#he just casually spills the tea and moves on

[buubonita]

My brain has been rotting on Ccino and Nightmare lately.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Hold You Tight In My Mind

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, blowjobs, kinda fingering), soft angst, injury, hurt/comfort, demon possession, friends-with-benefits to lovers.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an agreement. Best friends who have sex, no strings attached. But when a case goes south, you learn a few things about Dean, specifically his thoughts on the arrangement.

Maybe you won't have to love him in silence after all.

Author's Note: Kinda request from @brtodd!! Nothing I love more than a good old love confession, enjoy!

Title from Terrance Loves You by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.5k

That’s a lot of blood. You’ve spent nights in motels stitching wounds and lost yourself on the side of the highway shouting for help, your guts half spilled on the pavement, but you’ve never seen that much blood.

“Son of a bitch, that’s a lot of blood.”

Dean, apparently, hasn’t seen this much blood either. 

“Should we, um,” you scan over the tile floor, your nose slightly scrunched. “Should we take a picture for Sam?”

“Yeah, he should see this shit too-“

“No, Dean,” you give him a flat look. “For the case. To help him figure out what the hell this thing is.”

Dean gives you a bright, boyish grin and nod of approval. “Good thinkin’, in case he gets mad at us-“

“Gets mad at you,” you correct, moving to stand at Dean’s shoulder as he takes the photo. “I’m not a part of this. I just wanna go home.”

Dean shrugs. “We all wanna go home, Sweetheart. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kids- Shit-“

He doubles over slightly from your elbow in his ribs, and you roll your eyes.

“You have a fake wife and kids. And your fake wife,” you jab your thumb at your own chest. “Doesn’t want her fake brother-in-law to kill her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean’s never allowed to have fun.” He mutters, rubbing his side. “And Sammy wouldn’t kill ya’-“

“He’d kill my fake husband.” You pout at Dean, placing a hand over your heart. “And that would kill me.”

Dean chuckles, rising back to his full height. “I love it when you pretend that you care about me. Makes me warm and fuzzy.”

You roll your eyes, hoping he can’t see the low flush on your face. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “You’re into it, though. C’mon, we gotta see if there’s actually a body in here, or Sam’ll kill both of us.”

Dean trudges off through the lake of blood, and you have to shake your head slightly to clear it. This case is going to kill you. This is so fucking gross, and the longer you’re here—in this room, in this town, on this case—the sicker you feel.

And it’s not just the blood. It’s all of this. It’s the haughty country club patrons who are downright impossible to properly interrogate, it’s the extra fancy clothing you have to wear for the investigations, and the shitty little tea cakes that the club serves. Tea cakes that you can feel your stomach growling for, because you haven’t had a chance to eat all day, and that only makes you feel worse. As every hour passes, you only feel more and more sick. You only spiral into starving mess that needs either food or Dean.

And that just makes you ill. Every time you look at Dean and hear him say wife, you want to strangle him then kiss him and it’s exhausting. Because you’d walked into this stupid fucking country club with a plan that would’ve worked fine—Sam’s your driver because he drew the short stick, Dean’s your bodyguard, you’re some fancy heiress looking to spend some money—and everything went sideways the moment the front desk asked how many household members, and Dean said four. Dean said that he was your husband, and you have kids, and that he knows he’s punchin’ above his weight class, but damn him, he can’t feel bad about it. 

You want to hate him for that. You want to throttle him for how he’s treating this like it’s casual and easy, like every time he says wife it’s not so quietly cruel to your heart. How it flutters and glows before withering, because you’ll never have that. Dean always says wife with a teasing voice and nudge of your shoulder, and you can only grin at him like it’s not killing you, reminding you of what you can’t have.

But you can’t hate Dean. You don’t really know how to hate Dean. And he doesn’t know that this is like torture, because he really thinks you’re happy with this. Not just the fake wife thing—because you are playing into it, trading the same taunts and jokes and grins—but the very real, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies arrangement you have. Have had for fucking years. The one where you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth and never, ever look back to see what you’d left behind, but all he’s asking is that you stay in his bed and let him fuck you when he asks.

It’s not a bad arrangement. He’s a sex god, he gives as good as he gets, and you’re technically exclusive, but it’s still not what you want. Crave. Desire more than you’ve ever desired anything.

Because you really just want all of Dean. Something he’s never offered anyone‚ will certainly never offer you, and you’re going to chase until it kills you. You’ll warm Dean’s bed and touch his body for as long as you’re allowed, and cling to these small deaths of maybe this could be real until they all finally catch up to your heart. You’ll gather small offerings he drops in your lap without knowing—you’re the only person he looks at, and his eyes don’t seem to stray, and he’s the one who decided you should be fake married—and build a shrine to him along your ribs he’ll never be allowed to see.

But his voice still haunts your dreams with words you feel over your skin where he’s touched you before. Words you’ve heard a million times—so pretty, sweetheart, good girl—and words you’ll never hear. Words that circle your brain and bang on your skull all the fucking time, even in this disgusting, haunting mess of blood. Words that make some small part of you spark whenever you hear Dean’s deep, strong voice say your name, because you’re a little pathetic and you can’t stop praying that he’ll say them. He won’t. He never does. 

He calls your name, and that spark kicks up your spine, and he still doesn’t say them. 

“I got it!” He sounds so proud, and you hate that it makes you smile. “We’re looking at a demon!”

You turn, pushing through the blood to join Dean at where he’s standing at a fireplace, running his finger over the mantle with a twisted expression of disgust.

“Sulfur?” You ask, stopping as close to his side as he can manage, and he shoots you a grin, holding up a bloodied—but blackened—finger. 

“Bingo, Sweetheart.” He winks, obviously missing your open, wanting gape at him as he looks back to the mantle. “Nasty son of bitch, though, I’ve never seen one of those douchebags do this.”

Dean gestures around the room, and you hum an agreement.

“So we’re good?” You ask, standing slightly on your toes to survey the sulfur buildup. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call my wife, tell her I’ll be home for dinner-“

You whack his arm, and he laughs like a handsome, cocky fucking asshole you still can’t figure out how to hate.

“Your wife is starving, and tired of standing in blood.” You kick your foot through the mess, wrinkling your nose. “Can we please go?”

“I dunno, I think this is kinda romantic.” Dean gives you a shit-eating grin, and you swallow. “I mean, this is freakin’ gross, but it’s just us and all these guts, I think we could waste some time-“

“Shut up.” You shove him, and he doesn’t stop grinning at you. “Haul ass, Winchester, or you’ll be in the fake doghouse.”

He chuckles, rebalancing in a second. “You’re being a little dramatic, kid-“

“Don’t kid me, Dean Winchester, I’m your fake wife. I gave birth to your fake kids-“

“You’ve got some good points,“ Dean drawls your name, pulling you right against his chest, and suddenly the smell of metallic blood is nothing compared to the leather and whiskey and gunpowder of Dean. The sticky heat of the room is overtaken by the heat in your core, the heat of Dean’s breath as he lowers down to kiss right behind your ear, his voice dropping to a deep, teasing growl. “And I’m gonna real fuck you when we get back to the motel. But I gotta call Sam and catch him up, can you-“

You nod, reaching into his pocket to grab the keys, and force yourself not to look back as you leave. You wince slightly as you lean into the Impala—starting the car before rising back up and leaning against the door—but it’s not like she’s never been covered in blood before. This just… a lot more blood than usual.

Dean takes a year to join you, and when he walks out of the building he’s smirking, spreading his arms in a wide aren’t you happy to see me? gesture. 

“Sam’s workin’ it.” He stops right in front of you, too close and never close enough. “Can I buy a pretty lady a beer?”

“You can buy her some food.” You cross your arms, grinning up at him. “I saw a drive-thru down the road, we shouldn’t go inside looking like this.”

“Smart.” He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you around the car and into the passenger’s seat, and just being so fucking impossible as he opens the door and helps you inside. “Greasy fast-food for me and my girl, comin’ right up.”

You have to learn how to hate him. You have to learn how to flip Dean off and mean it, how to not flush and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush under his attention. He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know how to mean it, but it still makes your lower gut warm and your face split into a wide, stupid grin when he calls you my girl, drawls your name in the car, and rests his hand on your knee as you pull through the ordering window. When he parks in the lot and you laugh together, his eyes rarely leaving yours and his smile never falling from his face. 

Even when he gets out to use the bathroom—promising he’ll be fast and try, somehow, not to draw attention to how he’s soaked in blood—Dean still grins and winks at you, and you can’t figure out how to shove his chest and shout that this is mean. That he’s mocking you and stringing your heart up on wires to play with, and he can’t be expected to know that but this is so fucking mean. He needs to stop smiling at you, and stop saying wife all the time like it’s real when it’s not. It won’t be, it can’t be, and now that’s going to haunt you forever. 

You sit there for long, lonely minutes while Dean’s gone, trying get as little blood as you can on the upholstery, because Dean had already started grumbling about how much work this is gonna be to clean up and you can’t bring yourself to make anything harder for him. You spiral through the sound of Dean calling you my girl and promising to fuck you, sit in the ghost of his big, warm hand on your body and his chest pressed right against your breasts. The gleam in his eyes that was full of promises, and the fantasy of all the plans he might have for that aforementioned fucking.

Then you hear his phone ring, and you frown. Dean almost never forgets his phone in the car, even if he’s just getting beer or paying for gas. It’s a hazard, to not have it. To not be able to reach you or Sam if he needs to, for you and Sam to not be able to reach him.

And he’s been gone a while. Long enough that your throat starts to form a small lump, and—when you pick up the call—your voice is a little unsteady, your attention on where Dean had disappeared into the building.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hey.” Sam says your name through the speaker, his tone a little surprised. “Where’s Dean?”

“Bathroom.” You frown at the building, desperate for Dean to just appear, and soothe this horrible twisting in your gut. “What’s up?”

“I figured out what we’re looking at.” You can hear some papers shuffling on Sam’s end, his words slow and careful. “Special kind of demon that feeds off of lustful blood, which explains why he’s been going after all those rich people. Like, ten ladies and five dudes have tried to sleep with me this week, and I know you and Dean got that, uh, offer-“

“Sam.” You mutter, your eyes still on the building. “Can we exercise it?”

“Kind of. We can’t use the normal one, because it’s not a normal demon, but there is a way. And these guys seem to be capable of being injured, more dependent on their vessels or something. So-“

“If we find him we can knock him down,” you mutter. “Hold him until we figure out how to flush him out.”

“Exactly. And I’m trying to work on the flushing part,” Sam sighs, and you can picture his sheepish expression. “But I don’t have it yet. Are you-“

“We’re coming back soon. Do you want us gone a little while longer, so you can focus-“

“No, Dean told me about all the blood. Sounded gross.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It was. But-“

“I’ll take the car, need to stop at the library anyway.” Sam says your name through the phone, and there’s a sound of pity in it that makes you curl slightly into yourself. “You and Dean can shower, relax, do, uh, whatever you do-“

You sigh. “Please don’t give me permission to fuck your brother, dude. It’s weird.”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles through the static. “Sorry. I just know he’s been trying to get you alone-“

“He’s always trying to get me alone.” A dumb smile takes over your face as Dean reappears, and he’s fine. Still covered in blood, but grinning at you with a dizzying joy and gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell him what we’ve got, and text us when you’ve got the exorcism.”

“Will do. Call me if you need anything, or if, uh, I should stay away longer-“

“Suck my dick.”

You end the call as Sam laughs, and look up to find Dean tapping on your window with a smirk. You blink at him, because he might be covered in more blood than before. There’s a bruise on his forehead that wasn’t there a second ago, his shirt is on backwards, and his jacket is drenched, but he’s look at you like he won the lottery, and you’re not sure what the hell is going on.

“Dean,” you frown at him as you roll the window down, your brow furrowed as he braces an arm on the roof of Baby. “Are you-“

He cuts off your words by ducking down, grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a long, mind-numbing, sloppy kiss that leaves you gaping and dumb. Your fingers curling in his shirt, his low chuckle rolling through your body as he pushes his  tongue down your throat, the taste of Dean—lingering burger and sweet soda and salt for your food, plus something innately Dean that’s heady and always leaves a perfect aftertaste on your tongue whenever he kisses you—overtaking the taste of blood just enough override your sense of this is kinda gross, and make you pull him closer.

When Dean pulls back—leaving you starting at him, your breathing ragged and heart trying to escape your chest as he grins at you—he grins at you, his voice a gravely promise. 

“You ready to head back, darlin’?”

You blink at him. He’s never called you darling. Darling doesn’t sound like a Dean word. “Uh, yeah, but are you feeling okay? You were in there a while-“

“Food didn’t sit right,” he shrugs, drawing back up with a last wink. “Trust me, Sweetheart, it ain’t gonna be an issue anymore. I’m all flushed out.”

He rounds the car, and you watch him move with a frown. That’s the Dean swagger-walk, but it’s longer, with almost no urgency. Dean always walks with a least a little urgency, and he calls you Sweetheart but not darlin’, and something is still squeezing around your throat and telling you something’s wrong, when Dean’s right here. He’s winking at you from the driver’s seat, driving with the same cool ease Dean always has behind the wheel, and talking to you like he always does. Like your every word is fascinating and amusing, and you could say the grossest thing in the world but he’d still call you adorable. 

You hate that he does that. It’s perfect and painful, feeding that shrine over your ribs, and almost enough to distract you from how weird he’s being. How he doesn’t seem at all interested to hear about the blood demon, how his first clarification is so Sam’s gonna leave us in the motel, and how he’s growing bolder with his hand on your leg. Trailing fingers lazily up your thigh and grinning when he brushes over the apex of your thighs, chuckling at your small gasp.

“Think we’re ready for that fuckin’, Sweetheart?” He drawls, pulling into the motel lot. “You sure seem real needy-“

“We’re not having sex, Dean, there’s a demon on the loose-“

“A demon Sammy’s handlin’.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been tryin’ to get you alone all freakin’ week. C’mon, we deserve some time together.“ Dean leans forward, smirking at you. “And I know you want it, babygirl. I bet you’re real fuckin’ wet for me.” He reaches up to your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “So pretty, darlin’-“

There it is again. Darling. Darling, and the excessive drawling, and the slow walk, and the glint in his eyes you’re only now noticing. It’s colder than how Dean ever looks at you. It’s shallow and crude, like he can’t see anything past a pretty face and body, when Dean is—above all else—your friend. When there’s always a shining light when he looks at you that—both amazingly and awfully—reminds you that you’re more than just a body, and he mostly sees you as the best friend he’s ever had. The one he can do this with, because you care about each other too much to complicate things, and who he’ll always respect.

And this doesn’t feel respectful. It doesn’t feel like Dean. His hands are touching you, but there’s something off about them. Dean would be tracing his fingers over your inner thigh, not moving any further until your either grabbed his hand and moved it for him, or downright pleaded for him to touch you. He’d be disgusted by keeping your bloodied clothing in Baby for even a second more, and choose to back you against the motel wall instead of whatever this is. He’d let you get a word in, for your mock sparring and teasing that he always seems to win.

He would’ve worked in a joke about wanting to fuck his wife, because she can be a real brat when he neglects her. And you’d have smacked his chest, and he’d have laughed, raising his brows and saying see? She gets all bitchy and dramatic when I don’t fuck her right.

But Dean’s not doing that right now. And when you reach over the seat, trailing your hand up his chest in a pretend gesture of need, you feel it. 

Warm, sticky blood that’s fresh, and seeping through his shirt. Pouring from a wound you can feel the dip of, that somehow doesn’t make him flinch when you press slightly on it.

A wound right over his anti-possession tattoo.

You move before the demon—not Dean, this isn’t Dean, and you feel fucking ill—can register what’s happening. You pull one of the Impala’s random guns out from the glove compartment, thank a God who’s obviously not listening that it’s weighed and heavy, and ram the butt of it into Dean’s temple. Not hard enough to kill him—you do want your Dean back after this— but hard enough to knock him out. To buy you enough time to grab his by the neck of his jacket and drag him out of the impala. You kick open the motel room door, scream to Sam for help, and haul him into a chair. Sam ties him down, while you take long, deep breathes, and your words are soft and short when you finally manage to speak.

“He’s possessed.” You whisper, starting at the floor. “They carved through the tattoo.”

“Shit,” Sam starts to pace, and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear him. “It’s-“

You nod. “The blood demon.”

“Are you good to stay here?” Sam marches over to the table and shoving his laptop into his bag. “I’ll go to the library, find what we’re looking for, and call you when I’ve got it. Okay?”

You nod, trying not flinch at Sam’s sympathetic pat of your shoulder, and stare at Dean as Sam leaves. You feel vile. That’s not Dean, but it’s Dean’s body. Dean will still be injured when you get this piece of shit out of his body. He’ll still be covered in bloody, disgusting clothing, and he’ll remember you knocking him out. He’ll ask questions that you’ll have to answer, about how you knew. And you’ll have to tell him that you just did. You’ll leave out the part about how you have every piece of him memorized to worship, so that even if the demon had tried a little harder to pretend to be Dean, you probably still would have caught on. You’d recognizes Dean’s bones in the grave. You’d recognize his voice in space. You’d recognize him just fucking near you if you were being waterboarded and flayed alive. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say the painfully basic and obscuring answer of I just did, and that will hurt.

But you have time to practice. The demon’s still knocked out in Dean’s body, and Sam’s taking too long to figure this out, but you don’t have anywhere to be. You can tug Dean’s jacket off his body with a mumbled apology he can’t hear, and busy yourself trying to clean it. You can’t stop looking at him—battered, vulnerable, his face so painfully slack—and the warm, soap-covered cloth isn’t enough to keep you from spiraling. From flinching as the blood, Dean’s blood, becomes red bubbles, and trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be so impossibly horrible. That, maybe, the demon just won’t wake up, and you won’t have to do anything but clean Dean’s jacket until Sam gets back

But you’re not that lucky.

Pretty, green eyes that are but don’t look like Dean’s flutter open, the demon drops any pretense of playing pretend, and your skin begins to crawl as it speaks.

“Good mornin’,” it leers at you from the chair, pulling slightly on the bonds. “Aren’t you a pretty sight to see after some forced shut eye.”

You start to scrub on the leather to a degree that can’t be helpful, your knuckles white. 

“Knockin’ us out wasn’t very nice to your friend in here, Sweetheart. He’s awfully torn up about it. Feelin’ like he failed you, beggin’ me not to hurt you, hates that I was able to get the up on him and touch you at all. But can I tell you a secret,” the demon says your name, and your blood curls in your body. “He really wants to touch you himself. You’ve got a real dirty minded fellow on your hands. Who woulda thought the great Dean Winchester’s weakness would be a smart-mouthed bitch-“

The demon seems to choke on that last word, and when your gaze shoots up Dean’s body looks like it’s in pain. He’s curving into himself—his eyes screwed shut and sweat forming on his brow—and you’re moving before you know what’s happening. Jumping out of your seat and grabbing his face between your hands, your voice high and frantic over the blood pounding in your ears.

“Dean?” You run your thumb over his cheek, and he twitches, like he can’t figure out if he wants to flinch away or lean into your touch. “Shit, Dean, I need you to talk to me-“

Dean’s eyes snap open—that foul glint still rooted deep into them—and he laughs as you jerk away like he’d burned you.

“I’ll give ‘im this.” The demon says, the words still slightly strained. “He ain’t an easy ride. Keeps tryin’ to break out and talk to you, tell you not to listen to me and go find Sammy.” The demon laughs again, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It’s Dean’s laugh, but inverted. Cold and hateful and wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking an unsteady step back, and the demon raises Dean’s brows.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just breakin’ poor Dean’s heart. Hurtin’ him, tellin’ him to shut up, tyin’ him up-“ The demon cuts himself off, twisting Dean’s face into a smirk. “Well, that one’s a funny little case, ain’t it. He’s too much of a pathetic little bitch to admit it-“

You scowl, standing a little taller. “Dean’s notpathetic-“

The demon pushes on as if you’d said nothing at all. “But he’s kinda into this. Likes the idea of you havin’ some fun with him however you want, pleasin’ you however you like, or,” the Demon’s grin grows mocking and crude. “Switchin’ places. Keepin’ you down to find out if he can make you scream louder than when he does that thing with his tongue, see if he can get you beggin’ all pretty. Nothin’ gets him goin’ more than when you beg-“

“Shut up.“ You hiss, grabbing your phone off your bed. “I don’t know what your fucking angle is, but I’d recommend you get out of my-“ you catch yourself, taking a short breath before plowing on. “Out of Dean-“

The demon caught it, though, and his smirk grows. “Your what? He ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’. But Jesus, he hates that too. I don’t think you’d keep indulgin’ this asshole if you could spend a second in here with ‘im like I am. He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you, it’s goddamn pathetic-“

You clench your jaw so hard you might break teeth, your movements rough as you scroll for Sam’s contact. “I said shut up-“

“He thinks he’s fuckin’ poison.” The demon sneers, and you can’t look at Dean’s face—can’t see it cruel and filled with hate—or you might start crying. “And shit, darlin’, he’d like to poison you. He’d like to do everythin’ to you. Fuck ya’ and buy you flowers and marry ya’,” the demon cackles, and you feel a little dizzy. “’S why he’s been doin’ this stupid fuckin’ charade all week. He wants to bruise ya’ and bite ya’, then whine and bitch about how he’s so disgustingly in love with you-“ The demon hacks a slight cough, and shakes his head with a mocking grimace. “Makes me fuckin’ sick, how needy and weak this piece of shit is-“

“I said,” you cross back to the chair, fisting Dean’s blood-covered shirt in your hand and yanking him up with cold words and words you hate on your tongue. “Shut the fuck up. And get out of him, before I fucking kill you.”

The demon just laughs at you, spit covering your face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Sweetheart. Not while I’m in your precious Dean’s body. Not while you got me here, tellin’ you all the nasty things he’d like to do to ya’, how he worships the ground your fuckin’ walk on and dreams about you sayin’ you love a pile of trash like him-“

You tear off your own jacket, bundle up the sleeve, and stuff it the demons mouth. You don’t fucking care if it’s trapped in Dean’s body until Sam gets back, you can’t keep listening to it. Listening to it fucking lie and rip you apart with only words, watch it eyes gleam as it puppets Dean’s mouth to torture you. Why the fuck would it say things like that. It can’t be to hurt Dean, because all he’ll have to do is tell you when this is over that he’s sorry about what the demon said, and that it’s all just lies. And the demon doesn’t know—can’t know—that it just ripped your heart out of your chest and ran it through a meat-grinder. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and you feel like your skin is trying to fly off your body, and Dean’s still covered in blood and it’s horrible- 

Your phone buzzes on the floor—slightly cracked from being suddenly dropped—and it’s Sam. When you pick up he doesn’t wait to hear you before he launches into frantic words, practically shouting into the speaker.

“Found it!” He sounds a little out of breath, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s been running back to the car. “Can you put me on-“

“Yep.” You press speaker, ripping your jacket out the demons mouth and turning the volume all the way up. “Go.”

Sam starts to recite a long, fancy string of Latin words, and you can’t bear to see Dean’s body thrash and roar and fold in pain, but you need to make sure the demon goes. That when Sam finishes and Dean’s eyes start to flutter, it’s safe to thank Sam, hang up the phone, and fall to your knees at Dean’s side.

“Dean,” you cup his jaw, angling his head slightly back. “Shit, Dean, please say something-“

He moans your name, and you almost start crying in relief, dropping your head carefully onto his leg. 

“I, shit-“ Dean’s voice is hoarse as he pulls slightly at the bonds around him. “I’m happy to see you too, Sweetheart, but I kinda need you do untie me-“

“Fuck, sorry-“ You scramble with the ropes, scanning over his body as you do. “I’m gonna go get Sam’s medkit, can you take your shirt off-“

“Well, I’d usually make you but me some dinner- shit-“ He’d already started to pull his shirt off, his whole body shuddering as his arms tried to raise up. 

“Dean-“

“Gimme three, I’ve got it-“

“No, you don’t. I’m cutting your shirt off, just-“ You move to your feet, pointing a stern finger at him. “Stay.”

He raises his hands, flinching slightly at the movement. “Yes, ma’am.”

Neither of you speak for a long while. You throw yourself entirely into his stitches, tossing the bloodied rags of his shirt into the trash and stealing small at Dean’s handsome, exhausted features. He’s watching you the whole time, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but it’s sure where to start. When he finally clears his throat, you hum, keeping your hands steady on the stitches.

“This fucking sucks.” He grumbles, and you huff a dry laugh. 

“Yeah. It really does.” You pull another stitch through the gash, and Dean winces. “Shit, I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t apologize.” He mutters. “I should be apologizing to you.” 

You frown up at him, your hands coming to a still. “Why?” 

“I let that asshole get one up on me.” He grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “Couldn’t get a hold over him, either. Let him say all that shit to you-“ 

Something cracks in your heart, but you just shrug. “That’s not on you, Dean. Demon’s lie, you don’t have to explain it-“ 

Now Dean’s frowning at you. “What?” 

“The demon,” you mumble, your face flushing slightly. “What he said. I get it, it’s what they do, you don’t need to-“ 

“The demon didn’t,” Dean coughs, his face redder than you’ve ever seen it, his voice almost nervous. “It didn’t lie. He was a dick about how he said it, but he didn’t lie.”

“I, um, I don’t-“ You gape at him for a long second, trying to figure out if he’s joking. This isn’t something Dean would joke about, but that just means you must have heard him wrong. The demon said Dean loved you, and Dean didn’t love you—you haven’t even allowed yourself to entertain the thought outside of secret fantasies and feverish dreams—so the demon lied. The demon lied. The demon had to have lied, but why would Dean-

He says your name, tone cautious and features soft when you blink at him. “Lost you for a second, Sweetheart, are you-“

“I’m okay.” You mumble, refocusing on the stiches. “I’m probably just tired, I thought I heard you say-“

“That I love you?”

You swallow. There it is again. “I-“

He says your name again, careful fingers brushing hair from your face. “Look at me.”

You can’t. You don’t know what’s going on, and there’s still so much blood. 

Dean hand moving under your chin and guides your gaze up, you lips parting slightly as your eyes meet his. He’s scanning over you, a slight furrow to his brow, and you can’t stop your hand from moving up and wiping a little blood off his cheek.

“Dean-“

“Never mind.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Thought that we, uh, never mind.”

When you finish the stitches—your hands shaking slightly, your head spinning with confusion—you force him to shower first. It gives you time to spiral down, down, down, your brain turning desperately to figure out what that was. Why Dean would say that, why he’s acting so strange, why the demon would say that, why Sam’s being such a dick and insisting that he’s getting a second room, because Dean would—allegedly—rather have you here as the three of you had already been rotating through the floor, couch, and bed. 

Which means you’re stuck with alone Dean for the night. And he’s not fully looking at you when he exits the shower, and you’re mostly just mumbling to each other, and he doesn’t love you but he looks like a kicked puppy. He picks up your own blood-covered jacket, helps you carefully out of your seat, takes the soapy rag from your hands, and flat out refuses to sit until you move to the shower.

And the water doesn’t help. You feel cleaner, but the steam makes your head spin all the more, and you can’t stop picturing Dean’s fallen, almost pained features, and playing the demons words over in your mind.

Dean’s disgustingly in love with you. He worships the ground you walk on and dreams about you saying you love him. And you do love him, but he doesn’t love you, and it’s dangerous to hope that he’d love you, and-

And he still looks so beaten down when you exit the shower. He barely looks at you as you cross the room, his attention wholly on your jacket, and when you drop on the bed and clear your throat, you could sworn he pales.

“Are you,” you swallow, forcing your voice to be stronger. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yep” He mutters, still not looking up. “Stitches are fine, Sweetheart. Good work.”

You flush slightly, but push on. “And your head?”

“Pounding like a bitch, but I’ve gotten through worse.” He shrugs, and words start to creep like vomit up your throat. “We’ll grab Sam in the morning and get goin’-“

“What did you mean?” You blurt, and Dean freezes. “When you said the demon wasn’t lying?”

Dean sighs, and drops the rag, running his hands over his face before turning to you, his voice low and elbows braced on his knees. “What I said.” He grunts, his eyes now refusing to leave yours. “He didn’t lie.”

“About-“

“All of it.”

Your breathing is shallow, your voice barely a whisper, but you have to ask. It will ruin everything, but you need to ask.

But you’re a coward, and you ask the wrong thing.

“Why did you tell the country club we were married?”

Dean lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Because I thought it would be fun. I’d get to call you my wife and see you blush all freakin’ week, and this case was gonna be shit so I thought what the hell.”

“Oh.” You whisper, unsure what to make of that. “Okay.”

Dean still doesn’t look away. If anything his eyes sear into you as his voice drops lower, his expression darkness and unreadable. “How’d you figure out I was possessed?”

You’d practiced this. You just did. You just knew it wasn’t him. That’s all you have to say, and you can’t. Something grabs your tongue and all you can say is the truth.

“Because I know you.” You mumble, unable to break his gaze. “And that wasn’t my Dean.”

“Your Dean,” He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Wasn’t sure I was your anything, kid-“

“Well, I didn’t think you loved me.” 

You say the words before you can actually think them through, and time freezes. Dust seems to the hanging static in the air, red water still and motionless on the table, the hum of the bathroom fan stuck on one long note, and you and Dean both trapped in place. Neither of you strong enough to speak, but not weak enough to run, and why did you say that, Dean doesn’t love you-

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” He’s searching over your face, words low and whole body tensed. “And I’d try to take it back for you, but-“

“Don’t take it back!” You almost yelp, and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t want you to take it back, I just- I don’t-“

“You don’t believe me.” 

You nod weakly, wishing he would look away. Wishing Dean would just let you curl into yourself and hide for a million years, until this ends. Until this sore heat of shame over your skin and blooming warmth of hope that Dean might, maybe, really, possibly love you both die a quiet, easy death.

But he doesn’t look away. Dean pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, walks on unsteady legs to stand before you, and takes your face between his hand, his words deep and firm.

“I love you,” he says your name, lowering his face to yours. “And I know it’s not what you want, but I do. I won’t apologize for it, but if you’re done messing around with me because of that, I’m never gonna make you pretend you love me back-“

You’d been sent into a daze of Dean loves you, he’s saying it himself and it’s the truth and he loves you, and that snaps you out of it. You close the last breath of space between your lips without effort, and this is a long, lazy, peaceful kiss that people without blood and demons would have. It’s cementing, steeling it fully into you that Dean loves you. You’ll never have to try and force yourself to hate him, because it’s shit work to hate Dean Winchester and there’s no point it anymore. He loves you, and it’s impossible to doubt that he loves you when he’s kissing you like this—not invasive but deep, not demanding but still dragging small moans and happy sighs from your throat, holding your cheek with one hand and cupping the back of your head with the other—so it’s not a war with yourself push him back a little and finally say words that have been stuck in your throat for years.

“I love you too.” You smile at him, and his eyes flash. “I don’t have to pretend, and this is what I want, so please,” you take a shaking breath, moving your hand to hold his against you. “Please don’t apologize for this. And please,” you lean a little further forward, bumping your nose with his as he continues to stare. “Keep messing around with me, Dean. I love you, so I’d-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Dean pulls you back into a kiss, this one heavier and sloppier, leaving you with ragged breath and puffed lips. Your hands curl into his shirt as he drops onto the bed at your side, hauls you over him with only a low, slightly pained grunt, and looks up at you with a slight frown on his face.

“That son of a bitch kissed you.”

“I thought it was you,” you mumble, tracing a small patten on his chest with one finger. “Sorry-“

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean gives you an amused look, pressing another, smaller kiss to your lips. “I’m mad at that douchebag, for trying to get with my girl.”

His words are mumbled against your lips, settling deep and warm in your stomach, and you can barely manage a hum of, “Oh. Okay.”

He chuckles, his hand moving under your shirt to run up the skin of your waist, your body shivering with pleasure at the touch. “I’d like to fuck you,” he mutters your name, his eyes on yours so attentive and dark that you might agree to jump off a cliff if he asks. “But my doctor said I need to take it easy-“

“I’m your doctor,” you gasp, dropping your brow to Dean’s as he brushes the underside of your breast. “And I think that- shit, Dean-“ He’s adjusted you in his arms, settling your core right over the obvious, proud bulge in his jeans. “If we take it easy, and you promise to let me stay on top-“

Dean shakes his head, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “That’s gonna be a real hard,” he ruts up into you, and you whimper. “Promise to keep, babygirl-“

“Well it’s that,” you lean back, giving him a stern glare. “Or nothing, Winchester. Your choice.”

He gives you a look of mock disbelief. “I can’t believe I fake married someone so freakin’ mean to me-“

“I can.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your own lips curling up slightly. “What’s it gonna be.”

Dean narrows his eyes at you, his hand trailing down your stomach to cup you right over your pussy as he drawls. “I think you should make that choice, Sweetheart. Tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you.”

“I-“ You lean forwards, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle your moans. “I already-“

“You said you stay on top, but that can mean a million things,” he mutters your name, kissing right under your ear. “I can fuck up into you, or you can ride me, or,” Dean starts to rub you through your pants, his thumb drawing rough, taunting circle over your clit. “I can finger fuck this pretty pussy until you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

“Dean,” you moan against his skin, your nails digging into his back. “Fuck, I-“

“This,” he moves his free hand up, playing with the waistband of your pants. “Seems to be getting in our way. Take it off for me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You almost scramble to pull off your clothing—still manage to shoot Dean a glare for his low, teasing wolf-whistle when you’re fully bare before him—and almost throw yourself back onto him before you freeze. He’s still dressed—you can see the outline of where his pants must be becoming painful—and he’s still hurt. That’s why you had to stay on top in the first place. Dean won’t say it, but he’s in pain, and that’s more important than sex. You’re aching for him between your legs, you whole body whining to be pressed to his, but you can’t let him injure himself.

So you drop to your knees, help him out of his pants and boxers—feeling Dean track your every movement, remaining silent as you work—and swallow as his cock springs into view. You’ll never get tired of the sight of it. Big and meant to fit so well inside of you, pretty because it’s Dean’s, and he’s not really capable of being ugly.

Dean grunts your name as you take him in your hand, your fingers trailing over his strong thighs as you start to pump him slowly.

You smile up at him, raising your brows. “Do you like that?”

“Of course I fucking like that-“

“Do you love me?”

You say the words innocently, squeezing your hand lightly, and he blushes slightly, throwing his head back as he groans. “Shit, Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me-“

“I do,” you whisper, pressing an open mouth kissed to the broad, red tip of his cock. “You do it to me too.”

“’S not-“ You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting him bump against your throat, and he cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, ’s not the same-“

You pop off of him with a frown. “It is. I love you too.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He mutters, moving hold your cheek, his cock twitching in your hands as you lean into the touch. “But you don’t gotta do this for me just cause you love me-“

“I like doing it.” You shrug, licking a long stripe up his shaft to prove your point, savoring the grunt it draws from his chest, the way his hand moves to fist in your hair. “I might love you, Dean Winchester,” you grin at him, replacing your mouth with your hand as you speak. “But I also really just like sucking your cock.”

“Son of a-“ Dean’s voice is a growl, his eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “You’re- fuck it.”

You squeak as he pulls you up, back to his lap, and impales you on his cock in one smooth motion. 

“Dean!” You try to gain a little power over your mouth, your fingers running over his fresh stitches. “Your doctor did not, fuck-“ He rolls his hips, and you bite your tongue to stop your moan. “Winchester, your doctor did not approve picking heavy things up-“

“You’re not that heavy.” He shrugs, kissing your shoulder as his arm braces you against this chest, his words teasing and low. “And lucky me, my fake doctor is also my fake wife, and they’re both,” he moves his mouth back over yours, muttering against your lips. “Begging me to fuck them all pretty.” His other arm wraps around you, starting to guide the rolls of your hips, his eyes on yours so soft for how he’s splitting you open and bumping against the deepest places inside of you. “And get them to cum all over my fuckin’ cock.”

You moan, throwing your head back as you start to grind down on him, and you’ve done this a million times before, but it feels different. You’ve fucked Dean enough that you must have covered every base—rough and fast and soft and slow and teasing and desperate and angry and blissful—and it’s the same to your body, but different to your mind. Dean’s hands still ignite fire on your skin as he holds you as close as he can manage, but you’re not worried about how they might drop away. He’s still kissing you everywhere he can reach, but there’s nothing turning in your head about how he might not like what he tastes. He’s doing it all right—he always does it right—but it’s so much more.

You squeeze around his cock and he moans your name, almost pinning you into his laps as he latches his mouth to your upper chest. Sucking and nipping you where people can see. He’s always kept his small habit of marking you to where it won’t be visible, where people won’t jokingly ask you who got messy. But people will see this, and he knows that, and it seems to spur him on. His mouth crashes back into yours, his hands keeping your rhythm on him steady as his mouth and cock unravel you above him.

“You gonna cum, Sweetheart?” Dean growls down your throat, and you just nod frantically, swiveling your hips around him. 

“So close,” you whine, trying to find just a little more friction. “Please, Dean-“

He starts to slam up into you, holding you steady with one arm as he leans back, bracing himself on the bed. His stitches are somehow still closed, he’s looking at you like you’re all the world gathered for him to hold, and his mouth is lowering to pull your nipple between his teeth. Keeping you right on the edge as his thrusts grow uneven, his hands bruising on your skin in the best way.

“Fuck, you wanna cum with me, babygirl?” He groans, flicking your nipple with his tongue before pulling you down to him, dragging you into a kiss of spit and need and pure fucking desire. “Think you can ask me real pretty-“

“Please. Please, Dean, please.” You gasp, your clit starting to rub against his abdomen, your whole body so close to bursting into flames. “So fucking close, need it so bad-“

He bites on your lower lip, smirking at your high whine. “Good girl.” He jerks up into you one last time, the movement rough and uncontrolled, and groans into your ear. “Cum.”

You might have screamed, but everything goes blinding and loud and holy like a hymn you only know in the language of Dean, and you never want to stop singing for the rest of your life. You can hear him shouting your name as he spills up into you, but you’re so high on your pleasure— on the smell of Dean everywhere around you and his lingering taste on your tongue—that it’s distant and only a rush of good. Dean feels good, and he’s muttering in your ear that he loves you, so you think everything might be really good.

And it is. This isn’t blood or work. This is Dean’s cock still buried inside you, his hot, warm cum running down your thighs, and your hands tracing over his warm skin to check that his stitches are still together. This is your face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hands combing through your hair, and a priceless sense of peace. It’s always lingered before, but it would wash away as you both left the bed, and drift into nothing as you wandered back into the real world. It feels more certain now. It feels more set into your bones, and you know you’ll see more blood and stitch more wounds, but this is going to stay. Dean is going to stay, and you have all of him. And that’s welcoming this sense of peace that’s so finite and rare, you’d have to be insane to let it go. 

So you won’t. And you won’t have to cling to him, because Dean isn’t foolish enough to let you go either. You’ll keep all of Dean, he’ll do the same for you, and he’ll keep igniting a spark in your gut by saying my girl that you won’t ever allow to go out. 

End Note: Look! A Rare Dean Winchester dealing with his own emotions! Spotted in the wild! And I am physically incapable of writing a short one-shot, and I'm very sorry about that.

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Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iii.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

After a few weeks, you’re forced to acknowledge you were wrong about Coriolanus.

His mere presence assuages your hurt, and none of his actions bear a hint of impropriety.

He’s simply being a friend, comforting you and supporting you in a time of need.

His visits grow more frequent. 

You’re amazed he even finds time between the University and his apprenticeship with Dr. Gaul. Still, Coryo never misses tea time with you, sometimes even bringing books and sweets. You’re thankful for the time he spends doting on you, even if you hate keeping him from his studies. You know how eager to succeed he’s always been. 

But you can’t deny you missed the feeling of having a brother, of having this person who cares for you, looks out for you and protects you unconditionally. 

And while you’re aware Coriolanus isn’t your actual brother, having him besides you helps alleviate the weight of grief and loneliness. Being with him makes you feel closer to Janus. You’re also solaced by the knowledge it’s what your departed brother would have wanted.

There is one person however who isn’t too keen on the rekindled bond between you and Coriolanus Snow.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” William notes, tracing the lines in your palm.

You’re both lying on the couch in the sunroom, your back against William’s chest, fingers interlaced with his. Sunlight spills from the stained glass in the ceiling, painting your fiancé’s brown curls in bronze hues. 

This is a moment of tranquility you’ve longed for, a sliver of calm amidst the storm and chaos wedding planning has turned out to be. You reckoned it’d be easier than it has been. Instead, it seems nothing ever goes right. Between incidents with the cake, your wedding dress somehow being lost by the store, and the venue perpetually being booked…you’ve grown disheartened and exhausted by the entire process.

It’s almost like some higher force is trying to prevent you marrying William. It’s ludicrous, of course. But the ceaseless string of bad luck is beginning to drain your hope that your wedding will happen before the year ends. 

You and William even had to push back the date. There was no choice as hurdles kept emerging.

So you bask in your fiancé’s presence, soaking his warmth and familiar smell, reminding yourself why you’re going through so much trouble. Marrying William is worth it.

“Yeah. He’s my friend,” you state casually. 

“Your friend. Baby…” There’s a brief pause during which William appears deep in thought. When he speaks again, it’s with a softer tone. “At the risk of sounding jealous, the way he’s looking at you…are you sure that he knows that?”

His words make you sit up straight. 

“William,” you admonish, taken aback by his preposterous insinuation. 

Coriolanus’ a gentleman. He hasn’t made any moves towards you and he wouldn’t. Sejanus trusted him and you trust him too.

Scratching the back of his neck, he sighs.

“I’m just saying. We’re getting married soon, and everything’s been so…tumultuous. I just want to make sure that you won’t…”

You search his forest gaze. Shock fills you at the doubts you find lurking there.

“That I won’t what?” You give a light punch to his chest. “Get cold feet? William, are you mad?”

His shoulders slump. “I know your parents wish I was from a great house like him.”

William looks away and you put your hands on his face, drawing his focus back to you.

“It doesn’t matter what my parents think. I love you.”

He smiles, that beautiful sunny smile that blows a warm breeze through your chest every time.

He grabs your hands and kisses them.

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

“William, you’re good and kind and caring. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” You hold his eyes. “He’s just a friend, I promise you. You…You’re my future.”

William studies you, love and devotion illuminating his features. His lips then collide with yours. He nudges you down on the plush beige upholstery, humming low in his throat.

When his hands find their way below your skirt, you push against his chest.

He immediately stops.

Your hot, rapid exhales mingle as you steady your breath. 

“You know I’d rather we wait for our wedding night,” you mutter apologetically. It’s not the first time things got hot and heavy between you and William and you slowed them down. You know how frustrating it has to be for him and you commend his patience. “ I know it’s old-fashioned but I…”

He quiets you with a tender kiss on the forehead.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, holding hands with you. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I got carried away.” Pink dusts his cheeks as he adds, “You just smell so good and you’re so beautiful.”

A smile breaks across your face. “You’re not too bad yourself, pretty boy.”

He tilts his head and laughs. 

“How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when you talk to me like that?” He bites his lip, his lids dipping to half-mast. “Can I at least get another kiss?” he whispers suavely.

“Hm, we’ll see about that…” you mumble, closing your own eyes.

“Apologies, hope I’m not  interrupting anything?”

Coriolanus’ sharp inflection shatters the spell, making you leap away from William.

Heat nestles in your cheeks as you rise to your feet, hastily smoothing the wrinkles in your dress. Your fiancé clears his throat and runs a hand through his tousled locks.

“No, we’re…William was leaving,” you stammer, struggling to meet Coriolanus’ stark blue gaze.

William’s brows squeeze together at that. But you shoot him a glare that pulls a deep sigh from him. He nods and pulls you to him one more time. 

He kisses you but you note it lasts much longer than usual, his fingers curling around your waist possessively.

Embarrassment flares inside you that this is happening right in front of your friend.

When he releases you, you’re breathless.

“Coriolanus,” William greets stiffly as he brushes past the blond.

“William,”Coriolanus replies, his tone somehow icier.

Once your fiancé has left, a weary exhale floats from your mouth.

“I don’t understand why you two can’t just get along. You both matter to me.”

Coriolanus smirks. “Oh, princess. You wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?” you inquire, blinking up at him curiously.

His tight-lipped smile expands as he gauges you. 

“Nothing.”

You scrunch your nose, displeased by his answer. He’s always so cryptic. A chuckle peels from his lips at your sour expression. His knuckles sweep over your cheek.

“There should never be a frown on such a pretty face.” He digs inside his satchel before retrieving a slim, leather-bound book. He places it in your hands as you gape at him, puzzled.

“Here, I brought you this. This will cheer you up.”

You examine the book. Surprise mingles with elation when you notice the words on the cover. The engraved letters spell out a familiar title. It’s one of your favorite books from when you were younger. It bewilders you that he even remembers. As if no time has passed.

“Oh my god! How did you…” An excited squeal leaves you. Then your voice lulls to a whisper. “It’s a first edition, Coryo.”

“It was printed and bound before the war,” he explains. “It wasn’t easy to dig up.”

Your brows rise. “An antique. You shouldn’t have.” You cradle the book against your chest. “You’re too good to me.”

His mouth quirks lopsidedly.

“Anything for you, princess.”

You both sit down for tea, cakes and macaroons. Time flies as you chat about everything and nothing with your friend. As always, you do most of the talking as he dutifully listens, only interjecting to ask you to elaborate on a particular point. 

No matter what you jabber on about, his interest never appears to wane.

You eventually land on the matter of your wedding planning. You share all the troubles you and William have had and Coriolanus hums in response.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He sips from his cup of Earl Grey. “How…unfortunate.” 

He then pauses, seeming to ponder something. “I have a proposition.”

Your brow arches in question.

“Clemmie is throwing a party tonight. Let me take you, get your mind off of all this.”

Your lips part. Clemensia? A party? None of it sounds enticing to you.

“I’m not sure…” you trail off, your eyes finding the floor.

“What better way to cheer you up than a party, princess?” Coriolanus’ voice mellows as he adds, “You can’t stay cooped up here forever.”

Words falter on your tongue as your eyes swell with unshed tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern oozing from his gentle tone.

You shake your head.

“You’re crying,” he insists, reaching over the table to lift your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says sternly. “Talk to me.”

His unwavering  inflection nudges you to admit, “I’m just scared.”

“What are you scared of, princess?”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Every part of this house, every nook and cranny carries a memory I have with Janus.” You glance about the sunroom. Here alone you can count so many hiding spots from games you and your brother played when you were kids. “It’s easy, keeping him close here. It’s just that…”

“You’re scared to move on,” Coriolanus finishes for you. His thumb glides over your cheek, collecting a tear you didn’t realize had spilled over. “But you have to.”

“Sejanus wouldn’t want you to wilt away in this house like one of your roses.”

You mull over his words. You suppose he’s right but you’re still not convinced. Parties like the kind Clemensia is fond of hosting aren’t exactly your scene. 

A lame excuse flows from your lips.

“I don’t even know what to wear.”

“Then I’ll choose for you,” he replies without hesitation.

“What?”

“Let’s go to your room.”

Before you can protest, he seizes your hand and drags you upstairs.

“Wait, Coryo…”

He ignores you, making his way to your room with brisk strides you can barely maintain pace with. Once he’s there, he rummages through your closet. You let him do it, half-skeptical, half-jaded. Most of these garments weren’t picked by you anyway, but by your mother based on whatever fashion trend raged in the Capitol at the time. And those trends change every other season. You since long gave up on trying to keep abreast of them.

“Hm, this one is perfect,” he announces, drawing a red number from the closet.

You gape at the dress he chose. It’s a slip satin dress the color of blood. The waist is cinched with a thin belt and the lace sleeves, adorned with embroidered flowers, flow elegantly.

It’s beautiful, radiating a timeless elegance…but the neckline is low, displaying more cleavage than you’re used to. 

Your cheeks warm. “Are you sure?”

“Just trust me. Try it.”

Your eyes bulge but you relent, something about his tone curbing your impulse to argue. “Okay,” you quaver.

Trying not to squirm beneath his intense stare, you grab the dress from him and slip behind the wooden divider screen.

Chewing on your lip, you peek above the folding screen.

“Maybe you could…get out while I change?” you suggest while fumbling with the lace strings of your day dress.

Coriolanus casually sits on your bed, his crimson coat pooling around him. He leans back and spreads his large hands over your bed sheets. A small smile dances along his pink lips.

“I won’t look, I promise. Don’t you trust me, princess?”

“I do but…”

“But what?” he challenges, cocking his head in question.

Stumped, you come up short of a decent answer. “Nothing,” you mumble.

You shed your clothes quickly to try on the red dress. The whole time, you can feel the weight of Coriolanus’ unnerving scrutiny on the other side of the wooden screen.

He gives you a sluggish onceover when you step out from behind the screen. Your skin prickles as you shake.

“Hm nice, twirl for me.”

His blue eyes sparkle when you do as he says. He gets to his feet. He slowly strolls towards you.

Once he’s in front of you, he also arranges a few wisps of your hair in a way that he likes.

“Gorgeous,” he lauds when he’s done. 

He tilts your chin up, his gaze corralling yours.

“See? All you have to do is to trust me, princess.” His deep voice dips to dulcet tones. “Just trust me and, I promise you, everything will work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

“You came,” Coriolanus points out, that signature smirk of his adorning his lips.

“I promised I would,” you defend.

He snorts. “I’m glad. Saves me the trouble of having to drag you here myself, princess.”

Nervous laughter peals from your lips at his strange joke and the intent way his eyes rest on you. For a while, he doesn’t say anything, drinking in the sight of you in the crimson dress. The very same one he picked himself.

He then loops your arm around his, bending near your ear to whisper,

“Let's re-introduce you to everyone.”

You look around yourself, curious as you’ve never been to Clemensia’s house. The atmosphere is more intimate than you expected. The only source of dim light in the Dovecote’s sumptuous living room emanates from candelabras scattered all about, the wobbly candlelight casting twisting shadows over the damask walls. The crackle of the logs burning in the gigantic fireplace mingles with the soft piano tune filling the living room. 

“Coriolanus, did you bring a ghost to my party?” Clemensia jests when she sees you. Her expression then turns serious as she studies you. To your utter surprise, she wraps her arms around you and hugs you. You freeze, too stunned to return the gesture. The two of you were never close, the opposite in fact. It all stemmed from the way she and her friends ostracized you and your brother in school. Maybe it’s all water under the bridge now that you’re older. “Oh, you poor thing,” she laments. “I’m here for whatever you need, okay?”

You nod stiffly. “O-Okay.”

Coriolanus hardly conceals his amusement at the interaction, mirth swaying in his cobalt orbs. 

He and Clemensia keep introducing you to people. Some you recognize; some you don’t. 

It makes you realize how much you missed. 

After a while, faces blend into each other. You end up nodding and smiling to most of the small talk, your attention span dwindling by the minute.

Eventually, you decide to retreat to the bar to take a break. The barkeep nudges a drink your way and you thank him quietly. You swirl it in your hand, your thoughts drifting. Maybe this is what a return to normalcy must feel like. Slightly strange and overwhelming.

You gasp as Coriolanus appears at your side. “Are you alright, princess? Too much?”

Your startled reaction draws a chuckle from him.

A slow exhale drops from your chest. 

“A little,” you confess. “But…I’m glad you took me. A change of scenery is nice.”

It occurs to you that you haven’t had time to wallow in your sadness, too caught in conversation with other people. However frivolous the topics, it did keep your mind off of things. No thoughts of dead brothers have crossed your mind tonight.

It might not be much but it’s a start, you suppose.

Coriolanus’ brow curves teasingly. “See? This is why you should trust me.”

“Don’t push it, Snow. You’re on thin ice.”

A laugh bursts from his chest but, as he peers down at your drink, all humor vanishes from his face. He swipes it from you and sniffs it. 

“Hm, what’s wrong?”

A frown puckers his forehead. 

“Who served you this drink?” he rumbles.

You shrug. “I don’t know. It was just…brought to me.”

“There’s something in it.”

“What?” Ice spills in your veins. “Oh my god.”

Your mind whirls as you peek at your surroundings, paranoia creeping in. You wonder who could have done this and why. Just to mess with you? Or maybe even worse…

Your gut sinks. Thank god Coryo put a stop to whatever awful thing could have happened to you.

He puts his hand on your arm reassuringly. “I’ll bring you a clean one.”

“T-Thanks,” you stutter. “Just nothing with alcohol in it, please.”

“Of course.”

He returns with a brand new drink in a jiffy. 

“Thanks for looking out for me,” you beam before taking a sip. You were starting to get a little parched.

“Always, princess.” He grins at you while you take another sip.

A wave of queasiness suddenly hits you. 

The room starts to spin around you, blurring into crooked shapes and colors. You try to stand but your knees buckle instantly.

If it weren’t for Coriolanus swiftly catching you you’d be a heap on the floor.

“Coryo…I’m not feeling so good,” you slur, struggling to speak. Cotton seems to fill your mouth, the mere act of forming words demanding great effort.

“It’s okay, lean on me,” he says, slipping his arm around your waist.

“Head…heavy.”

“You’re alright. Just hold on to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good girl.”

In a daze, you stagger along as he escorts you through a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs. You grow so weak that you slump against him. With ease, Coriolanus hoists you in his arms, carrying you bridal style the rest of the way.

You fall onto something heavenly soft that sinks under your weight. Like fluffy clouds. 

Your thoughts collapse, muddy and haphazard as you blink up at the ceiling. An antique chandelier hangs from it.

“You just need a little bit of rest.”

Coriolanus’s voice is warped, disembodied almost.

“Rest…” you echo.

But as soon as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of your dress hiking upwards tugs you back to consciousness. 

Befuddled, you look down. You’re welcomed by the sight of Coriolanus wedged between your parted legs, hands clasped around your thighs. His waistcoat and white blouse are gone, exposing his pale, broad chest. 

“Coryo, what is happening-”

His soft lips cover yours, stifling your protests. His tall frame pins yours to the bed. He purrs against your lips, framing your jaw when you feebly pivot your head to the side. 

When his lips free yours, your mouth still tingles with the forcefulness of his bruising kiss. 

He returns to the space between your thighs. 

You lie back, your bones like jelly, as you feel the delicate material of your panties sliding down your legs. 

Your brows twitch. “Coryo…”

His blue eyes glow strangely in the darkness. A chill slithers through your core. 

“Shh, don’t worry about it, princess, just sleep.”

You want to move. You feel you have to. But you can’t. 

“I…”

The syllable dies in a sharp gasp as Coriolanus’ cool tongue drags down your slit. Long fingers spreading you open, he traces wet circles around your bundle of nerves. He rasps against your center and the vibrations rock through your core. Your breath hitches. Your chest tightens. Heat builds in your stomach as he makes you dangle off the cliff of pleasure. He soon adds a finger and you cry out.

Coriolanus pumps in and out of you, gauging your expression as he grazes a particular spot that has your toes flexing. You writhe over the sheets, eyes blindly rising to the ceiling. 

You clench around his finger, your cunt clinging to him reflexively.

He sinks a second digit inside you and you whine, back arching at the abrupt stretch.

Short, chaotic breaths rush through your lungs as he works you open. His slow, meticulous drags have your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Your legs quake as the coils in your belly grow unbearably tight and hot.

He stops as you’re on the cusp of your undoing. Your boneless frame sags onto the sheets.

He leans back and you hear the rustle of his pants coming undone. You get a faint sense of wrong trying to pierce through the haziness, but you can’t grasp at it.

Still, your fingers stretch towards the edge of the bed, your body rolling to the side. The meek attempt is interrupted as Coriolanus yanks you back onto the sheets, snatching your wrists and pinning them above your head. His frame drapes over yours. The scent of roses coats your senses.

“We’re not done, princess,” he murmurs, his warm breath caressing your face.

A painful pressure starts prodding your entrance. He grunts, hovering above you as he pushes past your tight ring of muscles. 

You feel as if you’ll tear as more of him buries inside you. Every second is agony, your core burning at the blunt intrusion.

A sigh of pleasure floats from his mouth when he reaches the hilt of you. He stays there a while, seeming to bask in the feeling of you around him. 

When he starts to move, your eyes flutter open. He sets a steady pace right away, thrusting inside you as if his life depended on it. Wordless screams rip from your throat. He releases your wrists, his long fingers latching onto your waist instead. 

Each of his slow, deep thrusts sparks warm tingles through your body.

Sweat collects between his brows as he grunts in pleasure.

“I knew you’d feel just perfect around me,” he rasps, delighted. 

His cadence quickens, his hand digging bruising grooves over your hip. Choked moans spill from your throat. His other hand crawls beneath the thin satin of your dress, fondling your breast and flicking your pebbled nipple. His hands feel everywhere at once and that sense of wrong rolls over you again.

“Ever since I saw you in this dress, I’ve been dying to fuck you in it,” he confesses, lust bleeding in his fevered tone. 

The mattress squeaks as he relentlessly rams into you.

A uniquely sharp thrust has your slick walls tighten around him. His cock stirs, a throaty moan pouring from his chest.

The repeated friction against your soft spots has you seeing stars.

A feral glint bounces in his blue eyes as he admires your panting form, lost in the throes of pleasure. Strangled shouts escape you as another wave of pleasure crashes over your frame.

His pace slows, sloppier than before as his cock twitches between your walls. His eyes roll back as he sighs, tension draining from his muscular frame. Hot ropes spill inside you, overflowing until you feel the warmth dripping along your thighs.

Your mouth wobbles, silent tears streaming down your face.

Coriolanus cradles your face, kissing away each of your tears with tender brushes of his lips.

“Shh, don’t cry,’ he mumbles. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.” His cock stiffens inside you once more. He lifts you and snaps his hips viciously into yours, drawing a broken whimper as he bottoms out. A lopsided smile blooms on his lips when he begins to move inside you. Helplessly, you lie back as he takes you again.

“I’ve got you, and I’m not letting you go.”

[runninriot]

Santa's Secret

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles day 23

prompt: hot chocolate | rated G | wc: 998 | tags: Eddie & Wayne Munson, single dad Steve Harrington

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | AO3 (+bonus epilogue)

Eddie can’t wait to get out of the suit that’s been suffocating him for the past three hours. He’s still sweaty and his hair is a mess after wearing the wig and fake beard combo for so long but he feels better once he’s changed back into his regular clothes.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Eddie stops for a moment. He looked so different dressed as Santa, could’ve been fooled by his own reflection wearing that costume. There’s no way Steve actually realised it’s him. Maybe what Eddie thought he saw in Steve’s eyes wasn’t recognition, but confusion.

They haven’t seen each other in years and apart from that, it’s not like they’ve ever been… close. Sure, Steve probably knew of him – they’ve both been somewhat popular in high school, although for very different reasons. But still. It was silly of Eddie to think the smile he gave him was one of familiarity. More realistically, it was just a silent thanks for how he handled the little girl’s nervousness, brought a smile to her face by playing into her childlike wonder.

And that’s okay.

In the end, Eddie did have a great time pretending to be Santa for a while. He’ll never tell Wayne, though, unless he wants to hear his old man tell him ‘I told you so‘.

With his shift done, Eddie strolls around the still brimming main hall of the community centre, looking at a stand with wooden figurines where a beautifully carved dragon caught his eyes.

He’s so fascinated by it, that he doesn’t notice the person coming up to him, until a hand taps his shoulder lightly.

When he spins around, he finds Steve standing next to him.

   “So, what brings you back to this shithole?“ he asks through a laugh, casual, like it’s normal for the former King and King of Freaks to have a conversation.

   “I, uh,“ Eddie stammers, staring at Steve a little star struck and maybe a little more in love because there’s that smile again and it’s blinding like the fucking sun and this time, he doesn’t have the Santa suit to blame for the fucking heat spreading in his face.

    God, grow up Munson. You’re an adult. Behave like one.

   “I’m visiting my uncle.“

   “How is Wayne? I was a bit worried when I realised that-“ Steve leans closer to whisper in his ear and Eddie’s heart stops for a moment. “-Santa sent someone else to cover for him.“

There are a million thoughts running through Eddie’s mind – since when are Steve and Wayne on first name basis? So Steve did recognise him? And why’s it so fucking hot in here?

   “You were great, by the way. I’d have lost it at some of the parents. They can be worse than their spoiled little brats sometimes.“

Eddie chuckles nervously, shrugs his shoulders and waves a hand at Steve who moves back slowly but stays close, so close Eddie catches a hint of his cologne, mingling with the Christmassy smell of oranges, and cinnamon, and apple tea, and it makes him dizzy but not in a bad way.

���Robbie wouldn’t shut up about Santa,“ Steve winks at him, “said he’s the coolest, even cooler than the tooth fairy. And let me tell you, that’s a real compliment.“

They both laugh and it feels so light and freeing; Steve makes it seem so easy to fall into conversation with him.

   “She’s a sweet kid and she loves you a lot, I can tell.“

    Loves you so much she’s wasting her Christmas wish on your happiness, Eddie thinks fondly, biting his tongue not to accidentally spill their little secret.

   “Yeah, well. She doesn’t have much choice. She’s stuck with me, since her mother decided to-“

   “Dad!“ a voice calls from somewhere behind them and when they turn, they see Robbie running up at them.

   “Speaking of the Devil,“ Steve sighs amused before opening his arms to catch her.

   “Who’s your friend?“

   “This is Eddie. We’ve been to school together. He’s grandpa Wayne’s nephew.“

    Grandpa W-hat?

Eddie must be having a stroke. Or maybe something’s wrong with his hearing because… WHAT?

Steve must realise something when he notices Eddie’s confusion, because he suddenly blushes a deep shade of red and smiles awkwardly at him.

   “S-sorry, I thought you knew that, uh-“ Steve takes a deep breath before he continues, “Your uncle has been helping me out a lot when I moved back to Hawkins a few months ago. You know, uh, setting up the house and watching Robbie when I had to go to interviews and couldn’t find a babysitter. He, uh, he’s been a real help. Robbie’s obsessed with him. Aren’t you, baby?“

   “He’s awesome! And he makes the best hot chocolate in the world! With little marshmallows and sprinkles on top!“

Eddie feels like he’s been hit by a truck, feels betrayed by the man he’s been looking up to his whole life.

   Wayne Munson, you son of a potato farmer, are living a secret life where Steve’s daughter calls you grandpa?

    Oh, Eddie’s going to have a field day confronting him with that.

   “Right?! The best hot chocolate ever! I always have mine with whipped cream on top,“ Eddie answers equally enthusiastic, doesn’t even have to pretend despite his inner turmoil because that little girl’s smile is infectious.

While listening to Robbie’s happy babbling, Eddie watches Steve from the corner of his eyes. He still looks a bit like a kid caught stealing cookies, but slowly relaxes, and that’s good, but-

Wayne definitely has some explaining to do. His uncle has always been a fucking saint, can’t not offer his help when he feels like someone’s in need of it. But it being Steve of all people, really messes with Eddie in a weird way he can’t really explain.

He needs to know more.

   “How about we all go to Wayne’s together? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. What do you say?“

[attapullman]

Robert's Laundry Service | Neighbor!Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: A broken washing machine and a clogged bathroom sink lead you and Robert to explore the next part of your secret relationship.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Bob Floyd x afab!reader, no use of pronouns, no y/n, a little angsty, very smutty, 18+ ONLY as always, unprotected PinV, use of sex toys, language, a lot of cum mentions, neighbor!Bob being perfect as usual

A Note From Mo: Did anyone else miss neighbor!Bob? He needed some love, and that's what he's getting today! Thank you to @roosterforme for inspiring this idea that I took entirely too far. If anyone needs me, I'm going to be hoping that he moves into the empty apartment next to mine 🙏 p.s. this takes place before Stupid White Car

It’s hard to pay attention to the bad diagnosis he’s giving when your visual is just those threadbare grey sweats. Painted to his strong thighs, poking out from behind the washer like a personal serving of eye candy. You’re meant to be shining the flash light, but you long abandoned that task in favor of the view.

“…you can borrow mine in the meantime. I’ll call a guy Monday.”

Reluctantly, you draw your eyes from his lower half. Just as his words sink in.

“It’s broken?!”

Robert gives you a kindly amused grin. “Sweetheart, did you hear anything I’ve been saying?”

You grace him with a sheepish smile, caught red-handed.

“The tube disconnected from the wall and needs to be properly - professionally - connected before you use it again. I know it’s not the same, but you can do laundry at mine until someone comes out. I can make you tea and we can watch that undercover dating show you like?” His soft smile is as sweet as his offer.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. “Hey now, you like that show too.”

Those cornflower blues shine, glad you’re not objecting. “I do, but only because it’s funny when you yell at the drama.”

He wraps his arm around your waist and guides you away from the laundry, back to where the two of you had been trying to decide on takeout over a game of checkers. Allowing him to drag you down to the couch, hips colliding into the soft fabric, you resume a lovely afternoon with Robert. 

Robert, your helpful Mr. Fix It neighbor. And maybe, one day, your boyfriend.

Robert lending you his laundry room for the weekend is so generous. It feels a bit silly carrying your delicates through his back yard (especially when you know a few pairs are crusty from your…sleepovers) but you’ll take his selfless offer if it means clean laundry and a lovely afternoon spent with him. 

As you work your way past the kitchen, you’re caught off-guard once again by how charming his home is. The little bits of personality, the framed photographs and handmade trinkets. While you know he can’t get any more perfect, his home makes a compelling argument.

The laundry room is fairly unremarkable - washer, dryer, large farmhouse sink for the unsavory jobs too nasty for the kitchen - but you do like his view of the neighborhood from the window. You’re almost curious if anyone will walk by and notice you standing in the wrong house, lacy balconette bra in hand.

Already regretting the amount of folded laundry you’re going to have to haul back through the gate after this, you begin prepping a load of lace and satin. Brainstorming ways to expedite the process, you overshoot pouring detergent into the water-filled drum and spill the cobalt goo all over your hand. Shit.

You rush over to the sink, subjecting yourself to freezing water to wash the detergent off your fingers. Once sufficiently clean, you reach for a cloth to dry off. And that’s when you see it. 

Oh. You’ve never seen one in real life before, just in porn and the odd naughty ad while scrolling. It almost feels as if you’re being punk’d. Like if you sliced through it, it would actually be cake.

A cock ring, soft silicone and all. Casually sitting on the sideboard, freshly cleaned.

Every muscle in your body freezes as the implications of seeing something so private wash over you. Something meant between lovers that you had never seen in the weeks since that fateful night you let him in for a cup of tea. 

It’s been a few days since you had last slept over. A scary sinking feeling fills your gut…was there someone else? 

You had been so focused on the neighborhood not knowing. Staying in your homes, using the back gate. It wasn’t like you had ever verbalized your intentions with him. You couldn’t blame him for thinking the two of you as casual, as much as it twisted your insides.

As your thoughts spiral, there’s motion in the doorway and Robert is suddenly there, big shoulders and a soft smile on his face at seeing you in his space. Exactly where he wants you.

“You get it going in here? Find the detergent okay?”

Those kind cobalt eyes follow your gaze to the sink, where you can’t break your focus on the dark silicone device. The one he meant to put away before you came over. His cheeks flush as he steps into the room to attempt to explain why he has something so private sitting out - in his laundry room of all places.

But as he goes to open his mouth, you cut him off. “You don’t have to explain. I don’t need to know everything in your….sex life. You’re obviously welcome to do whatever you like in the privacy of your home.”

His eyebrows raise, unsure why you seem so upset when the only issue is a clogged sink in the ensuite last night. 

You edge around him, desperate to get out of this space - his space - away from everything that reminds you of him as he figuratively slips through your fingers. “We never discussed being exclusive, so I get it.”

“What are you-?”

Tears threaten to spill over as he follows you toward his back door. “But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with us seeing other people, so-”

Robert’s eyes bug out of his head. Seeing other people? His blood pressure rises as the dots connect behind those pretty eyes, and suddenly he’s racing to cut you off. You’re faster than you look, but before you can turn the handle of the back door he’s plastered his body against the wood, effectively blocking you from leaving.

The pain behind your eyes begs him to move, to let you run back to the safety of your own home so you can cry and despair over not locking him down sooner. Of course there’s someone else. Of course you’re not the only one who can see how great Robert Floyd is.

“Robert, I need to leave. I need a moment alone. Please.”

But he holds his ground. The second you walk through that door he knows he’s lost you. His eyes are cautious behind those thick lenses, wanting to obey your wishes but the risk of losing you making every nerve stand on end. Whatever is wrong, he can fix this. He will fix it.

“Sweetheart.” His fingers reach into the space between you, hand clenching into a fist when he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch you right now. “There isn’t anyone else. I promise, you’re…you’re the only one.”

You eye him hesitantly, wanting to believe his words. But that cock ring has never made an appearance in your sleepovers. Never once brought up when he’s standing between your parted thighs, lips slotted against yours.

“I really want to believe you, I do. But why else would you be cleaning your, erm, toy?” You can’t bring yourself to say cock ring without bursting into frustrated tears.

It’s now that the fight within him drops, and immediately his shoulders release. Embarrassment floods his features and he drops his gaze, no longer able to look you in the eye. This is not how he anticipated bringing this dynamic into your relationship.

“That…it’s…I-I use it when I’m alone. I like to, uh, edge myself.”

His cheeks are flaming and the burning despair inside you dissipates into intrigue. A flame traipses through your abdomen, curious and hungry.

“You use it…alone?”

He desperately nods, tentatively reaching out to grasp your hands, needing to feel you. Those thick, strong fingers rub against your knuckles soothingly. Despite the whiplash of emotions conflicting inside you, his presence immediately soothes and you lean into his touch.

“The nights you can’t come over…I prefer to save my orgasms for you. Only you.”

His blush reflects yours as you look into those ocean-deep eyes, the desperation clear across his features. He’s being honest, laying out every last secret he’s got to keep you here.

“So, there’s no one else?” Your voice feels so small, barely a whisper in the kitchen.

He shakes his head definitively, using his grip on your hands to bring you closer as he stares deep into your eyes. “There’s no one else. And the fact you would even think that means I’m not doing a good enough job proving how much I care for you. Because I like you so much, sweetheart, so, so much.”

The tension in your body breaks, and you allow yourself to lean into his strong body. His panic dissipates as he holds you to him, one arm flush against your waist as his hand holds your face to his chest. He’s never letting you go, of that he knows for sure.

He can’t believe there would be any doubt in your mind of his intentions. The sleepovers, the dinners in, the way he’s made a home between your thighs…that makes you official, doesn’t it? He’s never been one for the right words, but he was pretty sure his actions proved he was in this for the long haul. 

You’re too important to mess up. To allow any seed of doubt to spread. 

His nose traces along your temple, warm breath kissing the delicate skin. “Can I take you to bed, sweetheart?” 

Your face lifts from his chest to take in his honest face. The loose tendril of sun-lightened brunette that’s escaped his neat hairstyle. The thin lopsided smile you trust in. Eyes behind corrected lenses that are serious and playful in the same breath. 

In lieu of an answer, you mold your lips to his, drinking in his taste you’ve deprived yourself of for days. His kindness and sincerity sink into you, surrounding you the pleasantly overwhelming way his body does as he wraps around you. Holding your hips as he swallows your tongue, shifting himself to feel every dip and curve of your body.

As his lips find your neck, the laundry room comes back into view. A delicious thought swirls in your mind and the words burst from your mouth.

“Can I see?”

He nuzzles against your jaw, grinding his erection against your thigh. 

“See what?” He’s distracted by how good you smell, how soft your skin feels beneath his fingers.

“I want to see you with the cock ring. Show me, please?”

Arousal floods his mind, images of you naked beneath him while his balls throb with cum just for you. No words needed before he’s pushing you in front of him to his bedroom. He’s ready to show you just how devoted he is to you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, it feels like the first time with him all over again. Anticipation of the unknown, drowned in heavy lust. 

His eyes rake over you as he enters the room, lust darkening those soft blue eyes. You’re exactly how he wants you always - in his bed, eager for his touch. Right now, he’s yours.

Taking the spot between your legs, strong fingers stroking along jean-clad thighs, his broad frame bends toward you to rest his forehead against yours. That button nose knocking into yours. 

“There’s been no one else since the day you moved next door. I’m yours, only yours.”

The build up of emotions behind your eyes threatens to spill over as he presses his lips to yours. Cups the back of your head as he leans into you, applying the softest pressure. Pouring every ounce of his devotion into his kiss.

Your legs wrap around his slim hips, needing to feel his security and care. He’s the most helpful man to exist, and you know he’ll guide you through this dynamic. 

Kisses turn sweet to frantic to passionate as Robert holds your face. Your lips are chapped when he finally pulls away, strong chest rising and deflating. You know you mirror his disheveled aroused appearance. His hand reaches behind to his back pocket.

He holds the black cock ring between you, freshly washed, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight peeking through the curtains. “Are you sure about this?”

Your apprehensive eyes meet his, although a slight smile plays along your lips. “Play dirty with me. Please.”

Condensation beads on the lower rims of his glasses as he dips his face to kiss you, his skin flaming hot. The kiss is sinful yet curt, not wanting to lose himself before practicing restraint. You run your tongue along the seam of his lips, savoring his flavor. He hums against your mouth as your hands find his waist, heart picking up speed as your fingers find the button of his jeans. 

Robert clenches the cock ring in his fist, already struggling to hold his load as the softness of your skin wraps tightly around his hardening cock. 

His eyes are lidded, thin mouth already agape from the pleasure of your fist stroking firmly up and down his shaft. Can barely keep focus between the way you squeeze his deep pink tip and the spectacular view down your top, his mind running wild at the all the skin he needs to touch. He’s practically forgotten the reason for his view until you lick your lips sweetly and ask.

“Can I put it on?”

Fingers unfurl and present the silicone ring to you, warm from his clenched fist. You press the ring between your fingers, taking in the smooth design and thick circumference. Glide your thumb along the little button that makes it vibrate. 

He’s panting above you, already wrecked at the vision. The only two things he deems worthy of his cock, right in front of him. 

Bringing the ring up to your lips, he watches as you run your tongue along it, gathering your saliva to glisten along the silicone for a smoother glide. Your fingers effortlessly slipping along the edge before you touch it to the sensitive tip of his cock. 

His fingers curl around the nape on your neck, holding the hair there, grounding himself. Between your ministrations and the pressure of the ring slipping down his length, he’s dizzy with stimulation. His cock immediately swelling in response. Lip between his teeth to contain the gruff moans you’re desperate to hear.

Your eyes are focused on the firm grip the ring has on the length of him, sliding down until your thumb is brushing his heavy ballsack, pulsing with need. 

“Sweetheart, I’m not going to last.” He’s panting against your forehead, trying so hard to be patient, but wanting nothing more than to thrust into your fist and chase his orgasm. 

You tilt his chin to press a chaste kiss to his lips. A promise to take care of him, because you and you alone are responsible for his pleasure. Always.

Sliding back onto the soft coverlet, you raise your hips to remove your jeans. Skin growing warm at the wanton look of need in Robert’s eyes as you unbutton your top. His voice but a whine when you sit in front of him in nothing but the delicate chain around your neck. 

“So beautiful.”

It’s impossible to tell whose whimpers are more desperate as you run the shiny-slick swollen head of him against your core. Moaning as it catches on your entrance, ready to sink deep into those velvet depths. Voices becoming one as you impale yourself on the thick shaft that’s all yours.

He can’t believe anything could be better. This is Nirvana. Until you reach between to where your bodies meet and hit that tiny little button.

“Fuck!” He never swears, and yet that filthy word streaks through the room with a bite. Yelped loudly as he buries his face into your neck. The combination of vibrations and warm, tight pussy sending him into a spiral. Groaning out praises into your neck like it’s his last day alive.

You can’t help the grin on your face as you experience him come undone. How had you been denied the pleasure of watching him like this? The salt of his neck, the wayward curl stuck to his forehead? It’s a toss up if you’re getting off on being stuffed with his engorged cock or by watching the way his chest heaves for breath as he fights off his orgasm.

“Are you going to cum for me?” You’re drunk on power watching him like this, rutting his hips into you over and over for a pleasure that won’t come until you decide. His nod so desperate it goes right to your clit. His swollen cock stretching you beyond what you thought possible. The frisson of skin on skin, those tiny yet powerful vibrations, and his affection for you is overwhelming. 

The ring fully still in place, your orgasm wracks your body, convulsing over the sheets. Barely able to notice his soft lips brushing the arch of your breasts as he consumes your satisfaction. Drinking in the sounds of your moans as they mix with his wet thrusts. 

Your sleepy eyes are all he focuses on as he chases his orgasm, fighting past his usual routine of stopping here when he only has his hand. Right now he gets to have it all - the constricted blood flow, the vibration, and you. Perfect, wonderful you. His hands fist in the bedding, rooting himself, as sinks his hips deeper with precise strokes. 

He can do this. He will show you you’re the only one for him.

Body quivering, his face is bright red as he thrusts, exertion bringing the vein in his forehead out with a matching bead of sweat. Robert feels his body take on a new consciousness as you ask for his cum once more.

His grunts are filthy - animalistic and deep. The first stream of cum he’s ever experienced with the ring on filling your stretched pussy, claiming you as his. Head fuzzy, he takes a moment to pull himself from your soft embrace and jerk his engorged cock, shot after shot of cum pumping out across your body. A painting only he gets to witness.

His tank now empty, you feel the soft thump of his body fall beside yours. Hear him catch his breath in the quiet afternoon air.

Exhausted, his face knocks into yours - glasses already lost to the coverlet - as he comes to reality once again. Strong arms reaching to pull you to him. Lackadaisical kisses to your cheek before risking a glance down and laughing abashedly.

“T-there’s so much cum. It’s everywhere.” Another kiss. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

The carefree yet sheepish grin he gives you melts your heart. You kiss him back, not needing to look as you feel his seed dry on your skin in the golden hour light. He very truly marked you as his, just as he is yours. 

Smoothing your fingers through his hair, memorizing every little detail of his face - what a handsome face - you ease his embarrassment. “It’s not a big deal. We’ll just throw the sheets in the washer and enjoy dinner. It’s fine, really.” 

His washer currently filled with your delicates complicates things, but your big, sweet smile soothes his self-consciousness. He returns the grin back, holding you closer. 

That night is spent eating Robert’s lasagna and playing cards until every light on the street went out. It’s far too late when the sheets are finally clean and dried, and even later when they’re successfully on the bed. But it’s worth it to him when you crawl under the duvet and beckon him closer, needing one last kiss from your boyfriend before sleep.

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Ace Trappola: Trouble, that Trappola

Wow, different pjs??? I wonder if each student will truly have unique sleepwear or if it’ll be like “everyone in the same dorm has similar sleepwear, just recolored and with a different motif”. I’ve been laughing about how Ace is dressed and posed, it’s very… Justin Bieber-coded. His bedhead though, it reminds me of Sylvain from FE3H.

Fun fact, I have an irl friend that has the same birthday as Ace... Therefore, I am legally obligated to celebrate it with them/j This year, we're going to an Alice in Wonderland-themed afternoon tea, which I think is very appropriate for Ace! Aaaaaah, My Alice in Wonderland-loving heart can’t take it 😭

Rise and Shine!

He was having a pleasant dream.

There was a path, and the longer he walked on that path, the more the scenery morphed into nonsense.

First was a forest full of twisting turns, colorful signs that pointed this way and that. There was mewing coming from the trees overhead, but every time he looked, he’d find no one there.

Next was a field of progressively bigger and bigger plants. The flowers had faces set in them, and they taunted Ace as he passed. He had plucked the underside of a mushroom cap and chomped down on it. A mistake—Ace had an out-of-body experience, ballooning to the size of a giant and then back to his regular size.

Then he washed away in a sea of tea, spilling from a gigantic glass bottle labelled Drink Me. He swam with the sugar cubes drifting in the fragrant rapids. He caught a current of milk and rode it past trees of chocolate. A dollop of grape jam had dropped down from a branch and landed on his nose.

When Ace, at last, fished himself out of the tea, he was left sticky, skin caked in sugar. As he made to wring his clothes of Darjeeling, he spotted an iced cookie by his feet. Eat Me, it said. There was a trail of them, confections dotting the road ahead in a neat trail. He had followed it—followed until the cookies became crumbs and he was left wandering in a white void, a blank canvas.

Wandering… wandering… where?

Just as that question cropped up like an unwanted weed in an otherwise flawless lawn, a soft sound tickled his ear.

Someone was calling his name.

Who is it…?

He picked up his pace. A casual stroll to a speed walk, then a speed walk into a jog, a job into a run, then a run into a full-on sprint.

"I'm coming! I'm coming already, darn it!!" Ace shouted into the blinding white. "I'm coming, so...!!"

Wait for me. I'll meet you there.

I'll definitely, definitely...!!

His eyes snapped open.

He was lying on his back, wrapped up in his comforter and staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Ace blinked several times, slowly adjusting to the sunlight that was spilling in through drawn curtains. A groan escaped him--it was too early for this.

“Mmm… What time is it?” He rolled over in a groggy daze, reaching for his phone. It was still connected to a charger, but it snapped right out of its socket when Ace jolted up. "WHAT?!"

The time, it couldn't be correct. But the line of text messages in his history confirmed the building dread in his stomach.

Gm, Ace! I'll be over soon. Cya then.

I'm here!

Hey, are you up? It's 10 minutes past.

Did you stay up late talking to your bro and sleep through your alarm again?

Hellooooo?

I'm gonna leave without you if you don't come out in 5 minutes.

"Crap, I'm running late!!"

Ace leapt out of bed and flew across his room. The comics and magazines littering his mattress scattered to the floor, but he didn't stop to pick them up.

He moved like lightning, hurriedly dressing and rushing into the communal washroom. While he brushed his teeth with one hand (lest he face the wrath of his vice dorm leader), he teased out his hair with the other. After splashing his face with water (who was going to clock him, Vil?), Ace scribbled on his signature heart, grabbed his backpack, and slipped into his sneakers.

He had his technique down pat thanks to years of practice.

Ace bolted down the hall, stuffing a protein bar into his mouth as he cleared the door. The day greeted him--and so did you, glancing up from your own phone.

"There you are! You kept me waiting, wise guy," you lectured him. It wasn't anything serious--not like his dorm leader's lengthy tirades--just paling around.

"Excuse you," Ace huffed, running a hand through his hair, "I'm fashionably late. There's a difference."

You laughed. Typical of him to always have a snappy comeback prepared.

"Well, c'mon then, fashionably late loser," you urged, playfully nudging his arm, "or we'll both be tardy."

"We'll be late, but at least we'll be late together," he grumbled, nudging you back. "That's fine by me. Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be stuck in a room with ya for the afternoon."

"That's a weird way of describing detention with Crewel-sensei."

"What can I say? I'm a poet," he shrugged, letting his sarcasm drip like thick nectar. "Besides, I can't leave you hangin'."

"No?" Your eyebrows hitched. "Funny, cuz I clearly remember you ditching me for cleaning duty on the first day of classes. I almost thought you had left for class without me today too."

"Oi, that was then and this is now! Come on, do you really think I'd do that to you? Me? Really?"

"Absolutely," you said without missing a beat.

"Pfft. You're so wrong about that." He rolled his eyes. "If you were really that worried that I'd gone without you, you could've poked your head in to check on me."

You frowned. "That'd mean I'd have to go into your room."

"So? I've been over at your place and in your room before. What's the big deal? You'd just be returning the favor."

He leaned in, so close that your noses almost touched. Your heart stood still. The corners of Ace's mouth lifted into a smirk. It suited him well, loathe as you were to admit it.

"Or is it that you're being shy?" he asked in a singsong. "Prefect 🎵"

"I-I'm not!" you squeaked, stepping back to put distance between the two of you. "Quit assuming things, Ace! This is why you're so annoying."

"And who is it that's decided to hang out with my 'annoying' ass, huh?" he countered smoothly.

"Urgh...! Maybe I shouldn't have wasted my time waiting for you to get ready after all..." you muttered, turning away from him. "My morning would be way more peaceful without you."

"Way less interesting too," he quipped--getting in the last word.

You shook your head, but didn't bring yourself to argue. However meddlesome his tongue was, he had spoken the naked truth.

He's trouble, that Trappola.

[differentnerddiplomatopera]

incorrect Odydiopen quotes

Odysseus: I’m not casual, I will kill us both. Just a reminder.

Odysseus: What do you mean killing is not an act of devotion?

Odysseus: Gas? I lit that. Gate? I kept that. Girl? I boss that

Penelope: He couldn’t even if he tried.

Penelope: “I could fix him” actually my type of man is the one who commits atrocities in the name of love

Odysseus to Palamedes: if you ever disrespect me, and I was chill about that, your death day draws nigh.

Odysseus: forgive and forget? Hell no, resent and remember 

Penelope: When I go out in public, do people look at me like “omg that girl is so pretty and normal?”

Odysseus: Absolutely

Penelope: Good, the facade still works

Odysseus to Diomedes: Choke me sexually or lethally, I don’t have a preference 

Penelope: I got too excited while playing chess and told my opponent that I was going to slit his throat and slaughter him like a hog. Something to work on for next time.

Odysseus to Diomedes: it is not enough for you to simply be gay for us to build intimacy together; you must also beat me in a game of wits

Telemachus: Father, what is dad doing?

Diomedes: we’re making your dad do a mating dance to do something 

Telemachus: oh? What is he trying to do?

Diomedes: well he is-

Penelope: NOOOOO-NO-NO-NO NO

Diomedes:…..

Telemachus:……

Penelope: Baby I know you can be dense sometimes, so I gotta stop you

Odysseus: can I quit now?

Penelope: Once I heard Diomedes ask Odysseus if something was safe and Odysseus said probably.

Penelope: I have never moved from one room to the other so fast in my entire life.

Diomedes: I am so glad to sleep in an actual bed,

Penelope: (joking) what, were the tent’s that bad?

Diomedes: OMG, let me tell you. Odysseus used to set up alarm systems in our tent today to alert us of people’s presence. Athena forbid, I try to piss, and Odysseus tries to stab me.

Penelope: …

Diomedes: Yeah, the war with your husband was really fucking fun.

Penelope: (snickering)

Diomedes: Oh my- I’m leaving.

Penelope: (Cackling) wait no I’m sorry, come back! 

Young Penelope: I want two boyfriends, and I want the boyfriends to be boyfriends & and I want to be their girlfriend & and I want the boyfriends to take me out on little boyfriend dates where we’re all boyfriends and girlfriend.

Older Penelope: Fucking yessssssssss, let’s gooooooo!

Diomedes: you guys really ruined my plans to brood for the rest of my life and be angsty and sad.

Odysseus and Penelope: (kissing him) yOuR WeLcOMe!!

Odysseus: Penelope, when in the midst of the war, I laid with Diomedes.

Penelope: Boy, if you don’t spill the tea right the fuck now

Odysseus: Bitchhhhh, I got you

Penelope: I need details, be very descriptive 

Odysseus: Ok so, when he-

Penelope: Hey, you wanna bring things up to the bedroom?

Diomedes: Sure…what’s up there?

Odysseus: By the way did you bring protection?

Diomedes: *wielding his dagger* WHY WHAT’S UP THERE?!?

[skitchune]

#01 G8 Draw-in-your-style Challenge!

I believe that this is an old challenge, but I decided that there’s no better way to dust off the old gear than seeing the boys in my style. Really liked playing around the filters. I liked given them this old, Sunday Morning Comics style. The grain is just beautiful.

I guess…I should give a little explanation?

Basically, in how I write Hetalia, there was ONE major event that changed the course of their timeline during WW2. Though the world mythos in itself is very different, suffice to say that it was that ONE event that changed the course of their world moving forward. Currently, the Nation Folks assemble as their own private entity to develop livelihood and development projects for underserved communities across the globe, instead of other global matters. Still, many retain a degree of political connection, Nation Folks, in general, all agree that they will always put first the good of humanity over the gain of any singular country. That being said…

🍝 Feliciano Vargas - more actively sexual and flirtatious, pretty much a ladies man, has a problem keeping his dick out of places it shouldn’t be but he’s a lovable tramp regardless and knows that he can get away with a lot. He has a good heart and a good head, but maybe a little bit of too much casual machismo that makes his comeuppance so fun to watch.

📋Ludwig Beilschmidt - still pretty much stiff and serious, efficient but also too much of a stickler, is the youngest of the bunch and always has something to prove, Gilbert helps him here and there but he doesn’t want Gil to meddle, it may frustrate him that everyone treats him like a kid, but he also knows that it sometimes works in his favor being the ‘spoiled’ baby brother to many.

🐉 Seiryuu Honda - to keep things short, Seiryuu is and always has been this universe’s Nation Folk for Japan but Kiku does/did exist for some time for [story reasons] Sei is calm, level-headed but can come off as rather aloof and dazed, he can act a little too familiar with new people and is quite affectionate to friends. He’s a bit of a Casanova and likes the game of courtship like a round of Shogi. In many ways he might not be stereotypical, but in many ways he comes off as traditional and anachronistic.

🤠Alfred Jones - Heroism runs deep in this hot-blooded cowpoke, not the flashy guns or the prestige, but the hard work of running down the pavement for change. He’s charming, mature, headstrong, and value honest and just work. He’s the singular cause of the ONE event, becoming a catalyst to multiple OTHER notable events during WW2. Unfortunately, this has caused him excommunicated from the US government, which suits him fine as he can more actively participate in projects.

🎸Arthur Kirkland - No one fucks around with the ruling class more than Art, who has historically been a thorn in many administrations throughout the colorful history of his homeland. He is a rebel with a cause down to his core, sticking it up anyone’s arse if it means fighting for what’s right. Boston Tea Party? He was also pissing on the cartons before throwing them overboard? The IRA? Girl, he was a damn recruiter. Has he been beaten, threatened, and killed because of his insolence? Sure, but no one is gonna look good as him doing it.

⛱️Francis Bonnefoy - (P.S. I meant to draw him removing his shirt because someone accidentally spilled wine on him) Residing far away from the bustle of Paris, Franc lives the coastal orchard life along the south of France. He’s a country boy at heart who likes living the simple life. He is very introspective, usually keeps to himself, but isn’t really afraid to voice out his measured opinions. Some might say he is a tad but wistful, but many friends know he’s just daydreaming of being back in his orchard surrounded by good company and a glass of the finest wine.

💅Ivan Braginsky - No one can take this MATERIAL GWORL. Daddy Russia is a Mama Bear who claps back at heartless Capitalism and works tirelessly as the acting Chairman of the Union to increase wages and living conditions across the social classes. He is tongue-in-cheek, no nonsense, and fabulous, but above all, a big and caring figure who thinks much for others more than himself sometimes and is just grateful to come home and be wrapped around by a certain Lithuanian’s strong arms—Big Mama deserves some honey after a long day’s work.

🍜Yao Wang - Wang is a funny characters to me. He can come across as uncouth and overfamiliar, but he just doesn’t take life as seriously as the others. It’s been a long ride and there’s too much more ground to cover than he wishes to put the effort into. He likes to complain about the silliest things, but damn, if he isn’t telling the truth every time he opens his mouth.

Alternate gradient map styles under the cut

[uravitypng]

WORKPLACE SLEAZY DENKI!!!! WORKPLACE SLEAZY DENKI!!!! AAAAAHHH

starting a new office job you expected lots of things, shitty coworkers, terrible pay, rubbish hours, you didn't expect some hot annoying blonde who's acting like he's made it his personal mission to make your life a misery every single time you walked into the office by spilling things and overall being accident prone.

the first day it was all smiles and extra fancy clothes, you wanted to make a good impression after all. you spent most of the morning at your desk but at lunch you rushed to go get a cup of tea from the break room as you were short on time in the morning. that was when you first met him... denki kaminari, flirtatiously talking to a couple of girls next to him and leaning against the wall casually, much to casual in your opinion, the two girls giggling at whatever he said. when he spots you looking at him he winks, you quickly turn around and do what you originally came to do.

denki immediately lost interest in those girls as he saw you, finding you much more interesting. you must be new because he definitely would've noticed a pretty little thing like you around the office. denki excuses himself from the conversion and goes over to you, standing too close to you and crowding your personal space. "i haven't seen you around here before, you must be a new hire right? i'm kaminari, denki kaminari." he gives you a boyish grin and your cheeks flush due to the proximity of such an attractive man who you've just spoken to for the first time. you introduce yourself and chat for awhile, only for a couple minutes, before you get back to your desk, him asking you about your life and your last job, small talk, that's all. he seems interested in what you have to say and you're happy that at least someone at your new job will be nice to you.

half of him is interested in what you're saying but mainly he's distracted by your plump body and how biteable your lips move as you talk. you look so much prettier than all the other girls in the office and he knows that he'll be talking to you everyday. he notes that your voice sounds sweet too, even though he's barely paying attention to what words you're saying.

you've been working together for ten months now and at the beginning it was fine, you didn't notice what his real intentions. three weeks in he 'accidentally' spilled hot coffee on you, a small whimper escaped your mouth due to the shock but you didn't notice the tiny smirk that appears on his face before quickly disappearing. your white blouse is entirely ruined and the fabric is sticking to your chest. "oh shit, i'm sorry i didn't see where i was going. are you okay? i'm sorry, i'll clean it and oh i'll buy you a new one." you go to forgive him after hearing how genuine he sounds but you're stopped in your tracks when denki pulls out some tissues and starts wiping your shirt with the tissues. you're stunned as you feel him press the tissue down against your breasts and rubs, " 'm sorry again, we've got to get it out now or it'll stain." if you heard denki's thoughts at that moment you'd never speak to him again, 'this worked out even better than i thought.'

you were on your guard at that point around denki, at least you tried to be but he's so friendly to everyone it's hard for you to think denki would do such a thing on purpose. when he notices you've withdrawn yourself slightly and started speaking to him less he corrects it. in the morning denki brings you a cup of tea that he knows you drink and a cookie from the cafe he knows you like to go to. "i really am sorry about spilling coffee on you again. i still want to get you another blouse but i don't know what size you are, i'm not very good at those types of things." he wants you to tell him exactly what size you are with all of your clothes, he thinks that might create a more accurate picture in his mind when he jerks off at the thought of you every night. you let your guard down at the gesture and you can't help but feel guilty for thinking that denki would purposely spill a drink on you.

whenever you go to the break room it seems like denki is right behind you. he leans against the doorframe and slouches on the chairs. when you're making a drink he'll come right up behind you to get a mug from the shelf, he'll be so close at that point you can feel his breath against you and you know that if you leaned back just the slightest your bodies would make contact. denki hopes that one day you'll lean back and he'll be able to feel your ass against his crotch.

his favourite days at the office is when you wear tighter or shorter clothes than normal that show your full figure. when you wear those pencil skirts that show your soft supple tummy denki has to palm his dick, over his trousers, under his desk. it's physically impossible for him to look away from you when you sit down and your plush thighs increase in size or when you wear short sleeve shirts meaning he can see the stretch marks that decorate your skin. possibly his favourite thing though is when your shirts are tighter and the fabric is struggling to cover your breasts in the process pulling the buttons more than a normal fitting shirt. he likes those days best because he can imagine that one wrong move or deep breath and your buttons will pop off and your breasts will spill out.

he listens in when you're having lunch with your other coworkers talking about another failed date, who was boring and failed to satisfy you. denki smirks at the idea that it was another failed date, how many people have failed to satisfy you recently. he imagines your cute face scrunched up in pleasure after your date leaves because you have to get yourself off because you're just so needy.

denki drops things in front of you in hopes that you'll bend over and pick them up, however not too frequently that you'll catch on. he gets overzealous sometimes though dropping too many things too many times, often that does give you pause but then you'll see him drop things around other people too or when no ones around and you get reminded about how clumsy he is and you think nothing of it again. denki is so glad that you're kind enough to pick up all the things he drops, because no matter what angle he's looking at you from it's like heaven. sometimes he gets to see your breasts hanging near his face and sometimes you wear clothes that show more cleavage he sees the tiniest glimpse of the top of your bra as you bend down.

when you bend down and he's behind you he can see a clear view of your ass and you're distracted picking up whatever denki dropped so he can look as obviously as he wants to without you noticing. although his looks are often times obvious already but you dismiss the idea every time you catch him looking because you think denki would ever do that. when you do bend over though he wants to pin you to the desk and fuck you against it. he has to restrain himself from reaching out to you and groping your ass and spanking you.

every single day denki is getting bolder with his casual touches, friendly remarks and beaming grin. as the days go by you're starting to think that he's teasing you and annoying you on purpose because he thinks it's funny when you're annoyed, you're getting suspicious you still often brush that thought away.

you don't suspect that he wants to fuck you though. he knows he'll reel you in eventually, it hasn't even been a full year yet of working together, he's got plenty of time to do it. he can tell you're not going to be quitting any time soon and he definitely isn't with you around. how much longer until you realise his true intentions? that is, if you do realise before denki's succeeded and has gotten what he's after, you.

[alwaysmicado]

The Bunny

7.1k | 18+ MDNI | Nathan Bateman x f!reader

Nathan Bateman Masterlist | AO3

Warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, soft(ish) Nathan, mild smut, alcohol, drunk Nathan being horny, emotionally repressed idiots in love Summary: When you’re distressed over something very personal, Nathan shows you a side of himself that you haven’t seen before. A/N: This story can be read alone or together with my other Nathan fics. In my mind, this is the same reader as in predator & prey, in control, Fleshlight and smile, baby—but it doesn't have to be. Happy reading & let me know what you think! 🤍 Dividers by the wonderful @/cafekitsune.

Your life with Nathan is an exercise in contradiction. 

It’s like orbiting a distant star—searing heat one moment, icy indifference the next. 

You hate that you find him attractive, hate that his arrogance somehow draws you in, but you can’t help it. He has an irresistible pull on you. You don’t understand him, and that’s part of the problem.

One minute, he’s a brilliant visionary; the next, a drunken, whiny mess. And somehow, amidst the confusion, you’ve found yourself craving his touch more than anything else in the world.

You’re not dating, not in any traditional sense. The boundaries of your relationship blur after dark, but you’ve seemingly found a rhythm that works for both of you. And that rhythm entails staying out of each other’s personal business. 

What you have is casual. At least, you’ve convinced yourself it is.

Sometimes, when he’s being particularly infuriating, you wonder if it’s just stress relief for both of you; fucking your frustrations into each other simply because you’re both there. Other times, you catch yourself overthinking every little detail, wondering if you’re falling for him, and if so, whether it’s the man or the enigma you’re falling for.

You try not to think about it too much.

He has this way of getting under your skin though. It could be the way he lazily sprawls across a couch, his eyes half-lidded but alert, or how he dismisses your concerns with a casual wave of his hand, expecting you to move on as if nothing he says or does affects you. But you do care. It does affect you.

And it annoys you how much.

Tonight, after a long day of work, you retreat to your room, needing space for yourself. Nathan’s house is a labyrinth of technology and luxury you’ve come to really love and appreciate for its unique design and remoteness, but there’s a particular, strange comfort in the sterile, minimalistic walls leading to your bedroom. They don’t judge, don’t ask questions. They don’t look at you with the unsettling intensity that Nathan sometimes does.

You close your door, leaning against it as you exhale. Your room is your sanctuary, cluttered with things that feel out of place in Nathan’s stark, clinical world. Books, trinkets, and your beloved bunny plushie resting against your pillow, a remnant of simpler times. A remnant of that wide-eyed girl with ambitions and a thirst for adventure who vowed to get the hell out of that miserable town.

Well, that girl is grown up now. And she’s exhausted, more mentally than physically.

You’re struggling to keep up with your deadlines, rationalizing your work, and the overwhelming feeling that you don’t deserve to be here, that Nathan made a mistake when he selected you, that you’re simply not cut out for this life. 

You take a deep breath and decide to put on your comfiest pants and a soft shirt, get into bed and read a bit while sipping on a warm cup of tea. Yeah. That’s what your soul needs right now. No Nathan, no androids, no computers, no nothing. Just you and your favorite Kazuo Ishiguro book.

But then, as you reach for the mug on your nightstand to empty the leftover coffee from this morning, your hand slips. The coffee spills, soaking the sheets, and worst of all, your bunny. The dark liquid seeps into his white fur, staining the once soft, clean fabric.

You freeze and a moment of pure, unfiltered horror grips you. You don’t hear the mug shattering on the floor over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. The sight of the plushie, now a soggy mess, tugs at something deep inside you as you stare at it through watery eyes. It’s not rational, you know that, but emotions seldom are. It feels as though a part of your childhood has just been desecrated.

You’re devastated. 

The kind of devastation that tightens your chest, that makes everything inside you twist until you’re sure you’re going to break. You try to swallow it down, to contain the storm brewing inside, but it spills over before you can stop it.

And before you know it, you’re screaming. 

It’s a scream born of frustration, from the sudden surge of emotion that you can’t quite name, let alone control. It’s raw, primal, echoing off the cold, sterile walls outside and traveling through every inch of the house. The kind of scream that demands attention, that insists the world recognize your pain, even if you don’t fully understand it yourself.

You barely register the thudding of footsteps—heavy, quick, purposeful. Nathan. Of course it’s him. He’s always watching, always listening, probably heard you through one of his countless surveillance cameras. In a place like this, your privacy is an illusion, your every move monitored, recorded, dissected.

And now, your pain has become just another blip on his radar.

He’s probably annoyed, you think bitterly. Annoyed that he had to stop whatever important work he was doing in his lab because he can’t have you screaming and crying and possibly bleeding out in his house.

Nathan doesn’t tolerate messes, especially not emotional ones. And with the hangover he’s likely nursing, his patience is probably thinner than usual. You imagine him wincing at the sound, the way it cuts through the quiet, sharp and unrelenting, aggravating his already pounding head.

The door rattles as he reaches it, and you can almost picture the irritated expression on his face, the way his brow furrows, his jaw tightening. In that moment, you hate him for it, hate him for the way he can reduce you to a problem to be solved, an inconvenience to be managed.

But there’s a part of you, the part that’s still trembling from the force of your own scream, that’s also desperate for him to come in, to see you, to make it better, even though you know he won’t.

Because Nathan Bateman doesn’t do comfort. He does control. And in this moment, you’re the one thing in his world that’s slipping out of it.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice is a mixture of concern and impatience.

You don’t answer, your heart still pounding, your hands shaking as you hold your bunny close, trying to assess the damage. It feels ridiculous, absurd even, but the sight of your beloved plushie, soaked and stained, has shattered something fragile inside you. You can’t explain it, don’t want to explain it, especially not to him.

Nathan knocks again, harder this time, more insistent. “Open up. Now.”

“I’m fine!” you shout back, but the words catch in your throat, betraying you with their shaky delivery. You try to sound convincing, but you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

“Sure doesn’t sound like it,” he retorts. “Let me in.”

You glance at the door, knowing that if he wanted to, he could override the lock. But you also know he won’t—at least not yet. He respects boundaries, in his own twisted way.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and there’s a softer edge to his voice now, an undercurrent of genuine worry that catches you off guard. The knot in your chest tightens.

“What? No, I’m– I said I’m fine, Nathan. Just...leave me alone.” The plea slips out, your voice trembling, betraying how much you just want to be left in peace, to sort yourself out without being interrogated.

“I’m not doing that until you tell me what’s wrong. You can’t scream bloody murder and expect me not to–”

“I’m sorry.”

Nathan pauses for a moment, stumped. This isn’t good. This isn’t like you. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, his tone calmer now, almost coaxing. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry.” The words come out rushed, panicked, like you’re trying to escape from the truth that’s threatening to spill over. But you know you’re not convincing him; you’re not even convincing yourself.

There’s a heavy silence on the other side of the door, and you can almost feel Nathan grappling with how to handle this. Then, he says your name—softly, but with a depth that pierces right through your defenses. It’s a tone of voice you’ve only ever heard a couple of times after some particularly demanding play sessions.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You close your eyes and take a shaky breath before responding. “I’m okay, Nathan. Just please…leave.”

You hate how weak you sound, how vulnerable, but you’re too overwhelmed to care anymore. You just need him to go, to give you space to fall apart in peace.

There’s a pause, a silence so thick you can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. You almost think he’s left, but then you hear the sound of him leaning against the door, the quiet sigh that follows.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice lower now. “I’m, uh, in the lab if you...I’m working on Lana’s muscle tissue if you wanna help.”

His words hang in the air, an unexpected offer, awkwardly delivered. You can picture him on the other side, running a hand through his beard, trying to figure out how to navigate this unfamiliar territory.

Nathan Bateman, the genius, the mastermind, suddenly uncertain.

After a moment of continued silence, he steps back, respecting your wish. The concern, however, doesn’t leave his mind. His footsteps fade, leaving you alone with the mess you’ve made. The room feels colder, emptier, as if the walls themselves have drawn back in silent judgment. You slump down onto the bed, staring at your poor bunny, your fingers tracing the wet patches on his fur. 

For a second, you could swear you see disappointment in his glassy, button eyes.

The digital alarm clock on your nightstand blinks back at you as you wake up from your nap, showing that it’s well into the evening, the sky outside already swallowed by darkness.

The adrenaline that had surged through you earlier has long since dissipated, leaving behind a hollow, drained feeling in its wake. It’s as if the very act of screaming, of letting that raw emotion pour out of you, has stripped you of energy, leaving you brittle, fragile.

You know you should take a shower and change the sheets, but the thought of moving feels overwhelming. So you sit there, numb, your mind replaying the events of the past few days on a loop.

Eventually, it’s not resolve or determination that drives you to get up, but hunger. A dull, persistent gnawing that you can’t ignore. You drag yourself out of bed, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way to the bathroom to clean up at least a little bit.

The house is quiet as you make your way to the kitchen, the usual hum of activity subdued, as if it too is holding its breath.

When you enter the living room, Nathan is already there, seated at the table, a glass of red wine in hand. The rich burgundy liquid swirls lazily in the glass as he tilts it, the glow of the ceiling lamps casting a soft, golden light that highlights the curve of his nose.

His expression is unreadable at first, his usual mask of casual detachment firmly in place. But as his eyes land on you, taking in your disheveled appearance—your eyes red-rimmed and swollen, your gaze fixed on anything but him—something in his demeanor shifts. He’s never seen you cry outside of sex, and the sight unsettles him more than he’s willing to admit.

Nathan isn’t a man who deals well with vulnerability, especially not when it comes from someone like you, someone he’s come to rely on for your sharp mind and quick wit. But now, seeing you like this, raw and exposed, something inside him stirs—a protective instinct he didn’t know he had, and isn’t sure he wants.

“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he remarks, his tone light, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—concern, maybe? It’s hard to tell with him.

You shrug, avoiding his gaze as you grab a plate from the counter and start dishing up whatever’s left from dinner. You’re not really hungry, but the act of eating feels like something normal, something grounding.

Nathan watches you in silence, his gaze heavy. You can feel it, like a weight on your shoulders. You sit down at the table, focusing intently on your food, though it might as well be cardboard for all the flavor it has. You avoid eye contact, keeping your gaze fixed on your plate or the glass in front of you, anything to avoid meeting those piercing eyes that seem to see too much. The fork in your hand feels foreign, and every bite is a chore. You down three glasses of red wine in quick succession, the warmth spreading through you in an attempt to numb the edge of your anxiety.

But even the wine can’t drown out the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Nathan starts talking, his voice filling the space between you. He launches into a detailed explanation of the progress he’s made with his newest creation, his words laced with the usual excitement he reserves for his work.

Normally, you’d be right there with him, diving into the technicalities, challenging his ideas, offering your own insights. It’s what you do—it’s what makes you a great team. But tonight, it’s different. Occasionally, you nod or murmur a soft “hmm,” but it’s clear that your heart isn’t in it.

You’re not there with him—not really—and it’s obvious.

���...so close to healing itself, I’m telling you. The polymers have shown to be extremely resilient–” he hesitates mid-sentence, as if waiting for you to jump in, to offer the insight that usually comes so naturally to you. But when you don’t, when the silence stretches on longer than it should, he falters.

He looks at you, then at Kyoko standing obediently in the background, then back at you.

“Kyoko, leave us alone,” he instructs the mute android, his eyes tracking her as she leaves the room. Once the door clicks shut behind her, he doesn’t waste a second. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t look at him, poking at your food with a deliberate slowness, hoping he’ll drop it. “No–”

“Don’t say nothing, this isn’t nothing,” he interrupts, his voice firm, leaving no room for evasion.

You stiffen, your fork clattering against your plate as you glare at him. “Why do you care?”

He raises an eyebrow, unfazed by your sharp tone. “Because you screamed like someone was murdering you. And now you’re sitting here looking like a kicked puppy. So yeah, I care.”

“I don’t wanna tell you. How about that?” You lift your head, forcing a condescending smile that feels like a shield, one you hope will keep him at bay.

Nathan’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “And I can’t have you crying and moping around. It’s…distracting.”

“Well, I’m sorry for distracting you, Nathan,” you bite back, the sarcasm dripping from your words. “It won’t happen again.”

A beat passes, and in that moment, you can see the gears turning in his mind as he tries to piece together what he could have done to upset you this time. His thoughts race, quickly scanning through recent interactions, searching for any sign, any clue that might explain why you’re so distant, so...off.

Nothing stands out. You’ve always been able to hold your own, not easily shaken by his brusque nature or single-minded dedication to his projects. But then, his mind lands on a familiar concern—something that’s come up before. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“You’re not jealous ‘cause of Lana, are you?”

You snort, the sound more bitter than amused. The idea is so absurd that it doesn’t even warrant a full laugh.

But Nathan isn’t laughing. His eyes narrow slightly, his usual sharp gaze honing in on you with unsettling precision. He studies you carefully, analyzing every microexpression, every subtle twitch of muscle that might give away what you’re really feeling.

His gaze travels slowly, deliberately, from your face down to your neck, lingering there for a moment before moving to your arms. You have a couple of visible bruises from last night, but that’s to be expected given the way you and Nathan play. 

But now…now he’s wondering if he might have crossed a line without realizing it, if he pushed too far and you’re too proud to speak up.

“Was I too rough yesterday?” he asks suddenly, his voice low.

“Huh?” The question throws you off, the abrupt shift in his tone catching you by surprise.

“Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?” There’s a faint line of guilt etched across his brow, a rare sight.

You stare at him, your eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and weariness. Shaking your head, you let out a sigh, the exasperation clear in your voice.

“I know this is a difficult concept for you to grasp, but the universe actually doesn’t revolve around you,” you say, your tone resigned, almost tired. “There’s more to life than androids, having sex with androids, having sex with me, or even you and me as people. It’s all meaningless bullshit, Nathan.”

Nathan blinks, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of your words. He tilts his head slightly, studying you as if trying to decipher whether you’re serious or if this is just another one of your biting remarks. “Are you okay?”

You let out a small, bitter laugh, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The irony of your own dramatic outburst isn’t lost on you, and you can’t help but shake your head at the absurdity of it all. As you down the rest of your wine in one quick gulp, the warmth of the alcohol does little to dull the edge of your emotions.

“No. No, I’m not.”

Nathan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then tell me what happened. Might help.”

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up again. “I can’t. It’s dumb.”

You brace yourself for the inevitable snide remark, for Nathan to dismiss your feelings with some cynical observation about the meaningless nature of the universe, to reduce your pain to just another inconsequential blip in the grand scheme of things.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he surprises you.

He leans back further, his posture more relaxed, his gaze steady as it locks onto yours. “Not if it makes you this sad. Come on, talk to me.”

There’s no condescension, no sarcasm, just an unexpected patience that catches you off guard. For a moment, you just stare at him, searching his face for the usual smugness, the mask of indifference he wears so well. But it’s not there. Instead, there’s something else, something gentler, and it stirs something inside you that you’ve been trying to suppress for some time now.

You sigh, feeling the fight drain out of you as the weight of the day catches up. “It’s stupid, Nathan. You’ll think it’s stupid.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you. “Try me.”

You absentmindedly play with your napkin as you decide to rip the bandaid off. “I spilled coffee on my bunny.”

“You spilled coffee on your bunny,” he repeats slowly, as if trying to understand.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s not like you don’t have other vibr–”

You roll your eyes, secretly amused by his thought process. “It’s not a fucking vibrator.”

“Okay, but unless you’ve been secretly building an AI rabbit, I don’t–”

“It’s a plushie.”

“A plushie.”

“Yeah, my bunny Cinnamon. I’ve had him since I was fourteen and he’s been with me through school and my whole adult life and through everything. I’ve always taken care of him, making sure he doesn’t get dirty, and today I spilled my stupid fucking coffee that I don’t even like ‘cause you buy these stupid beans no normal human would ever like, and I spilled it on him and it soaked into his fur, and now he’s ruined ‘cause I’m a clumsy fucking loser who can’t even take care of an inanimate object.”

You finish your rant, raising an eyebrow. “Happy?”

Nathan looks at you with a furrowed brow, clearly taken aback. For a moment, you think he’s going to laugh, and you hold his gaze, ready for the ridicule you’re sure is coming.

But he doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you, a mixture of confusion and...something else in his eyes. “Why don’t you just clean it?”

You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor, and stand up, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Forget it. This was stupid. I’m going to bed.”

You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, Nathan’s hand is on your arm, his grip firm but not painful. “Wait.”

You stop, not turning around, not trusting yourself to face him.

“Hey,” he says, softer this time. “I’m not...I’m not making fun of you, okay? I just...didn’t expect that.”

You glance back at him, and the look on his face is so uncharacteristically sincere that you actually believe him. He looks almost...concerned. Genuinely concerned.

“It’s just a plushie,” you mutter, feeling foolish for letting him see you like this. But Nathan doesn’t let go of your arm.

“Maybe. But it obviously means something to you.” He hesitates, then adds, “Let me help.”

You stare at him, unsure of how to respond. This is new territory—Nathan offering to help with something so personal, something so seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t part of your job description, nor is it part of your usual dynamic. You’re not sure how to feel. 

“What do you mean ‘help’?”

Nathan smirks, that familiar cocky edge returning. “I could make Cardamom or whatever his name is–”

“It’s Cinnamon,” you interject, your tone flat but with a trace of amusement that you can’t quite suppress.

“–play the piano or explain particle physics to you if I wanted to,” he continues without missing a beat. “You think I can’t clean him up?”

You sigh. Can’t argue with that.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice softer now. “But you can’t be too rough with him. His fur is very delicate.” The words come out more vulnerable than you intended, and you can feel the weight of what you’re entrusting him with.

“That’s why I’ve avoided washing him—I’m scared he’ll get damaged in the process. And be extra careful with his right ear. My grandma had to sew it back on a couple of times, and it’s barely hanging on.”

You pause, looking deeply into his eyes before you add, “And I know you probably think there’s no way I’d ever figure out you replaced him, but I swear I will. And I swear I’ll smother you with a pillow in your sleep if you do.”

Nathan’s smirk fades slowly, replaced by an expression that’s surprisingly serious. He nods, meeting your gaze with a sincerity that’s rare for him. “I won’t. I promise.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Then, you pull your arm from his grip, feeling the warmth of his touch linger even after you’ve stepped away. You nod towards the hallway. “I’ll go get him.”

Nathan nods, his eyes following you as you leave the kitchen. Once you’re out of sight, he exhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders releasing slightly. He pours himself another glass of wine, the liquid sloshing into the glass, and without hesitation, he chugs it down in one go.

The quiet of the night wraps around you, a stark contrast to the tension that has filled the kitchen just moments ago. The sound of your footsteps crunching on the gravel path is the only thing that breaks the silence as you start walking, letting the night sky and the crisp air clear your mind.

The stars above are faint, blurred by the ambient light of the house, but their presence is calming. You shove your hands into your pockets, trying to steady your breathing, to let the chaos in your head dissipate with each step you take.

The trees rustle softly in the wind, their branches swaying gently, and you find a rhythm in their movement, letting it guide you further away from the house, from Nathan, from everything.

As you walk, the tension in your chest begins to ease. The cool air feels like a balm on your frayed nerves, each breath you take helping to untangle the mess of emotions swirling inside you. The doubts, the worries, the unexpected tenderness of Nathan’s promise—all of it seems to drift away, carried off by the breeze.

You pause for a moment, looking up at the sky. The vastness of it makes your concerns feel small, insignificant, like a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle. And yet, your feelings of inadequacy still weigh on you, lingering in the back of your mind.

The walk brings a sense of clarity, a chance to distance yourself from the intensity of your worries, your stress, your fears. You needed this—to step away, to breathe, to remind yourself of who you are outside of everything that’s been happening. The steady rhythm of your footsteps, the coolness of the air, and the quiet solitude of the night slowly bring you back to yourself.

As you step inside, the house is cloaked in a quiet stillness, the dimmed lights casting soft shadows across the sleek decor. There’s a warmth to it that you hadn’t noticed before, a subtle comfort in the way everything is arranged, each detail meticulously chosen. It feels like home. It sounds strange, even to yourself, but it does.

This is your home.

You find Nathan lounging on the couch in his sweatpants, a beer in hand, the television on but muted, the flickering images washing his features in soft, rhythmic light. There’s a stillness to him, a calm that contrasts sharply with the man you’re used to—a man of constant motion, always thinking, always creating.

The scene is oddly serene, almost peaceful, and you take a moment to just look at him, to take in the man who has become such a pivotal part of your world.

It’s strange to think about how much has changed in the past year. How this man, with all his brilliance and flaws, has shown you a life you couldn’t have dreamed of before.

Empty bottles litter the table, evidence that he’s been going at it since you left an hour ago, either lost in his thoughts or deliberately trying to drown them. It’s hard to tell with Nathan.

You sit down beside him, feeling the tension in your body ease further as you settle into the familiar proximity.

Nathan glances at you, his eyes briefly scanning your face before he wordlessly offers you the bottle. You take it, the cold glass a comforting weight in your palm, and bring it to your lips. The cool liquid slides down your throat, its familiar taste bringing a sense of comfort.

“Feeling better?” Nathan asks, his voice rough around the edges.

“Yeah,” you nod, handing him the bottle. 

You shrug off your jacket, draping it over the arm of the couch, and you catch the way Nathan’s eyes immediately track the movement. His gaze lingers on the way your tight shirt clings to your curves, the fabric accentuating every line, every contour of your body.

It’s a work of art, and Nathan knows a thing or two about art—about bodies, creating bodies, perfecting them in ways that only a mind like his can. But as he looks at you, he’s aware that no creation of his, no flawless android, could ever compare to the real thing. To you.

There’s something different in his gaze tonight, a quiet intensity that makes your breath hitch. He shifts beside you, setting the bottle aside as he turns to face you more fully. “Come here,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Your eyes lock with his, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the pull between you is irresistible, a magnetic force that’s seemingly always been there, drawing you together. You move over, straddling his lap as his hands find their way to your back, sliding down to your ass, pulling you in until every inch of you is pressed against him.

His touch is familiar, but tonight it feels different—deliberate, meaningful, loaded with intent.

He inhales deeply, his nose tracing the delicate line of your neck, his beard tickling you, his breath warm against your skin. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you can’t help but sigh softly, your hips moving instinctively against him, seeking relief from the growing heat pooling low in your belly. The hardness of his erection pressing against you only intensifies the need building inside you, the ache that demands to be satisfied.

Nathan’s hands roam your back, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a touch that’s both soothing and electrifying. When his lips find yours, the kiss is soft at first, tentative, but the hesitation doesn’t last long. The kiss deepens quickly, becoming more insistent, more demanding, making your head spin.

You’re both growing impatient quickly, the need for each other driving you to the brink. Hips bucking, teeth biting, lips sucking—you’re lost in the all-consuming sensation that is Nathan, in the desperate hunger that consumes you both. 

He grips the fabric of your shirt and pushes it up over your breasts, leaning in immediately to suck on your nipples, teasing, flicking, teeth grazing your sensitive skin, while his hands knead your flesh, pinching, groping, biting with a fervor that sends jolts of intense pleasure coursing through you. 

Unable to hold back any longer, he releases your breast with a wet pop, his breath ragged as he crashes his lips against yours again in a desperate, heated kiss. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you so close that there’s no space left between you, his need for you palpable. He holds you as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, as if letting go isn’t an option.

One hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin as he deepens the kiss, while the other hand is splayed across your back, pressing you tighter against him. Every moan that escapes your lips is met with a hungry response, as if your sounds are the only thing anchoring him in this moment, the only thing that matters.

You’re close, so close, but it’s not enough. Nathan wants more—needs more. He wants to have you, feel you, own you, swallow you whole. He wants to lose himself in you, to find solace in the way your bodies fit together, to forget everything else in the world except for the way you make him feel.

You feel the same, more than ready for him to fuck your brains out and make it all right. But as much as you want him, need him, you can’t ignore the way your lungs are burning for air. Unlike the perfect creations in his lab, you do need to breathe. 

You pull back slightly, your lips parting from his as you gasp for air. But when you look into Nathan’s eyes, you’re struck by what you see there—something you’ve never seen before, something that reaches out and wraps around your heart, squeezing it in a way that almost hurts.

Something you’re not sure either of you are ready to face.

“I’m, uh...I’m tired,” you mumble, breaking eye contact as you clumsily slide off his lap and tug your shirt down, the movement awkward and hurried. Your heart is still pounding in your chest, and your hands tremble slightly as you adjust your clothes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I’m going to bed.”

Nathan lets out a deep sigh, his hands falling to his sides as he watches you retreat, the space between you growing with every step you take.

There’s a sense of resignation in his posture, a silent acknowledgment that the moment, whatever it was, is slipping away. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if trying to wipe away what just happened, as if trying to regain the control that he’s always prided himself on.

He reaches for his beer bottle on the table, lifting it to his lips and taking a long, slow swig. The familiar taste does little to ease the frustration gnawing at him, but it gives his hands something to do, a way to distract himself from the thoughts spinning in his mind and the persistent throb of his painfully hard cock twitching in his pants.

As he sets the bottle back down with a muted clink, movement catches the corner of his eye. Kyoko appears, her presence as silent and seamless as ever, slipping into the room like a shadow. She moves with that same fluid grace, her expression blank, her purpose clear. Nathan’s eyes flicker to her, and for a moment, his gaze lingers, examining the beautiful android.

Nathan doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to.

As you fumble with your key card, hands trembling slightly, you manage to swipe it through the reader and push the door open to the hallway. But something tugs at you, a nagging curiosity or perhaps a sense of masochism that makes you pause. You glance back over your shoulder, hesitating just long enough to let that impulse take hold. Quietly, you turn and peer around the corner.

Kyoko kneels between Nathan’s spread legs, her movements fluid and precise. Her head dips lower, and Nathan’s hands tighten on the edge of the couch, his knuckles white. His head falls back against the cushion, his eyes closing as a groan slips from his lips—low, guttural, filled with a raw need that makes your stomach twist and your clit twitch.

The heavy door hisses shut behind you as you step into the hallway, but the noise doesn’t drown out the scene you’ve just witnessed. You walk, move away from the door, but halfway to your room, you hear it—his voice, needy and rough, reverberating through the corridor.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

The words are drawn out, dripping with a mix of pleasure and arrogance. You can almost see the smirk on his lips, feel the way his eyes might flicker with satisfaction, knowing full well you can hear him. He’s doing it on purpose, pushing your buttons with calculated precision, reveling in the power it gives him—the sense that he’s back in control.

It’s only when you’re finally under the covers, staring up at the ceiling in the stillness of your room, that you allow yourself to process what just happened. The events replay in your mind, sharp and vivid, but the more you think about it, the more surreal it seems. 

Maybe you were just imagining things. What you thought you saw in his eyes…it can’t have been real. It’s easier to dismiss it, to chalk it up to your own wishful thinking rather than confront the complexity of what it might mean.

You know Nathan too well. He gets needy when he’s loaded, it’s a pattern you’ve seen countless times before.

Sometimes that neediness manifests in long, rambling monologues about the futility of human existence and the inevitability of death, his voice heavy with cynicism and a touch of despair. Other times, it manifests in something more primal, a desperate hunger for a body to fuck, a way to drown out the noise in his head, and someone to make him feel like he’s still doing something right in a world he so often views as chaotic and meaningless.

Tonight was no different, was it? Just another of his drunken nights where he needs to either pour out his soul or lose himself in the physical, grasping at anything—or anyone—to stave off the emptiness that gnaws at him when he’s left alone with his thoughts.

The idea of it being anything more feels almost ridiculous.

You wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee sitting on your nightstand and the sight of Cinnamon, clean and dry, resting beside you on the bed. You blink, still groggy, as you reach out to touch him, half expecting it to be a dream. But he’s real, his fur soft under your fingers, the stains gone as if they were never there.

You sit up and scan him carefully, trace the little scratches on his eyes, examine the stitches on his ear, and determine that this is in fact him. You smell him, but can’t detect any detergent or other substance that Nathan could have used to clean him. 

You decide no to ask him how he did it.

A smile tugs at your lips, a warmth blooming in your chest as you hold the plushie close. Nathan actually did it. He took care of him, just like he promised. For you.

Sliding out of bed, you grab the coffee from the nightstand and head to the bathroom, savoring the warmth of the cup in your hands. As you take a sip, you’re surprised to find that it tastes better, smoother. You pause, raising an eyebrow. Did he really switch the beans? Must’ve hit a nerve when you complained about them last night. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror and sigh. The past few days have taken a toll, and it shows. Dark circles, dry skin—definitely time to stop moping and do something about it. You take another sip of the coffee, the rich, new flavor lingering pleasantly on your tongue, and as you lower the cup, something catches your eye.

Sticking to the bottom of the cup is a small, folded post-it note. You pluck it off, unfolding it with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

good as new, no need to murder me in my sleep

also, his name should be Cinnabun

he’s a bunny

You smile to yourself, carefully stick the note on the inside of your mirror cabinet, and take a moment to make yourself look halfway presentable before heading to the kitchen.

Nathan isn’t there, but the used blender and the bandages lying next to the punching bag on the deck tell you he’s already been up and about. You think of what you’re going to say to him on your way to the lab.

When you enter, you find him leaning against a glass table, a disgustingly healthy green smoothie in hand as he reads something on his tablet. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but you know he’s aware of you.

“Morning,” you say, your voice soft, tentative.

“Morning,” he replies, not looking up from the screen.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, you settle on the simplest thing, the thing that’s been on your mind since you woke up.

“Thank you, Nathan. He looks great.”

Nathan finally looks up, his gaze meeting yours. He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, though you catch the slightest tug at the corners of his lips.

“You’re welcome,” he says, his tone casual, like it’s nothing at all.

But it is something. It’s everything, really, and you can’t hold back anymore. Before you can think better of it, you close the distance between you and wrap your arms around him in a tight, impulsive hug. It’s most definitely not what you planned on doing, not at all, but it feels right.

Nathan stiffens at first, clearly not expecting the gesture, but then he puts down the smoothie and tablet, and his arms come up to return the embrace, hesitantly at first, then more firmly. It’s strange, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat against you like this, but it’s also comforting in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

You stay like that for a moment, neither of you saying anything, just holding onto each other. When you finally pull back, Nathan’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your heart ache. You want to say something, but the words don’t come.

Instead, it’s Nathan who breaks the silence. “You wanna see something cool?”

You smile at him, nodding. “Sure.”

He leads you over to another table where he’s been working on Lana’s thigh muscles. The intricate work is laid out in front of you, a testament to the hours he’s poured into perfecting every detail. He points to a small, precise incision. “You see this cut? It was a centimeter deep. Now look at it.”

You lean in, examining the area closely. The wound is almost completely healed, the synthetic tissue knitting itself back together seamlessly. “It’s almost healed. Incredible,” you say, marveling at the rapid regeneration.

Nathan observes your reaction with satisfaction, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow, a sign that he’s not completely pleased with his work. “It is. But I feel like I’m hitting a wall with these new polymers I’ve been testing.”

“Yeah?” You glance up at him, curious.

“Yeah,” he continues, his gaze shifting to you. “I’ve been meaning to get your input. See if you can spot something I’ve missed.”

His words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re stunned. The acknowledgment, the unexpected validation, it takes a second to sink in. Despite your best efforts, you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. It’s small, but the warmth it brings spreads through you, impossible to hide.

All you manage is a quick nod before turning swiftly toward the disinfectant dispenser next to the door.

As you methodically disinfect your hands, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming inside you, and then pull on the nitrile gloves, you’re too focused on controlling your own emotions to notice the way Nathan’s eyes are fixed on you. His gaze lingers, taking in every small movement, every detail of your response.

His thoughts are a tangled mess, caught between admiration for your skill and the quiet way you’ve earned his respect, confusion at the intensity of his own feelings, and something dangerously close to longing.

Thank you for reading! Nathan Bateman Masterlist

Tag List: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @pattwtf

[gigglesandfreckles-hp]

I just found your page and stalked all your writing lol, it’s absolutely amazing and I’m highly obsessed now!! from the prompt list for jily: “What are we?” + “I would like us to be more than friends.” (Head students era confession?)

oh you mean my favourite jily era??? my pleasure! ps uhhh pls don't count the words on this one

from this prompt list

James has thought about the moment at least once an hour, every day, for about two months now. Putting it into perspective like that makes him come face-to-face with the fact that he’s even more ridiculous than he’s usually comfortable admitting. 

And James has always known he’s ridiculous.

The conversation plays out a million different ways in his head, like a lucid dream he can only sort of control and only up until a certain point because it’s Lily, and he stopped trying to predict her next move long ago.

It’s why she always beats him at chess. He knows her—really knows her, not like he used to think he did—but he’ll never be able to anticipate what she’ll say or do. Full of surprises, she is.

Somehow, though—his brain, in the infinite possibilities it’s constructed, failed to think of even one situation in which she would be the one asking him.

“What are we?” she asks, sitting on the bench next to him outside Scrivenshaft’s, her thermos of tea warming her hands. She's wrapped in her Gryffindor scarf with a green knit cap pulled down over her ears, auburn curls spilling out and flying around with each heavy gust of the biting January wind. She's perfect and he just—

Stares at her.

“Okay,” she says, laughing, then takes a long sip of her tea, her gaze shifting to the empty street in front of them. It’s still early, so most of the Hogsmeade crowd is either having a lie-in or getting breakfast at the Three Broomsticks.

James and Lily got out of the castle as quickly as they could in order to make the most of their day. Day, not date, because they’re friends. Sort of. Most of the time. Except for when she flirts with him and he flirts back and that one time last week when he’s almost positive she was going to kiss him and that other time last week he is positive he was going to kiss her. And all the other moments that makes him absolutely lose his head.

“Never mind,” she says, and she’s bloody smiling. “I thought we…” Another slow, agonising sip. “Never mind.”

James feels the panic set in, just like when they play chess. It’s his move, he knows it’s his move, but which way can knights move, and how many spaces can bishops take, and—

“You’re freaking out,” she observes casually. He doesn’t know when she looked back at him.

“What?” he manages, the word sounding squeaky.

She might smile again, then. He can’t be sure, because she’s lifted the thermos back up to her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you were ready.” She tilts her head, studying him. “I’ve been trying to pick a good moment, you know. To talk about this. But…” She shrugs. “Guess I was wrong.” She caps her thermos of tea and stands from the bench then, looking down at him. “Wanna go to Honeyduke’s?”

“Do I want to—” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, then looks up at her, sharply. “Huh?”

Lily laughs softly. “It’s almost ten,” she says, like this was the root of his confusion. “We can be first to the Pick ‘N Mix for once.”

She’s talking about candy. She’s just asked him to define their entire complicated relationship and then—without waiting even a moment for him to catch his breath—started talking about candy.

“Can you…” He frowns, struggling to find his words. (Struggling to remember how to breathe.) “Sit down…please,” he finally manages.

Thankfully, she doesn’t argue, settling back down on the bench beside him. He certainly doesn’t have the wherewithal to match wits with her right now if she chooses to be stubborn.

“I need a…a minute.”

“Okay,” she says, and pops the lid back off her thermos, gracefully pouring herself another shallow cup of tea. “You know,” she says, conversationally, “this works loads better than a heating charm. Marlene says I’m mad for lugging it all about Hogsmeade, but how else can I secure an infinite amount of tea to get me through the day? We don’t have a spell for that yet, do we?”

“Are you—” He breaks off and turns toward her on the bench. “Are you enjoying this?”

Her lips twitch up into a small smile. “Perhaps a little.”

He shuts his eyes tight and groans.

“I intend to be your girlfriend by the time we graduate, Potter,” she says, and he doesn’t know when she’s leaned toward him, but he can smell the peppermint tea on her breath and feel it tickle the hair near his ears. The bench creaks as she moves back away from him, taking his heart with her. “We’ve got, oh—” A pause. “Six more months. I’m not in a hurry.”

Not in a hurry. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s been waiting for this for six years. Well, perhaps that’s a bit dramatic, but—this calls for being dramatic! She’s just admitted to wanting to be his girlfriend—his girlfriend!—and he’s fumbling the Quaffle so bad he’s about to be benched. 

He can’t let this moment pass by without saying something.

“Girlfriend!” he blurts out

“Is that—” Her grin grows, even as her cheeks flush pink. “Was that an offer, or are you auditioning for the role of a caveman in a play I didn’t know Hogwarts was putting on?”

James wants to pull his hair out of his head. He wants to pull it out of his head and make a nest, so he can hide forever, like those bald little baby eagles he saw with his parents on the coast last summer.

“No, I want to—let’s talk.”

She sets the thermos on the bench between them and lifts up her hands, counting her fingers one at a time as her lips move wordlessly. “Wow. Six words.”

“Lily, can—you…”

“Okay, okay,” she says, with a giggle. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop taking the piss, I swear. Let’s talk.” Folding her hands in her lap, she looks at him expectantly. “Do you want to go first, or should I?”

He gives her a significant look, making her laugh again, but she nods.

“Alright,” she begins, “well I don’t have much to say, really.” She shrugs, her legs dangling back and forth over the bench, just shy of touching the snowy ground. “I like spending time with you. I think you’re ridiculously fit. You’re a good person and—I really want to be able to kiss you without wondering if it’ll ruin everything.”

James has always found most Muggle swears to be rather lacking in oomph, but now—

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Oh,” he says.

“So, Potter,” she drawls, nudging his shin with her foot, “what are we?”

“I would—” he starts, then pauses, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. “I would…like us to be more than friends.”

“Oh,” she echoes, her foot hooking behind his on the ground in front of them.

“Lily.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve had a—a whole speech ready. For weeks.” he confesses. “But right now, my brain is…cold, I think. So I don’t want you to take my lack of…words…as a lack of enthusiasm. I’m…very enthused.”

Lily looks at him, jade eyes blazing. “Will I get to hear the speech in the near future?”

“Do you…want to?”

“I want to hear anything you have to say, Potter,” she says simply.

“Are you sure because—”

“Yes,” she replies, moving closer. Her wind-chapped lips stop a breath away from his. “What are we, James?”

He inhales deeply and doesn’t think again before murmuring, “Everything,” and closing the gap between them.

[icysnails]

The Blade's Daughter story was so good ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ Can I request a continuation, either directly or years after the incident, where reader meets and befriends Yanqing? No romance, just two tired kids ranting about their respective father figures.

A New Friend.

A/n: Hello!! Thank you so much, I’m so happy you liked it! (>v<) I decided to do bullet points for this one- I hope you enjoy, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Warnings: reader is a teen/around yanqing's age, mentions of anxiety/grief, mentions of family struggles/arguments, takes place directly after the Blade fic

Word count: 1.3k

Genre: fluff, a tiny bit of angst

Pairing: Yanqing x gn!reader (PLATONIC)

After fleeing the Stellaron Hunters’ ship, you began your old travel routines and quickly got transportation to a separate planet. You found a train that would take you directly off your current planet, which was a relief. But you were an anxious, fidgety mess for the entire ride, so much so that one of the other passengers in your car stopped by to ensure you were alright. You quickly nodded and looked back down at your lap, feeling too stressed out to try and make small talk. All that had happened over the last few months was playing again and again in your head, and you found yourself having second thoughts. Had you really made the right decision? Would you ever see your old family again? But even more, you wondered, were they ever really family to you in the first place? 

You hadn’t gotten any news about the Stellaron Hunters, and no signs of them searching for you either. Maybe this was it. Maybe they truly wanted you gone. You sighed and suffered in silence, the rumbling of the train you were on making the pang of grief in your stomach far worse. However, you were headed for the Xianzhou Luofu, a planet that was generally regarded as peaceful. Perhaps staying there for a while would calm your nerves. A relaxed schedule might be a nice change of pace, as well as a perfect way to plan your next moves. And, there would be a ton of new food for you to try- not a bad way to close off a horrifically stressful week.

Once the train had stopped, you grabbed your few belongings and trudged onto the platform. Using your expertise in navigation, you deciphered a tourist map on a nearby wall and made your way to the closest hotel you could find. You practically ran to your room once you paid for it, falling asleep on the bed almost immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately, your mind couldn’t rest even as sleep overtook you. Nightmares plagued your unconscious mind, shaking you awake no more than an hour after you had dozed off.

It all seemed hopeless, and all you wanted to do was cry. But you couldn’t do that either. You were too exhausted to tap into your own emotions, but too distraught to sleep. So, you concluded that there was only one thing left to do- eat. 

Soon enough, you found yourself at a nearby food stall, gulping down a few Berrypheasant skewers. Once you had finished, you went back to order a tea, but you realized that you didn’t have enough credits. You knew you had grown rusty when it came to traveling and budgeting, but you didn’t think you’d need to start taking commissions again so soon. However, before you could turn away from the stall, a blonde boy dressed in intricate blue and white robes handed you a bottle of the tea you wanted. Your eyes widened in confusion, and you tried to protest, but it was no use. The boy beat you to it entirely.

You offered him a seat at your table as thanks, stating that you could absolutely pay him back in a day or so. He just smiled softly and refused payment, but accepted the seat you offered him. 

You learned that his name was Yanqing, the prodigal swordsman who was training under Jing Yuan, the general for the entire planet. Your mouth fell open at his confession, apologies spilling from your mouth for treating him so casually, causing Yanqing to shake his head sheepishly and deny your apologies. He was only the General’s student after all. He had no greater status, and all he really wanted to do was learn and fight. 

Though you weren’t inclined to get attached to anyone anytime soon, you had to admit that he seemed kind, while still being honest and a little blunt. He was around your age as well, which was a plus. It was rare that you ran into anyone your age who was this composed and kind. You sort of admired him for that, even having just met him.

As you spoke, you revealed more about yourself to him. You mentioned that you had a hard time with family, even going as far as telling him a vague description of what had just taken place between you and Blade. It was out of character for you, but you were just so overwhelmed. This was the one time anyone had stopped to listen to you, and everything that had taken place just ended up rushing out. You never mentioned Blade’s true identity though- you didn’t want to get yourself into more trouble, and for some reason, you didn’t want to harm the Stellaron Hunters.

Yanqing’s gaze softened as you spoke. His situation wasn’t exactly the same, but he knew what it felt like to fight with family members. The closest family he had was Jing Yuan, who had been like a father to him ever since he was little. But the fact that the General was technically his boss complicated things quite a bit. Jing Yuan got protective over him often and was irritably calm most of the time. Yanqing wanted to learn, but Jing Yuan tried to keep him out of trouble as much as possible. As a young swordsman, Yanqing often felt inadequate or useless when idle, which led to him getting upset with the General for keeping him out of harm’s way. He wanted to be just like his father figure, to be of use to him. But the General wanted him to stay safe, even if he knew that was an impossible wish. It was inevitable, and the only way for Yanqing to grow and improve his skills.

You smiled for the first time that night, your own pleasant memories of Blade misting over your mind. Blade used to treat you that way too, in his typical discrete fashion. You used to look up to him so deeply and worked as hard as possible for his approval. Your situation practically mirrored Yanqing’s, save for a few circumstantial differences. Blade treated you like his own kin before everything fell apart. As closed off and brooding as he was, he still took care of you for a while. He still acted like he wanted to protect you. He was a crucial part of your life, and even if you hated him now, you couldn’t deny that he helped you grow into the person you were in the present.

Golden memories drifted from your lips in response to Yanqing’s bittersweet words, each syllable painting pictures of happier times. Times when you would train alongside Blade, or when you and the Stellaron Hunters would gather and go out to do something fun together. An unfamiliar light returned to your eyes as you spoke, and Yanqing found himself smiling as well. Though your old family went unnamed in the conversation, he could immediately tell how much they meant to you. Despite just meeting you, he couldn’t help but feel happy that you had such memories to look back on, even if it all ended in tragedy. He continued to listen attentively to you, sharing his own stories in between. Turns out both Blade and Jing Yuan were just as serious when it came to protecting their family, almost comically so, which made for some interesting stories.

But it was over now. None of it was real in the end. The light seemed to die in your eyes as you trailed off, your chest tensing up in anguish. Yanqing smiled sympathetically, letting the atmosphere fall awkwardly silent for a moment. But only a few minutes passed before a sudden chime came from Yanqing’s phone, breaking the heavy atmosphere that had fallen over you two. Yanqing’s wilted expression changed into one of frantic determination as he read over the text he got. He stood up and rambled apologetically, stating that he had to go because the General needed his help. 

However, before he rushed off to go help with his duties, he scribbled his number on the receipt for your tea, along with a little note.

Number: (xxx) xxx - xxxx 

Please reach out soon!! I’m sorry to cut things short- I’m not always occupied, so please don’t hesitate to call me if you're in need of a companion. I enjoyed speaking with you, and I really want to hear more about your travels! Good night!

- Yanqing

[atsro-slut]

Hi lovelyyyy! I hope you're doing well and that you're slaying/slayed your finals! So I nearly passed out like 3 mins ago from laying too long and then bolting up and that got me an idea 🤭 How about iron deficiency reader who gets up a little too quickly and gets caught off guard by a drop? Anyone is fine, you get to choose as long as it's nice and fluffy hehe 😊 Thank you!!! Xx

"Catch me, Sirius!"

Omg!! As an iron deficiency girlie I was so excited to write this!!!

Sirius Black x female!reader

When Y/N’s iron deficiency causes her to get dizzy after standing up too quickly, Sirius is there to catch her—literally. With a little care, some tea, and Sirius’s usual charm, Y/N realizes she doesn’t have to face the tough days alone.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:☆

The warm glow of late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows of the Gryffindor common room, casting soft shadows across the stone walls. The room was unusually quiet, with most students either heading out to the courtyard or finishing up assignments before the evening feast.

Y/N sat in her usual spot by the window, absorbed in a book. Her legs were tucked beneath her, and she had a cup of tea resting on the table in front of her. Despite the peaceful atmosphere, her mind wasn’t fully focused on the text before her. She was tired, her body feeling heavier than usual, and a slight dizziness had been creeping up on her all day. It was nothing new, of course.

Y/N had been living with iron deficiency for a while now, a condition that caused her to feel lightheaded, fatigued, and occasionally even faint when she overexerted herself. She’d learned to manage it with regular iron supplements and adjustments to her diet, but some days—like today—it was harder to ignore.

Sirius Black, her boyfriend of several months, knew all about her condition. He had been incredibly understanding when she first told him, always offering to fetch her something when she felt weak or suggesting that she rest if he noticed her getting pale. He cared about her deeply, and she appreciated it more than he knew.

As she turned another page, Y/N noticed a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. She looked up and saw Sirius walking toward her with his trademark mischievous grin. His dark hair was slightly tousled from the breeze outside, and his gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Fancy some company, love?" he asked, his voice light and teasing.

Y/N smiled, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. "I thought you'd never ask." She patted the seat next to her, moving the book aside.

Sirius slid into the seat beside her, his arm casually draping across the back of the couch. "What's got you so deep in thought? You look like you’re plotting something."

Y/N chuckled softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Just the usual, nothing too exciting. I was actually thinking about how much better I feel when you're around."

Sirius’s smile softened. "You're the sweetest. But, I hope you're not overdoing it with that book."

She shifted uncomfortably, the dizziness making her feel a little off balance. "No, it's fine. Just… you know, the usual fatigue," she said, trying to sound casual.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "You haven’t been feeling too great, have you?"

Y/N didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but the truth was, she had been feeling off all day. Her energy levels were low, and the dizziness wasn’t helping. She knew Sirius would be worried, but she didn’t want him to overreact.

"Just a little tired," she said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I’ll be fine. It’s nothing new."

Sirius didn’t look convinced, but before he could press her further, she stood up quickly to grab her tea. The movement was abrupt, and before she could steady herself, the familiar dizziness hit her like a wave.

Her vision blurred, and the ground beneath her seemed to tilt, spinning as if the entire room was being pulled in every direction. She gasped for air, trying to find her balance, but her body betrayed her. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled sideways, reaching out in a desperate attempt to steady herself.

Before she could hit the floor, strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her up and pulling her close.

"Y/N!" Sirius’s voice was filled with panic. "What happened? Are you okay?"

She blinked, her head still spinning, and tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless laugh. "I think I got up too quickly."

Sirius gently guided her back to the couch, his grip firm but tender as he helped her sit down. "You need to take it easy. You can’t just rush around like that when you’re not feeling well."

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. "I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you."

Sirius crouched down in front of her, lifting her chin so that their eyes met. His expression was serious now, a furrow between his brows as he studied her closely. "Y/N, I told you before—if you ever feel off, you need to let me know. You don’t have to be tough for me."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, Sirius. It’s just a little dizziness. I’ve been managing it for ages."

He frowned, his hands gently cupping her face as he looked at her with such tenderness it almost made her heart ache. "You don’t have to handle everything on your own. I’m here, and I care about you. So, don’t push yourself. Not when you feel like this."

Y/N felt her heart swell at his words, but she still hesitated. "I don’t want you to think I’m weak," she whispered.

Sirius’s gaze softened, and he shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "No, you’re not weak, love. You’re the strongest person I know. But even strong people need a break sometimes. And right now, you need to rest."

Y/N swallowed, her throat dry. "I just hate feeling like this. It’s frustrating."

"I know it is," he said softly. "But it’s okay to not feel okay sometimes. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere."

She blinked back the moisture in her eyes, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. Sirius was always so easygoing and confident, but in moments like this, he showed a side of himself that was so gentle and caring. She felt safe with him, even in her most vulnerable moments.

"I’ll take care of you," Sirius promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "How about I help you back to the dorms? You can rest, and I’ll make sure you have everything you need."

Y/N smiled weakly, grateful for his unwavering support. "I’d like that."

With Sirius’s help, Y/N slowly stood up, the dizziness still lingering, but it was more manageable with him by her side. He wrapped his arm around her waist, guiding her gently toward the door, his steady presence offering the stability she needed.

As they walked, Y/N leaned into him, her thoughts a little clearer now. She was still exhausted, but there was something about being in Sirius’s presence that made everything feel a little more bearable.

Sirius chatted lightly to keep her distracted, telling her funny stories about his adventures at Hogwarts. His voice was soothing, and Y/N found herself smiling despite the discomfort.

By the time they reached the Gryffindor tower, Y/N was feeling a little better, though still far from her usual energetic self. Sirius led her to the common room, where they settled into a cozy armchair by the fire.

"You just relax, yeah?" Sirius said, pulling a blanket over her legs. "I’ll get you some tea and your iron supplements. You need to rest up."

Y/N nodded, her head leaning against the armrest. "Thank you, Sirius," she murmured. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Sirius smiled, his eyes softening as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You’ll never have to find out, love. I’ll always be here."

As he left to gather the things she needed, Y/N felt a surge of warmth in her chest. She had been hesitant to admit her weakness, to let herself be cared for, but Sirius had shown her, once again, that it wasn’t weakness at all. It was just part of being human. And she didn’t have to face it alone.

A few minutes later, Sirius returned with her tea and supplements, settling next to her on the couch. He handed her the cup, watching her carefully as she took a sip.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly.

"A little," she replied with a small smile. "Still tired, but better. I think I just needed a rest."

"Good," Sirius said, his arm going around her shoulders and pulling her close. "You deserve to rest. And you deserve to feel well."

Y/N snuggled into his side, feeling the weight of the day slip away as she closed her eyes. She knew there would be other tough days, days when her iron levels dipped and the dizziness crept in, but with Sirius by her side, she knew she could handle anything.

She wasn’t weak. She was loved. And that, more than anything, made her feel strong.

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— and i don’t know how it gets better than this ; let’s take a look on how a month of a relationship would be like

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

Do you want to have lunch in the cafeteria?

As you were packing up your notes and preparing to head back to the dorm after a long day of classes, your phone buzzed softly in your pocket.

The text was from Tsukishima, and your heart did a little flip as you read it. It had only been two minutes since your class ended, and he was already asking to meet up. A small smile tugged at your lips as you began typing back.

My mom just sent me lunch 🥹

Heading to dorm now

you quickly replied, trying hard to suppress the giddiness that threatened to spill over. It had been a month since you started dating, and even though the relationship still felt new and exciting, there was a comforting familiarity in the way Tsukishima showed his affection—always understated, never excessive, but undeniably present.

The phone buzzed again.

Stop walking. I’m behind you.

You froze mid-step, instinctively turning around to see him standing there, his tall frame leaning casually against a nearby lamppost. His expression was as unreadable as always, but the faint smirk on his lips gave him away. Your cheeks warmed with the blush that spread across your face, and your smile bloomed wider.

Tsukishima walked toward you, closing the distance with a calm, measured pace. When he reached you, his hand gently ruffled your hair, tousling it just enough to make it messy. But before you could protest, he smoothed it back down, his fingers moving with surprising gentleness. You felt a warmth bubble up inside you at the small act of care.

Without a word, he took your hand in his, his long fingers intertwining with yours as you both began walking toward your dorm. His grip was firm, steady, and familiar. It was these small gestures that always caught you off guard—how someone as stoic as him could show affection in such quiet, tender ways.

As you walked, he glanced down at you.

“So, how was class?” he asked, his tone casual but interested.

You shrugged lightly, trying to think of something coherent to say despite the fluttering in your chest. “It was okay, I guess. We had a lecture on enzyme kinetics today. It’s... complicated. We’re learning about how different substrates affect reaction rates and how to calculate Vmax and Km using Lineweaver-Burk plots. It’s kinda overwhelming.” You chuckled, trying to play it off, but the truth was, biochemistry wasn’t getting any easier. The second semester was filled with more challenging topics—metabolism, enzyme mechanisms, and signal transduction pathways. Sometimes it felt like your brain was spinning in circles trying to keep up.

Tsukishima’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand in a soothing motion. “Hmm, sounds like you’re managing,” he commented, his voice low and cool, but there was an underlying sense of approval in his words. “Just don’t overthink it.”

You nodded, appreciating his subtle encouragement, even if it was delivered in the most Tsukishima way possible.

When the two of you reached your dorm, you invited him inside. “You can sit down,” you said, motioning to the low table as you slipped off your shoes. “I’ll get us some tea.”

Tsukishima didn’t argue, simply settling himself comfortably at the table. He stretched out his long legs under the table, leaning back with that same calm, collected demeanor. You poured two glasses of iced barley tea, setting them down on the table along with the meal your mom had sent. Two plates of rice, grilled mackerel, miso soup, and some side dishes—enough for the both of you.

“I’m glad you came with me to the dorm,” you said, sitting across from him. “Finally, someone can help me eat all of this food. My mom keeps sending more than I can finish.”

Tsukishima let out a soft sigh, clearly unimpressed by your complaint, but he said nothing. Instead, he picked up his chopsticks and muttered a quiet, “Itadakimasu,” before digging in.

“Itadakimasu,” You started eating as well, savoring the familiar flavors of homemade food. But halfway through, you felt your hair falling into your face, getting in the way as you tried to eat. You pushed it back with your hand, annoyed, but it kept slipping forward again.

Tsukishima’s gaze shifted toward you, and without saying a word, Tsukishima stood up and walked over to your desk. You looked up, confused, but before you could ask what he was doing, he grabbed a hairpin from the top drawer. Moving with quiet precision, he came over and gently swept your hair back, securing it in place with the pin. His fingers brushed against your temple as he worked, and you felt your face heat up, your heart pounding in your chest.

“There,” he said simply, stepping back as if nothing had happened, as if tying your hair was just another mundane task. But the subtle softness in his actions didn’t go unnoticed by you.

You sat there, momentarily stunned by the unexpected act of care. Your face felt like it was on fire, but you managed a small, “Thank you,” before quickly looking down at your food, hoping he wouldn’t notice how flustered you were.

Of course, Tsukishima noticed. He always did. But instead of teasing you about it, he simply returned to his seat and resumed eating, as if tying your hair was no big deal. Still, the softness of the gesture lingered in the air between you, a quiet reminder of the tenderness he hid behind his stoic exterior.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before Tsukishima spoke again, his tone as cool and casual as ever. “I’m going grocery shopping after this. Want to come?”

You almost choked on your rice at the sudden question, nodding a bit too enthusiastically in response. “Yeah, I’ll come,” you said, trying to sound calm, even though your heart was still fluttering from earlier. You avoided his gaze, focusing on your food instead, hoping he wouldn’t notice how nervous he still made you.

But of course, he noticed. You caught the faintest hint of a smirk on his face before he resumed eating, completely unfazed. And somehow, that only made your heart race even faster.

The clinking of silverware against the plates was the only sound between you and Tsukishima as you both finished dinner. It was a quiet moment, but not awkward—just the kind of comfortable silence that had begun to settle naturally between you two. You were about to gather the dishes when Tsukishima leaned back, glancing at you with a knowing look.

“You can go change. I’ll wash the dishes,” he said, his voice carrying that soft, direct tone that you’d come to recognize as one of his small acts of care.

You blinked, a little surprised, your hand freezing just as you were about to reach for the plates. Did he know that you had planned to rush to the sink—hoping to clean up quickly so you could change and head to the grocery store with him? The realization that he had noticed, or perhaps just anticipated your routine, made your heart warm slightly. But before you could protest or offer to help, Tsukishima stood up, gathering the dirty plates himself, his long fingers deftly handling the stack as he carried them to the sink.

For a moment, you just watched him—admiring the subtle way his back muscles shifted beneath his shirt, his movements smooth and efficient as he began rinsing the dishes. A soft sigh escaped you as you thought about how thoughtful he was. Being romantic and naturally kind were two different things, right? But with Tsukishima, the lines always seemed to blur. Maybe he wasn’t the overly affectionate type, but his quiet actions spoke volumes.

“You’re going to change, or just stand there staring?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts, and your face immediately warmed in embarrassment. Tsukishima wasn’t even looking at you, but he’d sensed it all.

With a quick jump, “I-I’m going!” you grabbed a fresh set of clothes from your drawer and hurried to the bathroom to change. You could hear the faint sound of water running and plates clinking as he washed the dishes, and you couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for letting him do it.

Once you’d collected your clothes, you changed in the bathroom, letting the coolness of your new outfit calm your sudden rush of emotions. The fact that he had noticed such small details about you, that he had even anticipated your next move, made your heart race in a way you weren’t used to.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed in your clean clothes, Tsukishima was already waiting by the door. His tall figure leaned casually against the doorway, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he reached out his hand. You took it quickly, slipping on your sneakers with your free hand, the warmth of his palm making you feel slightly more at ease.

As you both stepped outside into the early evening air, the streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Tsukishima unlocked his car with a beep, and as he always did, he opened the passenger door for you, gesturing for you to get in first. You couldn’t help but smile as you slid into the seat, appreciating the small gesture.

He walked around to the driver’s side and got in, starting the car with a low rumble. As he pulled out onto the street, the golden sunlight filtering through the trees created an almost dreamlike atmosphere inside the car. You snuck a glance at him—his profile lit by the warm light, the subtle focus in his eyes as he drove, his grip steady on the steering wheel. There was something comforting about being next to him like this, in the quiet space that only the two of you occupied.

“Didn’t think you were the type to leave dirty dishes behind,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he looked at you sideways.

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand lightly in return. “I didn’t plan on it! You just swooped in so quickly.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes focused ahead. “Thought I’d spare you from rushing around.”

You smiled at his words, appreciating how well he knew you. He always seemed to understand the little things you didn’t even realize about yourself.

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, this time in a quieter tone. “You want to get ice cream after I’m done with groceries?” he asked, glancing at you briefly before parking the car.

The mention of ice cream caught you off guard, and before you could even think about it, your face lit up with a grin. “Yes, please,” you answered eagerly, though you tried to keep your tone polite, not wanting to seem too excited. But Tsukishima noticed anyway, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Thought you’d like that,” he muttered, a bit of teasing in his voice as he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. You couldn’t help but feel a bit giddy as you followed him into the store, his hand slipping into yours once more as if it was second nature.

The cool air of the grocery store greeted you as the automatic doors slid open. Tsukishima walked beside you, casually pushing the cart with one hand, while his other hand remained intertwined with yours. It was a small gesture, but it made your heart flutter. You glanced around the store, noting how brightly lit it was, rows of fresh produce on one side, aisles of packaged goods on the other. The slight hum of people moving about and the soft background music made the atmosphere feel almost peaceful.

Tsukishima paused for a moment, glancing at the list on his phone before steering the cart toward the vegetable section. His brows furrowed slightly in concentration, his long fingers tapping at the screen. You watched him for a moment, admiring how focused he seemed even with something as mundane as grocery shopping. It made you smile—how someone so seemingly distant and cool could still care about the little details.

“What?” Tsukishima asked, catching your gaze.

You quickly looked away, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Nothing, just… you look really serious about those vegetables,” you teased, trying to hide your fluster.

He raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the pile of vegetables in front of him. “Well, we need good ones. I’m not buying anything that’ll go bad in a day,” he replied, his tone neutral, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

When he reached the hygiene aisle, he turned to you unexpectedly, “What hair product do you use?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Uh, I just buy whatever shampoo catches my eye each month. But my mom got me this hair mask and said I should use it every week.”

“What hair mask?” he asked, curiosity clear in his tone.

You walked a few steps to the shelf where the product was and pointed to a tub. “This one. It smells like cocoa,” you explained, trying not to sound too self-conscious.

Tsukishima took the container, examining it for a moment. “Why’s it so expensive for a hair product?” he mumbled under his breath. You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his confusion.

Suddenly, he reached out and gently picked up a strand of your hair, bringing it closer to his nose. “I was curious because your hair always smells nice,” he said casually, placing the container back on the shelf and moving to the next item. You stood there momentarily, blushing at the compliment, even though he had said it so nonchalantly.

Trying to hide the warmth creeping up your face, you fell back into step behind him, the interaction replaying in your head. After he finished collecting everything on his list, you both made your way to the cashier. The line moved slowly, but Tsukishima handed you his card before you had a chance to say anything.

“Go ahead and get the ice cream. I’ll meet you there after I pay for this,” he said, nodding toward the ice cream shop across the street.

Your face lit up at the suggestion. “What flavor do you want?” you asked, barely able to contain your excitement.

“Surprise me,” he replied with a small smile, clearly amused by your enthusiasm.

You grinned widely and, holding onto his card, headed toward the ice cream shop, trying to decide on the perfect flavor combination that would do the “surprise” justice. Tsukishima, meanwhile, watched you leave with a soft chuckle, shaking his head at how effortlessly happy you seemed when it came to something as simple as ice cream.

You looked over the options, your eyes drawn to the more unique flavors. “One cup of vanilla yuzu and one cup of blueberry sea salt, please,” you told the employee with a polite smile.

There was something thrilling about trying new flavors—your mom had always been the type to stick to the basics, buying you plain vanilla or chocolate, often with the cautionary “what if you don’t like it and throw it away?” But today, you wanted something different, something adventurous.

As you received the cups, Tsukishima walked into the shop, immediately spotting you. You smiled instinctively when you saw him, feeling a rush of warmth at the sight of him. He pointed toward a small table near the window, a cozy spot bathed in the fading golden light of the evening. You followed him as he pulled out a chair for you to sit first—a small, but appreciated gesture that made your heart skip.

Once you were both settled, Tsukishima glanced at the ice cream cups you placed on the table. His eyes shifted to you with mild curiosity. “What’s this?”

You grinned, practically buzzing with excitement to see how he’d react to the flavors. “Just try it,” you urged him, sliding one of the cups toward him.

He picked up the small plastic spoon and dipped it into the vanilla yuzu first, bringing the bite to his lips. His expression remained neutral, but you noticed the way his eyes softened slightly as he savored the taste, the sweetness of vanilla melding with the citrusy sharpness of yuzu.

“It’s good,” he said simply, placing the spoon down.

Your smile widened. “Yeah? Try this one,” you added, offering him a spoonful of the blueberry sea salt.

As he leaned in and took the spoon from your hand, you suddenly remembered the time he had casually sipped from your cup of hot chocolate before you got in a relationship. The memory made your cheeks flush slightly, and you quickly turned your attention back to your own ice cream, feeling the heat rise to your face.

Tsukishima hummed quietly in approval as he tasted the blueberry, though he didn’t comment further. His calm demeanor never wavered, but you could tell he preferred the first flavor from the subtle way his attention shifted back to the vanilla yuzu cup.

For a while, the two of you ate in comfortable silence, the sounds of the shop around you blending into the background. The occasional clink of spoons against the cups, the soft hum of conversation from other customers—it all felt peaceful, like time had slowed down just for you two.

After a few more bites, Tsukishima broke the silence. “I’m gonna be busy for the next two days,” he said, his tone casual, but his gaze fixed on you. “You okay with that?”

You smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course. We used to see each other by coincidence, remember? I can manage two days without you,” you replied, your voice light and playful.

Tsukishima’s lips curled slightly in amusement, his eyes glinting with a teasing edge. “Yeah—thought I should give you the experience of missing your boyfriend’s presence now that you have one.”

The teasing tone made your heart skip a beat, and before you knew it, you were playfully nudging his side, laughing at his comment. Tsukishima smirked, though there was a warmth behind it—a quiet understanding that, despite his teasing, you’d miss him more than you were letting on.

sorry i didn’t upload it sooner, and i missed kei’s birthday—bit i promise to post about it tomorrow, so i hope you guys still wait for this story to finish 🥹🥹

it’s been so hectic guys—but i miss writing and see your comments—they always lighten up my mood 🫶🏻✨🤧

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr @thechaosoflonging @monya-febrjack

[advisorykitty]

Hello can I make a request? Did you watch the anime Bungo Stray Dogs because I want to request Randal with Reader like Elise. She was "created" by Randal and in the episode when Sebastian first appeared, Randal spent so much time with Sebastian that Elise!Reader was upset because he didn't attend the tea party the two usually held.

Spilled Tea

Elise! Reader x Randal

[Y/N] was furious.

Not the "I'm-going-to-yell-until-my-voice-goes-hoarse" kind of furious—no, it was the quiet, simmering kind that settled deep in her gut, like hot coals waiting for someone to poke at them. She paced the length of the hallway, arms crossed, glaring at the pristine white walls of Luther’s house as if they were the source of all her problems.

Why was she mad?

Because Randal—her dear, ridiculous creator—had once again forgotten their tea party.

It wasn’t like it was some casual thing they did. No, this was tradition. Every week, at the same time, they would gather in the little tea room, surrounded by dainty china and enough sugary snacks to make even Luther cringe. And what had Randal done? Ditched her. For Sebastian.

Ugh. Sebastian.

The new pet—awkward and always a little too stiff—had somehow weaseled his way into Randal’s good graces, and now Randal was all about Sebastian, he wasnt even that good of a birthday gift!. They spent hours together, playing games, talking about who-knows-what, while [Y/N] was left to brew tea alone.

She kicked at the edge of a rug as she stormed down the hall. The sound of her foot smacking the floor echoed, and she half-wondered if anyone was going to come check on her. Probably not. No one ever did.

"They’re all idiots," she muttered, tugging at the ends of her hair in frustration. "Every last one of them."

Just as she was about to storm back into the tea room and throw a cup for good measure, she ran smack into a figure.

Thud.

"Ow!" she yelped, stumbling back.

Nyon stood there, looking bewildered, his large always shocked eyes blinking in confusion. His hat—never removed—tilted a bit to one side as he scratched the back of his head, his fingers moving in a nervous rhythm behind him.

"S-sorry," Nyon muttered, his English broken as usual. "Didn’t see."

"Of course you didn’t," [Y/N] grumbled, rubbing her arm where she’d collided with him. "Nobody does."

"Why... angry?" Nyon asked, tilting his head, trying to figure her out.

"I’m not angry," she snapped automatically, then sighed when she saw his confused look. "Okay, fine. I’m mad. Randal forgot about me again."

Nyon’s expression didn’t change much, but he did take a step back, giving her some space. "Randal... distracted. With... Sebastian."

"Tell me something I don’t know," [Y/N] muttered. She slumped against the wall, crossing her arms tighter around her chest. "He never misses our tea parties. Until now."

Nyon shuffled his feet, clearly not knowing what to say. He wasn’t exactly known for being talkative or helpful in emotional crises. "You still... important," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, that doesn’t help much," she sighed, feeling the irritation bubbling inside her again. "I feel like I’m just a side note to him now."

Just then, a voice echoed from down the hall.

"You’re still sulking, huh?"

It was Nyen.

He strolled in, smirking as he leaned against the wall. He was always ready to poke fun at her misfortunes. His arms were crossed, and his tone dripped with sarcasm. "What’s the matter? Can’t keep your 'CrEaToRs' attention?"

[Y/N] shot him a glare. "Shut up, Nyen."

"Oh, come on," he said, feigning sympathy. "Did you really think he’d stick around when he has a shiny new toy? How naive can you be?"

She rolled her eyes. "This isn’t just about being jealous, you know. It’s about feeling—"

"Emotional," Nyen cut in, mocking her tone. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, just grab Randal by the collar and drag him to tea. No one’s stopping you."

"Thanks for the advice, really helpful," [Y/N] retorted, but a small part of her appreciated his brazen honesty.

Before she could retort, Randal appeared at the end of the hallway, his usual cheerful demeanor shining through. "Y/N?"

He stood there looking a bit sheepish, as if he had just realized something was off. Sebastian hovered behind him, awkward and unsure, like he was trying to blend into the wallpaper.

"Randal," [Y/N] said, her voice tight with irritation. "Where have you been?"

Randal blinked, clearly confused. "I’ve been with Sebastian," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Because we were supposed to have our tea party! Remember? The one we have every week?"

"Oh!" Randal’s eyes lit up in recognition. "Right! Our tea party! I forgot!"

"Of course you did," [Y/N] groaned, fighting the urge to scream. "You know, for someone who’s supposed to be my creator, you really suck at remembering plans."

Randal frowned, a hint of guilt creeping onto his face. "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to forget fufu~"

"Ugh," she sighed, her irritation softening just a bit as she looked at Randal’s crestfallen expression. "Just... let’s have our tea party now, okay? I need some snacks and a distraction from all this."

"Yes! Let’s go!" Randal said, brightening up immediately.

As they started walking towards the tea room, Randal practically skipped to his chair, plopping down with a bright grin. Sebastian, however, hung back, hovering near the door.

"Uh, is it okay if I...?" he started, his voice trailing off as he glanced between Randal and [Y/N].

"Of course, you’re invited, Sebastian!" Randal chirped, motioning for him to join.

Sebastian hesitated, taking a cautious step forward. "I don’t want to interrupt your... thing."

"You're already interrupting it," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes. "Just sit down."

He slowly approached the table, and as he sat, he looked like he’d just been sentenced to death. "Uh, thanks?"

"You can pour the tea," Randal said, practically bouncing in his seat.

Sebastian looked like he was about to protest but caught [Y/N]’s pointed look and reluctantly picked up the teapot. As he poured, he managed to spill a bit on the tablecloth, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"Smooth move, Sebastian," [Y/N] called, barely holding back her laughter.

"Uh, I’m sorry?? .I—" he stammered, only to be interrupted by Randal.

"Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it!" Randal said, waving his hands dramatically. "Just make sure to keep it on the table this time!"

Sebastian sighed, trying to regain his composure. "I was trying to—"

"Just be careful, okay?" [Y/N] interrupted, smirking. "Last thing we need is you drowning in tea."

"Yeah, that would be—" Sebastian started, but once again, Randal cut in.

"Time for the ceremony! Everyone stand up!" Randal declared, his eyes wide with excitement.

Sebastian looked around, clearly perplexed. "Wait, what ceremony?"

"You never mentioned that," he said, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You should’ve asked before coming," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes, though she couldn’t help but laugh. "It involves Randal being extra and making everyone uncomfortable."

"Yes!" Randal declared, grinning like a fool. "Everyone stand up!"

Sebastian stood awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do. "Um... am I supposed to do something?"

"You just stand there and look pretty," [Y/N] said, nudging him with a playful grin.

"That’s really not my strong suit," Sebastian muttered.

As Randal began his ridiculous "ceremony," pouring tea into the cups with exaggerated flourishes, [Y/N] couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through her. Despite the frustration earlier, watching Randal be his usual weird self made her heart lighten. Even Sebastian's awkwardness started to feel like a welcome change.

Wait. No don't feel that way. Randal is your sole purpose!

As the laughter flowed, Randal suddenly paused, looking serious. "And now, we all make a toast! To tea, friends, and not forgetting our traditions!"

"To tea!" [Y/N] echoed, raising her cup with a smile.

"To—wait, do we have to toast?" Sebastian asked, looking caught off guard.

Randal shot him a wide-eyed stare. "Of course! It’s part of the ceremony!"

Sebastian sighed but raised his cup anyway. "To... tea."

"And to me!" Randal added, grinning madly.

As they all took a sip, Sebastian attempted to interject. "I was thinking—"

But Randal cut him off again, waving his arms. "No time for thinking! We need more sugar!"

Sebastian’s mouth opened, clearly about to say something, but Randal continued. "You know, if you mix the sugar with the milk just right, it tastes like—"

"Randal, I really—" Sebastian tried again, but Randal was on a roll.

"And don’t forget the cookies! They must be chocolate chip, or else they’re just eugh!!"

"Randal can i-"

[Y/N] quickly interrupted Sebastian again.

"Sure I'll go get the cookies!" She giggled and skipped to the kitchen, feeling happy about the passive aggressive revenge she had gotten on Sebastian.

It was his fault for interfering anyway.

[insomniac4000]

133 George clarke

that’s your nickname

George Clarkeey had a routine. Every morning, before diving into filming or editing his latest YouTube video, he’d walk to the coffee shop just around the corner. It wasn’t just about the coffee—though the flat whites were undeniably good—it was also about her.

She worked the morning shift most days, her apron tied neatly over her light blue blouse, her hair pinned up in a messy bun that seemed to defy gravity. She moved with the grace of someone who’d been doing this for years, yet, amusingly, her coordination failed her just as often.

It started two weeks ago. George had been sitting at his usual spot near the window, sipping his coffee, when he saw it happen. She was carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs, chatting with a coworker, when her foot caught on the edge of the mat. The tray tilted, her eyes widened, and before anyone could intervene, the mugs clattered to the floor, coffee splashing everywhere.

George had felt bad for her, sure, but the way she laughed it off, cheeks pink with embarrassment, made him smile. She grabbed a towel, joking with the customers about her “clumsiness quota” for the day.

The nickname came to him the third time he saw her drop something—a stack of saucers this time. As the plates spun like tiny UFOs before smashing, George had leaned over to his friend WillNE and whispered, "Spills."

Will raised an eyebrow. “Spills?”

“Yeah, it suits her. She’s got...a certain flair for it.” George’s grin was unapologetic.

From that day on, in his head, she wasn’t just the cute barista. She was Spills.

George started finding excuses to visit the coffee shop more often. A mid-morning snack, an afternoon pick-me-up, even a decaf tea on his way back from the gym—he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

But Spills wasn’t making it easy for him. Sure, she smiled when he ordered, laughed at his jokes, and once even gave him an extra shot of caramel syrup for free. But was that barista-friendly customer service, or something more?

He couldn’t tell. And the uncertainty was driving him mad.

“Just ask her out,” Will said one day while they were filming.

George groaned, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not that simple! What if she says no? Then I can never go back there.”

“Mate, if you don’t, someone else will.”

That thought lingered in George’s mind longer than he wanted to admit.

The next morning, George walked into the coffee shop with a plan. He’d compliment her hair or her earrings, ease into a conversation, and then casually suggest grabbing a coffee—outside of her workplace, of course.

But as he approached the counter, his courage wavered.

“Morning, George,” she greeted him with a smile. She knew his name! That had to mean something, right?

“Hey, Sp—” He caught himself just in time. “Hey, morning! How’s it going?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretty good. You?”

“Uh, yeah, great! Just filming later. Usual flat white, please.”

As she prepared his drink, George mentally kicked himself. That was his big plan? Small talk and his usual order?

She handed him the cup, her fingers brushing his for a split second. He thought he might combust.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, retreating to his table.

He hadn’t even sat down before it happened.

Spills struck again.

This time, it was a tower of croissants. She’d been stacking them on the display shelf when her elbow bumped the tray. George watched, frozen, as the pastries tumbled to the floor like buttery dominoes.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, crouching to gather them up.

Without thinking, George jumped to his feet and hurried over to help.

“Here, let me,” he said, picking up a particularly squashed croissant.

She looked up at him, cheeks red but smiling. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Are you kidding? This is the highlight of my morning.”

She laughed, the sound musical and genuine. “The highlight?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not every day you get to witness...the art of Spills in action.”

Her eyes widened. “Spills?”

Oh no. Had he actually said that out loud?

“That's your nickname I—I mean...” George stumbled over his words, panic setting in. “It’s just...you’ve got a bit of a track record, that’s all.”

To his surprise, she burst out laughing. “Spills, huh? I guess I’ve earned that one.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Mad? No. If anything, I’m impressed you noticed. Most people just ignore it or give me weird looks.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s kind of...endearing.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Endearing, huh?”

George felt his face heat up. “Yeah. I mean, you handle it well. Most people would just freak out.”

“Thanks, George. You’re sweet.”

And just like that, the moment was perfect.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual, “if you’re not too busy spilling coffee tomorrow, maybe we could grab one together?”

Her eyes sparkled, a mix of surprise and something he hoped was excitement. “You’re asking me out?”

“Only if you say yes.”

She smiled, standing up with the tray of croissants. “Okay, Spills accepts. But only if you stop calling me that.”

“No promises,” George teased, grinning as she walked back behind the counter.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.