward Sebastian, face angled with deliberate control. “Explain.”

Sebastian’s gaze did not waver. “Your calendar does not permit detours. The young master’s estate reports are overdue, and your review of the charitable ledgers remains unfinished. I assumed you would prefer accuracy to…improvisation.”

Your jaw tightened slightly. “How considerate.”

Hadrian smiled uncomfortably, looked as though someone poured ice water down his cravat. “No, no, of course, I wouldn’t dream of- if i've overstepped-”

“You have,” he said politely. “But it's understandable. Not all men are born with self-awareness.”

“I believe we require a moment,” you said smoothly, passing your parasol to Hadrian. “Keep this upright, won’t you?”

Then you turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gravel, and made for the shade of the nearest hedge corridor. You didn’t wait to see if Sebastian followed. You already knew he would. He followed silently, no hesitation in his steps.

Once hidden from view, and out of earshot, you turned sharply. “Since when do you get to decide who I speak to?”

He adjusted one cuff, his fingers precise as they slid the fabric into alignment. “I spoke because you were uncharacteristically permissive.”

“You mean polite.”

“Some would call it transparent.”

You stepped forward, heels silent on the dirt path beneath the hedge canopy. “And you think it’s your job to correct that?”

“I think,” he said, “that Hadrian is the sort of man who mistakes eye contact for invitation. You were entertaining him. I intervened. You are under my car. I monitor potential liabilities.” he tilted his head slightly.

“Liabilities?” you repeated, brows raised. “Hadrian?” 

“A man whose idea of courtship involves complimenting a woman's parasol, three different times,” he said. “Yes. A walking liability.” 

You snorted. “And what's your idea of courtship? Waiting until someone collapses from frustration?”

“I've found that method rather efficient, actually.”

You let out a slow exhale through your nose. “I see. And you, of course, sound jealous.”

“I don’t believe I’ve claimed that. Jealousy is a human indulgence. I do not have time for such inefficiencies.”

“You don’t have to,” you said dryly. “You speak like your presence is already proof.”

He stepped forward, posture still immaculate. “You were laughing.”

“Conversation requires participation.”

“You touched his arm. Twice.”

“It’s called walking in heels, on gravel. I don’t have your centipede-like balance.”

He didn’t react to the insult. “He would’ve tripped over his own shadow if you’d sneezed. Hardly fit company.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “So now you’re the arbiter of my social engagements?”

“If someone must be.”

You stared at him for a long moment. His gloves were flawless. His lapel had not a single wrinkle. His voice hadn’t shifted in tone once.

“You left,” you said, flatly. “After the other night.”

Sebastian’s head tilted incrementally. “You were asleep.”

“I woke up fully clothed, covered, and alone.”

“I assumed discretion was preferable.”

“Don’t pretend you were doing me a favor.”

“I never pretend.”

You stepped in close, expression controlled. You raise your hand to slap him, or try. He caught your wrist, his eyes glinted just for a moment, gold, glowing, and hungry.

“That temper of yours,” he said softly. “It might kill a man someday.”

“Shame you're not one.”

He released your hand immediately. Like it didn't mean anything. Like you didn't mean anything. But you saw the tension in his jaw. The flicker behind his eyes. The possessiveness simmering just beneath the starch and polish. You stared at him, his gloves pristine, as always. No wrinkle in his coat. Not a hair out of place. And yet, his pupils were sharp. Too sharp. Like he has not blinked in too long.

“And, they weren’t insults,” he said. “They were assessments.”

“Right. And what’s your assessment now?”

He looked at you then, eyes steady, gold just barely flickering at the edges.

“You’re deflecting,” he said. “Using Hadrian as a placeholder. Temporary attention for temporary gratification.”

You rolled your eyes. “You think very highly of yourself.”

“Only when proven correct.”

You exhaled sharply. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” he said coolly. “You burn every bridge you cross and then act surprised when no one follows.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Better to burn than to linger.”

“That’s why you wear navy,” he added, stepping forward again. “It’s more difficult to spot ash on dark fabric.”

You blinked once. “That sounded almost poetic.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t intended to be.”

You studied his face. Not a single muscle moved. His posture had not shifted since he’d entered the garden. But the space between you had closed. He was close enough to see the embroidery in the collar of your gown. Close enough that the faint scent of starched linen and polished leather lingered in the air between you.

You took a sharp step back.

“I’m going to finish this walk,” you said. “You can either follow at a distance or get back to work.”

He nodded once. “As you wish.”

But he didn’t turn immediately.

You did.

And you didn’t look back. As you rejoined Hadrian, you felt his gaze brun between your shoulder blades until well after tea.

The evening air settled like pressed silk across the garden.

Lord Hadrian had left an hour ago, his carriage wheels crunching over gravel as he bid a too-lengthy farewell, your parasol returned slightly smudged and crooked. You’d tossed it aside the moment he left.

Now, seated alone on a wrought iron bench beneath the upper boughs of the estate’s towering cedar trees, you stared up at the stars, arms folded loosely around your waist, listening to the gentle rustling of the wind through the hedges. The lanterns by the garden paths had been dimmed. The only illumination now came from the pale blue spill of moonlight that caught the metallic glint of your brooch and the silver embroidery on your gloves.

It was peaceful.

The kind of rare quiet that came only after everyone else had gone to bed and the house had sighed into stillness.

You let your head lean back against the bench. The stars above the manor grounds were unblemished by the fog of the city, crystal-clear and numerous. The shape of Orion hung just overhead, his belt aligned in perfect symmetry. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax fully, spine curving, gloved fingers stretching over your lap.

Then came the sound.

A soft scrape. Like boot leather dragging against gravel.

You straightened immediately, eyes cutting toward the hedgerow. Nothing.

Then again, closer. A shift of fabric against stone. A twig snapping.

You sat forward now, the tails of your coat brushing the wrought iron behind you. Your eyes scanned the shadows between the trimmed rose bushes, the fountain, the stone sundial. The wind had picked up slightly, and the distant rustle of leaves seemed to mimic footfalls.

“Who’s there?” you called, voice clear but level.

Nothing.

The silence that answered was louder than it should’ve been. No birdsong. No insects. Just that heavy, listening hush.

Your hand drifted to the small pocket-knife tucked into your garter beneath the folds of your skirt. You didn’t move to stand yet, but your body shifted toward the edge of the bench, ready.

You turned your head to check behind you, and a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

Before the scream left your throat, another hand clamped tightly over your mouth.

You thrashed, instinctively elbowing back, but the grip was already shifting, redirecting you, restraining without harming. You recognized the glove first. The scent second, clean pressed linen and faint cologne. And the voice came next, low against your ear.

“Quiet.”

You tried to turn your head, glare sharp and immediate.

He let you go as fast as he’d grabbed you.

You spun around. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Sebastian straightened. “I was prepared to disarm you.”

“I had the upper hand.”

“You were sitting.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I’ve done it before.”

You glared. “Did you come to scare me into bed?”

“I came to retrieve you,” he said. “Someone is trespassing on the manor grounds. I’ve been tracking them since dusk. Your outdoor brooding has compromised the perimeter.”

“Brooding?” you repeated. “I was stargazing.”

He raised a brow. “With a blade tucked into your garter?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” he said. “You’re alone, unescorted, and sitting in the one location with limited line of sight to the main estate.”

You stepped back. “You didn’t need to grab me.”

“I didn’t need to warn you either. Shall we call it even?”

You scowled. “I’m not going inside just because something went bump in the dark.”

A pause. Then Sebastian said, almost too quietly, “It wasn’t a bump.”

The tone shifted.

Before you could answer, he swept forward, one arm at your back, the other just beneath your knees.

You gasped. “Put me down-!”

“You can file a complaint with the young master in the morning,” he said coolly.

“You’re manhandling me!”

“Carrying. There's a distinction. Do hold still, your skirts are tangling.”

“Sebastian-!”

He moved quickly and silently, as always, back toward the main house through the garden path. You squirmed just enough to make it annoying, but his grip didn’t falter once. You couldn’t even hear his shoes on the stone steps as he passed through the open side corridor leading into the manor. The path to the house passed in silence apart from your skirts flapping indignantly with each of his strides and the occasional hiss of, "Put me down," which he ignored like ambient noise. You were deposited at the foot of the stone steps with precision, as though he were shelving you back into your rightful place. Gently. The way one might lower an expensive violin after use.

You immediately dusted off your skirt and smoothed your bodice. “You’re absurd.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

"You deserve worse," you snapped, struggling slightly in his grip as he continued to hold you still after putting you down.“You are insufferable.”

“Thank you,” he said without missing a step. “I strive for consistency.”

You stumbled slightly. “If I had a brick, you’d be meeting it.”

“You should be grateful I didn’t toss you over my shoulder.”

“Oh, please do next time,” you snapped, smoothing your skirts. “At least then I could stab you in the spine.”

“I doubt you’d reach.”

“I would aim.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “A noblewoman of your standing, stabbing her butler. Truly, a scandal worth the headlines.”

You rolled your eyes and turned on your heel toward the hall. “Go play cat-and-mouse with your mystery trespasser, demon. I’m going to bed.”

“As you should have done an hour ago,” he replied smoothly, already stepping away. “Try not to sneak off again. I’d hate to have to leash you.”

You froze, scoffed through your nose, and didn’t turn back. “I'd like to see you try.”

His only response was the quiet closing of the side door as he vanished into the night.

The corridor fell silent in his absence.

You stood alone for a moment before ascending the stairs.

In your room, you undid the buttons on your bodice with slightly more force than necessary, brushing out your hair with methodical strokes as you listened to the muted sounds of the household settling into silence. Outside your window, the night wind stirred the hedges, but you couldn’t hear anything beyond the whisper of branches.

By the time you were dressed in a long, ivory nightgown and wrapped in a soft robe, you were almost convinced you had imagined the earlier sense of danger.

Almost.

You padded quietly down the hall to the breakfast parlor. The household staff had cleared most of the dishes by now, but the room was dimly lit, a small fire still smoldering in the hearth. You helped yourself to a few pieces of fruit left out on a silver tray and seated yourself with the practiced posture of someone determined not to think too hard.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

“I assume you murdered whatever was rustling about out there,” you said calmly as you sliced a grape in half with your fruit knife.

“I handled it,” Sebastian replied. His tone was light, but you could hear the undercurrent of tension beneath the words. Like something that had been wound too tight, and only barely released.

You glanced up casually as he moved around the table, pouring tea into your untouched cup. His gloves were immaculate again, but the corner of his white collar, just near the seam under his jaw, was stained. Faint, but unmistakable. A single smear of dried blood. Crimson against white.

You didn’t say a word.

He didn’t explain.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but deliberate. As if both of you were pretending there wasn’t something heavy and unseen crouching in the room with you, breathing between the teacups.

He set the pot down with a gentle clink. You took the cup. Your fingers brushed his glove as you did. Neither of you acknowledged it. He  straightened. “The young master expects you at breakfast proper in the morning.”

You lifted the cup to your lips. “How thrilling.”

He moved to leave, paused just short of the doorway. “Try not to wander, my lady.”

“I make no promises.”

He didn’t turn his head when he spoke next, but you heard it all the same.

“You rarely do.”

And then he was gone.

You sat alone in the flickering light, sipping warm tea that had gone slightly bitter. Your gaze drifted toward the window. The garden was dark now, nothing moving. And yet your pulse hasn't quite returned to normal.

Not from the fright. Not from the trespasser. But from the memory of a grip too fast to see, a voice too calm to question, and a stain too red to ignore. You didn’t sleep easily that night. Not because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know what Sebastian chose to leave outside.

Or what he'd brought back in with him.

The rain had started sometime before dawn. It wasn’t loud, but the steady patter against the high arched windows made it difficult to ignore. You stirred in bed far later than usual, your sleep patchy and dreamless. The light in the room was soft and silvered, filtered through sheer drapes drawn over tall windows. Somewhere downstairs, the subtle sound of porcelain meeting china echoed faintly, a distant breakfast being served.

You groaned softly, rolling onto your side. Your body ached with that strange stiffness that came from being too still for too long, and your thoughts were too fogged with the weight of the night before to gather themselves properly. A chill clung to the room. You’d forgotten to stoke the fireplace.

By the time Mey-Rin entered to assist with your dressing, you were upright, shoulders draped in a robe, sitting at your vanity and staring blankly at your reflection.

“Yer breakfast’s nearly finished downstairs,” she chirped, bustling in with a towel and a pair of warm stockings. “But the young master said you’re excused for tardiness today, miss. Said you were up late.”

You frowned slightly at the reflection. “Did he now?”

“Yes, miss. Said something about Lord Hadrian visitin’ this mornin’ and that you shouldn’t be rushed, what with his surprise arrival and all.”

Your hand froze mid-reach for your comb.

“…He’s what?”

Mey-Rin blinked, unsure if she’d said something wrong. “Lord Hadrian, miss. He’s already downstairs.”

You straightened slowly, the words clicking together in your mind like the pieces of a trap. Of course Ciel would do something like this. He’d noticed the change in Sebastian’s mood, of course he had. And when Sebastian had let slip, in that clipped way of his, that Hadrian was “less than ideal company,” well… it only made sense that Ciel would file it away for later.

And apparently, later was this morning.

You dressed in record time, though Mey-Rin’s nervous fumbles made the process longer than it should have been. She laced the back of your corseted bodice too tightly and had to start again, apologizing profusely while you barely blinked, your thoughts already two steps ahead.

Downstairs, the long breakfast table was set as always. Ciel sat at the head, a polite smirk hidden behind the edge of his teacup. Lord Hadrian was seated comfortably to the right, his coat removed and hanging neatly over the back of his chair. He looked infuriatingly well-rested, a slice of toast in one hand, the other holding a knife as he gestured toward something Ciel had said.

And standing silently to one side, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture knife-straight, was Sebastian.

He didn’t look at you when you entered. Not even once.

You were halfway into your chair before Lord Hadrian looked up and said, “Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think you’d taken ill, my lady.”

“I might still,” you muttered as you reached for the teapot.

Hadrian chuckled. “You’re as radiant as ever.”

Ciel cleared his throat lightly. “She’s not a morning person. We find it best to avoid eye contact until after the second cup.”

“Wise,” Hadrian agreed easily. “She almost took off my hand with a parasol just yesterday.”

You raised your brows. “I was simply grabbing it back.”

“I was admiring the embroidery.”

“You were pawing it like a hound at a roast.”

Hadrian grinned, delighted. “You wound me.”

“I could arrange something less metaphorical.”

Sebastian moved to your side silently, pouring your tea with clinical precision. His gaze didn’t touch your face, didn’t even brush your sleeve. When you glanced his way, he simply said, “My lady,” and stepped back like a shadow sliding across the floor.

Ciel watched all of this over his cup, one sharp eye flicking between the two of you.

Breakfast passed in that odd kind of silence where the conversation was polite, but nothing said truly landed. Ciel occasionally tossed in pointed questions, mostly toward Hadrian, and always things Sebastian would disapprove of. “Have you ever seen the south greenhouse?” or “Perhaps you’ll stay for supper if our dear lady encourages it.”

Sebastian remained a portrait of passive indifference.

Until Hadrian rose.

“Well,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “I really should be off. I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

“Nonsense,” Ciel replied. “You’re always welcome.”

He turned then, looking directly at you, mischief sparkling just beneath the calm veneer.

“It would be polite,” Ciel said slowly, “if you walked Lord Hadrian to his carriage. Don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s voice was flat. “If that is the young master’s wish.”

Ciel’s lips barely twitched.

You stood stiffly, expression unreadable, and followed Hadrian out into the drive. The rain had stopped, but the stone path was still slick and gleaming, the sky a pale gray.

“I can’t tell if you hate me or just everyone,” Hadrian said cheerfully as you reached the waiting carriage.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied. “I’m merely indifferent to your entire existence.”

“Ah. Progress, then.” He caught your hand before you could pull it back. “For what it’s worth, I do enjoy our conversations. You’ve got a sharp tongue and a sharp mind.”

“You’ve got a bruisable jaw,” you said, watching him closely.

He smiled, lifted your hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles with exaggerated slowness. Then he bowed and climbed into the carriage. You didn’t turn around immediately. But you didn’t have to. You felt Sebastian’s gaze the entire time. Like a weight at the back of your neck. When you finally did turn, he was standing on the steps with Ciel beside him, expression unreadable. Ciel was watching him.

The carriage rolled away.

The rest of the day passed in slow, deliberate silence. Sebastian spoke only in titles. “My lady.” “Yes, ma’am.” No sarcasm. No wit. No interruptions. He appeared when summoned, vanished when dismissed, and never once acknowledged you outside of formality. It was maddening.

Even worse, you missed it. The friction. The bite. The crackle of tension that had always lived beneath the surface of your arguments. Now there was only space. Empty, pristine silence.

By nightfall, the rain had returned. Thin streams slid down the windows like melted glass. The fire in the library crackled softly as you curled up in the armchair with a book you weren’t reading. Your nightgown was hidden beneath a heavy robe. Slippers silent against the carpet. The clock above the mantle ticked too loudly.

You didn’t expect him to come in.

But he did.

The door opened quietly, Sebastian stepping inside like a shadow made flesh. He was still dressed for the day, only his coat removed, sleeves rolled up just slightly. His gloves were spotless.

You didn’t look up.

“Still awake,” he said quietly.

“I have a library and a storm,” you murmured without turning the page. “What else could I need?”

“A sensible bedtime.”

“Would you like me to fetch my parasol?”

He didn’t answer. You heard the door close behind him, heard the quiet click of his shoes across the carpet. When you finally lifted your eyes, he was standing near the hearth, watching the fire like it had insulted him.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you said softly.

“I’ve had little worth saying.”

You snorted. “Now that I don’t believe.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at you. But something in the air felt heavier. Tighter.

“You’ve been irritated since breakfast,” you said, marking your page with one finger. “I can’t imagine why.”

He was silent.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

His jaw tensed, a subtle shift in the dim firelight.

You smiled slowly. “You’re jealous. That’s why you’ve been sulking like a maid in the rain.”

“I don’t sulk,” he said coolly.

You stood, stepping toward him until only a few feet remained between you. “You’re brooding.”

“Brooding is hardly the word I’d use.”

You tilted your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He finally looked at you. And though his expression didn’t change, something in his eyes sharpened, something old and barely chained.

He stepped closer.

You didn’t back up.

“Watch your tone,” he said, voice low, steady.

“Or what?” you whispered. “You’ll pour my tea a little too quickly?”

There was no answer. Just the sound of rain outside and the fire cracking quietly as the tension between you thickened again, tighter, closer, unbearable.

And still, you stood there, trapped in that quiet, storm-slicked standoff, with only inches between defiance and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The fire cracked again, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way the tension snapped tighter between you.

Your eyes scanned him slowly, reading every detail like it was one of the ledgers you were constantly asked to review. But tonight, the notes were different. Too stiff in the shoulders. Too sharp at the corner of the mouth. Too calm. Too silent.

“Tell me, did you burn a hole in the front window watching Hadrian’s carriage pull away, or was that just a trick of the glass?” Your voice was smooth, mildly amused, but behind it was bait, dangled with precision.

His answer was delayed just long enough to confirm the hit.

“I am employed to monitor the estate perimeter,” Sebastian replied with his usual polished cadence. “Not to comment on the behavior of passing rodents.”

You raised a brow. “Rodents? That’s generous. You called him ‘less than ideal company’ the first time. Now he’s been demoted to a rat?”

“I’ve seen rats with more tact.”

You stepped closer, deliberately slow, eyes locked on his. “He kissed my hand.”

“I noticed,” he said flatly.

“And bowed.”

“Sloppily.”

Your eyes narrowed. “He was perfectly polite.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. Not in amusement. In irritation. “That’s one word for it.”

“What would you call it?” you asked. “Aside from ‘vermin,’ obviously.”

“A waste of time,” he said, stepping forward sharply. “And a desperate attempt to impress someone far beyond his reach.”

You blinked, then tilted your head, voice laced with mock-sweetness. “And you think you know who’s within my reach?”

“I know who doesn’t try to peacock around like a fool the moment your back is turned.”

“You mean unlike you, who’s been silent all day, sulking behind tea trays like a brothel ghost?”

He smiled now, cold and thin. “Better a ghost than a jester.”

“Is that what this is?” You smirked. “You’re upset because I humored someone who can actually say something interesting without reminding me he’s ‘one hell of a butler’ every five minutes?”

His gloved hand twitched behind his back.

You pressed forward just enough to make the final jab: “What’s wrong, Sebastian? He talk to me too long for your liking?”

His jaw flexed. Just once. “I don’t concern myself with who you choose to flatter. I simply advise against wasting time with mediocre men who mistake theatrics for worth.”

You laughed, dry and sharp. “So you are jealous.”

He took another step, cutting the last of the distance between you. “Jealousy implies emotional attachment. I assure you, I feel nothing of the sort.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you murmured, chin raised.

“And yet I haven’t,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Because you’ve been circling this since you walked into the room.”

You said nothing.

“Why don’t you admit it?” he added. “You enjoyed getting a rise out of me.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “I like watching you slip.”

“I don’t slip.”

“You’re slipping right now,” you said, nodding down toward his balled fists. “Look at your hands.”

His eyes flicked down once, then back up. His posture remained perfect. Controlled. But there was a heat in his stare that hadn’t been there before. Something flickering behind the mask, ancient and hard-edged.

You turned toward the book you’d dropped earlier, bending to retrieve it. “I don’t blame you for being annoyed. He is taller than you.”

The insult struck like a knife, but Sebastian said nothing. You straightened again, smug, waiting.

But this time, he didn’t take the bait.

He simply stared at you for a long moment, gaze unreadable, and then said flatly, “It’s late, my lady.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“It’s time you returned to your chambers.”

You folded your arms, spine straight. “Not tired.”

He stared. Then moved to the bookshelf to your left.

“If you refuse to retire, I will stay here until you do,” he said as he selected a random volume and opened it without looking.

“Petty.”

“Practical.”

“Jealous.”

“Amused,” he said, tone colder now. “That you think this affects me.”

You stepped toward him again, brushing past him just slightly, knowing he wouldn’t react. Not visibly. But you could feel it.

The air between you was stiff as steel wire. Tension wound like clock springs between every breath, every glance.

“You sure you don’t want to call Hadrian a few more names while you’re here?” you asked over your shoulder.

“I prefer to deal with pests outside the house,” Sebastian murmured, not looking up. “Or do you enjoy playing with strays?”

You opened the library door with an elegant flick. “You’re getting slow. That insult barely registered.”

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes lifting briefly. “I’m restraining myself.”

You paused, lips twitching. “That’s what I like about you, Sebastian. So polite. So well-behaved.”

He closed the book with a snap.

“Goodnight, butler.”

“Sleep well, my lady,” he replied coolly. “Do dream of something less… embarrassing.”

You didn’t respond, just slipped into the hallway. Behind you, the library door closed without a sound. But the air in the corridor still hummed, heavy with the static left behind. He hadn’t said it. But you’d won this round. And the next would be worse. For both of you.

And somewhere upstairs, that storm still hadn't passed.

[slashire]

I just found your Kai Parker fic and gorl I need more of your tvd writing IT WAS AMAZING. idek what I'd want for the request ngl but either more tension with Kai or Jeremy Gilbert in his vampire hunting era fr

remind me

Summary: Jeremy's mind is going in every direction and doesn't know how to just be anymore. You ground him back into himself.

Jeremy Gilbert x human!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings really, and idk why i made this a little sad.

WC:1513

The woods behind the Gilbert lake house was still and cold, but the tension threading through Jeremy’s shoulders burned hotter than vervain. You watched from a short distance, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your boots crunching faintly in the leaves as you stepped closer. He hadn't noticed you yet, he was too busy driving a stake over and over into the cracked bark of a tree, like the wood could bleed answers if he just hit it hard enough.

You didn't say anything right away. He had always carried too much weight for someone his age. Ever since the mark started spreading up his arm, it was like he'd been replaced piece by piece. His voice had sharpened. His focus had narrowed. His smile was gone entirely.

You waited until he paused, chest heaving, arm trembling from the sheer force he was using. “If that tree was a vampire,” you said. “I think it got the message.” he stiffened but didn't look at you. “What are you doing out here?”

“I needed to hit something,” he muttered, yanking the stake from the wood. You stepped closer, close enough now to see the fresh lines inked into his skin, wrapping up his bicep like ivy. They hadn't been there yesterday.

You swallowed. “The mark grew again.”

“Yeah.” his tone was clipped, but there was a tight edge under it, like he hated admitting it aloud. “Elena said there was a couple nearby. Stefan wants to scope it out, but I said no. If I get too far ahead of the mark, I lose control. I… I feel it now.”

You moved slowly, stepping beside him, holding a hoodie you grabbed for him, letting the silence settle. “Feel what?”

“That thing in my head,” he said. “The urge. It's not just about killing vampires. It's about hunting them. Like if I'm not tracking something, I don't know who I am anymore.”

He wasn't looking at you, but his knuckles were white around the stake. You gently reached out and placed your fingers over his hand. It was still trembling.

“You're still Jeremy.” you said quietly.

“You don't know that,” he snapped before his eyes flicked up to yours, wide and apologetic a second later. “I mean…you don't see what I do. When I sleep, I dream about ripping hearts out. I wake up with scratches on my arms. Yesterday I almost put an arrow through Stefan's chest because he came up behind me too fast. I don't even remember pulling the trigger.”

“Then let us help you,” you said. “You don't have to go through this alone.”

He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “I'm not sure anyone can help. I'm not even a real person anymore. I'm just…this tool. A weapon. And the worst part? Some part of me likes it.”

That cracked something in your chest. Jeremy had always been the boy who wanted to protect everyone, quietly, selflessly. Now he was turning that instinct inward, weaponizing it until it burned him from the inside out.

You tightened your grip on his hand. “You don't get to decide you're not real just because you're hurting. I've known you since before this mark ever showed up. When you could you would pick up your sister's favorite cereal when you go to the store. You still leave your boots by the door so you don't track mud into the house. You still hold the door open for people. And yeah, maybe you're different now, but that doesn't erase who you are.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he hadn't been sure you were real until that moment.

The silence stretched between you. Then, very quietly, he said, “You should stay away from me.”

You didn't move. “I won't.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won't.”

He pulled his hand back like it burned him and turned away, his voice tight. “You don't know that.”

“I do,” you said. “Because even now, with everything going on in your head, you're still holding yourself back. You're still fighting it.”

He shook his head. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

The wind stirred through the trees. He didn't speak again, but you stayed beside him, and when his hand dropped the stake and reached for yours again, hesitant, unsteady, you laced your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because even if he didn't believe in himself anymore, you did. And you weren't going anywhere.

Jermeys fingers tightened slightly around yours, his palm rough and calloused against your skin. The moment felt like glass, fragile, suspended in quiet tension, waiting for something to shatter it. And something did.

A twig snapped to your right.

He was moving before your mind caught up. In one breath, his arm was around your waist, and in the next, your feet left the ground for a second as he pulled you behind him, placing himself between you and the darkness just beyond the tree line. His eyes had gone sharp, scanning the woods with a kind of feral precision that reminded you this wasn't just Jeremy anymore. This was the hunter.

“Don't move.” he said, voice low, firm. You didn't.

A blur darted past the trees, too fast to follow with human eyes. You caught a flash of someone getting closer, a low snarl that didn't sound entirely human. Jeremy dropped into a fighting stance, the stake already back in his hand like it had never left.

“Come out,” he growled. “I know you're there.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then a figure stepped from the shadows, cocky, tall, with a jagged scar cutting through one cheek. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and he licked his lips as he looked between you and him.

“Well, well,” the vampire purred. “Looks like I found a late-night snack…and the hunter boy himself. Jackpot.” 

Jeremy didn't answer. He didn't blink. His breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as his muscles coiled.

The vampire lunged.

Jeremy shoved you back without looking, and the world became a blur of movement and chaos. The vampire was fast, faster than Jeremy, but he wasn’t normal anymore. The mark had changed him. He pivoted as the vampire aimed for his throat, ducked, twisted, and drove the stake up toward the ribs. The vampire snarled, teeth catching jeremy's shoulder and tearing through the fabric of his hoodie. Blood bloomed instantly, soaking into the cotton.

He grunted but didn't stop. He rolled with the momentum, getting behind the vampire and kicking out one leg hard enough to send the creature sprawling into the leaves. In the same breath, he was in him again, pinning him with his forearm and raising the stake with his other hand.

“You shouldn't have come here,” he muttered.

Then he drove the stake straight through the vampire's heart.

The body stilled, arched, eyes wide in shock, mouth forming a silent scream, and then the blue, black veins formed, consuming the body that lay still. 

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then he staggered back, one hand going to his bleeding shoulder. You were already rushing to him.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, grabbing his other arm to steady him. “Let me see-”

“Im fine,” he said quickly, but the wince he failed to hide said otherwise. You peeled back the shredded fabric of his hoodie and winced at the gash underneath.

“That's gonna need stitches.”

“I've had worse.” but his voice softened now, the adrenaline ebbing out of him in waves. He looked at you, eyes searching your face, and this time there was something different behind them. Not just the cold focus of a killer, but something human. Something scared.

“You okay?” he asked. You blinked at him. 

“Me? You're the one bleeding.”

He gave a weak, half smile. “Still. I had to make sure.”

Your throat tightened. “You saved my life.”

His smile faded into something more serious. “That's the only thing that feels right anymore. Protecting you.” he shook his head slightly. “Everything else…the hunter stuff, the mark, the voices in my head, it's all noise. But when I saw him wanting to go for you, there wasn't a choice. There was no hesitation.”

Your chest ached. “Because youre still jermey.”

He didn't speak. Instead, his hand found yours again, stained with blood. You held on, grounding him, anchoring him to something real, something steady.

“Let's get you stitched up.” you said gently.

He nodded, and as you started walking back through the woods together, his arms brushing yours, body warm despite the cold, you realized that no matter how much darkness the hunters mark carved into him, you would be there to remind him of the light. And he would fight to protect it. Every time.

[slashire]

Hii can you write for rodrick PLEASE, we need more of him (I love him so much) can you write something like him going over to readers house? Like their neighbors or something and it’s all cute 🤗

Girl Next Dore

Summary: you live next door to Rodrick, and he is obsessed with you. One night you catch him looking, again, out his window and this time you invite him over.

Rodrick Heffley x fem!reader 

notes/warnings: just fluff, cute Rodrick. {i got you girl/guy} :)

WC:1483

Rodrick wasn't smooth.

Like, at all. 

Which was unfortunate, considering he was very much in love with the girl who lived exactly fifteen feet away from his bedroom window.

You.

You, with your messy hair and oversized t-shirt sleeves too long for your arms. You, who left your window open while blasting music way better than anything he’d admit he liked. You, who always rolled your eyes when his band practiced but never actually told him to stop.

Rodrick noticed things. Even if he acted like a total moron about them.

He noticed the way you bit your lip when you were reading. The way you talked back to your teachers without even raising your voice. The way your laugh carried across the driveway on Saturday mornings when your friends picked you up.

And he noticed that he was completely screwed.

Because he never liked someone this much before, other than heather. It made him stupid. Like, stupider than usual. 

So when he saw your bedroom light flick on that night, he practically dove across his room to the window. He kept the blinds low enough to pretend he wasn't looking.

But he was.

You stepped into view, hair in a lazy ponytail, wearing pajamas ants with little skulls on them. His heart tripped over itself.

And then, like you knew, you looked right at him through the window.

His eyes widened. He looked away so fast he practically gave himself whiplash.

You laughed.

He felt like he was going to die, then your window slid open.

“Hey, stalker.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands before poking his head out. “I wasn't stalking. I was just…breathing. Loudly. Near a window.”

You smirked. “Right. So, you coincidentally stare out your window every time i turn my light on?”

“I'm not staring.” he shot back. “Im…observing. Like a scientist.”

“Oh, are you studying me, Dr Heffley?”

His face turned red. His brain short-circuited. There was a full four seconds of silence before he muttered, “Yeah, and you're failing the experiment.”

You laughed again, and he had to pretend it didn't sound like his new favorite song.

“Wanna come over?” you said suddenly. “I just made popcorn.”

He blinked. “Like…now?”

“No, Rodrick. Next Tuesday.”

“...Okay. Cool. Chill.” he stood up too fast and nearly tripped over a pair of socks. “Just gimme, like…two minutes.”

“You have one.”

You shut your window, and he stood there in the dark for a second, silently screaming into his hands before grabbing the least wrinkled shirt he could find.

She asked you to come over, he kept repeating to himself. That means something. That has to mean something.

And if it didn't? Well… at least he’d get popcorn out of it.

He nearly tripped once again just trying to put on socks, then decided against them entirely because that took too long. His brain was short-circuiting, but he tried to walk cooly down the hall, shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded, like he hadn't just completely combusted inside his own room.

“Where you goin’?” Greg's voice rang from the living room, a little too curious for his liking.

“Out.” he muttered, blowing past.

“You never go out,” Greg pointed out with suspicion. “Wait-are you going to her house?”

Rodrick froze mid-step. “Who's her?”

“The girl next door her. The one you ‘don't like.’” Greg made obnoxious air quotes.

He turned halfway and pointed a sockless foot at him. “You say one word to Mom and I will replace your shampoo with mayonnaise.” 

Greg recoiled. “That's disgusting.’

“Exactly.”

He slipped out the front door before greg could follow up with more questions, pacing across the narrow strip of lawn between their houses. He swore it felt like a hike through the Himalayas. His palms were clammy. He kept replaying the moment you invited him over like it was a hallucination he might've made up.

The porch light was on at your place. You must've turned it on for him.

He knocked once, then rubbed his hands on his jeans to dry them. Your footsteps padded softly from inside. The door opened. You stood there, leaning against the frame like this was a scene from a movie and you somehow didn't realize how stupid pretty you looked in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

“You took longer than a minute,” you said, holding a bowl of popcorn.

“Yeah, well, I had to put on deodorant. I don't want you to suffer.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” you deadpanned. “Chivalry isn't dead.”

You stepped back, and he walked in, trying to look like this was no big deal, like he didn't nearly pass out on your front porch. The house smelled like vanilla and popcorn, and there was music playing faintly from your speaker, The Smashing Pumpkins, which made his heart stutter because he had that exact album under his bed right now.

You flopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to you. He hesitated before sitting, making sure there was just enough distance to keep from fully combusting, but not enough to look like he was avoiding you.

You tossed him a throw pillow. “Use that. Your hair sheds.”

He rolled his eyes but took the pillow anyway. “You act like I'm a golden retriever.”

You smiled. “You do bark when someone insults your band.”

He pressed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Loaded Diaper is a very serious musical institution.” 

“You guys miss half your cues.”

“That's called artistic timing.”

You snorted and hit play on the remote. A movie flickered to life on the screen, something classic and just a little weird, the kind of offbeat pick that made him think you weren't like the other people at school. You weren't trying to be cool. You didn't wear layers of fake attitude like everyone else. You were just…you. And it killed him a little.

About twenty minutes in, you were elbow deep in popcorn and quoting lines under your breath. He wasn't watching the movie. Not really. He was hyper aware of the way your knee brushed his every few minutes. The way you leaned in when you laughed, just a little, like gravity favored him.

At one point, you turned and caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, almost amused.

He blinked. “You've got, uh…” he reached out before thinking and brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Popcorn salt.”

There was no salt.

You went still.

His hand lingered for a second too long, then dropped like it had burned him.

“Oh,” you said softly. You didn't pull away. “Thanks.” 

He nodded. Looked forward. Tried not to turn red.

Silence settled again, thicker, heavier. Something shifted, but neither of you spoke about it.

The movie ended eventually. You both sat in the glow of the credits, neither of you moving.

He coughed. “So, uh…thanks for inviting me. To your popcorn party.”

“Anytime,” you said, and when you looked at him this time, your smile was quieter. “You're actually…kind of fun when you're not acting like a total idiot.”

“That's literally never.” he deadpanned, but he was smiling.

You didn't say anything for a second. Then, casually, “So…were you ever gonna tell me you liked me, or were you planning to keep blushing at my window for the rest of your life?”

His brain short circuited so hard he physically twitched.

“Wha- i don't- i wasn't blushing. That's a medical condition.”

“Sure it is.”

He looked at you. “You knew?”

You shrugged, leaning back against the cushions, arms folded. “You're not exactly subtle. And Greg kind of screamed it out his bedroom window last week.”

“I'm going to kill him,”

“Dont. He's a valuable source of entertainment.”

He swallowed, trying to collect himself. “So, what…you've just been laughing at me this whole time?”

“No,” your voice softened. “I've just been waiting for you to stop being such a coward.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then, quietly, he said, “I'm not trying to be. A coward, i mean.”

You nodded once, and for the first time, your expression cracked open a little, less teasing, more real. “I know.”

He inhaled slowly. His hand moved toward yours, hesitated, then rested beside it on the couch cushion, close enough to touch, but waiting.

You didn't move away.

“I like you,” he said, voice low, honest.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you reached over and laced your fingers through his, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't say anything. He just smiled, wide, dopey, a little dazed. The kind of smile he only ever smiled when he was looking at you.

[slashire]

Hey hey!! Just read your Kai fic and oh my god it was so so good.

I was wondering if maybe you can write a part two of it? Something where it’s a little time that’s past after they had their little moment and Reader is feeling very mixed emotions about the whole ordeal?

Kai confronts them about it and it happens again? He’s all cocky about it and ends up seducing the reader again?

Idk if you write smut but 👀

Thank you 🫶

thank youu! and i do write smut but it's not very good and apparently i can't write a summary to save my life. anyways i hope i did it justice :)

Chemistry part two

Summary: after being a shut-in at your own house to avoid someone, and he shows up, the very reason you haven't left your house in a couple of days. It escalates further than expected.

Kai Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: smut (18+) little power kink 

WC: 2821

You hadn’t seen him in three days.

Not that you were counting.

You told yourself it didn't matter. That the kiss, the disaster, was a fluke, a byproduct of adrenaline, emotional overload, and being locked in close proximity with a magical sociopath who knew exactly which buttons to push.

And push them, he had. Right up until your back hit the bookcase and your mouth found his like it was instinct.

Now every time you close your eyes, it was there, heat and teeth, and the feel of his hands curling into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or burn the whole place down. You’d pull away eventually. Shoved him off. Called him every name you could think of.

He’d just smirked. Like he knew. 

And the worst part? You haven't stopped thinking about it since.

You slammed a kitchen drawer shut, harder than necessary, and muttered a curse under your breath. The sun had already gone down. You were supposed to be working on a spell for Bonnie with the help of many grimoires and long days, but your focus was garbage. Your head wasn't in it.

Your head was across the room, metaphorically, making out with Kai Parker like your hormones had a death wish.

You turned around, and nearly screamed. There he was sitting on your kitchen counter like he belonged there, legs dangling, eyes glittering in the low light with that same crooked smile that had haunted you every night since that day. The same smile that had crept uninvited into your dreams, unbuttoning your self-control one layer at a time.

“Miss me?” he asked casually.

You stared at him, heart lurching in your chest. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to look that good, barefoot, shirt wrinkled like hed teleported straight from bed, or someone's bed, hair just tousled enough to make you wonder if he planned it that way

“What the hell-” you paused.

“Kai,” you said flatly. “Get out.”

He tilted his head, sliding off the counter and closing the distance in three causal steps. “You didn't answer the question.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

You hated how good he looked in your kitchen. Like he belonged there. Relaxed, like he hadn't been absent for seventy-two hours leaving you to spiral through every possible interpretation of that kiss.

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, Parker?”

His smile dipped into something smug. “You.” 

You should've walked away. Should've hexed him. Should've kicked him out and warded the place until the end of time. But you didn't.

You let him step closer. Let the room shrink around the fear in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth and the way your body responded before your brain had caught up. He wasn't touching you yet, but it felt like he was. Every nerve alive with anticipation, every breath caught halfway between a decision and a disaster.

“You've been avoiding me.” he said, voice lower now.

“You think one kiss means you own me now? I should've killed you by now.” you asked, low.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then dragged slowly back up. “But you didn't. Because you liked it.”

“That's not-”

“You loved it.” his tone was sin wrapped in velvet, a purr at your ear. “And I bet you've thought about it since. Over and over again. The way i pressed you into that bookcase-” 

Your pulse spiked. You hated that he was right. Hated it more that he knew he was right. You opened your mouth to deny it, again, but he took one step forward and you didn't move. Your hand shot out and shoved him back, but he caught your wrist mid-motion.

He didn't hold tight. Just kept his grip warm, casual, his eyes locked on yours. “Say it wasn't the best kiss of your life. Say it, and I'll leave.”

You hated him. Hated that you couldn’t say it. Hated that your body was already betraying you, heart racing, breath shallow, heat rising like a tide in your chest. You didn't answer.

His smirk returned, wolfish and victorious. “Didn't think so.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

This one was different. Not like the first time, not a collison.

Not rushed. Not messy and reactive like last time. 

This one was slow.

Purposeful.

His lips molded to yours like he had something to prove, like he knew he had you, and he was going to make sure you knew it too. His hands slid over your waist, patient, teasing, pulling you into him without a single ounce of hesitation, until there wasn't a sliver of space between your bodies. His mouth moved against yours with practiced, devastating confidence, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

You broke the kiss once, just barely. “This is a bad idea.”

His lips brushed your jaw, then your neck. “So stop me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead.

You melted into it. Just for a second. Just long enough to give in to everything you had not admitted out loud.

He kissed you again, quicker now, teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth, tongue teasing in a way that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He backed you into the couch, kissing you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin. You didn't fall. He guided you down with infuriating gentleness, like he wanted you to know he could be soft, but only when it suited him. His fingers tangled in your hair, the other hand anchoring you by the hip as he settled you beneath him. Your thighs parted instinctively and his hips slotted between yours, the contact electric.

He pressed you back against the cushions, half on top of you, the heat of his body impossible to ignore. The moment dragged. Your mouths meeting and parting in a rhythm that is teased, stoked, built.

His mouth trailed down your throat, lingering at your pulse point.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered against your skin.

“I'm furious.”

He grinned against your collarbone. “Even better.”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the edge of your ribs with maddening restraint. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn't.

Not when his mouth found yours again. Not when his hips slotted perfectly between your legs, not when your hands roamed under his shirt and he groaned like you were undoing him just by touching him.

The world narrowed to breath and heat and whispered curses between kisses.

“Are you still mad?” he murmured, his nose brushing yours.

“I haven't decided yet if I'm going to hex you.” you replied, breathless, fingers sliding further beneath the hem of his shirt.

His grin was pure wickedness. “Just so we're clear- I'm into that.”

Your hands ran over his stomach, nails grazing across the plains of muscle you haven't seen but had definitely imagined. His skin was warm, twitching slightly under your touch.  His breath caught when you pushed his shirt up and off entirely, tossing it aside without taking your eyes off him. Your eyes dragged over the expanse of bare skin in front of you, toned but not polished, not perfect. Real. warm. Human in a way he rarely let himself be.

He didn't waste time either. His hands slipped under the back of your shirt, splayed wide across your spine like he wanted to memorize every inch of you by feel alone.

“You've been driving me insane,” he said, softer this time.

You reached up, curling a hand into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him inhale sharply. “That's my line.”

He chuckled. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pulled him closer. “Do I look like I want you to stop?”

That was all the answer he needed. 

He kissed you again, deeper now, hungrier, his body pressing flush against yours as he rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate. The friction made you gasp, and he groaned low in his throat, as if the sound alone was enough to drive him wild.

You arched into him, hands roaming shamelessly across his bare chest, down his back, nails dragging just hard enough to leave a mark. He responded in kind, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it without a glance. His eyes dropped to your chest, pupils blown wide, lips parting slightly at the sight of you. Then his mouth was back on your skin, your collarbone, your chest, kissing down like you were something sacred. He worshipped you with lips, teeth, and tongue, and you were helpless under the weight of it.

“God, you're unreal.” he muttered, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

“Less talking.” you said, pulling him back in.

And when your hips lifted, seeking friction, he gave it to you. A slow grind that lit every nerve and forced a gasp from your throat.

“You're so responsive,” he said. “Like I could set you off with just my mouth.”

“Then do it.” you challenged, half-gasped.

He laughed-moaned-and met your mouth again, hands already mapping the rest of you. His mouth moved lower, down your jaw, your neck, trailing kisses that turned into nips, then soothing licks as he went. He took his time, learning the way your body reacted, how your breath hitched when his tongue traced the curve of your collarbone, how your fingers tightened in his hair when he kissed the swell of your chest.

He flicked his tongue against your skin, grinning when you whimpered. “You always this responsive, or is it just me?”

You dragged his mouth back to yours in answer, your kiss bruising, impatient. Your hips rolled up against his without conscious thought, chasing the friction you didn't dare beg for yet. He groaned, hands slipping down to grip your thighs and hitch one leg around his waist.

“You're killing me,” he growled against your mouth.

“Then shut up and die happy.” you snapped.

Clothes disappeared in fragments, his jeans first, then yours, both of you fumbling and desperate, more skin revealed with each passing second. Your bodies tangled, heat and tension ratcheting higher, the kind of desperate urgency that came from pretending it didn't matter, when it mattered too much. 

He kissed like he fought, ruthless, relentless, consuming. But there was tenderness beneath the fire. His touch slowed just when you thought you couldn't take any more, his mouth trailing revenant kisses along the curve of your hip, the inside of your thigh. He worshipped like he wanted to ruin you and make you remember it every time you close your eyes.

You pulled him back to you, anchoring him with your legs, your hands, your mouth. The look in his eyes when he finally settled over you, naked, breathless, eyes full of heat and something close to awe, made your heart stutter.

He brushed hair from your face and leaned in, lips hovering just over yours. “This changes everything, you know.”

“Shut up, Parker.” you whispered, “and kiss me again.”

He did. Slow, sensual, devastating.

His body moved with yours, every shift perfectly matched, every grind of hips sending new waves of pleasure through you until it was impossible to think. You felt everything, his breath on your cheek, the twitch of his fingers, the low, reverent curses spilling from his mouth as he lost himself in you.

The world narrowed to this, sweat damp skin, kisses that broke and reformed, every second more overwhelming than the last. 

He didn't move at first. His body hovered over yours, his weight braced on his forearms, eyes locked on yours with a heat that bordered on reverent. The shadows between you seemed to still, thick with a kind of unspoken electricity that either of you dared to break.

His breath mingled with yours, warm, unsteady, tasting faintly of whiskey and want. Your chest rose and fell in tandem, both of you straining to stay still while every nerve screamed for contact. His eyes dropped to your lips. You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You just leaned in, barely enough to brush your mouth against his. He made a soft, strained sound, half groan, half sigh, and it was like that was all he needed to snap.

Then he kissed you like he was making a claim.

He pressed into you, hips rolling slowly, a devastating grind of bare skin that stole the breath from your lungs. His body was hot against yours, every muscle taut, the tension in him barely restrained. His mouth moved over yours with purpose, like he wanted to drown in you, drag you under, and take his time doing it.

You arched up against him instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist, back bowing with a shiver when his fingers traced up your sides, slow, possessive, hot. Hecursed into your mouth, like even touching you like this was more than he’d prepared for.

“Still so mad at me,” he murmured, against your lips, voice low and rough as gravel, “but you let me in anyway.”

His hand slid down, gripping your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his hips until your bodies aligned perfectly. He pressed into you again, deeper, slower, drawing a gasp from your lips. The friction was blinding. You grabbed at his shoulders, digging your nails in, and he hissed, shuddering above you.

“You're not real,” he whispered into your throat. “You can’t be.”

You barely registered it, too lost in the feel of him moving with you, each motion more maddening than the last, like he knew exactly how to make you unravel. The rhythm he set was controlled, methodical, a deliberate tease designed to push you right to the edge and keep you there.

“Faster,” you gasped, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

He smiled, dark and slow, but he obeyed.

His paced shifted, hips thrusting harder now, slower still, draggin every movement out until your whole body tightened around him. You were breathless, dizzy, a mess of heat and need and something deeper clawing at the edge of your chest, something you didn't want to name.

He leaned back enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched, brow furrowed like he was barely holding on. One hand came up to your face, brushing your hair away, and he stared at you like the world could fall apart around him and he’d still only see you. 

“You feel like fire,” he said, voice wrecked. “Like you were made to burn me.”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was already winding tighter, hips chasing his with increasing desperation, every thrust igniting sparks in your blood. Your hands gripped his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could reach, holding on like the crash was inevitable.

And it was.

You shattered first, gasping his name like a confession, your entire body seizing in a rush of heat and release so intense it brought tears to your eyes. The wave hit you hard and kept going, crashing again and again, and Kai didn't let you go.

He held you through it, moving with you, chasing his own edge until he followed, hips jerking, mouth breaking from yours with a raw, ragged sound that echoed in your chest like a promise.

He collapsed onto you, arms bracketing your head, breath shuddering against your neck. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, and yet you didn't move. You didn't want to.

His skin was damp, his hair curling slightly with sweat. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his back, the pads of your fingertips memorizing the lines of muscle and scar, the rise and fall of each breath.

Neither of you spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, because there was too much.

You felt him shift slightly, one hand sliding down your side, over your hip, anchoring you to him like he didn't want to rush you slipping away now that he’d finally gotten this close.

“Still want to hex me?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost boyish.

You gave a tired laugh and turned your head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“More than ever.”

He grinned, slow and lazy, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I'll consider it foreplay.”

You didn't bother to reply. You just lay there, tangled together in the mess of sweat-dampened limbs and cooling magic, heart pounding as if it knew everything had just changed.

And there was no undoing it now.

[slashire]

What lingers

Summary: You’re dying, and Castiel makes the call to use your body as a vessel temporarily to save you. But now you feel him inside your mind, his emotions bleeding into yours… including the ones he tried to hide.

Castiel x fem!reader

Setting: Season 9, post-Fall of the Angels (around episodes 9x06–9x09

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, Supernatural Drama

WC: 4276

The cold always comes first.

It creeps in slowly, through your limbs, through the wound in your side, through the fingertips of Dean’s hands pressed against your skin. He’s shouting. You can tell by the way his mouth moves, wide and frantic. But it’s muffled. Like he’s underwater. Like you’re underwater.

Everything’s slowing down. Even the pain. Even the panic.

Sam’s voice joins in, urgent and scared. You try to move, to reach for either of them, but your body is numb.

This is it, you realize.

You’re dying.

You can feel your soul detaching, unmoored, weightless. You see the ceiling of the abandoned church above you, a shattered stained glass window letting in streaks of moonlight. Dust floats in the air like snow.

You wonder if you’ll haunt this place.

Then..

“Y/N.”

Castiel’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade of light.

You see his face above you. Pale. Determined. Blue eyes shining with something desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And you barely have time to register the way his hand presses against your forehead before the world disappears.

It’s not blackness.

It’s light.

It burns.

And then you’re gone.

The light is endless. Not warm. Not cold. It is simply… everything. A breathless, searing presence that wraps around every nerve in your body and pulls you into a place that has no shape, no sound, just him. Castiel isn’t speaking. He doesn’t need to. His presence vibrates through you like a stormcloud threatening to split. He is in your veins, your lungs, your bones, coiled inside your soul like he belongs there. But it doesn’t feel like possession. Not exactly. Not yet. You think it should hurt. It doesn’t.

What hurts is the memory of dying. The fear. The knowledge that this, whatever this is, was the only choice left.

You open your eyes and find darkness.

Your lungs seize in a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from deep water, and you lurch upright before your body remembers how. Air claws at your throat. Sweat beads along your temple. The couch beneath you groans as you move. You know this place, the Men of Letters bunker, but it feels foreign, unfamiliar. Distant. Like seeing it through someone else’s eyes.

Then you realize you have.

You know things you shouldn’t. You feel things you shouldn’t. The weight of thousands of years clings to your ribs. It’s a whisper in the back of your skull, memories like feathers brushing your mind, falling, falling, falling from Heaven.

Castiel’s fall.

You close your eyes hard and squeeze your fists against your temples, like pressure might silence the thoughts that don’t belong to you. But one of them flares brighter than the rest: your name, spoken like a vow. Y/N. His voice in your chest, not your ears. You gasp again, this time softer, and look around.

Dean is in the war room just down the hallway, speaking to Sam in that harsh, too-loud voice he only uses when he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. You can’t make out the words. You don’t care.

Because he’s there.

Castiel is sitting in the corner chair. Trench coat abandoned on the table beside him, sleeves rolled, hands folded between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for judgment. Like he already knows the verdict.

His eyes meet yours.

And you don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

You see the lines under his eyes first. The tension in his jaw. The faint shimmer of remorse in every breath he doesn’t take.

“You’re awake,” he says.

The sound of his voice, real and quiet and his, shatters something inside you. You feel it crack down your spine like thunder.

“What did you do?” you ask.

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “You were dying.”

“You possessed me,” you whisper, and even as you say it, it doesn’t taste right. Too clean. Too simple. It doesn’t account for the after.

“There was no time,” he says. “I..yes. I entered your vessel. It was the only way to heal you before…before you slipped away.”

Your body trembles once, subtle and deep in the bones. You grip the edge of the couch like it might anchor you. “And now?”

Castiel stands. His shoulders are taut, unreadable. “I left.”

“Did you?”

The words escape before you mean to say them, but you know they’re true. He didn’t fully leave. You feel him. Not like another person riding shotgun in your head. It’s subtler than that. He’s… in the seams. In the places that cracked open when you almost died. He left a part of himself in you, and now your soul remembers him like a scent that never fades.

His eyes drop to the floor. “Not all of me,” he admits.

You breathe in deep, and it rattles in your chest. “What does that mean?”

“I didn’t take all my grace with me when I left.”

You blink. “Your grace? But I thought…after Metatron, you don’t-”

“This grace is borrowed. Stolen.” He looks up, and now there’s fire in his expression. Anger, grief, shame. “I thought I could control it. I couldn’t. When I pulled you back, part of it… stayed. In you. I tried to remove it, but your body, your soul, it held onto it.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, chilled. “So I’m… what? Part angel now?”

“No.” He says it quickly. “You’re still human. Entirely. But some of what I am, what I was…is inside you. It will fade. Eventually.”

Your head spins. Not from fear. From weight. From the knowledge that something celestial is knotted inside your bones and you didn’t ask for it. Didn’t consent to it.

You sit with that.

You sit with him.

And then you ask, softly, “What did you see?”

Castiel’s breath hitches. He turns away from you for the first time, as if the answer is too heavy to speak facing forward. “I saw everything. Every memory. Every scar. Every time you prayed and no one answered. I saw the first time you held a weapon. The first time you wanted to die. The first time you chose to live again. I saw your mother’s hands. Your first nightmare. I saw the day you met Dean. And the way you looked at him like he was your last chance.”

Your throat is tight. You hadn’t expected him to answer. Not like this.

“And then I saw the way you looked at me.”

You don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask forgiveness. He just lowers his head, and for the first time, Castiel looks small. Like he’s trying to fold himself into something less monstrous. Less divine.

“I didn’t mean to take it all,” he says. “But I couldn’t bear to let you go.”

The silence that follows is vast.

“I still dream,” you whisper. “Even now. But they’re not mine.”

He nods, slowly. “No. They’re mine.”

You step forward. “I saw angels falling. I felt the wind. The light. The fire. You were afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I still am.”

There’s a pause so thick you could choke on it. Then you say, “You said you left me. But you didn’t. Did you?”

His answer is not in words. It’s in the way he looks at you like he’s been carrying your name in his mouth for centuries. In the way his hand trembles before he reaches up to his own chest, as if checking to see whether you are still inside him, too.

And maybe you are.

Maybe that’s the cost of this kind of salvation.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t ask for distance. Instead, you step closer. He doesn’t move. His gaze follows you like a tether.

When you stop in front of him, you whisper, “Next time, ask.”

He nods once. “I will.”

But you both know that if it happens again, if it’s your life on the line, he won’t.

Because angels don’t pray. They act.

And Castiel has already decided that your soul is worth damning himself for.

You feel his grace flicker inside your chest like an aftershock.

And for the first time since you woke up, you feel safe.

You hate that.

You hate that you want to feel him again. That the part of him inside you makes your own thoughts feel less alone. That your soul, cracked open and bared to Heaven, has started to ache when he’s not near.

But it’s the truth.

And even now, you think he knows it.

Because his hand twitches like he almost wants to reach for yours.

He doesn’t.

Neither do you.

Not yet.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he thinks about it.

Not in the crude way humans often mean it. Not with desperation or lust or anything so small. His longing is older. Purer, in a way that terrifies him.

Because Castiel has touched the face of God and felt nothing. He’s stood at the edge of time and watched stars blink out one by one. He’s borne witness to miracles and catastrophes, creation and decay, and never once has he ached for any of it. But when he looks at you, fragile, bruised, still holding pieces of him inside you like shards of forgotten light, he feels that ache everywhere.

Your soul is louder now. He can feel it even when you leave the room. Like a hum beneath his ribs. The part of him he left inside you didn’t just heal your body. It bound him to you. Not completely. Not magically. But intrinsically. Like recognition.

Like belonging.

You don't understand it yet. You barely look at him without suspicion lingering behind your eyes. You still feel the wrongness of what he did, even if it saved you. And he knows that. He carries that guilt with the same reverence he once carried a sword.

But you haven’t pushed him away.

Not entirely.

And that, somehow, is worse.

Because you speak to him softly now. Ask him questions you wouldn’t before. You stand a little too close when you’re angry, and much too close when you’re not. You press your palm to your chest when the grace flickers inside you like static, and your eyes find him every time it does. Like you know he’s still there, watching. Waiting.

He dreams now, dreams of you. Not stolen memories. Not echoes of your pain. His dreams. And they are quiet, always. Simple. You, sitting on the stairs. You, laughing at Dean with your chin tipped to the side. You, asleep beneath a blanket with your fingers curled against your throat like a child. You don’t speak in these dreams. You don’t need to. The silence between you is its own language, and Castiel understands it perfectly.

There’s a moment, in one dream, where your hand brushes his. No intent. No urgency. Just contact. Skin to skin.

He wakes up shaking.

It isn’t desire, exactly, not the way Dean would call it. It’s yearning. A need so total it eclipses everything else. He wants to protect you, yes. But he also wants to understand you. To memorize the curve of your mouth when you frown. To trace the way your soul flares when you lie. To know every thought you’ve ever had, not to own them, but to honor them. To kneel at the altar of your existence and swear he would never deserve to touch it again.

But he already has.

He’s been inside your soul.

He knows the shape of your hope and the weight of your grief. He knows which memories you bury and which you cling to. He knows what it felt like the first time you held someone as they died, and the sound you made when you realized you couldn’t stop it.

He carries those memories like prayers.

He shouldn’t want more.

But he does.

He wants you.

Not just to protect. Not just to serve. Not just because he made a choice in a desperate moment.

He wants to be known. By you.

Wants you to look at him, not with pity, not with fear, not even with gratitude, but with that softness he’s seen you give Sam when he’s overwhelmed, or Dean when he’s pretending not to cry. That human gentleness. That silent permission to stay.

But Castiel is not gentle. Not really. He is wrath in a borrowed body. He is a soldier who forgot how to stop marching. His hands were made for killing. His voice was forged in Heaven. He is not built for softness. Not for love.

And still…

He finds himself watching you when you sleep.

Just for a second. When he’s certain you won’t wake.

The grace inside you hums differently when you dream. It mirrors your heartbeat. It calls to him. And sometimes, just sometimes, you whisper his name in your sleep.

Not loudly. Not pleading. Just… soft. Like it’s the safest word you know.

Castiel doesn’t breathe when that happens.

He doesn’t move.

Because if he does, if he breaks that fragile moment, he’ll ruin it. Ruin you. And he’s already taken so much.

So he stays still. He listens to the sound of your breath. He lets the longing rise and crest and fall inside him like a wave.

And when he can no longer bear the ache, he slips quietly from the room.

Not because he doesn’t want to stay.

But because he wants it too much.

And Castiel knows, when angels want something, they destroy it.

So he waits. Not for forgiveness. Not for permission.

He waits for you.

Because if you ever reach for him again, truly reach, he won’t have the strength to say no.

And in the quiet, shadowed corners of the bunker, with your name etched into every corner of his grace, Castiel lets himself hope for the one thing he’s never dared to ask for:

That one day, you might want him back.

It begins with your jacket.

You leave it draped across the back of a chair in the library, absent-minded. A small, careless thing. You’d come in from the rain, exhausted, soaked to the skin after a salt-and-burn gone sideways. Castiel hadn’t gone with you, Dean hadn’t asked, and Castiel hadn’t volunteered. He knew better than to impose himself now.

But he watched the door until you came through it.

You didn’t see him. Or maybe you did and said nothing.

Your voice was tired when you told Sam you were going to shower. Just your voice, no bitterness. No fight. And that worried him more than anything.

Because exhaustion, for you, was rare. Even battered, bloodied, you were always present. Always fighting. But now, your voice had nothing left in it. Like something inside you had finally bent too far.

So you left the jacket, and Castiel found himself beside it.

He tells himself he shouldn’t touch it.

He touches it.

The fabric is damp, heavy with water and smoke and the faint scent of salt. But beneath it, beneath all that, is you. And something inside him stutters. It’s not carnal. It’s not human. But it’s real.

Because in that moment, all he can think is I carried you once.

Not in the physical sense. In the soul-deep, eternal sense. He held your life between his hands and pressed you back into being. He breathed borrowed grace into your dying lungs. He knows you.

He wants to un-know you. For your sake. For his.

But he can’t.

He sits in the chair and holds the jacket in his lap for a second too long.

And then he hears your footsteps in the hall.

He doesn’t move in time.

You walk in, towel-drying your hair with one hand, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants that don’t belong to you, probably Dean’s, by the size. Your eyes land on him, and they narrow, not unkind but surprised.

And then they drop to your jacket.

To his hand still resting on the shoulder of it.

Your lips part.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make excuses. He simply meets your gaze and waits for you to speak.

But you don’t.

Instead, after a long breath, you step further into the room and sit across from him.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, studying him the way he studies galaxies.

And then you say, “Do you ever wish you hadn’t done it?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “No.”

Your throat bobs. “Even though it changed everything?”

“It saved you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His voice is lower now. “I would rather carry the weight of what I did than live in a world where you don’t exist.”

Something in you stumbles at that. Your face softens. And the room falls quiet.

Castiel wonders if you can hear it, the thunder of his longing.

Because it’s louder now. Less contained.

You’ve been different these last few weeks. Not open, not exactly, but unguarded. Less careful. You watch him longer. You ask more. You let the silences stretch out like bridges, instead of breaking them.

You’re still angry. Still haunted. But you choose to be near him.

And that, more than anything, undoes him.

Because he can feel the moment approaching. The moment when all the tension he’s buried beneath borrowed grace and dying light will fracture. It’s close. So close. He sees it every time your eyes linger on his mouth instead of his hands. He hears it in the way you say his name now, not reverent, not distant. Human. Soft.

He almost breaks that night.

Because you fall asleep in the chair across from him.

Head tilted. Breathing slowly. And when you shift in your sleep, the grace inside you pulses, reaching for him like a hand in the dark.

And Castiel, who has resisted war and wrath and temptation unimaginable, leans forward.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he kneels in front of the chair, lowering himself as if in prayer, and watches the shape of your breath. His hand hovers above your knee, inches from contact.

His mouth opens. No sound.

Because what could he possibly say?

I am no longer an angel of the Lord. I am something smaller now. But everything I am, I left inside you.

He shouldn’t speak.

But he does.

Just barely.

“I think I was made for this.”

You stir, just slightly. Not awake. Not quite.

His voice is almost nothing. “Not Heaven. Not orders. Not grace. Just this. You.”

And then, your head shifts. Your eyes flutter.

He vanishes before they open.

Not out of fear.

Out of devastation.

Because if you had looked at him in that moment, with anything other than complete understanding, he would have fallen all over again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

He tries to stay away after that.

For three days, he doesn’t enter a room if you’re in it. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Avoids the sound of your voice like it might burn through what little self-control he still possesses. He patrols in the early hours. Answers prayers without comment. Watches the sky from the roof of the bunker as though the stars will give him permission to feel what he already does.

They don’t.

They never have.

On the fourth day, Dean corners him in the hallway with a sideways glance and a half-hearted scoff. “You and Y/N have a fight or something?”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

Dean shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me. She’s been quiet. Weirdly quiet. And that’s saying something.”

Castiel almost tells him. Almost says I’ve made her a vessel and I ache when she breathes. But he doesn’t. He just nods once and disappears.

By sunset, he's in the war room, pretending to read a lore book he’s already memorized, when your voice hits him from behind.

“You don’t have to avoid me.”

It’s not angry. Not accusing. Just honest.

And it hurts.

He closes the book. Doesn’t turn around.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he lies, gently.

You step closer. He hears it, the soft sound of your socked feet on the stone floor. You stop a pace behind him.

“So what are you doing?”

Castiel lifts his eyes to the book. Blank pages. Meaningless ink. “Trying not to want something I can’t have.”

The silence after that is so long it echoes.

When you finally speak, your voice is low. “You’re talking about me.”

He turns then.

And the way he looks at you, it could crack glass.

“Yes.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. “Why can’t you?”

“Because I touched your soul without permission. Because I altered you. Because I made you carry a part of me you never asked for. And because wanting you on top of that would make me cruel.”

Your eyes are wet. Not crying. But raw.

“I don’t think you’re cruel.”

“You should.”

He steps forward now, slowly, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours.

“I was not made for this,” he says softly. “I was not made to want. I was made to obey. And I have disobeyed Heaven, God, even myself, but nothing has undone me like you.”

Your hands tremble.

Castiel sees it.

He does nothing.

Because if he moves, if he breathes, if he reaches, it’s over. He will not survive it.

But then you close the distance for him.

Not fully. Just one step. Enough.

“Do you think I don’t feel it too?” you ask.

His heart, what’s left of it, shatters quietly.

“Every time you leave a room,” you whisper, “I feel it. That silence. Like something holy just left. You think I don’t hear it when the grace inside me wakes up at the sound of your voice?”

He flinches.

You keep going.

“I was angry. I was. But I’m not anymore. Because whatever you gave me that day…it didn’t just bring me back. It opened something. I can feel you even when you’re gone.”

He says your name like it’s the last word he’ll ever be allowed to speak. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.”

“No.” He steps back, breath harsh. “If I break this…if I let this happen, you won’t come out of it the same. You’re human. You feel. You love. And I consume. I will burn you without meaning to.”

You reach for him.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you.

Your hand, small and trembling, brushes the side of his face. His eyes fall closed like the weight of your touch is too much. Like grace itself is bending under it.

“I’m not afraid of you, Castiel.”

He opens his eyes.

There is a storm in them now.

Not rage. Not wrath.

Longing.

Absolute.

And he shatters.

He takes your wrist gently, reverently, and draws your hand from his face to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“I don’t have a soul,” he says. “Not in the way you do. But if I did…this is where it would live. And you’d be inside it.”

You can’t breathe.

Neither can he.

And for a long, perfect moment, nothing moves.

Then, with the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use:

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s it.

That’s the breaking point.

He kisses you like a vow. Not desperate. Not greedy. Just full. Of all the things he’s never said. Of the light he buried in you. Of the war he lost when he realized he couldn’t stop loving you.

He moves slowly, like gravity is pulling him toward you and all he’s doing is giving in. His eyes fall to your mouth and then back to your eyes again, asking you one final time without words.

You answer by leaning closer.

When his lips touch yours, it isn’t rushed. It isn’t sharp or wild or hungry.

It’s devotion.

It’s the first time he’s touched something with the full intent of keeping it.

He kisses you like you might vanish. Like you’re made of glass and scripture. His hand comes up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone, and the contact sends a pulse of heat through both of you, grace and soul, meeting at the seam.

You inhale sharply against his mouth. Your fingers curl into his coat, holding on, not to pull him closer, not to demand more, but because your body finally has permission to feel him.

And Castiel feels it too.

Your heartbeat, steady but straining. Your breath, faltering like a prayer half-said. The way your lips part under his, like you’re offering him something you’ve never given anyone else, and you don’t even realize it.

He deepens the kiss, but only barely.

Because this isn’t about possession.

This is remembrance.

You, alive. You, whole. You, choosing him, even after all of it.

And when you finally part, the space between your mouths is so thin it hums.

He leans his forehead to yours.

Your breath is still trembling. So is his.

And in that moment, Castiel, angel, rebel, vessel of grace, knows peace for the first time in his existence.

Not in Heaven.

Not in order.

But here.

In you.

[slashire]

one hell of a headache pt three

Summary: a week after the mission you and Sebastian were sent on, the tension grew and grew. Late night reading in the library turns out to be a good option…or a regretful choice.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

Warnings: sexual acts described MINORS DNI

WC:5530

part one part two part four

It had been a week since the kiss.

A week since you’d crashed your mouth against his in the middle of a mission, furious and breathless and too close to snapping. A week since Sebastian had kissed you back with the kind of precision and hunger that had haunted your sleep every night since.

And nothing had been normal.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

The insults were sharper. More frequent. The two of you barely made it through a hallway without exchanging barbs, and even Ciel had begun watching you both with the wary expression of a boy caught between two impending explosions. Every eye roll, every sarcastic retort, every deliberate brush of shoulders in the corridor was laced with something taut and electric that neither of you acknowledged.

You refused to talk about it. So did he.

But the silence between words said enough.

Now, on the eighth night since the mission, you sat alone in the manors east library- legs curled beneath you in a high backed chair, a thick novel propped open across your lap. The only sounds were the soft crackle of fire and the whisper of turning pages. Candlelight flickered across the dark wood shelves, bathing the room in gold and shadow.

It was late.

You knew it. But sleep has been a stranger lately. You haven't told anyone why.

The door creaked open.

You didn't look up. You didn't have to.

“I should've known the stench of arrogance would find its way in here eventually,” you muttered.

Sebastains voice was as smooth as ever. “And I should've known the source of my migraines would be ignoring curfew again.” 

You turned a page, deliberately slow. “Did Ciel send his favorite lapdog to fetch me, or are you just bored of polishing silverware and your own ego?”

“Neither,” he replied, gliding toward you with irritating grace. “You've been neglecting your schedule. Again. As the manors butler, it is my duty to remind you that sleep is necessary for humans. Even those as stubborn as you.”

You glanced up, met his gaze, and let your voice flatten. “If you're trying to mother me, you’re several centuries and one apron too late.”

He leaned against the bookshelf beside your chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with that unshakeable calm that made you want to throw the book at his face.

“Why is it,” he said casually, “that every time i try to carry out a task, you interpret it as a personal insult?”

“Because you breathe like its an act of condescension.”

“And you speak like sarcasm is an art form you're desperate to fail.”

You closed the book with a snap and stood, stalking toward him until you stood toe-to-toe, looking up just enough to glare him in the eye.

“I don't need your help. I don't need your reminders. And I certainly don't need you lurking around like some smug shadow with a superiority complex.”

“And yet,” he said, head tilting, “you never seem to ask me to leave immediately.”

“That's because I know you won't.”

“Correct.”

There it was again. That look. That unbearable, unreadable expression that danced just on the edge of amusement and something else, something hungrier, darker, caged behind centuries of control.

You hated it.

You shoved past him, heading for the door. “Fine. ill go. If only to escape your voice.”

He followed, of course. Silent as always, stalking behind you like a shadow that smelled faintly of tea and fire and rain. The library doors closed behind you both with a soft thud, and the hall stretched ahead-dark, empty, echoing with the sound of your sharp footsteps and his measured ones behind.

He caught up.

Naturally.

“You're impossible,”

“So i've been told.”

“I meant it as an insult.”

“So did they.”

You whirled on him halfway down the courier, words spilling from your mouth before your brain could catch them. “What do you want, Sebastian? Why are you always there? Watching. Smirking. Breathing down my neck like some demonic mosquito-”

His eyes flashed red, just for a second.

“Mosquito?” he repeated, tone dangerously amused.

“Bloodsucking. Annoying. Impossible to get rid of.”

He stepped closer.

You didn't back up.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You're starting to sound obsessed.”

“Obsessed? Please. I've had splinters I cared about more than you.”

“And yet here we are again. Alone. Arguing at night.”

You laughed, a sharp, bitter thing. “Right. Because you showed up in my library.” 

“Correction,” he said, stepping closer, “it's the manors library. You merely infest it.”

You turned again, storming the last few feet to your room, and when your hand hit the doorknob, his voice stopped you cold.

“Running away again?”

You froze.

Turned.

The smirk on his face was smug enough to murder.

“You think you've won something?” you snapped. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “But I do enjoy watching you pretend it isn't.”

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

You turned, slowly, jaw clenched tight, the silk and lace of your evening dress rustling with the motion. The corsets pressure at your ribs was nothing compared to the heat pounding in your head. 

You took one step toward him, then another. The corridor was empty, save for the two of you and the echoes of war that hadn't even been spoken yet. Your slippers made no sound against the polished floor, but the look in your eyes was louder than a shout.

“You really are a smug bastard,” you said, voice calm in the way broken glass is calm, still sharp, still dangerous, still seconds from drawing blood.

He didn't flinch. He stood there, one hand behind his back, the other adjusting the cuff of his glove with infuriating precision. His expression betrayed nothing but an elegant boredom that only enraged you further.

“A bastard with a point,” he murmured. “Your anger always arrives when I'm closest to the truth.”

You stepped close enough to grab the lapel of his coat, to ruin the perfect fold of fabric he’d ironed into sharp submission. “You're not close to anything but a well-deserved punch in the mouth.”

His gaze flicked downward, briefly-at your hand, curled into his coat, at the pale silk of your glove against his black wool. “If you wished to tear my clothes, my Lady, you need only ask.”

The slap came instinctively.

He caught your wrist before your palm could land. Not rough. Not tight. Just firm enough to stop you. The fabric of his glove was smooth against your skin, infuriatingly cool while your blood burned under layers of velvet and lace.

“I'm not playing your game.” you hissed.

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You're losing it.”

That was it. The last fraying thread of patience snapped.

You shoved him back against the wall, the motion sending a curl of black hair over his brow. Your dress rustles sharply as you moved, skirt catching the candlelight in the fold of dark burgundy and cream. The bodice fit tight against your chest, every breath shallow, every word sharp. You stood your ground, shoulders squared, chest heaving.

He stared down at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or let his more demonic nature take over.

“You infuriate me,” you snapped.

“Likewise.” he said, voice low and quiet, not bothering to straighten his coat.

“I can't go ten paces without hearing your damn voice. I can't walk through a room without you looking at me like you're above it all-”

“Because I am.”

You shoved him again.

He caught you this time, his hands gripping your upper arms through layers of satin and corset boning, and before you could throw another insult, he pressed you back against your bedroom door-hard.

Your back hit wood. His mouth hit yours.

The kiss was sudden, brutal, a collision of hatred and hunger, and you answered it with equal force. There was nothing soft in it. This wasn't  love. This wasn't even lust. This was frustration, fire, rage- everything you'd both refused to name, now screaming through clenched teeth and parted lips.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing over the embroidered satin of your dress before gripping your waist, pulling you closer. The corset kept your spine stiff, chest lifted, but you didn't need leverage. Your hands tangled in his coat, yanking him forward as your teeth scraped his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, low, controlled, the sound of a man trained not to show weakness, failing just a little.

He reached behind you, turned the doorknob without looking, and you stumbled backward into your room, still fused at the mouth, still tangled in silk and fury.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stepped back. He followed.

He crowed you until the backs of your legs hit the chaise at the foot of the bed. You fell back with a gasp, skirts fanned around you like a storm had dropped you there. He loomed above you, cravat askew, coat undone. You hated how good he looked like that. Disheveled. Messy. Uncontrolled. 

He climbed over you like a shadow, knees planted on either side of your skirts, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, like he was memorizing the taste of someone he’d vowed not to want.

Your hands found his cravat, yanked it loose. His gloves hit the floor without ceremony. You felt the warmth of his bare hands through the thin lace at your wrists.

“You're insufferable.” you breathed.

“You're exhausting.” he answered, his breath fanning against your jaw.

“And yet you're still here.”

“And yet you're still under me.”

That shut you up.

His mouth was on yours again, unforgiving and hot, and the back of your head pressed into the velvet cushion beneath you as he deepened the kiss. The silk of your dress rustled against his waistcoat as he leaned down, arm braced beside your head. One knee dipped into the bed, grazing the folds of your skirts, and you hated the way your stomach twisted when you felt the weight of him settling against you.

His hands, no longer gloved, were colder than they should have been. One slipped around your side, fingers trailing the curve of your corseted waist with unsettling precision, pausing just where the whalebone cinched too tight to bend. The other found your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he was taking inventory of something he never should've touched.

You bit his lower lip, hard enough to punish. He barely flinched.

“Still not submitting, I see.” he murmured against your mouth.

“Try harder,” you snapped back, eyes flashing.

He growled- soft, not quite human- and kissed you again, harsher this time, like he meant to bruise. Your fingers were in his hair now, tugging, pulling, ruining that perfect slicked back style he clung to like armor. You wanted it undone. All of it. The mask, the polish, the facade. You wanted to strip away the inhuman calm and see what he was under the suit and silk.

You succeeded, just a little.

He shifted against you, mouth trailing briefly down your jaw, tongue flicking against your neck once- cold, calculated, and deliberate. A warning, not affection. The threat beneath it curled something tight inside you.

“Do you think this means anything?” you said, voice breathless as you shoved at his shoulder- not enough to move him, just to make the point.

“I think,” he said, not moving away, “that you talk far too much for someone who keeps pulling me closer.”

Your breath caught. Because it was true. Your hands had curled into the lapels of his open coat, dragging him down with each gasp and curse, as if proximity could silence the noise in your chest.

He tasted like wine and heat and something darker- something unnatural. Every kiss left you dizzy, furious, and desperate to win a battle you didn't understand. He was still above you, weight braced just barely, like he was giving you a choice to push him off, daring you to do it.

You didn't.

Instead, you surged up and kissed him again, open-mouthed and unforgiving. His hand slid down your side, over embroidered satin, across the ruffled detail at your hip, to the fine silk and lace underskirt cinched beneath it all. The weight of him settled more fully against you now, and the heat in your cheeks spread down your throat, your chest, even as your mouth curled in a sneer mid-kiss.

“You're disgusting.”

“So you've said,” he replied, teeth dragging over your lower lip.

“Do not ruin my tailoring.” he warned.

“Do not ruin my sleep schedule.”

He smiled against your neck.

Bastard.

Your breath hitched as he dipped lower, mouth trailing down the column of your throat, just above the lace collar that peeked out from the neckline of your corset. He wasn't  touching skin- yet- but he was close enough to set your nerves alight. You hated that he knew exactly how close he could get before you snapped. You hated that you haven't snapped already.

“You'll regret this,” you whispered, voice low and dangerous.

“I already do,” he said simply.

But he didn't stop.

Neither did you.

The room was too warm now. Between the fire, the layers of silk, the sheer weight of him pressing against you- it was unbearable. You didn't want to think. You didn't want to feel. You just wanted to drown in the violence of this one thing, this one place where words didn't matter and power didn't shift like sand beneath your feet.

You kissed him again, slower this time. He answered with that same cursed precision, like he wasn't  just indulging you, but studying you. It made your blood boil.

You shoved at his coat again, and he let it fall, shrugging free of it like it was nothing. You almost hated how quickly he adapted, how easily he moved between composed butler and this-this inferno in a suit.

“I swear,” you muttered between kisses, “if you hold this over me, I'll stab you with a cake fork.”

“I'm insulted,” he said, teeth grazing your collarbone through fabric. “You think I'd need blackmail. You fold quite easily when angry.”

“I don’t fold.”

 “Then what do you call this?”

You growled and rolled him off of you, climbing into his lap in one seamless, angry motion that left your skirts tangled around both of you and your breath sawing in your throat. You gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at you, those crimson eyes glowing faintly under the low light.

“This,” you hissed, “is tactical dominance.”

He looked delighted.

“Of course it is.”

You kissed him again, biting his lip for good measure. His hand gripped your hips now, the layers of your dress crinkling between his fingers as he pulled you closer. You didn't care If he tore the damn thing, you'd consider it a favor. It was too hot, too heavy, too suffocating- and not just because of the corset.

When you pulled back, both of you were breathless. His eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen, shirt wrinkled and askew. He looked, for once, less than perfect.

You loved it.

“You are going to ruin everything,” you said.

He tilted his head. “And you weren't already doing that?”

You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his. “If you tell anyone-”

“Who would I tell?” he whispered, voice gone low and rough. “The rats in the cellar? Or perhaps the dishes?”

Your breath returned between kisses, each one deeper than the last, desperate, indignant, laced with fury neither of you had language for. Your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar again, now damp with heat, clinging to him like he was the only steady thing left in the room. His mouth moved down to your throat, careful, unhurried.

But his hands-

One found your back. The other settled at your hip, palm pressing through the stiff structure of your corset, as though he could feel your racing pulse even through the layers. Then- without a word, without even breaking contact- he began to undo the laces.

It was methodical. Precise. Predictable, damn him.

You should've expected it. Of course he would know how to unlace a corset without pause, without hesitation, without even looking. He'd probably done it a hundred times. For noblewomen, duchesses, perhaps even corpses. His fingers moved easily along the back of your gown, unthreading ribbon from the reinforced eyelets like he was disarming a bomb-silent, efficient, no wasted movement.

You froze for half a second, heart hammering.

“You undo corsets like you iron shirts.” you muttered against his open mouth.

He didn't miss a beat. “That's because most corsets are less stubborn than you.”

You wanted to slap him again. Instead, you kissed him harder, frustration snarling at the base of your throat.

One last pull, and the tension in your bodice gave away with a sharp whisper of loosened silk. The sudden lack of pressure made you gasp. The corset no longer bit into your ribs. You could breathe again, but that was hardly the issue now. You could feel the loosened weight of the dress starting to slip down your shoulders, satin and lace whispering against your skin as gravity reclaimed it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. The dress was half-undone, your skin flushed and bare in places the neckline had concealed, your breath uneven, your lips swollen. Candlelight caught the outline of your collarbones, the slope of your throat, the faint  sheen of sweat just beneath your hairline. Your eyes burned with the same fire you'd used against him for months. Only now, it wasn't  defense.

It was want.

Regret came later.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of silence. You reached behind you, shrugged on shoulder, then the other, and the gown slipped off entirely. It slid down your arms, your hips, pooling in layers of silk and petticoat around your waist and thighs, leaving only the underlayers: lace, ribbon, skin, breath.

He said nothing. His eyes were unreadable. Still red. Still unnatural. Still fixated.

You straddled him again, now without the weight of noble fabric or laced-up pride between you. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in with both fury and grace, mouth on his again before he could give some clever, cutting remark about your state of undress.

“Say one word,” you warned between kisses, “and I'll shove a candlestick where the sun doesn't shine.”

“You assume I was planning to speak.”

He leaned back just enough to let the light catch every inch of you. His hands ran over your waist, bare now, save for the thin fabric of your chemise, before sliding up your back again, as if to feel the aftermath of his handiwork. Your skin prickled under his touch. You were trembling, but not from fear.

It was this. The proximity. The heat. The unspeakable, shameful knowledge that you’d wanted this long before you ever admitted it aloud. And the fact that it was him. That it was sebastian. That it was your butler, the infuriating, flawless, hell-born butler you'd spent every waking moment fighting just to keep your sanity intact.

You hated how good he felt.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Less war, more fire. Your hands tangled in his shirt, this time tugging it from his waistcoat in one angry pull. His breath hitched- subtle, but there- and it gave you just enough satisfaction to grin against his mouth.

“You're enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“I was bred to serve,” he murmured, voice velvet smooth. “And you are very, very difficult to serve.”

That earned him another bite to the shoulder. He flinched, barely, and smiled.

You could feel the consequences coming. Creeping in like fog beneath the door. But neither of you moved. Neither of you stopped. There was no going back now. Only heat, and breath, and hands on skin that should never have met.

And regret could wait for the morning.

His lips didn't leave yours for long. Every kiss was a silent battle, each gasp, a truce, each bite, a declaration of war. His hands were colder now, like his patience had returned even if his restraint had not. They smoothed down your sides with quiet control, curving around the faint bones of your hips before dragging upward again, following the soft folds of your chemise with ghostlike pressure. It was only still on, not because he was hesitant, because he was toying with you. Watching you come undone in slow motion.

You loathed how methodical he was. You loathed the goosebumps he raised with a single sweep of his palm across your back, the way he paused just before slipping beneath the final fabric barrier, like he was giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

He knew you wouldn't.

The fireplace crackled behind you, shadows moving across the room like silent spectators. His mouth moved lower again, trailing from your collarbone to the top curve of your chest, lips barely grazing lace and skin with maddening restraint. You hissed through your teeth, nails dragging lightly down the back of his neck in warning.

“If you keep kissing like that,” you muttered, voice rough, “I might start thinking you like me.” 

He huffed a low, sharp, breath, close to laughter but too bitter. “Perish the thought.”

You grabbed his cravat and yanked, throwing it somewhere else in the room. “I’d rather perish you.” 

“Such affection.” he said dryly, even as his fingers curled around your waist again, tugging you forward until you were flush against him. The heat between your bodies made your head spin. He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he dragged his tongue against it in apology. Your whole body responded before your mind could catch up.

You hated the way your thighs tightened around him. Hated the way your breath stuttered. But you hated him more.

Your hands slid down his chest, undoing the last buttons of his shirt without asking. The crisp white cotton gave way, revealing marble skin that shouldn't have looked real. Not on something like him. He was too perfect. Too still. Too constructed. Like a weapon dressed in a gentlemans shell. You pressed your palm flat against his chest, half-expecting it to burn.

Instead it was cool. Smooth. Infuriatingly steady.

He watched you through half lidded eyes, letting you touch, letting you explore. And it wasn't submission. It was worse. It was permission.

“Are you going to sit there smirking like an oil painting,” you said, “or are you going to help?”

“I was waiting for you to tear it off like you did my patience.”

You made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Fine.”

You shoved his shirt down his arms. He let it fall. The room swam with heat. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Still, you stared him down, defiant even now.

“I hope you hate this as much as I do.” you said.

“More.”

You didn't know which of you moved first. Just that your mouths collided again with enough force to bruise. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down as you fell back against the bed. He followed, blanketing your body with his again, teeth grazing your throat like he meant to devour you and restrain you at once. You arced into him, hands twisting into his dark hair, legs curling around his hips, and you felt him press against you, solid and undeniable through the last layers between you.

No one spoke. There was no need.

Just breath. Heat. Mouths and teeth. The sound of lace tearing, silk rustling, breath hitching. You didn't moan-heaven forbid- but you gasped, you bit, you exhaled his name in a curse that didn't sound like a curse at all.

And the space between you ceased to exist.

His mouth captured yours again with hunger that felt more like punishment than passion, his hands sliding down the length of your body with precision that made your skin tighten beneath his touch. Every movement he made was like he was reading you by touch alone, learning how to unravel you from the inside out.

Your chemise slipped off your shoulders. Not roughly. Not hastily. Just enough to make you feel the air against your skin before his mouth replaced it, warm, open, merciless. His lips trailed along the line of your collarbone, then lower, teeth dragging with just enough pressure to make your stomach clench. You grabbed at his arms, nails leaving faint croissants against his forearms as he mapped every part of you with maddening control.

He moved like he was still in command. Still your butler. Still the one orchestrating this chaos, even as he knelt between your thighs and let his hands roam up the backs of them, dragging you slowly toward him with a strength that made it impossible to think.

Your body shifted under his, instinctive and tense. He pressed against you deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him. The friction burned. Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His lips were at your throat again, his hands bracketing your hips, anchoring you like you might disappear if he let go.

You fought the urge to whimper. You let out something between a growl and a broken breath instead, teeth clenched, pride intact.

“Dont…dont think this means anything.” you muttered, even as your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.

“Believe me,” he said low against your skin, “I don't.”

And still, his hands moved. And still, your body betrayed you.

You met him in equal measure, every touch, every shift of his weight answered with your own. You pushed back against him, lips swollen from kissing, thighs trembling with pressure you refused to give voice to. Your whole body was heat and tension, locked against his as if the closer you were, the less your mind could scream at you to stop.

He pressed you deeper into the bed, one hand splaying wide against your stomach, the other threading into your hair. He tilted your chin just so-just enough to expose your neck again, to make you feel it when he dragged his lips down your throat and let his breath tickle across your pulse point.

You shuddered.

And he moved again, slow and steady, and every breath caught somewhere behind your teeth.

It was maddening, the way he refused to rush. The way he held your gaze, watching the way your body reacted before doing it again, again, and again. He worked like a craftsman, silent and sure, unbothered by your insults muttered through clenched teeth and gasps.

You tried to keep the upper hand, even now. You tried to insult him, to bite him. To act like this meant nothing. But every time he moved, your resolve cracked a little more.

The bed creaked beneath you, the fire snapped in the room, and all that filled the room was the sound of breath, rustling linen, and bodies moving in rhythm. His name escaped you again, this time quieter, hoarser, like a secret you hadnt meant to say aloud.

His smirk returned when he heard it.

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against the corner of your mouth like he'd earned it.

“I'll pretend..pretend you're not en..enjoying yourself.”

“I'm always efficient.”

and then he did something that made your whole body arch, deliberate, punishing, perfect and you forgot every insult you'd ever prepared. 

Morning came slowly.

Your body was the first to betray you, aching in places you hadn't expected, sore in ways that made last night echo louder than any dream ever could. You shifted beneath the covers and felt cool cotton brushing against your skin. Not the scratchy remnants of your chemise. Not the ruined ribbons of your corset. A full linen nightdress. Clean. Soft. Modest.

Your brow furrowed.

The room was warm. The fireplace had been tended to. Sunlight stretched in pale beams across the floor, catching the faint shimmer of the discarded dress draped carefully over the chaise.

You sat up.

You were tucked in.

Tucked in.

Like some delicate little noble daughter who hadn’t just spent the entire night entangled with a demon. Like you hadn’t kissed him like you meant it. Like you hadn’t let him. You gritted your teeth. Your hair had even been brushed, neatly gathered to one side, not a single knot in sight.

And he was gone.

Typical.

You didn’t know if you were furious or grateful. Probably both. Probably more furious. You threw the blankets back with too much force and swung your legs out of bed just as a polite knock sounded at the door.

“My lady?” Mey-Rin’s voice chimed sweetly through the wood. “I’ve brought your morning dress, if you’re ready.”

You cleared your throat. “Come in.”

Mey-Rin entered carrying the usual bundle of silk, lace, and rigid propriety that passed for a day ensemble. She gave you her usual bright smile, but her eyes flicked toward the empty fireplace, then to the disturbed sheets. Her grin faltered just slightly.

“Didn’t mean to wake you early,” she said quickly, setting the dress over the screen. “Sebastian mentioned you had a long night of reading.”

You blinked. “Did he now?”

She fumbled with the hangers. “Yes, well, he said you’d fallen asleep in the library, and he carried you back. Said you were too stubborn to admit you needed rest.”

Of course he did.

Your jaw clenched as Mey-Rin helped you behind the screen and began the slow process of lacing you into a sapphire-blue day dress. It was modest, buttoned to the throat, sleeves down to your wrists, corset tight enough to remind you how hard it was to breathe around your own pride. As she worked, she filled the silence with casual chatter about weather and deliveries and Lady Elizabeth’s most recent correspondence. You heard none of it.

Your mind was still back in the library. Or on the bed. Or beneath him. The heat of his breath. The press of his hands. His voice, low and venomous, I’m always efficient.

You wanted to punch him again.

Once dressed, you made your way to the dining room, boots clicking across the polished floors of the manor. Everything looked so... normal. Like nothing had happened. Like the night hadn’t cracked something open between the two of you that you couldn’t seal shut.

The doors to the dining room opened without fanfare. Inside, Ciel was already seated at the head of the table, tea steeping beside his untouched breakfast. His eye shifted toward you briefly, then returned to the paper in his hand.

You took your usual seat across from him, posture prim and spine stiff.

Silence.

And then the door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

You felt it.

That impossible stillness that only came when he entered a room. The graceful glide of footsteps, soft and sharp, like a wolf pacing around a ballroom.

“Good morning, Young Master,” Sebastian said with his usual perfect cadence. “My lady.”

You didn’t look at him.

You refused.

He placed your tea beside you, then set down Ciel’s breakfast with surgical precision.

“Thank you,” Ciel murmured without looking up. “You’re late.”

“My sincerest apologies. I was detained by… unfinished duties.”

Your grip on your teacup nearly cracked the porcelain.

Ciel blinked once, then glanced between you and Sebastian. His one visible eye narrowed.

“You’re both unusually quiet.”

No one responded.

Sebastian stood at his left shoulder, expression unreadable. You sipped your tea too quickly, scalding your tongue, just to avoid speaking.

Ciel looked back and forth between the two of you, then lowered his paper entirely.

“What happened?”

You and Sebastian answered at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“An ordinary evening.”

The silence that followed was louder than any outburst.

Ciel raised a brow.

“Ordinary?” he repeated. “With the two of you involved? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

You stiffened. Sebastian didn’t flinch.

Ciel exhaled slowly, setting down his tea.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t let whatever this is interfere with your duties. Either of you.”

You nodded tightly.

Sebastian bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

Ciel gave one last look of suspicion, then returned to his paper.

But the damage was done.

You could feel Sebastian’s gaze even now, burning beneath his lashes as he stood motionless at Ciel’s side. Not looking at you. Not needing to. The tension between you buzzed like static, impossible to ignore, impossible to voice.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[slashire]

Well haha why not part 3 to One hell of a headace?

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

i just finished it and I'll be posting it tonight! :)

[slashire]

Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology.  It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately. 

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?” 

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that  starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.