#it happened over spin the bottle??? is that correct?

[sideofpunkforkos]

HELLO???? EVERYONE???? I HAVE NOT BEEN CAUGHT UP WITH CRITICAL ROLE CAMPAIGN 3 AT ALL BUT DID I HEAR THAT CALLOWMOORE IS REAL THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE???

[wonderlandwalker]

Two can play (but three's more fun) | Steve Harrington x reader x Eddie Munson

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: when Steve catches Eddie staring a little too long at his girlfriend, he doesn’t throw a punch—he extends an invitation. And as Eddie quickly learns, Steve doesn’t just share; he teaches, with slow, filthy demonstrations.

word count: 5.2k

tags / content warnings: smut, just pure filth really, posessive steve, desperate eddie, a lot of swearing, I couldn't help it, maybe some repetitive words but smut vocabulary just has it's limits

a/n: I got insanely stoned and wrote this so if it came out too horny i'm sorry, also im ovulating oops. I've prolly been very inconsistent with grammar tenses but I can't be bothered to check it. I usually correct my grammar after i've already posted so the masterlist link has significantly less errors than earlier versions

The living room was bathed in the flickering glow of the TV, some forgotten horror movie playing on low volume—The Thing, maybe, or was it Halloween?—its eerie soundtrack warping under the weight of the thick, sweet-smelling haze curling through the air. 

Eddie had outdone himself with this new strain, something sticky and potent that left his limbs heavy and his usual sharp edges dulled into something languid and warm, his thoughts perhaps a bit too syrupy.

“—I know I talk a big game, man, but fuck. I have no clue what I’m doing when it actually comes down to it.”

His voice was a low mumble, words slipping out like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. He tipped his head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.

Steve blinks at him, slow and rhythmically, before snorting. “What, like… at all?”

“Yeah, man. Like—”  Eddie waves a hand vaguely, the silver of his rings glinting as he moves. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what sounds are real and which ones are fake? It’s fucking Russian roulette.”

The next reaction from Steve is immediate, no hesitation. Just a lazy, knowing smirk as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Huh. Well, once you know the difference, it becomes pretty obvious.” He pauses, just long enough to take a quick glance over Eddie’s face. “If you really need some pointers, I can ask my girlfriend if she wants to help you out.”

Eddie nearly comes crashing to the fucking floor.

Because fuck. He’s had a crush on you for, like, forever. Not that he’s ever admitted it out loud — not when Steve Harrington has a reputation for rearranging the faces of guys who so much as look at you wrong. Eddie has seen it happen: some poor asshole at a party, fingers skimming your ass as you passed, and bam — Steve’s fist in his jaw before anyone could blink. There’s even a rumour some other idiot once stared just a little too long at the way your lips wrapped around the neck of your beer bottle and then slurred, “Wanna spin the bottle?” Word is, Steve dropped him in one hit. No warning. No theatrics. Just pure, primal instinct.

So yeah, Eddie’s kept his mouth shut.

But now? Now Steve is watching him with this lazy, half-lidded expression, like he hadn’t just detonated a goddamn bomb in Eddie’s head.

“You’re fucking with me.” Eddie pleads, his voice rough.

Steve just grins — slow, deliberate — his eyes dark with something Eddie can't name. “Nah, man. She’s actually really into that kinda stuff.” His voice drops, gravel scraping over each word, and Eddie’s stomach flips “And I’d do anything for her.”

The air feels thick as Eddie’s pulse roars in his ears, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Was this a test? A trap?  Christ.  Harrington was going to be the death of him, and worse—Eddie knew he’d fucking thank him for it.

His fingers twitch at his sides. “...Yeah?”

Steve’s smile only widens, but his eyes soften. “Yeah.”

When Eddie shows up at your place the next night, he’s strung tight enough to power Hawkins twice over, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself he’d imagined the whole conversation, that there was no way Steve Harrington just offered— 

And then you open the door.

Dressed in nothing but one of Steve’s old band tees, the fabric riding high on your thighs, you greet him with a smile that damn near stops his heart. “Hey, Eddie.”

His mouth goes dry. And before he can choke out a response, Steve is behind you, hands sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. And then — Jesus Christ.

The kiss Steve gives you isn’t just heated — it’s filthy. All tongue and teeth, your fingers twisting in his hair as he backs you against the doorframe, his hands already under your shirt like it’s a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie’s knees nearly give out.

“Watch,” Steve murmurs against your lips when he finally breaks away, his gaze flicking to Eddie over your shoulder. His voice dark and commanding. “And pay attention.” 

Then, right there in the doorway, Steve pulls the shirt over your head — meticulously slow, like he wants Eddie to memorise every second. And, well — Eddie does.

He memorises the way your breath hitches when Steve’s fingers brush over your ribs, the way you arch into his touch, the soft, real sounds spilling from your lips as Steve’s mouth finds the top of your breasts— 

Eddie’s throat protests as he swallows, fingers twitching at his sides like he can’t decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees.

Steve notices —of course he does— and his lips curl into something dangerously close to a challenge. “You just going to stand there, Munson?” His hands slide down your hips, squeezing just hard enough to make you softly gasp. “Thought you wanted to learn.” Eddie manages to get control over his brain just long enough to answer “I— Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. I do.”

Steve hums, pleased, and spins you around to face Eddie fully, his palm splayed possessively over your stomach. “Then get over here.”

It’s not a request.

Eddie moves like a man in a trance, close enough now to feel the heat of your skin, to catch the intoxicating scent of your perfume. His gaze darts between your face and Steve’s fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your collarbone.

“First lesson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to nip at your earlobe.  “Don’t just touch. Listen.”  His free hand reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging it toward you. “Feel how she reacts.”

Eddie’s fingertips brush your waist—hesitant at first, then firmer when you shiver under his touch. His breath hitches as you lean into him, lashes fluttering when his thumb grazes the delicate curve of your ribs.

“Good.”  Steve’s voice is low, eyes locked on Eddie’s every twitch. “Now kiss her.”

Eddie’s head jerks up. “What?”

Steve’s grin is all teeth. “Unless you don’t—”

“No, I—fuck.” He surges forward, crashing his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy and desperate, and he barely gets a taste before Steve yanks you back by the waist, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Jesus Christ. Not like that.”

Eddie stumbles after you as Steve kicks the door shut behind them. “It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

Eddie opens his mouth to protest—then snaps it shut. Because Steve’s right. He’s a wreck.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”  Steve’s voice is rough with impatience. “Kiss her again.”

Eddie hesitates—just for a second—before lust wins the war. This time, when his lips find yours, it’s still hungry, but it’s also aware, his movements more controlled. For a heartbeat, he’s terrified Steve will deem him unworthy of you altogether and kick him back to the curb—until you moan into it, until your fists twist in his shirt and drag him closer.

Steve groans in approval against your shoulder. “That’s it,” he rasps, pressing you forward just enough that Eddie can feel your heartbeat against his chest. “Now slow down. Make her want it.”

Eddie whimpers, but obeys, pulling back just enough to tease your lower lip between his teeth before licking into your mouth like you’re water and he’s been dying of thirst.

The sound you make — the soft, wanting whine—it's the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Steve pulls you back again, but this time, there’s satisfaction in his grin. “See?”  His thumb swipes over your kiss-swollen lips, smug. “She likes it when you take your time.”

Steve doesn’t let go of you—not really. Even as he nudges you toward the couch, his palm stays glued to the small of your back, steering you like he owns every inch of space you move through. Eddie doesn’t need to be told to follow; his pulse hammers in his throat, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining the weight of you beneath them.

“Sit.” Steve’s order cracks through the air, and Eddie drops onto an armchair like his strings have been cut.

You don’t get the chance to join him. Steve catches your wrist, yanking you back against his chest instead. His mouth brushes your ear, voice a low, possessive hum: “Nah, sweetheart. You’re staying right here.” His fingers trail down your arm before guiding your hand to Eddie’s jaw. “Let him earn it.”

Eddie’s breath stutters. Christ. Up close, you’re devastating. The way your eyes shimmer with pure lust, the way your lips part—just slightly—when Steve’s fingers skim over the lace of your bra. The syrupy moan you let out when he pinches your nipple over it, just enough to make your back arch—

“See that?”  Steve’s voice is rough against your ear. “She gets loud when she’s turned on. You just have to know how to listen.” Eddie nods, swallowing hard. His hands hover over your hips like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve under his touch. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Munson. You’re not going to break her.” He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Feel how warm she is? How fucking desperate?”

Eddie’s fingers twitch. He can feel it—the rapid rise and fall of your breath, the way your skin burns under his touch.

“Now”, Steve murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder, “show me what you’ve learned.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s relaxed—calculated. He licks into your mouth like he’s savouring it, one hand sliding up your ribs while the other tangles in your hair. And when you moan, when your hips jerk forward like you just can’t help it, Eddie groans against your lips like he’s just discovered fucking religion.

Steve watches, eyes dark with approval. “Better,” he rasps. Then, with a smirk: “Now get on your knees.”

Eddie freezes, and Steve arches a brow,“got a problem?”

“No—fuck, no.”  Eddie’s already sliding to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud. His hands find your thighs, gripping just tight enough to feel the muscle tense under his fingers.

Steve’s smirk widens. “Good.”

The praise goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp—and��God, Eddie’s never been so hard in his life.

Steve’s voice is a murmur as he trails a path down your throat, bruises already blooming under his mouth. “Now, make her beg.”

Eddie’s breathing is ragged as he looks up at you—fuck, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your chest rises with every shaky inhale. Steve’s fingers are still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels domestic. Your eyes meet Eddie’s just before they flutter shut, and it’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finds the inside of your knee first, lips dragging slow and hot up your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Steve hums, tracing your ribs and sliding your bra strap down your shoulder. His palm cups your breast as it spills free, kneading with a lazy possessiveness that has your hips jerking forward — but Eddie holds you steady, determined. 

His tongue traces past the waistband of your panties like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, and when his eyes flick up to Steve, all he finds is lust, raw and unfiltered. So Eddie hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, dragging it down your legs as he kisses a trail after it, reverent even in his hunger. His fingers work you with surprising precision, his gaze desperate for approval — and when he curls them just right, you gasp, arching into his touch with a moan loud enough to make Steve’s smirk falter. He wasn’t expecting that.

The slip in Steve’s control sends a thrill through Eddie, and he murmurs against your thigh, voice rough: “You sound so fucking sweet — bet you taste even better.”  Steve’s grip tightens on your hip, hard enough to bruise, but you don’t seem to mind.

He’d meant to teach. Now, he’s learning.

And the way you’re unravelling under Eddie’s touch stirs something awake inside of him. Eddie’s got a musician’s dexterity, his fingers able to coax sinful melodies from you with every twist. When you whimper Eddie’s name, Steve’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop him. Just watches with a gaze darker than the midnight sky itself as Eddie’s breath ghosts over you, your thighs trembling. “Please—”

The word barely leaves your lips before Eddie adds another finger, crooking them until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. He groans against your skin, resting his forehead against your leg as the vibration tears another broken sound from your throat. He fucks you with his fingers — slow and deep, then fast and relentless, like he can’t decide whether to savour you or ruin you.

Eddie, drunk on your praise, dares to glance up at Steve with a smirk. Steve’s nostrils flare, but instead of shutting him down, he drags a thumb over your cheek and growls, “You gonna cum for him?” You can’t even answer. Your back arches, toes curling, and Eddie drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The moment you shatter, he loses it. He’s not sure what destroys him more — the way you choke out his name, begging him not to stop, or the filthy, approving rumble of Steve’s voice as he speaks, “Good girl.”

Eddie finds himself at an impasse, torn between begging for more and staying silent as the two of you decide his fate. His fingers twitch where they grip your thighs, his breath ragged, his entire body coiled tight with anticipation—and fear. Steve detaches himself from nipping at your collarbone when Eddie wavers, his movements faltering. A reprimand flashes in Steve’s darkened gaze, sharp enough to make Eddie shudder again. “Didn’t you hear her, Munson?”  Steve’s voice is a low, warning growl. “She told you not to stop.”

But Eddie freezes. The reality of where he is—what he’s doing—hits him like a freight train. He has no idea how to continue.

But Steve doesn’t tolerate hesitation. His hand fists in Eddie’s hair, yanking him forward with a rough, “Stop thinking.”

Eddie obeys like a man possessed, and the moment his tongue drags over you, his whole body jerks—holy shit. You taste even better than he could’ve dared to dream. Sweet, addictive, and the way you gasp when he flicks his tongue over your clit?  He’s ruined. Forever.

Drunk on you—on the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you’re so wet it’s coating your thighs—he laps at you like his life depends on it. Steve watches with drowsy satisfaction, his palm sliding possessively up your stomach to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple just to hear you whimper for him again.

“Listen to how she sounds when you do it right,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Isn’t it the most beautiful sound in the world?” He doesn’t wait for Eddie to answer. Instead, he tilts your jaw toward him, locking you in a searing kiss. You moan into Steve’s mouth as Eddie continues, his tongue relentless, his own desperate noises vibrating against you. Steve chuckles darkly when Eddie whimpers, his cock straining against his jeans just from tasting you. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he’s so close he’s shaking.

“Are you going to come just from this, Munson?” Steve drags him off you by his hair, grinning at the dazed, wrecked look on Eddie’s face. “Fuck, look at him, darling. He’s a mess.” Eddie’s lips are slick, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. Steve doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He pushes Eddie back into the armchair, his grip firm, dominant. Then he guides you onto the couch with a smirk.

“You did good,” he tells Eddie, voice dripping with condescension. “Now let me show you great.”

Steve doesn’t waste time. In one smooth motion, he hooks his hands under your knees, spreading you wide —putting you on display— before dragging you to the edge of the couch. His gaze locks onto Eddie’s, making sure he’s watching as he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, a shudder running through you at the sensation. “See how she shivers?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, laced with something Eddie can only describe as devotion. “It’s because she knows what’s coming—” Then he devours you. 

Unlike Eddie’s frantic, eager strokes, Steve’s tongue moves with precision — deliberate, decisive licks that have you arching off the couch within seconds. He teases you, circling your clit until you’re gasping, then he pulls back with a cruel smirk.

“Steve—” you whine, fingers scrambling at his hair. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muses — before sucking your clit between his lips, hard. Your cry echoes through the room, and Eddie’s hands clench into fists, his hips jerking helplessly as you overwhelm his senses without even touching him. Steve doesn’t let up; he works you with his mouth until your thighs tremble, until your moans grow longer and heavy, until you’re right there—, and he pulls away.

“No, no, baby, please—” you beg, but Steve just clicks his tongue, amused, sliding two fingers into you without warning. “Look at her, Munson,” he orders, curling his fingers just right, making you sob beneath him. “This is how you give her what she deserves.” His thrusts are ruthless, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess, your nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he fucks you on his fingers, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s the entire time.

“She’s close,” Steve taunts — he doesn’t even need to look at you to know, too busy watching the way Eddie’s jaw clenches.  “You want to see what happens when she comes on my hand?” Eddie can’t even speak. He just nods, frantic. Steve smiles wickedly and makes do with the response. “Then watch closely.”

He crooks his fingers again, pressing deeper, and you don’t just shatter — you explode. Your back bows like you’re possessed, broken screams tearing from your throat as you squirt, and Eddie swears he’s seeing stars. Your hand finds Steve’s bicep, clinging desperately, like you’re afraid he’ll stop. Eddie can’t look away; he doesn’t dare blink — if he misses a single second of this, he’ll never forgive himself.

Steve works you through it, drawing out every last spasm until tears streak your face, until you’re oversensitive, trying to squirm away. Only then does he finally relent, licking his fingers with a satisfied hum before brushing featherlight kisses up to your neck. The moment you feel his proximity, you meet him in a kiss — not heated like before, but purposeful, delicate, like Steve is guiding you back to reality with it. He doesn’t rush you; he just lets your fingers weave through his hair until your breathing steadies. Then, he speaks again. “That”, he says, “is how it’s done.” He meets Eddie’s stunned gaze. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about getting your dick wet until she’s clenching around nothing.”

Eddie’s so hard it hurts. His cock throbs against his jeans, neglected and aching, precum soaking the fabric. He’s never been this turned on in his life—and the worst part? Steve knows it. The bastard smirks, dragging a thumb over your lower lip. You suck it in eagerly, tongue swirling, before he pulls away and stands. It’s a fucking performance. Steve undoes his belt like he’s savouring the way Eddie’s eyes cling to his hands, the leather slipping free with a final, damning shush. You whimper, still boneless from your orgasm, but your eyes flutter open when Steve’s palm slides up your thigh, squeezing. “Please, Steve?” you breathe, and his grin turns feral. “Not yet, love.” He glances at Eddie, whose throat bobs under the weight of his stare. “Munson hasn’t earned it yet.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Fuck. He’s dripping in his pants, his hips twitching like a fucking teenager, and Steve’s going to make him wait?  But then— 

Steve grips Eddie’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “You want her?” he asks, voice rough. Eddie nods, greedy. “Then prove you can take care of her.” And just like that, Steve shoves him onto the couch with you. “Do it like I showed you.”

For a heartbeat, Eddie can only stare—at the way your breath hitches when he touches you, at the way your eyes lock on Steve, who’s sprawled in the armchair like it’s a fucking throne, lazily stroking his cock. Your lips part, and Eddie swears he sees your mouth water—fuck, it’s obscene. His hands tremble as he touches you—really touches you—this time. His mouth finds your thigh, kissing up the sensitive skin, trying to mimic the way Steve had worshipped you earlier. But when his tongue drags over you, your breath catches—wrong—and Steve’s low chuckle cuts through the room like a knife.

“Christ, Munson,” Steve sighs, his grip tightening around his cock. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Eddie grits his teeth. He is. He’s thinking about the way Steve had made you scream, the way your back arched off the couch like you were trying to fuse into him. He’s thinking about the fact that Steve’s watching, lazily stroking himself while Eddie fumbles like a virgin.

And the nail in the coffin? You’re watching Steve too. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyes heavy with desire—but not for Eddie.

“Fuck,” Eddie rasps, pulling back. His voice is wrecked.“I can’t—I don’t—” Steve leans forward, fingertips ghosting over your throat as you keen toward him. “You can,” he growls. “Stop trying to perform. Just feel her.”

Eddie’s breath comes in sharp bursts. This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn’t think. He listens. To the way your breath catches when he licks a slow, experimental stripe. To the way your hips jerk when he sucks just there. And when your fingers fist in his hair—finally—it’s not to guide him, but to hold on.

“There,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Now you’re getting it.” Eddie moans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat. Fuck. He’s dizzy with it—the taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way Steve’s gaze burns into him like a brand.

But then Steve stands. Eddie barely has time to register the loss before Steve’s dragging him up by the collar, spinning him around to face you—really face you. Your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your thighs slick with Steve’s work.

"Look at her," Steve growls, his voice a dark scrape against Eddie’s ear. "Don’t just glance—really look."

And Eddie looks. He sees the damp flush between your breasts, the way your hips lift like you’re already chasing it, the way your pupils blow wide when Steve’s thumb swipes over your bottom lip. "She’s not yours," Steve breathes, dragging his teeth over Eddie’s earlobe. "But fuck, look how bad she wants you to try."

Eddie’s pulse races. Then Steve steps back, gesturing like a king permitting a subject to kneel. "Go on. Make her forget my fucking name."

So he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise in his head, to sync himself with the thrum of your heartbeat beneath him, to dissolve into every breath you take. He wants to belong here, in this moment, where Steve’s approval hangs heavy in the air and your pleasure is the only thing that matters — success. A satisfied hum from Steve when Eddie finally finds the right rhythm, a broken moan from your lips. But your eyes — your eyes stay locked on Steve, even as Eddie’s mouth works you over.  It’s still him you want. Hunger battles with pride in Eddie’s chest. He hates how badly he craves this—how much he needs Steve’s approval—but god, he longs to pull those sounds from you himself, to unravel you with nothing but his touch. And so he moves like a man possessed, single-minded in his mission to play you like an instrument, to pluck every string until you snap.

Your taste is intoxicating, something he’s already addicted to, something he’s not sure he can live without anymore. Your eyes scrunch shut as pleasure blooms, so lost in it that you don’t even notice Steve speeding up his strokes, his grip tight on his cock. Eddie gets close—so close he can practically taste your climax—but you linger on the edge, just out of reach. He’s aware he’s missing something, some final piece to send you over, but he can’t find it. Then your eyes flicker open again, searching for Steve’s gaze like it’s the only thing that can save you. And Eddie knows—he’s pushed his luck too far. Steve’s patience snaps—not with his pleasure, but with Eddie’s failure to give you yours. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back, the warmth of you ripped away too soon. Steve looms over him, a predator in human skin, annoyance rolling off him in waves. “If you want to get a chance to fuck her,” Steve growls, voice dripping with challenge, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” 

Eddie’s brain becomes the mental equivalent of a dropped Wi-Fi signal—because did Steve just imply—?

Every touch, every taste Steve has allowed him, Eddie has devoured with insatiable hunger. But now it hits him—this is more than just a demonstration. Steve might actually let him fuck you. Or he would have. Now, Eddie isn’t sure he’ll ever get the opportunity again. A sharp, breathy cry from you yanks him from his thoughts. Steve has already turned you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one foot perched on the armrest behind you like a damn king claiming his treasure. Eddie is so close to your face now, your slick still glistening on his chin as you blink up at him, dazed. Steve teases your entrance with his cock, just enough to have you pushing back, begging for it. And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment—you look at Eddie.

Not at back at Steve.

At him.

Your gaze is pure, primal desperation—like he’s the one you need. Steve drives into you in one brutal thrust, and your eyes screw shut in ecstasy. You sob Steve’s name, but your eyes flicker back open as you you look at him.

“Baby, please—” And it dawns on him—you are begging Steve, but not for Steve. No, you’re begging for permission, your gaze locked onto Eddie like he’s the only thing anchoring you to earth. He doesn’t know what you’re asking for, but Christ, he already knows he wants it just as much. 

Steve, of course, does understand. He drags his cock into you agonisingly slow, pressing tender kisses along your spine even as his voice comes out harsh. “You think he deserves it, honey?” You whine, desperate, but Steve doesn’t need more than that. He leans over you, his thrusts deliberate, sinful. “How could I ever say no to you?”

And fuck, Eddie gets it now—gets why Steve turns possessive, gets why you love it. He’s watching the two of you move like a single entity, Steve’s hips rolling into you with a precision that rewrites Eddie’s entire understanding of sex. And the real tragedy? He’s pretty sure you’re only getting started. Your fingers fist in Eddie’s collar, yanking him down hard. His breath stutters as your lips take him in, hot and needy, and he doesn’t think—just reacts, his hands tangling in your hair as Steve’s thrusts rock you forward, forcing Eddie deeper into your mouth. You moan around him, the vibrations nearly undoing him right there, but then your hand tugs at his belt loop like it’s personally offended you, and Eddie’s thoughts fry into static. What do you want? He glances at Steve for answers, but the bastard just laughs, driving into you harder like he’s savouring Eddie’s confusion.

And God help him, Eddie looks. It’s downright pornographic. Steve’s cock glistens as he pulls out, your body clinging to him like it never wants to let go, and every time he sinks back in, you clench, a broken noise tearing from your throat.

As Eddie freezes, you take matters into your own hands, undoing Eddie’s belt with ruthless efficiency. The zipper’s barely down before his jeans pool at his knees. He looks at Steve again—helpless—but Steve just shakes his head, smirking. “Jesus, Munson. Keep up.”

Your fingers brush the straining outline of his cock through his boxers, and his hips jerk. Your mouth finds the spot beneath his ear, teeth scraping, and—fuck—it nearly sends him over the edge right then. You’re not gentle. You know exactly what you want. In seconds, his dick is in your hand, your grip perfect, and the first stroke has him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He wants to keep his eyes open—to watch, to devour every detail of every second—but his body betrays him. A shudder wracks through him, his lashes fluttering helplessly before his head falls back, lost to the crushing wave of ecstasy."

“Fuck—!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, dark with amusement. “That’s it, sweetheart. Show him how good you can be.” His hand tangles in your hair—not guiding, just holding—like he wants Eddie to see he’s the one in control. That every gasp you make, every shudder Eddie can’t suppress, is because Steve orchestrated it.

“Bet he’s never felt anything like you.” Eddie’s thighs tremble, his cock twitching against your tongue. He’s close, too close, and Steve knows it—fuck, he’s enjoying it. “Look at him,” Steve murmurs, dragging his cock out of you just to slam back in, punching a moan from your lips.  “Already shaking for you.  Bet he wishes it was him inside instead.” His thumb swipes over your clit, and you whimper, your rhythm on Eddie faltering. “But he’s got to earn that, doesn’t he?”

Earn it? Eddie’s vision blurs at the edges. He’d shamelessly beg if it meant— Then your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, and he chokes, almost falling forward into you.

“Steady,” Steve warns, though his voice is anything but calm. “You cum before she does, and I’ll make you watch while I fuck her twice as hard.”

Eddie’s groan is nothing short of pure agony. Steve fucks you more slowly then—cruel, like he’s savouring Eddie’s torment—dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your eyes water. But your dedication doesn’t waver; if anything, it burns hotter. “Shit—”  Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily, but you swallow him deeper, humming around the salt-bitter heat of him. His fingers scramble at the cushions, knuckles white. “Jesus, sweetheart, where the hell did you learn—?”

Steve’s laugh is a dark, knowing thing against your neck. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider as he presses inside, slow, letting you feel every fucking inch. “She’s full of surprises,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “But you’re not going to last long enough to find out, are you?”

Eddie’s groan disintegrates, the way you swirl your tongue around him, the slick pressure of your throat—it’s nothing like the groupies who’d thrown themselves at Corroded Coffin. This is ruination. This is worship. Your mouth works him with practiced greed, and Eddie’s vision blurs.

“Fuck, I’m not—I can’t—” 

“Yes. You can.” Steve’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument—this isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command. His hand moves from your scalp to your nipple, pinching just shy of pain until you whine around Eddie’s cock. His other hand slips between your legs, circling your clit with filthy precision. “You going to come for us, sweetheart?” he rasps. You nod frantically, lips stretched lewdly around Eddie. “Good. Let him see.” You break with a cry, muffled around Eddie’s cock, and Steve growls as your body clenches around him. “That’s it,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, “that’s my girl—” Eddie’s spellbound.

 Steve fucks you through it, your tears smearing Eddie’s thighs. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, cock twitching against your tongue—

Steve loses control first. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Eddie’s hips stutter when you whimper, oversensitive, as Steve grinds into you one last time—claiming you like he wants to brand the feeling into your skin. And then— “Fuck!”  Eddie’s back arches, his cock jerking as you pull off with a slick pop, begging Steve for mercy. He comes untouched, frustration and relief searing through him as he gasps your name like a prayer. Steve laughs, low and satisfied. Eddie’s too wrecked to care, chest heaving—until Steve’s next words send him tumbling straight back into want.

“Let me know if you’ve got any requests for the next lesson.”

[stevesgother]

Chalkboard Hearts Pt III - S.H

Pairing - Teacher!Steve Harrington x Single!Mom!Reader

WC - 4.3k

Summary - A winter dance recital prompts you and Steve to spend a little more time together outside of the school.

AN - here they are again! the crowd favs it seems. thank you all so much again for the love on previous parts, i’m so excited for everyone to see where the story is headed and what these two losers get up to next. ~ emma <3

Outside the door labeled with a plaque that reads ‘Mr. Harrington’ in neat font, you can just barely make out the faint hum of a distantly familiar song. The door is slightly ajar but you still give a soft knock before entering to announce your arrival.

“Mommy!” Abbey shouts as she barrels towards you; whatever activity she was previously occupied with long forgotten.

“Hi, bug!” You greet through a quiet grunt as you hoist her up. “How was your day?”

Steve had taken to tutoring Abbey after class most days. He had originally offered under the guise that she was falling behind some of the other kids, and while that may be true, you suspect that he really offered because he noticed how guilty you’d been recently for being late picking Abbey up from school. Your job has been keeping you past three, despite having told them repeatedly that you have to clock out by two. You can’t afford to lose said job– rendering you both effectively homeless– and embarrassingly enough, Steve knows this.

“Good!” she wriggles out of your arms, not too partial for physical affection these days, “I was showing Mr. H my dance for the recital!”

“Is that so?” You ask, amused.

“Yes, but Mr. H is not very good at dancing–” she makes a pitiful face that she unsuccessfully hides from Steve.

“--Hey!” Steve laughs, “I think I’m pretty good!” Trying to sound confident but faltering, it elicits a boisterous laugh from you.

“Show us your moves then, Harrington,”

“Fine,” he huffs defiantly and hilariously contorts himself into what he thinks is a correct position for a pirouette. He balances on one foot– the other one tucked clumsily into his knee– and brings his arms up and over his head like one of those spinning jewelry box ballerinas.

“No, that’s really good. You should keep going,” you try to trap your giggling between your teeth, but Abbey doesn’t spare him such mercy, as she is literally doubled over in a fit of laughter watching him.

“Jerks!” He stops his sorry excuse for a twirl long enough to take in the sight of Abbey, who’s still cackling so much she doesn’t even notice he’s done with this antics. A knowing, affectionate glance is shared between you two at the sight of her.

“Whaddya think, Ab? Am I ready for the big stage?” He motions towards himself flamboyantly– striking a pose with his hands on his hips. Not sensing his sarcasm, she exclaims, “No!” incredulously through her gasping, trying to catch her breath. You imagine this isn’t the first instance of this happening today.

“I guess I’ll leave the dancing up to you then, huh?”

Suddenly, her expression erupts with a look of joy that only comes from a great epiphany,

“Can you come to my recital?!”

–

“Mommy that hurts!” Abbey whines from where she’s seated on the bathroom counter.

“Just a few more minutes and then we’ll be done, I promise.”

Trying to tame her unruly curls into a slicked and gelled ballerina bun was proving to be more challenging than you originally thought. Her dance teacher's instructions were very clear, however– the hair must be in a bun, accompanied by the most ridiculous amount of blush you’ve ever seen on a child, so that she doesn’t look pale under the stage lights.

One entire bottle of hair gel and several broken hair ties later, the updo is as neat as you can possibly manage, “Alright, girl, you’re all set. Let’s go get your costume on, yeah?”

She nods as you assist her off the counter and onto the tiled bathroom floor. She books it to her room and you follow suit, but when you look in her closet where you could’ve sworn you left her costume– it's nowhere to be seen.

“Abbey… where’s your costume?” You ask through a tight lipped smile, suspecting you know exactly what happened to it.

“I don’t know…” she answers mousily.

“Were you using it to play dress-up?”

She breaks instantly– her guilty conscience making it impossible for her to lie to you for very long, “Yes but!--”

“--Abbey!”

“I put it right back where I found it!”

You take a deep, grounding breath before you truly start to overreact, “Well obviously not, Ab. Just help me look for it, okay?”

Twenty excruciating minutes later, you’re sweating and on your hands and knees tearing through your daughter’s closet; the mess you’re making is a problem for your future self. Every item of clothing starts to look exactly the same– just an amalgamation of pink and glitter and blinding sequins.

“I found it, mommy!” Abbey yells triumphantly from the hallway as she sprints into her room– beaming and holding the tutu like it's a gold medal.

“Yes!” You gasp with relief and haphazardly crawl in her direction, suddenly thankful that no one else can witness you in such a state, “Hurry, let’s put it on.”

You slip the sparkly red and green costume on her as quickly as possible without damaging the bun you just spent at least an hour on. She does a little twirl, grinning ear to ear, “I feel like a princess!” She exclaims.

In the car, you struggle to buckle her seatbelt over her frilly tutu. After a little finessing, you figure it’ll be fine for the drive up the road to the local high school where the recital is being hosted in their auditorium.

–

In the lobby, you’re looking as disheveled as you feel. Abbey held one of your arms, and in the other you carried a small duffle bag full of extra hair products and a spare set of tights. She’s bouncing with nerves beside you, and asking you for at least the fifth time in ten minutes, ‘Where’s Mr. H?’

“I’m sure he’s here, Ab, we just have to find him,” you reassure her again, anxiously chewing the inside of your cheek as you scan the room for a perfectly manicured head of chestnut colored hair.

And as if he’s got some powerful sixth sense for knowing when he’s needed, you spot him timidly entering the double doors, dodging stray children and looking a little out of place. He holds a small bouquet of red roses that match the shade of his cheeks and nose– tinted red from the biting chill of early December winds.

“Steve!” You call from where you and Abbey stand near the makeshift dressing rooms– waving frantically to get his attention for your daughter's sake just as much as your own, “Over here!”

A look of recognition and then relief passes over his features when he identifies where his name is being called from, and slowly but surely starts to make his way over to you both. If he was just smiling before, he was positively beaming when he caught the sight of Abbey for the first time. His strides increase in length to catch up to you faster.

“Abbey! Look at you!” He compliments, and suddenly she’s all bashful. The man she looks up to almost as much as her own mother is here to see her perform for the first time, with a bouquet of flowers and an unrelenting grin plastered on his face. The sight does nothing to extinguish the steadily growing fire that’s made a home in the pit of your chest the past four months.

She shyly eyes the flowers in his hands– the bouquet almost the length of her own torso, “I brought these for you,” he extends them out for her and she accepts them timidly, swaying on her feet like she can’t stand to be still, “Thank you,” she all but whispers.

“Of course,” he squeezes her little hand as he straightens back to his full height. He directs his attention to you, “How are you? Did everything go alright?” Now you’re sure you look as frazzled as you feel.

“We had a mishap or two, but nothing we can’t handle. Right, Ab?” She’s not paying the slightest bit of attention– too busy observing the older kids as they mingle in front of the auditorium with their friends, “I’ll tell you about it later,” you give him a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, okay,” he nods, “when does the show start?”

Checking your watch, you reply, “Just a few minutes. I’m going to drop her off backstage, stay here.” He gives a two finger salute and you recapture Abbey’s focus enough to guide her down the hall where dozens of other dancers in identical costumes were congregating.

You kneel down to her eye level, “I’m so proud of you, you’re going to be amazing,” gently pinching her blushing cheek for emphasis, “Mr. H and I will be right up front, okay?”

She nods once, “Okay, momma,”

“I love you, Ab,” you give her one last squeeze before sending her off, albeit begrudgingly. You know she’s in good hands with the instructors, but lately it seems like the universe keeps finding new ways to shove in your face just how quickly she’s growing up.

When you relocate Steve, he’s standing exactly where you left him.

“You ready?” He asks as you approach.

“Mhm,” you nod and smile in response, suddenly too nervous to meet his gaze. Being around him with Abbey is one thing, but without her as a buffer, you find yourself getting increasingly jittery.

An usher hands Steve a program for the recital, which he promptly passes to you before thanking the woman. You can feel his right hand just barely hovering over your lower back with a featherlight pressure to guide you through the swarms of families attempting to enter the auditorium. You don’t think it’s even a conscious act, but the touch makes your heart– for lack of a better phrase– drop into your ass. You come to the stark realization that to the untrained eye, you must resemble two doting parents here to watch their child perform.

“Alright, where are we sitting?” He asks, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Oh–uhm,” trying and failing to speak around the dry muscle that sits in your mouth like lead, “Row C, I think,”

When you reach your assigned seats, he waits for you to go ahead of him, holding his arm out as if to say ‘ladies first’, just like he did that day on the bus. It makes you swoon just as much now as it did then. The auditorium feels sweltering.

“Hey,” he places a clammy hand on your knee when he notices you zoning again, “You okay?” Oh my God get it together, you think.

“Oh, yeah, it’s just,” you pull at the neckline of your wool sweater, “It’s a little warm in here, isn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah. Long morning?” He asks with an empathetic wince.

“You could say that,” you chuckle breathlessly, “With her? Every morning is a long morning,”

“You can say that again,” he shares in your laughter, “keeps me on my toes, alright.”

“I don’t know where she gets it from,” you sigh introspectively, “some days I feel like she couldn’t be less like me even if she tried.”

“I beg to differ,” The way he smiles at you sets you on fire from the inside out, but the lights dim– signifying the beginning of the show– before you get the chance to ask him what he meant. It’s only then that he removes his palm from your leg, and you immediately miss the weight of it resting there.

The Nutcracker theme plays over the loudspeaker as a group of ten or so little girls perform a haphazardly put together ballet number. Almost all of them are doing something different, but with huge, toothy smiles on their faces nonetheless. Originally, putting Abbey in dance served as a way to tire her out before bedtime and give yourself a measly hour of alone time, but seeing how much effort she’s put into practicing and how much joy she takes in performing cements your decision to keep her in class.

She performs wonderfully, just as you suspected she would. Always your little perfectionist. You may be biased, but you thought she was the most elegant and beautiful little girl on that stage.

When the company takes their bows, you and Steve both shoot up at the same time to give a standing ovation. Everyone else stays seated, which would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so filled to the brim with pride for your daughter. There was simply no room in your body for any other emotion.

“Yay, Ab!”

“Let’s go, Abbey!”

You both shout simultaneously, clapping your hands ecstatically.

–

Back in the lobby, your arms are overflowing with Abbey’s things from the dressing room along with the flowers Steve brought her.

“Did you see me?!” She asks expectantly, as if you could’ve seen anyone else up there except for her.

“Of course we did!” Steve assures her quickly, “For a second I thought I was watching the real Nutcracker,”

She blushes wildly, “Really?” If you didn’t know better, you thought you could’ve seen stars reflecting in her pupils.

“Totally! You were the best one up there,” he takes his forefinger and mimics drawing an ‘X’ shape over the left side of his chest, “Cross my heart.”

Abbey tugs on the hem of your sweater you were starting to become too warm in again, “Can we still go get milkshakes?” she asks. You had forgotten all about her stage fright induced breakdown two days ago, during which you promised to get her a treat if she went through with performing.

Checking the time, you saw it was already well past eight o’clock– but what would one late bedtime hurt?

“Sure, that sounds yummy. Say goodbye to Mr. H, then we’ll go,” she barrels into his legs at full speed– her signature– and wraps her arms tightly around his knees.

“Bye, Abbey, I’ll see you on Monday, ‘kay?”

She reluctantly loosened her grip on his legs and made her way back to her designated spot next to you.

 “Goodbye, Steve, thanks for coming.” You give a small wave accompanied by a tender smile.

“Thanks for having me.” He said, returning the gesture.

Feeling a little reluctant yourself, just as Steve was crossing the threshold of the double doors, you called,

“Hey, Steve?”

He turned back at the sound of your voice, looking at you over his shoulder just enough for you to admire the straight slope of his nose and the twin moles on his cheek. He was giving you that warm, anticipative smile you were beginning to grow particularly fond of.

“Yeah?”

“Would you–uhm,” Don’t get nervous now, “Would you want to join us?”

–

At Benny’s, Abbey insists on sharing a booth with Steve while you sit opposite of them on an uncomfortable, sticky vinyl chair. Steve orders a basket of fries to share and shakes for the table. Strawberry for Abbey, and chocolate for the adults.

At one point, Abbey lifts the straw from the old fashioned shake glass and attempts to spoon the whipped cream into her mouth, consequently dripping the frozen treat all over the front of her sweatshirt. You try not to fuss, even though you’re plagued with the fear that you won't be able to get the stain out of her brand new hoodie. Such is having a five-year-old, you suppose.

Steve was quick to grab the napkins at the far end of the table, surprising you with his reflexes– like he knew the mishap would occur before it actually did. 

As he’s dabbing Abbey’s shirt dry, she studies his hand and asks, “Why don’t you have a wife Mr. H?”

“Abbey!--” You scold through a poorly concealed laugh. Steve barks out a shocked huff of laughter himself.

“How do you know I don’t have a wife?” He asks, looking a little dumbfounded at the suddenly intrusive line of questioning, but amused nonetheless.

“Well, mommy used to wear a ring for daddy, but you don’t wear a ring.” She observes, “Aren’t grownups supposed to be married?”

“Ab–” You grow quickly embarrassed by your child’s lack of a filter and social cues. Again, such is having a five-year-old.

“No, that’s okay,” Steve chuckles, only slightly reassuring you, “I guess I–” he contemplates, choosing his words carefully, “I just haven’t met anyone I want to marry yet,” the only thing giving you solace is the knowledge that he probably deals with children asking him much, much more embarrassing questions, all day long.

“Oh,” Abbey says, doing some of her own contemplation, “that’s okay, Mr. H,” she comforts, like a little therapist, patting his back twice before refocusing her attention back on her milkshake.

You send Steve a look across the table, trying your hardest to convey ‘I’m so sorry my child says the shit she says, forgive me?’ with just your expression. He seems to understand what you’re attempting to get across, because he simply shakes his head and smiles like he’s trying to tell you ‘I spend everyday with her, I get it. Don’t worry about it.’

You spend the next half hour or so swapping your funniest workplace stories with each other.

“So then, we’re in the middle of a quiz right? This kid, he just–” he motions with his hands near his mouth, “projectile vomits all over the desk and the kid sitting in front of him,”

“Oh…” you wince with second-hand disgust, “that’s brutal,”

“I know!” he laughs, “I literally had to evacuate the entire classroom,”

“I feel like I remember Abbey telling me about that, actually,”

At the mention of her, he glances to his side, “Speaking of,” he chuckles.

You follow his eyes to find Abbey slumped over into Steve’s side– completely dead to the world. You can tell she’s asleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.

Steve carefully fishes a twenty dollar bill out of his jeans pocket– careful not to disturb her– and places it on the table underneath a sweaty glass that at one point contained a diet coke.

“Oh, no you don’t have to–” you say, reaching for the bill when he delicately grabs your wrist to stop you from trying to shove it back towards him. His palms are much softer than you anticipated, and the sudden movement of his arm sends a wave of his scent straight up your nose– nearly suffocating you. What a lovely way to go, you think.

“Hey, it’s okay. I want to,” he reassures you as he pushes your hand he’s still holding back in your direction. You oblige him, only because you don’t have the energy for a chivalry competition. You make a promise to yourself that if you’re ever fortunate enough to do this with him again, that you’ll foot the bill.

When you try to gently shake Abbey awake, he stops you again, “I got it,” he says, as he hoists Abbey up and carries her bridal style out of the diner and to your little sedan; you wish the waitress a good night as you exit. It’s a dark night outside, no moon or stars to be observed. The navy velvet of the sky is completely blanketed by heavy clouds. It’ll probably snow soon.

You open the rear passenger side door for Steve as he sets Abbey in her seat and fumbles a little bit with the seat belt mechanism. As he’s ducking back out, he rises just a second too early and rams his head on the top of the car with a harsh ‘THWACK!’  You try to stifle a surprised laugh behind the back of your hand as he groans and shuts the door as softly as he can.

“Oh my God, are you okay?!” You take a step closer to him as he scratches at the back of his usually perfectly coiffed locks, having lost its usual volume.

“Don’t laugh!” He playfully scolds.

“You’re laughing!” you quickly retort.

“Because you’re laughing!”

Once you’ve calmed a bit– reduced to just quiet giggling– you ask, “Can I look?” With that, he turns to give you a better look at the back of his head.

From this angle, you can unabashedly blush and grin at him and not have to worry about him seeing you. You relish in it for as long as possible, as well as the excuse to touch him, even for a moment.

“How do I look, doc? Am I gonna make it?” He says with a faux grim tone to his voice.

“Well, I’m just the receptionist– but you’re not bleeding, no cracks or contusions, either. I think you’ll be alright,”

You grin when he turns back around to face you again, this time with less space separating you, accounting for how closely you were inspecting his head. You stay like that for a moment too long, giving you just enough time to count the freckles spattered across the bridge of his nose like constellations lacking in the sky above you, and how his lashes kiss at the corner of his eyes.

He harshly clears his throat– a nervous habit, you’ve noticed– and looks down at the pavement where you stand, inches from each other.

“I’d better let you get her home, it’s getting late,”

“No yeah– definitely uhm��” you struggle to find your words again, “I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he smiles fondly, “Oh, I uh– I wanted to give you this,” from out of his coat pocket, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to you. It must’ve been in his pocket for at least a few hours, maybe even a few days– the ink smudged like he’d been nervously fidgeting with it before he gave it to you.

It was his phone number.

“You know, in case you ever–” he clears his throat again, “in case you ever need anything, or there’s an emergency, or something…” he trails off at the end of his thought like he’s completely regretting the gesture and already trying to figure out a way to back track, but before he can get the chance, you embrace him in a grateful hug.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, slightly muffled by the hood of his coat, “I really appreciate everything you do for Abbey,”

He doesn’t mention how he gave the number of his landline to you in case you ever needed anything, he just takes the win for what it is. You have his phone number, and you’re hugging him. The perfect floral scent of your shampoo and whatever perfume you’re wearing flood his senses, and he immediately misses your touch when you pull away.

“Mommy?” Abbey croaks tiredly from the backseat, “Are we going home?”

“Yes, baby, one second,” you smile apologetically at Steve for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, “I’m gonna get her to bed.”

“Of course, go,” he says as he ushers you around to the driver's side door. As much as he craves to, he doesn’t open it for you. Maybe another time, he thinks.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You say before you pull the door closed.

“Goodnight, drive safe,” he aims his sights for the backseat, “Goodnight, Ab. You did awesome today,”

“Bye, Mr. H,” she waves, eyelids heavy with the exhaustion of being everyone’s favorite five-year-old all day.

Steve waits until you’ve pulled out of the parking lot, hands shoved tightly into his jeans pockets, before walking to his own car across the parking lot.

–

About halfway home and in between bouts of nodding off, Abbey asks quietly from the backseat, “Can Mr. H be like daddy?”

Startled and slightly confused by the nature of her question, you lock eyes with her through the rearview mirror, “What?”

Even though you fully heard her the first time, she reiterates, “I mean like, because we don’t have a daddy anymore,” she pauses– thinking, “maybe he could come live with us?”

“Oh, I don’t know, baby. It doesn’t always work like that, you know?” It breaks your heart to break hers.

“But–” she pouts in that adorable way that she does when she’s trying to lure you into giving her something she wants. Though this time, you can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “He said he doesn’t have a wife!”

You can tell she’s too tired to have a productive discussion about this, and frankly– you have not a single idea of how to approach this subject, “Tell you what– how about we talk about it tomorrow when you wake up, yeah?” You try to reason, but secretly hoping she’s too drowsy to remember this conversation in the morning.

Mid-yawn she responds, “Okay…” clearly losing her battle with the hypnotic hum of the engine lulling her softly back to sleep.

–

At well past eleven o’clock, you find yourself sinking into the cushions of your thrifted sofa, staring at the faded piece of paper with Steve’s phone number scrawled on it so hard you thought it might burst into flames and disintegrate.

The drone of black and white reruns playing on the television was your only reprieve from the rushing spiral of your rumination, as you fought the urge to call Steve and ask what counted as ‘an emergency or…something.’

You wondered, against your better judgement, what you’d be interrupting if you gave into your temptation. You wonder if he, too, is lying restless somewhere in his house just like you were– if he has someone there to keep him company, and maybe you’d gotten this all wrong. You wonder if his walls are filled to the brim with photos of his life before Maine, and what brought him here in the first place. You wonder if he sleeps with the fan on or off.

You wonder if you should even be feeling this way at all.

But somewhere, in a mostly empty house on Ashburton street, Steve is staring at the white expanse of his popcorn ceiling of his bedroom pondering identical thoughts about you.

divider by @/saradika-graphics @borhapparker @alexa4040 @chiliwhore @weonlysaidgoodbyewithwordss @paddockspookie42 @foxes-n-frogs @tv-girllover07 @micheledawn1975 @cherryc1nnam0n @paleidiot @adaydreamaway30 @twinkling-moonlillie @royalestrellas @jamdoughnutmagician @cali-888 @kolsmikaelson @soulxiez @sadieshairbrush @the-witty-pen-name @ilovetaquitosmmmm @mrsnarnian

[lieslab]

Enjoy the ride and let loose

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Vampire Chan X gn reader

Summary: A lonely vampire has been searching high and low for a new pet.

Genre: Alternate reality

Word Count: 2.1K

Trigger warning: Graphic details of blood, broken bones, brief mentions of a bar, drugs, alcohol, urine, vomit, blood, more blood, mainly blood.

A/N: Someone asked for a Chan request based off the Railway music video. So um... you know what? I have nothing to say for this. This was a written sin. My heart is fluttering and I don't even swing that way. I need to go to bed. Tomorrow, we can all touch grass together

_ _ _

Empty promises and eternal salvation from a man cannot save you. The last moments of your life speckled few and far between. Grimy memories faded between who you were and who you’ve become. The dim alleyway sparse with orange light, it wasn’t the best way to get home. 

Another night working your ass off at the bar. Overtime meant more money. Customers blended together. Drinks poured. Shot glasses chimed. Rims lined with lime and salt. Beers overflowing with foam. Spirits that quite literally possessed and inebriated everyone that consumed them. 

Not the best life, but the pay was too great to give up. So you went home when the blanket of night covered the sky. You poured, sloshed, wiped, scooped, and slipped your nights away as the keeper of spirits. Keeping tabs, shutting them, and opening another. You didn’t know what downtime was, but you knew about exhaustion. 

Four twelve hour days were kicking your ass. Days blended together. You barely remembered anything. Taking the alleyway home, collapsing on the worn floral couch, waking up soaked in the scent of someone else’s alcohol. 

The dingy bar, tough crowd, scent of tobacco and skunk. When white lines appeared, when the needles came out, you kept your head low. Just as your boss instructed you to. The less you saw, the better. 

Morally, your skin soaked with sin, but what else could you do? Life didn’t throw you the greatest hand of cards. You did what you could to get by. If that meant working your ass off, nearly collapsing in the middle of that alley on the way home, so be it. 

You picked yourself up by the bootstraps because nobody else was beside you. One more day. One more conversation from intoxicated customers. One more day of dodging empty beer bottles, dealing with screams from angry customers you cut off, and the pesky reminder from your boss. Keep your head down, stay quiet, if the cops show up, you’re just the bartender. Nothing ever happens there. 

The needles poking out the women’s bathroom trash said different. Puddles of half-digested fried greasy food littered the floor, only twice, on a good day. The men’s bathroom? You begged your boss to close it. No matter how good the drunken aim, urine missed the urinal and soaked the speckled underbelly of the flushable device. 

No matter how strong the disinfectant cleaner, the gloves provided little relief from the disgusting feeling of urine soaking your hands. It dripped off the gloves. Murky ammonia scented puddles haunted your dreams. If you weren’t consumed by the scent of booze, it was the ammonia and sweat. It never got old. 

Day five happened to be the day you met the devil. Half-asleep and stumbling in the alleyway, you narrowly dodged the dumpster behind a factory. Late at night, all the workers left hours ago. In a sleepy haze, the world spiraled out of control. 

You tipped left and over-corrected right. Your legs stumbled, your head jerked back, and a soft groan of annoyance filled the air. “Why does my goddamn house have to be so far away?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

There was no time to spin around. Your eyes opened wider, just in time to find the silhouette of a hand shooting out to grab the bottom of your chin. Your eyes widened, your hand jerked upright to stop them, they grabbed your shoulder and then- 

Blinding pain. 

A sickening crunch. 

The morbid realization that your own neck could snap so easily. 

Your legs collapsed. 

An unknown laughter echoed in your ears. 

The night swallowed you whole and sucked you into its vortex. 

You didn’t make it to the sixth night of your shift alive. 

_ _ _ 

When you woke up, you were sure you were dead. An icy numbness harnessed your bones. It curdled your marrow, tucked away everything, and it stole your breath. The usual comforting stum of your heartbeat against your own chest disappeared. 

You scrambled to your feet, pushing out your hands to investigate your surroundings. Way up above, high window panels let in pale lighting, but other than that, darkness settled. It barely illuminated what you could make out to be some sort of cell. Iron bars, a heavy duty padlock wrapped around the door, and more darkness. 

Beneath your feet, a soft squishy material. Perhaps, a rubber mat? You brushed your shoe against it, trying to understand. Your sneaker scraped and then fell silent. You grabbed the bars and shook them, to no avail. 

“Easy there. You can’t get out of there if you try. Iron bars reinforced with iron, iron, and more iron.” A snicker laced an unknown’s voice. “Besides, you’re starving, aren’t you?” 

Step. Step. Step. Step. 

Chains rattled against one another. You searched around the area, not daring to push yourself too far against the bars, for fear of the unknown outside. A large white metal frame rusted away, coated with a thin layer of dust, it stretched in two different directions. Heavy footsteps wandered closer and closer until- 

Thunk. 

You didn’t recognize the man standing before you. You tried to comprehend everything about him all at once. The way his dark hair parted and framed his face. The single white eye and the other nearly dark as the night you fell victim to.

A large black leather bag dressed in small silver chains and a pair of handcuffs. He scrunched his shoulders up, relaxed, sucked in a deep breath, and smiled. “You must be starving, hm?” 

“Who are you?” 

“Who am I?” His lips tugged into a smirk. “Who am I? Who am I?” He chuckled, glanced over his shoulder, and grinned. “They want to know who I am. Should I tell them?” 

You took another step to the weathered bars. Across the way, similar cells sat, but they were a little different. The iron bars across your cell tucked you inside. On the opposite side of the hall, half-wooden stall bottoms were lined with thinner bars. 

Something shrieked and a pale hand jutted out. First one, then another, and then another. More and more lunged from the depths of darkness. Corpse-like fingers wiggled and grabbed air. Detailed veins coated the outside of their hands. Something groaned. Another soft shriek caused the man’s mood to sour. “Shut it! I didn’t ask if you were hungry!” 

“How many people are you keeping here?” 

He paused at your question and began to crane his head back towards you. “People?” You nodded, which led to another amused grin on his end. “Tell me, do you think your heart still beats with life?” 

“It has to be.” 

“And if it wasn’t?” 

Your head shook. Confused by the question and annoyed that you couldn’t get a proper response, you changed the question. “What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Christopher. As for you, my new little pet, I bet you’re starving. The new ones are always starving. Not many make it to this point. You’ve already beaten roughly ninety percent of those who have come before you.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he squatted, ripped open the zipper, and pulled out a dark pouch. With ease, he pushed it between two bars and tossed it towards you. It landed with a soft plot at your feet. 

Nausea filled your body at the sight. You could only describe it as a pouch full of blood. His eyes didn’t leave your body. Like a predator watching a prey, he observed your every move. “Better drink up while it’s still warm.” 

“Is this a sick joke?” You whispered. Confusion filled your eyes. You glanced at him, but from the look he carried, something in you knew this was something much darker than the anger of a drunk customer. 

“Drink up.” 

Behind him, another screech. He scowled, spun around, and grabbed the closest outstretched arm. Olive skin smeared with purple bruises in the faint sunlight. He snagged their wrist and began to squeeze it. 

“How many times do I have to mend your behavior? A new pet means being on your best behavior. You know what happens to those who don’t listen to me?” 

The hands began to retreat back into the darkness. When the only hand left was the one he held, his eyebrow furrowed. “Do not. Test me. Again.” He jerked the arm up and swung the wrist in a circle. 

Another sickening crunch caused you to gag. A faceless entity shrieked and jerked its hand free. The man glared for a few moments until he sighed and spun around. Another smirk appeared on his face as he sauntered back to your cell. 

“Where were we? Ah, yes. The blood. Drink up, you’re dehydrated.” 

“What’s wrong with you? Where am I? Please,” you uttered desperately, “I just want to go home.” 

“Home? In this state?” He laughed and shook his head. “This is your home for now. Monsters get lonely, you know? Every monster deserves a pet.” 

“Please,” you whispered desperately. You stepped closer and grabbed the bars. Not caring about the filth, you pressed your face against them. “I have a job and a life. That’s all I want. I won’t tell anyone.” 

“You won’t tell anyone I kidnapped you?” He whispered, thoughtfully. 

“Never.” 

Heterochromia eyes stared at yours. His face softened for a moment and he leaned closer. The scent of metallic blood hit your nose, but it didn’t stop you from trying to sway the stranger. 

“Promise?” He asked. 

He stopped your nod by grabbing your chin. “Interesting.” You stayed still, allowing him to run a thumb across your bottom lip. Nerves bombed your stomach and then dived back up like military helicopters. 

You didn’t pull away and you didn’t breathe. The soft pad of his thumb traced your lips again. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of someone like this. To have something, a pet, to share companionship.” 

You kept quiet, hoping it’d work out in your favor. Too busy studying his eyes and focusing on his face, you didn’t catch his second hand drifting towards the leather pouch. His sharp nail punctured another warm pouch. 

“Even monsters can get lonely.” 

For whatever reason, you clung to every word; a pastor preaching a convicting sermon, a sinner and a saint, a monster and a pet. Something pulled you to him, but you couldn’t explain it. Otherworldly and unnatural, it oddly felt comforting. 

“Open.” His thumb tapped your bottom lip. Your lips parted and his eyes lit up. “So obedient, just the way I like them. Stay like that for me.” His thumb went up and began to brush along the side of your cheek. “There you go. I won’t hurt you.” 

Before you could understand it, plastic filled your mouth. His other hand wrapped around your chin. You tried to jerk away, but you couldn’t. In an iron grip, he squeezed the bag of blood. The metallic taste filled your mouth and your face scrunched. 

“Shh. Just swallow. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I know it’s weird at first, but trust me. This is for your own good. Come on, swallow for me. Come on, sweetheart.” An index finger slipped down your throat, trying to coax you into submission. 

You hesitated, but followed his instructions. “Ah, there you go. Not too bad, hmm?” 

When your eyes pulled away to look over his shoulder, he gently squeezed your chin again. Your eyes met his and your legs felt weak. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

He squeezed the plastic bag more. Sticky liquid pulsed into your parted lips. Too much, some dripped down the corner of your mouth. It fell down your cheek, slid beneath your chin, and drifted towards your shirt. 

“Such a messy little pet. How cute.” His thumb stretched out before you could stop him. He caught the end of the trail, hooked his thumb between his lips, and sucked.

You should have stepped back. He let go of your chin. You should have pulled away, but instead, you didn’t move. You watched in awe. Those feelings of fear drifted away. You swallowed without being instructed. 

The fresh blood rushed through your brain and awakened something in your soul. Something ignited and that sleepy haze disappeared. The man’s dimpled smile stretched once more.  “I think we’re going to do great things together, little pet.” 

Staring back at him, you couldn’t respond. Caught in his trance, the moans of pain and shrieks of horror from the unknown bodies behind him, none of it mattered. It didn’t matter that you were sipping someone’s blood. 

You died in that alleyway, but in the middle of this abandoned prison, something deadly; and far more intoxicating than alcohol, bloomed in your bones.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

[luveline]

what abouttttt

zombie!steve and reader (at any point tho i feel like this would make sense after the college got attacked) are like scavenging in a pharmacy and steve wanting to make his girl laugh puts on the stupidest prescription glasses that he found near the front desk but then? reader comes over and hes like have you always had that mole? and he refuses to take them off even tho theyre far sighted which makes the trek back to camp slightly unsafe but he cant stop staring at readers face because hes never seen it so clear

thank you for your request<3

“I really need some chocolate,” you lament, pulling at his hand as you drift together down the aisle toward the snack section. “If they don’t have any, I’m going to kill myself.” 

“You better kill me first.” Steve pulls you back. “Seriously. Have the decency.” 

“Find me some candy and I won’t have to.” 

“Find yourself some candy, loser. I need some painkillers. I’m sick of dealing with you.” 

You push at his arm. He resists the urge to yank you in for a kiss, letting your hand drop to part ways at the top of the aisle. He makes for the back of the store where the in-store pharmacy signs hangs half off of the wall, green glass shattered like coarse sugar grains underfoot. Steve cringes, clearing a path to the desk with the side of his shoe. 

“You okay?” you call from a few feet away, unseen but close enough to be heard clearly. 

“Fine! Signs of candy?” 

“No,” you say dejectedly. He nearly misses it. 

Steve’ll find you some chocolate if it’s the last thing he does, but first, he needs painkillers. His knee aches like he’s been beaten, a funny burning string of pain lining the underside of his leg every other step. Ideally he’d like some codeine, but more realistically he wants advil. He doesn’t know where to start, never does, but if you come over he’ll pretend he understands what things go where. 

He’s lucky. He bends down and finds a bottle of motrin on the floor, looking up to find a shelf teeming with it. “Yes,” he says, ecstatic. Things rarely ever go so obviously his way. “Fucking yes.” 

He shoves as many bottles of tylenol in his various pockets as he can. Then he looks around for anything interesting. He’s sure there’s a ton of things you could benefit from. He’s been wondering about epi-pens and emergency precautions, because god forbid something happen to you he couldn’t correct. Love makes him worry. You’re worrisome, you’re so sad lately, he knows you’re a few days from another burnout. He can’t handle it —he’ll take care of you, but seeing you down for the count hurts every single time. 

He leans heavily on the counter and lets himself think. Absent-minded, he reaches out to spin the intact rungs of a glasses stand, prescription lenses shining against the glare of the sun seeping in from the store’s caved metal roof. “Plus two,” he says to himself, “plus three, what?” He grabs an obscene pair and shoves it up his nose, blinking in surprise at the way his vision blurs. 

He turns the display to the mirrored back and grins. 

“Hey, loser? You okay?” he calls. 

You don’t answer. 

“Babe?” he says sharply. 

“Oh, you’re talking to me?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You appear at the end of the aisle with an arm full of chips, less blurry the closer you get. “Sorry. Don’t call me loser then. Oh, gosh, what are you wearing?” 

“Gosh,” he mimics with a laugh. “I’ve no idea.” 

His poor attempt at a southern accent makes you laugh too. “Nice glasses, Harrington. I didn’t know you needed them.” Steve crossed his arms in front of him. You drop the chips beside his sleeve and station yourself as he had, a mirror, your smile charmed as you push the glasses up his nose. “You look ridiculous. Here,” —you take a nicer pair from the rack and open the legs— “swap them.” 

He would, but he’s looking at you, and he’s thinking, What?

You move your head away from him instinctively, but ultimately let him hold your face, his thumb on the hill of your chin, fingers curled over your cheek. He can see the little silver scars of a cruel hand around your mouth, and the cut on your cheek from a surprising wooden beam, but what he’s never noticed is the pigmentation under your mouth. The little wrinkles by your eyes. Hell, he’s never realised your eyelashes looked quite like that until now. 

“Hey–” he starts, though you’re already ducking your chin. “Wait–”

“Stop, you’re staring.” 

“Yeah, I’m staring. You always had that freckle?” 

“Long as I can remember.” 

“Wait,” he pleads, trying to grab your chin as you step away. 

“I need chocolate, Steve, I’m not kidding. You can do whatever you want to me if you help me find some.” 

“You will come to love that decision very soon.” 

You giggle like crazy. Steve swaps the less attractive glasses for the ones you’ve recommended and follows you down the aisle to help you look for your sugar fix. He nearly trips over a split can of condensed milk, and you might act like you don’t like him, but you catch him by the arm and allow him to hold on. 

He isn’t great at helping you look, but he finds a couple of bars of cooking chocolate in the baking essentials aisle and decides it’s good enough to head home with. You eat lines of it as you walk, your fingers pressed between Steve’s, a little dab of chocolate he wouldn’t have noticed otherwise in the corner of your lips. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” you ask between bites. 

He’s gonna watch you eat the whole thing. “No thanks. I’m saving room for Robin’s artichoke heart and refried bean combo.” 

“Would you take those off?” Your cheek twitches as you smile. Your eyes glow with affection. “You can barely walk.” 

“You don’t like them?” 

“They really, really suit you, actually. I love them,” you say, to his secret delight. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

He trips over his own feet and has to grab your arm to stop from falling. “That’s the problem,” you say, in love enough to smile even when the world has gone to shit for you a thousand times. Your eyes follow down his nose to his lips. 

Steve grins and ducks forward for a kiss. “Oh, sorry,” he says when the glasses bump your nose. 

You laugh and touch under his chin to help him out. You taste like chocolate still as he kisses against the seam of your lips, a quick but blissfully deep kiss, a handful of seconds where Steve feels like you’re one in the same before he pulls away, just enough to see both of your eyes. 

“What’re you looking at?” you ask. 

“You have chocolate on your nose,” he lies. “Want me to get it?” 

“Yes,” you say bashfully. 

He kisses the tip of your nose, then the corner of your lip. 

[sissylittlefeather]

Free Fallin'

Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome to my new series!! I have had this one in my head for over a year and I'm finally feeling confident enough to bring it to life. I'm kind of in love with how this first chapter turned out, so I hope some of you love it too. Please just give it a chance.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, there's no smut yet but there are references to drugs, alcohol, and suicide. Also Elvis is dead.

Word count: -3.1k

Disclaimer: this is FICTION. I am not here to challenge anyone's belief about the afterlife. This is just storytelling.

The smoke curls in the moonlight, swirling and drifting into itself like something otherworldly. Stevie swipes her hand through the white cloud and then takes another drag, blowing it straight up. She’s sitting in the sill of her open window looking out at the city as it spreads out below her shitty apartment. The music from her record player floats in the air and through the open space, probably annoying the other people in her building, but she doesn't care. The melody is sad and soulful and she needs to feel it in her bones. She takes another deep drag and the music stops.

“Goddamnit.” There's no one else there, but she still says it out loud to herself. Stubbing out the cigarette in the chipped ashtray, she pads barefooted over to the turntable and flips the record over. When she drops the needle, the smooth sounds play again and she sighs, grabbing the empty glass from the windowsill and walking to the kitchen to fill it again. But the bottle of whiskey is as empty as the glass.

“Fuck.” The exclamation is twofold: first, she realizes just how much she's had to drink and second, she's out of whiskey. She stumbles to the door and pulls on her black combat boots clumsily. Then, she grabs her old leather jacket to hide the fact that she's not wearing a bra under her tattered Guns N’ Roses t-shirt. As she looks for her keys, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyeliner is heavy and smudged, dark auburn hair sticking up wildly in several places, and her face, once on the cover of several magazines including Rolling Stone, now looks gaunt and malnourished. She looks away from the mirror to return to the task at hand, finally finding the keys on a shelf in front of a framed photo of her and her mom when she was a toddler, somewhere around 1983. She stares at it for a beat and then lays the photo down on its face. Her mother is dead now, but she doesn't need her judgmental stares from beyond the grave in the form of an old photograph. And as much as she doesn't want her mom to see, she doesn't want that little girl with the broad smile and hazel eyes seeing what she becomes either. She spins the keys around her finger and then heads out the door, closing it behind herself.

It won't take but a minute to fetch some more booze, she assures herself. What could possibly happen?

******

Elvis sits in the waiting area yet again while the Board takes their time in calling him back to see them. He's the only person in the room, so he knows that's not the holdup. This is just more of their corporate bullshit.

“Elvis? They're ready for you.” The secretary calls to him with her ear pressed to the phone receiver. “They said hurry.”

He doesn't even try to hide his eye roll and then heads through the door. This room is as white as everywhere else in heaven. It's horribly cliche, but some stereotypes happen for a reason. He walks to the chair behind the small desk in the front of what feels like a courtroom of some kind. The Board sit pompously in their white robes, the floor raised so that they're significantly higher than he is there at the desk. He's hesitant to sit down, but it doesn't look like he has much choice so he settles in the chair uncomfortably.

“Mr. Presley, you're here because you've submitted yet another request for a role change. Is that correct?” The man who speaks sits in the center of the line of people, his gray beard moving as he talks.

“Yes. That's correct.” Elvis is trying to be on his best behavior. He needs these people to trust him.

“Your request is denied–”

“Now wait just a damn minute!” A lady to the right of the man in the center gasps.

“Mr. Presley, that is completely inappropriate.”

“No. What's inappropriate is me being a Greeter for the last 35 years. I'm ready for more. Please make me a Guardian!” Every member of the Board laughs except for one man on the very end.

“Mr. Presley, you are nowhere near ready to be a Guardian.” Elvis looks at his hands in frustration. The man on the end can feel him actively trying to suppress his reaction. He watches Elvis curiously while the Board chatters amongst themselves for a bit.

“What if we put him in Collections?” Elvis whips his head up to see who said it and finds himself staring into the eyes of the man at the end of the row. “He could be an asset there.”

Elvis nods his head frantically. Anything would be better than what he's been doing for the last three and a half decades. In the beginning, he loved it, loved the idea of welcoming new souls when they made it beyond the pearly gates. So many of them had been so happy to see him that there had been a certain kind of joy in the role, even if it was a little monotonous. But as the years passed, less and less people recognized him and even fewer were happy to see him. Some had been downright hostile and rude about the fact that he was there at all. At first, it confused him, but then he started paying more attention to the things being said about him on earth. It's no wonder they thought he didn't belong in heaven. The things his old friends and other people had said about him were slanderous lies or bits taken out of context and it made him into a villain. It broke his heart and he spent several weeks refusing to leave his room, begging for something to take the edge off the pain. But there are no mind-altering substances in the afterlife. There is only the sharp sting of reality as it exists. Enduring that had been a lesson of its own. Now he was on the other side of it and desperate for some way to prove himself. He was convinced the answer was to become a Guardian and go back to earth. Even if he won't be recognizable, he can at least prove to the Board and himself that he wasn't the monster they've turned him into.

But not if they won't approve his request. This is his fourth time to make it and they turn him down every time. He's not exactly sure why they think it's so comical that he keeps asking, but he's getting real sick and tired of them.

“Collections? You think he can handle that?” The man in the center with the gray beard asks the man at the end of the row. Elvis hates when they talk about him like he's not there, but if it means something new to do, he'll sit through it.

“I do. He needs a challenge. I think that's a good place to start.” The rest of the Board deliberates for a while on this compromise. Elvis’s heart is in his throat in anticipation. Finally, the oldest man in the center holds his hand up and the other members fall into silence.

“Put him in Collections. See how he handles it.” With that final statement, the Board turns and files out through a door on the back wall. The last one to exit is the man that had argued for Elvis. He turns to look back and Elvis mouths “thank you.” The man just tips his head in acknowledgement and then disappears. The secretary appears and takes Elvis back to the waiting room. She tells him he will receive instructions for his new assignment soon and should return to his room to wait. His leg shakes with a blend of nervousness and excitement. He hasn't had anything new to do since he's been here.

******

Stevie sits at the red light nodding until someone honks and she wakes up and realizes it's turned green. She knows she shouldn't be driving, but the store is just far enough that walking is out of the question, especially in her current state. Besides, the feeling of the wind on her face with the window down gives her the illusion that there's a world outside of her, one that doesn't hurt so much.

After she gets what she needs at the store, she waits at the parking lot exit, turn signal blinking to take her back home. But there's a deep ache inside her that begs her not to go back to that place. Not alone. So she ignores her signal and turns the other way toward the bridge. She loves the water, especially at night, the waves lapping quietly against the concrete.

That's how she finds herself here, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other, looking out over the river. She leans over to peer down into the cold waves and wonders briefly what it might be like to plunge into them. Would anyone even notice?

******

Elvis paces the small amount of floor there is in his quarters. It's nothing like the space he was accustomed to at Graceland or in LA or even his suite in Vegas. He could turn on the tv and watch the happenings on earth. It's an election year in America and he's been following the progress, hoping that the sitting president will be re-elected, being the first Black president and all. Still, he's too nervous for that today.

Eventually, there's a knock on his door and an envelope slips in through the mail slot. Inside it are instructions for him to report to the Collections department for training and his assignment. He goes immediately without another thought.

In the Collections office, he's told he is going to earth to collect a difficult soul. This will be his main job. Go to earth, bring the soul back to heaven. Elvis nods. Seems easy enough.

“Alright, now that you know what to do and how to do it, you need to be fully equipped.” The angel in charge of training him speaks like he's about to give Elvis the best Christmas gift he's ever received.

“Equipped?”

“You're going to earth, aren't you? You'll need to get back.” He's dropping hints left and right but Elvis is not picking them up.

“Yes. And? How do I do that?” The trainer sighs exasperatedly and then walks to a large closet. He turns and sizes Elvis up and then slides a thick, flat box big enough to hold a suit in it out of the closet and sets it on the table in front of him.

“Open it.” Elvis assumes it'll hold some kind of garment, so he pulls the lid off unceremoniously while the trainer purses his lips.

When he sees what's inside, though, Elvis's attitude changes entirely.

Wings.

White, feathered, humming with energy, glowing a little, and almost alive, but unmistakably wings.

He looks up at the trainer, his eyes wide and reverent and finally the man is satisfied with his response.

“These are mine?” He holds out a trembling hand, but is afraid to touch them.

“Yes. They will be yours forever unless you do something to lose them.” Elvis looks up at him.

“Like what?”

“That you'll have to ask someone else. I'll leave you alone to put them on.” With that, the trainer turns and leaves Elvis alone in the room with the box. He looks down at it again and sighs. Wings.

The thought occurs to him that he has no idea how to put them on, but that doesn't seem to matter. He gently lifts them from the black box and whimpers in shock as they start to almost crawl up his arms. The wings are alive as they move along him, brushing his cheeks with warm, living feathers as they make their way back to his shoulder blades. He stands in awe, humbled by the experience of being claimed. And then searing pain rips through his back and he stumbles backward, groaning loudly. There's another shooting streak of pain identical to the first on his other shoulder.

“Goddamnit!” He falls to his knees and the pain settles into a dull ache. When he recovers, he stands and tries to adjust to the shift in his weight so that he doesn't fall over backwards. There's a strange tingling sensation coming from a place he's never felt before, like a phantom limb. But it's not phantom, it's the wings, and they're real. He imagines moving one the same way he tells his arms and legs to move and the wing extends. When he does the same thing with the other, it bumps into the wall and there's a sensation of pain, like stubbing your toe on something.

“Ah! Shit!” He instinctively pulls the wing back in close to his body. The trainer comes back in, beaming with pride at how quickly the wings took to him.

“You'll get used to them.” Then a thought occurs to Elvis.

“I'm gonna be on earth. Won't these kinda… stand out…?” The trainer laughs quietly and shakes his head.

“Humans won't be able to see them. Did you ever notice an angel when you were on earth?” Elvis shrugs and shakes his head.

“Guess not.”

“Your first assignment is almost ready. Let's go.”

Elvis follows the trainer out of the room to the Hub that allows travel between the planes. He's heard of this place, but never seen it. It's like a giant celestial train station if there were no trains, just circular pads to stand on and evaporate. The trainer leads him to one marked with the name of a city and then situates him on the pad.

“Her name is Stevie Rivers. You'll know her when you see her.”

“How?”

“You just will. And remember, you are there to collect her. Nothing else. Don't be a hero. Collect.” Elvis nods. It doesn't sound like a hard job. “Alright, good. You ready?”

“Ready as I'll–” The trainer hits some kind of button and Elvis feels himself start to shift. It almost feels like melting and it's a rather unpleasant sensation. But it's over as quickly as it starts and he opens his eyes.

It's dark.

His eyes start to adjust as his other senses pick up on the sounds of quiet waves and the smell of wet earth. His clothes have changed too. The white suit he wears in heaven is replaced with dark jeans and a black leather jacket. Earth clothes. And rather grungy ones, really. Oh well, he won't be here long. He looks around for this woman he's supposed to be collecting, but he doesn't see her at first. Then, his gaze lands on a car parked across the bridge from him. He moves until he catches a glimpse of her. She's sitting on the edge of the bridge, feet dangling over the side. Without thinking about it, he moves a little closer to her, close enough to hear that she's singing. His heart almost stops. Her voice is hauntingly beautiful, edgy and seductive, and he's drawn to her like a siren. It's the kind of song that makes your bones ache and your soul vibrate and he has to actively stop himself from approaching her. The trainer’s words echo in his brain: collect her. Nothing else.

It almost hurts to think about this beautiful, sad girl dying so young. It's too familiar, too real, and he feels a weight settle in his chest. His wings wrap around him and he shakes with sobs. No. This is not an easy job.

He's thinking to himself about going back to heaven defeated when he hears a sound. A scream. And then he's running.

******

Stevie finishes her song and then tosses her cigarette in the water. She knows she shouldn't litter like that but right now, she doesn't care about anything. Another long pull from the whiskey bottle and she's ready to go home. She turns and tries to set it on the ledge, but in her drunken state, she only half does and it starts to fall. Her reactions are slow, but she tries to catch the bottle, twisting her body. But when she does, she loses her balance and screams.

There's no one to hear her as she falls off the ledge towards the water below.

Or, at least, that's what she thinks.

She hits the icy water with a crash and her second scream is swallowed by the waves. It's too cold and too dark and she's too drunk to swim. She starts to sink, memories of her life running through her like a movie: her mother’s laughter as they dance to an old Elvis record, one of her mother's shows that's too loud for her little kid ears, a surprisingly nice day at the park where her mother smokes cigarettes and argues with a man she thinks might be her father, cleaning up her mom and making sure she doesn't OD in her sleep, a stage with burning lights and a crowd of thousands as she pours her soul into the microphone, press days and autographs and tours and recording sessions, and then nothing at all.

Elvis dives into the water without thinking. It's cold, but he manages to get her to the surface and his wings take over, pulling them both to the safety of the bridge. He lays her on the concrete and pats her face.

“Stevie? Come on, honey. Don't do this.” He leans over and blows into her mouth, not even sure what he's doing, but he has to try. A couple more breaths like this and she finally coughs and splutters. He turns her on her side so she can spit up all the water in her lungs.

When she comes to, Stevie opens her eyes and is met with the strangest sight she's ever seen. He's weirdly familiar, but she's too drunk to place him. And the wings. Giant and white and spread out behind him like some kind of angel.

“There you are, honey.” He caresses her face gently, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

“Who are you?” She whispers, her voice hoarse from coughing.

“I'm–” Suddenly, there's a strange pulling sensation behind his navel and he feels the unpleasant melting sensation again. He wants to scream, but he's paralyzed until it ends.

Stevie blinks a few times. She sits up and looks around frantically, but she's alone on the bridge. A shiver runs down her spine that has nothing to do with the water. He was there. He was real.

Where did he go?

******

What happens now?!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @polksaladava @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69 @pxpresley @kxnnxy @angelriley222 @iloveelvis2 @ladelinee

[eu-nicola]

a really bad time part 1

summary: miguel and you have been good friends for a while but now those things seemed to change

warnings: forbidden love (?) cheating (?) idk

word counter: 4837

author’s note: english is not my first language

The echo of your strikes resonated in the empty dojo, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of your breathing. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting a golden glow over the tatami as your feet moved with precision, every hit thrown with absolute control. You liked training alone when the dojo was silent, no judging eyes, no corrections, no interruptions. Just you and the training.  

You threw one last kick at the heavy bag and stopped, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. You were just catching your breath when you heard the dojo door open.  

"Training alone again?"  

Miguel’s familiar voice made your back tense for a split second before you forced yourself to relax.  

You turned to see him leaning against the doorway with a smile. He was wearing his white gi, but his belt was still untied, and his hair was slightly messy.  

"Sometimes it's easier to focus without the noise," you said, rolling your shoulders to loosen them up.  

"Or you could train with me," he said, stepping onto the tatami.  

It was an innocent offer, something you’d done plenty of times before. But for some reason, the thought of being alone with him at that moment sent a weird feeling through your chest.  

"You think you can keep up with me?" you teased, trying to lighten the mood.  

Miguel chuckled, tying his belt before getting into his stance.  

"Want to find out?"  

That was all the invitation you needed. You both started off slow, almost like a rehearsed dance first, controlled attacks, testing each other, then precise defenses. As time passed, the intensity grew, strikes getting faster, dodges getting tighter.  

Miguel’s attacks were calculated, but you weren’t about to give an inch. You blocked a spinning kick and countered with a punch he barely dodged, his body leaning back at the last second.  

"Almost," he said with a playful smirk.  

"Next time, I won’t miss."  

The training continued, both of you pushing each other to the limit, breaths coming in short gasps, muscles tense with every move. Then, in a split second of miscalculation, you both attacked at the same time.  

Your hands shot up to block just as Miguel moved forward, and suddenly, his face was inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours. Neither of you moved, frozen in that moment suspended in time.  

The silence was deafening. Your heart pounded, though you weren’t sure if it was from the adrenaline of the fight or something more dangerous. His eyes flicked down to your lips for a brief second before meeting yours again, sending a shiver down your spine.  

No.  

You quickly stepped back, breaking the moment like his closeness had burned you.  

"Good move," you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little lower than usual.  

Miguel blinked, like he’d just realized what had happened. Then he nodded, running a hand through his hair and looking away.  

"Yeah… good move."  

Before the tension could stretch any further, the dojo door swung open, and the voices of your classmates filled the space.  

"Aw, you guys started without us!" Hawk called out, walking in with a water bottle in hand.  

Behind him, Sam and the others followed, all smiling and getting ready for practice.  

Your eyes met Miguel’s one last time before you quickly looked away. No one seemed to have noticed anything, and maybe that was for the best.  

You shook your head, pushing away the strange flutter in your stomach, and took a deep breath.  

Laughter and conversation filled the dojo, dissolving any trace of the tension from minutes ago. You forced yourself to relax, to act normal as everyone prepped for class.  

Sam walked up to Miguel with a bright smile and, without hesitation, stood on her toes to kiss him on the lips.  

"Hey, babe," she said sweetly, slipping an arm around his waist.  

You watched the scene with a neutral expression, like it didn’t affect you at all. But deep down, there was a small, uncomfortable sting in your chest. It shouldn’t matter. It had no reason to matter. And yet, the image stuck in your mind.  

"Alright, enough chit-chat!" The sensei’s firm voice echoed through the dojo, snapping everyone’s attention back. "Positions!"  

You took a deep breath and got into place, ready for class. Training was intense, as always, and you focused on every strike, every movement, using the physical exhaustion to clear your head.  

By the time class ended, you were drenched in sweat and more than ready to go home. You said a quick goodbye to everyone and left the dojo without sticking around to chat.  

The night air was cool against your overheated skin, and you welcomed the feeling as you walked home. A shower and some rest, that’s all you needed to forget about that weird moment with Miguel.  

But then, your phone buzzed in your pocket.  

You pulled it out and saw his name lighting up the screen.  

Miguel: "Hey... did you get home okay?"  

Your brows furrowed slightly. It wasn’t unusual for him to send messages like that, but after what happened in the dojo, just seeing it made you tense up.  

You took a deep breath and forced yourself to answer normally.  

You: "Yeah, all good. You?"  

A few minutes passed before he replied.  

Miguel: "Yeah, me too. Get some rest."  

You stared at the screen for a moment before locking your phone and setting it aside.  

There was nothing weird about those messages. No reason for you to feel like this.  

Shaking your head, you pushed the thought away and went on with your night like nothing had happened.

The next day, the dojo was more lively than usual when you arrived. Some people were already training, others were chatting in groups. You headed to a corner to start warming up on your own, staying on the sidelines for a moment.  

Everything seemed normal until you looked up and saw Miguel.  

He was on the other side of the dojo, also getting ready, but his gaze met yours for a brief moment.  

A moment that lasted too long.  

It was like you both remembered at the same time what had happened the day before. The closeness, the shared air, the way you had felt his breath mix with yours.  

You looked away first, but you couldn’t ignore the strange flutter in your stomach.  

Act normal.  

You went to grab a water bottle, trying to distract yourself, but just as you turned around, Miguel did too, and you bumped into each other slightly.  

"Oh, sorry," you said automatically, stepping back.  

"No, my bad," he replied with a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck.  

The awkwardness between you was obvious. No one else seemed to notice, but you felt it strongly.  

It lingered in the air for a few more seconds, like neither of you knew what to say or how to react. But then, Miguel cleared his throat and forced a smile.  

"I guess we’re a little distracted today," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.  

You let out a small laugh, nodding.  

"Yeah, must be that."  

And with those simple words, you both silently decided it was best to let it go. Pretend nothing weird had happened, that you were still just the same friends as always. After all, there was no point in getting stuck on something so small.  

Training started, and you focused on every move, every hit, every dodge. As the minutes passed, the weird feeling faded, and everything went back to normal.  

Or at least, that’s what you wanted to believe.  

When class ended, Sam walked over with an excited smile.  

"Guys!" she called out, grabbing everyone’s attention. "I’m throwing a party at my place tonight. Nothing crazy, just a little get-together with friends. Who’s in?"  

A bunch of people nodded and gave excited answers.  

"Of course I’m going," Hawk said with a confident grin.  

"Me too," Demetri added, though with less enthusiasm.  

You looked at Sam and smiled.  

"Count me in."  

It had been a while since you’d gone to a party, and even though you saw your friends every day at the dojo, a party was different.  

Miguel agreed to go too, and after a bit more chatting, everyone started heading home to get ready for the night.  

As you walked back, you felt a small excitement bubbling in your chest. Yeah, a party was exactly what you needed.  

When you got home, the first thing you did was flop onto your bed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being home after training. But it didn’t last long because you remembered the party and that you had to start getting ready.  

With a sigh, you rolled over and forced yourself to get up, heading to the bathroom. You turned on the shower and let the hot water relax your tense muscles as you closed your eyes for a moment. The idea of the party excited you, especially since it had been a while since you’d had a night out with your friends without thinking about fights or training.  

As soon as you got out of the shower and wrapped yourself in a towel, your phone started ringing on the nightstand. You walked over barefoot and saw Sam’s name lighting up the screen.  

"Hey," you answered, towel-drying your hair.  

"Come get ready at my place!" she said excitedly.  

"Now?"  

"Yeah, so we can get ready together and head out straight to the party. Come on!"  

"Alright, give me ten minutes and I’ll be there."  

"I’ll be waiting!"  

You hung up and quickly threw on something comfortable before heading to Sam’s house.  

When you got there, her room was already a mess, clothes, makeup, and accessories everywhere.  

"Finally!" she said with a grin. "I still don’t know what to wear."  

"When do you ever?" you teased, stepping in and dropping your bag on a chair.  

Sam stuck her tongue out at you and kept digging through her clothes.  

"Help me pick," she said, holding up two options.  

The first was a tight black mini dress with thin straps, elegant but bold. The second was a red leather skirt with a black long-sleeve top that had shoulder cut-outs.  

"I like the second one better," you said, pointing at the red skirt.  

Sam grinned.  

"Yeah, me too."  

While she got changed, you started looking for your own outfit. After going through a few options, you settled on a short black dress that highlighted your figure. Simple but flattering.  

You both got ready together, laughing and chatting about the party. Sam did her makeup with precision while you added soft waves to your hair.  

"You’re gonna break hearts tonight," Sam teased with a smirk, glancing at you.  

"Yeah, sure," you said, rolling your eyes.  

"Who knows? Maybe someone at the party will have their eye on you."  

You didn’t respond, just focused on finishing up.  

Little by little, people started arriving. First Hawk and Demetri, then more dojo friends. Music was already playing, and the energy in the house was getting livelier.  

You were in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink when you heard the door open again and Sam’s excited voice.  

"Babe!"  

You turned slightly and saw him walk in. He was wearing a denim jacket over a white t-shirt and dark jeans. He looked good, not that you were going to think about that.  

He greeted Sam first, giving her a quick kiss on the lips before turning to you.  

"Hey," he said with a friendly smile.  

"Hey," you replied casually.  

And just like that, the awkwardness from the past few days seemed to disappear.  

The party went on without a hitch. You laughed, danced, talked about nonsense, and just enjoyed the night. You felt comfortable, relaxed, not overthinking anything.  

But when the tiredness started hitting, you knew it was time to go.  

"I think I’m heading out," you told Sam, who was still dancing with some friends.  

"Already?"  

"It’s late, and I’m exhausted."  

"Alright, text me when you get home."  

As you made your way to the door, Miguel caught up with you.  

"You’re leaving already?"  

"Yeah, I’m sleepy."  

"I’ll walk you home."  

His response was immediate and natural. It wasn’t weird, he always offered to walk you home after parties, so you just nodded.  

"Okay."  

You left together, stepping out into the quiet night, the street lit only by streetlights.  

The cool air was a sharp contrast to the heat of the party, and for the first time all night, a small nervousness crept into your chest. Not that there was a reason for it. Not after deciding to leave any awkwardness behind.  

But then Miguel spoke.  

"Tonight was fun."  

"Yeah, it’s been a while since we went to a party."  

"True. We should do it more often."  

You smiled.  

"Yeah, definitely."  

Silence settled between you, but this time, it wasn’t awkward, it was peaceful.  

When you reached your front door, Miguel stopped.  

"Well, you got home safe."  

"Thanks for walking me."  

He nodded, hands in his pockets.  

"Get some rest."  

"You too."  

And with that, you stepped inside, closing the door behind you.

But even when you were safe in your room, you couldn't shake the feeling that something in the dynamic between you two was changing.  

The next few days flew by in a blink. You barely saw Miguel, not because you were avoiding him, but because you were busy with your own stuff. Between training at the dojo, finals at school, and the excitement of the upcoming prom, you barely had time to think about anything else.  

And that worked just fine for you.  

But even if you didn’t want to admit it, every time you ran into Miguel, something in the air shifted.  

It was subtle, almost unnoticeable but it was there.  

The way he looked at you a little longer than necessary, like he was analyzing you, searching for something in your expression. And more than once, you caught yourself doing the same.  

Even at school, whenever you crossed paths in the hallways or the cafeteria, you could feel his eyes on you before you even looked up to meet his gaze. And every time it happened, you looked away quickly, like it meant nothing.  

Because it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.  

"You seem distracted," one of your friends said one day while you were having lunch together.  

"Distracted?" you asked, looking up from your tray.  

"Yeah. Sometimes it feels like you're in another world. Are you okay?"  

"Yeah, of course," you lied with a smile. "I've just been busy."  

And that was partly true. You weren’t just focused on school and the dojo you were also excited about prom.  

You had been talking to this guy for a while, someone you got along with and thought you'd have a good time with. It wasn’t anything serious, but when he asked you to go to prom with him, you didn’t hesitate to say yes.  

After all, what better way to enjoy the night than with someone who made you laugh?  

The day you announced your prom date at the dojo, everyone reacted with excitement.  

"You're gonna look amazing!" Sam said, thrilled.  

"And who's the lucky guy?" Hawk asked with a teasing grin.  

"Just a friend," you shrugged.  

But what really caught your attention was Miguel’s reaction.  

At first, he didn’t say anything, just nodded with a small smile but you noticed the way his jaw tensed slightly.  

It was a tiny gesture, almost imperceptible.  

But you saw it.  

And for some reason, the idea that it bothered him left you with a strange feeling in your chest.  

You shook your head, refusing to give it any importance. You weren’t going to analyze every look, every gesture. You weren’t going to let a simple dance distract you from what really mattered.  

So you decided to ignore it.  

After that, the weekend arrived faster than you expected, bringing with it the excitement of picking out your dress for prom. You and Sam had planned this day in advance, knowing you wanted to experience it all, trying on dresses, laughing at ridiculous options, and finally finding the perfect outfit.  

The mall was buzzing with energy, filled with other students doing the same thing. You walked through the stores, looking at the displays packed with sparkly and elegant dresses.  

"I can’t believe graduation is so close," Sam said as you passed a store with a huge dress display at the entrance.  

"I know, it feels like everything happened in a second," you replied, excited for the hunt.  

You walked into the first store and immediately started browsing the racks. Sam was looking for something glamorous, while you wanted something elegant but simple.  

After a while, Sam held up a dress with a beaming smile.  

"This one is perfect!" she exclaimed.  

The dress was a deep sapphire blue, with a fitted corset and a layered tulle skirt that gave it a princess-like feel. The sweetheart neckline and delicate straps added a sophisticated touch.  

"It’s beautiful," you admitted with a smile.  

"I’m gonna try it on. Keep looking for yours," she said before disappearing into the fitting rooms.  

You kept scanning the store, running your hands over the fabrics, until a dress caught your eye.  

It was black, made of a material that hugged the body perfectly, highlighting every curve with elegance. The design was simple but striking, with a straight neckline and thin straps resting over your shoulders. But the most stunning part was the open back, with a deep cut that added a bold and sophisticated touch.  

You held it in your hands, feeling the smooth fabric, and you knew instantly that this was the one.  

"I think I found mine," you said out loud, catching Sam’s attention as she stepped out of the fitting room in her dress.  

"Wow!" she exclaimed when she saw you holding it. "That dress screams ‘mysterious and dangerous.’"  

"Is that a good thing?"  

"Absolutely."  

You both tried on your dresses and looked at yourselves in the mirror. Sam twirled around, making her skirt flow gracefully.  

"I love it," she said, satisfied.  

You looked at yourself in the mirror too, and for the first time in a long while, you felt different. More confident, more powerful.  

The dress was perfect.  

"This is the one," you said with conviction.  

Sam looked at you and grinned.  

"We’re gonna look incredible."  

After paying for the dresses, you decided to celebrate with coffee and something sweet at the mall’s café.  

You spent the afternoon talking about graduation, what came next, and how excited you were for prom.  

It was a perfect day.  

But in the back of your mind, there was a small voice telling you that there was one particular person whose reaction to your dress you wanted to see.  

And even though you tried to ignore it… you couldn’t.  

The weeks flew by. School, the dojo, and graduation preparations kept your mind busy, busy enough to avoid thinking about certain things. Or certain people.  

Miguel.  

Without even realizing it, you started avoiding him. It wasn’t planned or intentional, but somehow, every time you saw him, you found a reason to be somewhere else. If he texted you, you took hours to reply, and when you did, your answers were short and cold. If you ran into him at the dojo, you kept the interaction minimal, focusing only on training.  

He noticed.  

You could tell by how persistent he became, how he started messaging you more, asking if something was wrong, if he had done anything to upset you. But you never gave him a clear answer.  

Because you didn’t even know what was wrong.  

You didn’t want to analyze it. You didn’t want to think about why you felt this way. It was easier to ignore it, to focus on the dance and the night ahead.  

And finally, the day had come.  

You started getting ready early, making sure everything was perfect. You took your time with every little detail:  

Your skin glowed after applying your favorite lotion. Your makeup was subtle but flawless, highlighting your features perfectly.  

When it was time to put on the dress, you took a deep breath.  

Black hugged your figure like it had been made just for you. The smooth, fitted fabric accentuated your curves in a classy way, and the open-back design added a bold touch that made you feel powerful.  

But you wanted something extra.  

You grabbed a delicate, long necklace, thin gold chain with a small pendant that rested right in the center of your bare back.  

A subtle but beautiful detail.  

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t help but smile. You felt amazing.  

You put on your heels, gave yourself one last look, and you were ready.  

The sound of the doorbell announced your date’s arrival.  

One last glance in the mirror to make sure everything was just right, and then you walked down the stairs with confidence.  

When you opened the door, your date smiled wide.  

“Wow,” he said, clearly impressed. “You look incredible.”  

“Thanks,” you replied with a smile.  

He was wearing a perfectly fitted black suit, with a tie that matched your dress. In his hands, he held a small box with a corsage inside a delicate bracelet of red flowers.  

“This is for you,” he said, opening the box and carefully taking out the floral arrangement.  

You extended your wrist, and he placed it on gently.  

“Thank you,” you said, admiring the detail.  

“Now it’s your turn,” he added, nodding toward the small box you were holding with a boutonnière inside.  

Smiling, you took the pin and, with steady but careful hands, attached it to his suit.  

“All set,” you said.  

“Can we take a few pictures before you go?” your mom asked from the doorway.  

“Of course,” you nodded.  

Your parents were excited. Your mom made sure the lighting was just right to capture every detail, while your dad joked that if they kept taking so many pictures, you wouldn’t get there on time.  

You posed with your date at the entrance, in the yard, even on the porch steps. Solo shots, pictures together, ones with your mom, ones with your dad.  

When they were finally done, you hugged your parents and headed to your date’s car.  

By the time you arrived at the venue, music and lights had already filled the place with contagious energy. Guys and girls, dressed in their best outfits, moved around, some on the dance floor, others at the tables, laughing and chatting.  

You quickly spotted your group of friends.  

Walking over with your date, you introduced him naturally.  

“Guys, this is Oliver.”  

Sam was the first to smile and greet him enthusiastically.  

“Hey! Nice to meet you.”  

Hawk and Demetri followed with jokes and good vibes, easily bringing him into the conversation.  

But then, you looked at Miguel.  

He was there, expression neutral, but there was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite read.  

“Hey, Miguel,” you said, hoping he’d respond like the others.  

“Hey,” was all he said. No smile, no excitement like when he greeted the rest.  

A brief awkward silence followed before Sam jumped in again, switching topics and keeping the conversation going.  

You decided not to dwell on it.  

Tonight was about having fun.  

About getting distracted.  

About forgetting whatever had been messing with your head these past few weeks.  

So you took your date’s hand and smiled.  

“Let’s dance.”

The dance floor was full of energy. The vibrant music had everyone moving without a care, and you were no exception. You danced with Oliver, enjoying the rhythm and the joy of the night. He had good moves, but most importantly, he made you laugh with his exaggerated steps and goofy expressions.  

After a couple of songs, you started feeling exhausted.  

"I need a break," you said, laughing as you leaned on his shoulder for a second.  

"I’ll go with you," Oliver offered, but you shook your head.  

"Go keep dancing, I’ll be back in a bit."  

He nodded and gave you a playful wink before heading back to the dance floor. You walked over to the drink table and grabbed a cup of cold punch. The refreshing liquid helped cool you down as you took a deep breath, trying to catch your breath.  

Just as you took another sip, you felt someone standing next to you.  

"You look beautiful."  

You recognized the voice instantly.  

Miguel.  

You lifted your gaze and found him staring at you. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t trying to play it casual. His dark eyes had a strange glint, one you couldn’t quite figure out.  

You looked down and simply muttered, "Thanks."  

You didn’t want to give this conversation any more space. You didn’t want to give more power to the emotions starting to stir inside you. So, without saying anything else, you set your cup down and walked away, heading to one of the empty tables to rest.  

From there, you watched as Miguel returned to the dance floor and joined Sam. She took his hand, and they started moving to the music. They looked good together, like always. But there was something… something about the way he looked at you while dancing with her.  

He wouldn’t take his eyes off you.  

And you noticed.  

Every time he spun with Sam, his eyes landed on yours. Every time she laughed, he glanced in your direction.  

Something inside you tightened.  

Trying to distract yourself, you got up and went back to Oliver, who smiled as soon as he saw you.  

"I thought you were done with me," he joked.  

"Not yet," you replied with a smile.  

Just then, the music changed. A softer, more romantic melody filled the air, and the lights in the room dimmed. Oliver raised an eyebrow.  

"Care to dance?"  

You smiled and nodded, letting him place his hands on your waist while you wrapped your arms around his neck. The two of you swayed slowly to the rhythm, moving along with the other couples on the dance floor.  

You tried to focus on the moment, on the sense of comfort Oliver gave you.  

But then you felt it again.  

That stare.  

You lifted your eyes, and through the dim lights, you found Miguel watching you.  

It wasn’t just a passing glance.  

It was intense. Unwavering.  

Pressing your lips together, you rested your head on Oliver’s shoulder, trying to ignore it. But the feeling of being watched never faded.  

When the slow song ended, the DJ switched to a more upbeat track. The dance floor came alive again, and everyone moved with excitement.  

Oliver leaned in.  

"I’m grabbing a drink, want anything?"  

"I’m good, thanks."  

You smiled at him and watched as he walked toward the drink table, just as Sam stepped away from the crowd with the same idea.  

And then, in the middle of the music and flashing lights, Miguel appeared in front of you.  

You didn’t say anything.  

Neither did he.  

But he was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him.  

Then, his hand slid subtly down your bare back, right where your necklace chain rested lightly against your skin.  

A shiver ran through you instantly.  

The touch was light, but it left a burning trace behind.  

"If things were different…" Miguel murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.  

Your heart skipped a beat.  

You dared to look up and found those dark eyes staring back at you, caught between longing and guilt.  

You didn’t know what to say.  

Or maybe you did, but the weight of the moment kept the words stuck in your throat.  

Just as you were about to whisper something back, a voice broke through the tension.  

"There you guys are!"  

The bubble burst.  

Sam was there, smiling, completely unaware of the atmosphere between you and Miguel.  

"Come on, guys! Let’s not just stand around in the middle of the dance floor!"  

Miguel instantly took a step back, pulling his hand away from your back like it had burned him.  

You did the same, looking down as you tried to regain your composure.  

The music kept playing.  

The party went on.  

But something inside you wasn’t the same anymore.

[blueishspace]

Hero, Villain God 25

(Prev) (Next) (First)

*Grian's pov*

You look at her... waiting... she said it was complicated... you have no idea what that would even mean in this context.

"Well, I'm listening."

She waves in the air dismissively.

"... Yeah, yeah... I have to say that It happened for two reasons mostly...even then though...gross oversimplification"

"Oh?"

"As the goddess of wisdom I see things even you don't. Or maybe saying I notice things is more correct"

"I doubt it"

"Do you want me to explain or?"

"Right, sorry Pearl, go on"

"Have you seen the hero association? Looked at their behavior? The one here in Hermmittopia is not unique in It's corruption and treatment of heroes but trust me... it's really bad"

You get that much.

"... Yeah, when I inteviewed they ask me how I fit the brand. A bit cringe of them."

"Yes ... Cunts, all of them."

She huffs as she looks away.

"So what? Did you become a villain to stop them?"

"I did not choose to become a villain, I started as a vigilante but they named me a villain for messing up too many of their dealings... I decided to stick with it, the fearsome reputation gives a lot of possibilities."

"And vigilantism and villainy is the only way?"

"Are you really asking me that Grian?"

"Oh, Not judging by the way, my reasons are far less noble no matter how you spin it ... Guess I'm just curious."

"You really are prideful aren't you?"

...huh? That was just out of nowhere! You don't get why she would even say that.

"Do you really think only you can handle more then one identity?"

"Oh... So you are doing like me aren't you!? How exciting!"

"Heh, you could say that mate... Though not nearly as many as you... I do actually have some amount of sanity"

The two of you look to eachother in silence for a few seconds, it is weirdly tranquil here in this place, Pearl's domain is not somewhere you are used to be in...wisdom and chaos don't really mesh well and you can feel it even with her holding the worst of it back. Let's just get this done with so you can go.

"And the second?"

"... The second reason, yes"

"I'm guessing you are less proud of this one, I can tell by the voice."

"You could say that, villainy is a good way to deal with a certain rage."

... You don't remember Pearl having anger problems, quite the opposite really, as the goddess of wisdom you thought she would be really hard to anger.

"Anger? That's...new?"

"The corruption of the blood god, it seems one can cure it only so many times before they themselves become the target"

The blood god corrupted her? She doesn't look like most corrupted beings, she seems pretty aware and not murderous.

"... Bloodlust?"

"Yes ... I can hold it back most of the time but I need to let it out at times or it might bottle up and eventually explode out"

You sit back, you do have a question. Well, you have a bunch of questions really but you'll start with one... For now at least, that might change later.

"But why have you not cured yourself like you do to others? Isn't that like your whole thing? Curing the blood curse?"

"I can't... The curse takes hold every time I try... When that happens, or whenever the hunger wins... I have named that me Scarlet Pearl... I really hope you don't have to meet her."

You don't mind violence, you doubt it would end up badly for you either way.

"Oh I disagree, I'm sure we would get along great"

"Don't even joke about it"...

"Why have you not contacted the older gods? Like me?"

"You can't cure something like this and when I asked Life she wasn't able to do much...only Time and Order could do something and they will not intervene with the natural course of events. You know that even more then I."

"That's...true."

The two of you spend some time in the garden of wisdom, recounting the last few hundreds years to eachother...you do skip over a bunch though, you don't enjoy being here... You have never been paricularly close with Santa Perla, you have barely interacted really, but you suppose you are in this together now...It's... Well, you'll see how it goes. You want to say something but you are beat to it by her.

"I think we should return to the mortal plane"

It's like she read your mind, or maybe she did, who knows.

"Yeah..."

And like that you are in the alleyway and she is gone, left behind is a phone number written on a piece of paper.

It seems your civilian identity is going to meet someone new pretty soon.

[ace-of-gay]

hello <3 i hope you are doing well!

i was wondering if you could do a papa emeritus or ghoul x a regressor with a cold?

i have been down sick for like a week now and i live and breathe ghost agere right now

anyways thank you <3

Sickly ghoul

Warnings: just some not very detailed descriptions of age regression

age regression is a coping that can both voluntary and/or involuntary it is entirely safe and reccomended by therapists if they believe it would be effective for said person but as mentioned for some people it is entirely unpredictable, if this makes you uncomfortable please carry on elsewhere thank you <3

⸸~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⛧~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⸸

It started with the headache before the last ritual in this stretch of the country, a rolling pain that cast in like wayves in the ocean crashing as the shore rises.

not thinking much of it you drink an extra bottle of water and take a couple store brand over the counter pain killers giving it all through rehearsals to let them set in and do their job, the shrill of sodos guitar before tain stops him is absolutely agonizing, you try not to let it affect you but with how you wince back from your place just enough for papa copia to notice out of the corner of his eye and glance over but in that time you had corrected yourself and shrugged it off hoping that you could just take more pain killers between the rehearsal and the ritual.

After rehearsals, a spinning and pounding head was now accompanied by feeling like your body was cold sweating, making the assumption you were anxious yousit down to breath for a moment, taking one more pain killer and another swig of water you apply your glamor making your full ghoulish horns, tail and pierce grey skin fade to that of the complexion humans hold.

Putting on your mask once more standing up shaking off what you thought were nerves and returning to your place on stage.

One sense that ghouls are far more enhanced in is smell, using it to process how one another are doing, passing by swiss to head back on stage he caught the sense of something that seemed off, *surely youre not sick* he thinks to himself, *you might just be tired* he hopes thats all however during the ritual as you go about your routine putting on a show for the ritual goers, your eyes feeling warm and watery, it felt like it was both hot and cold in waves, you try once more to shrug it off for the rest of the show hoping its just a mix of a breeze and the lights seering down on all of you.

One thing you were thankful for when it came to your mask is the goggles part around the eyes worked like sunglasses so the flashing of the lights didn't do much of anything for you.

As you all go through ritual you prance around to swiss' side of the stage joining him on his little stage, as soon as the song started it came to a close with sodo wailing his whammy youd been trying to prepare for this part just incase the pain meds did nothing but by far it didn't work.

You only found out as he jerks his whammy bar making a siren wailing sound.

This time swiss could for certain smell and sense what was happening and against his hopes you were sick, he maneuvered behind you to keep you standing, "just a few more songs bub youre okay" he says loud enough for you to hear, the both of you making it look like a gentle preformative action, he takes your hand in his helping you step off of his riser and sending you back to your station in hopes to tough it through the rest of the ritual.

By the end of the ritual your head was pounding, you were congested, you felt like you were freezing while drenched in sweat and your chest felt so unbelievably tight, youre all lined up, swiss has you between him and rain, rain could instantly tell what was wrong by the simple touch of his hand holding yours.

Bowing and exiting the stage the two ghouls kept you infront of everyone calmly ushering you off stage, if for the sake of being sick they also knew that youd probably be regressing if you haven't already.

Leading to put your stuff away help the others but the sickness and the state of your mind slipping younger from not feeling good it had finally set it, walking over to mountains area to help with everything when gentle hands wrap kindly wrap around your shoulders from behind the hands graced with beautiful rough caloses that sang all of the time and effort they had put into their skill aethers hands so gentle and kind "youre sick little ghoul, youre going to go sit down and relax while we do this, go sit down baby" he hums as you give a pleading glance to mountain to get you out of this but the look he sends back is one that sets your headspace into full swing, a tiny little ghoul who just isnt feeling too good.

Aether with a caring hand on your back leads you once again back stage going straight to copia, you shake your head not wanting the confrontation of managing to get sick, "come on, theres nothing wrong with going to papa, hes our summoner, hes here to take care of us when needed and he can determine what you need best" he soothes the fiery fear in your regressed mind.

The great thing is he knew when his ghouls were regressed, being that its not uncommon for ghouls to regress with their instincts and such wired differently he wasnt new to soothing the ghouls as though they were kits.

Copia comes closer meeting you halfway with his hands open, his gould had already told him what was going on and he for certain would give you a good look over "come, come sit piccolo" he ushers.

Once seated he removes his gloves, this is proof that he cares because his gloves almost never come off around others unless hes handling his precious rats, he loosens the helmet like mask and setting it aside, gently lifting your chin to look at him.

"Drop your glamor for me per favore" he requests, watching as you return to your ghoulish self "aah perfetta" he sighs running his hands through your hair that had been flattened down, his fingertips brushing gently against yohr forehead when he feels just how warm your temperature is "oh kit, mio caro youre burning up" he worries, your sniffles break the silence as he looks so very kindly at you, he reaches over grabbing a paper towel and using it to wipe your nose like a parent would a child, completely disregarding how old you are out of this headspace, right now youre the kit and they will all hold and coddle you.

When all of the ghouls are done going about their after ritual routine they all start heading back to the tour bus to get comfortable now that they had a small week break between segments of the tour in this country, mountain and rain coming to collect you from copia, rain picking up your mask while mountain takes your hand helping you up on weak aching legs, slow steps and a gentle hold keeping you by his side so for you not to fall.

When you get there someone had already gotten you comfortable clothes that consisted of a hoodie from rains selections and some sweats and shirt from swiss' collection, all ready for you, their favorite thing to do when one of you is sick is to dote on the ill ghoul.

Gentle hands from sodo and rain helping you into the change of clothes "you smell like all of us, you will be better in no time kit, youre in the best hands" sodo smiles encouragingly, "lets get you to a nap, we'll wake you when we get to the hotel" aether comments leading you to the large bed in the back instead of to your bunk but stopping by to pick up your stuffy you take everywhere, "do you need cuddles little one?" To which you nod "yes pease" you respond, your voice coming out far more little and sickly than you had expected he nods laying down so you can lay around or against him however you please, you curl up with your head on his chest falling asleep almost immediately. He places a kiss to tour forehead only to notice that you very much have a fever, he mumbles out sadly "youre warmer than sodo on a bad day"

The cuddles were so perfect but was even better was as you bunked with swiss and phantom, they figured that even though normally its one to a bed, but the kit needs their cuddles and these two are happy to do so.

After a hot bath they had ran you they made sure for you to have eaten and gotten even more rest, when youd try to get up theyd tell you to point and theyd figure it out, so mu h love shared from all of your band mates, you were the baby and theyd do anything to take care of you the exact same way you do every time theyre in need of love and care, they would be happy to stick it through just to see you glow like your radiant self again.

Phantom wrapped around on your left eith swiss on your right theyre happy to so what they can until your cold went away, because they love the team kit, "sleep well baby, get some rest" hed hum, with plenty of comfort foods and snacks and drinks all together.

After such events even if you werent that sick in your opinion they would go out of their way to make sure you were healthy and happy

⸸~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⛧~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~⸸

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 9, Where You Get Sobered Up (It's Not Nice)

AO3

The hellfire swallowed you whole; and then it spit you right out.

"What got you laughing, piccola? I’d love to hear that joke." 

Your laughter died in your throat. You blinked, the world still spinning slightly as you tried to piece together the blurry memories of events and places and people and... Why did everything hurt so much? Especially your head. It’s like you had a hangover from over drinking some apricot-scented schnapps.

Ah, wait, you know why. 

You were not on a burning pyre anymore, no longer tied up and contorted - instead, you found yourself strewn across the tangled and rumpled silk sheet of an all-too-familiar bed. The mansion's bedroom. Raphael was there beside you in his mortal guise; bare as the day he was born, his skin dewy with sweat. His hand lazily draped over your hip while another cradled a half-smoked cigar. His cock lay semi-flaccid but still glistening from...

Sex. Lots of sex you just had. Back in the Middle Ages. Back in the cloister. Right? But why was there... why was everything underneath you so sticky and wet and why were there handcuffs dangling from the bedpost? The whole room reeked of cum, apricot lube, and juices.

"We had sex," you said, and the sentence died somewhere between a question and a statement.  “We had sex?”

You didn't know why you were asking the obvious. You didn’t really know whom exactly you were asking, either. Raphael burst out laughing, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world, and there was something unnaturally agitated in the way he did it, something...

Was he high? Or just stupid happy?

"No love," he corrected with a smug smirk as he exhaled smoke, "We didn't have sex; we fucked. Like bloody animals. I haven't had such a riot since my twenties."

At least you knew whom you were asking now, and it was not the guy you thought you had fucked all night.

"Here?" you asked, nodding at the bed.

"Everywhere," Raul said with a snicker. "Every-fucking-where. Why, did I screw your brains out? Do you even remember your name? You seem to forget mine quite often."

No, you didn’t screw my brains out, Raphael did, you thought but said nothing. Raul hand trailed down your side to settle on your hip.

Where was Haarlep, even?

Was there ever a Haarlep?

"No, no, I just can hardly believe...what happened...whatever happened." You paused, taking in the clues scattered around the room: two empty bottles of wine (explains the headache), another half-drunk one, remnants of your t-shirt strewn about, and a slickened dildo discarded at the foot of the bed (Haarlep?). "...like I’ve been fucked by a whole football team."

"Ha! Don't flatter me too much. No, it was just little old me”, Raphael stretched languidly from head to toe. “For the record, I can hardly believe what had happened as well. You know, I've had my fair share of wild girls, but you... you fuck me like your very life depends on it." His tone shifted from playful to slightly more serious as he pulled you closer and whispered right into your ear: "You are quite something. Ti amo sempre, baby."

You found yourself staring at a small scar on his upper arm. A vaccination scar? Like those older people had - including your mother. Was it for smallpox?

A vaccination scar. 

Raul must be… how old is he? Who was he, really? And what did he do to you all night?

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Raul's voice interrupted your thoughts, an edge in his voice. "To the man who made you scream so loud security came knocking? They probably thought I was murdering you."

"I... I love you too," words stumbled out of your mouth. He nodded in satisfaction and then you added while continuing to stare at his scar,"...Raul.”

"Much better," he said, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love hearing you say my name."

“How old are you, actually?", you asked, and realized how sore and bruised the back of your throat was.

"Why? Old enough for you to call me daddy," he teased. "I'll be celebrating forty-eight in a few months. We should throw a party. How about having one on a yacht? Do you like yachts? I'd absolutely adore gifting you one, with your name emblazoned on the side."

You stared at him trying to comprehend whatever the fuck he was saying - which fucking yacht, why do you need a fucking yacht - where were the monks, where was Haarlep? Were there ever monks? Wait, the monks were dead anyway. Did Raphael really kill them? Wouldn’t that alter history? Or was it already part of history? You need to google the burning of Bamberg.

“I don’t care for yachts”, you said quietly. “Never did”.

“The only women who don’t care for yachts are ones who've never been gifted one,” Raul countered with a smile.

Ri-i-ight. Well, wrong. But you had no strength to argue.

What even happened before you... fell back through time... if that's what really happened... because judging by the state of the room and Raul, you'd gotten up to something with Raul, not Raphael... how could this possibly add up? 

"So… eh, did you interrogate me? You don't think I work for Interpol anymore?" you asked, remembering whatever it was you had been arguing about before. 

"The bad guy inquisitor certainly put the little witch through a wringer, but she held her own. Took it all like a good girl," Raul flashed a wink at you. "If fucking like that is part of your cover, then consider me eternally fooled”.

Raul leaned over and pressed his lips against yours; reality hit you like a ton of bricks - there was no way in hell you could handle another round. You were utterly spent; completely wrung out. Every single inch of your body screamed in protest. 

"I can't... not again," your voice wavered beneath him as you scrambled to find the right words to appease him. "Raul… baby… please, I'm sore all over."

Your wrists and ankles were bruised from ropes, your skin felt like it had been burnt, your neck felt like there were still hands around it, and you’d rather not think about the ache between your legs. 

"Ah, don't you worry,” Raul cooed. “All will be fine come morning, I promise. How about I kiss my sweet girl all better?”

His lips traced a gentle path down your breasts and belly, seemingly intent on going lower. 

“Raul, please”, you whimpered. “I am done for today”.

“As you wish”, he sighed with a hint of disappointment. “What’s the matter, gattina? Feeling some post-coke blues? They’ll pass.”

Post-what blues? 

Did he snort coke? Did you? Was this all a hallucination? No way, coke doesn’t cause hallucinations or does it?

Maybe it’s Raul dreamt doing all those things while you were with Raphael in the Middle Ages? You preferred this version of events.

"Did we… did I… what?”, you asked. “I thought you were against drugs. You said Isabel had a habit”.

He said that in that really judgy tone, too.

“Anya," he chuckled, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your shoulder as he spoke. "Isabel had quite the habit, and we just let loose a little. It’s fine to indulge every once in a while, piccola. Honestly, for someone who seemed so into it…”

“I don't do drugs," you protested vehemently. "I've never done drugs, come on, I know myself. I wouldn't... I couldn't..."

"The hell you wouldn't," he guffawed. "First time, huh? Is that why you rubbed it on your pussy? I thought you were just being kinky."

You did what now?

“Dear God”, you mumbled under your breath and dove face-first into the pillow from sheer mortification. “I cannot have done any of that.”

"You're so cute when you act all innocent and not like you've been the naughtiest little kitten all night”, Raul chuckled again. “Fine. Get some rest, gattina. Tomorrow is another day”.

Raul reached for his iPhone. The FaceID failed to recognize him from the awkward angle and he punched in his passcode (3-6-5-2-3-6, note it, 3-6-5-2-3-6) before setting an alarm - first for 7:30 am, then after some contemplation, another one for 7:45 am. He fluffed up his pillow next, pulled your hips and positioned you to provide him maximum warmth and snuggled against your back.

“I have to say”, Raul slurred out sleepily, words tumbling over each other, his hand sliding in between your thighs to cup your sex. “I am very happy to have met you. Very happy indeed. You make me feel...words can't even capture it. More powerful, manlier, younger, luckier... When was the last time I scored five times in one night?”

Five times?

"I'll spoil you rotten tomorrow," he promised, his voice fading as he drifted off to sleep. "I'll give you everything and more."

Raul tugged you closer into a spooning position and he was warm and sticky against your back; both of you were hot messes. 

Your gaze remained fixed on the wall. Was there even Raphael? Was there ever a witch hunt? Where was Raphael right now? Why wasn’t he jealous of... He should be jealous! He should be... He better be. 

You are his mouse.

Your breathing was getting more and more ragged, Raul's more and more stable. If you got pregnant tomorrow, you'd have three potential fathers, two of them might be imaginary. Does it even matter who the father is if they all looked the same? God, your head hurts.

You waited until Raul was stark asleep, and wriggled away from his grasp (he held on surprisingly tight). As you tried to find your balance on your legs, you looked at his - no, Raphael’s, handsome face. Then, you dragged yourself to the bathroom to find out what yours looked like… 

Holy mother of god.

You had black trails all over your face - where your mascara had run - red marks of fingertips around your neck. Your lips cracked. Your eyes went downwards - red welts on your skin, dried up cum between your legs, hickeys, bite marks, scratches, bruises. 

You resembled a poster girl for a “call help before it’s too late” domestic abuse campaign.

Was it too late to call for help?

Call who, exactly? And why? Of course you looked like this. Raphael'd (Raul?) flogged you and he had whipped you and he had fucked you raw. You had asked for it. Begged him, even. Craved it... Right?

Right.

You cleaned up the mess as well as you could, came back to the bedroom and looked at the man in the bed. Stealthily reaching for his iPhone on the bedside table, you punched in the passcode you kept repeating in your head.

Please, for the love of God, stay asleep.

You sat beside the bed on the floor (god it hurts to sit so much), phone in your hand ready to be stashed away at a moment's notice. Then you began to scroll through his digital life - skimming over emails, messages, voicemails and texts on Signal.

(AUTHOR NOTE: the translation of the non-english texts are below in the author notes) "Enclosed herein, you will find the comprehensive investor report for Avernus Capital concerning the second quarter of the year 2024. It is with great pleasure and a sense of profound accomplishment that we announce our most prosperous quarter to date." "The Catholic Church? Seriously? Is their infrastructure worth anything at all? The leasehold is about to expire and will be abolished... Do you have any inside information that I don't know?" “Quel frocio non parlerà più. C'ho pensato io”. “stp rappelle moi stp tu me manque tro je suis dsl pour tout rappelle moi” "No idea how you managed acquiring G4S mate! Take a bow, you devil. Anyway, ring me up sometime, Thea sends her best." "I'm glad to hear you're feeling better. You can lower the Risperidone dose to 4mg and contact me if you experience memory loss again. Regarding your question, many people are struggling with mental issues these days. Bad ecology, stress, political situation. I wish you all the best. Kind Regards, Agnus.”  "So the Antitrust Commission is through now. Congratulations, you have your own PMC. I didn't think they'd let you get away with it. What do you need it for, even? A coup?" “Questa Berger è pulita come uno specchio, capo. Ho controllato il suo passato due volte, verificato tutto. Non è nessuno. Assolutamente nessuno. Impossibile che stia lavorando con gli sbirri." "What devil got into you? You are lobbying the FDL and you are not even subtle about it? You're biting off more than you can chew, Raul, they'd be coming for you very soon." “tu t'es trouvé une nouvelle pouffe, c'est ça? eh ben, va te faire foutre, toi et ta pute. on dirait que tu l'as ramassée sur le trottoir... Je parie qu'elle te laisse faire des trucs bien dégueulasses... DESOLEE d'avoir un MINIMUM de respect pour moi-même et de dignité, fdp” "Damn Raul, they have no more money and no more power because nobody goes to the bloody church! Nobody with half a brain anyway. God is dead, man, people aren't stupid enough to believe fairy tales anymore”. “So, think your money can buy you respect and esteem, huh? No, it won't. They'll always see you as nothing more than a mafia boss's son.” “Larian Studios? 70% private, 30% Tencent. Not scalable, no real profit potential, a pretty lacklustre ROI. Besides, the owner doesn’t want to give up full creative control. Are you sure I should double our offer?”. “they signed it haha THE STUPID FUCKS SIGNED YOUR DEAL you fucked them HARD damn now will control all the fucking borders I really just cannot believe that” “ok tu sais quoi tu peu aussi me faire tout ce que tu veux juste rappelle moi” “Kötter is top notch. Five years in Syria. You won’t find a better one”. "You know what? For once, I'm buying into your 21st century investment thesis. Climate change, wars, droughts, refugees, resource scarcity - yeah, people will start praying to God real good again." "J'ai vu un diable, ouais, j'ai vu un putain de monstre. Je suis désolée de t'avoir fait du mal, je suis désolée d'avoir parlé de toi comme ça, je prends des médicaments maintenant, JE VAIS BIEN MAINTENANT D'ACCORD?"

There were files too, lots of them. PowerPoint presentations, password-protected, emails coming in, notifications flashing non-stop.

Raul barely acknowledged the barrage of messages he got (the French ones never stood a chance), leaving them on "read" or replying with curt "ok"s and "got it"s. His longest recent message was to you, mentioning he'd be late for dinner.

So much you got: Raul is building up power. They both are, Raul and Raphael. They are building up power of enormous proportion, rapidly so, and then, well then it’s Raphael brave new world, which you promised to serve forever. 

Did you put that in writing? The scribers sure did. 

"I will serve the devil to my last breath and beyond."

Your words?

Your words. 

You meant them?

You sure meant them when you were high as a kite and about to burn in hellfire.

God, your head was killing you. Can you take ibuprofen right after cocaine? Google, can you?

SEEK HELP NOW

FEDERAL ADMINISTRATION OF DRUG CONTROL

Fuck you, Google. Soon the only answer you would be allowed is to “All Hail Archangel Raphael”. Who, by the way, does coke. 

Never-mind. Focus, Anya.

Why was all of it happening to you, how did it start, what happened?

YOU INSTALLED A MOD. THAT'S ALL YOU DID. 

They should write it in the history books: that's all she did before they paint you as some Eva Braun.  Sure, you handed over the Crown of Karsus to Raphael, there's no denying that part. To rule Torils and Hells. And that's it. Not to buy military contractors, not to lobby some conservative shitheads, not to exploit Catholic Church’s influence, not to do whatever the fuck he was doing there and WHY, can't he just...?

Why couldn't he play medieval inquisitor with you, burn the bad inquisitors, be cool and evil? Live comfortably, read some poetry, go to the theatre? Collect some debts from non-name NPCs? Just... calm the fuck down? Rule Toril and the Hells with you by his side? 

In fact, that’s where you both should be. That’s where you wanted to escape to. That's where you loved Raphael most. You'll move in with him there, you'll still be a good little mouse, you'll always be a good little mouse, but just, you know, you’ll serve him from some safe and sensible distance of a imaginary world, because WHAT THE FUCK IS HE THINKING BUYING LARIAN STUDIOS FOR? To do what, install micro transactions? You’d get booted off his own discord if you backed him on this.

Apropos discord - you fired it up and check if they have any thoughts on the matter.

They sure do. You were tagged 78 times while you were gone.

okay guys (GN) good news @devil’s favorite fleshlight is not dead I have a proof pic // who is that guy // @devil’s favorite fleshlight got herself an IRL Raphael OMG 💀 // what the fuck is it Isabelle Arnaud’s EX???? whole France was following this dumpster fire it was so bad // nooooooo way (I feel bad to admit it but he is kinda hot tho) // the guy is like 50 CREEPY FUCK // he raped his ex and she ended up in a rehab @devil’s favorite fleshlight did you even read up on him??? check this link /// worse. he ruined Overwatch. this is the guy behind Microsoft / Activision merge. rotten af /// google his lobbyist company and rassemblement nationale /// @devil’s favorite fleshlight stepped up her game and is now a villain fucker IRL /// REMEMBER WHEN @devil’s favorite fleshlight WENT OFF ABOUT TAXING THE RICH? Pepperidge farm remembers// @devil’s favorite fleshlight did you ask him to buy you Larian WTFFFFF sis /// @devil’s favorite fleshlight oh man, your handle sound super unfortunate right now/// @devil’s favorite fleshlight send us a sign if you're still among the living // @devil’s favorite fleshlight is chilling in the American psycho dungeon rn and has fully ascended to Hope status. RIP queen 👑 // now THAT'S commitment to cosplay 

You changed your handle (it was a goddamn joke, for Christ's sake, they all had stupid nicknames yourself) and left the discord server. A barrage of direct messages had flooded in, but you couldn't bring yourself to even glance at them.

Fuck this. You deleted the whole app.

They all just… wished… to be in your place. Yeah. Bet nobody of them ever got fucked by a hot billionaire. 

God, Anya, what? Are you serious? 

A sob escaped your lips, followed by a little laugh.

Why does Raphael have to drive you half-insane like this?

maybe it’s not him Anya maybe you are insane

you remember your own face in front of a black screen of a laptop

there was never a Raphael

there was only Raul, and stuff you very much liked to be true 

You found yourself quietly sobbing, and the most terrifying thing was that the sounds could wake up Raul. There you go. He already stirred and frowned in his sleep. You swallowed your sobs.

You need to go… 

You need to go elsewhere.

You need to go home.

It’s not like you were running, you thought, as you scrambled some hoodie and jeans from your suitcase, trying to be as quiet as a little mouse. It’s not like you were scared shitless and a little hurt, because why did Raphael let Raul fuck you? It’s either that, or you are insane. Are there really no other options?

You only let Raphael fuck you. And Haarlep, but that's beside the point. But that’s not who fucked tonight, was it? Did Raul really persuade you into anal? The discomfort was a very annoying reminder of his victory.

You need to change “fuck the rich” on one of your t-shirts to “got fucked by the rich”.

Yeah, time to take a little break, you thought as you clutched the keychain like a makeshift weapon and cast one last look at Raul in his slumber. Then you made your silent getaway downstairs.

The mansion door closed tight behind you.

Oh no, it’s the creepy blond guy at the gates again. 

Oh, fuck, you couldn’t be less lucky.

Or no, it’s not him. Well it’s him. But he got considerably more cambion-like. He now had wings and horns and looked like one you could summon late in the game. His colleagues had them, too. 

Wings and horns and guns.

Raphael was bringing over his private guard.

"Is something the matter, Ms. Berger?" he smiled, positioning himself with tactical precision between you and your only escape route. Jens Kötter was his badge. "Maybe I can assist?"

"No, I... I just... you know, I just realised I need to go home. Urgently. I forgot something important there. You know, packed in a rush, and just woke up and realized, yeah, I really need that thing, and I need it right now..."

His smile hung in the air like stale perfume. There was something so annoyingly ex-military about this guy with this buzz cut and these dead eyes. You knew the type. 

"It's 1:30 am, Ms. Berger. I am sure whatever you forgot can wait until the morning and I will be delighted to drive you to your former place and help you find that thing and bring you back home".

"No. I want to go now. Alone. Can I go, please? I already called an Uber. Here, look. A driver accepted! Money will be booked off my card now anyway!”

You demonstrated him your phone and the message “Altan Kuzey accepted your ride and is waiting for you at pick-up point in 8 minutes”.

But Kötter's icy blue eyes bore into you, cataloging the marks on your neck and wrists.

“I warned you against calling Uber to this place, Ms. Berger. No matter, I’ll take care of it. Did you and Mr. D'Avergni have a... misunderstanding of some sort?", he asked, his wingspan expanding like a predator ready to pounce. 

"No! No, nothing like that", you tried for a light-hearted laugh but it came out more like a strangled yelp. “Everything is great between me and Raul. He is sleeping, I didn’t want to bother him. He is so tired. He works a lot. No need to wake him up, really”.

You’d think so many times you tried to lie you’d actually learn how to do it.

Everybody kept smiling, all the four guards. They would probably continue smiling even if they were ordered to butcher you right then and there.

"Ms. Berger, I believe you are aware that Mr. D'Avergni is working on a very important deal right now”, Jens began in an unnervingly placid manner. “It's crucial that he does not receive any bad media coverage. He has already faced unfortunate accidents in the past, and none of us want them to repeat, do we?"

What was he implying?

His eyes bore into yours with alarming intensity.

"You're not planning on going to the authorities and reporting anything because you had a little fight, are you Ms.Berger?"

His smile teetered precariously between nauseatingly courteous and downright sinister.

"Absolutely not! Why would I? Report what?" you feigned shock. "Mr. D'Avergni is very nice to me. You mean the bruises? This was just roleplay between two consenting adults and frankly none of your fucking business. Look, it's a me issue. It's honestly just a me issue”. 

Jens sighed, opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

“Look, man”, you said. “This is a free country, if I want to go, I have the right to go".

"Well of course you are free to go, Ms. Berger. You're free to go...as long as Mr.D'Avergni agrees." He paused for effect before adding: "Sadly, he's currently indisposed due to it being, you know, the middle of the night."

“That’s not what free to go means”, you whispered. “That is actually the very opposite of what free to go means”. 

“Well, in this place there are certain procedures we follow,” Jens said. “I am contractually obligated to adhere strictly to these procedures. I am sorry, not much I can do, really”.

No.

No. 

You were not a prisoner. Raphael would never hold you prisoner. He was not that kind of a devil. Raul…

You don’t have any idea what he would or what he wouldn’t, but you had a hunch.

"I wish you to let me through”, you said with an edge in your voice. “This is my free will and my choice, and this is sacred, because this a free country by law, and law is fucking sacred. Let. Me. Through".

Jens’s face shifted, determination replaced by a dreamy-eyed, enthralled look. He moved out of your way.

Holy hell - it worked?

But why did it work? Did Raphael want you gone or was he hoping you'd stay? Was he pissed off with Raul too?

Was he truly not that kind of devil? 

"Jens, what the hell are you doing?" another cambion demanded, his tail retreating behind him in terror. "He'll flay us alive for this! What the actual fuck?"

“It’s her choice,” Jens echoed softly, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond your shoulder. “Her choice...choice is sacred; that much is true.”

***

"Evening!" the taxi driver greeted you as you stumbled into the backseat, barely managing to keep your balance. "Careful. Is everything okay?"

His smile disarmed you; you had not seen someone smiling so genuinely for a long time, especially that late at night. 

"Christ," you exhaled, wincing as you tried to get comfortable on the worn leather seat. Every movement sent a sharp pang that made sitting an ordeal. "Just drive. Now."

"Why, do we have some company?" he joked, glancing at the rear-view mirror.

“Drive, please”.

The cabbie's expression turned grave; he held his tongue until you were cruising down the highway.

"Relax, there is no one behind us," he soothed, visibly easing up. "Rough night?"

"In-fucking-sane," you muttered, staring blankly at the road ahead. “ I’d tell you but you wouldn’t believe it. No one would.”

"Oh, dear. I’ll put on some good music for you.” he asked, putting on some loud pop. “Bad client?",

"Huh?"

"Did one of those rich fucks give you trouble?" he asked. "I've done plenty of pick-ups from this part of town and let me tell ya, it ain't pretty for working girls."

"I am not a hooker. My boyfriend lives here, okay? That huge mansion in the distance? Yep, his".

"Oh... right…. your boyfriend," he repeated with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Sorry, my bad. So it’s him you are worried about?”

“Well, he gets the devil into him sometimes. Doesn’t even notice it himself”.

“I see,” The driver responded quietly, his eyes briefly flitting towards your neck before quickly returning to the road ahead."Look, I'm overstepping here," he admitted after a moment's pause, "but there's a cop shop at the end of this stretch. Just 'cause someone's got deep pockets doesn't mean they get to use you as a doormat."

"And do you really believe that?" You scoffed, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "Look around and tell me if that's how the world really works."

"No”, he said after some thinking. “No, not really”. 

You shut your eyes tight, trying to block out everything but the grating pop song that had somehow wormed its way into your consciousness.

she may contain the urge to run away

“I just think it should be different”, he continued. “If you know what I mean. Some justice and order in this world, inshallah."

but hold her down with soggy clothes and breeze blocks

“Well, things might get very different soon very soon”, you replied. “Not sure about justice, but a bit more order, probably, yeah. You can thank me personally for that. Could you switch up the music, please?”

His fingers danced across the buttons as he tried to find another station. The next one was static-filled; the following one played the same catchy tune from its beginning. His attempts to find a new song only led him back to square one.

"Ha! What are the odds? Looks like our menu tonight has only one dish."

“Yeah”, you sighed, forehead against the glass, looking at the billboards passing by.

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE 

GO BACK WHERE YOU ARE TRULY LOVED

HERZ JESUS CATHOLIC FOUNDATION 

“Yeah”, you repeated. “I know the chef very well”.

***

You'd been half-convinced you were going to plow into a lamppost or swerve off the road and meet an oncoming semi (especially after that billboard screaming "beware of incoming traffic" at you). But no, you'd managed to navigate your way back to your flat - a place that now felt like a shabby alternate universe compared to Raul’s mansion.

As you approached your front door, something was off. The low murmur of voices seeped through the wood, like a radio tuned just below audible frequency. The door was slightly unhinged too (who wasn’t these days).

With a nudge, it swung open.

Your apartment looked like it had played host to an indoor tornado - papers flung around , drawers yanked out and their innards strewn across the floor, cushions flipped over and books scattered around. 

There were four intruders: one woman taking liberties with your office chair and three men wreaking havoc on your living space. It was obvious your uninvited guests had made themselves at home in your absence and hadn't expected an early return from their hostess.

"HOLY FUCK!”, you screamed, not even because you were so scared, but because you really, really, REALLY felt like screaming at someone. “HOLY FUCK! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY APARTMENT WHY ARE YOU..."

The shock wore off quickly for them. Their expressions morphed into professional masks.

"Ms Berger," came a voice, soothing yet authoritative enough to make you halt mid-rant. The blonde woman rose from your chair, her hands raised in a pacifying gesture. "What a surprise indeed. Please take a sit”.

You remained rooted to the spot, too stunned to move.

"We sincerely apologize for this... unwarranted intrusion," she began apologetically, shooting a reproachful look at one of her subordinates before continuing. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding on our end, I'm afraid." She let out a weary sigh. "We were under the impression you'd be at Mr. D'Avergni's place tonight."

Her eyes were sharp, her prim blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders. 

"Who are you? Don’t you need an order for these things or something? What have I done?"

HHer partner stood nearby, his jet-black hair slicked back perfectly and wearing a black suit that seemed molded to his body. He cradled a mug of coffee in his hand, sipping it slowly as if each gulp contained some great secret.

Yeah, you knew that guy. 

"My name is Alyssa Ahlberg," she introduced herself, gesturing towards her partner, who seemed more interested in his coffee than the ongoing conversation, "and this is Christoph Weber. We're with ICPO - International Crime Police Organisation."

"Interpol", you laughed, and then you couldn’t stop laughing. “You guys are from Interpol. Seriously? Come on now”.

So Raul wasn't off his rocker after all. It seemed like everyone was sane except for you.

"That is the accepted abbreviation," Alyssa confirmed dryly. “What exactly do you find funny?”

"Are you guys even real?", you asked without much hope for an honest answer. “Because no offence to you guys but even the inquisitors seemed less far-fetched.”

No, Anya, we are not real, we are your hallucination.

In fact, you are long dead, Anya.

In fact, we are wrapping your corpse in plastic right now.

Alyssa maintained her poker face in response to your question. "Yes, Ms. Berger," she confirmed solemnly. "Interpol is a real organization, I am afraid."

"And Agent Cooper over there is real too?", you nodded towards the guy with the coffee mug who seemed frozen in one position ever since you came into the apartment. 

"Excuse me?", asked Agent Cooper.

"Alright, alright,” you sighed heavily, resigning yourself to their existence for the moment. "I've been feeling... out of sorts lately”.

You sat on your own bed.

"We understand your distress, Ms. Berger," Alyssa said before offering you a glass of water which you took. “You do seem, a bit, ugh, out of sorts. Has something occurred between yourself and Mr. D'Avergni? Do you need medical attention?”

"No”, you shook your head. “No! Absolutely not. Raul did not do anything to me".

Your denial came out sharper than intended. 

They exchanged glances but remained silent.

"Ms. Berger, how did you come to know Mr. D'Avergni, if you don’t mind me asking?" Alyssa asked, her tone deceptively casual.

"Ugh, it was... at a cafe," you muttered.

"A cafe..." She echoed slowly as if she was trying to digest this new piece of information. "Forgive me, it seems rather unconventional for a man of his means to meet a woman in a cafe. Ms. Berger, how much do you know about Mr. D’Avergni?”

You gave her a noncommittal shrug in response. Your phone rang; it was Raul’s number. 

Agent Cooper interjected, "Ms. Berger, if this discussion is causing discomfort, you are not obligated to answer any further questions."

"Why are you asking at all?” you asked. “Why are you here? Did Raul kill someone?"

"Do you have any suspicions that Mr. D’Avergni may have committed murder?" Agent Cooper raised a brow.

"No, I just... No. I don’t".

“That was not what we are investigating, but if you have something to tell us, please do so”, Alyssa said. “We're looking into Mr. D'Avergni's possible involvement in economic crimes. Money laundering, corruption, tax fraud…"

It sounded simultaneously worse and not quite as bad as tormenting millions of souls.

A dry chuckle bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, so nothing too bad then."

Agent Cooper shot you a side-eye before returning his gaze to his coffee mug.

"The ripple effect of Mr D'Avergni's alleged actions is immense and devastating, Ms. Berger,” Alyssa said with a cough to clear her throat. “I wouldn’t write it off as 'nothing too bad'. Listen..." 

She sat right next to you on the bed and gave what you would describe a very empathetic smile. 

“You strike me as a sweet and smart young woman, Ms Berger. You’ve gotten yourself tangled up in something dangerous that clearly isn’t your usual scene. It’s never too late to turn back and make the right choice. Your involvement with this man, judging that you rushed back home this late at night and in this state..."

She let out a deep breath.

"We can help you, is what I am saying. And by helping us with a bit of information, you could help a lot of other people. Mr D’Avergni is not a good man, Ms. Berger, trust me, I’ve spent… quite some years on him. I believe, however, you know that already. You won’t pick the phone up, I suppose?”

Your phone buzzed again; Raul was nothing if not persistent.

“The guy clearly does not understand when his attention is unwelcome”, Agent Cooper muttered under his breath with palpable distaste.

“Ms. Berger, would you even feel safe here?”, Alyssa asked. “We can take you somewhere else where you won’t…”

“I don’t think there is a place safe from Raphael”, you said, and quickly added: “Not that I even would want it”.

"Raphael?", Alyssa frowned. "I'm afraid we have no knowledge of a Raphael in Mr. D’Avergni’s entourage."

You scoffed.

"Raphael is the guy you actually should be afraid of”.

"I see. Why don’t you tell us more about him then?” Alyssa said as she moved a bit closer to you.

“Right. Raphael is... ah… it doesn't matter. What I am saying is that Raul is way, way more dangerous than you realize, and I would never do anything against him, and I don’t advise you to, either".

There was some silence at your statement. . 

Agent Cooper sipped his coffee and stared out of the window.

"I think you're underestimating what we know about Mr. D’Avergni, Ms. Berger. And it seems like we've underestimated your knowledge as well." Alyssa paused before adding, "We could possibly enlighten each other. You should understand by now how serious the situation is".

"You'd never believe me if I told you just how serious the situation is”, you said. “I mean, our world is probably at stake".

“Well, I do kind of agree, Ms. Berger. If not all the world, then at least some parts of the free world, yes”, Alyssa said with a sigh. "Democracy for one. So I'm more than willing to hear you out. God knows there have been things lately that I can't make heads or tails of either”.

Like hell she would believe you. 

God, you were so alone in this, so alone in your madness, not a single soul you could tell what was happening - not even Raul.

"Really? Okay then... I think Raul might be possessed by a devil. He probably doesn’t even realize it himself."

Their faces. Their faces... What did you expect? For somebody to ever actually listen to what you have to say?

"Yes”, you snapped. “Yes, I am totally losing my mind, absolutely batshit crazy, stop staring at me like that! STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"

Alyssa reached out and lightly touched your shoulder.

"Ms. Berger," she implored gently, "please calm yourself down”. She hesitated before asking, “Have you perhaps taken any...medication or..."

"I HAVEN'T!” You shrugged her hand off your shoulder. “WELL I HAVE! COKE! But that's beyond the point!"

To hell with them for treating you like some deranged lunatic.

To hell with everyone.

"You know what?”, you hissed. “Let's test if I am crazy. Let's test it. And if I am crazy, well, that’s not really new, and I am not… well, you will have some damn news. I wish you to... ah... what do I wish for... I wish you to trip over and... Well, I am not a mean person, so... I wish you to trip over and get a small but nasty scratch. Deep. Bloody. But nothing life-threatening. Yes, I wish for that. That’s my wish".

"Ms Berger," Alyssa responded with an edge of wariness. "We didn't mean to upset you but it’s quite clear your mental state is… somewhat disturbed. Maybe it would be best if you took some time out to rest.”

“Somewhat”, you laughed. “Somewhat, yeah. I’ve been burned alive by inquisition tonight. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, actually, but still”.

That seemed to be the last straw for Alyssa. She slowly got up, and lurched forward - really stupidly, it must be said  - her leg caught on the bedpost and she careened towards the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

The only person to laugh was you, though.

Alyssa’s face paled to a ghostly white as she looked at her arm in disbelief, like she was witnessing a low-budget horror flick so bad it was almost good. It was a nasty cut all right she was looking at, and it bled more than it should have. 

What did she even cut herself against? She must have asked herself the same question as she searched the floor with her hands.

Nothing. Alyssa looked back at you, then back at Agent Cooper, then back at you. Her voice barely above a whisper, she managed to choke out one word: "How?"

She was scared, you could see that. She stopped smiling, her body stiffened like an icy statue.

“How did you do that, Anya?”, she repeated. 

“Alyssa,” Agent Cooper interjected. “All right, this is getting out of hand now. The girl is already disturbed enough; we don't need to feed into her delusions.”

"I'm not pandering to her fantasies, Christoph," Alyssa snapped back. "What's happening here? Are you trying to get me fired?"

"It's infernal magic," you chimed in smugly, relishing in the sudden shift of power tilting towards you like an unsteady seesaw.

You felt your whole posture change.

You could do magic. It’s pretty contingent on how well you suck a certain devil’s cock, but you could do it. 

"Get a grip, Ms. Berger," Alyssa growled, her facade of calmness rapidly disintegrating. "This is the furthest thing from funny."

"I'll make believers out of all of you yet," you promised, your eyes locking onto Agent Cooper like a missile, and something Raphael did gave you an idea. "I wish for you to choke on that damn fine coffee until I command otherwise."

The gap between your proclamation and its fruition shrank to nothing - Agent Cooper was gagging before the words had even fully left your lips. Nobody dared to write it off as chance or shock; instead, they recoiled from you like you were a bomb counting down to zero.

The expressions on their faces were priceless.

Insane girls can be terrifying, no doubt about that. But the best part was they were starting to feel what you felt – their rules of reality had suddenly been thrown out the window to never ever call back.

"What is happening?" Alyssa's voice quivered with fear. "If this is some sick joke, it's not funny... I swear to God..."

Agent Cooper choked for air, his hands clawing at his throat in a desperate attempt to breathe while he stared at you in sheer horror. He tried to form words, or so you thought. A plea for mercy?

“Are we all enjoying our descent into insanity?”, you laughed. “Because that's how I feel every single day! And do you know why? Because THE DEVIL IS REAL! HE EXISTS! Do any of you believe me now!? Oh and by the way, stop choking, Agent Cooper; I don’t actually want to kill you - I love Twin Peaks."

Air returned to him; he collapsed onto the floor wheezing. Some guy who'd been skulking in the corner was now pointing a gun at you.

"Go on, pull the trigger!" You taunted. "Do it! Kill the witch!”

"Fader vår, som är i himlen,” Alyssa whimpered from her knees. “Don’t shoot her. Jesus, don’t shoot her, we will never be able to explain that”.

"Bet you didn’t believe in God yesterday, huh?”, you smiled at her.

Alyssa sprung to her feet, recoiling from you as if you were contagious. They were all scrambling for an exit now; it was downright hilarious. Little old you, who they thought they could mock, ignore, and bully, not answer your messages, talk shit behind your back, managed to scare four armed people shitless.

"Want a parting piece of wisdom?" You hollered after them. "Don't fuck with the devil! Trust me on this one... I FUCKED HIM!"

They made their exit leaving you alone and shaking; half-crying, half-laughing, completely out of it, crashing on the floor next to bed. 

What did you do? 

Who were you anymore?

Was the whole sequence real?

What do you think, Anya?

What do you think? 

Agent Cooper was searching your apartment in the night, what do you think, Anya, was it real, what do you wanna bet on this one? Meeting the Interpol? They'll be strapping you into a straightjacket next, Anya. Do you have any proof of what had happened just now except your apartment is thrashed?

Doesn’t matter. 

They are gone now anyway. 

You are all alone.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

There's definitely some shadow lurking in the bathroom. You went straight there and turned the lights on; gone, nothing there but your paranoia. Now, your discarded clothes slumped over the bedroom chair seemed alive, as if they could sprout legs and start wandering about any moment. 

Staring at them only fueled your anxiety.

Desperate for distraction, you cranked open the faucet and listened to bathwater gushing into the tub.

And then there's... Raul. Six missed calls from him flashing on your screen. No escaping this guy, huh?

Do you have anyone in your life? Friends maybe? Ha, friends. Busy talking shit while you are not looking. Colleagues? Scratch that – jobless now aren’t we?

So who does that leave us with? Do you have anyone at all?

"Mum, hi. Sorry, it's a bit early to be calling, I know," you said into the phone as you sat curled up in the bath, knees up to your chest. The water was scalding hot. You liked it that way. "I just wanted to hear your voice”.

"Anya, what happened?" came her worried and sleepy voice from the other end. "It's five in the morning. Are you okay? Are you hurt?."

"Can I come and visit you, actually? For a couple of nights, maybe”. 

"What?! Anya, what's happened? Did Raul do something?" Your mum’s words tumble out in rapid succession.

"No," you reassure her quickly as cold porcelain presses against your back. "Everything's fine with Raul. I just miss you."

"ANYA! WHAT ON EARTH HAS HAPPENED?! ANYA!"

"Mum, a lot has happened and we may not always agree (we never agree) but I just wanted to tell you that I love you, Mum."

Now she probably thinks you have cancer. 

"Oh dear," she said. "Oh god. Something has definitely happened. You're pregnant, is that it? That's definitely it, he got you pregnant. That's EXACTLY what Nadine said would happen. When are you coming? Come right away!"

"Like... on the first train. I am not pregnant. We dated, like, for a week”. 

"The first train is long gone! Take the next one now and send me your live location. OK? Send me your live location. Anya, OKAY!? Anya, I will not get off the phone until I see your live location".

"OK", you said, and then you dropped off and took a dive in the bathtub. 

You let the water envelop you, its hot embrace a very welcome respite from reality. So what’s next what’s next what’s next 

No idea. Maybe you stayed under for a minute, maybe more. 

By the time you emerged, gasping for air and shaking off droplets of water from your skin, your phone had buzzed twice with missed calls from Raul.

You picked up your phone and texted:

I am sorry all good just need some time to figure out stuff and take care of myself. <3 love you baby please don’t be mad

His response was immediate and curt:

Pick up your damn phone.

The full stop at the end was like an executioner's axe.

I'll call you tomorrow soooo tired okay :-)

Answer your phone now.

Jens saw them leaving. Don't think I don't know who they are.

Panic surged through you like a tidal wave. You could feel his fury seeping through each word. You stumbled from the tub, feet nearly slipping on slick tiles.

I'm on my way over.

You owe me an explanation.

The thought of facing him made bile rise in your throat; Raphael’s magic would probably not work against Raphael’s real life avatar himself.

It better be convincing, Anya, I mean it.

Shitshitshitshitshit

Shit what happened to I forgive you everything if you fuck me nasty?

Then you realised that you were just as afraid of Raul as you were of Raphael. For what it's worth, the former might be worse.

He was human after all, and no one could outdo humans when it came to being monsters.

Who the hell knows what's in that guy's head now? 

What if he kills you? 

You grabbed the clothes that were closest to you.

What if he rapes you?

Your shirt.

Will Raphael intervene? 

Jeans.

Or take over? 

Socks.

Or just watch? 

Mismatched; screw it, mismatched then.

Will he make you like it?

Jens must be standing right outside the apartment complex. Probably on his way here to the apartment already. Probably armed.

You'd probably like it. 

Not the front door, no. Go up one floor. Wait for Jens to pass.

Yeah, you know what, you'd definitely like it. You’ll love it. 

He passed. Was it Jens? Yeah, it was him. The wings rustle. No, do not go to the main exit on the ground floor.

You'll probably beg for more.

The garage door.

You should never have called him Daddy, you should have put your foot right back there.

The underground car park exit.

How can you feel so powerful and so powerless at the same time?

Get lucky for once.

How can your life be dictated so much by a fictional devil? How did all of this happen? Some damn escapism you did there, Anya. Escaped reality and common sense and any hope for a normal life for good measure. 

You got lucky; you made it out of the apartment complex. Jens' armored jeep was parked nearby, another cambion guard was smoking next to it. You quickly pulled the hoodie all over your face and walked to the closest subway station.

The sky was ablaze with the first light of dawn.

[krylng]

Body & Blood

Daveed Diggs x Fem!reader

TW: Smut, P in V, riding, aggressive, rough, fingering, oral (fem receiving) common swear words

summary: You and Daveed Diggs have been friends forever, but what happens when you try to confess? Does he like you too?

note: I am uncomfortable naming some parts of the body (hope you understand) like 🐱 and 🍒. also, this hasn’t been checked for grammar or spelling yet.

not requested

word count: 3.6k

RAFA IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE DONT SHOW DAVEED

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

Part 1

“France is following us to revolution, there is no more status quo.” Y/N heard Daveed sing from backstage. “But the sun comes up and the world still spins.”

His voice was beautiful; angelic even. “Well, if it isn’t Y/N drooling over Daveed again.” Anthony laughed behind her. She spun around quickly, a faint tint of red coated her cheeks.

“I wasn’t drooling, I was just admiring his voice. That’s all.” She said sternly, but Anthony didn’t seem to believe it.

“What ever you say, F/N Diggs.” He laughed as she shot him a mean look and flipped him off. “Hey, can’t I tease my best friend just a little bit?”

Hamilton shook Jefferson’s hand on stage. She watched him walk off stage after Cabinet Battle 1. “Not even a little bit. Besides, I don’t even have an actual crush on him. I just think he’s really cute. Its just a fling.”

“Who’s cute?” A new voice said. She turned back around to see Daveed Diggs standing so close behind her. Her blush turned redder than before as she sputtered. He raised an eyebrow as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with a white towel.

“I….uh…It’s nothing…not you.” She paused and immediately realized what she said. “I mean, you’re very cute—hot even, but we were talking about…my dog.” She said nervously, and regretted it instantly.

Anthony covered his mouth with a closed fist as an attempt to stop himself from laughing. He backed away as Daveed spoke. “You have a dog? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Golden Retriever.” No, she didn’t have a dog, but she also wasn’t going to confess to him. “Very…yellow and golden.” She added.

“I see.” He replied. “How old is this dog?” His eyes scanned her for any hints of nervousness.

“Uh, I think about four years old. Next month.” now she was sweating. “In June.”

“Ah. You’re pretty in that red dress though, has anyone ever told you that?” Daveed said, focusing the subject on her. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

Her eyes widened and a stupid smile spread across her face. Daveed chuckled at her reaction. “It’s true. Everyone definitely knows, even if they won’t say it out loud.” he smiled. “Red is definitely your color.”

“Thanks.” She said, feeling the awkwardness of the moment. “I’m thirsty… my water is in my dressing room, I’ll be back.”

“You can borrow mine. Your dressing room is far away, isn’t it?” He asked. Before she could shake her head, he placed the bottle into her possession. “Drink up, darling.”

You were unfazed by the name, since he almost called every woman darling. You unscrewed the plastic cap and took a quick swig of the cold liquid. “Thank you.” said, handing back the bottle.

“Anytime.” he smiled. “I’m actually thirsty myself.” He took a swig out of the same water bottle.

You hid your blush by looking away, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. He lightly grabbed your chin with his hand, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Something wrong?” he smirked. “You seem a little red.” he teased.

“It’s just“— she squirmed—“really hot in here. Like, boiling.”

Daveed leaned closer against her ear and murmured. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were nervous.” She felt the heat radiating from him. “Am I correct, babygirl?”

She almost broke from the new pet name. She parted her lips to say something, but no words came out. Daveed ran his finger down her bottom lip. “It’s okay baby, you can kiss me in front of everyone. I know you want to.”

“E-everyone?” She repeated, the word coming out soft. A small smirk tugged at his lips as he positioned his strong hand behind her head. “Everyone is curiously watching us right now—look!” She whispered, a sound only they could hear.

“Even better then.” His other hand cupped her cheek as he leaned his head down. Their lips met softly, a kiss of passion. They pulled apart after a few seconds. “Let’s shock them even more. Part those pretty lips.”

He leaned back down, kissing her more passionately. She parted her lips, and whimpered quietly at the feeling of his tongue diving in her mouth. They kissed like they were drowning, and the other was oxygen, and she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, his hands wresting on the dips of her hips, every movement between them needy and desperate.

Soon enough, Take A Break ended, and they pulled apart, a thin trail of saliva connecting them. “I hope Hamilton tastes me when you have to kiss him.” He said with a stern expression.

The music to Say No To This began, and she started to strut slowly against the rotating floor. Her dress swayed with each movement, her heels clicking silently against the floor.

“I know you are a man of honor, I’m so sorry to bother you at home. But I don’t know where to go, and I came here all alone.” She sang as she approached Hamilton who wore a green suit, almost identical to Jefferson’s, but on the other side of the color spectrum.

Soon enough, she sat on his lap on the chair and ensemble member moved. She took his hand and placed it on her chest and slowly moved it down. After that part, she ran off stage as James Reynolds took the money from Hamilton.

She sighed a breath of relief. She turned around to walk towards her dressing room, but Daveed was standing in the way. “Daveed, I need to go inside, my water is in there.”

She shivered as he ran his fingers down her arm. “You don’t want to continue? It’s okay if you don’t—“ He placed his hand on his forehead. “Sorry I just thought—“ She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“I like you, Daveed.” She blushed. “And I want to do everything with you.” Daveed stared at her.

“What does that mean?” He asked, his eyes begging for her to be more specific.

“I want you.”

“Oak, before you go on stage, tell our understudies they’re needed. We’re not feeling well.” Daveed said, keeping eye contact with her.

Oak raised an eyebrow, but responded with, “Okay. Feel better soon.” he cleared his throat. “Don’t do what I think you’re going to do.”

Daveed pointed at the door that led to her dressing room. He closed the door behind them gently before grabbing her waist and lifting her up in his arms. She instinctively wrapped her limbs around him; her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

They kissed slow and passionately. The moment was almost perfect, it was exactly how she wanted to be kissed by him. He pulled away, admiring and studying her for a moment.

“We could get into so much trouble for bailing like that—“ She started but was interrupted by a sloppy kiss from him. She moaned against his lips, and he used it to his advantage to slip in his tongue. “I used to daydream about this.”

“Oh yeah?” he said before leaving kisses on her neck. “Me too. But in my head…we do something more dirty than this.” He chuckled as he felt her shiver at his words. He began to lightly bite down on her skin.

He set her down gently, before taking the fabric of her dress in between his fingers. “Can I take this off?” He asked.

She nodded eagerly, and he loosened the strings that tightened her dress to fit her figure. She kicked off her heels as he hooked his fingers around the white tank top she wore underneath. He lifted the shirt over her head, tossing it to the side.

He took off his purple jacket that was over and apart of his costume, threw it to the side, and quickly unbuttoned his costume. “Like what you see?” he teased as he noticed her staring at his six pack and obliques.

She said nothing, just blushed. He took a few steps closer to her, gently cupping her face. “I like it when you’re like this. When you’re so affected by my words.” He began to bite down on her neck, leaving several love bites.

He backed away after a few minutes. “Sorry, I got carried away.” He rolled down his tall white socks to take off his matching purple pants that only went down to his calves. Soon, the only piece of clothing he had left were his black boxers, his errection teasing you.

You wore the shortest black shorts under your dress to make sure nobody would see. “If you weren’t wearing that dress over those…” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did.”

He grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up onto the countertop. He trailed his hands down her body, starting at her shoulders and stopping at her thighs. He hooked his fingers around the waistband of her shorts, and began to pull down. He tossed it behind him and began to trace his fingers where her shorts used to be.

After he took off her undergarments, he began to bite her inner thighs. He licked and sucked, leaving hickeys. His hands trailed down to her core, wiping her arousal with his finger.

The sound of a knock at the door made her jump. “Y/N, are you in there?” Anthony asked as Daveed put in his first finger, challenging her not to moan. “I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m f-fine…” She stuttered, tilting her head back, giving him easier access to kiss her neck. He put in another finger in slowly.

“Can I come in—“

“NO! I mean uh… I wouldn’t.”

“Can we talk? I’ll stay behind the door.” Anthony must have sat down by the door, because she heard a thump.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I heard Daveed was sick too. Where is he?” He asked.

He didn’t look scared or even bothered by his question, instead a smirk spread across his face against her neck.

“I uh… I think he left. He was… like really sick.”

“Are you sure he’s not in there with you?” He teased. You could sense Anthony’s signature grin.

“Why would he be in the room with me?” She accused.

“I don’t know. Since you’ve had a crush on him since forever. Remember when you told me about that dream you had where he was in your bed, giving you hea-“ Daveed instantly stopped kissing her neck to look at her.

“ANTHONY, SHUT UP!” She yelled, followed by Anthony’s laugh. “Someone’s gonna hear you.” She groaned. He slipped his fingers out, causing her to groan again. His hands rested on her thighs as he stood on his knees, working his tongue into her core. She gasped silently, reaching for anything to hold on to, and she settled on his hair.

“Nobody is upstairs, the only thing they probably heard was your scream.” He rolled his eyes behind the door. “Oh, remember when you were curious about his size? I guessed five inches, you guessed like seven.” Her face became warm with embarrassment.

He flicked his tongue, hitting all the right spots. She muffled her moans with her hand. “What was that noise?” Anthony asked suspiciously. “Was that a…”

“Groan. I just t-threw up again, that’s why.” She said as he continued.

“I could open this door right now. There are no locks.” He teased. “How would you feel if I did?”

“Like you invaded m-my privacy.” She narrowed her eyes at him through the door.

“Fair enough.” He shrugged from behind the door. Suddenly, you felt a rush inside of you.

“I’m going to come!” She whispered quietly. She felt the warmness spill out, and Daveed quickly stood up.

“Are you ready for me?” He whispered, his eyes glinting from the lights. She nodded, and he wasted no time pulling down his boxers. He pushed in his dick slowly, careful not to make any noise.

“Anyway, I just want you to feel better.” Anthony said, a sound just above a whisper. Daveed began to thrust slowly into her. He covered her mouth with his strong hand as he sped up.

He stopped for a minute, letting a groan escape from her lips as he lifted her up, fucking her standing up. She was desperate to hold onto anything, clinging onto his shoulders. He lifted her up, and helped her back down in a pattern. He stopped as he heard Anthony climbed back to his feet. He set her back down on the counter, not pulling out.

“Anthony, why are you still here?” She groaned at him.

The handle of the door jiggled, and Daveed reached for a towel and threw it on her bare chest just in time, covering her from Anthony’s eyes.

“Oh my god, you guys are horrible, just horrible!” He shrieked, covering his eyes with his hands.

“Hi Anthony, what’s wrong?” Phillipa Soo asked, standing a few feet away. “What’s going on?”

“Do NOT look in there.” Anthony gagged. Phillipa raised her eyebrow, and Anthony made a gesture, His right hand making an O and his pointer finger on the other hand going inside.

“Oh! Well…um…you’re probably overreacting anyway, Anthony.” Phillipa scolded. “Give them privacy!” She avoided looking in the room as she shut their door.

Y/N blushed as the door closed. Daveed slowly turned his head to look back at her. “I think we should probably stop now.” Daveed chuckled, preparing himself to pull out.

“No, no, no, please don’t.” She begged and pleaded. “please!”

Daveed took a minute to admire how broken she was and how he already fucked the sense out of her. He laughed, pushing in deeper.

“They’ll hear us.” Daveed said. “We can’t continue.”

“Turn on the music. Please, I’m desperate—“ He interrupted her with a sloppy kiss before picking her up and carrying her with him over to the speaker. He turned up the volume, the only noise they could hear was clipping., the band Daveed was in. Body & Blood was the first song to play. She blushed at the sound of his voice in the speaker. He turned off the light, the room darkening significantly. In the dressing room, there was a long strip of LED lights that wrapped around the top of the room, which he changed the color to red. Still holding her, he began to thrust into her to the beat of the song standing up.

Though the color was red, the room was still significantly dark. He lifted her up to so she bounced on it, his strong arms doing all the work. Her eyes rolled back, and she tipped her head back, the gesture not going unnoticed. He smirked, speeding up the pace so he was thrusting twice as fast as the tempo. She screamed.

He set her down on a carpet in front of the counter, hovering over her. He grabbed her hips and lifted them up for him. As he felt himself closer and closer to his release, he pounded her faster and faster like an animal, desperate for one.

He was going quadruple the speed of the tempo—she thought, she didn’t know for sure, she had no thoughts at all.

He felt himself closer and closer, until ropes of warm, sticky fluid shot out of him and into her.

She moaned loudly, shaking and twitching.

”Ride this dick.” He commanded, smirked when she obeyed. He placed his hands behind his head, watching her bounce.

She was struggling, since her legs were already sore. She moaned, a mix of pain and pleasure as she bounced faster. He moved his arms, his hands slapping and resting on her ass. “You take it so damn well.” He grunted.

He helped lift her up, his hands gripping her hips after he senses she was in pain. “Good job, babygirl.” He gently set her back down before entering again.

Body & Blood seemed to be on repeat, since it was almost its 6th time playing. “I’m already so close again,” he said, pounding harder and faster. She screamed as they reached their climax, him thrusting so fast, and then they came together, it was a mess.

Daveed turned off the music, the only sound was them panting together. He was still hovering over her, his hands spread out on each side of her. He bent his arms, leaning down to capture her mouth in a loving kiss.

He slowly pulled out, her legs twitching after the action. “You were both wrong,” he whispered. “It’s about ten and a half.”

“So it’s thick and long?” She smirked. “We’ll have to do this more often.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He smirked back before landing a kiss on her cheek. “Come home with me.” He suggested.

“What?” She asked.

“We can’t stay here, and I want to take care of you.”

“Fine, but I want ice cream.”

He stood up, holding her hands to help her to her feet. Her legs shook, threatening to trip her. In the distance, they heard Eliza’s gasp. “Already done.” He said, clipping her bra back on. He gently tugged her normal shirt on, followed by her shorts. He dug through the pile of their costumes, and found a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants.

“You brought clothes with you?” She asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

He nodded as he tugged up his sweatpants over his boxers. “You want me to walk home dressed as Thomas Jefferson?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“You don’t look bad as him.” He chuckled at her response before pulling her into a quick and passionate kiss.

“Wait, are you in birth control?” He asked suddenly. “I should have brought a condom.” He said, starting to panic.

“No, no, I’m on birth control.” She laughed. He instantly looked relieved. “Thanks for letting me hook up with you.” She whispered.

“Hook up?”

“Yeah… is there a problem?” She asked, her glance worried.

“No, of course not,” He chuckled nervously, opening the door. “I just… I thought you loved me for a second. Crazy of me, right?” He turned his head, concealing the expression on his face.

“I’ll see you later.” Daveed said as he walked away, leaving the door open for her to leave when she was ready. She ran out there, Daveed already about to turn to go downstairs.

“DAVEED!” She yelled. He perked his head up, towards her. She attempted to run to him, her legs giving out in the process. He rushed to her side, placing her head in his hand.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, inspecting her body. He pulled out a bottle of water and ibuprofen.

“Why are you carrying ibuprofen with you anyway?” she raised an eyebrow. She took a sip of water, swallowing a few pills as she waited for a response.

“I’ve been having some pain as well. In my neck.” He confessed. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you in pain?” she nodded.

“I wanted to tell you something.” She said, examining his face. He nodded as a signal to continue. “I love you.” Daveed stared at her, his gaze softening.

“Babygirl—“

“I mean it. I’ve liked you for years, even before we became friends.” She admitted, half expecting him to run away. Instead, he kissed her softly.

“I love you too. A lot. Since forever, too.” He confessed. He helped her to her feet, taking a moment to sink her presence in. He wrapped an arm around her waist, helping her walk. “Are you able to get downstairs?”

“I’m not paralyzed.” She said, slowly taking steps down.

“Is that a challenge, *last name*?” he joked. “I can go way rougher.”

She shivered but responded with, “You perv.”

They walked down the rest of the stairs, his hand still on her waist. They walk past Lin-Manuel Miranda who looks concerned.

“So, you two weren’t feeling alright, is that true?” Lin asked.

She and Daveed shared a quick glance, before she spoke. “Yes, yes, we were throwing up. We ate the same food.”

“I see. Throwing up to music, hmm?” He asked, his eyebrow raising.

“I was just showing her clipping.” Daveed cut in.

“Ah. Well everyone left already. Why didn’t you guys go home?” He said.

“We didn’t want to be a distraction.” She said. Lin stared at her legs, which were shaking.

“Your legs seem to be in pain… any explanation?” He said. “Look, I don’t wan’t you guys to lie to me. I’m not mad, it’s too late to be. I just want you to tell the truth.”

“Fine. We—“ She began, but Anthony walked past, interrupting.

“They fucked. I saw.” He sipped on a can of Coke, walking past nonchalantly.

“Is this true?” Lin asked them. They glanced at each other, and Daveed nodded his head. “It’s none of my business to scold you for that, but please don’t do it again when you’re needed on stage.”

“Thanks for understanding.” She told Lin. Daveed guided her to the door.

“Keep it in your pants next time, Diggs.” Lin joked. Daveed laughed at the joke, shaking his head.

“She makes it harder than you think.” He said to nobody in particular. He led her out to the his car, and opened the passenger seat door for her.

“I’m not completely helpless you know, I can still open a car door for myself.”

“I insist.” Daveed climbed into the drivers seat. He put the car into reverse, backing out from the parking spot. He began to drive onto the highway.

“So, about that ice cream.” She said, admiring his side profile.

He laughed and sighed. “Fine. Anything for my beautiful girlfriend.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

[mel-is-sanonymous1994]

Kisses Taste Like Candy

Part 1

Part 2

-Orla McCool x Michelle Mallon

-Didn’t proof read it so I’m sure it’s not the greatest

-I have never lived in Ireland or even pretended to so I’m not so good at the slang part

Summary: Jenny Joyce is Evil and it doesn’t get better during summer home from university. What’s the worst that could happen during spin the bottle.

“You can’t be serious!” I said.

“Come on Michelle it’s just a wee peck you don’t even have to do anything.” Claire whispered. Since college she has grown a bit of a spine it seems must be the college girls.

“It’s Orla for christs sake!” I said glancing at the girl in question she was focused on something else entirely already bored with the game they had just started playing. Whoever said spin the bottle would be fun lied.

“Is it because she’s a girl?” Claire asked me with a flash of hurt in her eyes.

“No, I’ve been to college parties Claire I’ve probably kissed more girls than you’ve even looked at.” I said.

“But you both went to an all girls catholic school.” James pointed out.

“A rides a ride James.” I said blushing a bit.

“So then what’s the problem?” Erin asked.

“Is someone backing down?” Jenny Joyce taunted. She had already came out on top in this game not only avoiding all of the girls but managing to get to make out with the hottest man to ever step foot in Derry.

“I’m not backing down I just don’t think it’s fair to Orla is all.” I explained. Jenny smirked her wicked smirk and looked to Orla who was busy taking the ends of her hair and individually separating the section strand by strand almost as if she was counting them.

“She gets a pass doesn’t she?” James asked.

“Yeah, she does.” Erin smiled.

“It’s not a pass though.” Claire said remembering the rules.

“That’s correct Claire, Michelle can pass but she would have to take whoever it lands on next and the person who goes after her has to take Orla.” Aisling said with a sad look on her face. She had only gotten nicer being away from Jenny and her influence but she was still the loyal puppet to the superior girl. I looked next to me as Orla tuned back into the game.

“Oi I’ve got no problem with making out with her, she’s a ride.” The male to my left said. I shot glare at James who earlier had decided to make me sit next to the absolute dickhead who was currently staring at Orla in a way that would make even the brightest girls feel uncomfortable.

“Sorry what did I miss?” Orla asked as she looked at everyone staring at her. She turned red from the attention. I had to admit the dance classes she had been taking were paying off, she chose to stay in Derry and work at the local animal shelter after school.

“You were picked for spin the bottle and Michelle passed on you.” Jenny said harshly. Orla didn’t understand though.

“I thought we were playing tag.” She frowned.

“Tonsil tag.” Jenny Joyce said with a snicker.

“I don’t have my tonsils anymore Jenny, your da took em.” Orla scrunched her eyebrows in confusion. The ballbag next to me stood up and walked over to Orla grabbing her arm hoisting her up.

“Hey! Wait!” I said as I saw Orlas look of confusion once she stood facing him. He had already put his hand on her face.

“You already passed.” The guy said holding Orla possessively.

“I didn’t officially, I just hesitated.” I said nervously standing up quickly to take his place. Typically we didnt have to stand for this stupid game but the fucker had to make it a big deal.

“Go on then Michelle.” Jenny said. I glared at her as the asshole petted Orla’s head and then winked at me and sat back down. I stood in front of the taller girl.

“You alright Michelle?” She smiled at me as she looked less uncomfortable with a familiar face in front of her.

“I’m alright Orla.” I said.

“Enough of the small talk.” Jenny said with her arms crossed.

“I’m gonna kiss you now Orla is that ok?” I asked silently hoping she’d say no.

“Alright Michelle.” She said. I leaned in and placed my hand on her cheek looking carefully in her eyes for any sign that she changed her mind. She closed her eyes as my lips were mere millimeters from hers. I rolled my eyes and just went for it connecting our closed lips in a very innocent kiss. She had lip gloss on. I could smell the little alcohol she had drank mixing with the cotton candy flavored lip smacker she insisted on applying anytime she could, the smell was intoxicating. Her lips were soft and warm. I felt her jaw open slightly and on instinct deepened the kiss a bit quickly going from a quick peck to full snog. I could taste the lip gloss now mixing with the lingering taste of Tequila on my own tongue. I was addicted. I came back into my brain for a minute when I realized that Orla wasn’t participating as much as I was. I pulled away quickly and breathed heavy as if I just ran a marathon. Orla’s brown eyes were staring back at me. I put my hand to my lips covering the evidence as best I could. Orla’s face was flushed. I began to panic, how could I have done that with one of my best friends, the sweetest and most innocent of us all. I felt the sharp sting of tears in my eyes as I ran out of the room. I heard James calling after me but I kept running until I couldn’t breathe anymore and noticed I had ran all the way to finnoulas. I bent over and clutched my sides as I fought to get air to stay in my lungs.

“Stupid Michelle! How could you do that! She’s never gonna speak to you again!” I yelled at myself. I tried to dissect every second of the kiss. The smell the taste the feelings, everything. I panicked more when I realized that I actually really liked kissing Orla and I found myself wishing I could do it again. I almost started running again but a small voice stopped me.

“Michelle, are you alright?” Orla asked as I stood up straight still struggling to breathe properly.

“I’m sorry Orla. I shouldn’t have agreed to kiss you, that wasn’t fair to you. I should’ve just said we should leave.” I apologized.

“Michelle.” She started but I cut her off.

“And I’m sorry I stuck my tongue in your mouth, that was uncalled for and I totally understand if you never want to speak to me ever again.” I said with tears in my eyes now. She opened her mouth to speak but I couldn’t stop.

“You are one of my best friends Orla and I’ve gone and messed that up just because Jenny Joyce is an evil cunt.” I said with tears blurring my eyes until Orla was just a smudge in front of me. Before she could say anything I heard more footsteps approaching quickly. I saw it was the other girls and James.

“Is everything alright?” James asked noticing I was crying. He knew I wasn’t one to cry over just anything. I shook my head. I didn’t dare look at Orla who was still trying to get a word in while Erin, Claire, and James fussed over me.

“I’m gonna take her home.” I heard James say as he put his arm around me and walked us towards our house which wasn’t too far away.

“Wait..” I heard Orla say but Erin had pulled her in the other direction.

[bestworstcase]

On that recent note about Ruby being at a boiling point when the next confrontation with Salem rolls around, would you mind going into that a bit more? Namely, I have a couple thoughts about a) it’s narratively boring to have the same thing happen twice, and “Ruby’s personal issues get overrun by a bunch of other issues she feels she has to address first” is how we got to V10 in the first place, and b) it really feels like WBY (and maybe Jaune, but he has his own stuff going on, we’ll see) would be much more conscious of the fact that it happened very visibly and the possibility of that happening again, and thus act to help Ruby away from that edge should she stray there again. Just a couple thoughts, really.

what i anticipate—again mostly on the basis of reading rwby x jl pt in context with the events of v9 and the 9.11 animatic—is less round two of ruby pretending to be fine until she explodes and more of an over-correction. a pendulum swing. ruby knows she can’t bury things behind a smile without destroying herself now, but she also… doesn’t… really know how to regulate her emotions in a healthy way, because she’s been viciously repressing those feelings her whole life.

she’s also (as ruby herself notes in B4) not at all comfortable asking for help and in vacuo she is going to be under a lot of pressure as the girl who sent the message—and in B4, we’ve already seen that she is, for example, getting waylaid in the streets for photos with strangers and that yang, despite having every reason to be overprotective at present, doesn’t interfere and actively tries to put a positive spin on it (“personally i think it’s about time everybody knew how cool my sister is”) even as she’s obviously concerned about the harm it might be doing to ruby. they’re both being pragmatic.

so while ruby’s closest friends will be (and do, in the jl film) watching like hawks for the signals they missed in the ever after, they can’t do anything about her celebrity among the vacuan refugees or the material reality of the situation in vacuo: if a major grimm attack coincides with ruby feeling bad, everyone has to prioritize repelling the attack over talking about how ruby feels, them’s the breaks.

ruby knows this. her team knows this. none of them want her to go back to bottling stuff up until it kills her, but it’s going to be really, really hard to carve out the space she needs to rest and recover and learn how to handle her feelings.

what happens?

well, judging by the jl film, ruby gets kind of… manic. she’s reckless. she brushes off their attempts to get her to stop being reckless. at one point she more or less tells clark that she expects to die in the war and she’s decided to try as hard as she can to do as much good as she can in the time she has left, and later when she gets the wind knocked out of her and yang freaks out ruby’s like "don’t worry, i’m not a quitter like mom" about it.

in a way, she’s backslid all the way to where she was at the top of v1—remember how reckless ruby was during the initiation, out of desperation to prove herself? except she’s also, pretty blatantly, pushing her bad feelings outward in the form of this danger-seeking go-go-go attitude. it’ll be okay if she dies as long as she goes down fighting to the end right!!! as long as she’s honest and open about not being able to imagine a future where she is alive after the war, that’s fine!!! because she’s not bottling it up anymore!!!

and (this is evident even just in the jl film) she’s a bit taken aback by how alarming her team finds this new attitude, because to her all that’s changed is she’s not keeping it a secret that she feels this way but to them it’s abruptly seeing, in vivid technicolor, that ruby genuinely does not care whether she lives or dies and in fact is terrifyingly comfortable with the idea that she’ll die fighting salem. so i think ruby is going to experience this as mixed signals; they say they want her to be more open and share what she feels, but when she’s (in her mind) feeling good they get mad at her for not… feeling the way they want her to feel… so what is she supposed to do?

over the longer term, the shape of ruby’s character arc from here on is a journey toward rebuilding her presently non-existent sense of self-worth. but in the immediate term it’s more about clearing the hurdle of believing that one epiphany in the tree did not, in fact, fix her or solve the deeper problem of her suicide ideation. (which is very much what’s going on with ruby in the jl film.)

and i think it’s really interesting and pretty smart for the narrative to juxtapose that with salem battling her own emotional strife, because the heroic cast all believe that salem ultimately just wants to die but i don’t think that’s true, and salem herself certainly seems to be envisioning a future that she is beginning to realize she cannot achieve without making sacrifices; no cost is too great, she says, and she’s lying to herself.

i think ruby’s second boiling point is not “i don’t want to be me anymore” but rather “i don’t want to die anymore” and this dovetails nicely with salem hitting this critical mass, reaching the line she can’t cross because the cost is too great. the hero realizing that she desperately wants to live after all + the villain choosing the life of one person she cares for above everything else. it creates an opening for empathy and understanding in both directions.

if ruby spends nearly all of v10 skating over the deep well of her fear by pushing it outward as glibly nihilistic thrill-seeking, and then gets thrust into a situation where she really might die and feels that abrupt, visceral desperation to survive—that is not too far afield of salem’s desperation to remake the world into one where she’s allowed to live. likewise, if the unstoppable force of salem’s ruthlessness collided with the immovable object of cinder, she knocks herself sideways into a corner she can’t escape—which isn’t dissimilar to how hopeless ruby feels. and then they each have the other’s answer, potentially.

[friesforfriday]

A real first kiss (Matt Murdock x F!Reader / College AU)

Summary: You tell Matt no one has ever kissed you out of love. He makes sure to correct that.

Wordcount: 2.5K ish

Warnings/Tags: No use of y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns (no physical descriptions aside from that), college AU, Matt and reader are both in law school, some angst, something that could be read as dissociation (reader feels disconnected to an experience), reader is not straight? (no sexual orientation specified but there's an interaction that is not heterosexual / only kissing tho), comfort at the end (bc I am a sucker for happy endings lol)

A/N: This was oddly personal, and while it’s a little short it was very therapeutic to write. Pretty much wanted to do something that related to being a late bloomer (like I have been my whole life) plus some fluff (: Please take into account that this wasn't proof read and that English isn't my first language; if you happen to see any mistakes, do let me know so I can fix them. Hope you enjoy this!

For most people, their first kiss was usually a memory of their early teenage years, maybe even a childhood one. You could recall the stories your friends have told you. For some it was born out of sunny days during summer camp where connections were born after swimming in a lake all afternoon, quickly followed by laughter scattered into open fields or forests between games of capture the flag. That turned into late-night conversations, sneaking out from each other’s cabin after curfew to meet under the starry sky. 

Or perhaps for some it started out as a hallway crush. The kind that you would reveal only to your closest friends, and you all hid under silly codenames. If you locked eyes during free period, it stirred up giggling. And guess what?It turned out they’d been watching you all along. After gathering all your courage, a study date would turn into something more once your knuckles brushed accidentally.

The list could go and on, their stories all very innocent and sweet, most likely a terrible kisses, but nevertheless worth remembering.

If you added to that all the romantic books you’d read, movies, and what not, there were plenty more stories you could think of, from childhood friends turned to high school sweethearts or plenty about games of truth or dare or spin the bottle. Reality or fiction, first kisses tended to be meaningless beyond their experience value, with the rare exception of those who actually found love through them.

Throughout the years, you had patiently waited for your turn. You didn’t have many expectations of how it would actually happen, you just held on for the moment to finally occur. How difficult could it be? It literally seemed to happen to everyone around you. So you just waited, surely things would flow naturally, right?

Middle school rolled by, which was fine. A lot of people need more time to grow into themselves, it would eventually happen, you were sure. Maybe it wasn’t going to be one of those awkward extended pecks that your friends said seemed to last forever. They insisted it was for the best, no one really knows what they’re doing when they still haven’t even fully hit puberty. If you had your first kiss a little later in life, there was a higher chance it wasn’t going to be completely awful. You could deal with that; high school was supposed to be a more exciting chance to expand your circle. 

Boy were you wrong.

By this point, it was possible that maybe you had watched too many rom-coms or read one too many romance novels. You’re sure now that it helped in no way to ease your expectations. Seriously how difficult could it be? You saw it all. Your best friends got into relationships, went on dates, celebrated anniversaries, and had their hearts broken, only to survive them and start all over again. Kids in your classes, the kind to never speak their minds, suddenly grew into themselves and found their people too. 

During lunchtime, couples sat next to each other, holding hands in the cafeteria. Field trips meant seeing impromptu make-out sessions in the back of the school bus. Your friends received proposals for homecoming and eventually proms; always happy to invite you to come along when you didn’t receive any. At the occasional party you did attend, corners turned into your safe spot as you watched as others were approached. Not once did anyone come to strike up a conversation, to casually sweep you off your feet. It only led you to wonder if you were doing something, anything, wrong.

Love seemed to be everywhere, just never in your life.

You’d be lying to say it didn’t hurt your self-esteem. How come it hadn’t happened to you? Were you really that unattractive or uninteresting or whatever it was for no one to be interested in you? Your friends, or anyone who found out, always assured you saying you weren’t the problem, but the evidence seemed to point elsewhere. 

You manages to endure a little longer. After your high school graduation, the prospect of college lifted you spirits. With all the people that attended such a big school, you’d be sure to meet new people or at least get your mind off it.

It was even worse. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the embarrassment inexperience brought upon you. At some point you just started to lie your way through games of never have I ever; because let’s face it, admitting to a dozen strangers that you’ve never even held hands romantically wasn’t how you pictured spending your Friday and Saturday evenings. And that wasn’t even the worst part. Opening bathroom doors to couples straight up fucking or having to leave your dorm when your roommate brought a date every other week made you feel majority behind.

After spending your freshman year sulking, you decided it had been enough. At this point, you knew you were a late bloomer, but c’mon, those “the right person will find you when you least expect it” pep talks were starting to feel like bullshit. For fucks sake, it didn’t even matter anymore if they actually liked you, you just wanted to get it over with.

Matters were taken into your own hands on a Saturday night. The crowded spaces did you no favors to appease your social anxiety. As you walked around, room after room was filled to the brim with strangers, your friends nowhere to be found. The floor of the frat house they had dragged you to remained particularly sticky everywhere you went, especially in the kitchen where you had stopped to refill the red plastic cup in your hands.

As you poured rum into your half full glass of coke, a familiar voice called your name from across the room, “Oh my God, is that really you?”

And so, greetings were exchanged, as well as short debriefings of what you’d been up to since graduating. For all the time you’d been at Columbia, that was the first time you’d run into someone from your hometown.

Soon enough you were sitting in a half-empty deck, laughing and reminiscing about middle school. The green eyes that looked at you weren’t full of love or lust, but had a strange tinge of nostalgia. If you were being honest, it was one of those old friendships that stood had faded into nothing more than an acquaintance, and you suddenly knew you had an opportunity laid at your feet.

In all honesty, you could’ve gone simply with catching up and then left to look for one of your friends. Looking at him, you recalled all the times you joked around in Literature class or the times his parents gave you a ride home before you inevitably grew apart in high school. There was no spark when your knees brushed in the small sofa you were sitting in; but there was no discomfort either, so against your better judgement you decided to go for it.

By all means, it was a good kiss, at least that’s how you remember it now. At the time, there wasn’t anything else to compare it to, but none of the complaints you’d heard before happened. There wasn’t any unnecessary clash of teeth, it didn’t feel like he was shoving his tongue down your throat, he kept his hands safely and softly cupping your cheeks and neck. According to all the standards of all of your friends, this was an A+ experience.

By the time you were heading back to your dorm, you found yourself finally able to check having your first kiss off your bucket list. A sudden feeling of pride ran through your body as you walked through campus. Finally.

Unfortunately, though, after you’d washed your face and were sharing the news over the phone with your best friend, you realized that while everything had seemingly gone smoothly, you still felt the odd knot inside your chest. Like nothing had really changed. It was hard to put into words, how your body had felt out of its own, like you were playing a character as your lips met his, or maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you. Because for some reason, you hadn’t really felt there when it happened. It just sort of seemed to occur.

“You’re kidding, right?” Matt’s said flat out, although you knew his deadpan tone was just for show.

Letting out a giggle you said, “Why would I lie about that?”

“That jerk was your first kiss?”

“He wasn’t a jerk, we were friends in mid-” you tried to defend the choices of you past self between bursts of laughter, but he didn’t let you continue. His sour expression growing by the second.

“He’s a conservative bigot, a Republican-governor-wannabe, how is he not–”

“He wasn’t back then!” Raising your tone, you barely held it in before your laughter burst out again at the same time Matt’s did, because yeah he was right – that dude did end up becoming a jerk. Except it didn’t really matter because you were never actually into him, and you can’t blame yourself for who your middle school classmates end up becoming.

“But he is now.”

You both kept laughing, shoulders brushing as you sat on the bed on his side of the dorm room. Foggy had ditched you both for tonight, opting out of your usual weekend hangout in favor of a date with someone called Marci, or so he’d said.

“Okay, okay, fiiiine, I’ll give you that,” you said in your defense, lightly shoving his shoulder with your own. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t actually like him.”

“Wait…” Matt said scrunching his nose in disbelief, his laughter slowly dying down, his face dead serious for real this time. “What are you talking about, why'd you kiss him then?”

With his face suddenly turned in your direction, you felt a your cheeks grow warm. “I guess… I just wanted to get it over with.”

An apologetic smile was what he offered in return, with no real judgment behind it. “Well, it should’ve been more special ... silly as it may be, you know... not just anyone.”

His words stop you in your tracks for a split second, a bittersweet feeling creeping up your chest. You’d never actually considered it, but in the years that had passed since that night, you didn’t recall that any other single kiss you’d received had actually been born from real love or any true feelings at all. 

There was that one time you hit it off with someone at a friend’s birthday. The light conversation between the colorful lights had you blushing more than usual. Their body was warm against yours when their lips were pressed to your own. The taste of their lip balm was sweet, almost sugary on your tongue, but it was all a spur-of-the-moment situation. While, unlike the first time, where you’d felt disconnected from your body, this time you’d actually enjoyed it. There was a warm feeling, maybe happiness, but definitely not affection and surely not love.

Then there were some other guys, whom you had very much liked. They listened to you and talked eagerly with you every time you bumped into each other, yet never actually asked you out. They flirted with you or had their friends act as their wingmen to eventually end up making out with you during random parties, but never – you realized – not one single time had anyone ever been interested in you affectionately, with tenderness or sincerity.

As if on cue, as if he could somehow sense what you were thinking, Matt broke the sudden silence that had grown in the room. “I didn’t mean to overstep I–”

You shook your head, breaking free from your thoughts, “No, no, I just… I don’t think I’ve ever had a…” Your voice quieted down before you could finish the sentence. While you weren’t ashamed of any of your experiences anymore, you couldn’t quite seem to get rid of the lingering pain that followed all of them.

“A real connection?”

Your eyes darted up to look at Matt; red glasses were shielding his eyes from yours, but did not cover the furrow of concern between his brows. It wasn’t a secret to Matt that you’d never been in a relationship. You’d told him at some point, during one of the many late-night conversations you enjoyed having. He’d found it hard to believe, truly, how anyone would pass on the chance of earning your trust. The thing was, anyone willing to pass on your endless compassion, your particular sense of humor, the softness of your skin, or the brilliance of your mind was a jackass, and he sure as hell wasn’t one.

He’d known you all of law school, at least all year and a half you’d both taken of it, although to him it might as well be a lifetime because he couldn’t quite picture a time when he didn’t recognize the sound of your heartbeat by memory. Right from the day you sat next to him in the Civil Procedures course, it took him no time to think of an excuse to talk to you, ignoring Foggy – who was also sitting next to him – to ask you if you’d care to study together someday.

Here and now, your very same heartbeat thumped loudly mere inches away from him. The opportunity he had once longed for.

“C’mon man, you gotta tell her at some point” was what Foggy had told him a few hours prior, before he’d left you two alone on purpose. “She obviously likes you, for real. It’s time.”

“I don’t know, Foggy. I don’t want to pressure her, what if she doesn’t want to be anything more than friends? I–”

“Oh my God, Matt! Are you being serious?” He said in a mock tone, “You don’t want to pressure her? She has completely memorized the way you take your tea and somehow prepares it perfectly in the shitty dining hall microwave. She genuinely prefers spending every Saturday night holed up in our dorm or out at Josie’s or pretty much anywhere just to sit next to you. She literally looks at you with stars in her eyes.”

Chuckling, Matt did his best to play coy, “Well, I can’t know about that last part–”

“You know what I mean. You have to tell her, tonight.” Foggy insisted as he made his way out of the dorm room; he pointed his finger at Matt before he fully headed out, “God forbids you actually pursue something that might make you happy. I’ll be over at Marci’s, don’t wait up for me…”

So yeah, Matt knew what he had to do. “I think I’d like to object to that… if that’s okay with you.”

At your silence– aside from the way your heartbeat continued to pick up – he proceeded, “You don’t really think there isn’t a single soul who’d honestly care for you, do you?”

His hand slowly moved from where it rested atop his lap. His knuckles gently brushed your knee and grazed your hand, guiding themselves with the line of your arm all the way up until they reached your shoulder. A small smile grew on your face and quickly turned into laughter. “Matt, are you serious?”

“I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you.” In a second, he mirrored your laughter, nodding his head. He felt the warmth of your fingers cover his other hand. “Is it okay if I– can I kiss you?”

If you recalled correctly, no one had ever asked you that, in all of your lifetime. Surely, for you, this was a first of its kind.

As soon as you said yes, dexterous fingers slid around your waist, gently coaxing you towards him, before taking off his glasses. Your body didn’t resist complying, the warmth of Matt’s chest as inviting as the feeling of his heartbeat against yours, your legs at ease around his own. 

The stubble across his neck gently brushed against your fingers, a tingling sensation that almost sent shivers down your spine. This close, there was no escaping the soft smell of soap and cinnamon from his skin or the way his breath fanned across your face. Warmth grew inside your chest as you felt the soft brush of his lips on yours, almost melting together. It was slow and languid, much like honey trickling down your tongue. You were sure it could be just as sweet too, a kind of feeling you had never felt before. 

A feeling you guessed was reciprocated if the rumble that reverberated through Matt’s throat was anything to go by. He couldn’t tell why he had waited so long to do this; all of his excuses gone the second the softest skin of your mouth met his. As far as he knew, he could stay with you like this for hours. He didn’t want to pressure you– not even when your breathing got a little faster or when your lips parted oh-so-gently to let him seek out your taste– but this much he could do.

The only reason he found to pull back was to ask you, catching his breath and brushing his thumb over your lower lip, “Does this mean I can take you out tomorrow night? We can do this properly.”

You smiled to yourself, “Only if you kiss me like that again.”

If you're here, thank you so much for reading!!! Please please please let me know what you thought - all feedback is appreciated- and consider reblogging if possible (:

[creative-frequency]

The idea of soft and amnesiac Raphael is living in my head rent-free so here you go. All thanks to certain someone.

“Seems that I may have caused some unintentional heartburn to your friend.”

Your bag hit the floor with a loud thump. Hopefully the potion bottles inside stayed unbroken.

Raphael met your shock with amusement.

He stood up from the burnt-sienna coloured lounge chair and swiped some imaginary dust off his doublet – or maybe it was Scratch’s hair.

“You’re… awake!” you yelped in horror mixed with relief.

“All thanks to your efforts, I’ve been told,” Raphael said, eyeing you with curiosity. His chestnut brown eyes were bright with no traces of sleep.

“Well, what happened to you? Why were you knocked out in the middle of the road?” you asked fervently, but deemed it best to keep some distance between you and him.

However, as he spoke, Raphael started narrowing that distance. You realised no one else was home. Gale had probably taken Scratch with him to Ramazith’s Tower. Damn Astarion for leaving you on the spot like that.

But wait, Astarion would’ve never left you to deal with a devil alone. Something unexpected was going on.

“I thought maybe you could shed some light to what happened to me,” Raphael said slowly and kept walking towards you.

“You don’t remember anything?” you asked and with Raphael faintly shaking his head in denial, you continued: “We found you on the way from Candlekeep to Baldur’s Gate. Visibly, you were unharmed, but you slept for almost three days in a row.”

If Raphael was surprised to learn of this, he didn’t show it. He stopped right in front of you and said in thought: “And you were kind enough to pick me up in your little caravan and bring me to the city.”

You swallowed, waiting for him to blow up into flames or impale you with a clawed hand any second now. “That’s correct.”

Something resembling a smile flashed on Raphael’s lips. He took your hand, bowed and brushed his lips over the back of your hand. You winced in surprise.

“Thank you, my dear. I am in your debt.”

Your head was spinning. Whoever this man was, he was only Raphael in looks, scent, mannerisms and voice.

“U-uhm. Of course, I could never leave you– I mean, anyone on the side of the road like that,” you managed to explain in a shaky voice.

Raphael smirked at your slip up and let go. The back of your hand was almost burning and you had to take a glance to make sure he hadn’t caused a burn mark.

[erimeows]

Knowing (NSFW)

The night that Vogler gets voted off the board, Wilson drives back up to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the pouring rain to go celebrate with Chase, Foreman, and House in the latter’s office. Wilson, whose position was conveniently reinstated by Cuddy and the rest of the board, brings a bottle of whiskey in for the four of them to split between the shot glasses he knows House keeps in his desk drawer.

They stay there, making fun of Vogler and chatting away until half past midnight. Chase and Foreman excuse themselves around the same time. 

“And then there were two,” Wilson chimes with a half smile as he screws the lid back onto the glass whiskey bottle and slides it under House’s desk. He doesn’t drink much- hardly drank any of it tonight- so he figures House will get more use out of it than he ever will. “How are you feeling?”

“Think they’re going home together?” House hums, totally ignoring Wilson’s question. House is shaken due to that day’s happenings and just refuses to admit it to anyone- even himself. It makes sense that he won’t acknowledge it. “I could’ve sworn there was some tension recently.”

“I think that has more to do with the fact that you had them at each other’s throats than it has to do with what you’re implying,” Wilson scoffs and shakes his head.

Wilson looks toward the window. House has the blinds open for once. Finally, even if it’s only for tonight, House isn’t closing off the rest of the world.

Wilson stands from where he’s sat in front of House’s desk so he can go to peer out the window. Rain continuously showers over the building and trickles down the window in big fat drops to shroud their already-foggy view of the city. 

“Ah, you’re no fun,” House feigns a pout and lifts himself from his spinning chair so he can slip his big coat over his shoulders. A few awkward seconds pass. Wilson waits for House to inevitably make his exit with a sarcastic farewell, but the exit never comes. Instead, House uses his cane to walk until he’s standing next to Wilson. He leans against the window and stares out at the city rather than at Wilson himself. Meanwhile, all Wilson can stare at is House. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be going home to your wife? She might get lonely without you. Poor thing.”

Wilson rolls his eyes at that. He doesn’t want his wife- he wants House. His marriage has been over since it started and at this point, he’s just waiting for Julie to serve him with papers. 

“I’m an oncologist, House, it’s not like she’s used to having me home at this time of night anyways. The only reason I’m not working right now is because I just got hired back.”

“But you could be home with her if you really wanted to,” House points out- ever so excited to correct someone, even if it’s Wilson- no, especially if it’s Wilson. The man is sadistic; always seizing the opportunity to point out somebody else’s flaws if it draws attention away from his own. By pointing out the fact that Wilson should be home with his wife right now, he draws the attention away from how he refused to keep his head down with Vogler and got Wilson fired. “And you could also be pounding that hot nurse you had lunch with if you really wanted to. I bet she’d light some candles at her apartment and put rose petals on the bed to make it real nice- a contrast from the dead bedroom you’re probably suffering from with Julie right now. So, why are you here with me when you could be with either of them? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You’re right,” Wilson shrugs. He knows better to engage with House by arguing. That’s exactly what House wants, so he refuses to play into it. He puts his own jacket on and shoots House a sharp glare. “If you’re going to be like this about it, though, I’m going home.”

Wilson goes to leave, only to feel a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to see House standing there with an unreadable expression (because even after all these years, this man is still an enigma).

“But do you want to go home to her?”

Wilson gulps and looks down, avoiding House’s prying gaze.

House reaches up to grab Wilson’s chin- to make Wilson look at him. Wilson does what he knows House wants him to and makes eye contact. Icy blue burns into light brown at the same time that Wilson’s cheeks flush pink. 

He’s had feelings for House since… Well, he doesn’t know when. One day, their friendship was just that, and the next, Wilson found himself with a notebook full of the man’s favorite things; found himself stealing glances and dreaming of things that he shouldn’t have been. Casual outings with his best friend turned into him spending his afternoons in preparation, trying on different outfits and mulling over which one would impress House the most. Peaceful nights with his wife- wives, over the years- turned into early mornings with him knelt on the floor of his bathroom, praying to God for House’s health, for House’s happiness, for House’s work, for House. Things changed so fast he couldn’t see it coming, let alone stop it.

Wilson remains lost in thought until House clears his throat, impatient. He recenters himself and meets House’s eyes again. Clearly, House reciprocates. Wilson isn’t oblivious to that. Wilson is the only person House spends time with, the only person House is interested in, the only person House has decided not to shut out. Wilson is the only person House has loved since Stacy.

But, whether or not House actually wants a relationship, Wilson has no idea. House isn’t the kind of man to hesitate. He would’ve made a move by now if he wanted it. Then again, he clearly returns Wilson’s feelings. So, if it’s not a relationship, what does House want? For them to stay in this limbo forever, wanting each other so desperately but never doing anything about it?

Wilson eyes House up and down. Still, his expression remains unreadable, but Wilson can tell that he’s tense with the way he taps his cane against the floor and purses his lips. 

“You know Julie and I haven’t been doing well. Why would I want to go home to her right now? And why does it matter to you?”

At that, House’s face falls. Wilson has successfully backed him into a corner and it’s apparent he doesn’t like it. 

“No reason.”

House backs away from Wilson like he’s on fire and retreats to his desk to gather his things. Wilson follows, unable to notice how House puts extra effort into facing away from him to hide his reddening cheeks.

“You never ask questions without a reason- you never do anything without a reason,” He argues.

“I can’t help but notice that you’re still here,” House grumbles and points up at the analogue clock on the wall. It’s almost one in the morning now. “You said you were going to leave two minutes ago, so leave.”

“You’re the one who stopped me,” Wilson shrugs. With each of these tense, awkward interactions, he feels as if he and House are getting progressively closer to something big. But then nothing happens, and he’s left disappointed like he is every other time. “You should be getting home, too. It’s late.”

“Ooh, so we can leave together,” House smirks and clacks his cane against the floor again. “I love it.”

Wilson flinches at a crack of thunder that booms through the sky.

“Are you sure you should drive in this?” He asks in reference to the downpour outside.

“What, are you gonna offer to chauffeur me to my place and then make that drive all the way back to yours?”

“No,” Wilson answers with a shake of his head. “I was gonna ask if I could drive us both to your apartment and stay with you tonight.”

“Wow, you’re really trying to get in my pants, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Wilson snaps. House blinks in what Wilson assumes is surprise. “You’re not a genius for figuring that one out; I’ve only been interested for a decade. So what?”

House pauses, standing behind his desk and staring at Wilson with a twinkle in his icy blue eyes. The tension in the room becomes so thick that it’s palpable until House walks towards the door of his office and utters one sentence.

“I don’t sleep with married men.”

Then, he shoots Wilson a wink and a smile before gingerly exiting the office, leaving nothing more than a confused and disappointed oncologist. Wilson sighs and looks at the clock again.

It’s one in the morning. He should be getting home.

~

A few months pass. Wilson moves out of the apartment he shared with Julie, which she doesn’t question. He also gets together with a lawyer and gets her served with divorce papers. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t question that either, and when he goes back to the apartment for the rest of his things, he’s not shocked by the fact that there’s another car in his parking space and a pair of men’s steel-toed boots by the front door. 

As much as Wilson could complain about acquiring a third alimony payment, he’s so relieved that it’s over that he doesn’t think to do so. Instead, he makes copies of all the documents pertaining to the divorce, storms into House’s office, and throws them down onto the diagnostician’s desk. 

House, who was sitting in his chair and bouncing his tennis ball on the floor, glances up at Wilson with a half-smile.

“What’s this? STD test results? I knew your panty-peeling ways would catch up to you eventually,” House jokes before picking up the stack of papers and staring down at it. Upon reading the words, his eyes go wide. “You really did it…”

“I’m not a married man anymore,” Wilson smirks. “What now?”

House tilts his head. His small half of a smile morphs into a large, cheshire grin.

“I don’t sleep with people who know me.”

“Really? That’s it? Not ‘I’m not gay’?” Wilson sputters. House must be coming up with excuses to avoid the inevitable at this point- either that or just trying to fuck with him for the fun of it. They love each other, and they both know they love each other, but that was never the problem. It’s always been House and whatever reservations he has back in that complicated head of his. “That’s your reason, that you know me?”

“Yes,” House nods and tosses the copies of Wilson’s divorce papers into the trash can next to his desk. Then, he starts spinning in his chair like a child and tosses his tennis ball in Wilson’s direction. Wilson barely catches it. “And I’ve never confirmed or denied the thing about being gay- I like to keep people on their toes, keep ‘em guessing.”

“You like to keep people on their toes, huh? That’s one hell of an understatement. What about Cuddy? Or Stacy? And I’m pretty sure you’ve at least considered Cameron. You know all of them.”

“Sure I do, but they don’t know me,” House explains and crosses his arms. “You, however, do.”

“And you don’t sleep with people who know you- you won’t risk being with me even though we have these feelings for each other-” Wilson pauses, pointing at himself as he puts it together. “Because you’re afraid of being known.”

“No. I just know better than to mix being known with the terrible thing that is my sex life. Why are you so insistent on making this a me problem?” House demands. While it’s apparent that he’s trying to maintain his composure, Wilson has known the man long enough to tell that he’s frazzled as he looks for his cane. Upon locating it, House grabs it from where it fell onto the floor at some point and gets up from his chair. “Is it because you don’t want to admit that it could be you?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Wilson huffs. He throws his hands up in frustration and furrows his brow in anger. House starts to walk like he’s going to go past Wilson and to the door of his office, so Wilson blocks his way by moving in front of him. House shoots a glare that would work on just about anyone else- that would make Cameron or Chase or Foreman or any of House’s clinic patients turn their backs and walk away- but Wilson hasn’t been friends with House for over a decade by walking away from him. “You just admitted it was you and the weird prerequisites that you have for your sexual partners!”

“Well, you’ve had three failed marriages and you’re the only common denominator, so are we going to sit here and pretend that I’m the problem in this relationship?”

“I know I’m not perfect, you idiot- we’re both the problem!”

“Listen, Wilson, we’re at work and I’m sure you’ve got a ton of dying bald little freaks to save,” House says with a harsh tap of his cane to the floor for emphasis. 

“You’re fucked up.”

“I know. We both are,” House says and leans down to Wilson’s ear, daring to nip on the lobe. A flash of heat tears through Wilson’s spine. He can’t remember the last time he was so enthralled with someone; was it during his marriages? No, he would’ve remembered. Before House? Or was it always House? He’s so close that Wilson can smell past the cologne he wears and the shampoo he puts in his hair to get the scent of him, just him. Wilson knows his eyes are wide as House whispers in his ear. “Now get back to work. Or, if you’re just going to spend the rest of your shift thinking about me anyway, go home where you can fantasize about what I’m like in bed without getting interrupted.”

House, thinking he’s won this, side-steps as smoothly as he can given his infarction and goes to take another step forward so he can briskly escape this tense situation. Wilson, however, doesn’t intend on letting House escape. He’s always been good at surprising House, which he does yet again when he entangles his fingers in the loose ends of House’s hair and moves closer until they’re chest to chest. He waits for House to push him away, to say something, to tell Wilson that he doesn’t want this for some other stupid reason he’s come up with to push Wilson away for the millionth time.

Silence ensues. House doesn’t speak, just remains perfectly still with his back pin straight and his icy blue eyes trained on Wilson. He’s just holding his breath, watching, waiting for the oncologist to make the next move. Wilson enjoys the moment for what it is; being this close to House and being able to touch him isn’t something he’s ever gotten to partake in. 

House’s hair is peppery in color and a little coarse, and the ends are grown out so he has a couple small curls at the base of his neck. He’s long overdue for a hair cut. Wilson runs his fingers through it and revels in the sensation of his chest against House’s. 

He wonders what it would be like if they were at House’s apartment and not surrounded by the staff of the hospital walking by. He thinks about what this would feel like without the layers of clothes between them. He imagines what House would sound like if they weren’t standing here at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital staring each other down- if they were in House’s queen-sized bed, mouths on each other’s, hands roaming bodies and sweat staining House’s dark blue bed sheets.

“Tell me you don’t love me, or that I’m ugly, or that I have too much baggage. Tell me something- anything- about me that’s so bad that you don’t want this,” Wilson commands. “Tell me that I’ve put on too much weight since my second divorce, that my savior-complex is annoying, that I’m a serial cheater, that I always put your empty cereal boxes back in the pantry after I finish off the bag, anything. Please.”

“It’s not-” House starts with a quizzical expression, only for Wilson to quickly interject.

“Not about you or your fears. Give me a good, valid reason you don’t want me, and I’ll stop. I’ll leave, we can go back to being normal friends- hell, you can choose not to talk to me ever again- and that’ll be the end of it. But I’m not going to walk away knowing that you want me just as much as I want you. I can’t do that to us, House.”

“I…”

House looks anywhere but at Wilson now; the clock on the wall, the cane in his hand, the floor, Wilson’s stupid pink tie. He can’t do it and they both know that. Wilson isn’t surprised. What he is surprised by is how House kisses his forehead so tenderly. Wilson almost doesn’t believe it’s him doing it… and then it’s his nose, and his cheek, and finally, House is kissing him on the lips, slow and sweet.

Wilson hesitantly kisses back. It doesn’t seem real, but it is. It must be real if the large hand squeezing his waist and the stubble brushing against his chin are anything to go off of. He pulls away just enough to whisper against House’s lips.

“We’re at work. Shouldn’t you stop now?”

“Yes,” House breathes, even as he goes in for another kiss, and then another, as if he’ll die without; as if he’s drowning and Wilson is his only source of air. Wilson accepts it, craves it, allows himself to be taken in and kissed until he’s out of breath and his lips are bruised. It quickly escalates into something that he knows he’d get fired for at any other hospital. Briefly, he worries about people walking past and seeing this through the glass door of House’s office until he realizes that he wants them to see. He wants them to see that no, his devotion to House isn’t meaningless- that their relationship does mean something, that House can and will feel love for the right person, and that Wilson is the only one worthy of said love. “I should.”

“But you’re not going to?” Wilson laughs.

“No, I’m not,” House says and dips for another peck between sentences. “Fuck, I don’t think I could stop this even if I wanted to.”

“Then shut the blinds, lock your office door, and bend over the desk.”

~

A couple more weeks pass. Some days, they sleep together. Some days, they don’t. Regardless, things are the same as they always have been minus the sex.

Wilson should be disappointed. He wanted House to open up and he wanted them to connect, to have a real relationship. But right now…

Well, he can’t bring himself to be disappointed when they’re like this, having just finished. 

He’d seen House naked many times before; it’s hard not to when you’re friends with someone for so long. He can’t even count the number of times he’s accidentally walked in on House jerking off or pinned to his couch by some random hooker. He can count the number of times the pain has been so bad that House has needed help with things as basic as getting dressed or getting in and out of the shower. It was never like this, though, with House underneath him, back arching off his bed. The older man’s icy blue eyes are shut with his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s flushed dark pink from his head to the center of his narrow chest, which rapidly rises and falls with every labored breath he takes.

The mattress they’re on is an old, creaky piece of shit that creaks when Wilson carefully rests his weight on top of House. They’re covered in sweat and cum and god knows what else.

“Look at me,” Wilson pleads. House does just that, forcing his eyes open enough to meet Wilson’s. His pupils are blown wide and though it’s clear he’s drowning in their shared pleasure, Wilson can’t read much else. Is House just as enraptured by Wilson as Wilson is by him? Is House hoping he’ll stay after they clean up? “You’re beautiful… So beautiful.”

“And you’re cringeworthy. We’re in my bed, not The Notebook,” House references with a half-hearted roll of his eyes and a playful smack of one hand against Wilson’s shoulder. “So shut up and get off of me.”

Wilson does as told and rolls off of House, onto the bed. He’s learned where House keeps everything so that House can just lie there and let Wilson clean the both of them up on nights like this. They never have sex at Wilson’s as Wilson is living in a hotel following the divorce and has yet to settle into a new place of his own. 

He settles on his side next to House with his head on one of the pillows. There used to be one, but Wilson noticed after the first night he came over to do this, House bought another. Still, he hasn’t asked Wilson to stay the night. Wilson wonders if House even wants him to. Then again, there’s a lot of things he wonders about House. 

Wilson stares at House, who is still on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He already has his boxers back on which makes Wilson self conscious enough to grab his from the floor and put them on as well. 

Wilson wishes he knew what was running through the man’s mind right now. He’s quiet, contemplative, and serious in a way that’s out of character for him. Usually it’s awkward enough that Wilson leaves, and they pretend this never happened (until the next time it happens), but Wilson is growing weary of this cycle they’ve created over the last few weeks. Instead of quickly dressing himself and leaving, he gets back into the bed and pulls one of House’s large blankets over the two of them. House’s eyes widen. His gaze flickers to Wilson; questioning, cautious.

“There’s more I wish I knew about you,” Wilson softly murmurs. “More I wish you’d tell me. Things I’d ask about if I thought I could actually get an honest answer out of you.”

House furrows his brow.

“Like what?”

“Will you answer me honestly?”

“Depends on what you wanna know,” House answers.

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, Wilson worms his way between one of House’s arms and his body so he can rest his head on the man’s chest. House tenses at first before relaxing his muscles and wrapping his arm around Wilson’s body to return the affection.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this… A few months ago, you lied to me about that transplant patient- Carly Forlano- you lied to all of us.”

“Who was that again?” House questions. 

Wilson doesn’t know if he’s serious or not.

“That business woman who came in with a ton of problems and ended up in congestive heart failure despite being perfectly healthy. You lied-”

“I like to call it ‘spinning the truth’.”

“So? What was wrong with the patient that met the exclusion criteria for the transplant list anyway? We both know that Chase figured it out and ratted to Vogler and Cuddy during her surgery.”

“She was taking Ipepac,” House says after a long pause, to which Wilson blinks up at him with confusion written on his face.

“You mean she took it once? There’s no way one use would cause that kind of damage to someone so young unless-”

“She said ‘maybe three times a week’. She was bulimic- or, is bulimic- who knows,” House shrugs as much as he can do so considering that Wilson’s weight is on top of him. Still, the expression on his face is unreadable. Wilson remains baffled; why would he lie for her? Why would he take the chance with his medical license by lying like that? Did he have some sort of personal connection with her, or was it just for the sake of solving one of his cases? Just to prove to himself that he was right? “But when bulimics give you a number for the amount they’re purging, it’s usually much more than what they’re actually willing to admit out loud, so I’d bank on it being at least once a day.”

“She’s a smart woman; smart enough to know the kind of damage that could do to her heart, and she did it anyway,” Wilson huffs. He knows everyone copes with stress differently, but he also remembers being very frustrated with that patient while she was in their care. She would use her cell phone during important texting and prioritize her many business calls over her health. Worst of all, she tried to rush herself out of the hospital to get back to work, assuming nothing was seriously wrong and that it was just a random one time health scare at first. If not for the staff’s insistence that she stay, she would’ve died from heart failure. “So why the hell would you grant her the transplant? Better yet, why would you lie to everyone to get her that transplant and risk your job- your medical license? You said you thought you were doing what’s right when we talked about it the first time.”

“I did, because that’s what I thought, and I still think that.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said I saw a bit of you in that patient?”

At that, Wilson gets off of House and sits up in the bed to stare down at the man, whose expression is unreadable as ever. 

“House, I’m not-”

“I know you’re not bulimic, but you’re great at making the worst possible choices for yourself at every turn and ruining your otherwise very accomplished life. That’s another form of self-harm in itself,” House says, sitting up as well. Wilson doesn’t miss the wince that momentarily takes over the other man’s face as he grabs his leg in pain from performing the motion. “Going into oncology even though it makes you miserable, jumping into three marriages that you knew weren’t going to work out, beating up that guy over a Billy Joel song at a bar during an important medical conference, allowing me to befriend you-”

“-you bailed me out of jail, what was I-”

“Staying as my friend even after the conference, allowing me to seep into your personal life and ruin aspect of it, and better yet, your professional life, too!”

“I still have a job and a good reputation, so-”

“Sure, because you got lucky with Cuddy pulling the plug on Vogler, which you had no way of knowing she would do. If that hadn’t happened, your little gesture of voting to keep me on staff even though you knew you’d get canned too still would’ve played out the way it was supposed to. You would’ve been fucked.”

“And what you’re saying is?” Wilson sighs. 

“Everyone else in my life; they’re sane enough to not want to deal with me the way I am but crazy enough to try and fix me. You, on the other hand, are sane enough to know I can’t be fixed but crazy enough to stay with me anyway. Even though you’ve made the mistake of getting to know me, you’re still here,” Silence. Wilson isn’t sure what to say, so he tentatively reaches out. House holds his hand and intertwines their fingers with a bittersweet smile. “Nothing to say?”

“Well… What’s so bad about knowing you?”

“Being known is simultaneously one of the best and worst things that could happen to someone. When it works out, it’s great, and when it doesn’t work out, it’s not… And let’s not pretend I’m not a huge asshole. It’s a miracle you’re still friends with me after all these years.”

“That’s all it is?” Wilson asks, to which House nods. “I don’t get it, then. We’ve been friends for a long time, House, you know I can take whatever you can dish out… Unless… Are you afraid I’m going to leave?”

“We could be naive enough to sit here and assume that things are always going to be this way; that we’ll always catch each other when we fall, but people fall out of love. People turn their backs, and they let each other fall. People grow and change and before you know it, your best friend becomes a stranger, and you don’t know them like you thought you did,” House drops Wilson’s hand and turns around to toss both of his legs over the side of the bed. Again, he winces from the pain caused by his infarction. It looks like he wants to stand to leave the room for something but can’t gather the strength to do so. “We’ve both had it happen to us before, and you know it’s real. You’ve been through three marriages and I’ve ran through plenty of relationships in the last few decades. You’re just making the worst possible decision for yourself yet again by throwing yourself into the pits with me.”

“But that’s my decision to make. Whether or not we do anything about our feelings doesn’t change them. There’s no stopping this, at least not for me,” Wilson insists and rushes to stand up so he can go around the side of the bed and offer his hands.

House refuses to take them, refuses to accept the help. The older man fumbles around until he manages to retrieve his cane from where he abandoned it on the floor earlier. Instead of using Wilson as leverage, he uses his cane and stands from the bed to walk towards the door of the bedroom. Wilson follows him into the kitchen in wait of a response.

“You’re not scared at all?”

“Of course I’m scared! I’m terrified. I’ve seen our track records with relationships, but… If it means that I get to be with you, I can be scared and still put my best foot forward, to try and make this work. I’m in love with you, Greg House.”

House walks towards the fridge without a word. Again, Wilson follows in wait of a response, this time wrapping his arms around House’s waist and resting his chin on the man’s shoulder from behind.

“You’re persistent.”

“So? You’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep making me wait on you. Seriously, it’s been over a decade of this nonsense with two weeks of confusing sex stacked on top of it,” Wilson scolds. House just looks back at him as if he’s not sure this is real. “So? What do you say?” “I say… I’m in love with you too, James Wilson,” House chuckles, reaches into the fridge, and grabs a beer for each of them with a large grin. “Good luck.”