#or rings are fine for anyone to have and should be allowed in

[starrynightsforever]

I was reading the test day rules for STEP 1 last night, and apparently no jewelry is allowed in the testing room except wedding rings. So, it's fine for you to cheat on and/or record medical licensing exams as long as you're married.

[totheblood]

in between | s.r.

pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x best friend!reader

summary: things are different, spencer's different. but how he feels about you is the one thing that has never changed. the only problem is now you have a boyfriend.

warnings: smut ! 18+ mdni!! lowkey cheating (lol), cursing, problematic reader, angst.

a/n: i am never beating the star has a cheating kink allegations!! I DO NOT I PROMISE... but yeah... this got away from me, i am touch starved and ovulating. reblogs, asks, and replies are so appreciated and encouraged! thank u kisses.. PLEASE SEND SPENCER REQUESTS!!!

wc: 5.9k

"I just can't come between 'em, they got their own thing I wish he'd stop pretendin', he won't let his phone ring."

Spencer was different after he got out.

It wasn’t like you could expect any less. Much less would change you for the worse and you knew that, but something about the way Spencer sat slumped over in his desk doing paperwork made your heart sink. He wasn’t as chatty as he used to be, he didn’t have that glimmer in his eyes, and his voice sounded hollow when he spoke. Under his eyes were permanent dark circles and his lips seemed to form a scorn whenever anyone wasn’t looking. Or when he thought no one was looking.

You sat at your desk, pink mug in your hands as you watched him. Watched his eyebrows crease, and watched him flip through the file in his hand as he pressed a free hand to his temple, rubbing it in small circles. Spencer was on edge all the time and he looked like it. You could tell he made an effort with you to be kinder, gentler, but it always came out sounding rehearsed, his face betraying him like it always did. Spencer Reid, your best friend, was now a completely changed person and it killed you that you couldn’t stop it. 

Pushing yourself from your desk chair you approached him, a small smile on your voice as you gently spoke, “Hey.”

He tensed for a second. He still wasn’t used to people sneaking up on him. He made a conscious effort to fix his face before turning to look up at you, his body relaxing upon seeing your face. Placing the file down on the desk, he leaned back in his chair returning your small smile as he spoke, “Hey,”

His voice was quiet as he spoke. He was tired and up close you could just see how much. 

“You, um…” your voice trailed off making his eyebrows raise, “are you okay?” The question was stupid, you knew the answer but it never hurt to ask. Your fingernails gripped the mug handle as you swallowed down the nerves, “are you sleeping?”

Spencer thought of how to answer truthfully. If he was being honest, of course, he wasn’t okay, he hadn’t been okay for a while, but instead, he just gave you a slight nod, “Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice was a little raspy as he spoke, but he turned away from you and back to the file on his desk. He was lying and you both knew it, but you weren’t his therapist and he was not about to open that can of worms on a Thursday. 

“Of course, yeah,” you awkwardly mumbled, “you know I’m still here, right? I’m still me, you know? You’re my best friend… and I, um, miss you.” 

He turned back to you, his face visibly softening as you spoke. He knew you were there for him, you were the only person he would allow to be there for him. He just didn’t know how to open back up or ask for help. Instead, he nodded his head, “I know… and I miss you too.”

“Spence, I-” you spoke but were promptly cut off by none other than Luke Alvez placing a hand on the small of your back as he whispered to you, “We still on for tonight?” 

It felt too intimate, too personal for Spencer to hear, but worst of all it made his stomach sink. He clenched his jaw tightly as he watched the interaction and took note of how you leaned into him. You were comfortable with him, comfortable enough that you should have told Spencer long before now. 

“Yeah,” you whispered back as you smiled sheepishly at Luke, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. 

“Great,” he smiled, removing his hand as he nodded slightly at Spencer before making his way over to his own desk.  

“You guys are going out?” He asked, his tone his own one-off attempt to keep his tone neutral and controlled, but came out more strained than usual. 

“Yeah,” you replied like you were ashamed of it, “it just kind of happened when you were… gone,” you rubbed at the back of your neck nervously, “I was just a mess without you and he was… well, he was there. There for me, I mean.”

Spencer kept his expression neutral, but he felt like a part of him was being taken from him, “So you’re dating now?”

“Kinda,” you squinted your eyes, trying to think of the perfect way to word it, “I mean, yes, like we haven’t labeled it but I think we’re exclusive. I don’t know we haven’t really talked too much about it.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He said, his voice low and laced with bitterness. He had already felt like he missed out on so much and in a way became an outsider in a team he once called his family. But when it came to you, it struck a different chord. 

“When would that come up, Spence?” you replied, giving half of a laugh to soften the blow, “I wasn’t going to tell you about who I was hooking up with while visiting you in prison. It just didn’t seem fair and then you came back and didn’t seem interested in what I had going on. I just didn’t think you cared to know that.”

“Not interested in what you had going on?” he repeated back, the words sour on his tongue, “You think I didn’t care to know? I was in prison, that didn’t mean I stopped caring about you.”

“I know that, Sp-” he cut you off.

“I was in prison, stuck in a cell, for months thinking I was never going to get out and you were… dating,” he didn’t know why he said it, it just kind of spilled out. Like all the bitterness and resentment he had been feeling had finally reached the surface and was spilling over. 

“What was I supposed to do?” you whisper-yelled, “Stop my life forever because you weren’t here? It was hard for me, Spence, and god I missed you more than anything but I needed the pain to stop and he… he stopped it.” 

“Pain? You were in pain? Well, I spent 270 days in a 6 by 8 prison cell. I was the one in pain! You don’t know what it was like!” He knew he was wrong, but it was like all of his anger, pain, and frustration was coming out and he didn’t know how to stop it. He knew it wasn’t a big deal. Logically, he knew that. But right now, all he wanted to do was get it out.

You took a step back suddenly, forcing reality to wash over him as your eyes got slightly glossy, guilt painted all over your face, “I’m sorry… I thought you would be happy for me… I thought…” 

You turned your head from him slightly, avoiding his gaze as you shook your head, “Nevermind, I’ll um, I’ll see you around.”

Spencer watched as you stepped back and saw the hurt look on your face. The anger and irritation faded almost immediately and in its place was guilt and remorse. He had hurt the one person he never wanted to hurt. He reached out a hand to try and stop you from leaving.

"Wait... please don't go," He spoke in a softer and more vulnerable tone.

Your own expression softened at this, like he was a child reaching out for you, scared there were monsters under his bed. His hand linked onto your fingers gently. You could pull away if you wanted to, but didn’t, “What?”

Spencer held onto your hand gently as he stood up from his chair and took a few steps closer to you. He looked at you anxiously, knowing that he needed to explain himself. He didn't want you to leave, especially not like this.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I just... I feel left out. I felt forgotten," he explained, trying to keep his voice soft, but there was a hint of worry and jealousy in his tone.

"I know, I know, I mean I'm sorry," you replied, shaking your head, "you're my best friend, I should have told you."

Spencer sighed and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm just... I'm on edge lately and I didn't mean to take it out on you. I shouldn't have acted like an ass to you."

He spoke in a sincere tone, his expression softening as he watched your face. 

You let out a small giggle, taking your hand back from him but gently nudging his shoulder, "You've been through a lot. you deserve to be an ass sometimes," she teased. 

Spencer let out a small breath of relief when he heard you laugh. It was like you were his again, and that part that had been missing found it’s way home.  He managed a small smile at your words, feeling a little lighter.

"Maybe, but not to you. You're probably the only person who I shouldn't take my anger out on. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," you replied almost too quickly, "you won't lose me, I promise."

"You promise?" he asked quietly, his tone filled with vulnerability.

You lifted your pinky finger for him to take with his, "Pinky promise."

Spencer's lips curved into a small smile as he saw your pinky offered to him. He looked at it for a moment before linking his own pinky with yours and giving them a small squeeze.

"Pinky promise."

You smiled up at him, the bright smile you reserved especially for him as you clicked your teeth, “Well, I gotta… get back to paperwork, Spence, but I’m  glad you’re back.”

Spencer smiled faintly at your bright smile, that only you seemed to bring out in him these days. "Yeah, I should get back to work, too. But, um..." He paused for a moment, his expression growing more anxious as he spoke, “Tonight, with Alvez… do you think you could cancel?”

"Why? What's wrong?" you asked, a worried expression clouding your face as you lightly gripped his forearm. It used to be a comforting touch but right now it felt foreign. 

"I just-" He let out a slow breath and paused before continuing, "I just want to spend time with you, alone. I feel like we haven't really had time to connect since I got out, and I miss you."

He wanted to feel guilty, he really did but a part of him couldn’t. He did want to spend time with you, but he also just didn’t want your time to be taken up by Luke. 

“Oh, Spence,” you cooed, voice soft as you took your hand back, “of course I can cancel. My place or  yours?” 

Spencer's expression softened and relief washed over him at your words. He couldn't help but smile faintly as you agreed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. He thought for a moment before replying, "Your place. I haven't been there in a while, and I need a change of scenery."

"My place it is," you smiled, "I'll go cancel with him right now,"

He watched as you walked over to Alvez and told him you were canceling, and then told him you were canceling for Spencer. Spencer couldn't hear the two of you but it looked like you were fighting. He was talking with his hands, rolling his eyes as you put up a defensive hand. It was clear he was upset and it ended with Alvez throwing down a file on his desk and storming away.

Spencer's expression grew a little more worried as he saw the interaction between you and Alvez. When he saw Alvez throw down the file on his desk and storm away, he felt a pang of guilt. He knew that you had canceled because of him, and it was causing problems between you and Alvez. He watched as Alvez walked away and he let out a slow, heavy sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Later that night, you were in your living room, sprawled out on the couch watching tv as you heard the familiar knocks of Spencer on the door. Opening it up you gave him a bright smile, your PJs in full effect, "Good evening, Doctor," you smiled at him, taking a step to the side to let him in.

Spencer smiled faintly at the sight of you, dressed in your PJs. It was a comfortable and familiar sight to him, and it made him feel at ease. He chuckled softly at your greeting, "Good evening, SSA Y/L/N," he teased in return, his voice a little more relaxed than usual.

You giggled, letting him in, "On a last-name basis, huh?" you laughed again. "I say we watch Doctor Who Series Two, what do you think?"

Spencer chuckled as he walked inside and nodded in agreement. He closed the door behind him and made his way over to her couch, plopping himself down on one end, and resting his arm on the back of the couch. In a way, he hated how well you knew him. He hated how as long as he lived there would be one person in the world to know what he needed and that she would be putting on his favorite season of his favorite show and making it seem like it was her own idea. He hated that you existed and he couldn’t have you. 

"Sounds perfect. Doctor Who marathon it is," he replied with a smile.

"Perfect," you smiled, plopping down on the other end, remote in hand as you moved to put on the show, Spence, who is your favorite companion," you asked absentmindedly as you flipped through the catalog. 

Spencer chuckled at your question and thought for a moment before answering. He shifted around on the couch until he was facing you, his expression pondering.

"Hmm, that's a tough one," he started, his voice thoughtful as he considered the question, "I've always had a soft spot for Donna Noble. She was funny, and her chemistry with the Doctor was hilarious. But Ten and Rose... they'll always have a special place in my heart."

“Ten and Rose are..." you blushed to yourself, "They are endgame to me even though they clearly aren't endgame, but I don't care."

Spencer chuckled at your blushing as you spoke about Ten and Rose, and he nodded in agreement, "Right? They had such incredible chemistry. It's hard not to root for them. The way Ten always looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. It was like he saw the universe in her eyes," he agreed, his expression growing fond as he spoke.

"Yeah," you smiled, your smile fading as you clicked on the first episode of series two. Spencer noticed your smile fade and he furrowed his eyebrows in concern. He leaned a little closer to you, watching your expression.

"Hey, you okay?"

He spoke quietly, his voice filled with a hint of worry.

“Yeah, it's fine. I just... don't like being in a fight with Luke. it's like why can’t we be more like... Ten and Rose..." you shook your head, "It's stupid, whatever.”

Spencer's expression softened as he listened to you, understanding your frustration. He gave you a reassuring smile and spoke in a gentle tone, "It's not stupid, you're allowed to feel that way. Comparing what you have to some fictional characters... it's natural to yearn for that kind of connection,” He paused for a moment, studying your face, before continuing, "Why do you think you and Alvez can't be like Ten and Rose?"

"I don't know," you shook your head, "it's like I can't do anything right. He's- and I shouldn't be telling you this, but when you were away we would get into so many fights over you. He'd be mad if I went to visit you, or if I was too upset about missing you and he just always kept insinuating that I was like in love with you or something,”

Spencer's expression faltered as you spoke. He could already sense Alvez was jealous of your close friendship, but to hear he had been trying to discourage you from visiting him while he was away... it angered him. But it was the implication that you may have feelings for him that made his heart skip a beat in his chest. But he pushed that feeling down for the moment, trying to focus on what you were saying, "He said you were in love with me?"

"Yea," you whispered, "but I told him it wasn't like that. That we were just friends but he didn't believe it. He still doesn't."

"Why doesn't he believe you?" He asked softly, his eyes studying your face.

"I dont know," you groaned, "I mean we don't have a conventional friendship, me and you, but it was like a piece of me was locked up with you in that prison. I just wasn’t me without you and he saw that and took it as me being in love with you," you replied, ignoring the implications of what that meant.

Spencer couldn't help the pang of guilt that went through him at your words. He knew that being locked up had affected you just as much as it had affected him. He understood that without him, you had felt like a part of you was missing, but it still broke his heart to hear it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice tinged with guilt, "I never wanted to make things difficult for you... or put you in a position like that."

"You didn't, Spence," you sat up quickly, putting your hand over his that was situated in his lap, "You didn't do anything okay, my... partner or whatever he is should be able to trust me."

Spencer's expression softened at your touch, and his heart skipped a beat as you covered his hand with yours. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, feeling a wave of emotions wash over him. Your words made him feel a little better, but he couldn't shake off the guilt entirely, "I know, but..." He trailed off for a moment before continuing in a softer tone, "I just wish I could make things right for you, y'know?"

"Not your job," you smiled in a desperate attempt to comfort him, "I'd rather have you in my life than some man who didn't believe me anyway."

Spencer sighed, feeling a mixture of comfort and guilt at your words. He knew that it wasn't his job to fix things between you and Luke, but he hated seeing you hurt or upset. He gave your hand a small, affectionate squeeze as he spoke, "I'm always going to be in your life, no matter what. You're stuck with me."

"Oh, kill me now," you joked, voice soft as you leaned your head on his shoulder, "Eternity with you though?" you whispered, "Not the worst thing in the world."

Spencer chuckled softly at your joke, and he couldn't help but smile as you rested your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you a little closer to him, "Eternity with me, huh?" He repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice, "You sure you could handle it?"

"You sure you could handle it?" you giggled, softly pushing him down on the couch causing him to topple over into the couch. If this was anyone else he would have pushed you back immediately, tell you to not push him like that, but it was you. And you could do whatever you wanted to him. 

"Hey, hey, easy on the doctor!” Spencer protested jokingly as he fell backward into the couch. He looked up at you, a hint of playfulness in his eyes, as he sprawled out comfortably, "You're not getting rid of me that easy," he teased with a chuckle.

"Hey, hey, not easy on the doctor," you giggled again, leaning over on top of him, taking a pillow, and pretending to smother him as you climbed on top of him, straddling him. 

Spencer's heart skipped a beat as you straddled him, and he couldn't help blushing slightly at the sudden closeness of your body on top of his. His breathing hitched a little, but he tried to keep his expression playful. He pretended to struggle against you as you leaned over him with the pillow, "Hey now, watch it!” he protested, though his voice was filled with amusement.

You giggled as she pressed the pillow further into his face, "'m putting you out of your misery Doctor,"

Spencer laughed even louder, feigning resistance as you pressed the pillow further into his face, "Mercy! Mercy! I surrender!" He jokingly spoke in a dramatic tone, his voice muffled by the pillow. He tried to pull the pillow away from his face to look up at you.

Pulling the pillow off of his face, you smiled down at him, the laugh slowly dying in your throat as you realized the compromised position, “Oh.”

Spencer was panting slightly from the fake struggle, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked up at you. His gaze met yours and he felt a wave of heat wash over him as he fully realized your position, with you straddling him on the couch, hips pressed slightly down into him. He couldn't help but take in the sight of you on top of him, his heart racing.

"I, um… didn't realize,” you spoke quickly, your own self out of breath, panting as you began to move to get off him, "I'm sorry, shit." 

"No, no, wait., "Spencer's hand reached out quickly and gently grabbed your wrist as you tried to move off him. He swallowed, his heart racing a mile a minute. He couldn't deny the tension in the air or the way his body reacted to how close you were. This was straight out of a dream he knew he had, "Please... don't move," he whispered, his voice low.

Your breathing was heavy as you looked down at him, hair tousled and in your PJs, "Spence," you whispered, voice low. 

Spencer looked up at you, feeling his body hum with desire as he took you in. Your tousled hair, the sight of you in your PJs, it was all so real and intimate. It was domestic in nature and it made his heart do a flip. He swallowed, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. At the sound of you whispering his name, his grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction, "Yeah?” He whispered back, his own voice thick and dry. 

"Is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" you joked, the tension still thick and palatable as it sat it the pit of your stomach.

Spencer's breath hitched at your joke, with the way he was reacting it was clear he hadn’t been touched in months. He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound sending shivers down his spine. He shifted beneath you, your body still straddling him, and he could feel the weight of your body against him, the tension between you palpable, "Maybe it's both," he whispered, his voice low and thick with desire.

You breathed out, a shaky breath but still a breath, as you rocked your hips a little bit against him, desperate for friction, "I'm not a cheater," you whispered. 

Spencer's breath caught in his throat as you rocked your hips against him, and it took everything in him not to buck his hips in response. He tried to control his breathing, his body reacting to your touch almost involuntarily. He swallowed, his voice a little rougher than usual as he replied, "I know you're not. You've never been," He placed his hands on your hips, holding you in place lightly, his thumbs slowly stroking the bare skin of your waist under your shirt.

Your skin burned where his hands met your hips. It made you want to do more. It made you want to continue, a soft sigh that sounded like a moan falling from your lips, swallowing quickly as you stared down at him. 

Spencer's heart raced as you let out that small sigh, a mix of a moan, and he couldn't deny the effect it had on him. He could feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room almost tangible, "You're driving me crazy," he breathed out, his thumbs continuing to stroke your skin, his touch growing a little firmer, more possessive. His pupils were blown out, soft brown eyes looking up at you like it was you who held the universe in your hands. 

"I'm not-" you shook your head, "not doing anything," you whispered, hips grinding down slowly as you took another deep breath in. Your brain was telling you to quit while you were ahead, but every bone in your body seemed physically incapable of stopping. 

Spencer's breath hitched at the feel of your hips grinding down against him, and he involuntarily tightened his grip on your hips, his fingers digging into your soft skin. "Oh, you're doing plenty," he whispered back, his voice low and laced with barely suppressed need. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?”

"No," you whispered, hands trailing up his chest as he held you, "explain it to me."

Spencer let out a ragged breath, trying to form coherent words, "You... you drive me crazy. You always have," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "The way you look at me, talk to me, touch me..." He paused, gathering himself, before continuing. "The way you're straddling me right now, your body pressed against mine, it's... it's like you were made for me."

You closed your eyes, grinding down harder involuntarily. It was okay to dry hump your best friend, right? That didn't count as cheating, right? Your mind tried to convince yourself this was okay, that you weren’t awful, but you were spurred on by his words, your panties dampening as he held you. 

Spencer groaned as you ground down harder against him, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again, his gaze filled with undisguised desire, "This... we shouldn't," he managed to say, even as his hands continued to grip your hips, pulling you closer to him, his body responding without even thinking, "You're with Luke... we can't... we can't do this," his words were a whisper, but even he could hear the lack of conviction behind them.

You ground down again, in tandem with him, "You're- you're right," you panted, "maybe we should stop," your own eyes fluttered closed. 

Spencer groaned again, his grip on your hips tightening even more, his body moving in time with yours, almost involuntarily. His heart was racing, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as he tried to slow himself down, to think clearly, "Yeah, we... we should stop," he agreed, his voice a little hoarse, but his body betrayed his words, still rocking against you, needing the friction, the closeness.

"Oh god, fuck," you groaned, eyes fluttering closed as you rocked harder, faster, "Yeah... yeah... should stop," you repeated.

"Fuck..." Spencer couldn't help but curse under his breath, his hips bucking up to meet yours with each movement, his body on fire with need. He was losing his mind, his last shred of control slipping away as he felt the heat between you growing more and more intense, "We... we need to stop... now..." he managed to breathe out, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands holding onto your hips like a lifeline, almost desperately.

"Mhm," you moaned in agreement but never stopped your movements. Instead, you continued to rock against him, ignoring how the spaghetti strap of your pajamas had started to fall off your shoulder, "So stop," you whispered, not stopping.

Spencer's eyes were fixed on the spaghetti strap that was falling off your shoulder, his brain nearly short-circuiting at the sight. He groaned, the sound almost guttural, as he tried to steady his breathing. "I'm- I'm trying, I'm trying..." He was trying, he really was, but with your body moving against him like that, your hips rocking in just the right way, he couldn't help but move with you, his body responding on autopilot.

"How hard?" you whispered, a giggle falling from your lips that turned quickly into a strangled moan, as his hands pushed your hips down into him. Spencer's grip on your hips tightened even more, his fingers digging into your skin, as he pushed you down into him. His breathing was ragged now, his body trembling with need, as he felt you against him.

"So goddamn hard," he groaned, his voice strained, as he tried to hold back. "You have no idea how hard you’re making this for me."

"I can," you panted out, "I can feel it… How hard it is for you," you giggled, eyes fluttering shut again as you gripped his shoulder. It was all him at this point, he was pulling you down into him, his hips bucking up. The friction all felt too good, too real, and you weren’t stopping. There was no way you could. 

Spencer was losing himself completely in the feeling of you against him, the sound of your voice, the way your touch burned through him. His head was spinning, his body on fire with need and desire. He pulled you down harder against him, his hips bucking up involuntarily, the friction between you sending sparks through his body. He could feel his cock twitch in his pants, as he pulled you down closer to him, "God... you feel so good," he groaned, his lips brushing against your collarbone, his breath hitched and shallow.

When his lips touched you, you gasped, a loud moan coming from your lips that sounded too much like his name.  You wanted this and you wanted it desperately. It was almost pathetic how much you wanted this.

The sound of your moan, his name on your lips, it was like a punch to the gut. Spencer's grip on your hips involuntarily tightened, his body reacting almost violently to the sound, the need in your voice. "Say it again," he groaned, his lips moving against your skin, leaving a trail of hot, hungry kisses along your collarbone. "Say my name again."

"Fuck," you hissed back a moan, "Spencer," you practically chanted, hand gripping the arm of the couch behind him as you ground together, "Spencer," you chanted again, a lot less coherent as she bit back a moan. 

Each time you said his name, it sounded like a prayer, and Spencer felt like he was losing his mind. His hips bucked up against yours as he heard it again and again, the sound sending shockwaves through his body. He buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps as he fought to keep himself together, "God, say it again," he begged, his voice thick with need and hunger, "Please, say my name again, just like that."

"Spencer- ah, fuck," you cried out, whimpering pathetically as your body moved for you, "Spencer."

Spencer was drowning in you, in the sound of you saying his name. It was the only thing he could hear, the only thing he could focus on. He was coming undone under you, his body reacting involuntarily to your touch and your voice.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, his lips on your neck, his body moving with yours. "Just like that, baby, just like that. Say my name, say it again."

"Spencer," you cried out as his movements picked up, as they became more aggressive. You just kept chanting it like it was the air you breathed, like it was the only word you knew. Spencer was wild with need, overwhelmed by the sound of his name falling from your lips, the feel of your body against his. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, as he pulled you down into him, moving against you with a desperate, frenzied rhythm.

"You're killing me," he groaned, his voice thick with desire and frustration. "God, you're going to kill me."

He buried his face in your neck, his lips moving against your skin, his breath hot and labored. He was losing himself completely in the moment, driven by pure need and desire, "I can't- I can't stop," he panted between kisses, his voice ragged and strained. "I need you, I need you so bad."

"Fuck, Spencer," you cried out, body almost shaking on top of him. If this was wrong, why did it feel so good?

Spencer was lost in you, undone by your words, your sounds, your touch. Your body shaking on top of him, the sound of his name falling from your lips was like a drug, addictive and potent. He clutched you tighter, his grip almost bruising, as he moved against you frantically, desperately, chasing the release that was building inside him, "That's it, that's it," he panted, his own body trembling, "Don't stop, baby, don't stop."

He felt the orgasm building inside him, a wave of pleasure and heat rolling through him, his body shaking as he pulled you down into him again and again, "Oh god, I'm- I'm gonna-"

The words were lost in a strangled moan, his body arching up off the couch as he found his release, his grip on you still tight. 

“Oh god, I’m,” you panted, crying out his name like a hymn, “I’m cumming,” you breathed out. It was all too good, like he was made for you just in this moment. 

Spencer's heart felt like it was going to burst as he heard you call his name, the sound like a prayer as your body trembled on top of him, "Yes, yes, yes," he whispered hoarsely, his arms holding you tightly against him, his own body still shaking with aftershocks from his orgasm, "That's it, baby, let go, let go for me."

Your body stopped moving, collapsing on top of him as you came undone, holding onto him like he might float away. He caught you against him as you collapsed on top of him, his body still throbbing with the aftershocks. He held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his breathing ragged and labored. He nuzzled his face into your hair, his lips brushing against your skin, as he tried to slow his racing heart.

"That was... incredible," he panted, his voice still hoarse.

"That was..." your voice trailed off as you sat up quickly, realizing you were still clothed as she stood up and off the couch pathetically, "that was cheating, oh god."

Your sudden movement jerked Spencer out of his blissful state, and he looked up at you with wide eyes, his mind still fuzzy from the overwhelming pleasure, "Whoa, whoa, hey, calm down."

He sat up, his heart still racing as he reached for your hand, trying to steady you, "It's okay, it's okay, we're okay."

“No it’s not,” you whispered, pulling your hand back from him as he reached for you. It made his chest sting, but all he did was blink, “I think you should leave,” 

“What?”

“You should go, Spence,” you reiterated, eyes looking down at your feet, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

“If that’s what you want me to do,” he spoke. His voice almost sounded broken and you didn’t like the feeling of being the one who caused it. 

“It is,” you replied quickly, arms folded across your chest. You turned away from him completely, ignoring the sound of the door slamming closed as he stepped outside.

[fayes-fics]

Ingénu

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: On his eighteenth birthday, Benedict loses his virginity with you on a warm summer's night...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Loss of male and female virginity. Sex education (sort of, mostly innocent leading innocent), vaginal sex, alfresco sex, withdrawal method, orgasms (them lucky kids). Childhood friends to lovers.

Word Count: 4.0k

Author’s Note: A fic I started more than two years ago, from THIS anon suggestion. Please note, the age of sexual consent in the UK is currently 16, so everyone is legal, although, in Regency, it was 10 (yikes). Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Err, enjoy! <3

Benedict Bridgerton.

If you were to give yourself to anyone before marriage, you know it would only ever be him. 

You grew up as neighbours, your family estate bordering his family’s in Kent. Born five months apart, it’s like destiny that you would be close. You shared your first chaste kiss when you were both twelve and then a French kiss at sixteen. And now, well, perhaps a lot more.

It’s his eighteenth birthday party when, while Colin draws attention to himself, Benedict grabs your hand and whisks you away without anyone noticing. Perhaps the brotherly distraction was by design. 

Wordlessly, he leads you far from the house into a small clearing in the woods around Aubrey Hall. There is a blanket, some pillows, and even some candle lanterns that he now lights. It appears he has something planned, and it causes a flutter in your stomach.

“Benedict, what is this?” you enquire sotto voce, his hand so large wrapped around yours. So safe.

“A quiet spot just for us,” he smiles back.

“To do what?”.

“To celebrate my birthday privately. In a manner that I know we are both so keen to,” he proclaims at first enigmatic, before clarifying: “You said you wanted to know a man before you are married, and I wish to know a woman.”

“But….” 

Beyond that, words fail.

You had indeed said as such just the other day. It was an idle, throwaway comment as you lay together in the long grass by the lake, squinting at the sun and enjoying the summer heat on your face. A languidness in your being had made you carefree with your words.

“It may be fine for you, Benedict, but I must be a maiden when I marry,” you point out.

“Well, what if you were to marry me someday?” he contends matter of fact.

“Is that a proposal?” you splutter. “Because I find it to be severely lacking.”

He chuckles at your affront. “No, you shall receive a ring when I propose,” he affirms.

“So, it is a when now, is it? “ you volley back, a smile tweaking your lips, unable to be anything but playful with him, as you have been for many a year now.

“Of that, you can be certain.”

There is a seductive edge to his voice, which seems so much older than his eighteen years; it’s quite captivating.

“But how can you be certain my answer will be yes?”

“I cannot,” he admits, seeming bemused by your quirked brow. “But I hope it will be after tonight.”

“And how can you be sure of my answer about tonight?” So much fun to toy with him.

“Again, I cannot,” he replies with a slight shrug but a soft, crooked smile. “I can only hope you deem me worthy,” he adds, gesturing around you.

“It is rather romantic,” you allow, watching in the lantern glow as he breaks into a much bigger grin that reaches his eyes. Candle reflections dance in his enlarged pupils. 

“I am so pleased you think so,” he beams. “I rather suspect Anthony plans to take me to a brothel this weekend. He did as such for his eighteenth and is of the firm opinion that I should follow suit. But in truth, I, well… “ he hesitates and takes a step forward, grabbing both of your hands in his. “...I want my first experience to be with you.”

The heartfelt, almost bashful admission has you squeezing his hands reassuringly, hoping it silently telegraphs how much you want the same, despite your reservations about preserving your honour.

“May I kiss you?” His tone is so sweet you don't want to say no.

Instead of answering with words, you push up onto tiptoes and land your lips on his. It’s familiar and exciting all at once. You’ve kissed secretly a few times now, and on each occasion, it has been incredible—like a live wire sparking between you. You push into his tall frame as your mouths open and your tongues gently touch. He tastes of peaty scotch and the smoky tinge of cigars, both likely birthday indulgences. 

His hold around your waist tightens as your kisses get more insistent and probing, tongues parrying. This time feels different—portending something more profound. Only breaking apart to take a breath, then, after a fleeting exchange of shy smiles, your lips smashing back together urgently, exploring anew.

As you cling to his waistcoat, his hands slide down your dress to grab your bottom, making you squeak into his mouth. You've never been grasped there before, and his fingers seem to span the whole of your cheeks. You stutter his name as your lips part, his aromatic breath gusting over your face as he flexes his fingers. He observes your face closely, the material of your dress bunching between his knuckles. 

“I like the feel of your bottom,” he declares with tender honesty.

You beam up at him and trace your hand down his back, running over the crisscross pattern of laces on his waistcoat before landing on his behind. His eyebrows raise as you splay your fingers over rounded, taut muscle.

“I like yours too,” you respond in kind, emboldened by how his pupils dilate and his mouth falls open at your pluckiness.

One of his hands moves to cup your jaw, diving in for another kiss, more demanding than before, your boldness catalysing a new urgency in him. His fingers trail down your neck, skating over your pulse point that you know is hammering hard, then sweeping lower over your shoulder.

“Is… is this alright for you?” His voice is full of awe as those fingers slip inside your dress, the heel of his palm resting lightly on your collarbone.

“Y… yes, it’s… wonderful, actually.”

It seems like he is mapping your skin, the contours of bone and muscle across your chest, sinking lower until his hand is resting on the swell of your breast. He worms inside your neckline, and two fingertips catch against your nipple. It pebbles hard at the slightest brush, your breath catching. You meet his blistering stare as he slowly swipes a finger over the puckered skin again. Heat prickles through you, a heavy tingle between your legs.

“Does that feel good?” 

His timbre is a beguiling mix of tease and hope as his fingertips gently swirl a circle around your areola. You nod, your lower lip snagging under your top tooth as a new tide of sensation washes through you.

“Where did you learn such things?” You marvel, your hands still on his bottom, flexing slightly, a mirror of his movements.

“My brother has told me some things,” he elucidates with a slight smirk, “including that if I touch your breasts, you will be excited for more.”

“I am,” you confess as intrigue steals your tongue: “What did he tell you to do next?” 

“That I should remove your dress and kiss your naked body, especially here.” he counsels, sliding over your nipple again.

“What else?” you pant, the thought of it making you lightheaded.

“I should feel between your legs for wetness that shows you are ready for me,” he intones as if recalling a verbatim conversation, even as his fingers spider across to your other nipple. You gasp again, a shiver running down your spine.

“Ready for you?” You echo, mildly embarrassed that you do not know any detail of what happens between a man and a woman. You have only a vague notion from the overheard gossip of people in your family’s employ. 

He grabs your right hand from his bottom and guides it to the front of his trousers. There is a hardness straining the material that you swear wasn't there before.

“What is that?” Your breath catches as its warmth seeps through the material into your palm.

“That is my cock, and if you wish to know a man, it is an essential part of the process,” he smiles winningly.

You squeeze gently on instinct, the resulting low growl in the back of his throat enthralling you.

“I think we should take off our clothes now,” he proposes, and you nod your acceptance.

His hand slips from inside your neckline and lands on the buttons between your shoulder blades as yours slide up from his trousers to his waistcoat, popping its buttons as those on your dress also relent.

“Is it alright to undress each other, or should we undress ourselves?”

“Either is acceptable, but I am rather enjoying this,” he divulges as you push his waistcoat off his shoulders.

“So am I…” 

He pulls off your dress, the silk pooling around your feet, a yen to crowd into him as the cool night air seeps through your gauzy chemise.

“You do not wear stays?” he seems taken aback, his gaze now intent upon your nipples, jutting out against the thin cotton.

“No, not yet. Mama says I am but young, and my bosom is still perky,” you explain, aroused by how his breath becomes a little laboured as you voice it.

“I like it when you say such words,” he rags, pulling you into him with a firm grip, his hands so hot through the thin cotton of your chemise. You have a sudden tart need to be naked with him, a tingle between your legs that can only be excitement.

“Take off my chemise, Benedict,” you encourage, guiding him to the ties at your neckline. You pull the bow loose, the material bunching in his hands as you both tug either side down, exposing your breasts. 

He groans as your nipples instantly pebble in the cool air. He tilts you backwards in his arms, his face descending. You rasp his name, your hand flying into his hair, twisting his chestnut waves between your fingers as the contrasting heat, suction and wetness of his lips enclose your nub. It's exquisite, and you never want this loop of pleasure coursing through you to end, pushing your breast further into his mouth.

While he lathes with his tongue, you slacken the neckline further and shimmy out of the chemise, keen for more, already addicted to this wondrous feeling coursing in your bloodstream. 

He takes a step back to look at you as the last scrap of fabric flutters to the ground.

You see the quiver in his hands and the tented outline in his trousers as his eyes drink in your naked form, lingering on your nipples, wet with his saliva, and the patch of hair between your legs that is also damp now, a slickness between your thighs that has you wanting to squirm. 

His pupils are blown wide, his lips glisten, his cheeks are rosy, and his hair is wild from your tussling as he suddenly whips off his shirt. It sails through the air in a puffed arc. The captivating sight of his pale skin glowing like sculpted marble in the moonlight ties your tongue.

But your admiration is short-lived as he is on you again, propelling you into his arms. Your mind buffers as his broad, smooth chest collides with your dampened breasts, his kiss plundering your mouth. 

It feels like you are both drunk on a fascinating cocktail of urgency and nerves, navigating new territory with a bumbling, innocent, but innate excitement. 

“Lay down,” he whispers delicately into your mouth as you emerge for air.

You do as bidden, holding his hand as he assists you onto the blanket and laying back to stare up at him, towering over you now. His hands fall to the buttons on his britches, and you can't help but bite your lip, a shiver of anticipation to see how he looks naked.

He seems almost nervous as he pops the buttons and then shuffles the woollen material downwards over his thighs. But you only have eyes for what lies between his legs. Like yourself, there is a patch of hair there, but also something entirely other that makes your thighs clench together reflexively. This must be his cock. It is a rigid mass, reddened at the flared tip, jutting out from his body at least half a foot and beneath are adjoined sacs that droop a little.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmurs, perhaps misinterpreting your curiosity for fear.

“I know you will not hurt me, Benedict,” you placate, your eyes flitting up to his face and reaching for his hands to bring him to lay down with you on the blanket.

He sighs as he kneels beside you, his hand cradling your cheek. “That is the thing, my sweet; my brother says it might hurt for a lady on her first time.”

Your breath catches at the term of endearment he employs, placing your hand over his. “I know you will do everything to mitigate such.”

His eyes go soft, and he rolls on top of you; so much warm skin. An all-consuming sensation as you lay together naked, that cock branding your inner thigh as he settles atop you.

“Indeed ‘tis true…” he confirms, then hesitates before continuing in an ardent intonation: “I meant what I said. I wish for you to be my wife one day. I do believe I love you, y/n.”

Your heart soars at his tender confession. “And I believe I love you too, Benedict.”

His responding smile lights up his whole face. 

You may only be seventeen, but you know the contents of your heart. There is no man you have met whom you trust as much as this wondrous boy, now man, you have grown up alongside. You sincerely hope to have the privilege to grow up and, indeed, old with him.

“Are you certain?” he checks sweetly, and you can only nod as his touch trails down over the ticklish skin of your belly, leaving little lines of fire that sear in his wake.

There is a jolt to your entire being as his fingers slide into your most intimate area, somewhere only you have touched before. You keen and press up into him, quite certain nothing has ever felt like this before. 

“Oh, you are very wet,” he stutters, almost stunned. “But that is good,” he quickly appends before you can become self-conscious. “It means you desire me as much as I desire you.”

“I do desire you, Benedict,” you are at pains to express, a restlessness fizzling under your skin and a clawing need for him in your bones, knowing this can only be of his doing and wanting to burn so much more. “What happens now?”

He guides your hand gently between his legs. He moans as your hand instinctively curls around it, the skin so silky even over a mass so rigid. “I put my cock inside you,” he stumbles. “Into the place you are leaking from…”

“Will it fit?” You frown, unsure you have a place within yourself to accommodate it.

“Yes.. well, at least, that is what I have been told.” 

His slightly vulnerable admission makes you release his cock and grab his face, tilting his gaze to meet yours.

“We shall find out together,” you assure, smiling when he nods gently.

This is just another adventure you will embark on together, much as you have since you were children. 

He kisses your knuckles and guides you to hold onto his shoulders as he shifts above you. Butterflies behind your ribs as he looks down at what he is doing, a slightly anxious expression as he grabs his cock and manoeuvres it between your legs. 

You spread your feet wider to the edges of the blanket, its threads scrunching between your toes as you feel blunt pressure between your damp folds. You can't help the noise you make from the intensity of it. 

Benedict’s head shoots up to scrutinise your face, concern flooding his handsome features.

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes, I think so, just nothing I have experienced before…”

Then his eyes go as wide as yours as just his tip slips into your leaking channel.

“You are so hot and tight,” he stumbles, floored by what he is experiencing as much as you are.

“You are so hot and large,” you answer in kind, gripping his bicep as he presses deeper and an odd pinch of pain flares; it makes you hiss and bite your lip. 

He mumbles an apology, pausing. “I assume that is what they were referring to. Sh-should I continue?”

“Yes, I am alright now,” you reassure him, briefly touching his cheek, curiosity outweighing the fading, dull ache. 

You are slack-jawed in astonishment as your channel stretches wider to accommodate his push forward. He is panting, and his eyes are almost like saucers as he stares down upon you, neither of you blinking.

“Oh my goodness,” he mutters enraptured. “Please tell me this feels as good for you…”

“It’s wonderful, Benedict,” you promise breathily, a warmth unfurling behind your ribs that he would care as such. “Intense, yet wonderful.”

“Same,” he exhales shakily, a vein throbbing rhythmically on his neck as he sinks deeper.

Each fractional inch has you surprised anew, a captivating gradual invasion. Just as you think you could not be any fuller, he stops.

“I am entirely within you now.”

You try to catalogue all the feelings at once, to savour them, but it's impossible. The sense of him inside and surrounding you, flesh entwined, is all-consuming; defies words or descriptions.

“I shall move when you are ready,” he whispers into your cheek before kissing you softly. 

With your nodded consent, he withdraws and then surges back in, your channel clinging to him—a sensation unlike anything you have ever experienced before, so intimate and powerful. Your fingernails claw into him, hugging him down onto you, wanting his skin upon yours.

“Oh Benedict….”

It’s all you can voice. 

A tremble all over as you share this moment, tentatively moving with him in a complementary rhythm, almost a dance like that in a ballroom. Give and take, push and pull. And there is no one you would rather be dancing with. Your bodies meld together perfectly as if designed to be joined as such. You certainly don’t understand why some women dislike relations with a man—you would happily do this anytime.

Benedict's motions speed up, your folds swelling around his plunging cock, your heart hammering against your ribs, watching the ripples of ecstasy wash over his expression, a dew gathering in his hairline.

“It’s.. it’s overwhelming,” Benedict shudders. 

Indeed, there is a quake in his being, like he is a simmering pot about to boil over, even as his face appears anxious, like he does not yet want that to happen but is powerless to stop it. You quell his movement, clutching the belt of muscle above his hips.

“Rest within me a while,” you suggest, and he stills, a staccato exhale into your hair as his cock twitches inside you.

It is wonderful to be pinned under his weight. You run a soothing touch over his skin, the soft cotton of the blanket rubbing your shoulder blades as you shift under him, wrapping your ankles around the back of his knees. Your toes tease his fuzzy calves in soothing strokes as his breathing returns closer to normal. You know, somehow you should not kiss him, an incitement he does not need.

“I do not wish this to be over too soon,” he laments quietly into your hair—a swell of emotion within you at his honest admission.

“Neither do I, but it is our first time. We cannot expect to know or be good at everything, Benedict,” you rationalise, pausing for him to meet your gaze. A sheepish mien that makes him look so adorable. “We can learn to get better together.” 

The knit on his brow loosens a fraction as he hums in agreement.

“I have heard that should I finish before I want to, there are other ways I may ensure your satisfaction,” he offers humbly.

“What does that entail?” Enchanted by the idea he would be concerned for your pleasure as much as his.

“I may touch a nub between your legs that is like a freshwater pearl nestled within folds of dewy flesh,” he states, a poetic description you are sure must be from some book.

When he pulls up to glance at where you are joined, it makes his cock prod a new spot inside you. An incredible bloom of novel sensation that has you gasping and grabbing his arms. Your channel ripples around him, and he groans heavily, collapsing back upon you inelegantly.

“Holy fuck,” he curses, sounding winded.

And you know the time for talking is over. You are impatient for him to move again, for his cock to graze that spot once more.

“Bring your legs up higher,” he tutors, intuiting your needs. 

Just as your heels curl around the shapely curve of his bottom, he moves again, making you cry out in pleasure as he hits that exact target, your nails digging into his back.

“Don’t stop Benedict,” you appeal over a ragged gasp as he grazes it again, your eyes rolling, clinging to him.

His motions are jerkier now but rougher in just the way you need. He holds nothing back, both of you fumbling towards the ecstasy growing inside. Hands grabbing, moaning into dewy cheeks, wetness matting into the downy hair below, the most debauched of sounds from where your bodies meet as he pushes into you over and over.

All your muscles start to tense, a delirium washing over you that makes you impulsive. One of your hands worming between you to strum an engorged nub just above where he fucks you, knowing on some instinctual level it is key to your pleasure. You cry out, and your pussy clamps hard onto him. Benedict groans his approval as he takes a final harsh snap, you falling over an edge, fluttering hard around his now rippling cock.

He growls and wrenches himself out of your channel rapidly. But you are barely cognizant of a milky liquid spurting over your belly as you writhe under him, body febrile mind a thousand miles above amongst the summer stars

When you return to yourself, you feel him collapse onto the blanket next to you, pulling you into his arms as if there is a compulsion to always have your naked skin on his.

“No one warned me your body would do that,” he pants, astounded. “It took all of my strength to withdraw…”

“Why did you?” You crane your neck to pout at him, believing it would feel so much better to reach that peak wrapped around his cock.

“I thought it unwise to leave you with child…” he frowns as if his reasoning were obvious.

You buffer for a few seconds, then sit up and twist to look down at him, shock flooding your already overloaded senses.

“This?!” You splutter, “This is how babies are made?”

He chuckles at first, then tempers his face when he realises you are serious. 

“I… I thought you knew…”

”No! I have not been told a thing!” you bemoan, only now realising how much of adulthood you have yet to navigate.

He delicately pulls you down to rest on top of him, nuzzling your cheek. 

“I am sorry that is the case. One day, we shall have children, I am certain. But perhaps tis not a good idea just yet. We are still young, not even yet engaged.” 

You vehemently nod in agreement, flooded with gratitude that, even as he was in the throes of his first sex, too, he had the respect and forethought to care for the consequences for you both. 

“Thank you, Benedict,” you sigh, burrowing into his embrace as a gentle waft of breeze cools your flushed skin.

“‘Tis me who should be thanking you.” he insists, caressing your shoulder. “That was amazing. I am so glad we did this together.”

“As am I,” you return, as you lay entwined together, knowing already this will be the first of many.

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[brucewaynehater101]

I need you to stop me from making another Tim Drake centric fic

I got this random idea that won’t leave me alone

like what if the emotional scars and trauma people have show up physically too most commonly as little cracks on the skin and all of the bats have them

they hide them tho with make up and stuff so people don’t question it except Tim hides them from everyone maybe bc that’s what his parents taught him to do maybe bc he just doesn’t want to burden any of the bats

the bats think that Tim is fine so to them he’s invincible which leads them to treat him as such subconsciously or otherwise especially Bruce

it takes a lot for something to be bad enough that they physically manifest and Tim has A LOT bc everyone thinks he’s invincible

:) it won’t leave me alone help me I beg of you

Hmm.... Let's add on, shall we? This is a very rad idea. You should definitely write a fic about it, but no pressure.

Mind if I explore it? Also, feel free to disregard any part below you don't want/disagree with. This is just brainstorming ^^

Alright. Emotional scars are a physical mark on someone's skin.

Similar to regular scars, they can fade as a person heals.

Some may never disappear, and some only appear for a short time.

What would their color be?

Would they look like actual cracks in a person (so black-ish in color)? Would they be gold or multi-colored (different colors represent different kinds of emotional traumas)?

The level of hurt inflicted is directly proportional to the size (length and width) of the scar.

Perhaps more could be deduced from the general shape (is it jagged? A single line? Branching?)

Not all people have these marks

Most of the population manifests them. There's some prejudice against folk who don't [something something they are heartless, incapable of feelings, not able to be emotionally hurt, cold, detached, etc.], but hiding scars is also common. Therefore, it's harder to discern whether someone is hiding their marks or markless. It's a very fine line, so most people allow a smaller mark to show every once in a while. There's even a few trends to proudly display all marks.

Marks appear at the time of the emotional harm

It may not be apparent at the time due to the location, but the individual being hurt will manifest the mark at the very moment of emotional harm.

Anyways, that's the background stuff. Fun, but let's get into Tim specifically ^^

Tim's parents are part of the few who believe that showing off your scars to anyone, even your loved ones, is both a weakness and a way to guilt-trip people. Therefore, through their archeology studies, they managed to obtain magical objects to prevent the showing of emotional marks. It's similar to glamor.

Tim's object can change forms to suit his needs (so a ring at one moment and an earring the next). This ability prevents the Bats from discovering it.

Janet fakes a very small mark on her hand when she wants to discourage any rumors that's she's incapable of manifesting marks. For Tim, though, his parents wanted him to have rumors of being incapable of forming marks. It served their purpose better for him being the cunning Drake heir.

The deception started from birth, so no one but the Drakes know of Tim's ability to form marks [and the Drake parents never see the marks they leave behind on their child].

The Waynes, long before Tim entered their life, were aware of these rumors. Thus, when Tim demands to become Robin, he doesn't correct their assumptions.

Bruce is a callous fucker to Tim at the start. If Tim can't be hurt emotionally, then Bruce's ill-treatment of him is fine (which is flawed logic. The markless can be emotionally hurt, and they still deserve kindness, dignity, and respect even if they couldn't. Bruce was mentally fucked up, but it doesn't excuse his treatment).

Eventually, Bruce comes to the second realization that Tim should still be treated well even if it doesn't hurt him regardless. The man's behavior is better, but he still has the notion in mind that Tim can't be emotionally hurt. He uses this for missions and to downplay the way his other kids treat Tim (specifically Jason and Damian when they first meet Tim).

Tim gets used to a rotation of insult-names: Robot Robin, heartless, markless (said insultingly), cold-blooded, unfeeling bastard, etc.

He's also subject to a TON of misunderstandings. People are more reluctant to love him due to the belief that he can't love them back. He gets yelled at and told off for "masking/faking his emotions" when he's actually being genuine.

Which adds to his hurt :)

He also has to pretend not to grieve his parents when they die :(

Due to how rare markless are, the Bats don't meet "another" one until after the BruceQuest. When they chat with this person, they realize how many misconceptions they have about them (such as the markless being incapable of feelings. In fact, they accidentally offend that person when they tell the other they don't need to fake their emotions in front of the Bats. Safe to say, the markless individual becomes incensed when they realize how they've been treating their own markless family member).

This would be at least four (probably closer to five) years after Tim first became Robin. The entire family has a meltdown.

Tim, on the other hand, is used to the treatment the Bats have been giving him and becomes incredibly uncomfortable with them trying to care for his feelings and whatnot. It's rocky for a long while as everyone tries to seek forgiveness for something Tim bitterly doesn't hold against them (he is lying to them after all).

Tim rarely, if ever, views his own marks. The last time he checked was when he was having his identity crisis after Robin was taken from him. His entire body, from head to toe, had cracks in it. There was a giant, gaping crack on his back for the metaphorical stab in the back it was.

And we haven't even gotten to when the Bats figure out Tim was never markless :)

[lucydixon]

Older!Eddie Headcanons

Eddie Munson Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog A/N: When I say older, I'm talking mid to late 40s. Bitch, I love me an older man and I feel like this fucker would be so fucking hot as a middle aged man. IDK if any of y'all have ever met a retired Metalhead/Rocker, but GODDAMN, they age like fine fucking wine.

Summary: Just some headcanons for Older!Eddie

Warning: Gets a little spicy towards the end, NSFW

I always picture Older!Eddie, with a biker look and covered in tattoos. Real intimidating, but pretty as sin with his salt and pepper beard and the silver streaks in his unruly mane. He’s probably a mechanic, or maybe a rockstar. 

He’s either divorced or a serial dater, maybe both, but as soon as he meets you, his eyes never wander. You’ll never know loyalty quite like that of Eddie Munson. 

You could meet anywhere. A coffee shop, the post office, maybe a gig, but wherever you are, his eyes are locked on you immediately, and he’s going back and forth on whether or not you’re too young for him. If you’d go for a washed-up metalhead when you could have your pick of all the other people he’d seen staring at you. 

That nagging insecurity from being bullied relentlessly as a child is still there. It always will be. However, his ability to put on a show instead of allowing his thoughts to eat him alive never fades, and he’d saunter over you with enough confidence that you can’t help but swoon.

He’d be very upfront about the fact that he is hitting on you, blatantly flirting with a cocky little smirk and cheesy pickup lines. They should be cheesy, but the way he delivers them, they sound smooth and suave. 

If you truly grab his attention, he won't fuck you the night he meets you. He’ll be a gentleman and walk you to your car or offer to drive you home, holding the door for you and everything, and ask to see you within the next few days. 

This man is thinking about fucking a baby into you from the second he lays eyes on you. He knows it’s wrong and that he shouldn’t be thinking about tying you down in such an extreme way, but he is the opposite of a slow burner. 

He’d try and have you move in with him after only spending one night together, desperate to keep you as close as possible while you’re still in the morning after honeymoon phase. 

I feel like he’d be possessive as fuck. He’s old enough that he doesn’t put up with games or any kind of back-and-forth. Eddie Munson knows what he wants, and he does not share. He’d keep a hand on your waist or resting on the swell of your ass whenever you’re out and about, especially in bars. He likes to make it very clear that you’re with him. 

Would be incredibly protective of you. He’ll protect what's his at any cost, and you can expect him to step in if someone so much as breathes any negativity your way. God forbid someone lays a hand on you, because this man will beat anyone who dares within an inch of their life. 

Side note, The thought of him just beating the shit out of someone on your behalf, cutting into their cheekbones with his heavy rings and drawing blood, is so fucking sexy oml. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, idk. ANYWAYS,

Older!Eddie fucks. Those experienced hands would have you seeing stars every. Single. Night. He’d be manhandling you into positions you didn’t even know existed and fucking you into the mattress so hard that it leaves his back aching in the morning, but then he’d do it again the next night. 

Very generous lover. You never have to worry about not finishing, even if the two of you are having a risky lil quickie in a bar bathroom, he will make you cum at least twice before even thinking about himself. There’s nothing he loves more than watching you fall apart. 

This man would live between your thighs if you let him. Eddie Munson is and always will be a munch. And he knows what tf he’s doing down there. He’ll have you cumming over and over again until you are sobbing and physically pushing him away.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics MDNI banner by @cafekitsune

[lotties-ashwagandha]

OFFERINGS

poly!adult!yellowjackets x fem!reader

NSFW! you try to blackmail them for money, but end up with them on your doorstep, and they’re ready to kill you until they realize who you are. the anons were going to smite me down if i didn’t write this, so enjoy :) toxic weirdo shit in this fic so consider this your formal warning. AU where lottie still has her wellness center bc miss cult leader deserves to be happy. also misty is mentioned in this fic but she doesn’t get busy bc in my head she’s ace and possibly aro and I have to follow that.

“You should go,” Lottie says, pulling on a robe. “You’ll be late for work.”

In theory, you could stay for another hour or so, if this wasn’t all so transactional — but you know she doesn’t like the idea of anyone seeing you sneaking away out of her cabin in the mornings, so she sends you away at dawn. If she had more self control, she would have you out before that — but the nights you come over to the wellness center are the only nights Lottie allows herself to really be free, and the two of you usually end up drinking or smoking something so potent that you don’t remember making it into bed together in the first place.

And most of the time, Natalie is no help — she hasn’t been ever since she and Lottie started dating, and you started coming over to be shared between them.

You don’t know how Lottie still manages to function at such an early hour afterwards, and every time, while Natalie sleeps in. If it were up to you, you’d take a full day of recovery. Instead you are on the road driving at sunrise back to your apartment, so that you can change and look somewhat presentable at work in a few hours.

You don’t feel bad about the letter you slipped into their mailbox this time. You should, but you don’t — and you don’t regret sending variations of the same to the rest of the Yellowjackets, because all of them are wealthier than you, and even if you were to receive double the amount of money you were blackmailing them for, it wouldn’t put financial strain on them at all. And now, above all, you need extra money — the current financial landscape makes it nearly impossible to get a job that pays well enough for you to live comfortably.

While you’re driving, your phone starts to ring. The caller ID surprises you with Shauna Sadecki.

“I need you to stop by the house,” she says as soon as you pick up. “It’s important.”

You haven’t spoken to Shauna in a long time. You’re older than her daughter by a long shot, but your families are familiar since your younger sister has been best friends with Callie since she started high school and you were already in college. “Is everything okay?”

“I know you sell Callie weed,” Shauna states.

That’s new. It’s not true, either — not really. “I don’t sell your daughter weed.”

“You give it to someone who gives it to someone who gives it to her,” Shauna sighs. You can’t deny that. “I don’t mind. But she’s run out, and I… I’m going through some shit, and I need you to stop by with your magic shit.”

__

Shauna lights the first joint in front of you. She savors the smoke, closing her eyes for a moment as new calmness sweeps over her features.

“Is everything alright?” You ask. Out of the corner of your eye you see the envelope you sent.

She opens her eyes and unpromptedly glances down at the envelope before turning to look out the kitchen window. “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, clearing your throat awkwardly and pocketing the money she hands you.

“What about you?” Shauna asks. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Your sister still comes over at least three times a week, though.”

“I’ve been working,” you say carefully, but with the necessary authority in your voice to make your tasks sound big and important.

“On this enterprise you’ve got?” Shauna looks down at everything she bought from you.

“And other things,” you shake your head.

“So mysterious,” she mocks you. “Well, good luck with all of your… other things.”

__

“Hey,” Taissa sits down on the couch next to Van. She hands her the letter. “This was in the mailbox today.”

“What is it?” Van looks up from the box of tapes she had been sorting through.

“Open it.”

Van opens the envelope and reads what lies inside. When she’s done she closes the envelope and rips it in half.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s bullshit,” Van shrugs. “No one’s going to expose anything we did. No one knows anything.”

Taissa shakes her head. “Should we really take that chance, though?”

Van hesitates. “What would we do, anyway? I’m not giving anyone money.”

“Maybe we don’t have to. We could—”

“We’re not killing anyone, either,” Van interrupts, and even though her concern dissipates a bit when Taissa grabs her hand, she is stern.

“I’m going to call Misty,” Taissa decides. “If anyone knows what to do with a blackmailer, it’s that crazy bitch.”

__

Your next stop was a test of luck.

You had a growing suspicion that Melissa, a woman that was meant to be long dead, was living the suburban dream instead of rotting in a grave. You had done some deep diving on what really happened to the Yellowjackets, and some conspiracies you found online matched with some other research — and a few things Lottie and Nat said when you were unreasonably high with them one night — led you to locate Melissa alive and well in a new house with a new name and a wife that just so happened to be the daughter of a researcher killed in the wilderness.

You’ve driven by the house a few times now to make sure no one’s home. The only car left about half an hour ago, and from what you could gather it was the whole family that had left.

The final envelope rests in your hands. It will be simple to walk it up to the mailbox, you’re parked a ways down the street so that no one suspects you, but you’re still wrought with apprehension.

The mailbox, instead of being placed at the end of the street, is a drop box attached to the house next to the front door. It’s closer than you want to be to the house even with no one inside, but you gather your courage and try to act natural for anyone watching as you go up the front steps to occupy the porch.

You reach for the mailbox, but before you can slip the envelope inside, the front door swings open.

Shauna Sadecki meets your eyes. “You need to go.”

You pause, clutching the envelope. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Shauna tightens her grip on a knife in her left hand. Then, she sees the envelope you hold, and recognition sweeps over her face. “What’s that?”

You don’t have time to answer. She rips it out of your hands and opens it, scanning over the letter within.

Shauna looks back up at you. “You fucking bitch.”

Another voice sounds from inside. “Who is it?”

Melissa joins Shauna in the doorway. There’s no doubt that it’s her, with the same quiet sureness that you remember from pictures of her taken forever ago. And if a resemblance to her past self wasn’t enough, she still wears that backwards fucking hat.

Melissa steals the letter from Shauna. “What is this?”

Shauna looks hesitant to say, guilty even. She speaks quietly, but you hear the fury in her voice. “She’s trying to blackmail us.”

Melissa crumples up the paper and faces Shauna. “So it wasn’t me.”

Shauna doesn’t meet her eyes.

“You thought it was Melissa?” You look between them and your gaze settles on Shauna’s knife. “Did you come here to…”

“And now it’s you,” Shauna pulls you inside and shuts the door. She points her knife at you, guiding you to go stand over by the fireplace. “You’re going to stay there until we decide what to do with you.”

You’re fucked — and the horrible thing is that you don’t really mind. You stand with Shauna Sadecki pointing a knife straight at your heart and while you are afraid, you embrace it. You have lived such an existence of monotony that part of you wants to take a step forward to find out what the point of the blade feels like against your chest, to see if she will drive it in the rest of the way. You want the intensity of her gaze pointed at you just as sharply, you want to bear her scorn.

“The rest are on their way,” Shauna says, coming closer. “Lottie, Natalie… What do you think they will do when they find out it’s been you behind this all along?”

You’re not sure how she knows. You’ve been discreet with your visits to the wellness center.

Shauna toys with the knife in her hands, glancing down at the paper Melissa holds. “Hand-delivering a blackmail threat. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

You didn’t think any of it through. Your desperation had gotten the better of you and maybe, in the back of your mind, you had wanted to get caught. You wanted to feel powerful and in some way prove your defiance of the usual system of money honestly earned and a world where only the rich have the privilege of disobedience. You wanted to be caught and somehow praised for it.

You find no praise here. Death watches you.

“We could have you arrested,” Melissa stalks over. You realize she carries a knife now, too. “You could be fined, you could be put in prison… you wouldn’t survive it.”

You wouldn’t. You don’t know if you’ll survive this.

You hear a car pulling into the driveway. You stay still, even when Shauna lowers the knife and lets in the rest of the Yellowjackets.

They come inside one by one and suddenly you recall every horrible tale you’ve ever heard about their time in the wilderness. You remember the stories that they ate their own teammates, that they used to make sacrifices to an unnamed spirit and hope for salvation that was never truly received.

Lottie comes in first, and she is the first to notice you. She looks between you, Shauna, and Melissa, confusion etched into her features. “What’s going on?”

Shauna waits until the rest of them are inside before pointing the knife at you again. “It wasn’t Melissa. It was her.”

Lottie exchanges a look with Natalie, who stands at her side with the same look of surprise. Then Lottie approaches Shauna and grabs for the blade in her hand.

Shauna doesn’t let go. She looks up at her defiantly and a silent communication passes between the two of them that causes the rest of the room to fall silent.

Shauna lets go of the knife.

You take a step back instinctively when Lottie approaches with the knife. You can’t meet her eyes, not even when she steps so close to you that you can feel her breath on your neck when she leans slightly and speaks in a volume only you are meant to hear. “You spent so many nights with Nat and I, we thought you were ours, and you did this…”

“I needed money,” you say quietly.

“I would have given you money, love. All you had to do was ask,” Lottie moves back half a step and trails the knife down to the hollow of your throat. Greater authority comes into her voice. “There are three ways out of this for you. The first is you leave, you leave and for your own good we never see or hear from you again. The second way is that you give us something in return, a repentance. You give us an appeasement and we all carry on like we used to. And the third way…” Lottie lifts your chin with the flat side of the knife. You meet her eyes, and you understand her implication, that in the third way your blood is spilled for It and everything you read about the Yellowjackets becomes true. “What will it be?”

Your breath catches in your throat and for a moment you can barely breathe as you acclimate to the feeling of the knife, but you’ve already made up your mind. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to leave. You want them. You want to beg for their forgiveness. “The second way.”

“The second way,” Lottie repeats, removing the knife and stepping behind you, circling you. “What will you give us?”

“Anything you want.”

She stops in front of you. “That’s not how offerings work. You don’t ask, you give.”

You hesitate. You know what you want to give, you know what she wants you to give, but you’re not sure if anyone else shares the same idea.

“You can pick a different answer if you’d like,” Lottie says casually, like she’s not offering isolation or death, “but you have to decide now.”

You have known what you’ve wanted since you started all of this, even if you never fully admitted to it. So there is no fear or regret or horror living in you when you step up to her and kiss her. Her arms slide around you, one hand pulling at your hair and driving you closer to her. You hear the metallic clink of the knife dropping to the floor.

Someone else is behind you now, pressing up against your back. You can tell instantly that it’s Nat — you have been down this road before. She reaches for your shirt, greedily pulling it over your head before latching onto your neck and sucking angry marks onto your skin. Her nails dig into your sides, and you moan when she pulls you closer back against her.

Lottie is pulled away from you by Melissa, who isn’t so apt to share you. You run your hands along the defined muscles of her shoulders as she kisses you, and you gasp when she tugs you forward and leads you into the bedroom. She gets impatient before you can reach the bed, instead shoving you back up against the wall.

She’s about to get on her knees in front of you when Shauna pushes her away.

You meet Shauna’s eyes for a moment. You both know that this will not leave you after, that the way your families have been innocently entwined will be poisoned. But she shoves her fingers into your mouth and you suck on them anyway. And you let her, and again Natalie who has returned, leads you over to the bed.

It’s Taissa and Van, though, who pin you down onto it. Taissa doesn’t let you watch the rest of them caught up in each other kissing and sucking and moaning, and Van takes over and straddles you once the two of them have rid you of the rest of your clothes. She leans down, shifting to suck at your collarbones, moaning against your skin.

“So beautiful, isn’t she?” Taissa agrees, hand trailing against your jaw as she looks just as far gone at the sight of you beneath her girlfriend. She speaks about you like you can’t hear. “She’ll look so gorgeous when she cums for us.”

Lottie joins you on the bed. She looks down at Van with something akin to annoyance. “Let me have her.”

“You’ve already had your turn.”

“No,” Lottie argues, but her protests are silenced when Nat comes over and pulls her against her, and for the moment she’s satisfied. And you’re happy with the solution too, every inch of you burning with need for them with Van settling between your legs as you watch Natalie pull Lottie’s dress down and slide a hand down to rub at her clit. You moan at the sight, and the two of them notice, Lottie’s gaze a heavy pressure on you until Nat slides two fingers inside of her and Lottie throws her head back against the other woman’s shoulder.

At the same time, Van licks through your folds, tongue sliding lazily over your clit. You gasp and Taissa leans down to kiss you, and somewhere close you hear Shauna’s whispered praise to you and Melissa moaning as god-knows-who is touching her.

It’s building quickly, the heat between your thighs that’s growing into something so fervent and agonizingly intense that the moans that escape you are embarrassing, and the speed at which they’ve taken you to the edge of release even more.

“Watch her, she’s so close,” you hear Natalie whisper to Lottie. “Watch her cum from seeing us.”

Van sucks your clit into her mouth, working her fingers inside of you, your wetness coating her chin and hand. And then Taissa straddles your face, lowering herself down onto your mouth, and your hands are shaking as you pull her closer and start to lick through her wetness.

Someone pulls Van away from you — Shauna.

“Don’t let her cum yet,” she orders. “Not until the rest of us have.”

im on my period btw and everyone needs to know because i am very angry about it. wrote this on my typewriter bluetooth keyboard like a true gangster of irredeemable sin, a glutton of tickled toes and one jolly fellow of olden days. comment/reblog if you enjoyed :)

masterlist | ko-fi/“buy me a $2 coffee” | taglist form

[date-em-all]

notes: dorian + reader (reader is Not home owner), alcohol/heavy drinking, vomit mention, post-realization spoilers. no romance in this because reader is Very Drunk and dorian is doing his job. i just like the idea of him looking out for others during work hours, as he should :)

dorian can't remember you coming into the club with your friends. there are so many faces passing by on a given night, after all. it's impossible to remember. it's only a good thing that he has no clue who you are; he only remembers the troublesome ones. just another clubgoer who didn't try to push their way ahead in line or, god forbid, tried to commit identity fraud with some fake or borrowed id.

but he certainly remembers you leaving. you'd been stumbling on your legs without any sense of direction, slumped against the nearest wall and sank to the floor. only to promptly stop moving. dorian's seen it all before. there are countless reasons for someone to get as sloshed as you are right now, but none of those matter more than actually getting you the help you need.

(maybe you're not usually a drinker, and had overindulged in one too many mixes or cocktails, the alcohol content of which are always hard to gauge. or you've been going through a tough time and had one too many. or meds that mess with the way alcohol affects your functioning. endless reasons, really.

but you'd stumbled into the bathroom, sat down to pee, only to have the world swirling and dancing around you as soon as you'd gotten up again, discordant giggles bursting from your mouth. fuck, i've had way too much, you'd thought before pushing through crowds and heading to the door. you'd seemed fine before.)

dorian exchanges a glance with the other fellow at the door and inclines his head in your direction. "i'll get that one." the night is coming to a close and leaving one person at the door is fine.

if someone rings the alarm at the bar, he's close enough to be able to come running over regardless. dorian squats down in front of you, keeping his hands to himself. your eyes are just barely cracked open.

"hello. are you alright?" he asks. the shake of your head you give him, lilting up and down as your skull moves side to side, says more than enough. "you've had one too many, yeah? who are you with?"

your shoulders hunch up, close to your ears, face scrunching up. "i lost them. my friends. they... they left... i think? i dunno- there's a lot of people inside, and..." you simply trail off, eyes hazy, sentence left unfinished.

"if they really left, they're an awful lot. those are not friends." he tells you firmly. you're clearly left in no state to be on your own, much less in the middle of town around this time of night, when the streets will soon crowd with hordes of drunk folk heading on home.

"i think i'm going to throw up." is all you say in response, chest heaving as if to support your words.

"alright, alright. none of that just now. you think you can stand?" rather than wait for a coherent answer, he's putting his hands under your armpits and tugging you in a standing position with ease. you practically collapse against him, though it doesn't make him flinch whatsoever. all it does is make him let out a soft grunt, before he's supporting you further, looping an arm around you to steady you.

(a lesser doorman would've sent you on their way, told you that you're too drunk to get back in, and secretly thought to himself: as long as they're out of the club and not my problem, they can fall over and throw up in a ditch, for all i care. but dorian takes his job incredibly seriously and always goes the extra mile, always insistent on protecting any unfortunate clubgoer.

...among customers and colleagues, he's also infamous for completely refusing bribes and getting upset with anyone who does accept them. a trait dorian rather prides himself on, but no on else.)

"we've got some chairs in the back. a bucket, too." dorian stands still for a few moments to allow you to catch your breath. "there we go. it's not all that far."

"why do you have... a bunch of, of doors on your arms...?" you slur as he takes you through a hallway in the club, off-limits to visitors.

"i like doors," he responds simply, a response so dry and utterly confounding, especially to your alcohol-addled mind, that it has you laughing so hard that tears are streaming down your face and dorian has to practically drag you over the floor.

he huffs out a breath through his nose, but smiles. he's always glad to see his untapped comedy potential being appreciated.

in the end, he orders you a taxi home or, if all else fails due to the busy nature of closing hours, he'll drive and stop by your place at the tailend of his shift himself. ...you probably won't remember much of the gesture the next morning, given the state you're in. but dorian feels like he's done a fine job.

[willowsnook]

Friends don't sleep together (MV) 18+

max verstappen x friend!reader

warnings: smut

"Coming," you shouted as you heard your doorbell ring. Applying one last coat of mascara you finished up before grabbing your purse off the counter and heading to the door. Your friend Lando was leaning against the back wall on his phone as you swung the door open.

"Ready?" he asked looking up.

"Do you think this outfit is fine?" You asked and he nodded.

"Yeah, it's supposed to be casual," he said. The two of you headed out and into his car. His brand new car as he kept reminding you along with how lucky you were to be allowed to sit in it.

You had met Lando a couple of years ago as you lived in the same building and he introduced you to a lot of his friends including Max Verstappen, whose birthday party was what you were currently heading to.

You liked Max a lot, maybe a little more than friends if you would admit that to yourself. He was quiet but confident, intentional but not intense, and cocky but not arrogant. In a perfect world you'd be together, you thought. But he's Max Verstappen, and you're well, just you.

Instead of going out, Max just wanted to have a lowkey get together at his Monaco place. It was a penthouse condo that you loved getting to visit just for the view alone.

The get together was in full swing when you and Lando got there and you quickly found Max, drinking a G&T while talking to Charles.

"Happy birthday friend," you said walking up and Max's eyes lit up before pulling you into a hug. You heard Charles snort but ignored it.

"Thanks, y/n," he said in your ear, holding you a little longer. "I'm glad you could make it."

You heart fluttered as you pulled away smiling at him. Moving to give Charles a hug you missed the look he gave Max that had him blushing.

"Is Alex here?" You asked Charles and he nodded, pointing towards the outdoor patio. The cool Monaco air hit you as you stepped outside and greeted Alex who was talking to another girl.

"Y/n!" She squealed. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," you told her smiling. The two of you caught up about the last month as you hadn't seen her since F1's summer break.

"You want to hear something interesting?" She asked you mischievously.

"Always," you replied.

"So a couple of weeks ago I was talking to Rebecca and she told me that she had a friend that was really interested in Max," she started. "Gorgeous, wealthy, model, you know the type. They all went out after the race in Zandvort and Max would not give her the time of day. Completely ignored her all night along with pretty much anyone of our gender who tried to talk to him."

"Hmm, seems like he just wasn't interested," you said nonchalantly and Alex rolled her eyes.

"Or...he has someone else on his mind."

Alex was the only person you had told about your small crush on Max and it had came out after a long night of drinking way too much wine.

"We're just friends Alex, I value our friendship way too much to risk fucking it up," you told her and she huffed.

"You both are ridiculous, everyone knows you're into each other besides the two of you," she exclaimed and you laughed.

In your mind, Max had ample opportunities to confess his so called love for you and it never happened. Yeah, he was grumpy when you wore any other team's gear than Redbull, he always made sure to find you after a race, and he showed you a lot of physical affection but that's what friends are like.

The rest of the night was a blur as you kept drinking way longer than you should have been. You found yourself relaxed on a couch, resting your head on Max's shoulder as you watched everyone slowly pile out.

"Staying here?" Max murmured and you nodded. You got up, stumbling towards Max's room, him right behind to catch you if need be.

When you made it into the room you started unclasping the front of your shirt, your chest spilling out once you got the shirt off. Max inhaled deeply trying to look anywhere else once he got into bed. Meeting his gaze, you slowly pulled down your jeans, revealing the lace red thong you had picked for the night. His gaze burned into yours and you climbed into bed next to him, resting your hand on his stomach causing him to take a sharp breath.

"Y/n...." he whispered but you brought a finger to his lips, the alcohol taking over the driver seat of your brain completely.

"Let me give you one last birthday gift," you said and his eyes darkened. Dragging your hand down his body, his eyes squeezed shut as you palmed him over his boxers. Bringing your mouth down, you kissed his lower stomach, all long his underwear line until you finally pulled them down releasing his cock from it's restraints.

You licked a long stripe from the bottom to the tip, meeting his eyes as he watched you with lust.

"Don't tease," he breathed out and you smirked placing a kiss on the head. The sound he made when you finally wrapped your lips around him went straight to your core and his hand found itself tangled in your hair. You reached down to touch yourself as you bobbed up and down moaning on to him.

Max's breaths grew shallow and after a while he pulled you off of him, flipping the two of you so that he was hovering over you. His lips crashed on to yours his fingers moving under your panties.

"So wet for me schatje," he said pulling back from your lips and attaching his mouth to your neck, sucking harshly. You moaned, arching your back as he slipped a finger in you.

"I need you Max," you whined and he pushed off of you, pumping himself a couple of times looking a little unsure. "What?"

"You are drunk," he said. "I don't want to do something you'll regret."

"Trust me, I'm not going to regret this," you replied hazily and he nodded positioning himself at your entrance. You gasped as he pushed in, adjusting to his big size and he groaned into your shoulder. He started moving slowly, bringing his thumb to rub circles on your clit.

"I'm not going to last long," he rasped out and you wrapped your legs around him, driving him deeper as a response.

He set a bruising pace and you felt tears start to leak from your eyes as you clung around him, nails breaking open the skin on his back.

"I'm going to cum Max," you said and he brought his lips back to your neck while still pounding into you bringing you to your climax. You cried out, eyes rolling back as your orgasm crashed over you and you felt him grunt as he spilled into you.

Too tired to move, you felt him pull out to head into the bathroom. The bed dipped when he came back and you felt a damp towel along your skin as he cleaned you up. Throwing the towel off the bed he nestled in next to you, pulling you closer and you drifted off to sleep.

-------------------------

You woke up to sun shining in your eyes and started to sit up before realizing two arms were wrapped tightly around you. You looked over to see Max snoring next to you and you didn't think anything of it at first because you had spent the night before. But where was your shirt?

You froze as the memories flooded back and you felt your eyes starting to water. Oh my god. You fucked everything up. Friends don't sleep together. Your sniffles caused Max to stir and you slipped out of his arms and climbed out of bed.

"What's wrong y/n?" He asked sleepily, sitting up to look at you. Turning to look at him, his eyes widened as he saw your wet face.

"What did we do?" You cried softly, moving around the bed to try and find your clothes. Taking your reaction as regret, his heart sank.

"Let me get you something else to wear for the ride home," he said with no emotion which ripped your heart in half. Wordlessly he handed you one of his tshirts which you slipped over your head before putting your jeans back on.

Grabbing your bag you made it to the front door and his hand reached out to stop you.

"Y/n.."

"I just can't right now Max okay? I'll see you later," you said walking out the door and wiping your tears.

This is exactly why you wanted to get over this stupid crush. You got too drunk and ruined everything and now he probably thought you were just another girl who wanted to hook up with the Max Verstappen. Dialing Lando's number you begged him to come pick you up.

------- 2 weeks later ------------

You had avoided Max like the plague for the last two weeks. He had tried to call you a couple times after but you declined, too embarrassed to face him. Lando was tired of you skipping social events because of Max which is why you were startled as he barged into your apartment that night.

Sitting on the couch in your pajamas you waited expectantly as Lando stood there crossing his arms.

"This has got to stop," he said and you rolled your eyes. "Get dressed, you're coming to dinner and we're ending this now. You both are being such freaks about this and everyone is sick of it."

"I'm sure no one is even thinking about me not being there," you grumbled turning back to your show.

"Not only is everyone noticing, but everyone is also having to deal with moody Max who is refusing to speak in any conversation or answer any questions about you," he ranted.

"See, everything is ruined." you said and grabbed your shoulders shaking you.

"Everything is ruined because neither of you will stop being pussies and just admit that you are in love with each other."

He dragged you to your closet pulling out something for you to wear and you begrudgingly put it on.

Brushing your hair and applying a light layer of makeup you felt your nerves growing. Lando sighed, watching you.

"Look you have been miserable without him and he has been miserable without you," he said. "That should mean something right?"

"I know it logically makes sense Lan," you said sadly. "I just don't want to get hurt."

Arriving at the restaurant, you took a deep breath before following Lando in. It was just you two, Max, Charles, Alex, and another girl you didn't know that well. There were only two seats open at the table, one next to Charles and the other one was between Max and Charles. Lando practically sprinted to claim the one on the end, leaving you to slide in next to Max. He gave you a soft smile.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you replied nervously, breaking eye contact to look at the menu. The dinner went by smoothly but awkwardly. You avoided Max's stare, talking to Charles and Alex the whole time while he stayed silent. After a while, you pulled out of the conversation, turning to Max who was staring straight ahead.

"What's wrong?" You asked sighing, no longer caring about how things were. His eyes snapped over to you and he didn't say anything for a while before sliding out of the booth holding his hand out for you. The table was silent.

"Come on," he said and you stared at his hand before taking it, allowing him to pull you up and lead you out of the restaurant. You found yourself standing next to him, overlooking the water behind building. Turning to him you started.

"I'm sorry about that night Max, I was drunk," you said and he looked down to you.

"Why are you sorry?" He pressed. "Are you sorry that you were too loud when I was pounding into you? Or sorry that you didn't kiss me goodbye? Or sorry that you've ignored me for the past two weeks?"

Your face flushed at his crude words and you looked back over the water.

"Friends aren't supposed to sleep together," you muttered.

"You're right," he said and your heart sank. "I don't want to be your friend."

You felt your eyes water as you hung your head down. You were just about to walk away when you felt him grab your arm, pulling you into him. His other arm wrapped around your waist holding you into place.

"I don't want to be your friend," he repeated. "I want to be more than your friend. I want to be the person you see every night right before you close your eyes and every morning when you open them. I want you by my side at every race. I want to stop this madness of lingering around you, pretending that my heart doesn't stop everytime you look at me."

"Max," you said shocked looking up at him with wide eyes.

"I'm in love with you y/n," he said holding your face between his hands. "And I have been for a long time."

"Then why'd you let me leave?"

"You were crying like you had just made the biggest mistake of your life," he said and you huffed.

"Well you should have known.'

He laughed and brought his lips down to yours, meeting you for a sweet short kiss.

[sleepingdeath-blackbutler]

deflowering his lady ; nsfw / 18+

requested by ; nobody / rewrite of old post (from 2021)

character(s) ; sebastian michaelis

reader info ; cis female, ciel’s sister, inexperienced

genre ; smut / minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

content ; sexually explicit content, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (fem receiving)

original request ; lost to time, unfortunately

There's a tragic irony in the fact that your family estate looks its best in the winter. After the sort of heavy snow you only really see around the holiday season — the same brief period in which your family had been torn apart some twelve years ago now.

Of course back then you were much too young to comprehend the true depth of the tragedy at the main estate — being little more than seven years of age at the time — but in recent months you've found your mind drifting back to that fateful day more and more. Back to the fire. Back to the frantic ringing of the house phone in your aunt Francis' estate where you'd been staying. Back to the rubble that was left behind. Back to the scent of burning and the cries of your beloved cousin as she held you close and whispered apologies that no twelve year old should have ever needed to say.

Back to the nauseous feeling you had in your gut that made you tantrum and scream and beg until your parents gave in and allowed you to stay with your cousins overnight. A gut instinct that likely saved your life... even if you weren't able to save anyone else.

Even thinking about the what-ifs of the situation is enough to make you feel dizzy and ill, so you try to distract yourself by taking another sip of tea and listing all of the things you can see. A tactic taught to you by your late mother once upon a time.

Two black birds — or are they ravens? crows? some sort of corvid, certainly — sat on the eastern fence. Too far away to see anything specific beyond their movements as they dance, or fight, their way along the very top of the railing.

Four matching chairs, including the one you're sat on, positioned around the garden table. Each facing one of the cardinal directions — an intentional detail on the butler's part, you're sure.

Six flowers in the vase. Five untouched and in full bloom, immediately recognisable as the calla lilies you saw being delivered to the estate earlier, and one intentionally deflowered in a way you wouldn't notice if you weren't paying such close attention. How peculiar.

Though you're not given long to dwell on your discovery before your brother's loyal servant arrives. His sharp features contorted into an expression of concern, unusually sober for someone who seems to thrive on mockery and goading, and his voice is unusually soft as he calls out to you.

'Pardon the interruption, my lady,' he begins, his words honeyed and thick with concern in a way that has you longing for the very ground to swallow you whole, 'but I couldn't help but notice that you've been sat out here for a few hours now. Is everything alright?'

You didn't even notice how much time has passed, but with a quick glance upwards you can at least ascertain that it's currently around midday... a whole three hours since you first ventured into the garden to clear your head.

'Ah... I hadn't realised...' you clear your throat and try your best to hide your embarrassment before continuing. 'Thank you for your concern, Michaelis, but I assure you that I'm fine.'

Out of the corner of your eye you see the corner of his mouth twitch, evidently amused by your attempt to fool him, before he swiftly schools his expression and leans down until he's at your level.

'Are you certain, my lady? Because, I don't mean to pry, but you've been out here so long that you're starting to shiver and you haven't even noticed. Stay out here in your nightwear any longer and you may even catch pneumonia — and we don't want that, do we madam?'

His intentional dramatics almost make you laugh, but again you try to brush him off with a dismissive retort of 'I'm not my brother, you know'. But Sebastian, being Sebastian, gives you no more room to argue as he gracefully (but firmly) herds you back into the manor and up to your room — draping his outer coat over your shoulders on the way in an attempt to stop your endless shivering.

— — — — — — — —

Usually the walk back to your private quarters is quick and dull — an uneventful trek through the same halls you've been traversing since you were a toddler — but with your brother's head of staff hot on your heels and his hand on your back it feels much, much longer.

And while you've yet to stop shaking your whole body feels unbearably hot, like you're burning from the inside out in a way that doesn't hurt so much as it tingles and flutters. Like there are butterflies and moths flying around your stomach and ribcage. Like your muscles have turned to fire beneath the skin of your face, and your chest, and pretty much everywhere else. How mortifying. You hope it's not as obvious to him as it is to you.

But, Sebastian being Sebastian, the only reaction you receive is him pulling you back into his chest, uttering a flimsy excuse about wanting to keep you warm, and a dastardly smirk that vanishes as soon as it appeares and that sends yet another bolt of flustering heat straight to your core.

Damn him.

You've never been quite as relieved to see your bedroom door as you are now, all but sprinting through it as you try to calm yourself down. Barely paying any mind to Sebastian as he makes quick work of going through your wardrobe and drawers and finding you some new, more appropriate, clothes to wear instead of your snow-dampened nightgown. Stone silent for a few moments as you try and still your racing heart before you finally allow yourself to speak up once more.

'I truly do appreciate your help, Michaelis... but surely you must have other more important things to attend to than helping me dress?'

'So keen to be rid of me already, my lady?'

A twinge of guilt hits you and your expression softens. 'That's not what I meant.'

He waves his hand dismissively at you before straightening his posture and walking over to hand you the outfit he put together. But, of course, you don't let him brush off your efforts so easily.

'It's just that you're the most capable member of the estate so surely such a menial task should fall to someone else instead. If you weren't such an asset to my brother I'd quite like to have you around all the time — so don't go putting words in my mouth, understood?'

The second the last word left your lips you swear his whole demeanour shifted — more eager predator than dutiful servant — and when he responds his tone is low, more sultry purr than whisper, and every word he says manages to leave you more flustered than you were before.

'Such high praise from a countess, I'm truly honoured.'

'Hardly! For how many times you've saved our lives my honesty and admiration are the least I can offer you.'

'A Phantomhive butler that cannot do that isn't worth his salt, madam.'

'And a Phantomhive who cannot appreciate the efforts of her staff is not worth hers. End of story.'

His lips quirk upwards into a smirk before he grasps your hand gently in his own and guides it upwards to place a chaste kiss against your knuckles. Then, with his lips still pressed against your skin, Sebastian speaks up again.

'Now then, may I help you change, my lady?'

And you can't even make yourself hesitate before accepting his offer.

— — — — — — — —

His deft hands make quick work of pulling your gown up and off of your body, his touch unbearably gentle and yet still present enough to leave trails of goosebumps wherever his gloved fingertips brushed against your skin. And while you know you shouldn't, you can't stop yourself from leaning into his touch ever so slightly when he reaches out once again to cup your cheek in his hand.

So caught up in the scent and warmth of him that you can't bring yourself to feign the shame you should be feeling — and yet still clear headed enough to feel the way his eyes rove over your bare body. The need of his gaze. The heat behind it. Like he wants to devour you whole; the lamb to his wolf.

Something you probably should be fighting or fleeing from — for no lady should bed her servant — but that you only find yourself wanting more of.

So when Sebastian finally snaps his eyes back up to look into your own and asks what you want him to do, you can only come up with a single answer — one that's spoken meekly, shyly, but with no less certainty behind it.

'I... I want you. However you'll allow it.'

And Sebastian, ever the dutiful butler, simply smiles in response and nods his head. Because what poor excuse of a butler would he be if he couldn't fulfil such a simple request?

— — — — — — — —

Before you even have the chance to process what's happening Sebastian pounces on you like a starved beast, practically tossing you up the bed before throwing your legs over his shoulders and burying his face in your cunt. For a moment he just stays still, breathing in your scent and basking in your mounting embarrassment as you try to squirm away or close your legs, before looking straight into your eyes and intentionally dragging the flat of his tongue along the length of your slit. From dripping hole to swollen clit and back down again. Slow, steady, giving you just enough stimulation to feel good without giving you what you really need and visibly delighting in your frustration as you pout and huff and whine at him.

More petulant brat than well bred lady of the estate. But you're much too caught up in the pleasure he's giving you to worry about petty things like reputation.

Though, thankfully, Sebastian doesn't leave you wanting for too long before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks just hard enough to have you keening and seeing stars. Not even giving you the time to breathe before he settles into a rhythm that leaves you dumb and pleasure drunk in no time at all.

Dragging his teeth gently across the flushed bud and chuckling to himself at the way your whole body seizes and shudders in response.

Tracing the letters of his given name and the Latin of his summoning incantation against it with the very tip of his sinful tongue and relishing in how loudly you cry out and moan for him in return.

Suckling aggressively on your clit while throwing one of his strong arms across your hips to keep you in place and smirking against your cunt when he feels the muscles in your thighs and stomach tensing and trembling under the intensity of his attention.

Alternating between them all without faltering or even pulling away to feign a need for air — knowing you're already far too far gone to notice such a small detail — until he deems you wet enough and finally starts paying attention to your neglected hole. Inserting just one finger at first to stretch you out, knowing well of your inexperience, before gradually introducing a second and then a third. Slowly stretching you out and prepping you with every thrust and crook and spread of his long elegant fingers, and privately delighting in just how tight you are around him — already straining against the fabric of his uniform trousers at the idea of finally deflowering you and corrupting your innocent soul.

And how could he not delight and revel in such a debauched act when you're making such delicious sounds for him. Sounds that grow louder with every skilful movement of his fingers or tongue against your pussy as he explores you, devours you, and pushes you closer and closer to your orgasm.

The breathy moans. The shaky gasping breaths. The pitchy whimpers. The broken cries. The barely legible strings of pleas and curses and calls of his name that go straight to his cock. He can't get enough of them, of you, and with every passing second he can feel his restraint fraying and slipping more and more.

And when you reach down and start clawing desperately at his vest to try and ground yourself through your rapidly mounting climax, Sebastian finally snaps. Pulling a hair's breadth away from your aching clit to ask you single question that takes your fucked out mind far too long to comprehend.

'Do you want me to go further, my lady? Want me to ruin you for other men?'

When his words finally register you can't help but keen, whining out a breathless plea for whatever it was he was offering before your mind goes blank once again and you're swept up in the heat and bliss of your first orgasm. Twitching and spasming and trembling. Moaning and sobbing and damn near screaming. With a face covered with tears and sweat and saliva. How adorably pathetic.

He wonders how debauched you'll look by the time he's done with you.

— — — — — — — —

Your body feels like it's on fire, burning from the inside out and being wracked by wave after wave of pleasure as your muscles strain and tremble and quake under the weight of it all. Your vision is blurry, whited out at the corners and exploding with fuzzy splotches of light whenever your eyelids flutter closed, and you can't even hear your own thoughts over how loud your heartbeat is hammering in your ears. Your lungs are burning, you can't stop moaning, your whole body feels like it's floating, and you can't get enough.

But, tragically, the feeling is all too fleeting and as you slowly come down from your high you can feel yourself being tenderly repositioned on the bed by your brother's trusted butler. Now resting flat on your back with your head cushioned by a plush pillow while he slots himself between your thighs with so much ease it's almost as if he was made just to be there — fully clothed, of course, save for the gloveless hand he used to pleasure you and his cock which you can feel prodding at your prepped entrance, thick enough at the tip to make you wince.

'This is going to hurt, isn't it?'

Sebastian smiles cockily at your question and pauses for the briefest of moments just to watch you squirm before quickly relenting and offering you an answer that's about as reassuring as it is startling.

'Not for long.'

Then he shifts his hips forward and starts guiding his throbbing length slowly inside of you. Going just slowly enough that you don't quite feel like you're being split open but not giving you any real time to adjust to the size of him until he finally bottoms out. Leaving you wincing and gasping and aching as you gradually get used to the feeling of being full — barely comforted by the praise he coos into your ear as he waits for your go ahead to start moving.

In fact all of his 'good girl's and 'that's it's and 'you're doing so well for me, my lady's hardly even register in your mind as you're too caught up in the feeling of him. The stretch. The heat. The shooting pain that's slowly starting to morph into a tingling pleasure that you find yourself craving even more of.

So, experimentally and tentatively, you roll your hips against his. And when it doesn't hurt as much as you anticipated, you do it again. And again. And again. Until he finally takes back control and starts moving.

He starts off slowly, focusing on shallow thrusts and on positioning his hips just-so in order to stimulate your sensitive clit with every movement. In and out, barely an inch at a time and with just enough force to have you gasping and gushing around him — enough to ache, to appease, but never enough to break you as his instincts so dearly make him want to — while slowly speeding up and transitioning to deeper thrusts. Bit by bit. Patient as a perfect butler should be and content to let you lead even from your submissive position.

Taking cues from your body, your face, and only ever giving you as much as you can handle. Never less. Never more. Even if, in the throes of pleasure, you so brattily insist that you can take it, take more, take him however he wants.

But Sebastian knows better, so he denies you just this once.

Only ever teasing you with hints of his true strength. Showing it in the occasional sharp snap of his hips that pushes his cock so deep inside of you that you're certain you can feel him in your lungs. In the harsh way he grabs your hips and gropes at your breasts, using a mere fraction of what he's capable of and relishing in the flashes of primal fear and arousal that flicker in your irises before he lets go. In the speed at which he rubs and pinches and rolls your clit between the fingers of his spare hand, far quicker than any human and bordering on agonising for the briefest of moments before he pulls back and focuses solely on fucking you dumb with his dick.

Focuses on how pretty and pathetic you look as you go cockdrunk as you're pushed to the edge of climax: eyes all tearful and glassy and crossed, lips swollen and parted and slick with saliva, skin damp with sweat and heated with arousal, thighs wet with the slick gushing out of your needy cunt and trembling beneath his hands as he ruins you. Slutty. Debauched. Ruined. Corrupted. A fallen angel in the clutches of a demon.

You're the most beautiful human he's ever seen.

And that's when you fall over the edge for the second time. Screaming and crying until your throat is too raw to do anything but cough and weeze and weep. Gasping for air as your lungs burn and ache and scream to be filled. Spasming and squirting around Sebastian's dick as he fucks you through your second climax of the day, pushing him closer to his own end until he's unable to hold himself back and is forced to reluctantly pull out and cum onto your stomach — which you, too caught up in the floaty fuzzy bliss of your orgasm, don't have the presence of mind to complain about... nor do you have the capacity to think of much of anything, really.

Other than him... and how good you feel... and how you'll definitely be calling upon his services more in the future...

But a second round can wait until after you've come back down to earth and caught your breath.

[lexirosewrites]

Happy Slick Sunday! Here we go! This was rushed so apologies to any grammar error and such 😅:

Steve presented very late, but the moment he presented as an omega, he was kicked out right after finishing his first heat. His father wants nothing to do with him after he was such a disappointment for the last time. Blaming him for not being an alpha. Steve was left with no money, his car was taken away and he was not even allowed to pack a bag. Tossed him with nothing to his name except the money he has in his pockets…which is not a lot. There are not a lot of places he can rent at an affordable price so he goes to live at the trailer park. One trailer that was isolated from his other neighbors. His new neighbors and people in town were very nasty with him just from his designation but also that they have no sympathy for the ex golden boy of Hawkins. People began to talk and he was top gossip. Steve Harrington is the town slut! Steve Harrington Homeless! Disowned! Poor! A Nobody! Trash Omega! Some thought that he got what he deserved from the way he treated people and some thought he was just a low life omega slut since he slept with almost every girl in town before presenting. Steve spends most of his days working multiple jobs that would even hire him so he can bring food to the table and to pay rent. He pulled away from everyone, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. It’s not like anyone was going to be nice to him or make him into their omega or have pups with him. Deep down he’s starting to feel like what they are saying is true.

A month after moving into the trailer, Steve went out to check the mail and there he hears someone approaching. When he turns around, he finds Eddie Munson giving him a smirk.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Is that Steve Harrington? King of Hawkins High and lady’s man? Now living at the trailer park as an omega?” He teased.

Steve remains silent as he stares at Eddie with soulless eyes as Eddie continues to jab at his demise. Everything he said is not making him feel any better. His scent sours as he listens to the alpha talk. Steve is just tired. He’s alone. And he’s just done with everyone that he doesn’t even bother fighting. He was not even aware that he was crying until he noticed droplets land on some of his mail. He goes to wipe his cheek, not realizing that the Alpha in front of him has stopped talking, staring at him with his wide doe eyes with worry.

“Are you done? Cus I would like to go back inside…” Steve said at a low voice.

“I-I-shit! I didn’t mean to-“ Eddie stammers, unsure how to process this but Steve didn’t give him a chance to speak as he returns inside his tiny trailer and crawled into bed, uninterested in anything.

Steve doesn’t see Eddie again. In fact, he doesn’t speak to anyone these days. He continues to work his job and continues his life with people making low comments about him. It was his day off when he hears a knock on the door. Surprised to see Eddie again.

“Can we not Munson…?” Steve sighed.

Eddie noticed things about Steve. His eyes baggy and he looks a bit malnourished.

“Actually….i wanted to apologize. Should have come sooner but I didn’t know how to make it up to you.” Eddie fidgets, playing with his rings.

“Look, it’s fine man…just..don’t sweat it. You’re forgiven.”

Eddie smiles and bows, in a regal accent “to show my humble apologies dear sir, please accept this invitation this evening to Munson Mansion. There shall be fine dining that is of whatever grub lord Munson can provide. I shall not take any other response that isn’t yes”

Steve sighs “Alright then…”

Eddie pumps his fist in the air “yes! Right this way dear sir!”

Steve puts his shoes on, gets his keys and locks up before following Eddie to his trailer. Steve has heard in the vines that Eddie Munson lives with his uncle for a few years now. Has heard he was trailer trash and was branded as a freak. He has never paid any attention to him nor did he bother him. But now the alpha is opening the door to his home and letting him get comfortable, offering him a drink while his uncle is in the kitchen cooking something that smells heavenly. Steve hasn’t realized how hungry he was. He’s not surprised. What with only being able to afford something small to nibble, some clothes to replace what he couldn’t get when he was kicked out and putting the rest away for rent. He did notice that his clothes are looking large and his pants need to be held up. Surely the Munsons haven’t noticed.

Wayne comes over once he was finished, wiping his hands with a dish towel

“You the Harrington Kid?” He stares.

A bit skittish that once he confirms, he will be kicked out as well. Steve looks down before answering “yes sir…”

“Hm. No need for any sir talk. Wayne is plenty. Hope you’re hungry, I made plenty. Rustled up whatever we have and made a large pot for dinner. So help yourself. Boy, help set the table” Eddie gets up after complaining a little and helps his uncle set up. Then Eddie offers Steve a seat and scoops a large plateful of food, offers Steve a coke from the fridge, already nice and cold.

“Thank you…” Steve said softly, trying to be polite but also small as possible. He doesn’t want to be a rude guest but he is also afraid that the Munsons will treat him as poorly as everyone else. So far he likes having their company. It’s been a while since he had any that enjoy his presence. But he doesn’t want to ruin anything just for being the omega everyone calls him.

“So Stevie…” Eddie cuts his train of thoughts “How are you liking the neighborhood?”

Steve couldn’t help but scoff as quietly as possible “it’s okay I guess…I haven’t spoken to anyone…” only when they are shouting slurs at me “I’ve only been going to my jobs and then coming back home for a small meal, save the rest, get some sleep, and start the cycle again…”Eddie frown at that. What could he have said that could make him look like that.

“You don’t have fun? Hang out with your friends and such?” Eddie tilts his head. Steve only can shrug at that and continues to eat quietly.

“So where do you work Steve?” Wayne chimes in

“A little of everywhere really….cleaning houses…working a few hours as a cashier….and some other side jobs I can pick up that don’t mind having an omega like me work for them…” it’s starting to smell and feel sour.

“Well I can always admire a hard working man, doesn’t matter if you’re an alpha, beta, or omega. If you need any help. Don’t be afraid to ask”

Steve looks at the genuine look the oldest alpha gives him. It’s the first time someone has been really kind to him since presenting. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Thank you. I’ll…keep that in mind”

After dinner, Eddie walks outside to smoke, Steve bums a cigarette from him as they smoke in silence and enjoy the cool air.

“Thank you for inviting me..it’s the first time in a month I’ve had a hearty meal.”

“It’s no problem. That’s what neighbors are for. And here we help each other”

“Now that….that is not true….and you know it” he stares. “Nobody here in this trailer park or even this town has helped me or said anything nice to me….”

“I know..” Eddie sighs “I’m sorry..Wayne has already set me straight about how unkind I was to you…but from now on, I want to be there for you…at least let me be your friend…?”

Steve stares at him “why..?”

“Because after spending an evening with you, I realized you are a really cool dude. And I want to know more about you and spend time with you. And that I, Eddie the Banish of Munson Mansion, was wrong about the fair princess Stevie of the Northern Isles, and would like to get closer to the fair maiden and be his first companion.”

Steve chuckles and looks at Eddie “alright Munson. We can be friends.”

As promised, Eddie stops by Steve’s trailer to spend time with him. To invite him over to have a hearty dinner each day with him and his Uncle Wayne since Steve seems to forget to eat sometimes with how exhausted he is from working all day. They spend time together playing games, watching movies, showing Steve how to play DnD, Wayne taking Steve to watch sports with him, making Steve practically family. Along the way, they started to move closer, feeling like they are more than just friends. After some time, Eddie gave Steve a courting gift. It was one of his rings. Steve couldn’t help contain his excitement as he kisses his alpha on the cheek. And once Steve was having his heat, he invited Eddie to be there during it. And the same with Eddie asking Steve to be there during his Rut. They were perfect together. A little over a year after he was kicked out of his childhood home and was branded such slurs for being an omega, things were better for Steve. The slurs have died down after Eddie and Wayne started putting people who mistreat him in their place. Steve was able to earn enough money after applying as a daycare employee full time, now earning enough alongside Eddie’s earnings from the mechanics to be able to rent a bigger trailer for him and Eddie to live in. After 4 months of courting, they both decided to become official and mate for life. A little ceremony with only Wayne as witness. And it was just perfect. And it didn’t take them long after they were Man and Wife to announce to uncle Wayne that there will be an additional Munson on the way. Now round with pup at almost 9 months, Steve is sitting in the rocking chair in their pup’s completed nursery, learning to knit some cute baby booties as Eddie walks in to greet his omega with a kiss and placing a hand on his swollen bump, getting ready for the next chapter of their life to begin.

you guys want me to cry😭😭😭

[magiccath]

The Ring

tenth doctor x f!reader

Summary: In which the only way for you and the Doctor to get out of this one is a fake marriage. But how fake is it really?

You keeled over, your breath coming out in short pants. You weren't as good at this running thing as the Doctor was. 

Sensing you weren’t behind him, the Doctor turned to check on you. You threw your thumb up, signaling that you were okay. You didn’t like the Doctor worrying about you. 

“I’m sure we’ve lost them for now,” he assured, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. It was a nervous tick that he had.

“What are we going to do?” You asked once you had caught your breath. You allowed your legs to fold underneath you, sitting in the grass. The Doctor crouched down next to you. 

It was supposed to be a nice vacation, a break from the hustle and bustle of time traveling. You had explicitly asked for a relaxing trip, one where you didn’t have to save the world or run for your life. You should have known that was never how it was with the Doctor. 

Everything was fine at first. The alien town the Doctor had selected for your trip was throwing an elaborate festival. You were more than happy to partake in the dancing and sample the foreign foods. What you failed to notice was the ritual behind the festival. The village selected an unmarried woman each year to sacrifice to their gods. In retrospect, it wasn’t the weirdest ritual you had encountered over the years. What made it so uncomfortable was the fact they had selected you. 

“I would rather not be a blood sacrifice,” you admitted, pushing your wayward hair out of your face. 

“I won’t let that happen,” The Doctor said seriously, taking your hand gently. He had the duty of care, something that he didn’t take lightly. 

“I’m not sure how much good we are against a whole village of bloodthirsty aliens,” you laughed, burying your head in your hands. You should have been scared, upset even. Instead, you found the whole thing funny. You supposed that was a side effect of traveling with the Doctor. Everything could always be worse, and everything in front of you could always be funny. You just had to frame it the right way.

“I have an idea,” the Doctor murmured. You looked up at him, confused. He only whispered things when he knew you wouldn’t like them. 

“They only want to sacrifice you because you’re unmarried,” he stated. You stared at him, unsure of the point he was trying to make. 

He groaned, running a hand down his face in frustration. 

“I’m gonna need you to spell this one out for me,” you laughed lightly.

The Doctor swallowed anxiously, his Adam’s apple bobbing aggressively. “We could get married,” he said matter-of-factly, with the same tone he used to ask if you wanted tea or coffee in the morning. 

“What?” you asked, wide-eyed. The Doctor swallowed again, his eyes diverting from yours. 

You loved the Doctor, in every sense of the word. He was your home, your comfort. He was everything and more to you. But he only loved you as a friend, and you were more than willing to accept that love. It was better to love him like this than not at all. 

“They can’t sacrifice you if we get married.” 

“No, I got that part,” you rushed out, waving your hands about anxiously.

“You,” you sighed, pausing before continuing, “marry me?” 

“To save your life, yes,” the Doctor said like it was the simplest thing in the world. He would walk to the ends of the universe for you. He had.

“Can we do that?” you laughed, squeezing your eyes shut. The whole thing felt too good to be true. 

“I can’t think of anyone else I would rather fake-marry,” he smiled, taking your hands in his again. 

You grinned, the smile taking over your whole face. The Doctor loved it when you smiled like that. He loved it even more when he made you smile like that. 

“Let’s get fake married!” you laughed, jumping up from the grass. The Doctor nodded in agreement, standing up next to you. 

“How exactly…” you trailed off. “Are we going to get fake married?” The Doctor had a habit of making plans without a way to execute them. 

It wasn’t like you could just walk into the village church and get married. You certainly couldn’t go back to the TARDIS, or that would have been the plan before suggesting a falsified marriage.

“There was a little cottage on the outskirts of town, we can hope that there’s an inhabitant there who can serve as a witness?” He suggested. 

You couldn’t come up with a better idea so you agreed, following the Doctor as he walked off into the distance. 

You tried not to read too much into the whole marriage thing. The Doctor was doing it to save your life, nothing more. Still, the mere idea of it left your skin tingling and your heart racing. 

You were so lost in thought you hardly noticed the cottage creeping up on you until you were standing on the front steps. 

The Doctor rapped his knuckles against the wood softly before stepping back. You waited in silence for a few moments. You could hear the blood pumping in your ears. What if this didn’t work? 

The door flung open, revealing an old woman. 

“What do you want?” She barked, clearly disturbed by the visit. 

The Doctor cleared his throat, searching for his words. You frowned, he usually didn’t have any trouble talking to strangers. 

“This is a bit of a strange request,” he laughed lightly, his hand drifting towards the back of his neck subconsciously. 

“Spit it out, young man.” 

You bit back a giggle. The Doctor was far from young, even if this face was youthful. 

“We need a witness for our wedding,” he rushed, his words coming out in hurried clusters. 

The woman remained silent for a moment, her eyes darting between the two of you. You could see hundreds of questions forming in her mind before she shook them away. 

“I don’t want to know,” she murmured as she opened the door. 

You exchanged a look of relief with the Time Lord before following her inside. 

She bustled about her cottage, sorting things out while the two of you fiddled anxiously in the corner. 

“Well, let's get on with it,” she finally sighed. 

The Doctor nodded timidly, holding out his hand for you to take. You slipped your hand into his, your fingers interlocking instantaneously. You had held hands hundreds of times, yet it felt different.

With his other hand, the Doctor rifled about in the pockets of his coat. You frowned, wondering what could possibly be in there. Did he really need a jammy dodger from the depths of his pocket right now? Finally, his hand slipped out of the pocket holding two silver rings. 

“Why, on Earth, are you carrying around wedding bands?” you laughed. He only shrugged, handing the simple rings over to the old woman. She examined the objects in her hand wistfully, turning them over in her hand. 

“I can’t say I’m a professional at this,” she warned. It didn’t really matter to either of you.

The Doctor took your other hand in his, standing face-to-face with you. You laughed at the domesticity of it. 

“Do you,” the woman paused, looking at the Doctor. 

“John Smith,” The Doctor smiled. You shook your head at his fake name. You had told him hundreds of times that he should change it. No one was really named John Smith, that's the kind of name you only ever found in books. 

“Alright,” the woman said, not even blinking. “Do you, John Smith, take this woman to love and hold blah, blah, blah?” She finished, looking back to the Doctor. He wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were glued to you, studying every single aspect of your face. He never wanted to forget this moment. From your end of things, you were left with a sickly feeling that you had food on your face. 

“I do,” He smiled brightly. 

“And you?” she turned to you, repeating the process. 

“Absolutely,” you grinned. 

The woman handed you each a ring, which you placed on the other’s hand. You noted the slight shake in the Doctor’s hands as he slipped the silver band onto your finger.

You had always wanted to get married. Sure, you never imagined it like this. Standing in some random cottage in a pair of worn-out jeans exchanging wedding bands in order to save your life was never your plan. Even still, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“You may kiss the bride,” The old woman chided, looking at you two disapprovingly. You were so busy looking into the Doctor’s eyes that you completely forgot about the whole kissing part of getting married. 

A scarlet flush overtook your face, but the Doctor pretended not to notice. Instead, he cupped your face in his hands gently, angling it upwards towards his. Slowly, he dipped his way down until his lips were inches away from yours. 

You could feel his breath on your mouth, you noted each and every twitch of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed as he eliminated the gap, his mouth crashing into yours. 

He very well could have given you a chaste kiss, the kind you give your gran on Christmas Eve. Instead, he kissed you like his life depended on it. Like he had been thinking about kissing you for eons. 

His mouth fit against yours perfectly. There was no other way to describe it. 

He pulled away slowly, leaving you stunned and breathless. Your eyes remained closed for a moment, taking it all in. When they finally opened, you saw him. Your Doctor. The impossible, magnificent, loving creature in front of you. It was foolish to claim that such a being was yours alone, but you couldn’t see it any other way. 

“Congratulations,” the old woman smiled, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“Thank you,” you smiled meekly, pushing your hair out of your face. 

-

You didn’t keep the ring on long. A few days after your wedding it came off with the rest of your jewelry before bed. You just never put it back on. It was a fake wedding after all. 

That didn’t mean that you threw it away though. Quite the opposite. The ring sat on your bedside table, occasionally glimmering in the light. 

Sometimes, you would run your fingers over it before bed. You relished the idea of it all. The memory of his hands holding yours, the feeling of his lips on yours. It haunted you.

The Doctor, however, never took it off. Not after the wedding. Not before bed. Not when he fiddled with the wires under the TARDIS console. 

You noticed this one evening, the dimmed lights of the control room catching on the polished metal. 

“Why do you still wear that?” you asked, gesturing to the Doctor’s left hand. His eyes traveled to the band on his finger that he had been idly spinning. 

“It’s my wedding band,” he shrugged as if it was as simple as that. 

“I’m not sure you can call it that,” you laughed, “I’m not even sure our wedding was legal.” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” he frowned, still looking at the ring. 

“I can take it off if it bothers you,” he suggested. He didn’t want to take it off, not ever. But if you wanted him to, he would. 

“It doesn’t,” you whispered, staring at the space where your own ring used to be. The feeling of his lips came back to you, and you had to push it to the side. 

“Did it mean nothing to you?” He asked, his voice hardly above a whisper. If you hadn’t been listening you might have missed it. 

“Not at all,” you said, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“You don’t wear yours,” he commented, taking your left hand in his. You stared at your interlocked hands, not trusting yourself to meet his eye. 

“You married me to save my life,” you stated. 

“And?” 

“It was a fake marriage.” 

“Not to me,” he whispered, running his thumb over the back of your hand. Your eyes drifted up to his face. He was looking at your hand with a pained expression. For the first time, it occurred to you that perhaps the absence of your ring was upsetting to him. For so long, you had assumed that he just wanted to forget the whole thing. 

“I love you,” he whispered, “I always wanted you to be my wife.” 

You didn’t know what to say. For a minute, you hardly believed the words coming from his mouth. 

“I always wanted you to be my husband,” you whispered, leaning in towards him. You paused, your breath bouncing off of his lips. It reminded you of your first kiss, the familiarity of it shocking. 

You learned in and kissed him gently, a tender kiss to test the waters. You pulled away, unsure if this was what he wanted. The Doctor gripped your face, crashing his lips against yours in a much more urgent matter. You smiled against his mouth, melting into the kiss. 

“My wife,” he chuckled between the kisses he planted all over your face. 

“My husband.”

[thecreelhouse]

fascination

part two - angels work, and devils play

paring: mortician vampire!Steve Harrington x mortuary assistant!reader (fem)

summary: Steve finally begins to open up about his past, and it’s nothing close of what you anticipated to discover.

WC: 9.2k

includes: language. discussions of death and grief/mourning. mentions of embalming practices. mentions of blood. angst. hurt/comfort. tension and flirting bc we needed more of that heheheh. reader has no physical description, but she has specific personality traits. if any of this bothers you— this is not the fic for you.

masterlist // vampire vibes playlist

A/N: I wasn’t expecting more than a handful of y’all to like this concept, so thank you to anyone who has read the first part so far, and thank you for any comments!! hope y’all enjoy this one too <3 again, please heed the specific warnings before reading! title is from flashback - tbm

‘all you need is want / angels work, and devils play’

———————

The earlier conversation with Steve has you tossing and turning now in bed, glaring through weary eyes at your alarm clock’s glowing red numbers— 1:49 A.M.

There’s still time to get a decent night’s sleep; your shifts don’t begin until the late afternoon, sometimes not until the evening. Steve operates on odd hours for running a funeral home, aside from pickup calls in the dead of night.

Again— your boss is fucking weird.

Still, the weirdness you’re growing a soft spot for. Steve and his strange quirks have already worked their way into your heart, and god, you wish they’d stop burrowing deeper.

A restless mind is something you’ve always lived with, and it seems to get louder, more distracting over time as you grow older. This, though, is something that won’t allow your eyes to close, to finally rest. Whenever they begin to slip shut, your mind replays the sight of Steve, crying blood.

Maybe you should’ve ignored his disdain for help and called an ambulance. He knows himself best… but how could anyone be calm about weeping literal blood?

A few times within the night, sleep almost sunk its grip into you, only for your dreams to plummet into nightmares, imaging the worst for Steve. Awful, horrific images, ones you can’t remember the moment you startle yourself awake, but you just know it’s bad.

Melatonin didn’t work, drinking tea didn’t soothe you to sleep, alcohol is just a bad idea to rely on, same with weed when it makes you anxious; all that’s left is an old sleep medication you don’t take anymore. Sure, you slept well on them, but a little too well; twenty-one hours isn’t an acceptable amount of time to sleep, according to society.

… And okay, alright, fine— maybe you agree with that. 

You know where the half-finished prescription bottle is, third drawer down in your nightstand. It’s probably expired by now, but it should help somewhat, right? And it couldn’t be as potent if you only took half of a tablet… right?

God, what if I sleep through my shift? I’ll let Steve down, lose my job, lose credits to graduate, but it’s near impossible to focus on little to no rest.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

With a huff, you kick your sheets back, rolling over to the edge of the bed to open the drawer. Reaching in to retrieve your medication, a shrill noise in your ear startles you, causing you to bump your head off the edge of the nightstand as you jolt upright.

“Okay, it’s just the phone, chill the fuck out,” you try reminding yourself, heart pounding as you allow it to ring a few more times. 

Who the fuck calls this late?!

Fear molds into pure annoyance by the fourth ring; you yank the phone off the hook, grumbling, “What the hell do you want? ‘Cause I ain’t buying shit. It’s fucking late, and some of us are trying to sleep, you jerk—“

“Whoa, angel, it’s just me.” Steve’s voice is a soothing balm to your ears after the phone scared you. “Are you alright?”

Oh. Fuck.

“Oh my god… Steve, m’sorry! God, this is—“ a nervous laugh bubbles out of you, but it doesn’t relieve your tension. “Y- you’re not a jerk, for the record.” You want to shrink into yourself, hide away forever, because there’s no way you can face your boss now after screaming at him like that. “I- I thought it might’ve been a—“

“A telemarketer?” He chuckles into the phone, seemingly unbothered. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, I really shouldn’t call so late, but I wanted to check in, since you can’t sleep.”

“Oh… you didn’t have to—“

… Hang on.

Your brows scrunch together, resuming with a new thought. “Huh? How’d you know I was still awake?”

Steve drags out an unsure groan, bashfully admitting, “I… I might’ve had to drive past your place after a… um, night call. Your lights were still on when I was returning home.”

At first, your heart flutters; he noticed and cared that much to call? That’s sweet, right?

… Except you’ve never told him exactly which apartment was yours, only the building; how would he know which window was yours?

“Wait, Steve… you don’t even know which apartment I’m in—“

“Angel, aren’t you tired by now?”

His interruption catches you off guard. “I mean… kinda? Obviously not enough to sleep, but—”

“Are you sure? Honestly, you sound exhausted, poor thing.” His words could be considered condescending, but the inflection within them sound heartfelt; you know him well enough by now to know this. At least, you think you know him well enough. “I’ll stay on the line until you fall asleep, if that were to help.”

“Oh… no, Steve, you don’t have to do that! You need sleep too.”

“This isn’t about me right now,” he softly counters. “Though I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

Steve’s voice carries warmth, soothing like a worn, favorite blanket. His tone is smooth like honey, coaxing you to lay against your pillows without actually asking.

“Do you normally struggle sleeping?”

Your bed is the most comfortable it’s ever been in your life, and you’ve had this thing for ages. Falling into relaxation makes it hard to respond right away. “I… um, y- yeah. It’s always been hard for me.” You yawn, excusing yourself before adding, “Sometimes it’s not falling asleep that’s challenging, it’s staying asleep.”

“Honey, there’s more to this that you’re not telling me.” He’s still so gentle, not scolding you, but encouraging you to open up. “I won’t push it, but I bet it’d be relieving to talk about.”

The nightmares. How the fuck does he know about those? You know he knows, and he doesn’t even need to say it—

Wait, whoa, hang on. Did he just call me ‘honey’?

You huff out a laugh, half-assed as you fight to keep your eyes open. The phone’s pinned between your ear and the pillow, uncomfortable, but you eventually relax enough onto your back, leaving the phone to rest right beside your face. 

“It’s… they’re just silly nightmares. I’m okay, Steve.” Your words aren’t convincing, but you can feel exhaustion finally weighing you down, unable to continue convincing him.

“Well… I promise if you fall asleep, the nightmares won’t bother you anymore.” He confidently assures you. “At least not tonight.”

A weak snort slips out of you. “Steve, you can’t just tell them they can’t come back. That’s not how this works.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try for you.”

You’re giggling now, delirious from lack of sleep, finally dancing with your body’s need for rest. “Oh? What are you gonna do? Fight ‘em off for me?”

“Something like that,” he chuckles, amused. “But you won’t remember any of this come tomorrow.”

 “Huh? Why not? I’m tired, not drunk.” The longer he talks to you, the more relaxed and amused you are simultaneously. “M’saying this as your friend, not your assistant— you’re so weird, Steve.”

It’s as if the two of you are diverging into separate, one-sided conversations as he ignores your comment, though not completely; it still makes him chuckle more, voice gravelly, vibrating into your ear.

“I bet you’re going to fall asleep any second now,” he states, as if it’s fact. The heavier your eyelids become, though, you wonder if he’s just that good at reading others over the phone. “Sweet dreams, angel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Attempting to wish Steve the same, you slur out your response into something far from coherent, easily falling into a deep slumber.

—————

Throughout the remainder of the night, you slept, and you slept well.

Every night after the phone call with Steve, you continue to rest more than you ever have at night; it feels as if your body is ready to sleep as soon as it hits 10 PM. That’s never happened before.

Much to your surprise, it continues on like this for several weeks, and without nightmares, too.

Steve, however, is struggling to hide whatever has him distraught as the days roll on. Each day you see him, you gently remind him he can talk to you if he needs; he expresses gratitude every time, but never opens up. Though you’re still not the best at reading his emotions, he’s showing signs that he’ll crack soon. It’s just a matter of when.

The air has been dense with humidity lately, breaking today into a downpour as you park outside of the funeral home. 

Figures.

As you’re walking inside, drenched from the rain, Steve’s rushing around his office, frantically throwing on a coat and gathering items haphazardly into his arms. He tosses them into his bag, muttering to himself as he pats down his pockets in search of something.

Cautiously, you step into the doorway, clearing your throat a bit; Steve whips around, face almost lighting up at the sight of you, but something suppresses that little spark of joy. His expression defaults back into worry and bewilderment.

“Hey… is everything okay?”

His shoulders slump as he sighs. He offers a slight, wounded smile as his head shakes no.

“It’s both a blessing and a curse to be an undertaker when we lose a loved one.”

You always knew this is bound to happen, for anyone working in the death industry; there will come a day where you get to care for a loved one’s shell of who they once were. You’ll be the one to carry out their final wishes, be it a traditional burial, cremation, green burial— you’re the one directing their last journey into their infinite place of rest.

What a privilege it can be, to show one last act of love in caring for them, their family, their friends; what a curse it always is, to carry that weight, the details behind closed doors. What remaining loved ones see is the product of your hard work, a long, tireless night, preparing their dearest for their send off. Witnessing this person at their rawest form, exposed from the inside out, all physical evidence and secrets revealed.

Maybe it would’ve been easier striving to become a medical examiner; no emotional strings attached, just medical and mortuary science. Your stomach churns whenever you imagine what it’d be like to care for someone you love so dearly after they depart from this world.

“Where’d you go just now?”

You’re pulled from the wreckage of your internal breakdown, bleary gaze finding Steve standing before you. His hand rests on your arm, cold. Always cold, but comforting.

“Sorry, I—“ Shaking your head, you tense up, feeling absurd for tangling yourself up in such panic. Steve’s the one mourning someone, not me. Get it together. “What can I help with? I can—“

“Don’t worry about the decedent today,” Steve steps closer, gazing into your eyes with his own hurt, distant stare. “I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

“I- I don’t mind doing it alone, I can handle it, no problem.”

It doesn’t register that his hand moved, and now is cradling your face, until you feel the chill of his skin against your own.

Weird.

“I have no doubt you can, angel.” His thumb grazes your cheek. “But I would rather you wait until I return. In fact,” hand falling away, he turns to glance out the window, frowning at the downpour; you find yourself missing the soothing chill of his palm against your face. “You should take today for yourself. You’re more than welcome to wait out the storm here, if you’d like. I’d rather you stay safe than try to drive in this rain.”

You frown, flipping the concern back onto him, “Will you be okay driving in this?”

Through the melancholy, he still manages to smirk, ever so softly. “Eddie will be driving, and we both know that hearse is a tank.”

You chuckle amidst the somber energy, “Okay, only one of those are reassuring.”

Steve shakes his head, huffing a weak laugh as his hand digs into his pocket. He pulls out a key ring, slipping one slim skeleton key off before handing it to you. Brows furrowing, you gingerly take it into your grasp.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for the house upstairs. Feel free to make yourself at home if you choose to stay.” He folds your fingers closed around the key, cradling your hand in his grasp; his touch only lingers for a few seconds. “If not, you can just leave it on the desk before you go.”

That answers your suspicions of him living above the funeral home, but it’s a trivial mystery solved compared to the mystery of his past.

You glance down at the key in your palm, rolling the weighty metal around as you contemplate an answer. Not wanting to keep him waiting, you simply nod.

“Call if you need anything, okay?” Boldly, you reach out for his hand, grasping it in yours; a shiver runs up your arm as his chill meets your warmth. “I… I’m so sorry for your loss, Steve.”

Squeezing your hand back before he pulls away, he gives one more somber attempt of a smile as he backs out of the office. You watch him slip out the door, disappearing into the curtain of torrential downpour outside, deciding you’ll stay.

—————

One emergency years ago was all it took to realize it was worth keeping a bag of necessities in your trunk; stranded in your broken down car within a snow storm, hours from home, wasn’t something you ever wanted to experience unprepared again.

When Steve left, you wrestled with your thoughts, questioning if grabbing the bag with comfortable clothing was a step too far. It’s not like you expected to stay— though, under different circumstances, the thought would drive the butterflies in your stomach mad. But you wanted to be cozy, and the longer you went unproductive on this rainy day, the more you wanted to curl up and read, or watch a movie, maybe nap.

Even enduring the storm to run to your car for a minute, you realized Steve was right; this rain looked near impossible to drive in. It was much safer to shelter in place.

So, you end up in a roomy sweater, comfy sweatpants, bundled up on the luxurious couch— dear god, this thing was comfier than your bed— sinking into the warmth. You nurse a cup of tea, flicking through the channels until you land on one marathoning old Hollywood horror films. Something for background noise, at least, since you can’t focus on the TV. Attention floating around the room, you take in the ornate, intricate design of the house; it truly is a Victorian-style house from the inside out.

The photographs on the gallery wall are what really draw you in. Wrapped in a throw blanket, you shuffle over to the wall, admiring all of the portraits and candid shots. Some look more recent, but others appear dated; very dated.

A portrait of Steve and a stunning woman catches your eye; she’s in an ornate chair, sitting so upright it hurts your spine to think about, in a Victorian era dress. Her wide smile and gentle features are naturally beautiful. Steve stands behind her, hand resting on her shoulder as she poorly attempts to cover her mouth mid-laugh. Though Steve pretends to be annoyed, a ghost of a smile dances across his face; it’s as if they were lost in an inside joke of some kind. The print itself has that silvery sheen, like a gelatin printed photo. 

Steve likes old things, vintage aesthetics and antiquities, you’ve noticed. The photo is probably part of that interest.

Maybe this was taken at one of those hokey, old time photo studios. Wonder who the woman is. Is he married? He never wears a ring. Could be his girlfriend? But he’s never mentioned one before.

A clap of thunder startles you away from your thoughts, and the gallery wall, as you seek comfort on the couch once more. You curl up under blankets, diving your head into the softest pillows you’ve ever laid your head on, and attempt to distract yourself with the movie. That doesn’t work, but at least sleep steps up to guide you away from your overthinking.

—————

The muffled noise of the garage door opening stirs you awake; sound travels easily in an old house, even two floors away. It intertwines with the TV, still showing old horror movies; this time, Dracula flashes across the screen. Steve must’ve returned with the decedent. There’s a pang in your chest as you remember how… defeated he looked before leaving, yet refused to crumble in front of you.

You want to give him the space he needs, but you also want to check on him—

Christ, he’s my boss; we’re not close like that.

… but he also said we’re friends now.

It’s been hard to juggle those complex feelings; yes, you’re attracted to him, but more importantly, there’s a strong draw to let your walls down around him, become friends beyond work.

Power imbalance. That’s a damn power imbalance, and you know better.

Steve never treats you as if you’re below him, though. Sure, you’re a mortuary assistant, but he makes it a point to be incredibly equal with you, or anyone he works with. He’s guiding you through the start of this career, but you don’t feel forced into anything; it doesn’t feel like you’re being shoved around. 

The summer’s halfway spent, and you’ve only grown closer with him— is it really such a crime to naturally let a friendship grow, even with an employer?

“Dracula, eh?”

You yelp, nearly jumping out of your skin at the sound of Steve’s voice unexpected filling your ear. Clutching your chest as your heart pounds rapidly, you narrow your eyes at him.

“What the fuck, Steve?!” His devious smile falters, concerned he really upset you. That fades as soon as you chuck a down pillow at his head, smacking him square in the face. “You can’t sneak up on me like that!” He lazily tosses the pillow back to you, shaking his head with a breathy laugh.

His hair’s damp, probably from running out into the rain at some point in between transporting the body. Some strands hang in his face, and god, he’s just so gorgeous.

Stop staring, stop staring, you gotta stop staring.

Hands planting onto the back of the couch, Steve leans over it, offering a smile that still won’t meet his eyes. He gives you a once over, and that’s when a tiny spark of light flickers in his gaze. It’s brief, but it’s something.

“Oh, are we having a pajama party? Hm. I believe I wasn’t invited.”

You wrinkle your nose up, “Ew, Steve. Pajama party? Shut up.” His smirk grows with a shrug. “Okay, look, I just keep an emergency bag in my car! After getting stranded in traffic in the middle of a snowstorm, I learned to have comfy clothes on hand. Just in case.”

“Smart girl,” He gravelly declares, tugging at something low in your stomach. The smirk stays put as your breath catches in your throat. “Are you staying over?”

You sit up straight, eyes widening as you stammer, “Uh— I�� that’s— I overstayed my welcome, I should head home.”

“It’s terrible out, but I don’t want to influence your decision. At least let me drive you home if you want to leave.”

You study his expression; he doesn’t want to be alone, and really, you don’t want to leave him alone.

“If I stay, you gotta finish the movie with me,” Pointing back to the TV, you watch Steve’s face flatten out of feigned annoyance. “Oh, c’mon, it’s a classic!”

“That’s not a real depiction of vampires, you know.” He’s heading for the stairs— how many floors does this place have?!

“Like you’d know,” You turn back to the movie, shaking your head with a laugh. “Vampires aren’t even real.”

Steve bites his tongue, silently ascending upstairs.

—————

Another movie rolled on after you forced Steve to finish watching Dracula with you. He spent the majority of the movie grumbling under his breath, or scoffing over the vampire’s mannerisms. Every so often, when you’d glance his way, a gleaming pendant dangling from his neck would catch your attention.

A small, heart shaped, glass vial, with something inside— you just couldn’t tell what. All you knew was, your curiosity was eating away at you as time went on.

“Hey, Steve?”

Head resting back on the couch, he slowly rolls it to face you; another weak, unconvincing smile appears.

“Yes, angel?”

Every time he calls you that, your heart pounds.

“What’s the…” Don’t be nosy. Your head snaps back to the TV. “Never mind.”

Steve turns his body towards you, shaking his head softly. “No, go ahead. Ask what you wanted to ask.”

Your stare flickers down to the pendant, giving your curiosity away. He pulls the chain up, dangling it in clear view.

“Is it about this?”

Hesitantly, you nod in silence. Steve gingerly pulls the chain over his head before handing it to you. You cautiously place your palm up and out, eyeing the pendant as it’s set in your hand.

Plucking the chain between your fingers carefully, you hold the vial up to the light, red viscous liquid coating the glass interior. 

Half-joking with a weakened laugh, you ask, “Is this blood?”

“Yes.”

Your eyes dart to his, frozen in place as your heart thump, thump, thumps away; not a sign of humor to be found across his face. He’s serious.

“… Yours?”

“No.”

Gulping, you muster the courage to ask, “W- whose is it?”

Steve settles back toward the TV, snuggling down under his blanket. “My late wife’s.”

Well, that’s a two-for-one bombshell to casually drop.

“I’m sorry— what?”

Pointing the remote to the TV, he turns the volume down, facing you again.

“What?”

Why the fuck is he so calm about this?

“Did I hear you correctly?”

“Yes.”

It doesn’t feel right to hold the pendant anymore— something so bizarre to you, yet clearly sacred to him— so you carefully hand it back over. Steve’s hand brushes against yours, ice cold.

“I- I didn’t know you were married— why haven’t—“ You continue stumbling over your racing thoughts. What the hell do you even question first? “She was never— did she even live with you?” That’s when it clicks, the second the words leave your lips. “… Your wife’s the person you lost today, isn’t she?”

Steve sighs, fighting the urge to slide closer to you; he’s worried he already has frightened you. If this was too much, you won’t be able to stomach the truth, but he’s wanted to open up for so long now.

“Angel, if we’re going to be close, there’s a lot you should know about me.” He slides the necklace over his head, gripping the vial tightly. “But I’ll let you decide if you want to hear the truth or not.”

“Well you can’t just— just drop that on me and expect me to let it go,” You murmur, breath shallow as you stave off panic.

He reaches out for you, but you tense up. “May I hold your hand?”

“Only if you put some fuckin’ gloves on.” The teasing slips out of nervousness, but Steve takes it seriously, pushing off the couch to fetch a pair. You grab his hand- his cool, yet soft hand- tugging him back to the couch. “I was kidding, m’sorry.”

He forces a weak laugh, but he’s too distracted to put effort into it.

“If we discuss this, you have to let me explain everything. I understand if you judge me, but you have to keep it to yourself until the end. And most importantly, please, don’t run away.”

“Why would I?”

He doesn’t answer, only adds, “I’d do anything to protect you, just so we’re clear. I’d never hurt you, angel.”

Despite the mystery and vague hint of danger, his comment makes your heart flutter. It’s also wrong, because he has a wife. Had a wife, and she just died, today.

“Steve, you can’t say this kind of shit… it freaks me out.”

He wants to come out and say it, admit the truth, rip the bandaid off. 

“It’ll either continue to freak you out, or you’ll think I’m trying to be funny.” You shake your head, keeping your lips sealed. “How old do you think I am?”

Brows knitting together, you answer, “I dunno… a few years older than me, right?”

“Define ‘a few’.”

You scoff, growing impatient. “ I don’t know, Steve, just tell me—“

“You were watching Dracula earlier, yes?” His eyes flit over to the television screen, then back to you. “Well… for starters, let’s just say I’m older than that film.”

You tilt your head slowly, opening and closing your mouth a couple times, finally pointing out, “But that came out in ‘31…”

“It did.”

“Stop beating around the bush, Steve—“

“I am technically older than my wife,” His hand presses flat on his chest as he speaks. “Who was 87 when she passed today.”

You can’t be bothered to do the math, waiting anxiously to hear what he has to admit. “… I’m not following any of this, I’m sorry. Are you trying to tell me you’re, like, into cougars or something?”

Steve’s face scrunches up, bemused. “You mean the animal?” He runs a hand through his hair, fraction of a laugh huffing out. “How is that relevant?”

“No, Steve, not the— oh my god,” you chuckle, hand clapping over your eyes. “Whatever, doesn’t matter. I’m still not sure what you’re talking about, though.”

Actually, you do have an inkling of what he could be hinting towards, but… there’s no way.

“You’re a smart girl, you should be able to pick it up by now.” There’s no condescending tone to the belief. He pulls the pendant back out from under his shirt, dangling it in front of you. “When we got married, I gave her a ring, she gave me this. Tokens of forever. She wanted to grow old. I couldn’t, I can’t.”

The only answer you can conjure up seems outlandish, so you keep it to yourself.

“We fought over it quite a bit, because I was selfish. I wanted to be together forever, couldn’t imagine a world without her. She couldn’t imagine a life of immortality. I had to let her go; it would’ve been cruel to persuade and guilt her to stay.”

“So you… you’re…” Again, out of nervousness, you blurt out, “What’s your skincare secret?”

Steve laughs, he laughs heartily, and it’s the first time his smile reaches his eyes all day, continuing on.

“It was always platonic, but I did feel more in the beginning, admitted my feelings… then I had to let that go. Those were short lived anyway, and I was grateful to have her in my life regardless. We never divorced. She was— is, my best friend. If there was ever a time the marriage gave some sort of benefit in a time of need, we’d have it.

“It helped protect her when she had to hide her true self for safety’s sake.” His free hand cradles the vial of blood. “This world is ridiculously cruel to those who don’t fall under certain norms. People should be able to freely love who they want to.”

Now it makes sense; he went above and beyond to protect his best friend under the guise of marriage.

 His smile fades off. “When she became ill, the marriage helped with all of that insurance nonsense. Doctors always found it bizarre we were technically married, despite the age difference as she got older. I found I could, um… gently manipulate them to stop asking invasive questions about it, at least.”

You can’t help interrupting him, “Is that why I fell asleep so easily the night you called? Mind manipulation?” Then you remember, “And that’s how you knew exactly what apartment I’m in?!”

“The term sounds much more harsh than it actually is, and yes, I swear it was only to help you. I truly felt awful you couldn’t sleep.” Steve grimaces; you know he meant well, there was no ill will behind his actions. If anything, it was just further proof showing how kind he is towards others. “I’m sorry, angel.”

Frantically, you shake your head, heart aching at how quick he is to blame himself for helping you. “No, no! You have no idea how much that has helped me sleep since then.”

“Well,” his face softens into a gentle, knowing smirk, “I do know… since I made it happen.”

Teasingly, you toss a throw pillow at him, one he dodges with fast reflexes. “Oh, come on!”

Steve begins to laugh, but it doesn’t reach its full potential as he remembers the conversation at hand.

“So, uh, anyway…” he clears his throat, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. “She was the last of her family, too; I was all she had. We had other partners over time, but it’s not like she could marry who she really loved. We just… supported one another in every other way that wasn’t romantic.

“I watched her grow old, watched life change and shape her into a stronger version of herself each and every day. She even celebrated every new wrinkle and grey hair that sprouted, unlike what most humans love to hate about themselves. I began to envy her, not in a malicious way, but just…wishing I could grow old alongside my best friend.”

Your heart aches for him; what a loss it must be to let someone go twice in a life you have no escape from.

“I’m relieved she’s at peace, but there is a certain kind of anger I can’t shake.” Steve gives a short, mirthless laugh. “She didn’t have to suffer the way she did, right until the end, but she refused to— to—“

“Let you turn her.”

“See? Smart.” He squeezes your hand, smiling faintly. “Even though we weren’t partners, I still loved her. Still do love her. She was still my soulmate, in a way.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “But it was strictly ‘Platonic with a capital P’ , that’s what she’d always say.”

You weakly smile, but your heart breaks for him. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”  

“Angel,” his free hand gently wipes a tear off your cheek, one that snuck past your attention. “Why are you crying?”

“You never hear of people loving one another the way you two did, even if it was platonic. You loved her enough to let her go, twice, and you— you were so supportive of her happiness.” You rub the tears from your eyes, groaning. “Sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry. If I’m being honest, I was not expecting this reaction at all.”

“Now that I think about it all… makes sense why you were such a grump watching Dracula,” You laugh through your sniffling, but remember a comment you made earlier, hand slapping over your forehead with your eyes screwed shut, shame runs through you easily. “Oh my god, I said vampires aren’t even real! I’m such a dick—“

He laughs again, and it’s music to your ears, coaxes your eyes open, too. You even catch a glimpse of his fangs for the first time; is this is why he’s never allowed himself to laugh fully around you?

God, his smile is so… pretty.

“I’ve been told much worse.”

Mind still connecting the dots, you recall an earlier memory with him. “Is that what that one phone call was about? The day you taught me about cremation?”

He nods, gaze falling to the floor, and you regret allowing curiosity to ask something clearly too fresh to discuss. Yet he answers without hesitation, “Her body started rejecting medication, and they told me it was only a matter of time before she’d decline until the end.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve.” Realizing your hands are still clasped together, you emphasize the sentiment with a squeeze to his hand.

Steve grasps back gently, returning a broken, whispered, “Thank you.”

You glance behind him at the gallery wall, fixating on the portrait you discovered earlier. “Was that her? In that portrait with you?” He nods, smile beginning to fade yet again, but not completely. “She was beautiful. What was her name?”

“Robin.”

“She looks so happy in that photo.”

“Couldn’t even tell she loathed dresses in that shot. And she kept cracking jokes that she would ‘burn the damn thing’ as soon as the photographer left. She wouldn’t stop laughing, kept moving too much for every shot.” He rolls his eyes despite the lopsided grin coming to life. “And that was back when you had to stand very, very still for photographs. God forbid you’d sneeze during portraits…”

“Now you’re just intentionally exposing your age, Steve.” Your harmless jab encourages that smile to stick around. “Thank you for telling me all of this. For trusting me.”

There was much you wanted to learn all about Robin, and her bond with Steve. That would be too personal to ask about right now, though. Another curiosity comes to mind.

“Can I ask something personal? You can tell me to piss off, if you don’t want to answer.”

“Ask away, angel.”

“How do you… y’know, feed? Isn’t hard to be around humans?”

“Why do you think I’m a mortician?”

Your eyes widen, and he laughs softly. “Seriously?”

“Well, aside from what I’ve told you early on this summer, yes. That blood would go to waste anyway, you know that.”

“Well, yeah, but…” You inhale sharply, tearing your stare off of his pretty, gleaming fangs, now exposed without concern. “Isn’t it unsafe? And… icky?”

“This isn’t some Anne Rice novel,” Steve teases, chuckling. “As long as it’s not from a decomposing corpse, no.” He sticks his tongue out in disgust, and you giggle. “But this way, I’m not harming anyone directly. I’ve always hated feeding off the living, it never felt right to me.”

“Not even if someone volunteered?”

“I—“ He chokes on air, blindsided by your question, “Sorry, come again?”

“Like, if someone offered, let’s say, not all of their blood, but some, would you be able to do that? And control yourself?”

His pupils blow wide, thoughts racing wildly. 

“Well, yes, of course, but it’s not very easy to just… stop. Why do you ask?”

You shrug, because it was just a fleeting, curious thought. But now that curiosity has molded itself into a fantasy of Steve’s lips on your neck, sinking his fangs into your skin and—

“You’re far too calm with all of this.” His observation pulls you back to reality.

“We work with dead people all day, not much shocks me by now,” you tease, noticing the unsettled concern he exudes. “I’ll admit, I’m a little scared, but not of you.” You scoot closer to make your point. “Never of you, Steve.”

“Could say the same about you, angel.” Cautiously, he winds an arm around your shoulders, relaxing when you stay put.

You skeptically laugh, “What? Why are you scared?”

Taking a deep breath, he begins to admit, “You’re special to me, and I’m not trying to—“

A door slams on the first floor, startling the two of you apart, with a hollering voice to follow; footsteps hastily bound up the stairs.

“Steve? Man, you’ll never believe what I found in the back of that freezer we never use. More bl—“ Eddie stiffens to a halt at the sight of you, cradling what appears akin to one of those massive bags they put in boxed wine, only you’re certain now it’s blood inside. “M- more— Fruit… punch?”

You sputter out a laugh, clapping your hand over your mouth; Steve gives a lazy grin, beautifully sharp incisors flashing at you again.

“Eddie, it’s alright. She knows.”

“She…” Eddie turns to you in disbelief. “You know? Are you…Uh …” His voice drops down to a comical whisper, “One of us?”

“Nope, sorry Eddie. I like tea and sweets too much to ever trade them in for a blood diet.”

Steve’s eyes dart to your empty mug. “Speaking of— I’m going to boil more water.”

As he’s getting up, you wave your hands and shake your head, “Oh, hey, don’t feel like— you don’t have to—“

He leans down close, incredibly close, like ‘can feel his breath fan out across your skin and count his eyelashes’ close. Gently, he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, not holding too tight, but it’s a soft command to keep your attention steady on him. You gulp, earning a smirk from him.

“O-kaaaaaay, I’m gonna leave you two alone,” Eddie scrambles out of the room, shielding his eyes with his hand. Neither of you acknowledge him as he mutters under his breath, “Fuckin’ weirdos.”

You’ve always found Steve attractive, but seeing him up close like this is mesmerizing. With a patchwork of golden brown, mossy green, and flecks of coppery red in his eyes, that irresistible, charming smile— one which hides those threateningly sharp, yet captivating fangs— it’s no wonder why you’d never shy your gaze away.

“I take care of my people,” Steve whispers, breath dancing along your lips while searching your dazed stare. His eyes flicker down to your lips, licking his own. “Even those that are human.”

And just like that, he releases his gentle hold, and walks away; you’re left stunned on the couch, your own fingers grazing where his touch lingered. 

It’s official: this man is going to be the death of you— even if in the literal sense, it’s a fate you’d happily accept.

What the ever-loving fuck is going on?

—————

The two of you end up on the floor, in a valley of endless pillows and blankets— seriously, how many of either does he have?!— next to the fireplace; you cradle yet another cup of tea, while Steve sips blood from a wine glass. Your body aches to cuddle up next to him, but you repress the desire, appreciating the softness that comes with truly getting to know one another.

Eddie didn’t stay very long, leaving as he sensed you and Steve needed to be alone— but not without talking in hushed tones a room away first. While you tried to mind your business, sometimes your stare would float over to Steve, who never once took his eyes off of you. Even as he talked to Eddie, he’d hold a heavy gaze in your direction.

It only stoked the fire of your curiosity, not just of their conversation, but everything about Steve— his past, his present— you wanted it all.

Yet all you could think to ask while finally alone was:

“Why the hell do you have a whole shelf of tea anyway?”

Steve quirks a brow, snorting, “What?”

You can’t help but stare as he swirls the deep crimson liquid in the glass, so casually. You’re not bothered by it, but it’s very surreal to see the proof before your eyes.

“If you only consume blood…” your eyes linger on the glass a little too long. “Why would you keep something you can’t enjoy?”

“I am friends with other humans, you know.” He smiles softly, turning back to the fireplace. The flickering shades of warmth dance across his pale, cold skin. “Not sure your kind cares to drink blood.”

“Oh, right. Duh.” You shake your head, feeling foolish. “Hey, if I ever say anything stupid about all of this, or ask a dumb question, y- you can just tell me to shut up.”

“Nothing stupid has ever come out of your pretty mouth, angel.” You pray he doesn’t notice the way his words make you squirm. Judging off the smug smirk his smile has turned into, he noticed. “Besides, there’s other ways to shut someone up.”

“Other ways?”

You have a good guess of what he’s alluding to, but you want— no— you need to hear it directly from him.

“C’mon, you’re a smart—“

“Please don’t call me that… it feels patronizing at this point.”

Steve’s expression falls, searching your own before shaking his head. He sets the glass down, leaning in closer. “No, that isn’t— I’m sorry. It’s not meant to be. You really are the smartest woman I know.”

Oh. Well, now you feel like a dick.

“I’m sorry I took it the wrong way.” Taking the chain of the tea infuser, you dunk it a few times, desperate to keep your hands busy and eyes away from Steve. “Though I think that’s far too kind of you to say.”

“You should have more confidence in your strengths.”

“Steve, I barely passed my classes, you know that. It’ll be a miracle if I can graduate.” Concentration wasn’t your strong point lately, mind always running 100 miles a minute, thoughts in ten different directions. If you were being honest with yourself, this is always how your brain has worked, and it’s only getting harder to handle the older you get. “I’m not trying to fish for praise, but I truly don’t know why you even hired me. I’m such a scatterbrained idiot sometimes—“

His hand gently claps over your mouth, shutting you up instantly.

It also makes you throb between your legs, makes your heart race, but you’re ignoring that right now. You swear you see one corner of Steve’s mouth quirk up, just ever so slightly.

God, can he sense that? Don’t vampires have… heightened senses? Or powers, or something?

“Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re just someone who’s better with hands on studying than with books. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Hand falling away, your bottom lip juts out into a pout at the loss of his touch; you roll it back, embarrassed, but he doesn’t tease you for it. “There’s so much you’re good at, like—“

You sit up, covering his mouth with your hand now, shocked by your bold move. His lips curve underneath your touch into a playful smirk. “You really do not need to make a list—“

Steve grips your wrist, not roughly, but firm, moving your hand aside. Your breath hitches in your throat; these not-so-small touches are driving you insane.

“Hear me out, please?”

Slowly, you sit back as he releases your wrist. This time, you keep your disappointment internal. 

“Your restoration technique is some of the closest I’ve ever seen to recreating one’s appearance. You’ve stayed late some nights to perfect what is possible, just to comfort grieving families a little more. It’s hard to find genuine empathy and sympathy in this field sometimes, but you always carry that, put it first. That must be heavy on your heart at times, but it never goes unnoticed.

“You care for everyone here, too. And I—“ A fond smile peeks through his expression. “— I’ve never worked so well with anyone else before. We flow so well as a team. Your work alone speaks for itself more than some nonsense exams do— ”

“Steve, I need those to graduate, to legally work.”

“I know, but I was terrible with just studying on paper, too. If I could finish school, I’ve got no doubt in my mind you can too.”

It’s a kind sentiment, but then you remember, “Aren’t you like, 300 years old? When the hell did you pass boards? Did that even exist when you finished school?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He side eyes you playfully. “Where was I? Oh, right, yes— you’re smart, sweet funny, you’re able to use a trocar without getting squeamish— do you know how many morticians I’ve met who still get all grossed out with that process, even years after they started their careers? Like, it’s your job, you need to grow up—“

“Ew, Steve.” You cringe and giggle simultaneously. “I thought we were having a moment, then you gotta go off on a bitchy rant about… morticians that hate… draining fluids. Okay.”

“What? Can’t a guy honestly compliment and flirt a little over a light conversation about embalming?”

He begins to grin, and you can’t hold back your laughter; it’s a soothing tune to his ears, and your smile is a sight for sore, weary, undead eyes. 

“Guess we’re both pretty gross if that’s considered light conversation.” You replay his words in your head, catching what you missed. “Hang on— did you say you were flirting with me?”

Steve locks eyes with you, taking a wavering breath.

“What would your reaction be if I said I was?”

There’s a flutter of excitement in your stomach, but it doesn’t take flight with reality weighing it down.

“You’re my boss,” you bluntly state, frowning as the words leave your lips. Frowning at yourself, for being such a stickler for professionalism. Yet… at this point, you’ve crossed barriers you shouldn’t have; maybe you’re not so stuck to the rule book after all. “That’s— isn’t it—“

“A power imbalance? It could be,” he answers honestly. “But I’d never force anything, or persuade you into anything you wouldn’t want. Wouldn’t let this affect your career, either. It’d be all up to you to decide on.”

You stare off into the smoldering embers of the fireplace, uneasy to answer right away.

“Steve, your wife— best friend? Ugh. Look, Robin just died today… I know it was platonic anyway, but something feels so…” 

“Wrong?”

You nod slowly.

“Not that it’s you or I that’s wrong, but the whole situation, and the timing— it’s a lot.”

“I understand. We can forget about this, it’s alright. I want you to be comfortable and happy for as long as you like working here.” He clears his throat, checking if the space between your bodies is adequate enough. “If you still want to, that is. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you decide to leave.”

“N- no, I want to stay, I really do like working together.” You feel your heart deflate; how could you just shut him down like that? Unsure of what to say, you hope the question is enough, “… Is it okay if I still stay the night, too?”

Maybe Steve will get it. He’ll catch on and coax you into opening up about your feelings, encourage you to not be so afraid. Maybe you can build up the courage to ask to fall asleep together, or—

“Of course, angel, I wouldn’t ever make you leave. I’ve got a spare room you can take tonight.”

Well, fuck.

A pang of disappointment hits you, and it’s not like you have the right to be upset; you turned him down to begin with. Still, you do wish you could cuddle up with him, fall asleep to the sound of the storm in his arms. 

“I think we should call it a night. You need the rest.”

Steve went from fixated on you, to avoiding even the possibility of a glance your way.

You hide away in that empty room, feeling colder than you had sitting beside him, while the storm outside rages on.

————

In all fairness, you give sleep an honest attempt, but it’s useless.

You toss, turn, groan in defeat as your mind races. This might be the coziest bed you’ve ever laid in, with sheets heavenly soft, and what feels like an endless supply of pillows. It’s not enough. Over and over your mind replays the conversation of feelings, and unfortunate timing, and it only leaves you wondering what you said or did wrong. 

What was enough to turn Steve so cold? 

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, throwing the sheets off and rolling out of bed. Making your way down the hall, you stop about a foot outside of Steve’s bedroom door. A dim light sneaks out from underneath the door; he’s awake, at least, but now that you’re here, doubt floods through you.

Turning to walk away, you pause again, sigh, turning back to face the closed door. It’s an internal struggle, back and forth between the desire to get to the bottom of this, and giving him space. On your fifth turnaround, the door opens, but the doorway is empty. You freeze in place, spooked until Steve’s voice calls out to you.

“You’re going to wear a ditch into the floor pacing like that.” 

Goddammit.

Hesitantly, you make your way inside. Bathed in a warm, faint glow from candles, the room feels both inviting and forbidden. Especially when you find Steve in his bed, shirtless and reading. “Don’t get all shy on me now, angel.” He shuts the book and sets it aside on the nightstand, next to another glass off blood, giving you a spent yet understanding glance. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Of course, the first night you can’t fall asleep with ease is the night you finally spend at his place.

“What is this?” You blurt out, finding the courage to walk closer. You’re at the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes. “What are we? What the hell have we been this whole summer?”

Steve throws the covers back, gesturing to the vast, empty spot beside him. “Angel, you should sit—“

“No, don’t ‘angel’ me. Also I am not getting in a bed with you while you- you’re half naked! That’s an unfair advantage.”

“How so?”

“You’d distract me!” Your eyes wander down his chest, admiring every detail. Scrunching your eyes shut, you sputter out, “Oh, goddammit, you’re already distracting. You know what you’re doing.”

Steve exhales slowly, sliding out of bed to grab a black cardigan draped over a chair nearby. He throws it on, arms out to his sides as he models the slouchy sleeves. “Happy?”

You cross your arms, glaring at him. “No.”

“Would you like to discuss this, or not?” Though his patience thins, he’s got no problem keeping calm. It just upsets him to see you upset. Gesturing to the bed, he climbs back in, waiting for your next move. “Or would you rather go somewhere else?”

Grumpy and exhausted, you sit on his bed, facing away from him, arms crossed over your chest.

“Okay.” Steve clears his throat, then takes a deep breath before speaking with sincerity. “I’m sorry.”

Throwing a glance over your shoulder, you ask, “For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“All of this. Tonight wasn’t the time or place to admit how I feel.” He sighs, falling back against the pillows as he rubs a hand over his face. “There’s probably no time or place that’s appropriate for anything I opened up about, and I wish I could take it back.”

He’s really tearing himself apart over this.

You lean against the headboard, glancing over at him, fidgeting with the edge of the covers. “Steve, I’m not upset that you were honest with me. If anything, I admire it and feel honored you trust me enough to talk about your past. Your confession threw me off, but it didn’t upset me.”

“Then what did?”

Leaning against the ornate headboard, your eyes flutter shut as you sigh.

“Meeting you this way. I wish it were under different circumstances, ones that aren’t so complex.” He shifts to his side, studying your expression. “Because it’d be easier to admit how I feel without all this guilt hanging over my head.” 

“What is there to feel guilty about?”

You take a deep breath, exhaling your answer quickly, “Allowing myself to fall for you.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment, before huffing a soft laugh, shaking his head.

You’re annoyed, “Wh— what’s so funny about that?”

“That it’s not my age, or the fact that I’m a vampire that is keeping you at bay.” Even with a smile, there’s a hint of disappointment in his observation. It’s quickly shadowed as he adds, “It’s your good girl morals and ethics.”

The ‘good girl’ comment makes your stomach flutter, eyes averting his own while he sips from his glass. “Well I was trying to be professional and respectful, but someone certainly makes that a challenge.” You find the courage to boldly quip, “Besides, what can I say? I’m into older guys.” 

Steve nearly spits out the blood in his mouth, choking down nervous laughter. He sets his glass down on the nightstand, wiping dribbles of crimson away from his lips.

“Didn’t take you for the type to yearn after 130 year-olds.”

Not once tonight have you bothered with the math, shrieking, “You’re what?!”

“You’re the one who said you’re into older men!” Chuckling, still trying to gain composure from seconds ago, he asks, “Why is that shocking?”

“I didn’t mean that old!” You side eye him, “Okay, so… you’re gonna tell me you’re older than dirt—“

Steve grasps his chest dramatically, “Ouch—“

“But you have way nicer skin than me?”

“That’s what you’re still hung up on?” He laughs. Every time he does, or even when he smiles wide, his fangs show, and you’re absolutely positively now he’s been avoiding expressions of happiness to hide his secret from you.

“Sorry, I think I’m deflecting.” You sheepishly admit with an apologetic shrug. “Just kinda… really actually sorta nervous.”

“Kinda really actually sorta nervous?” He lightly teases. You side eye him with a huff, so he reaches out in a comforting gesture, hand on your arm. You’re beginning to love the cold his touch offers. “Look, we can forget about this, or discuss it another time— whatever you want. Nothing has to happen right this moment.”

Oh, you want this so bad; you want him so bad.

Crossing a line like this one could be too dangerous, for the both of you. It’s already risky, walking this flimsy, thin tightrope between a professional relationship, and one with the potential for romance.

Or lust, at the very least.

… I can’t allow myself to get caught up in this.

Nodding, you take his hand in your own, giving a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Steve.” He can see right through you, can tell there’s more on your mind that you’re keeping buried. “Can we… would it be okay to talk about it in the morning? Or sometime? Just… not tonight.”

Steve finds it odd that earlier your racing thoughts urged you to talk things over with him, but now, you’re ready to scurry away; he won’t push it, though. 

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” He gives your hand a squeeze in return before you pull away, shuffling away to the door. “Sweet dreams, angel.”

“Y- you too.” You reply; earlier, you would’ve caught yourself, asking if vampires even dream when they sleep. Or if he even sleeps at all at night. With your mind spiraling into worry over all of this, you just want to be alone.

Steve already knows you’re going to leave. He already knows you’ll feel guilty for leaving in the dead of night, for slipping out without saying goodbye. You’ll leave a note, apologizing in a hurry for ending this so abruptly, with an added, half-assed, letter of resignation that you’re certain will bite you in the ass later in your career. You’ll regret it before walking out the door, but commit to your mistake with a broken heart, because this has to be the best decision for the both of you, right?

He already knows how ridiculous that is, but he lets you leave regardless. Just as he’s learned in the past with Robin— when you love someone, you respect their wishes, even if they’re not what you want. 

When you love someone, you let them go.

[lycheeloving]

Second chapter!! Happy Valentine's day <3

Bruce finds you at work and doesn't leave you alone.

< first chapter

The next day at work, it all feels like a fever dream. Did you really meet Bruce Wayne? And talk to him all night? You feel a bit nauseous just thinking about it, but you just remind yourself that you'll never see him again. Even if you did get along really well...

Whatever, you'll just daydream about kissing him in the moonlight, that's just as fun as the real thing, right? Not that you could compare it to the real thing,  you'd have to kiss someone at some point to know what it's like.

Maybe you should have kissed Bruce yesterday, he certainly seemed like he would have been ok with that, but that was probably just wishful thinking anyways. Oh well, too late now.

The bell that lets you know somebody entered the store rings and rips you out of your thoughts. Fuck. You hate when there's costumers, which is why you chose to work at the shittiest bookstore in Gotham. And are hiding in the back.

You're supposed to say something like "I'll be right with you!", but you're not going to do that. You hate talking loudly. Especially to strangers, especially when you can't even see them. But you never even say anything when you're out in the front and making direct eye contact with them, so whatever. You just hope they won't ask you for help with finding anything, just having to ring them up is bad enough...

Why do you have to get costumers at all? Fuck, you should really look for a job with less contact to people, but this is the best you've been able to find so far.

You reluctantly leave the safety of the back room, only to find a guy in an oversized hoodie and sunglasses absolutely beaming at you. Why is he looking at you like that? Should you know him?

Only when he takes the sunglasses off do you realize that it's Bruce. No way, how did he find you? You feel your palms getting sweaty.

"Finally! I found you! Do you know how hard it was to find this book store with the minimal description you gave me?" 

Not hard enough, apparently, considering that he was able to find you this soon. It hasn't even been a full day!

He's still smiling at you. "I've been to multiple book stores this morning! I'm so glad you told me you'd be working today, or I would have had to ask everyone if you're one of their coworkers!"

"Yeah, well, if I had wanted you to show up here, I would have given you more details, probably." You deadpan, hoping your voice isn't shaking.

He's not deterred, he just keeps talking as if you hadn't said anything: "Wanna get lunch with me? When's your break? We could go to that café around the corner that I saw on my way here!"

Is he not getting that you don't want him here? Well, you do want him here, but you don't. You want him to think you don't want him here so he'll leave before you can embarrass yourself.

"I can't leave for my break, I have to stay here. I'm the only one working right now, I can't just- just lock up and get something to eat." Your boss actually allowed you to do just that, but when you came back from doing it the first time, an angry costumer was waiting for you and yelled at you for 10 minutes about how it's rude to just close the store in the middle of the day. You don't want a repeat of that, so you started eating your lunch at work whenever there were no costumers. Which is almost always, luckily.

"I could go get you something and we can eat here! It doesn't seem like you get a lot of costumers so we won't even be disturbing anyone!" Why is he so persistent? Can't he go talk to some supermodel or something?

"I'm not hungry." You kind of are, actually.

"That's fine, we can just talk! I just wanted to spend some time with you. You know, I haven't clicked with anyone like this in a long time, I couldn't just let you go."

Wait, is he serious? Well, why else would he go through the effort of looking for you... But still, you can't quite believe it. Are you being pranked?

"You should go. What if costumers start showing up? I'm sure you don't want some weird fan to recognize you."

Bruce ignores what you say and stays. He talks to you for about half an hour, well, mostly he talks at you, until he has to leave because his lunch break is over. You just stand there, perplexed. Does he really want to hang out with you?

He returns the next day. And the next. And the next. Every day, always during his lunch break. It takes a few times until you stop trying to ignore him, a few more times until you start actually talking to him, and a few more times until you agree to eat lunch with him. Not go anywhere else, just eat your own lunch at the bookstore.

You can't stop yourself from trying to push him away a little bit, though.

You put down your fork. "You know, it's rude of you to keep visiting me at work, where I can't just leave. This is basically harassment."

"If you want me to go, I'll go. Just say so, and I'll never show up here again, I promise."

You don't want him to leave. Well, you do, because you don't want to get even more attached, but you don't, because, well, you're getting attached. You can't bring yourself to make him leave.

You huff and roll your eyes. "Whatever." You pick your fork back up and continue eating.

He tries to suppress a smile. Gross. He's so cute.

Whenever he catches you playing a silly game on your phone (which is basically every time he enters the store, as you love slacking off), he insists on befriending you on it if possible, so when you're not hanging out he'll send you a booster on your candy-crush-esque game, or play against you on a quiz app.

Sometimes he uses the chat option there to tell you to go to sleep when it's late and he catches you playing, even though he's obviously awake as well! Hypocrite. It makes you smile every time. 

One day while you're eating lunch together, a few months after he first showed up, he puts down his fork and says: "I think I need to make this more clear. I am interested in you romantically. I want to date you."

You almost spit out your lunch, but manage to swallow it without choking. "H- Wh- Huh? What?"

"We can just be friends, I'd love to be friends, we already are friends, in my opinion, but I would also love to date you. So if one day you decide that you want to date me, please let me know."

You already want to, but you will absolutely not be informing him of that, thanks. Asking for what you want? What are you, a well adjusted person? You blink owlishly at him instead of saying anything. That should suffice as a response, right? No, you should probably say something.

"...Look, even if I was interested in dating you—", which, again, you literally are, but why would you tell him that;

"—you're famous, and at some point it would come out that I was dating you, and the paparazzi would publish one single picture of me and I'd immediately panic so hard I would pass out and die. This—" You point your fork between the two of you. "—is already risky enough. Whatever this is, anyway."

Bruce, as always, chooses not to address the parts of what you were saying that were clearly your anxiety speaking and simply grins.

"So you do want to date me? It sounds to me like you're just looking for excuses. Don't worry, if I don't want anyone to know about you, noone will! People don't tend to recognize me when I'm not wearing a suit, especially in environments where they're not expecting me, so anywhere outside of my workplace and fancy parties. It's worked so far, hasn't it? Not a single person has recognized me here! Dating won't change that. So, if you do want to go on a date with me, just say the word. Please."

What word? Wait, he means that metaphorically, right? No, but seriously, what would you say, how would you say that without sounding totally weird?

"That's not what I was saying. At all. Stop misinterpreting me." You roll your eyes at him. He changes the topic, but he keeps smiling until he has to leave.

Lying awake that night, you think about what he said. Does he actually like you? Or is he just pretending, because he likes a challenge? Knew you'd be difficult to get close to, and he gets a kick from being someone's first relationship, kiss, everything, and then leaving them? You feel nauseous and you suddenly feel cold. How are you supposed to figure this out? You try to tell yourself that it's only your anxiety speaking, that Bruce is actually a nice person and wouldn't do that, but you can't quite convince yourself.

The next day, your way home after work (and after pretending your conversation with Bruce yesterday didn't happen, which luckily he played along with), you see something on the ground that reflects the light in a way that catches your eye.

What is that? It's kind of hidden behind a trash can.

You take a step closer, hoping it's not some kind of trap, but you can't think of a villain who would hide shiny things on the floor to kill civilians. At least not in that color, the Joker would make it colorful, and this object appears to be... black?

Oh, it's a Batarang! You've never seen one up close, but they can't be super rare with how often people online post about having found one, there's even one guy who collects them and has an entire wall plastered with them. Allegedly. People online are saying that most of them are probably replicas, but you can't tell, as you've never seen a real one. Until now.

That makes you think, just how many Batarangs does Batman have? More than enough if he let's random people keep them. You think about picking it up and taking it with you. It would be really cool to have a Batarang...

You reach out towards it, but stop right before you touch it. Is it stuck in the floor? Fuck, just how sharp are those things...?

Maybe you should leave it here, you'd just cut your hand open on it, trying to get it unstuck.

Plus, maybe Batman will find this one if you leave it here, and then re-use it! Reduce, re-use, recycle, Batman!

You leave it where you found it, after taking a few pictures of it as proof.

The next day, Bruce asks you if you did anything interesting yesterday, like he does every time he sees you. Usually you'd say no, but you did find that Batarang... Would Bruce care about that?

While you're contemplating, Bruce says: "You'd have said no by now if nothing had happened! Come on, please tell me?"

Fine! Whatever! You'll tell him, even if he'll probably think it's boring.

"Ok, so, on my way home yesterday... I found a Batarang. And, um, it got me thinking, well, first of all, how many of those does that guy have? If he's just leaving them lying around like that, right? Oh, and, it was so sharp, it was stuck in the floor, though I guess maybe that just means Batman is really strong? Either way, I thought he doesn't kill, right, but considering what he's working with it's a miracle no criminal has ended up dead yet, right?" You stop rambling, realizing that Bruce hasn't said anything yet. At least he appears to be amused.

"You have a lot of thoughts about Batman, huh?" He grins. "Yeah, he must have tons of those things, I've seen the posts. Did you take it with you?" He didn't respond to your killing thoughts... Oh well, you did give him a lot of information all at once.

"No, I didn't... But I thought about it! I mean, it seems like that's what everyone else is doing, but with it being stuck in the floor like that I was worried I would cut my hand open trying to get it unstuck! And with my luck there would have been germs or poison on it and my wound would have gotten infected, like, immediately, and I would have died. So I left it there for Batman to hopefully find again. I mean, he should probably be reusing the ones he already has, right? Reduce, reuse, recycle, I'm just helping Batman be more climate friendly!" There you go, rambling again.

Bruce seems almost too amused at all of this.

"Well, do you want it? I can come with you when your shift is over and help you get it unstuck, if you want. If nobody else has already taken it. I'm sure Batman won't mind. And if it ever comes out that he's not trying his best to be climate friendly, I'll personally go kick his ass, I promise."

"Uh. Um. You don't have to do that!"

"...Kick his ass or go get the batarang for you?"

"I meant getting the batarang, but also please don't fight Batman. He'd wipe the floor with you. No offense."

"Well, first of all, I think I'm just as strong as Batman-" You roll your eyes at him. Dork.

"And second of all, I don't have to get it for you, but I want to. Please let me?"

Ok. Fuck. Whatever. This is the first time you'll be seeing him outside of work, excluding your first meeting.

"Uh. Ok? I, um, my shift ends at 8."

"I'll pick you up in front of the store, then. It's a date!"

"Uh! No, well, yes, but, it- um-"

"I'm just teasing you." He winks at you. Winks! Is he trying to kill you? You turn your face towards your food so you don't have to look at him. Asshole. Stop being so hot.

Later, at 8, he's already waiting for you in front of the store while you're locking up.

"Ready to go?" He smiles.

"Uh, yeah! Sure!"

You start leading the way to where you found the batarang, talking about whatever comes to mind on the way.

Finally, about halfway on your way home, you reach the place where the batarang should be. You hope it's still there, but somebody else could have taken it. You push the trashcan it was behind to the side, and...

There it is!

"Look, it's still here!" You turn around to Bruce, smiling. He smiles back. You fight the urge to giggle or hide your face behind your hands, he needs to stop being so cute.

"Didn't you say it's stuck in the ground? Why wouldn't it be here anymore?"

"Uh, you said you'd help me get it out? Somebody else could have done the same thing!"

"Right. But they don't have my getting batarangs unstuck from the ground skills."

You roll your eyes. How often could Bruce have come in contact with a batarang? His only advantage compared to you is that he's stronger and not afraid of cutting his hand open. At least that's what you think.

You watch as he grabs the batarang and gets it unstuck in seconds. Seriously? It was that easy?

"Woah. I think I would have been able to do that myself, that looked super easy. Sorry to have made you come all this way..." Apparently it wasn't stuck in there as much as you thought? Even if a considerable part of it disappeared beneath the ground. Hm. Weird. Maybe there was a batarang shaped hole there before it landed there? Or Bruce is just a lot stronger than he looks.

"No, I'm glad I came along! I wouldn't have wanted you to cut yourself accidentally." He wraps the batarang in a piece of fabric. Some kind of rich people tissue, maybe.

"Let me carry it home for you?" He looks at you in a way that makes you melt a little bit. Ok, fine.

"Oh, uh, sure!" You did enjoy walking around with him. And not just because walking with someone in Gotham is safer than doing it alone.

"Also we could maybe order dinner? And eat together at your place?" And let him into your apartment that's not cleaned up? That looks shitty even when it is cleaned up?

"Don't push it."

"Or we could go somewhere? I'll pay, of course."

And absolutely embarrass yourself and make him never want to see you again and talk about you to journalists that you're a horrible person, which gets published in every newspaper ever so you have to move and change your name? Ok, maybe that was a bit dramatic.

Bruce can clearly see the anxiety on your face.

"It doesn't have to be a date, if you don't want that."

Be brave! Be brave! You can do this!

"Uh." You almost choke on your words. "And... if I do... want that...?"

You might actually pass out, this is horrible. If he doesn't respond in less than a second, your flight response is going to win and you'll run away. And quit your job, so he can't find you again.

"That would be wonderful! We can take it slow, ok? Absolutely no pressure to do anything you don't want to do whatsoever, I promise."

You nod, not feeling brave enough to say anything. Maybe those were your last words ever.

"So... Dinner at your place? As a date?"

You nod again. Shit, fuck. Are you actually going to date Bruce Wayne? What were you thinking? Wait, does going on one date even mean you're 'dating' him? What's the definition here?

You start walking again, leading Bruce to where you live. If he hates your apartment and leaves and you never see him again that's fine and you'll be able to handle it, right? But that won't happen, so calm down. But if it did happen, you'll be fine and ok and fine. It's fine! Oh fuck, what if you misunderstood him? Did he even mean dinner tonight? Are you embarrassing yourself by assuming he'll come with you right now?

Bruce walks right beside you and starts talking again.

"I'll order. What do you want?" While saying this, he puts an arm around your shoulder. You tense. Woah.

"You said you'd take it slow!" Look at that, you can talk again.

"Too much?" Yes. But also no. But yes. But no.

"I don't know! Maybe?" He takes his arm away and you can breathe again, but somehow at the same time you miss his warmth.

"Don't worry, I'll take it so slow. The slowest. You won't regret dating me, I promise. This'll be so much fun, you'll see." He smiles.

You don't know about that, but you do know that at the very least it'll be interesting. You hope he won't notice you looking up what the definition of dating is on your phone while he's ordering food later.

[i314flix]

[ 7:23 A.M. ] “god, ____, you’re killing me here.”

you glared at jake. you wanted to retort that if anyone had the right to claim that they were being killed at this second, it would be you, thanks to your annoying fever. after all, you have been glued to your bed since yesterday, only getting up when you needed to pee or wished to rummage through the fridge, trying to find something to eat that your appetite might be kind enough to accept. so far, a half-glass of orange juice has managed to get down your throat, as well as a few spoonfuls of rice porridge.

“how the hell am i supposed to leave you like this?” he added when you didn’t answer. “should i make a call and say i’m rejecting the deployment?”

“is that even allowed?”

“no. i’m pretty sure they’ll throw me in the brig and give me a bad discharge or something.”

“then you should leave now, jake.” you weakly pushed his thigh. he was standing beside the bed, dressed in his naval aviator uniform, this permanent worried expression etched on his face. “i promise, i’ll live. it’s just some stupid cold.”

he didn’t move.

“jake.”

“what do you expect me to do?” he raised his arms up in frustration, voice raising a bit. he sometimes had the bad habit of converting his concern into a display of anger. “my girlfriend’s sick. her temperature’s not lowering, she lives alone, and i’m about to leave her for three months because my job demands it. i’m sorry if i want to ditch my patriotic duty for a goddamn day!”

you sighed. you weren’t sure how you were going to make the situation better either, and being scolded by jake didn’t help. it only worsened your headache, this ringing bothering your ears heightening for a second.

“shit, i’m sorry.” you suddenly heard jake mutter almost immediately when he finished talking, and he crouched down to your level, placing a hand over cheek. “i did it again, didn’t i?”

“turned your anger on me? yeah.”

guilt washed over him further. “i’m sorry for being a dick. you didn’t deserve that.”

“it’s alright, babe.” you placed your palm over his hand, a small smile making its way on your lips to appear stronger than you were. “we both know this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. we’re supposed to be sneaking in a quickie before i drive you to the airport and instead i’m sick.”

jake laughed at that. “i hate that i can’t even kiss you right now.”

“i know. i hate it too.”

“i hate that i need to leave.”

“if only you didn’t have to.”

“you sure you’ll be fine?” he asked.

“yeah, positive.” you replied. “i mean, this isn’t the first time i’ve been sick on my own. i’m a grown woman. i can take care of myself.”

“that’s another thing i hate.”

“don’t worry.” you kissed his wrist. “once i’m back on my feet, i’ll tell you.”

that seemed to ease him a little. “i expect you to tell me you’re okay as soon as possible, alright?”

“i’ll even write it in paragraph form with pictures if you want.”

“i’m being serious.”

you smiled wider, sheepish. “yes, sir. i’ll update you as soon as possible.”

he rolled his eyes at your playfulness and leaned in to give your forehead a long kiss. “don’t forget to drink your meds on time. i’ll tell marjorie to check on you every now and then.” marjorie was your elderly neighbor who had a dog you often looked after when she had lengthy errands to do.

you nodded once more, and with a final kiss on your cheek this time, jake said his farewells (reluctantly) and was out of your apartment by the time you were threatening to call coyote to haul him away.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Thinking about Frank Castle x Avengers!Reader

You met him through Bucky because Sam would obviously try and find Bucky a veteran's support group like the one he ran in CATWS but in Brooklyn - which led him to Curtis' group (I've put this HC in previous writing and I stand by it)

You're roommates with Sam and Bucky and occasionally they host poker night with some of the guys and one night you come home from an evening stroll to a kitchen table of vets and beer and cards.

You smile shyly and say hi to the group and Frank is instantly smitten.

But it takes weeks of casual small talk and asking Bucky about you for him to finally pluck up the courage to ask you out.

Once you make things official, he doesn't want anyone coming after you in retaliation against him plus he's so scared to lose yet another person he cares about. So he asks to keep your relationship secret even from the rest of the Avengers, which makes you roll your eyes because you have super powers you'd be fine to defend yourself against any of Frank's enemies.

Frank also worries you might be a little ashamed of him publicly. He thinks it might be harder on you if the world knew you were dating a criminal vigilante. Avengers get lots of press and attention and he'd hate to bring his drama into it and hurt your image and potentially all the good you do in the world even if you don't give a shit about the publicity side of it.

Which means a lot of sneaking around - dates in darkly lit restaurants and such.

Date nights frequently get postponed because you getting called on last minute missions or Frank takes longer hunting down a gang than he was anticipating.

Even if you go weeks without seeing each other because of your busy work lives, the love is always still there and you both do a great job of making up for lost time.

When you give him recaps of your recent missions, he always scoffs and gets worried about your safety and asks you not to go into such dangerous situations but obviously you have to it's your job.

So you at some point have to make a rule that he gets no interference in your work stuff. He can make any request in your civilian life to keep you safe (ie. you can't go out at night without him, etc.) but is not allowed to make any requests about your job.

Until inevitably your work crosses paths with his work because the street level gangs and mob bosses he takes down tend to have ties to bigger things like Hydra and such.

One night you're at a warehouse upstate following a lead on a Hydra weapons facility and bump into Frank who was tracking down a human trafficking ring that was also linked to the same address.

Since he knows you, Bucky and Sam, he agrees to help the Avengers just this one time.

You could never convince him to join up and "go legit" no matter how hard you tried. He liked working alone and with noone giving him orders.

As you raid the warehouse and take down the enemy, he's aghast at seeing you put yourself in harms way so flippantly but you have powers and Shield training, so of course you're fine.

He's never actually seen you in action before and he eventually gets over the fear and is super turned on at seeing you be so bad ass and kick booty.

Yeah, the passionate "I missed you. That was so badass. I was so scared. God I hope we don't get caught." sex you have behind the warehouse as the mission is wrapping up is steamy and animalistic.

Bucky has super soldier hearing so he hears it and figures it out first.

Except Yelena has actually known for months because she's a spy, duh.

Sam is the last to figure it out but isn't surprised, you two are so compatible it seems obvious that you should be together.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 46

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

46. rude awakening

When finally you wake, you sense you are in a confined space in total darkness. Your whole body hurts, and your mouth is dry as a cotton ball. You feel as though you are swaying, and it takes you a while to figure out that it’s not just in your head. You are in something that is on the move. 

It’s hard to tell what, and so you concentrate on righting yourself. The surface you lay on is surprisingly soft. A bed? You try to push up, and a searing pain jets from your left hand up your arm. Is it broken? 

Fuck. 

Gingerly, you feel your appendage, probing the skin and bones. All seems well, until you get to your fingers. There is a big pad of bandaging on your hand, and it’s hard to make sense of what you’re feeling. Whimpering in panic, you frantically count your fingers. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Your ring finger is gone–and your diamond with it. 

Somehow in the darkness, the room spins, and you let out a scream. 

No one comes, and with nothing better to do, you cry alone in the dark.

John. 

You pray that he’s alright. You know that so long as there’s breath left in his body, he will hunt for you. It’s only a matter of time…if you can survive long enough for him to find you.

That’s when you remember the necklace you’d been wearing under your shirt when you went out for your ride. The gold lavalier he’d gifted you for Christmas. With clumsy fingers you grope for the chain, and breathe a sigh of relief when you find it still hanging there. You feel for the little pearl dangling at the base of the narcissus pendant. 

John had given you a choice. He’d told you that day that there was a micro-tracker inside the faux pearl, and that if you were wearing the necklace, he would know where you were. But you don’t know how long it’s been, or if your captors will allow you to keep this bauble. 

With shaking fingers you bend the soft gold jump ring to remove the little pearl from the larger pendant, and swallow it down. 

Come find me, John. 

With a strangely detached resignation, you just know he’s going to kill them all.

 ***

You’re not sure how much time goes past, before they come for you. Two big, Italian-accented men with rough features and very fine suits open a door and flip on a light, nearly blinding you after so long in the pitch black. You don’t fight them, when they tell you to come with them. 

There is no point. 

All you have to do is bide your time. 

You follow them down a narrow hallway, and you realize that you are on a boat. An expensive one. You feel the steady sway of waves beneath your feet, a weird feeling that might go to your head if you don’t get some fresh air soon. 

You are finally able to get a look at your hand. You resemble a mummy, but the wrapping is very neatly done. A professional job even, perhaps, though it aches like a motherfucker. You wonder if you can talk someone into a pain pill. 

Probably wishful thinking, considering. 

Your hand looks strange, without that finger, but maybe because you are so used to looking at John’s, it does not bother you quite as much as it should. 

Or maybe, you’re in shock, and still feeling weird from your crash and whatever it was they injected in you.  

Or maybe…you’re just so dead certain of the retribution coming their way that you find this injury laughable, in comparison. 

How could anyone be so stupid? 

The answer to that question is answered for you as the nattily-dressed thugs lead you up a steep set of stairs, into a luxurious dining area enclosed by windows all around. 

Dante d’Antonio sits at the head of the high-polished walnut table, GQ-cover ready in a pressed white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, looking smug and sure of himself as a Roman emperor upon his throne. 

This fucking kid. 

“Buonasera, y/n.” 

“Signor.” 

One of the toughs pulls out a chair for you, but spoils the illusion of manners when he forcibly pushes you down into it. After your training with Mariko, you think of three ways in which you could have used that close contact to hurt him–but you don’t. 

You can tell through the darkened windows that you are out to sea, god knows where with no lights in the distance. You have to bide your time. 

You notice one of the bodyguards standing behind Dante sports a nice bandage across his nose. The look he pays you is less than kind, and you guess he must have been the one who took your helmet to the face. 

There is quite a feast set out upon the table. Gilded crystal, china, and silver, the whole nine yards. Though your stomach aches with hunger, you don’t dare touch any of the sundries. Dante just stares at you, waiting, you suppose, for tears or begging or a tirade of questions. But you keep your cool, waiting. You’ve learned from John that silence can be way more unsettling than idle threats.

He tries to mask his annoyance, but it’s written all over his fine features when he sits up in his chair, leaning towards you. “That was quite a little chase you gave my boys. How are you feeling?” He looks pointedly at your hand, obviously craving a reaction. 

You shrug, looking down at your missing digit. “A little lighter on the left side,” you muse, winning a sneer. 

“Forgive us. Usually we are not so barbaric, but we had to let your fiancé know that we’re serious. He’s a little thick headed, when it comes to these things.” 

He makes it all sound so reasonable. 

“I see.” You lift an eyebrow. “Serious about what, exactly?” 

Dante, however, goes off on his own little tangent. “You know, my mother never told me the identity of my true father? I think she wanted me to believe I came about like a little god, sprung from her skull like Athena, or maybe like the immacolata concezione. Ah, but my mother was no virgin. That I know.” 

You think it’s a little odd to be sitting here at the table speculating with this man about his dead mother’s sex life, but maybe it’s just your ingrained puritanical American ethos that you can never quite seem to totally shake.  

“I…imagine it was hard, not having a father around,” you offer.

He waves that off as though it was a stupid thing to say. 

“I lacked for nothing. I loved my uncle Santino very much. Something else I owe your John for.” 

You start to lose some of your cool as you try to reason with his circular logic. It gives you whiplash. 

“Your uncle literally caused your mother’s death. Isn’t that what you’re so mad about?”

He makes a so-so motion with his beautifully manicured hand, smirking at you. “You know, when I was a boy, the adults around me spoke of John Wick like he was a god of Death. My mother couldn’t keep the fondness from her voice, when his name was upon her lips. I think a part of me hoped that he was my real father in those days. So foolish.”  

You blink at this–for the life of you, you cannot tell where the fuck this kid is going with all this. It dawns on you that maybe he’s not just infuriatingly entitled and poisoned by hubris, but also maybe, a little mad. 

That does not bode well for you at all.  

“If he knew…I’m sure he would have tried to do right by you.” You think about how badly young Jardani wanted to be a father with his ballerina. Would the older, more calloused John Wick have felt the same?

Dante laughs like you’ve said something exceptionally stupid. “My mother was practically a queen. She would not have borne the seed of a dirty zingaro peasant like John Wick.” 

You sit back in your chair, shocked by the blistering remark, though maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. All thoughts of keeping your cool fly out the window as you fire back, “I hope that someday, someone’s going to wash out your filthy fucking mouth.” 

The bandaged bodyguard makes a threatening move to cross the room to you, but Dante holds up a hand, smirking. You suppose he won, finally getting a rise out of you. 

It didn’t make him any less of a piece of shit. 

Gritting your teeth, you look around. The boat is moving fast over the waves, but you can’t really see anything. You’ve got to hand it to this young man. He’s succeeded in talking you in circles. 

“So…what is it you want, exactly?” 

“I want John Wick dead, of course,” he sneers. “You are the bait. Is this not obvious to you?” 

You look at him across the table for a long beat. 

“What do you think you gain exactly, by taking such a risk?” 

The young man sighs, massaging his temples. “Dio mio. He soiled the honor of my family! Killing my mother was a grave insult. I cannot suffer him to live.” 

“Aren’t you…aware of what happened, when the High Table tried to kill him?” 

Again, he makes that dismissive gesture, and then he grins at you like a wolf. “Ah, but they did not have you. What will John Wick give, to see his lady love go free?”

Maybe you are a little thick. When the logic catches up with you, your blood turns to ice in your veins. 

The answer, you fear, is a lot.

Shrugging, you hold up your mutilated hand. “Don’t know. I’m kind of damaged goods now.”

Dante just smirks at you. “There are worse things we could have cut off.” 

Ugh. 

“Yeah. Thanks?” 

This actually wins you a laugh. “You know…the man who kills John Wick will be a legend amongst our kind? What better way for the new capo dei capi to prove his power? No one will dare challenge me.”

“What about…the bosses in charge now?” You think about the two older gentlemen who you’d met at the negotiations table at the Continental. One of whom, whose finger you broke. 

“Oh. I have plans for them. John Wick is going to kill them for me.” 

You blink, wondering how he managed to frame the capi for your disappearance. You have a feeling your missing finger comes into play somehow. 

Someone’s been reading too much Mario Puzo. 

You’re smart enough not to say that aloud too. 

This reminds you of the end of the Godfather, when Michael Corleoni kills everyone who ever insulted his family in one fell swoop to prove to everyone that he’s not fucking around. It was a great twist in the book. In real life, however…you think he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

If this brat intends to rise to the highest office of the Camorra…it will take more than killing a retired if legendary assassin to cement his powerbase. 

Your control regained, you say nothing in response, and he gets bored, waving you away. “Take her back,” he gripes. Again, the bodyguard with the nose gear moves towards you, but again Dante waves him off again. “Not you, Luca. You might get carried away, and I need her in good health.” He grins at you. “In case we need to cut something else off to make our point.”

The man in question glares down at you, and kudos where kudos is due: he succeeds in scaring the snot out of you. Gooseflesh raises down your arms; uneasiness hardens like a ball of ice in your belly. 

“He’s a little cross, after what you did to his nose. But that’s what he gets for underestimating John Wick’s woman, eh?”

You press your lips, smart enough not to bait either of them any more. 

“You can thank Luca for your finger. Doesn’t he do nice work?” You glare up at Luca, but keep silent, and Dante sniggers. “So, behave yourself, or I’ll let Luca have his way. Andare.” 

One of the bodyguards who brought you takes your shoulder, leading you back down below. You’re a little disappointed you don’t get to eat any of that beautiful food. 

You guess he notices the glint of gold around your neck–quick as a cutpurse, he snatches the fine chain and breaks it, paying you a nasty smile before pushing you back into your tiny little cabin and locking it behind you.

As sorry as you are to lose the cherished necklace, you are so glad you swallowed your tracker. You hope that doesn’t cause you a problem later…but it just might save your life. 

Cold, hungry, and you suppose a little seasick, you settle back into your little closet of a berth. You sit on your bed with your fucked up hand and think to yourself that when John descends on Dante and his cronies with all the fury of the apocalypse…you won’t feel sorry for them at all.

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*zingaro - gypsy, offensive usage *capo dei capi - boss of bosses, the head honcho, the biggest cheese