slashire

[slashire]

private sessions

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

Erik Campbell x fem!reader

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

words:2667

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

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

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

“You stalking me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck, he was hard. Very hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.” 

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

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

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

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

“Fucking hell-”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus…fuck-”

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

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

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “That depends.”

“On what?”

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

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

[slashire]

late nights

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

Highschool senior!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

notes/warnings: highschool AU like senior year for both 

words:1845

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, Spencer. I was joking.”

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

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

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

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

“She signed it?” you asked.

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

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

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

“Different?” you offered.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

A small, grateful smile ghosted across his face.

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

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

And then, they showed up.

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

You didn’t wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave the faintest nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure who was studying who more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spence,” you murmured.

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

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

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

“Spencer-”

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

“Spence.”

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

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

And then you kissed him.

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

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

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

You smiled a little.

“Wasn’t weird,” you said softly.

He blinked once. “It… wasn’t?”

You shook your head. “Not even close.”

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

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

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

[slashire]

wings

Castiel x fem!reader

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

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

And then you'd found the circle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castiel slowly unfurled his wings.

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

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

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

You didn't stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[slashire]

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

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

one hell of a headache pt four

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

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings just typical banter. 

WC: 5352

part one part two part three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked. Hadrian blinked in confusion. 

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

“I agree. Disposable, and stains easily.”

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

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

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

“She will not,” Sebastian said without inflection.

You stopped walking. The parasol lowered slightly.

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

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

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

Your jaw tightened slightly. “How considerate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean polite.”

“Some would call it transparent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Conversation requires participation.”

“You touched his arm. Twice.”

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

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

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

“If someone must be.”

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

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

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

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

“I assumed discretion was preferable.”

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

“I never pretend.”

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

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

“Shame you're not one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only when proven correct.”

You exhaled sharply. “You're impossible.”

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

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

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

You blinked once. “That sounded almost poetic.”

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

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

You took a sharp step back.

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

He nodded once. “As you wish.”

But he didn’t turn immediately.

You did.

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

The evening air settled like pressed silk across the garden.

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

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

It was peaceful.

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

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

Then came the sound.

A soft scrape. Like boot leather dragging against gravel.

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

“Quiet.”

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

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

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

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

“I had the upper hand.”

“You were sitting.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I’ve done it before.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m not an idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

The tone shifted.

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

You gasped. “Put me down-!”

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

“You’re manhandling me!”

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

“Sebastian-!”

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

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

“I’ve been called worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt you’d reach.”

“I would aim.”

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

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

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

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

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

The corridor fell silent in his absence.

You stood alone for a moment before ascending the stairs.

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

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

Almost.

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

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

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

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

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

You didn’t say a word.

He didn’t explain.

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

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

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

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

“I make no promises.”

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

“You rarely do.”

And then he was gone.

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

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

Or what he'd brought back in with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand froze mid-reach for your comb.

“…He’s what?”

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

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

And apparently, later was this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was admiring the embroidery.”

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

Hadrian grinned, delighted. “You wound me.”

“I could arrange something less metaphorical.”

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

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

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

Sebastian remained a portrait of passive indifference.

Until Hadrian rose.

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

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

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

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

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

Ciel’s lips barely twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The carriage rolled away.

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

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

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

You didn’t expect him to come in.

But he did.

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

You didn’t look up.

“Still awake,” he said quietly.

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

“A sensible bedtime.”

“Would you like me to fetch my parasol?”

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

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

“I’ve had little worth saying.”

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

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

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

He was silent.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

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

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

“I don’t sulk,” he said coolly.

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

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

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

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

He stepped closer.

You didn’t back up.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve seen rats with more tact.”

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

“I noticed,” he said flatly.

“And bowed.”

“Sloppily.”

Your eyes narrowed. “He was perfectly polite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gloved hand twitched behind his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

“I don’t slip.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “And?”

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

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

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

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

“Petty.”

“Practical.”

“Jealous.”

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

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

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

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

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

You opened the library door with an elegant flick. “You’re getting slow. That insult barely registered.”

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes lifting briefly. “I’m restraining myself.”

You paused, lips twitching. “That’s what I like about you, Sebastian. So polite. So well-behaved.”

He closed the book with a snap.

“Goodnight, butler.”

“Sleep well, my lady,” he replied coolly. “Do dream of something less… embarrassing.”

You didn’t respond, just slipped into the hallway. Behind you, the library door closed without a sound. But the air in the corridor still hummed, heavy with the static left behind. He hadn’t said it. But you’d won this round. And the next would be worse. For both of you.

And somewhere upstairs, that storm still hadn't passed.

[slashire]

I just found your Kai Parker fic and gorl I need more of your tvd writing IT WAS AMAZING. idek what I'd want for the request ngl but either more tension with Kai or Jeremy Gilbert in his vampire hunting era fr

remind me

Summary: Jeremy's mind is going in every direction and doesn't know how to just be anymore. You ground him back into himself.

Jeremy Gilbert x human!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings really, and idk why i made this a little sad.

WC:1513

The woods behind the Gilbert lake house was still and cold, but the tension threading through Jeremy’s shoulders burned hotter than vervain. You watched from a short distance, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your boots crunching faintly in the leaves as you stepped closer. He hadn't noticed you yet, he was too busy driving a stake over and over into the cracked bark of a tree, like the wood could bleed answers if he just hit it hard enough.

You didn't say anything right away. He had always carried too much weight for someone his age. Ever since the mark started spreading up his arm, it was like he'd been replaced piece by piece. His voice had sharpened. His focus had narrowed. His smile was gone entirely.

You waited until he paused, chest heaving, arm trembling from the sheer force he was using. “If that tree was a vampire,” you said. “I think it got the message.” he stiffened but didn't look at you. “What are you doing out here?”

“I needed to hit something,” he muttered, yanking the stake from the wood. You stepped closer, close enough now to see the fresh lines inked into his skin, wrapping up his bicep like ivy. They hadn't been there yesterday.

You swallowed. “The mark grew again.”

“Yeah.” his tone was clipped, but there was a tight edge under it, like he hated admitting it aloud. “Elena said there was a couple nearby. Stefan wants to scope it out, but I said no. If I get too far ahead of the mark, I lose control. I… I feel it now.”

You moved slowly, stepping beside him, holding a hoodie you grabbed for him, letting the silence settle. “Feel what?”

“That thing in my head,” he said. “The urge. It's not just about killing vampires. It's about hunting them. Like if I'm not tracking something, I don't know who I am anymore.”

He wasn't looking at you, but his knuckles were white around the stake. You gently reached out and placed your fingers over his hand. It was still trembling.

“You're still Jeremy.” you said quietly.

“You don't know that,” he snapped before his eyes flicked up to yours, wide and apologetic a second later. “I mean…you don't see what I do. When I sleep, I dream about ripping hearts out. I wake up with scratches on my arms. Yesterday I almost put an arrow through Stefan's chest because he came up behind me too fast. I don't even remember pulling the trigger.”

“Then let us help you,” you said. “You don't have to go through this alone.”

He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “I'm not sure anyone can help. I'm not even a real person anymore. I'm just…this tool. A weapon. And the worst part? Some part of me likes it.”

That cracked something in your chest. Jeremy had always been the boy who wanted to protect everyone, quietly, selflessly. Now he was turning that instinct inward, weaponizing it until it burned him from the inside out.

You tightened your grip on his hand. “You don't get to decide you're not real just because you're hurting. I've known you since before this mark ever showed up. When you could you would pick up your sister's favorite cereal when you go to the store. You still leave your boots by the door so you don't track mud into the house. You still hold the door open for people. And yeah, maybe you're different now, but that doesn't erase who you are.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he hadn't been sure you were real until that moment.

The silence stretched between you. Then, very quietly, he said, “You should stay away from me.”

You didn't move. “I won't.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won't.”

He pulled his hand back like it burned him and turned away, his voice tight. “You don't know that.”

“I do,” you said. “Because even now, with everything going on in your head, you're still holding yourself back. You're still fighting it.”

He shook his head. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

The wind stirred through the trees. He didn't speak again, but you stayed beside him, and when his hand dropped the stake and reached for yours again, hesitant, unsteady, you laced your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because even if he didn't believe in himself anymore, you did. And you weren't going anywhere.

Jermeys fingers tightened slightly around yours, his palm rough and calloused against your skin. The moment felt like glass, fragile, suspended in quiet tension, waiting for something to shatter it. And something did.

A twig snapped to your right.

He was moving before your mind caught up. In one breath, his arm was around your waist, and in the next, your feet left the ground for a second as he pulled you behind him, placing himself between you and the darkness just beyond the tree line. His eyes had gone sharp, scanning the woods with a kind of feral precision that reminded you this wasn't just Jeremy anymore. This was the hunter.

“Don't move.” he said, voice low, firm. You didn't.

A blur darted past the trees, too fast to follow with human eyes. You caught a flash of someone getting closer, a low snarl that didn't sound entirely human. Jeremy dropped into a fighting stance, the stake already back in his hand like it had never left.

“Come out,” he growled. “I know you're there.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then a figure stepped from the shadows, cocky, tall, with a jagged scar cutting through one cheek. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and he licked his lips as he looked between you and him.

“Well, well,” the vampire purred. “Looks like I found a late-night snack…and the hunter boy himself. Jackpot.” 

Jeremy didn't answer. He didn't blink. His breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as his muscles coiled.

The vampire lunged.

Jeremy shoved you back without looking, and the world became a blur of movement and chaos. The vampire was fast, faster than Jeremy, but he wasn’t normal anymore. The mark had changed him. He pivoted as the vampire aimed for his throat, ducked, twisted, and drove the stake up toward the ribs. The vampire snarled, teeth catching jeremy's shoulder and tearing through the fabric of his hoodie. Blood bloomed instantly, soaking into the cotton.

He grunted but didn't stop. He rolled with the momentum, getting behind the vampire and kicking out one leg hard enough to send the creature sprawling into the leaves. In the same breath, he was in him again, pinning him with his forearm and raising the stake with his other hand.

“You shouldn't have come here,” he muttered.

Then he drove the stake straight through the vampire's heart.

The body stilled, arched, eyes wide in shock, mouth forming a silent scream, and then the blue, black veins formed, consuming the body that lay still. 

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then he staggered back, one hand going to his bleeding shoulder. You were already rushing to him.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, grabbing his other arm to steady him. “Let me see-”

“Im fine,” he said quickly, but the wince he failed to hide said otherwise. You peeled back the shredded fabric of his hoodie and winced at the gash underneath.

“That's gonna need stitches.”

“I've had worse.” but his voice softened now, the adrenaline ebbing out of him in waves. He looked at you, eyes searching your face, and this time there was something different behind them. Not just the cold focus of a killer, but something human. Something scared.

“You okay?” he asked. You blinked at him. 

“Me? You're the one bleeding.”

He gave a weak, half smile. “Still. I had to make sure.”

Your throat tightened. “You saved my life.”

His smile faded into something more serious. “That's the only thing that feels right anymore. Protecting you.” he shook his head slightly. “Everything else…the hunter stuff, the mark, the voices in my head, it's all noise. But when I saw him wanting to go for you, there wasn't a choice. There was no hesitation.”

Your chest ached. “Because youre still jermey.”

He didn't speak. Instead, his hand found yours again, stained with blood. You held on, grounding him, anchoring him to something real, something steady.

“Let's get you stitched up.” you said gently.

He nodded, and as you started walking back through the woods together, his arms brushing yours, body warm despite the cold, you realized that no matter how much darkness the hunters mark carved into him, you would be there to remind him of the light. And he would fight to protect it. Every time.

[slashire]

Hii can you write for rodrick PLEASE, we need more of him (I love him so much) can you write something like him going over to readers house? Like their neighbors or something and it’s all cute 🤗

Girl Next Dore

Summary: you live next door to Rodrick, and he is obsessed with you. One night you catch him looking, again, out his window and this time you invite him over.

Rodrick Heffley x fem!reader 

notes/warnings: just fluff, cute Rodrick. {i got you girl/guy} :)

WC:1483

Rodrick wasn't smooth.

Like, at all. 

Which was unfortunate, considering he was very much in love with the girl who lived exactly fifteen feet away from his bedroom window.

You.

You, with your messy hair and oversized t-shirt sleeves too long for your arms. You, who left your window open while blasting music way better than anything he’d admit he liked. You, who always rolled your eyes when his band practiced but never actually told him to stop.

Rodrick noticed things. Even if he acted like a total moron about them.

He noticed the way you bit your lip when you were reading. The way you talked back to your teachers without even raising your voice. The way your laugh carried across the driveway on Saturday mornings when your friends picked you up.

And he noticed that he was completely screwed.

Because he never liked someone this much before, other than heather. It made him stupid. Like, stupider than usual. 

So when he saw your bedroom light flick on that night, he practically dove across his room to the window. He kept the blinds low enough to pretend he wasn't looking.

But he was.

You stepped into view, hair in a lazy ponytail, wearing pajamas ants with little skulls on them. His heart tripped over itself.

And then, like you knew, you looked right at him through the window.

His eyes widened. He looked away so fast he practically gave himself whiplash.

You laughed.

He felt like he was going to die, then your window slid open.

“Hey, stalker.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands before poking his head out. “I wasn't stalking. I was just…breathing. Loudly. Near a window.”

You smirked. “Right. So, you coincidentally stare out your window every time i turn my light on?”

“I'm not staring.” he shot back. “Im…observing. Like a scientist.”

“Oh, are you studying me, Dr Heffley?”

His face turned red. His brain short-circuited. There was a full four seconds of silence before he muttered, “Yeah, and you're failing the experiment.”

You laughed again, and he had to pretend it didn't sound like his new favorite song.

“Wanna come over?” you said suddenly. “I just made popcorn.”

He blinked. “Like…now?”

“No, Rodrick. Next Tuesday.”

“...Okay. Cool. Chill.” he stood up too fast and nearly tripped over a pair of socks. “Just gimme, like…two minutes.”

“You have one.”

You shut your window, and he stood there in the dark for a second, silently screaming into his hands before grabbing the least wrinkled shirt he could find.

She asked you to come over, he kept repeating to himself. That means something. That has to mean something.

And if it didn't? Well… at least he’d get popcorn out of it.

He nearly tripped once again just trying to put on socks, then decided against them entirely because that took too long. His brain was short-circuiting, but he tried to walk cooly down the hall, shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded, like he hadn't just completely combusted inside his own room.

“Where you goin’?” Greg's voice rang from the living room, a little too curious for his liking.

“Out.” he muttered, blowing past.

“You never go out,” Greg pointed out with suspicion. “Wait-are you going to her house?”

Rodrick froze mid-step. “Who's her?”

“The girl next door her. The one you ‘don't like.’” Greg made obnoxious air quotes.

He turned halfway and pointed a sockless foot at him. “You say one word to Mom and I will replace your shampoo with mayonnaise.” 

Greg recoiled. “That's disgusting.’

“Exactly.”

He slipped out the front door before greg could follow up with more questions, pacing across the narrow strip of lawn between their houses. He swore it felt like a hike through the Himalayas. His palms were clammy. He kept replaying the moment you invited him over like it was a hallucination he might've made up.

The porch light was on at your place. You must've turned it on for him.

He knocked once, then rubbed his hands on his jeans to dry them. Your footsteps padded softly from inside. The door opened. You stood there, leaning against the frame like this was a scene from a movie and you somehow didn't realize how stupid pretty you looked in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

“You took longer than a minute,” you said, holding a bowl of popcorn.

“Yeah, well, I had to put on deodorant. I don't want you to suffer.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” you deadpanned. “Chivalry isn't dead.”

You stepped back, and he walked in, trying to look like this was no big deal, like he didn't nearly pass out on your front porch. The house smelled like vanilla and popcorn, and there was music playing faintly from your speaker, The Smashing Pumpkins, which made his heart stutter because he had that exact album under his bed right now.

You flopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to you. He hesitated before sitting, making sure there was just enough distance to keep from fully combusting, but not enough to look like he was avoiding you.

You tossed him a throw pillow. “Use that. Your hair sheds.”

He rolled his eyes but took the pillow anyway. “You act like I'm a golden retriever.”

You smiled. “You do bark when someone insults your band.”

He pressed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Loaded Diaper is a very serious musical institution.” 

“You guys miss half your cues.”

“That's called artistic timing.”

You snorted and hit play on the remote. A movie flickered to life on the screen, something classic and just a little weird, the kind of offbeat pick that made him think you weren't like the other people at school. You weren't trying to be cool. You didn't wear layers of fake attitude like everyone else. You were just…you. And it killed him a little.

About twenty minutes in, you were elbow deep in popcorn and quoting lines under your breath. He wasn't watching the movie. Not really. He was hyper aware of the way your knee brushed his every few minutes. The way you leaned in when you laughed, just a little, like gravity favored him.

At one point, you turned and caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, almost amused.

He blinked. “You've got, uh…” he reached out before thinking and brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Popcorn salt.”

There was no salt.

You went still.

His hand lingered for a second too long, then dropped like it had burned him.

“Oh,” you said softly. You didn't pull away. “Thanks.” 

He nodded. Looked forward. Tried not to turn red.

Silence settled again, thicker, heavier. Something shifted, but neither of you spoke about it.

The movie ended eventually. You both sat in the glow of the credits, neither of you moving.

He coughed. “So, uh…thanks for inviting me. To your popcorn party.”

“Anytime,” you said, and when you looked at him this time, your smile was quieter. “You're actually…kind of fun when you're not acting like a total idiot.”

“That's literally never.” he deadpanned, but he was smiling.

You didn't say anything for a second. Then, casually, “So…were you ever gonna tell me you liked me, or were you planning to keep blushing at my window for the rest of your life?”

His brain short circuited so hard he physically twitched.

“Wha- i don't- i wasn't blushing. That's a medical condition.”

“Sure it is.”

He looked at you. “You knew?”

You shrugged, leaning back against the cushions, arms folded. “You're not exactly subtle. And Greg kind of screamed it out his bedroom window last week.”

“I'm going to kill him,”

“Dont. He's a valuable source of entertainment.”

He swallowed, trying to collect himself. “So, what…you've just been laughing at me this whole time?”

“No,” your voice softened. “I've just been waiting for you to stop being such a coward.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then, quietly, he said, “I'm not trying to be. A coward, i mean.”

You nodded once, and for the first time, your expression cracked open a little, less teasing, more real. “I know.”

He inhaled slowly. His hand moved toward yours, hesitated, then rested beside it on the couch cushion, close enough to touch, but waiting.

You didn't move away.

“I like you,” he said, voice low, honest.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you reached over and laced your fingers through his, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't say anything. He just smiled, wide, dopey, a little dazed. The kind of smile he only ever smiled when he was looking at you.

[slashire]

Hey hey!! Just read your Kai fic and oh my god it was so so good.

I was wondering if maybe you can write a part two of it? Something where it’s a little time that’s past after they had their little moment and Reader is feeling very mixed emotions about the whole ordeal?

Kai confronts them about it and it happens again? He’s all cocky about it and ends up seducing the reader again?

Idk if you write smut but 👀

Thank you 🫶

thank youu! and i do write smut but it's not very good and apparently i can't write a summary to save my life. anyways i hope i did it justice :)

Chemistry part two

Summary: after being a shut-in at your own house to avoid someone, and he shows up, the very reason you haven't left your house in a couple of days. It escalates further than expected.

Kai Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: smut (18+) little power kink 

WC: 2821

You hadn’t seen him in three days.

Not that you were counting.

You told yourself it didn't matter. That the kiss, the disaster, was a fluke, a byproduct of adrenaline, emotional overload, and being locked in close proximity with a magical sociopath who knew exactly which buttons to push.

And push them, he had. Right up until your back hit the bookcase and your mouth found his like it was instinct.

Now every time you close your eyes, it was there, heat and teeth, and the feel of his hands curling into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or burn the whole place down. You’d pull away eventually. Shoved him off. Called him every name you could think of.

He’d just smirked. Like he knew. 

And the worst part? You haven't stopped thinking about it since.

You slammed a kitchen drawer shut, harder than necessary, and muttered a curse under your breath. The sun had already gone down. You were supposed to be working on a spell for Bonnie with the help of many grimoires and long days, but your focus was garbage. Your head wasn't in it.

Your head was across the room, metaphorically, making out with Kai Parker like your hormones had a death wish.

You turned around, and nearly screamed. There he was sitting on your kitchen counter like he belonged there, legs dangling, eyes glittering in the low light with that same crooked smile that had haunted you every night since that day. The same smile that had crept uninvited into your dreams, unbuttoning your self-control one layer at a time.

“Miss me?” he asked casually.

You stared at him, heart lurching in your chest. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to look that good, barefoot, shirt wrinkled like hed teleported straight from bed, or someone's bed, hair just tousled enough to make you wonder if he planned it that way

“What the hell-” you paused.

“Kai,” you said flatly. “Get out.”

He tilted his head, sliding off the counter and closing the distance in three causal steps. “You didn't answer the question.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

You hated how good he looked in your kitchen. Like he belonged there. Relaxed, like he hadn't been absent for seventy-two hours leaving you to spiral through every possible interpretation of that kiss.

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, Parker?”

His smile dipped into something smug. “You.” 

You should've walked away. Should've hexed him. Should've kicked him out and warded the place until the end of time. But you didn't.

You let him step closer. Let the room shrink around the fear in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth and the way your body responded before your brain had caught up. He wasn't touching you yet, but it felt like he was. Every nerve alive with anticipation, every breath caught halfway between a decision and a disaster.

“You've been avoiding me.” he said, voice lower now.

“You think one kiss means you own me now? I should've killed you by now.” you asked, low.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then dragged slowly back up. “But you didn't. Because you liked it.”

“That's not-”

“You loved it.” his tone was sin wrapped in velvet, a purr at your ear. “And I bet you've thought about it since. Over and over again. The way i pressed you into that bookcase-” 

Your pulse spiked. You hated that he was right. Hated it more that he knew he was right. You opened your mouth to deny it, again, but he took one step forward and you didn't move. Your hand shot out and shoved him back, but he caught your wrist mid-motion.

He didn't hold tight. Just kept his grip warm, casual, his eyes locked on yours. “Say it wasn't the best kiss of your life. Say it, and I'll leave.”

You hated him. Hated that you couldn’t say it. Hated that your body was already betraying you, heart racing, breath shallow, heat rising like a tide in your chest. You didn't answer.

His smirk returned, wolfish and victorious. “Didn't think so.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

This one was different. Not like the first time, not a collison.

Not rushed. Not messy and reactive like last time. 

This one was slow.

Purposeful.

His lips molded to yours like he had something to prove, like he knew he had you, and he was going to make sure you knew it too. His hands slid over your waist, patient, teasing, pulling you into him without a single ounce of hesitation, until there wasn't a sliver of space between your bodies. His mouth moved against yours with practiced, devastating confidence, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

You broke the kiss once, just barely. “This is a bad idea.”

His lips brushed your jaw, then your neck. “So stop me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead.

You melted into it. Just for a second. Just long enough to give in to everything you had not admitted out loud.

He kissed you again, quicker now, teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth, tongue teasing in a way that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He backed you into the couch, kissing you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin. You didn't fall. He guided you down with infuriating gentleness, like he wanted you to know he could be soft, but only when it suited him. His fingers tangled in your hair, the other hand anchoring you by the hip as he settled you beneath him. Your thighs parted instinctively and his hips slotted between yours, the contact electric.

He pressed you back against the cushions, half on top of you, the heat of his body impossible to ignore. The moment dragged. Your mouths meeting and parting in a rhythm that is teased, stoked, built.

His mouth trailed down your throat, lingering at your pulse point.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered against your skin.

“I'm furious.”

He grinned against your collarbone. “Even better.”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the edge of your ribs with maddening restraint. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn't.

Not when his mouth found yours again. Not when his hips slotted perfectly between your legs, not when your hands roamed under his shirt and he groaned like you were undoing him just by touching him.

The world narrowed to breath and heat and whispered curses between kisses.

“Are you still mad?” he murmured, his nose brushing yours.

“I haven't decided yet if I'm going to hex you.” you replied, breathless, fingers sliding further beneath the hem of his shirt.

His grin was pure wickedness. “Just so we're clear- I'm into that.”

Your hands ran over his stomach, nails grazing across the plains of muscle you haven't seen but had definitely imagined. His skin was warm, twitching slightly under your touch.  His breath caught when you pushed his shirt up and off entirely, tossing it aside without taking your eyes off him. Your eyes dragged over the expanse of bare skin in front of you, toned but not polished, not perfect. Real. warm. Human in a way he rarely let himself be.

He didn't waste time either. His hands slipped under the back of your shirt, splayed wide across your spine like he wanted to memorize every inch of you by feel alone.

“You've been driving me insane,” he said, softer this time.

You reached up, curling a hand into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him inhale sharply. “That's my line.”

He chuckled. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pulled him closer. “Do I look like I want you to stop?”

That was all the answer he needed. 

He kissed you again, deeper now, hungrier, his body pressing flush against yours as he rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate. The friction made you gasp, and he groaned low in his throat, as if the sound alone was enough to drive him wild.

You arched into him, hands roaming shamelessly across his bare chest, down his back, nails dragging just hard enough to leave a mark. He responded in kind, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it without a glance. His eyes dropped to your chest, pupils blown wide, lips parting slightly at the sight of you. Then his mouth was back on your skin, your collarbone, your chest, kissing down like you were something sacred. He worshipped you with lips, teeth, and tongue, and you were helpless under the weight of it.

“God, you're unreal.” he muttered, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

“Less talking.” you said, pulling him back in.

And when your hips lifted, seeking friction, he gave it to you. A slow grind that lit every nerve and forced a gasp from your throat.

“You're so responsive,” he said. “Like I could set you off with just my mouth.”

“Then do it.” you challenged, half-gasped.

He laughed-moaned-and met your mouth again, hands already mapping the rest of you. His mouth moved lower, down your jaw, your neck, trailing kisses that turned into nips, then soothing licks as he went. He took his time, learning the way your body reacted, how your breath hitched when his tongue traced the curve of your collarbone, how your fingers tightened in his hair when he kissed the swell of your chest.

He flicked his tongue against your skin, grinning when you whimpered. “You always this responsive, or is it just me?”

You dragged his mouth back to yours in answer, your kiss bruising, impatient. Your hips rolled up against his without conscious thought, chasing the friction you didn't dare beg for yet. He groaned, hands slipping down to grip your thighs and hitch one leg around his waist.

“You're killing me,” he growled against your mouth.

“Then shut up and die happy.” you snapped.

Clothes disappeared in fragments, his jeans first, then yours, both of you fumbling and desperate, more skin revealed with each passing second. Your bodies tangled, heat and tension ratcheting higher, the kind of desperate urgency that came from pretending it didn't matter, when it mattered too much. 

He kissed like he fought, ruthless, relentless, consuming. But there was tenderness beneath the fire. His touch slowed just when you thought you couldn't take any more, his mouth trailing revenant kisses along the curve of your hip, the inside of your thigh. He worshipped like he wanted to ruin you and make you remember it every time you close your eyes.

You pulled him back to you, anchoring him with your legs, your hands, your mouth. The look in his eyes when he finally settled over you, naked, breathless, eyes full of heat and something close to awe, made your heart stutter.

He brushed hair from your face and leaned in, lips hovering just over yours. “This changes everything, you know.”

“Shut up, Parker.” you whispered, “and kiss me again.”

He did. Slow, sensual, devastating.

His body moved with yours, every shift perfectly matched, every grind of hips sending new waves of pleasure through you until it was impossible to think. You felt everything, his breath on your cheek, the twitch of his fingers, the low, reverent curses spilling from his mouth as he lost himself in you.

The world narrowed to this, sweat damp skin, kisses that broke and reformed, every second more overwhelming than the last. 

He didn't move at first. His body hovered over yours, his weight braced on his forearms, eyes locked on yours with a heat that bordered on reverent. The shadows between you seemed to still, thick with a kind of unspoken electricity that either of you dared to break.

His breath mingled with yours, warm, unsteady, tasting faintly of whiskey and want. Your chest rose and fell in tandem, both of you straining to stay still while every nerve screamed for contact. His eyes dropped to your lips. You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You just leaned in, barely enough to brush your mouth against his. He made a soft, strained sound, half groan, half sigh, and it was like that was all he needed to snap.

Then he kissed you like he was making a claim.

He pressed into you, hips rolling slowly, a devastating grind of bare skin that stole the breath from your lungs. His body was hot against yours, every muscle taut, the tension in him barely restrained. His mouth moved over yours with purpose, like he wanted to drown in you, drag you under, and take his time doing it.

You arched up against him instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist, back bowing with a shiver when his fingers traced up your sides, slow, possessive, hot. Hecursed into your mouth, like even touching you like this was more than he’d prepared for.

“Still so mad at me,” he murmured, against your lips, voice low and rough as gravel, “but you let me in anyway.”

His hand slid down, gripping your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his hips until your bodies aligned perfectly. He pressed into you again, deeper, slower, drawing a gasp from your lips. The friction was blinding. You grabbed at his shoulders, digging your nails in, and he hissed, shuddering above you.

“You're not real,” he whispered into your throat. “You can’t be.”

You barely registered it, too lost in the feel of him moving with you, each motion more maddening than the last, like he knew exactly how to make you unravel. The rhythm he set was controlled, methodical, a deliberate tease designed to push you right to the edge and keep you there.

“Faster,” you gasped, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

He smiled, dark and slow, but he obeyed.

His paced shifted, hips thrusting harder now, slower still, draggin every movement out until your whole body tightened around him. You were breathless, dizzy, a mess of heat and need and something deeper clawing at the edge of your chest, something you didn't want to name.

He leaned back enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched, brow furrowed like he was barely holding on. One hand came up to your face, brushing your hair away, and he stared at you like the world could fall apart around him and he’d still only see you. 

“You feel like fire,” he said, voice wrecked. “Like you were made to burn me.”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was already winding tighter, hips chasing his with increasing desperation, every thrust igniting sparks in your blood. Your hands gripped his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could reach, holding on like the crash was inevitable.

And it was.

You shattered first, gasping his name like a confession, your entire body seizing in a rush of heat and release so intense it brought tears to your eyes. The wave hit you hard and kept going, crashing again and again, and Kai didn't let you go.

He held you through it, moving with you, chasing his own edge until he followed, hips jerking, mouth breaking from yours with a raw, ragged sound that echoed in your chest like a promise.

He collapsed onto you, arms bracketing your head, breath shuddering against your neck. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, and yet you didn't move. You didn't want to.

His skin was damp, his hair curling slightly with sweat. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his back, the pads of your fingertips memorizing the lines of muscle and scar, the rise and fall of each breath.

Neither of you spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, because there was too much.

You felt him shift slightly, one hand sliding down your side, over your hip, anchoring you to him like he didn't want to rush you slipping away now that he’d finally gotten this close.

“Still want to hex me?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost boyish.

You gave a tired laugh and turned your head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“More than ever.”

He grinned, slow and lazy, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I'll consider it foreplay.”

You didn't bother to reply. You just lay there, tangled together in the mess of sweat-dampened limbs and cooling magic, heart pounding as if it knew everything had just changed.

And there was no undoing it now.

[slashire]

What lingers

Summary: You’re dying, and Castiel makes the call to use your body as a vessel temporarily to save you. But now you feel him inside your mind, his emotions bleeding into yours… including the ones he tried to hide.

Castiel x fem!reader

Setting: Season 9, post-Fall of the Angels (around episodes 9x06–9x09

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, Supernatural Drama

WC: 4276

The cold always comes first.

It creeps in slowly, through your limbs, through the wound in your side, through the fingertips of Dean’s hands pressed against your skin. He’s shouting. You can tell by the way his mouth moves, wide and frantic. But it’s muffled. Like he’s underwater. Like you’re underwater.

Everything’s slowing down. Even the pain. Even the panic.

Sam’s voice joins in, urgent and scared. You try to move, to reach for either of them, but your body is numb.

This is it, you realize.

You’re dying.

You can feel your soul detaching, unmoored, weightless. You see the ceiling of the abandoned church above you, a shattered stained glass window letting in streaks of moonlight. Dust floats in the air like snow.

You wonder if you’ll haunt this place.

Then..

“Y/N.”

Castiel’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade of light.

You see his face above you. Pale. Determined. Blue eyes shining with something desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And you barely have time to register the way his hand presses against your forehead before the world disappears.

It’s not blackness.

It’s light.

It burns.

And then you’re gone.

The light is endless. Not warm. Not cold. It is simply… everything. A breathless, searing presence that wraps around every nerve in your body and pulls you into a place that has no shape, no sound, just him. Castiel isn’t speaking. He doesn’t need to. His presence vibrates through you like a stormcloud threatening to split. He is in your veins, your lungs, your bones, coiled inside your soul like he belongs there. But it doesn’t feel like possession. Not exactly. Not yet. You think it should hurt. It doesn’t.

What hurts is the memory of dying. The fear. The knowledge that this, whatever this is, was the only choice left.

You open your eyes and find darkness.

Your lungs seize in a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from deep water, and you lurch upright before your body remembers how. Air claws at your throat. Sweat beads along your temple. The couch beneath you groans as you move. You know this place, the Men of Letters bunker, but it feels foreign, unfamiliar. Distant. Like seeing it through someone else’s eyes.

Then you realize you have.

You know things you shouldn’t. You feel things you shouldn’t. The weight of thousands of years clings to your ribs. It’s a whisper in the back of your skull, memories like feathers brushing your mind, falling, falling, falling from Heaven.

Castiel’s fall.

You close your eyes hard and squeeze your fists against your temples, like pressure might silence the thoughts that don’t belong to you. But one of them flares brighter than the rest: your name, spoken like a vow. Y/N. His voice in your chest, not your ears. You gasp again, this time softer, and look around.

Dean is in the war room just down the hallway, speaking to Sam in that harsh, too-loud voice he only uses when he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. You can’t make out the words. You don’t care.

Because he’s there.

Castiel is sitting in the corner chair. Trench coat abandoned on the table beside him, sleeves rolled, hands folded between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for judgment. Like he already knows the verdict.

His eyes meet yours.

And you don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

You see the lines under his eyes first. The tension in his jaw. The faint shimmer of remorse in every breath he doesn’t take.

“You’re awake,” he says.

The sound of his voice, real and quiet and his, shatters something inside you. You feel it crack down your spine like thunder.

“What did you do?” you ask.

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “You were dying.”

“You possessed me,” you whisper, and even as you say it, it doesn’t taste right. Too clean. Too simple. It doesn’t account for the after.

“There was no time,” he says. “I..yes. I entered your vessel. It was the only way to heal you before…before you slipped away.”

Your body trembles once, subtle and deep in the bones. You grip the edge of the couch like it might anchor you. “And now?”

Castiel stands. His shoulders are taut, unreadable. “I left.”

“Did you?”

The words escape before you mean to say them, but you know they’re true. He didn’t fully leave. You feel him. Not like another person riding shotgun in your head. It’s subtler than that. He’s… in the seams. In the places that cracked open when you almost died. He left a part of himself in you, and now your soul remembers him like a scent that never fades.

His eyes drop to the floor. “Not all of me,” he admits.

You breathe in deep, and it rattles in your chest. “What does that mean?”

“I didn’t take all my grace with me when I left.”

You blink. “Your grace? But I thought…after Metatron, you don’t-”

“This grace is borrowed. Stolen.” He looks up, and now there’s fire in his expression. Anger, grief, shame. “I thought I could control it. I couldn’t. When I pulled you back, part of it… stayed. In you. I tried to remove it, but your body, your soul, it held onto it.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, chilled. “So I’m… what? Part angel now?”

“No.” He says it quickly. “You’re still human. Entirely. But some of what I am, what I was…is inside you. It will fade. Eventually.”

Your head spins. Not from fear. From weight. From the knowledge that something celestial is knotted inside your bones and you didn’t ask for it. Didn’t consent to it.

You sit with that.

You sit with him.

And then you ask, softly, “What did you see?”

Castiel’s breath hitches. He turns away from you for the first time, as if the answer is too heavy to speak facing forward. “I saw everything. Every memory. Every scar. Every time you prayed and no one answered. I saw the first time you held a weapon. The first time you wanted to die. The first time you chose to live again. I saw your mother’s hands. Your first nightmare. I saw the day you met Dean. And the way you looked at him like he was your last chance.”

Your throat is tight. You hadn’t expected him to answer. Not like this.

“And then I saw the way you looked at me.”

You don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask forgiveness. He just lowers his head, and for the first time, Castiel looks small. Like he’s trying to fold himself into something less monstrous. Less divine.

“I didn’t mean to take it all,” he says. “But I couldn’t bear to let you go.”

The silence that follows is vast.

“I still dream,” you whisper. “Even now. But they’re not mine.”

He nods, slowly. “No. They’re mine.”

You step forward. “I saw angels falling. I felt the wind. The light. The fire. You were afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I still am.”

There’s a pause so thick you could choke on it. Then you say, “You said you left me. But you didn’t. Did you?”

His answer is not in words. It’s in the way he looks at you like he’s been carrying your name in his mouth for centuries. In the way his hand trembles before he reaches up to his own chest, as if checking to see whether you are still inside him, too.

And maybe you are.

Maybe that’s the cost of this kind of salvation.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t ask for distance. Instead, you step closer. He doesn’t move. His gaze follows you like a tether.

When you stop in front of him, you whisper, “Next time, ask.”

He nods once. “I will.”

But you both know that if it happens again, if it’s your life on the line, he won’t.

Because angels don’t pray. They act.

And Castiel has already decided that your soul is worth damning himself for.

You feel his grace flicker inside your chest like an aftershock.

And for the first time since you woke up, you feel safe.

You hate that.

You hate that you want to feel him again. That the part of him inside you makes your own thoughts feel less alone. That your soul, cracked open and bared to Heaven, has started to ache when he’s not near.

But it’s the truth.

And even now, you think he knows it.

Because his hand twitches like he almost wants to reach for yours.

He doesn’t.

Neither do you.

Not yet.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he thinks about it.

Not in the crude way humans often mean it. Not with desperation or lust or anything so small. His longing is older. Purer, in a way that terrifies him.

Because Castiel has touched the face of God and felt nothing. He’s stood at the edge of time and watched stars blink out one by one. He’s borne witness to miracles and catastrophes, creation and decay, and never once has he ached for any of it. But when he looks at you, fragile, bruised, still holding pieces of him inside you like shards of forgotten light, he feels that ache everywhere.

Your soul is louder now. He can feel it even when you leave the room. Like a hum beneath his ribs. The part of him he left inside you didn’t just heal your body. It bound him to you. Not completely. Not magically. But intrinsically. Like recognition.

Like belonging.

You don't understand it yet. You barely look at him without suspicion lingering behind your eyes. You still feel the wrongness of what he did, even if it saved you. And he knows that. He carries that guilt with the same reverence he once carried a sword.

But you haven’t pushed him away.

Not entirely.

And that, somehow, is worse.

Because you speak to him softly now. Ask him questions you wouldn’t before. You stand a little too close when you’re angry, and much too close when you’re not. You press your palm to your chest when the grace flickers inside you like static, and your eyes find him every time it does. Like you know he’s still there, watching. Waiting.

He dreams now, dreams of you. Not stolen memories. Not echoes of your pain. His dreams. And they are quiet, always. Simple. You, sitting on the stairs. You, laughing at Dean with your chin tipped to the side. You, asleep beneath a blanket with your fingers curled against your throat like a child. You don’t speak in these dreams. You don’t need to. The silence between you is its own language, and Castiel understands it perfectly.

There’s a moment, in one dream, where your hand brushes his. No intent. No urgency. Just contact. Skin to skin.

He wakes up shaking.

It isn’t desire, exactly, not the way Dean would call it. It’s yearning. A need so total it eclipses everything else. He wants to protect you, yes. But he also wants to understand you. To memorize the curve of your mouth when you frown. To trace the way your soul flares when you lie. To know every thought you’ve ever had, not to own them, but to honor them. To kneel at the altar of your existence and swear he would never deserve to touch it again.

But he already has.

He’s been inside your soul.

He knows the shape of your hope and the weight of your grief. He knows which memories you bury and which you cling to. He knows what it felt like the first time you held someone as they died, and the sound you made when you realized you couldn’t stop it.

He carries those memories like prayers.

He shouldn’t want more.

But he does.

He wants you.

Not just to protect. Not just to serve. Not just because he made a choice in a desperate moment.

He wants to be known. By you.

Wants you to look at him, not with pity, not with fear, not even with gratitude, but with that softness he’s seen you give Sam when he’s overwhelmed, or Dean when he’s pretending not to cry. That human gentleness. That silent permission to stay.

But Castiel is not gentle. Not really. He is wrath in a borrowed body. He is a soldier who forgot how to stop marching. His hands were made for killing. His voice was forged in Heaven. He is not built for softness. Not for love.

And still…

He finds himself watching you when you sleep.

Just for a second. When he’s certain you won’t wake.

The grace inside you hums differently when you dream. It mirrors your heartbeat. It calls to him. And sometimes, just sometimes, you whisper his name in your sleep.

Not loudly. Not pleading. Just… soft. Like it’s the safest word you know.

Castiel doesn’t breathe when that happens.

He doesn’t move.

Because if he does, if he breaks that fragile moment, he’ll ruin it. Ruin you. And he’s already taken so much.

So he stays still. He listens to the sound of your breath. He lets the longing rise and crest and fall inside him like a wave.

And when he can no longer bear the ache, he slips quietly from the room.

Not because he doesn’t want to stay.

But because he wants it too much.

And Castiel knows, when angels want something, they destroy it.

So he waits. Not for forgiveness. Not for permission.

He waits for you.

Because if you ever reach for him again, truly reach, he won’t have the strength to say no.

And in the quiet, shadowed corners of the bunker, with your name etched into every corner of his grace, Castiel lets himself hope for the one thing he’s never dared to ask for:

That one day, you might want him back.

It begins with your jacket.

You leave it draped across the back of a chair in the library, absent-minded. A small, careless thing. You’d come in from the rain, exhausted, soaked to the skin after a salt-and-burn gone sideways. Castiel hadn’t gone with you, Dean hadn’t asked, and Castiel hadn’t volunteered. He knew better than to impose himself now.

But he watched the door until you came through it.

You didn’t see him. Or maybe you did and said nothing.

Your voice was tired when you told Sam you were going to shower. Just your voice, no bitterness. No fight. And that worried him more than anything.

Because exhaustion, for you, was rare. Even battered, bloodied, you were always present. Always fighting. But now, your voice had nothing left in it. Like something inside you had finally bent too far.

So you left the jacket, and Castiel found himself beside it.

He tells himself he shouldn’t touch it.

He touches it.

The fabric is damp, heavy with water and smoke and the faint scent of salt. But beneath it, beneath all that, is you. And something inside him stutters. It’s not carnal. It’s not human. But it’s real.

Because in that moment, all he can think is I carried you once.

Not in the physical sense. In the soul-deep, eternal sense. He held your life between his hands and pressed you back into being. He breathed borrowed grace into your dying lungs. He knows you.

He wants to un-know you. For your sake. For his.

But he can’t.

He sits in the chair and holds the jacket in his lap for a second too long.

And then he hears your footsteps in the hall.

He doesn’t move in time.

You walk in, towel-drying your hair with one hand, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants that don’t belong to you, probably Dean’s, by the size. Your eyes land on him, and they narrow, not unkind but surprised.

And then they drop to your jacket.

To his hand still resting on the shoulder of it.

Your lips part.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make excuses. He simply meets your gaze and waits for you to speak.

But you don’t.

Instead, after a long breath, you step further into the room and sit across from him.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, studying him the way he studies galaxies.

And then you say, “Do you ever wish you hadn’t done it?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “No.”

Your throat bobs. “Even though it changed everything?”

“It saved you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His voice is lower now. “I would rather carry the weight of what I did than live in a world where you don’t exist.”

Something in you stumbles at that. Your face softens. And the room falls quiet.

Castiel wonders if you can hear it, the thunder of his longing.

Because it’s louder now. Less contained.

You’ve been different these last few weeks. Not open, not exactly, but unguarded. Less careful. You watch him longer. You ask more. You let the silences stretch out like bridges, instead of breaking them.

You’re still angry. Still haunted. But you choose to be near him.

And that, more than anything, undoes him.

Because he can feel the moment approaching. The moment when all the tension he’s buried beneath borrowed grace and dying light will fracture. It’s close. So close. He sees it every time your eyes linger on his mouth instead of his hands. He hears it in the way you say his name now, not reverent, not distant. Human. Soft.

He almost breaks that night.

Because you fall asleep in the chair across from him.

Head tilted. Breathing slowly. And when you shift in your sleep, the grace inside you pulses, reaching for him like a hand in the dark.

And Castiel, who has resisted war and wrath and temptation unimaginable, leans forward.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he kneels in front of the chair, lowering himself as if in prayer, and watches the shape of your breath. His hand hovers above your knee, inches from contact.

His mouth opens. No sound.

Because what could he possibly say?

I am no longer an angel of the Lord. I am something smaller now. But everything I am, I left inside you.

He shouldn’t speak.

But he does.

Just barely.

“I think I was made for this.”

You stir, just slightly. Not awake. Not quite.

His voice is almost nothing. “Not Heaven. Not orders. Not grace. Just this. You.”

And then, your head shifts. Your eyes flutter.

He vanishes before they open.

Not out of fear.

Out of devastation.

Because if you had looked at him in that moment, with anything other than complete understanding, he would have fallen all over again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

He tries to stay away after that.

For three days, he doesn’t enter a room if you’re in it. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Avoids the sound of your voice like it might burn through what little self-control he still possesses. He patrols in the early hours. Answers prayers without comment. Watches the sky from the roof of the bunker as though the stars will give him permission to feel what he already does.

They don’t.

They never have.

On the fourth day, Dean corners him in the hallway with a sideways glance and a half-hearted scoff. “You and Y/N have a fight or something?”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

Dean shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me. She’s been quiet. Weirdly quiet. And that’s saying something.”

Castiel almost tells him. Almost says I’ve made her a vessel and I ache when she breathes. But he doesn’t. He just nods once and disappears.

By sunset, he's in the war room, pretending to read a lore book he’s already memorized, when your voice hits him from behind.

“You don’t have to avoid me.”

It’s not angry. Not accusing. Just honest.

And it hurts.

He closes the book. Doesn’t turn around.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he lies, gently.

You step closer. He hears it, the soft sound of your socked feet on the stone floor. You stop a pace behind him.

“So what are you doing?”

Castiel lifts his eyes to the book. Blank pages. Meaningless ink. “Trying not to want something I can’t have.”

The silence after that is so long it echoes.

When you finally speak, your voice is low. “You’re talking about me.”

He turns then.

And the way he looks at you, it could crack glass.

“Yes.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. “Why can’t you?”

“Because I touched your soul without permission. Because I altered you. Because I made you carry a part of me you never asked for. And because wanting you on top of that would make me cruel.”

Your eyes are wet. Not crying. But raw.

“I don’t think you’re cruel.”

“You should.”

He steps forward now, slowly, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours.

“I was not made for this,” he says softly. “I was not made to want. I was made to obey. And I have disobeyed Heaven, God, even myself, but nothing has undone me like you.”

Your hands tremble.

Castiel sees it.

He does nothing.

Because if he moves, if he breathes, if he reaches, it’s over. He will not survive it.

But then you close the distance for him.

Not fully. Just one step. Enough.

“Do you think I don’t feel it too?” you ask.

His heart, what’s left of it, shatters quietly.

“Every time you leave a room,” you whisper, “I feel it. That silence. Like something holy just left. You think I don’t hear it when the grace inside me wakes up at the sound of your voice?”

He flinches.

You keep going.

“I was angry. I was. But I’m not anymore. Because whatever you gave me that day…it didn’t just bring me back. It opened something. I can feel you even when you’re gone.”

He says your name like it’s the last word he’ll ever be allowed to speak. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.”

“No.” He steps back, breath harsh. “If I break this…if I let this happen, you won’t come out of it the same. You’re human. You feel. You love. And I consume. I will burn you without meaning to.”

You reach for him.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you.

Your hand, small and trembling, brushes the side of his face. His eyes fall closed like the weight of your touch is too much. Like grace itself is bending under it.

“I’m not afraid of you, Castiel.”

He opens his eyes.

There is a storm in them now.

Not rage. Not wrath.

Longing.

Absolute.

And he shatters.

He takes your wrist gently, reverently, and draws your hand from his face to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“I don’t have a soul,” he says. “Not in the way you do. But if I did…this is where it would live. And you’d be inside it.”

You can’t breathe.

Neither can he.

And for a long, perfect moment, nothing moves.

Then, with the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use:

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s it.

That’s the breaking point.

He kisses you like a vow. Not desperate. Not greedy. Just full. Of all the things he’s never said. Of the light he buried in you. Of the war he lost when he realized he couldn’t stop loving you.

He moves slowly, like gravity is pulling him toward you and all he’s doing is giving in. His eyes fall to your mouth and then back to your eyes again, asking you one final time without words.

You answer by leaning closer.

When his lips touch yours, it isn’t rushed. It isn’t sharp or wild or hungry.

It’s devotion.

It’s the first time he’s touched something with the full intent of keeping it.

He kisses you like you might vanish. Like you’re made of glass and scripture. His hand comes up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone, and the contact sends a pulse of heat through both of you, grace and soul, meeting at the seam.

You inhale sharply against his mouth. Your fingers curl into his coat, holding on, not to pull him closer, not to demand more, but because your body finally has permission to feel him.

And Castiel feels it too.

Your heartbeat, steady but straining. Your breath, faltering like a prayer half-said. The way your lips part under his, like you’re offering him something you’ve never given anyone else, and you don’t even realize it.

He deepens the kiss, but only barely.

Because this isn’t about possession.

This is remembrance.

You, alive. You, whole. You, choosing him, even after all of it.

And when you finally part, the space between your mouths is so thin it hums.

He leans his forehead to yours.

Your breath is still trembling. So is his.

And in that moment, Castiel, angel, rebel, vessel of grace, knows peace for the first time in his existence.

Not in Heaven.

Not in order.

But here.

In you.

[slashire]

one hell of a headache pt three

Summary: a week after the mission you and Sebastian were sent on, the tension grew and grew. Late night reading in the library turns out to be a good option…or a regretful choice.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

Warnings: sexual acts described MINORS DNI

WC:5530

part one part two part four

It had been a week since the kiss.

A week since you’d crashed your mouth against his in the middle of a mission, furious and breathless and too close to snapping. A week since Sebastian had kissed you back with the kind of precision and hunger that had haunted your sleep every night since.

And nothing had been normal.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

The insults were sharper. More frequent. The two of you barely made it through a hallway without exchanging barbs, and even Ciel had begun watching you both with the wary expression of a boy caught between two impending explosions. Every eye roll, every sarcastic retort, every deliberate brush of shoulders in the corridor was laced with something taut and electric that neither of you acknowledged.

You refused to talk about it. So did he.

But the silence between words said enough.

Now, on the eighth night since the mission, you sat alone in the manors east library- legs curled beneath you in a high backed chair, a thick novel propped open across your lap. The only sounds were the soft crackle of fire and the whisper of turning pages. Candlelight flickered across the dark wood shelves, bathing the room in gold and shadow.

It was late.

You knew it. But sleep has been a stranger lately. You haven't told anyone why.

The door creaked open.

You didn't look up. You didn't have to.

“I should've known the stench of arrogance would find its way in here eventually,” you muttered.

Sebastains voice was as smooth as ever. “And I should've known the source of my migraines would be ignoring curfew again.” 

You turned a page, deliberately slow. “Did Ciel send his favorite lapdog to fetch me, or are you just bored of polishing silverware and your own ego?”

“Neither,” he replied, gliding toward you with irritating grace. “You've been neglecting your schedule. Again. As the manors butler, it is my duty to remind you that sleep is necessary for humans. Even those as stubborn as you.”

You glanced up, met his gaze, and let your voice flatten. “If you're trying to mother me, you’re several centuries and one apron too late.”

He leaned against the bookshelf beside your chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with that unshakeable calm that made you want to throw the book at his face.

“Why is it,” he said casually, “that every time i try to carry out a task, you interpret it as a personal insult?”

“Because you breathe like its an act of condescension.”

“And you speak like sarcasm is an art form you're desperate to fail.”

You closed the book with a snap and stood, stalking toward him until you stood toe-to-toe, looking up just enough to glare him in the eye.

“I don't need your help. I don't need your reminders. And I certainly don't need you lurking around like some smug shadow with a superiority complex.”

“And yet,” he said, head tilting, “you never seem to ask me to leave immediately.”

“That's because I know you won't.”

“Correct.”

There it was again. That look. That unbearable, unreadable expression that danced just on the edge of amusement and something else, something hungrier, darker, caged behind centuries of control.

You hated it.

You shoved past him, heading for the door. “Fine. ill go. If only to escape your voice.”

He followed, of course. Silent as always, stalking behind you like a shadow that smelled faintly of tea and fire and rain. The library doors closed behind you both with a soft thud, and the hall stretched ahead-dark, empty, echoing with the sound of your sharp footsteps and his measured ones behind.

He caught up.

Naturally.

“You're impossible,”

“So i've been told.”

“I meant it as an insult.”

“So did they.”

You whirled on him halfway down the courier, words spilling from your mouth before your brain could catch them. “What do you want, Sebastian? Why are you always there? Watching. Smirking. Breathing down my neck like some demonic mosquito-”

His eyes flashed red, just for a second.

“Mosquito?” he repeated, tone dangerously amused.

“Bloodsucking. Annoying. Impossible to get rid of.”

He stepped closer.

You didn't back up.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You're starting to sound obsessed.”

“Obsessed? Please. I've had splinters I cared about more than you.”

“And yet here we are again. Alone. Arguing at night.”

You laughed, a sharp, bitter thing. “Right. Because you showed up in my library.” 

“Correction,” he said, stepping closer, “it's the manors library. You merely infest it.”

You turned again, storming the last few feet to your room, and when your hand hit the doorknob, his voice stopped you cold.

“Running away again?”

You froze.

Turned.

The smirk on his face was smug enough to murder.

“You think you've won something?” you snapped. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “But I do enjoy watching you pretend it isn't.”

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

You turned, slowly, jaw clenched tight, the silk and lace of your evening dress rustling with the motion. The corsets pressure at your ribs was nothing compared to the heat pounding in your head. 

You took one step toward him, then another. The corridor was empty, save for the two of you and the echoes of war that hadn't even been spoken yet. Your slippers made no sound against the polished floor, but the look in your eyes was louder than a shout.

“You really are a smug bastard,” you said, voice calm in the way broken glass is calm, still sharp, still dangerous, still seconds from drawing blood.

He didn't flinch. He stood there, one hand behind his back, the other adjusting the cuff of his glove with infuriating precision. His expression betrayed nothing but an elegant boredom that only enraged you further.

“A bastard with a point,” he murmured. “Your anger always arrives when I'm closest to the truth.”

You stepped close enough to grab the lapel of his coat, to ruin the perfect fold of fabric he’d ironed into sharp submission. “You're not close to anything but a well-deserved punch in the mouth.”

His gaze flicked downward, briefly-at your hand, curled into his coat, at the pale silk of your glove against his black wool. “If you wished to tear my clothes, my Lady, you need only ask.”

The slap came instinctively.

He caught your wrist before your palm could land. Not rough. Not tight. Just firm enough to stop you. The fabric of his glove was smooth against your skin, infuriatingly cool while your blood burned under layers of velvet and lace.

“I'm not playing your game.” you hissed.

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You're losing it.”

That was it. The last fraying thread of patience snapped.

You shoved him back against the wall, the motion sending a curl of black hair over his brow. Your dress rustles sharply as you moved, skirt catching the candlelight in the fold of dark burgundy and cream. The bodice fit tight against your chest, every breath shallow, every word sharp. You stood your ground, shoulders squared, chest heaving.

He stared down at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or let his more demonic nature take over.

“You infuriate me,” you snapped.

“Likewise.” he said, voice low and quiet, not bothering to straighten his coat.

“I can't go ten paces without hearing your damn voice. I can't walk through a room without you looking at me like you're above it all-”

“Because I am.”

You shoved him again.

He caught you this time, his hands gripping your upper arms through layers of satin and corset boning, and before you could throw another insult, he pressed you back against your bedroom door-hard.

Your back hit wood. His mouth hit yours.

The kiss was sudden, brutal, a collision of hatred and hunger, and you answered it with equal force. There was nothing soft in it. This wasn't  love. This wasn't even lust. This was frustration, fire, rage- everything you'd both refused to name, now screaming through clenched teeth and parted lips.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing over the embroidered satin of your dress before gripping your waist, pulling you closer. The corset kept your spine stiff, chest lifted, but you didn't need leverage. Your hands tangled in his coat, yanking him forward as your teeth scraped his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, low, controlled, the sound of a man trained not to show weakness, failing just a little.

He reached behind you, turned the doorknob without looking, and you stumbled backward into your room, still fused at the mouth, still tangled in silk and fury.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stepped back. He followed.

He crowed you until the backs of your legs hit the chaise at the foot of the bed. You fell back with a gasp, skirts fanned around you like a storm had dropped you there. He loomed above you, cravat askew, coat undone. You hated how good he looked like that. Disheveled. Messy. Uncontrolled. 

He climbed over you like a shadow, knees planted on either side of your skirts, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, like he was memorizing the taste of someone he’d vowed not to want.

Your hands found his cravat, yanked it loose. His gloves hit the floor without ceremony. You felt the warmth of his bare hands through the thin lace at your wrists.

“You're insufferable.” you breathed.

“You're exhausting.” he answered, his breath fanning against your jaw.

“And yet you're still here.”

“And yet you're still under me.”

That shut you up.

His mouth was on yours again, unforgiving and hot, and the back of your head pressed into the velvet cushion beneath you as he deepened the kiss. The silk of your dress rustled against his waistcoat as he leaned down, arm braced beside your head. One knee dipped into the bed, grazing the folds of your skirts, and you hated the way your stomach twisted when you felt the weight of him settling against you.

His hands, no longer gloved, were colder than they should have been. One slipped around your side, fingers trailing the curve of your corseted waist with unsettling precision, pausing just where the whalebone cinched too tight to bend. The other found your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he was taking inventory of something he never should've touched.

You bit his lower lip, hard enough to punish. He barely flinched.

“Still not submitting, I see.” he murmured against your mouth.

“Try harder,” you snapped back, eyes flashing.

He growled- soft, not quite human- and kissed you again, harsher this time, like he meant to bruise. Your fingers were in his hair now, tugging, pulling, ruining that perfect slicked back style he clung to like armor. You wanted it undone. All of it. The mask, the polish, the facade. You wanted to strip away the inhuman calm and see what he was under the suit and silk.

You succeeded, just a little.

He shifted against you, mouth trailing briefly down your jaw, tongue flicking against your neck once- cold, calculated, and deliberate. A warning, not affection. The threat beneath it curled something tight inside you.

“Do you think this means anything?” you said, voice breathless as you shoved at his shoulder- not enough to move him, just to make the point.

“I think,” he said, not moving away, “that you talk far too much for someone who keeps pulling me closer.”

Your breath caught. Because it was true. Your hands had curled into the lapels of his open coat, dragging him down with each gasp and curse, as if proximity could silence the noise in your chest.

He tasted like wine and heat and something darker- something unnatural. Every kiss left you dizzy, furious, and desperate to win a battle you didn't understand. He was still above you, weight braced just barely, like he was giving you a choice to push him off, daring you to do it.

You didn't.

Instead, you surged up and kissed him again, open-mouthed and unforgiving. His hand slid down your side, over embroidered satin, across the ruffled detail at your hip, to the fine silk and lace underskirt cinched beneath it all. The weight of him settled more fully against you now, and the heat in your cheeks spread down your throat, your chest, even as your mouth curled in a sneer mid-kiss.

“You're disgusting.”

“So you've said,” he replied, teeth dragging over your lower lip.

“Do not ruin my tailoring.” he warned.

“Do not ruin my sleep schedule.”

He smiled against your neck.

Bastard.

Your breath hitched as he dipped lower, mouth trailing down the column of your throat, just above the lace collar that peeked out from the neckline of your corset. He wasn't  touching skin- yet- but he was close enough to set your nerves alight. You hated that he knew exactly how close he could get before you snapped. You hated that you haven't snapped already.

“You'll regret this,” you whispered, voice low and dangerous.

“I already do,” he said simply.

But he didn't stop.

Neither did you.

The room was too warm now. Between the fire, the layers of silk, the sheer weight of him pressing against you- it was unbearable. You didn't want to think. You didn't want to feel. You just wanted to drown in the violence of this one thing, this one place where words didn't matter and power didn't shift like sand beneath your feet.

You kissed him again, slower this time. He answered with that same cursed precision, like he wasn't  just indulging you, but studying you. It made your blood boil.

You shoved at his coat again, and he let it fall, shrugging free of it like it was nothing. You almost hated how quickly he adapted, how easily he moved between composed butler and this-this inferno in a suit.

“I swear,” you muttered between kisses, “if you hold this over me, I'll stab you with a cake fork.”

“I'm insulted,” he said, teeth grazing your collarbone through fabric. “You think I'd need blackmail. You fold quite easily when angry.”

“I don’t fold.”

 “Then what do you call this?”

You growled and rolled him off of you, climbing into his lap in one seamless, angry motion that left your skirts tangled around both of you and your breath sawing in your throat. You gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at you, those crimson eyes glowing faintly under the low light.

“This,” you hissed, “is tactical dominance.”

He looked delighted.

“Of course it is.”

You kissed him again, biting his lip for good measure. His hand gripped your hips now, the layers of your dress crinkling between his fingers as he pulled you closer. You didn't care If he tore the damn thing, you'd consider it a favor. It was too hot, too heavy, too suffocating- and not just because of the corset.

When you pulled back, both of you were breathless. His eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen, shirt wrinkled and askew. He looked, for once, less than perfect.

You loved it.

“You are going to ruin everything,” you said.

He tilted his head. “And you weren't already doing that?”

You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his. “If you tell anyone-”

“Who would I tell?” he whispered, voice gone low and rough. “The rats in the cellar? Or perhaps the dishes?”

Your breath returned between kisses, each one deeper than the last, desperate, indignant, laced with fury neither of you had language for. Your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar again, now damp with heat, clinging to him like he was the only steady thing left in the room. His mouth moved down to your throat, careful, unhurried.

But his hands-

One found your back. The other settled at your hip, palm pressing through the stiff structure of your corset, as though he could feel your racing pulse even through the layers. Then- without a word, without even breaking contact- he began to undo the laces.

It was methodical. Precise. Predictable, damn him.

You should've expected it. Of course he would know how to unlace a corset without pause, without hesitation, without even looking. He'd probably done it a hundred times. For noblewomen, duchesses, perhaps even corpses. His fingers moved easily along the back of your gown, unthreading ribbon from the reinforced eyelets like he was disarming a bomb-silent, efficient, no wasted movement.

You froze for half a second, heart hammering.

“You undo corsets like you iron shirts.” you muttered against his open mouth.

He didn't miss a beat. “That's because most corsets are less stubborn than you.”

You wanted to slap him again. Instead, you kissed him harder, frustration snarling at the base of your throat.

One last pull, and the tension in your bodice gave away with a sharp whisper of loosened silk. The sudden lack of pressure made you gasp. The corset no longer bit into your ribs. You could breathe again, but that was hardly the issue now. You could feel the loosened weight of the dress starting to slip down your shoulders, satin and lace whispering against your skin as gravity reclaimed it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. The dress was half-undone, your skin flushed and bare in places the neckline had concealed, your breath uneven, your lips swollen. Candlelight caught the outline of your collarbones, the slope of your throat, the faint  sheen of sweat just beneath your hairline. Your eyes burned with the same fire you'd used against him for months. Only now, it wasn't  defense.

It was want.

Regret came later.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of silence. You reached behind you, shrugged on shoulder, then the other, and the gown slipped off entirely. It slid down your arms, your hips, pooling in layers of silk and petticoat around your waist and thighs, leaving only the underlayers: lace, ribbon, skin, breath.

He said nothing. His eyes were unreadable. Still red. Still unnatural. Still fixated.

You straddled him again, now without the weight of noble fabric or laced-up pride between you. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in with both fury and grace, mouth on his again before he could give some clever, cutting remark about your state of undress.

“Say one word,” you warned between kisses, “and I'll shove a candlestick where the sun doesn't shine.”

“You assume I was planning to speak.”

He leaned back just enough to let the light catch every inch of you. His hands ran over your waist, bare now, save for the thin fabric of your chemise, before sliding up your back again, as if to feel the aftermath of his handiwork. Your skin prickled under his touch. You were trembling, but not from fear.

It was this. The proximity. The heat. The unspeakable, shameful knowledge that you’d wanted this long before you ever admitted it aloud. And the fact that it was him. That it was sebastian. That it was your butler, the infuriating, flawless, hell-born butler you'd spent every waking moment fighting just to keep your sanity intact.

You hated how good he felt.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Less war, more fire. Your hands tangled in his shirt, this time tugging it from his waistcoat in one angry pull. His breath hitched- subtle, but there- and it gave you just enough satisfaction to grin against his mouth.

“You're enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“I was bred to serve,” he murmured, voice velvet smooth. “And you are very, very difficult to serve.”

That earned him another bite to the shoulder. He flinched, barely, and smiled.

You could feel the consequences coming. Creeping in like fog beneath the door. But neither of you moved. Neither of you stopped. There was no going back now. Only heat, and breath, and hands on skin that should never have met.

And regret could wait for the morning.

His lips didn't leave yours for long. Every kiss was a silent battle, each gasp, a truce, each bite, a declaration of war. His hands were colder now, like his patience had returned even if his restraint had not. They smoothed down your sides with quiet control, curving around the faint bones of your hips before dragging upward again, following the soft folds of your chemise with ghostlike pressure. It was only still on, not because he was hesitant, because he was toying with you. Watching you come undone in slow motion.

You loathed how methodical he was. You loathed the goosebumps he raised with a single sweep of his palm across your back, the way he paused just before slipping beneath the final fabric barrier, like he was giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

He knew you wouldn't.

The fireplace crackled behind you, shadows moving across the room like silent spectators. His mouth moved lower again, trailing from your collarbone to the top curve of your chest, lips barely grazing lace and skin with maddening restraint. You hissed through your teeth, nails dragging lightly down the back of his neck in warning.

“If you keep kissing like that,” you muttered, voice rough, “I might start thinking you like me.” 

He huffed a low, sharp, breath, close to laughter but too bitter. “Perish the thought.”

You grabbed his cravat and yanked, throwing it somewhere else in the room. “I’d rather perish you.” 

“Such affection.” he said dryly, even as his fingers curled around your waist again, tugging you forward until you were flush against him. The heat between your bodies made your head spin. He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he dragged his tongue against it in apology. Your whole body responded before your mind could catch up.

You hated the way your thighs tightened around him. Hated the way your breath stuttered. But you hated him more.

Your hands slid down his chest, undoing the last buttons of his shirt without asking. The crisp white cotton gave way, revealing marble skin that shouldn't have looked real. Not on something like him. He was too perfect. Too still. Too constructed. Like a weapon dressed in a gentlemans shell. You pressed your palm flat against his chest, half-expecting it to burn.

Instead it was cool. Smooth. Infuriatingly steady.

He watched you through half lidded eyes, letting you touch, letting you explore. And it wasn't submission. It was worse. It was permission.

“Are you going to sit there smirking like an oil painting,” you said, “or are you going to help?”

“I was waiting for you to tear it off like you did my patience.”

You made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Fine.”

You shoved his shirt down his arms. He let it fall. The room swam with heat. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Still, you stared him down, defiant even now.

“I hope you hate this as much as I do.” you said.

“More.”

You didn't know which of you moved first. Just that your mouths collided again with enough force to bruise. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down as you fell back against the bed. He followed, blanketing your body with his again, teeth grazing your throat like he meant to devour you and restrain you at once. You arced into him, hands twisting into his dark hair, legs curling around his hips, and you felt him press against you, solid and undeniable through the last layers between you.

No one spoke. There was no need.

Just breath. Heat. Mouths and teeth. The sound of lace tearing, silk rustling, breath hitching. You didn't moan-heaven forbid- but you gasped, you bit, you exhaled his name in a curse that didn't sound like a curse at all.

And the space between you ceased to exist.

His mouth captured yours again with hunger that felt more like punishment than passion, his hands sliding down the length of your body with precision that made your skin tighten beneath his touch. Every movement he made was like he was reading you by touch alone, learning how to unravel you from the inside out.

Your chemise slipped off your shoulders. Not roughly. Not hastily. Just enough to make you feel the air against your skin before his mouth replaced it, warm, open, merciless. His lips trailed along the line of your collarbone, then lower, teeth dragging with just enough pressure to make your stomach clench. You grabbed at his arms, nails leaving faint croissants against his forearms as he mapped every part of you with maddening control.

He moved like he was still in command. Still your butler. Still the one orchestrating this chaos, even as he knelt between your thighs and let his hands roam up the backs of them, dragging you slowly toward him with a strength that made it impossible to think.

Your body shifted under his, instinctive and tense. He pressed against you deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him. The friction burned. Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His lips were at your throat again, his hands bracketing your hips, anchoring you like you might disappear if he let go.

You fought the urge to whimper. You let out something between a growl and a broken breath instead, teeth clenched, pride intact.

“Dont…dont think this means anything.” you muttered, even as your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.

“Believe me,” he said low against your skin, “I don't.”

And still, his hands moved. And still, your body betrayed you.

You met him in equal measure, every touch, every shift of his weight answered with your own. You pushed back against him, lips swollen from kissing, thighs trembling with pressure you refused to give voice to. Your whole body was heat and tension, locked against his as if the closer you were, the less your mind could scream at you to stop.

He pressed you deeper into the bed, one hand splaying wide against your stomach, the other threading into your hair. He tilted your chin just so-just enough to expose your neck again, to make you feel it when he dragged his lips down your throat and let his breath tickle across your pulse point.

You shuddered.

And he moved again, slow and steady, and every breath caught somewhere behind your teeth.

It was maddening, the way he refused to rush. The way he held your gaze, watching the way your body reacted before doing it again, again, and again. He worked like a craftsman, silent and sure, unbothered by your insults muttered through clenched teeth and gasps.

You tried to keep the upper hand, even now. You tried to insult him, to bite him. To act like this meant nothing. But every time he moved, your resolve cracked a little more.

The bed creaked beneath you, the fire snapped in the room, and all that filled the room was the sound of breath, rustling linen, and bodies moving in rhythm. His name escaped you again, this time quieter, hoarser, like a secret you hadnt meant to say aloud.

His smirk returned when he heard it.

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against the corner of your mouth like he'd earned it.

“I'll pretend..pretend you're not en..enjoying yourself.”

“I'm always efficient.”

and then he did something that made your whole body arch, deliberate, punishing, perfect and you forgot every insult you'd ever prepared. 

Morning came slowly.

Your body was the first to betray you, aching in places you hadn't expected, sore in ways that made last night echo louder than any dream ever could. You shifted beneath the covers and felt cool cotton brushing against your skin. Not the scratchy remnants of your chemise. Not the ruined ribbons of your corset. A full linen nightdress. Clean. Soft. Modest.

Your brow furrowed.

The room was warm. The fireplace had been tended to. Sunlight stretched in pale beams across the floor, catching the faint shimmer of the discarded dress draped carefully over the chaise.

You sat up.

You were tucked in.

Tucked in.

Like some delicate little noble daughter who hadn’t just spent the entire night entangled with a demon. Like you hadn’t kissed him like you meant it. Like you hadn’t let him. You gritted your teeth. Your hair had even been brushed, neatly gathered to one side, not a single knot in sight.

And he was gone.

Typical.

You didn’t know if you were furious or grateful. Probably both. Probably more furious. You threw the blankets back with too much force and swung your legs out of bed just as a polite knock sounded at the door.

“My lady?” Mey-Rin’s voice chimed sweetly through the wood. “I’ve brought your morning dress, if you’re ready.”

You cleared your throat. “Come in.”

Mey-Rin entered carrying the usual bundle of silk, lace, and rigid propriety that passed for a day ensemble. She gave you her usual bright smile, but her eyes flicked toward the empty fireplace, then to the disturbed sheets. Her grin faltered just slightly.

“Didn’t mean to wake you early,” she said quickly, setting the dress over the screen. “Sebastian mentioned you had a long night of reading.”

You blinked. “Did he now?”

She fumbled with the hangers. “Yes, well, he said you’d fallen asleep in the library, and he carried you back. Said you were too stubborn to admit you needed rest.”

Of course he did.

Your jaw clenched as Mey-Rin helped you behind the screen and began the slow process of lacing you into a sapphire-blue day dress. It was modest, buttoned to the throat, sleeves down to your wrists, corset tight enough to remind you how hard it was to breathe around your own pride. As she worked, she filled the silence with casual chatter about weather and deliveries and Lady Elizabeth’s most recent correspondence. You heard none of it.

Your mind was still back in the library. Or on the bed. Or beneath him. The heat of his breath. The press of his hands. His voice, low and venomous, I’m always efficient.

You wanted to punch him again.

Once dressed, you made your way to the dining room, boots clicking across the polished floors of the manor. Everything looked so... normal. Like nothing had happened. Like the night hadn’t cracked something open between the two of you that you couldn’t seal shut.

The doors to the dining room opened without fanfare. Inside, Ciel was already seated at the head of the table, tea steeping beside his untouched breakfast. His eye shifted toward you briefly, then returned to the paper in his hand.

You took your usual seat across from him, posture prim and spine stiff.

Silence.

And then the door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

You felt it.

That impossible stillness that only came when he entered a room. The graceful glide of footsteps, soft and sharp, like a wolf pacing around a ballroom.

“Good morning, Young Master,” Sebastian said with his usual perfect cadence. “My lady.”

You didn’t look at him.

You refused.

He placed your tea beside you, then set down Ciel’s breakfast with surgical precision.

“Thank you,” Ciel murmured without looking up. “You’re late.”

“My sincerest apologies. I was detained by… unfinished duties.”

Your grip on your teacup nearly cracked the porcelain.

Ciel blinked once, then glanced between you and Sebastian. His one visible eye narrowed.

“You’re both unusually quiet.”

No one responded.

Sebastian stood at his left shoulder, expression unreadable. You sipped your tea too quickly, scalding your tongue, just to avoid speaking.

Ciel looked back and forth between the two of you, then lowered his paper entirely.

“What happened?”

You and Sebastian answered at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“An ordinary evening.”

The silence that followed was louder than any outburst.

Ciel raised a brow.

“Ordinary?” he repeated. “With the two of you involved? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

You stiffened. Sebastian didn’t flinch.

Ciel exhaled slowly, setting down his tea.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t let whatever this is interfere with your duties. Either of you.”

You nodded tightly.

Sebastian bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

Ciel gave one last look of suspicion, then returned to his paper.

But the damage was done.

You could feel Sebastian’s gaze even now, burning beneath his lashes as he stood motionless at Ciel’s side. Not looking at you. Not needing to. The tension between you buzzed like static, impossible to ignore, impossible to voice.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[slashire]

Well haha why not part 3 to One hell of a headace?

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

i just finished it and I'll be posting it tonight! :)

[slashire]

Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology.  It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately. 

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?” 

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that  starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.

[slashire]

PLEASE MAKE A PART 2 TO ONE HELL OF A HEADACHE 🙏🙏😭😭 it was so good and sadly there aren’t a lot of black butler fics 😣

here it is. :)

part one part three part four

one hell of a headache pt two

Summary: through insults and arguments, you and Sebastian both had one thing in common. You both regret falling for one another.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

Genre: comedy, romance

WC: 2422

It started like a splinter. You noticed it only when it began to ache.

Sebastian had entered the drawing room with the usual theatricality, crisp as cut glass, smirking like a cat in a room full of birds. He handed you the morning paper and said something smug about the state of politics, and you, as always, gave him a reply sharp enough to file knives on.

But something had changed. You'd seen it in the way his eyes lingered on your face a moment too long, not in admiration, but as if studying a contradiction he couldn't solve. You didn't like it.. You didn't like the flicker of curiosity in his gaze that went deeper than usual, like he was trying to trace the edge of something he wasn't supposed to find interesting.

You threw the paper at him.

He caught it without blinking. “I'll assume that means you agree.”

“I assume you have nothing better to do than loiter like a morally conflicted shadow.”

“I am your shadow,” he said mildly, “as your contract dictates.”

You stood abruptly. “Then I suggest you vanish like one when I turn the light on.”

He smirked. “And miss this delightful conversation? Unthinkable.” 

That was the problem. Lately, these conversations had begun to feel less like battles and more like dances, steps you both knew by heart. Every insult exchanged with the precision of clockwork, every narrowed glare matched by a crooked smile. And instead of exhausting you, it was beginning to…amuse you. That was the part that stung.

You weren't supposed to enjoy sparring with a demon.

You weren't supposed to start wondering what it meant when he stood too close or when his voice dipped low, like he was speaking to you and no one else in the world.

The realization hit you at dinner one evening, when you insulted his taste in wine pairing and he responded with a comment about your fashion sense that should have drawn blood, but instead, it made you smirk. Worse, he saw the smirk. Noticed it. And smiled back, for real.

You nearly choked on your soup.

He arched an eyebrow. “Too rich for your taste?”

“Too smug for mine,” you snapped. “Wipe that smile off your face before I do it with a bread knife.”

“I imagine you'd miss,” he said, folding some napkins. “You usually do.”

“I never miss. You dodge.”

“And yet I'm the one on the receiving end of your attention every hour of the day.”

You stilled. So did he.

He had crossed a line-not in word, but in implication.

And you hated that your heartbeat reacted like he’d touched you.

The next morning, the insults came quicker, crueler. You were vicious with your commentary. You called him an over-polished corpse with a god complex. Said his suits looked like they were stitched by blind bats. You mocked his hair, his voice, his posture, anything to keep the distance intact.

He gave as good as he got. Said your handwriting resembled a chicken's last confession. Called your sarcasm a 'defense mechanism barely dressed as wit.’ Accused you of being emotionally constipated.

You retaliated by shoving a teacup across the table and yelling, “Well, you look like a funeral that learned how to speak.”

He didn't even blink. “And you sound like regret in a corset.”

That one hit a little too hard.

You didn't speak to him for a full hour.

By the third day, the household staff started avoiding the main hallway altogether. The air between you had become so dense with tension that even the candlesticks seemed nervous. Tanaka blinked at the two of you once and went back to sipping tea with the serenity of a monk.

Finny asked if you and Sebastian were ‘playing a game.’

You replied, “Yes. It's called Who Snaps First.”

And yet…there were moments. Quiet, traitorous moments.

Like when you burned your hand on a lantern wick and Sebastian was there with cool cloth and muttering something in Latin under his breath. You were too stunned to insult him.

Or when he caught you shivering during a storm and wordlessly placed his coat over your shoulders. You let it stay. He didn't mention it. Neither did you.

You thought the worst moment would be the one where he let you fall asleep in the library and carried you to bed without waking you. But no. The worst moment was the one that came later.

The night he stood outside your door, hand half-raised, not knocking.

You saw him through the cracked opening.

He looked…undecided.

That was what terrified you the most.

Because Sebastian Michaelis never hesitated.

He opened his mouth, maybe to speak, maybe to retreat, and you slammed the door in his face. Then immediately cursed yourself, because you wanted to know what he'd been about to say. 

The next morning, he served your tea like nothing had happened. And you insulted him harder than ever.

“I'd rather drink sewer water than your pity blend,” you snapped, snatching the cup.

He tilted his head. “And yet you drink it every day. Curious.”

“You're lucky I haven't replaced you with Grell.”

“Ah yes, because chaos, murder, and flamboyant shrieking would really elevate the household ambience.”

“At least he wouldn't stare at me like he's planning my autopsy.”

His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped slightly. “I'd never plan it. I'd improvise.”

You nearly flung the teacup. He caught your wrist before you could.

And for a second, the war stopped.

His fingers were cool, firm. His eyes-those inhuman, infernal eyes- met yours without amusement, without mockery.

You hated the silence that bloomed there.

You hated how familiar it felt.

You pulled your hand back sharply. “You're getting sloppy, demon.”

He nodded once. “And you're getting afraid.”

The rage that flared inside you was a relief. It was a weapon you understood.

“I'm not afraid of you,” you hissed.

“No,” he said softly. “You're afraid of what you're starting to feel.”

You shoved past him. “Get out of my sight.”

He didn't move. Just whispered as you stormed away, “As you wish…my Lady.”

It wasn't until you were in your room, door locked, heart pounding for no reason you were willing to name, that you admitted something horrifying.

You had fallen for him.

Worse, he knew.

And he regretted it too.

Because the next morning, he insulted your intelligence so eloquently it made Bardwin spit tea into a vase. You called him a walking corset mannequin and accused him of having the personality of polished granite.

The insults were crueler now. They sliced deeper. They were meant to protect, to rebuild the walls that were cracking under the weight of something dangerously human.

Neither of you dared to touch the truth again.

But every glance was loaded. Every argument, a near-confession.

And the war continued, not because you hated each other.

But because you knew what would happen if either of you stopped fighting.

The assignment had seemed straightforward on paper, escorting Ciel to investigate a string of disappearances near the coast, workers vanishing from a newly acquired shipping yard. Strange circumstances. Stranger witnesses.

You weren't officially part of the operation, but Ciel had insisted. “Someone needs to keep Sebastian from turning the investigation into a theatrical production,” he said.

You had glared. Sebastian had smiled. “Oh, I wouldn't dream of dramatics.”

Ciel had snorted. “I was talking to Y/N.”

The air reeked of salt, old fish, and gunpowder. The warehouse floor groaned beneath your boots with every cautious step, thick with dust and damp rot. Your coat clung to you, soaked at the hem from the rain outside, and your patience- already hanging by a thread thanks to your assigned company- had officially rotted through.

“This is a trap,” you muttered, low and sharp as your eyes scanned the broken rafters above. “A blatant, stupid trap.”

“I thought you enjoyed excitement,” came the too-smooth reply from behind you. “Perhaps if you focused more on the investigation and less on complaining, we'd be done by now.”

You whipped around. His gloved hands tucked behind his back like a smug painting come to life, was watching you with that same infuriating, unreadable half-smile. His coat, of course, was immaculate despite the rain. Not a single strand of hair dared to move out of place.

You sneered. “I would focus if i didn't have a hell-born stalker breathing down my neck every five seconds.”

He took a slow, silent step closer, his smile sharpening. “Forgive me. I was under the impression my presence was required to keep you alive.”

“You're required because Ciel said so. Not because I need you.”

He tilted his head, as if examining a fly under glass. “You keep saying that. Yet here you are-still breathing.”

“And somehow still enduring your voice,” you snapped.

“A miracle indeed.”

A crack split the air, gunfire, loud and close. Instinct tore through you both. You dove behind a stack of rustled crates, him vanishing into shadow like smoke. Another shot followed. Then a third. You ducked, cursed under your breath, and scanned the high beams. Shadows moved too fast above. At least three assailants. Armed. Human. Possibly hired.

Boots struck wood near your position and, before you could react, a hand gripped your shoulder and yanked you roughly into a narrow crawl space between support beams. You opened your mouth to protest, to rage, to call him every foul name you'd ever invented, but he shoved you against the inner wall and pressed himself against you, pinning you there. One hand splayed beside your head. The other locked your waist in place.

“Don't move,” he breathed. His voice was close. Too close. Right beside your ear, a warm whisper against your temple. You could feel the tension in him, every muscle strung tight beneath fine cloth. His coat brushed your knees. His chest pressed flush against yours. His scent, tea leaves and fire and something darker, filled your head.

“I said dont move,” he repeated.

“I heard you,” you spat. “Get. Off.”

“Would you rather be shot?”

“I'd rather be shot than suffocated by your pompous presence.”

He chuckled, the sound too low for comfort. “You say that, and yet your heart is racing.”

Your eyes narrowed to slits. “Because I'm considering murder.”

“And here I was thinking it was the thrill of my proximity.”

You jerked forward, only for him to push you harder into the wall. Your breath caught. Your hands were trapped between you and him, fists curled in his lapel out of necessity and rage.

“I hate you,” you said through your teeth.

“I've always admired your commitment to honesty,” he replied, voice still maddeningly calm.

“You're a plague in a suit.”

“And you're a storm in heels.”

“You’re smug, arrogant, over polished-”

“And you're aggravating, reckless, and absurdly stubborn.”

You scowled. “You're getting awfully bold for a servant.”

He leaned in until your noses almost touched. “And you're getting awfully heated for someone who claims not to care.”

That did it.

Your mouth crashed into his without warning, less a kiss and more an act of open warfare. His surprise lasted all of half a second before he responded in kind, lips meeting yours with equal force, equal fury. The kiss was bruising, angry, the culmination of every insult, every taunt, every lingering stare that lasted just a second too long.

He kissed like he fought, with precision and heat and zero hesitation. Your hands rose, tangled in his coat, yanking him forward as your back slammed harder into the wall. His teeth grazed your lower lip. You bit his in return. His grip tightened on your waist, his other hand tangling in your hair. A low, frustrated sound escaped him, a sound you'd never heard before and didn't want to admit sent heat straight through your veins.

It was messy. It was furious. And it was everything you'd been pretending not to want.

You broke the kiss first, panting, furious with yourself, furious with him. He didn't move, just stared at you, face shadowed, lips red and parted. His eyes flicked over your expression like he was memorizing it, storing it away, locking it behind some door even he didn't like to open.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Don't you ever do that again,” you snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. “You initiated.”

“You were in the way.”

“Of your mission?”

“Of my sanity.”

He leaned back with infuriating composure, brushing imaginary dust off his lapel. “Apologies, my Lady. Next time, I'll allow the bullets to do the talking.”

“Next time, I'll throw you in front of them.”

“How chivalrous.”

“How convenient.”

There was blood on his lip, yours or his, you weren't sure, and you hated the way it looked good on him. Like a dangerous painting, half-ruined and still smug.

The next gunshot brought you both back to reality. You stormed off without another word, him gliding beside you silently, as if the last five minutes had not happened at all.

You cleared the warehouse in five minutes. The assailants, as it turned out. Were hired thugs, human, unremarkable, and now unconscious thanks to Sebastian's usual flair for excessive force. You didn't thank him. He didn't expect you to.

By the time the mission was complete and you returned to the manor, silence hung between you like fog. You didn't speak. He didn't speak. Even Ciel noticed something was off.

At dinner, Sebastian served you tea like always, graceful, expressionless, unshaken. You took it without looking at him.

“You're quiet tonight.” ciel observed.

“Must be the weather,” you said.

Sebastian smiled faintly. “A passing storm.”

You lifted your teacup, eyes fixed on the dark liquid. 

“That didn't happen,” you muttered.

He inclined his head, just enough. “Of course not.”

And neither of you ever spoke of it again.

But from that night forward, the insults hit harder. They came quicker. The tension was a constant now, crackling beneath every word, woven into every glance. Because you had kissed him. Because he had kissed you back. Because you liked it, and you hated that more than anything.

And worse- he knew.

So, the war continued. Unspoken. Sharp as ever. No mercy. No forgiveness. Only teeth and fire and the constant, unbearable ache of everything left unsaid.

[slashire]

Can you make a part two to Sebastian fic? Where reader and sebastian falls for eachother and regrets it? THEN THEY INSULTING EACHOTHER MORE AND STARTS KISSIN. Ehe.

i just finished it a couple minutes ago and i will be posting it tonight! alot of people were asking for it so i made it. :)

[slashire]

Hiii!!!! Could u write a Brahms heelshire x reader where the reader smokes (could be a way cope/calm themselves or just in general, u can choose!) How would Brahms act before he reveals himself and after?

No rush, have a cold pillow tonight, and an wonderful day 💗

hiii! you didn't write what reader smokes so i did the first one that came to mind, sorry if its short and you have a wonderful rest of your day/night!! :)

smoke

Summary: to calm yourself with all the new job stress, and being alone in the house, you turn to your favorite coping mechanism. Brahms is…confused to say the least.

Brahms heelshire x gn!reader

Warnings: reader smokes so if you're not okay with that click off! <3

WC: 992

The house is silent, thick with dust and secrets, the kind that settle into the bones. The Heelshires were clear in their rules, though strange, borderline on absurd: dress the doll, read to him, no guests, no leaving, no forgetting meals. No smoking. You ignored that last one. It wasn't like they'd ever know. Besides, it wasn't nicotine. And it is what keeps the spiral at bay, what keeps your mind from tipping into the dark.

The first time you light up, you’re on the balcony outside the guest room, perched on the ledge with your hoodie drawn tight and your thoughts louder than the wind. The house is old and heavy and has an eerie stillness to it.

You think you’re alone. But you aren't. 

Inside the walls, Brahms watches. Always watching. Every movement, every exhale, every flick of the lighter. The sound of the lighter flicking sends a jolt through him, not because of the fire, but because it marks a shift in you. Your posture relaxes, your breath slows, you smile faintly at nothing. How you melt into yourself and how your fingers unclench. How you stop pacing the halls after you smoke. You sit. You breathe. You laugh softly at things in the books you read aloud. Sometimes you even talk to the doll, not out of belief, but because the house is too quiet otherwise. The smell is different, earthy, thick, and unfamiliar. Not like the sharp burn of cigarettes. This is..slower. 

He doesn't understand it, but he becomes obsessed with the pattern. The way you always go to the same place, always check over your shoulder before you light it. The slow creek of the floorboard you always step on. He starts listening for the soft rustle of the joint in your fingers. The inhale. The pause. The exhale.

It fills his space through the vents, warm and earthy. It clings to your clothes when you read to him. He's drawn to it, even if he doesn't like the way it pulls your focus away from him. You’re too calm. Too distant. When you smoke, you’re somewhere else. Not in the house. Not his.

It makes him anxious. He wants all of your attention. He doesn't retaliate, not directly. But things begin to shift. One day, your lighter’s gone. Another day, your stash is moved. You find it tucked in the back of a drawer you never opened. You chalk it up to being high. The house is weird, it creaks at night, sometimes you hear your name whispered low through the vents. You laugh it off.

But it keeps happening.

You’re halfway through one when you hear the sound of something scratching just behind the wall. Deliberate. Like fingernails dragging slowly across old wood. You pause, strain to listen, but its gone. The doll is in a new spot when you come back inside, angled towards the door like he was waiting. A way you know you didn't leave him, there's something accusing in the tilt of his head.

You feel it then. Not malice, exactly. Not anger. But attention.

More things, concerning things, start happening. Soft footsteps in the wall, the rustle of breath behind your mirror. You think it's all the smoking at first. Paranoia. Your clothes go missing, you find them folded neatly outside your door the next day. The doll appears on your pillow some mornings just staring at you.

When Brahms finally reveals himself, it’s quiet. You’re coming back from the balcony late one night, just high enough that the edges of the world are soft. The hall is dark, lit only by moonlight. You step into your room, and he’s there.

Not the doll.

Him. 

Massive. Masked. Standing in the corner like he's been waiting for hours. Your body freezes before your mind can even catch up, he doesn't move, does not speak. Just breathes. Heavy and slow. Your heart races.

The high dies all at once.

But he doesn't rush you. Does Not raise a hand, he tilts his head, eyes locked to yours through the holes in the mask. The silence stretches.

Then, slowly, he steps forward- each movement heavy, careful, almost childlike. You stumble back until your legs hit the bed frame. He stops a foot away and crouches, not threatening, just watching you. He reaches out, not to hurt you, but to gently take the crumpled joint from your pocket.

He looks at it for a long time, fingers curling around it like he's holding something fragile. Then he stands, turns, and walks to the fireplace. Drops it into the embers.

He doesn't say a word.

From then on, smoking becomes.. Complicated. He doesn't stop you, not forcefully. But when you try again, he's there. Always. The lighter you hide is gone by morning. Your backup stash ends up waterlogged in the sink. You light one anyway, and when you turn, he's already watching, silent in the doorway. Not angry. Just.. present, unblinking.

He doesn't punish you, he doesn't need to. His presence alone is enough to make your hands tremble for a different reason.

And strangely, you start needing it less.

Because Brahms begins replacing the ritual. When your body tenses, he appears. When you can't sleep, you find him crouched outside your door, mask tilted, just watching until your eyes close. He hovers, lingers, breathes in sync with you like he's trying to become the calm you used to chase in smoke.

And it works a little. In the most unsettling, possessive, quiet way, it works.

He never says a word about it.

He becomes something like your silence. Your fog. Your addiction.

[slashire]

HII I saw you write for Kai Parker and I got so excited (the Kai lovers are starving I fear) but I also fear I’m terrible with ideas and have no idea what to request..??

So I suppose I’m asking for Kai Parker X reader authors choice!

Sorry if this is annoying ily

i took forever on this cause i didn't know what i wanted to do but it turned out fine! kai i think is a little out of character imo. (more people should write for him i love him) and don't worry it's not annoying ily :)

Chemistry

Summary: Damon ropes you into helping with a spell, but you didn't sign up for Kai Parker and his nonstop mouth- or how irritatingly attractive he is when he's not being a total menace. 

Kai Parker x fem!reader (i think) 

Genre: slow burn, flirty banter, humor

WC: 2932

The problem with Kai Parker wasn’t that he was a sociopath.

It was that he was a charming one.

You were reminded of this fact every time he opened his mouth, and unfortunately, he was doing a lot of that today.

“Do you have to pace?” you muttered from the couch, flipping another page in the grimoire you were supposed to be studying. “You're giving me secondhand anxiety.”

Kai stopped mid-step, turned with theatrical flair, and cocked his head at you. “Well, I could sit. But I'd have to sit next to you. And given how high-strung you are, I'm not sure that's a safe idea.” 

You didn't bother looking up. “Please. You’d be lucky to sit next to me.”

“Oh, believe me,” he said, strolling over anyway, “I am very aware of how lucky I am.”

He dropped down beside you with zero regard for personal space. His thigh brushed yours. On purpose.

You inched away. “I don't remember inviting you over.”

He reached for the edge of the grimoire, tugging it down so you had to meet his eyes. “You didn't. But you looked lonely. All that brainpower, no one to irritate you into using it.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” you said, dry. “I was ignoring you successfully before you sat down.”

“Lies,” he grinned. “You live for my attention.”

You rolled your eyes. “I live for the day Damon snaps your neck and leaves you in a ditch.”

Kai clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “Ouch. So violent. Do all your crushes get death threats or am I just special?”

You snapped the book shut and turned to face him. “You're not special kai. You're annoying. Like a mosquito in human form.”

“Then why haven't you swatted me yet?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. 

“Because you'd probably enjoy it.”

He leaned in, smirking. “You're not wrong.”

You met his eyes, that signature glint of chaos dancing in his expression. His proximity ws infuriating. Not because it made you uncomfortable- but because it didn't.

His presence was magnetic in the most inconvenient way possible.

“You really have no shame,” you said, voice flat.

“Why would i?” he asked, tilting his head. “Shames just insecurity with bad PR.”

You snorted despite yourself.

He lit up. “Was that a laugh? Are you enjoying my company?”

“Don't get excited,” you said quickly. “It was a pity laugh.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummend, still grinning. “You know, the more you insult me, the more I think you like me.”

“And the more you talk,” you replied, “the more I think about setting you on fire.”

Kai leaned even closer, breath warm against your cheek. “Kinky.”

You shoved his shoulder, but he didn't move far. Just enough to flash you that irritatingly perfect smile, the one that made you want to kiss him and slap him in equal measure.

“I'm serious,” you muttered.

“About the fire?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Because if it's a slow burn, I'm all in.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “You're unbelievable.” 

“I've been told.”

You sighed, shook your head, and turned away- only for him to casually drape his arm across the back of the couch behind you. Not touching. Not quite. But there.

“You want me to leave?” he asked.

Yes, you should’ve said. Instead, what came out was, “only if you take your ego with you.”

“So never?” he teased.

You glanced sideways at him, caught the gleam in his eye, the hint of something sharper beneath the grin.

“I hate you,” you said

His smirk softened, just for a heartbeat, “No, you don't.”

Your jaw clenched. You turned away, eyes on the grimoire again, pretending to skim the text, but your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to read a single word. You felt the heat of him beside you, the slow drag of his gaze across your profile. He was watching you, waiting. Not with that usual smug satisfaction he wore like cologne, but with something quieter. Hungrier.

“I should, you muttered, flipping a page just to do something with your hands. “You're arrogant. Obnoxious. Completely incapable of shutting up.”

He leaned in closer. “You forgot devastatingly handsome.”

You gave him a flat look. “I was being generous.”

Kais fingers brushed your wrist, light, barely there, but enough to send a shiver straight through you.

“And yet,” he said softly, “you haven't moved.”

You hated that he was right. Hated it even more that you didn't want to move.

“Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment to hex you.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and genuine. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please,” you said, crossing your arms. “Do enlighten me.”

“You want to hate me. You tell yourself you should. But you don't.”

Your pulse spiked. “You're delusional.”

He shifted, sliding his hand across the back of the couch until his fingers ghosted against your shoulder. You could smell him now, cedar, magic, something stormy and charged beneath the surface. 

“Maybe,” he said, voice lower now, more careful. “But I know what I see when you look at me. It's not just an annoyance. Or disgust. Not even close.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

“Don't flatter yourself,” you said again, quieter this time.

He smiled, smaller now. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just..present. Real.

“Flattery’s boring,” he said. “I’d rather tell you the truth.”

You glanced at him, really looked this time, and saw it, the way his mask had slipped just slightly. He wasn't trying to manipulate. Not this time. This was kai without the showmanship, without the deflection. Dangerous, yes. But honest.

It was unsettling. 

Worse, it was disarming.

And you hated that even more.

You shifted your posture, straightening your spine like it might somehow reestablish control. “You always talk this much, or is it just a nervous tic when someone isn't impressed by your personality?”

His lips curled. “I dont think youre unimpressed. I think you're trying really hard to be.”

You snorted. “What gave it away, the eye-roll or the deep, bone deep loathing?”

“Neither,” he said smoothly. “It's the fact that you still haven't hexed me. Which, for a self-proclaimed hater, is kind of suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but didn't. Mostly because he was right, and partially because you couldn't stop noticing how close he was again. The kind of close that made it very obvious he had no concept of boundaries. Or maybe he just didn't care. He was Kai Parker, after all. Personal space was a myth and the rules didn't apply.

He leaned in just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough to make your breath catch. “If you wanted me gone,” he murmured, “you wouldn't still be sitting here playing spellbook footsie with me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I am not-”

He nudged your ankle with his under the table.

“You just did it again,” he said innocently.

You glared. “You're insufferable.”

He grinned. “Yet here we are. Suffering together.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, there are probably potions that could fix your personality.”

“And yet,” he said, tapping the grimoire in your lap, “you're not brewing any.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I'm saving them for something worse.”

“Worse than me?” he gave you an exaggerated look of disbelief. “What could possibly be worse than me?”

“You with a megaphone.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a sound that scraped under your skin in a way you weren't prepared for. Too genuine. Too easy.

You hate that he could do that, disarm you, rile you up, get under your skin like some spell you didn't remember casting.

“Admit it,” he said, voice low, almost sing-song. “You like me. A little.”

“I like you the way people like thunderstorms,” you shot back. “Exciting from far away. Catastrophic up close.”

He let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was poetic. Almost turned me on.”

You rolled your eyes again, sharper this time. “Do you ever stop?”

He pretended to think about it. “Nope. But you like that about me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said, but your voice didn't have the bite it shouldve.

Because somewhere in the middle of all the sarcasm, the distance had strunk again. His knee was brushing yours. His hand, casually thrown across the back of the couch, was just barley behind your shoulders. Like he might let it drop, or maybe he wouldn't. Like he knew exactly what kind of game he was playing.

And damn it, you were playing it too.

Which only made you more irritated.

You leaned just slightly away, breaking the proximity like it was no big deal, even though your heart was thudding like you'd just sprinted through a spell. “You always this handsy, or am I just special?”

He didn't miss a beat. “You're definitely special. Most people would’ve stormed off by now. But not you. You're just sitting there, soaking in my presence like its sunlight.”

“More like a migraine,” you muttered.

He gave a dramatic sigh and rested his chin on his hand studying you. “You’re like the mean girl I never got to have a crush on in high school.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess- you were too busy stabbing classmates with pencils and emotionally scarring your siblings?”

He made a face. “Wow. You have been reading my file.”

“I skimmed it,” you said casually. “Right between ‘homicidal tendencies’ and ‘chronic inability to shut up.’”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “And here you are, trading insults with me instead of helping Damon with the ritual prep. Almost like you'd rather be here.”

“Don't flatter yourself again. Damon asked me to babysit you.”

“Mm. And what an excellent job you're doing.” his gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, so quick you almost missed it. Almost. “You've only threatened my life three times today. That's practically foreplay.” 

You shot him a glare, but your pulse betrayed you. He was annoying. Infuriating. He poked at your nerves like a kid with a stick and zero self-preservation instincts.

But he also had that maddening glint in his eye, the one that said he saw through your carefully sharpened sarcasm like it was glass.

You shifted again, closing the grimoire and setting it aside with a snap. “If you think this is foreplay, your standards are worse than your haircut.”

He scoffed, flicking a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “Low blow. You wound me.”

“Not yet,” you muttered, stretching your legs out. One accidentally brushed his. You didn't move.

He noticed. His smirk deepened. “Careful, sweetheart. You keep doing that, I'm gonna think you want me to flirt with you.”

You scoffed. “If I wanted you to flirt with me, I'd be unconscious.” 

He leaned in, just slightly. “Weird. Because your body language is giving mixed signals.”

“You're imagining things.” 

“You're imagining me.” his grin was all teeth now, the kind that said he knew he was getting under your skin. “And don't bother denying it. I've seen the way you stare when you think I'm not looking.”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “Trust me, if I were fantasizing about you, it'd be in the context of punching you in the face.”

He grinned wider. “Kinky.” 

You groaned and stood, needing space. “You know, I came here to help with the prison world spell, not participate in whatever twisted flirting olympics you think this is.”

He followed suit, standing far to close again. “You say that, but I noticed you haven't left.”

You turned around slowly, giving him the kind of look that could curdle milk. “That's because Damon said, and i quote, ‘Don't let Kai kill anyone or monologue for more than two minutes.’”

He raised a hand, mock-solemn. “I've been mostly good.”

“Mostly isn't reassuring when your idea of ‘good’ includes setting things on fire for dramatic effect.”

“Hey,” he said, voice light, “magics supposed to be fun. You're just mad because I'm better at it.”

You spun around to face him, crossing your arms. “You're not better at it. You're just louder.”

He grinned again, taking one step closer, voice dropping just slightly. “Loud gets results, baby.”

You stared him down, not flinching, not stepping back. The air between you crackled, not with magic this time, but something far more inconvenient.

Tension.

Unspoken and unacknowledged and absolutely there. 

“Careful,” you said, your voice soft and sharp all at once. “Keep talking like that and I might forget how much I want to throw you into the nearest wall.”

He tilted his head. “And I might forget how much I like watching you pretend you don't enjoy this.”

Your smile was slow and hesitant. “Enjoy what?”

He leaned in, close, but not close enough to touch. “Me.” 

You held his gaze a second too long. Then, with an airy little shrug, you turned and walked past him, deliberately brushing his shoulder.

“Keep dreaming, Parker.” you called over your shoulder, striding toward the back room where the older grimoires were kept, half to actually grab one and half to get some distance before your mouth said something your brain couldn't recover from.

Behind you, you heard Kai chuckle softly. Then footsteps.

Of course he was following.

“Not dreaming,” he called. “Manifesting.”

You rolled your eyes but didn't turn around. “Manifesting what, exactly? A restraining order?”

“I was thinking more like a mutual confession of irresistible sexual tension, followed by a spontaneous make-out sesh, but hey, same vibe.”

You reached the library alcove and ran your fingers along the spines of the older tomes. “You need help,” you muttered.

“I need therapy,” he said, suddenly much closer, “but you'll do in a pinch.”

You turned, ready to deliver another cutting remark, but he was right there. No space. No warning. Just Kai, all sharp smirk and charged air and too blue eyes that didn't look so amused now.

“Back off, Parker,” you said, but it didn't come out as firm as you wanted.

“I would,” he murmured, “but I don't really feel like it.”

You took a step back. Bad move.

You hit the bookcase behind you with a dull thud and kai stepped forward in perfect sync, closing the gap. One hand braced casually above your shoulder. The other hovered just slightly at your side, like he was debating whether or not to touch you. His eyes flicked over your face, hungry but still playing the game.

Your breath caught, and not just from the proximity.

“You’re in my space.” you said, voice tight.

He tilted his head. “You came in here. I just followed.”

“To get away from you.”

He smiled. “And yet here we are.”

Your heart pounding. Every nerve buzzed, alight and off balance. You were toeing the edge of something reckless, and he was loving it.

“You really think you can just back me into a wall and I'll fall at your feet?” you asked, trying to sound unimpressed. You didn't quite nail it.

He leaned in, his lips ghosting close to your jaw, breath warm. “No,” he whispered. “I think you’ll fight it. Hate it. And then you’ll kiss me like it's the worst decision you’ve ever made.”

Your fingers curled into the edge of the shelf behind you, knuckles white. He wasn't touching you, not yet, but your body was already betraying you, leaning slightly forward, eyes flicking to his lips before you could stop yourself.

He noticed.

His smirk faded. Just a fraction.

Then, like gravity finally caught up to both of you, it happened.

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you.

It was hard to tell who moved first, one second there was space, the next it was gone, mouths colliding with a mix of heat and defiance. Your hands shoved at his chest, like you meant to push him away, but your fingers twisted in his shirt instead. His hands found your waist, one sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip like he couldn't stand the idea of letting go. 

You gasped as your back hit the shelf harder than intended, and a cascade of dusty books tumbled around you, hitting the floor in a clatter, but neither of you flinched.

He groaned against your mouth, the sound low and almost dangerous. “Told you,” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses, “worst decision ever.”

“Shut up.” you breathed, pulling him back in, teeth catching his bottom lip before he deepened it again, hotter now, less playful, more desperate.

His tongue slid against yours with infuriating skill, like he'd  been imagining this as long as you had. Maybe longer. He kissed like he fought, unapologetic, clever, a little unhinged, and it made your knees weak.

You broke apart for air, panting. His forehead dropped against yours. Neither of you spoke for a second.

“I still hate you.” you whispered.

His smile was smug, breathless. “Yeah? Hate me harder.”

You shoved him back by the chest, not hard enough to mean it. “Pick up the damn books, Parker.”

He laughed, low and wrecked. “Fine. But only because watching you bend over might kill me.”

You rolled your eyes and tried not to smile.

You failed.

[slashire]

close.

Summary: after not coming back on a supply run, Daryl gets nervous. He ends up going to look for you which does not turn out too well, but he wasn't going to let you rot out there.

Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

Genre: angst, hurt comfort, romance, slow burn, recovery

WC: 3513 

The yard outside the prison had grown quiet.

Too quiet for Daryl's liking.

He stood near the gates, crossbow slung over his shoulder, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he stared down the road like he could will you to walk up it. You were late- way too late.

Two nights gone, and you still had not come back from what was supposed to be a simple supply run to a gas station barely five miles out.

Rick had said to give it time. Maybe you got holed up somewhere. Maybe you were laying low. Even Hershel tried to calm him, saying there wasn't sense in throwing yourself into danger unless you knew there was still someone to find.

But they didn't get it. Not the way Daryl did.

You weren't just another body in the group. You were different. Tough. Quick. Smarter than most. You didn't just vanish, not unless something went real wrong.

So the next morning, he packed a bag, told Carol not to wait up, and slipped through the gate before anyone could argue. Didn't tell rick. Didn't need to. Just followed his gut, and the trail you'd left behind.

“Dumbass,” he muttered to himself, pushing through the tree line. “Shoulda gone with her.”

The forest swallowed him fast. It always did. But he was used to that. Used to moving through the trees like a ghost, eyes low, ears sharp. And now, every snapped twig made his skin crawl. Every blood smear on bark, every footprint half-buried in the mud, it was all he had.

He hadn't eaten in nearly a day. Didn't feel like it. Couldn't stomach much when your face kept flashing’ through his mind, pale and still and gone.

Couldn't let that be real.

By the second night, a cold rain started to fall. He didn't stop. Just pulled up the hood on his jacket, kept movin’. He spotted a crumbled fence half-covered in vines near an old maintenance building off the back road. Most folks would have passed right by it.

But not you.

He crept closer, crossbow drawn, eyes scanning for movement. That's when he saw it- blood on the concrete. A drag trail. Boot prints. One of ‘em was smaller than the rest.

His stomach turned.

He pushed the door open with a hard shoulder.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He stepped inside, flashlight bean cutting through the dark. And there, curled up against the wall behind an old vending machine, you were.

You looked like hell.

Sweat-slicked skin, lips cracked, side wrapped tight with a torn up t-shirt soaked in blood. You blinked slowly at the light, too weak to lift your head.

“Shit,” he hissed. He dropped beside you, fingers twitching like he didn't know what to touch first. “You outta your damn mind?”

Your lips twitched into a faint smile. “Missed you too.”

He let out a breath, half a laugh, half a choke. “You're a damn pain, y’know that?”

You blinked at him, heavy lidded. “You came..”

“Course I did.” his voice dropped low, barely a rasp. “Ain't leavin’ you out here to rot.”

You tried to speak again, but your head rolled, and your body went limp against the wall.

That snapped him back into motion. He ripped open his pack, pulled out water, gauze, anything he had left. “Stay with me,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, girl. Aint like you to give up.”

He worked fast, cleaning the wound the best he could, wrapping your side with shaky hands. You flinched, whimpered, and every sound carved something raw into his chest.

When he finally lifted you into his arms, you felt too light. Like a whisper. Like if he held you wrong, you'd break apart.

He carried you back through the trees, every mile heavier than the last. You drifted in and out, sometimes whispering his name, sometimes not saying anything at all. He answered every time, even when you couldn't hear him.

“It's alright,” he murmured, low and rough. “Gotcha now.”

By the time the prison walls came into view, dawn was breaking. Orange light spilled over the yard. Maggie was on watch- eyes wide when she spotted the two of you stumbling out of the treeline.

“Open the gate!” she yelled.

Daryl didn't stop. Didn't speak. Just pushed through, jaw set tight, eyes locked straight ahead as he carried you past everyone and into the infirmary cell. Hershel took one look and nodded, telling him to lay you down.

But Daryl didn't leave.

He didn't say nothin’ to nobody as Hershel moved around the cell , getting supplies, asking quiet questions that he barely registered. He just stood there, jaw clenched tight, watching your chest rise and fall like if he blinked, you might stop breathing.

Once you were stable, far as Hershel could tell, he pulled up a chair, sat down beside the cot, and didn't move.

Hours passed like that. The light outside faded to gray, then dark again. The others came by in quiet bursts, carol, maggie, even glenn, but he barely looked at ‘em. Just gave curt nods and kept his eyes on you. Didn't matter what they said. You were breathing, and that was all that counted.

At some point, Carol brought him a tray, soup, bread, and water. He stared at it for a while before taking the water. Didn't touch the rest.

His mind wouldn't shut off. Everytime he looked at you, all he could see was your body slumped in that filthy shed, skin hot as fire, lips barely moving. He'd been two days too late. Two days where anything could have happened. Bitten. Torn apart. Left screaming and alone. The thought made his stomach twist, fists curl.

You were tough. He knew that. Hell, you’d made it back alive, hadn't you?

Still didn't stop the quilt eating through his insides like acid.

Should've gone with her. Sholda insisted. Shouldn't've let her go alone.

He looked at your face, the way your lashes twitched in sleep, brow creasin’ now and then like your dreams were heavy. There was a smudge of dirt along your temple, and a faint bruise on your jaw that made his hands clench all over again.

Daryl shifted in the chair, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice came out low and rough, just above a whisper.

“Dumb as hell, runnin’ off on your own,” he muttered, eyes locked on your hand resting limply on the blanket. “Coulda got killed out there.

He swallowed har, shook his head.

“Thought i’d lost you.”

The words sat heavy in the air. No one heard ‘em but you- and you weren't awake to answer.

So he just stayed there, staring at you like he could hold you together with just his eyes.

That night, he didn't sleep. Not even when Hershel told him it was okay to rest, that you were gonna pull through if the fever stayed down. He just grunted and stayed planted in the chair, foot tapping now  and then, fingers twitching like he needed to keep movin’

Sometime near dawn, you stirred.

Not much- just a shift of your head, a small inhale through cracked lips. But he was on his feet in a heartbeat, hovering close, heart jackhammering in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than it’d been in days. “You with me?”

Your eyelids fluttered. slowly , painfully, you peeled your eyes open, blinking at the blurry ceiling, then turning your head toward him.

“Daryl..”

He let out a shaky breath and dropped to one knee beside the cot, one hand hovering near your shoulder. “Yeah. S’me. you're alright now.”

You looked at him like you weren't sure if he was real.

“Thought i dreamed you,” you rasped.

He shook his head slowly. “Ain't no dream. I got you out. Brought you back.”

Your fingers moved sluggishly under the blanket, brushing against his. He didn't pull away.

Didn't know what the hell to do with the way that small touch lit somethin’ up in his chest.

“You stayed,” you whispered.

“Course I did.” 

His voice cracked slightly, and he looked away, jaw tightening. 

“Weren’t gonna leave you out there,” he added after a beat, quieter. “Ain't somethin’ i could do.”

Silence settled between you again. Not the bad kind. The kind that said everything that didn't need speaking.

Finally, your eyes started to close again, the exhaustion still putting you under.

But your fingers didn't let go.

And neither did he.

The days passed slow.

Your fever broke on the second night, and after that, it was like the whole prison exhaled. Carol brought clean clothes. Beth sat with you in the evenings and hummed soft songs. Herschel came by with careful, practiced hands and told you that with rest, you’d be alright.

But he never left.

He took laying on the floor next to your cot. Didn't say much- never did- but every time you opened your eyes, he was there. Carvin’ something into a scrap of wood. Making arrows. Watching you. Like he didn't trust the world to keep you safe unless he was staring it down himself.

And he didn't hover, not really. Just moved around you like gravity kept him in your orbit.

He brought you water, sometimes food if he thought you’d eat. Never asked how you were feeling. Just gave you things and muttered things like “Eat this,” or “Drink up.” and didn't wait for thanks. But you saw it in his eyes, the tension that only eased when your color started to come back, when your voice stopped rasping.

One morning, you tried to sit up by yourself.

Daryl was across the room, fiddling with the strap of his crossbow. You didn't get far, just pushed your elbow back under you and winced when pain bloomed sharp in your side.

He was beside you before you could blink.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” he snapped, one hand hovering over your shoulder, not touching, but close. “You ain't ready to be movin’ yet.”

You breathed through the ache, biting back a groan. “I'm fine. Just..stiff.” 

He gave you that look. The one that said you ain’t foolin’ no one.

“Coulda tore somethin’ open,” he muttered, reaching behind you carefully. “C’mere.”

You didn't fight him when he helped you ease upright, arms bracketing you like a shield. His hands were rough, calloused, and warm where they steadied your back. You felt his breath on your neck, and for a second, neither of you moved.

Then he pulled away like you’d burned him.

“Tell me next time,” he said, voice low. “Don't go pushin’ it.”

You nodded, watching the way he sat back down- arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor like he was angry, or nervous, or both. Probably both. That was daryl.

He stayed quiet after that. But later that night, when you were almost asleep, you felt the blanket get tugged up over your shoulders. His fingers brushed your arm just a second longer than they needed to.

You didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

The next few days blurred together. You were able to walk again- slow, with help. And every time, it was Daryl's hand you leaned on. Sometimes his arm wrapped around your waist, firm and steady, keeping a sharp eye on everything around you. Like he thought the walls might crumble if he looked away.

And it wasn't just the help.

It was the way he watched you.

Not just checking to see if you were hurting. Not just keeping you safe.

It was something else. Softer. Quieter.

Like he didn't know what to do with the thing in his chest, the one that clenched every time your smile flickered toward him. The one that twisted when you winced, or leaned on him, or said his name too softly.

One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the watchtower, you sat outside in the prison yard with a blanket around your shoulders, trying to enjoy the fresh air. Daryl stood a few feet away, leaning against the fence, carving again. You could tell by the angle of his head that he wasn't really focused.

“You okay?” you asked.

He looked up, blinked like you’d pulled him out of something. Shrugged. “Yeah.”

You tilted your head. “You been sittin’ with me for almost a week. Dont think ive seen you sleep.”

He looked away, jaw working. “Ain't nothin’. Just keepin’ watch.”

“Daryl,” you said, voice softer now.

He turned to face you then, brows drawn, like he wasn't sure whether to be mad or embarrassed. “Ain’t ‘cause I had to,” he muttered, eyes flickering toward you and away again. “I wanted to.”

The silence that followed stretched, thick as smoke.

You felt the weight of it settle between you. Warm. Fragile. Dangerous. 

But you didn't break it.

You just looked at him, and let the words sit there- unspoken, understood.

He cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. “You cold?”

“A little.”

He didn't ask permission, just crossed the space between you, shrugged off his jacket, and laid it over your shoulders like it was nothing.you clutched it tight, breathing in the scent of leather and smoke and something that was just..him.

 He sat beside you, not touching, just close.

The sky above turned violet. The wind picked up. But you didn't move, and neither did he.

You weren't fully healed yet. Not really/. But the ache in your side had dulled to a whisper, and the weight in your chest had lightened now that you could breathe in something other than recycled air and antiseptic.

So when Daryl found you by the gates, hands on your hips, eyes scanning the trees like they were calling to you, he didn't waste time.

“Farmstead a couple miles out,” he said, nodding toward the road. “Ain’t been touched far as i know. Could use the backup.”

You tilted your head. “You askin’ or tellin’?”

He gave a shrug, shoulders rolling lazy under his vest. “You're comin’.”

You met his eyes, squinted in the sun. “You sure I can keep up?”

His lips twitched- just a little. “You fall behind, i'll carry your ass.” 

You smirked. “Promise?” 

He rolled his eyes and turned. “C’mon.”

That was all you needed.

The walk through the woods was quiet. No need for small talk. He didn't do it, and you didn't need it. The leaves overhead whispered in the breeze, dappled sunlight dancing over the both of you as you made your way along the overgrown trail. You caught him glancing back every so often- small flicks of his eyes, quick scans to make sure you weren't lagging or hurting.

You didn't say a word about it, but your heart caught every time.

The farmstead was all crumbling wood and broken glass. Crows perched on the fence posts like watchmen. Daryl pushed through the door first, crossbow up, body moving in that quiet, practiced way that reminded you just how many times he’d done this.

You followed close.

You cleared it together, him upstairs, you downstairs. The home was dead, empty. But there were cans in the pantry, a few usable blankets, a cracked bottle of iodine you knew Hershel would be grateful for.

He came down with a tired look in his eyes.

“Kid’s room up there,” he said low. “Still got toys on the floor.”

You didn't respond. Just rested a hand against his arm for a second as you passed by. He didn't flinch, but he did look at you like maybe that touch had said more than either of you could explain.

You thought maybe you’d head straight back. But instead of turning down the main road, he jerked his chin toward the woods.

“Gonna make camp,” he said. “There's a spot. Ain't far.”

You didn't argue.

The clearing was hidden, half-sheltered under a rock shelf, with a small ring of blackened stone where fires had burned before. Daryl got one started quick, the orange glow catching in the lines of his face as he crouched coaxing the flame with steady hands.

He didn't say much as he passed you a can of peaches and opened one for himself. The two of you sat close to the fire, your knees nearly brushing.

You watched him in the firelight, the sharp planes of his face shifting in and out of shadow. He was quiet. Had been the whole time since you left the farmstead. Not cold, just in that headspace he slipped into when he was thinking too much. 

“You always come here?” you asked.

He gave a small nod, eyes on the flames. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Used to be quiet,” he said with a shrug. “Could hear things comin’.”

You smirked faintly. “Not ‘cause you liked the peace?”

His jaw twitched. “Ain't about likin’ it. Just…was better than listenin’ to people talk all the damn time.”

You chuckled under your breath and let it drop.

The fire popped. A breeze pushed through the trees, rustling leaves just loud enough to remind you how far you were from walls and fences. You shifted your weight a little, brushing your knee against his, not on purpose, but you didn't move it either.

He didn't flinch.

“You ain't gotta hover like this all the time, y’know,” you said after a moment, not accusing, just saying.

Daryl leaned back a bit, resting his forearm on his bent knee. “Ain't hoverin’. Just makin’ sure you ain't doin’ somethin’ stupid like fallin’ on your face.”

You smirked. “Appreciate the faith.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Didn't say I didn't trust you. Just know how stubborn you are.”

That got a real laugh out of you, low and tired. “Yeah, well…you’re not exactly the picture of restraint either.”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. But then he looked at you again, longer this time. Eyes unreadable.

“You didn't have to look for me,” you said.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

He didn't answer right away. Just poked the fire with a stick and watched the embers shift.

“Didn't sit right,” he muttered. “You bein’ out there like that. Alone.”

That was the most he’d say. You didn't press it.

Instead, you shifted closer. Not a big more, just enough that your shoulder touched his. His body stiffened for a second, then settled again.

You looked at him in the quiet. The lines around his mouth. The scars. The way he kept his eyes low like they were too damn sharp to use on anyone for too long.

He wasn't soft. Not in words. Not in the way he carried himself. But he was here. With you. Still.

“Daryl,” you said, your voice low, steady.

He looked up.

You didn't say anything else. Just leaned in slow, watching him the whole way. Giving him time to pull back. Time to shake his head or shut it down.

But he didn't.

You caught the hesitation in his eyes, like part of him still didn't believe it was real, but he didn't move away. Your hand came up, gentle fingers brushing the side of his jaw, just enough to feel the rough stubble there.

And then you kissed him.

It was careful at first- your lips barely grazing his, testing, uncertain. You could feel how tense he was, how still. But he didn't pull away. After a second, he leaned in, mouth pressing back against yours in that awkward, unpolished way that said he wasn't used to this. Wasn't used to being wanted. But he wanted you. That much was clear in the way his fingers curled against your hip, not holding tight, just resting there like he needed the anchor.

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger.

His breath hitched. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the smallest sound of something giving way inside him.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes opened slow, like he hadn't realized he'd close them. 

Neither of you spoke.

He looked at you for a long moment, then turned back to the fire, tossed in another stick like it was just another night. But he didn't move away from you. Didn't shift or pull back or put space where there hadn't been any.

“Should get some sleep,” he said, voice rougher than usual.

You hid your smile in the collar of his jacket.

“Yeah. Probably should.”

You stretched out beside the fire, and he stayed close, crossbow still within reach, body tense in that quiet-watchful way of his. But he stayed near. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

And even though nothing else was said, you knew that kiss hadn’t just happened by chance.

It meant something.

To both of you.

[slashire]

Can I get something with sebastian michaelis where he is readers butler and reader doesnt get affect by his charm and argue with him so often? Like in a funny way,reader insults them a lot

yes yes omg i had so much fun with this i hope i did it justice.

part two part three part four

one hell of a headache.

Summary: Sebastian Michaelis is one hell of a butler- and one hell of a headache. Sharp insults and constant bickering, both of you thrive on sarcasm, stubborn pride, and zero tolerance. Perfect service has never been so irritating.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader 

Genre: comedy, no romance

WC: 1338

The first time you met Sebastian Michaelis, he bowed so low and so fluidly you wondered if he’d slipped a disk. His tailcoat swished with perfect grace, white gloves pristine as bone china, every movement so precise it could be mistaken for mechanical.

“Lady Y/N,” he said with a voice like fine whiskey, smooth, expensive, and designed to make people drunk on flattery. “It is an honor to serve as your butler. I will execute every duty with precision and unwavering dedication.”

You stared at him from your seat with narrowed eyes and all the warmth of a tax audit. “Do you have to sound like the villain in a second-rate opera every time you open your mouth?” 

His smile didn't falter. “Would you prefer a different accent, my Lady?”

“Preferably one that doesn't make me want to throw myself into a river,” you replied.

The smile deepend, but it wasn't real- it was performative. Calculated. Like everything else about him. “Then I shall endeavor to be more tolerable.”

“Good,” you muttered. “Start by learning how to blink like a normal person.”

From that moment forward, the war had begun.

The next morning, your brief moment of peace in the library was interrupted by the sound of your study door creaking open. It was far too early for anyone with sense to be functioning, which meant, of course, that he had arrived. Sebastian entered like a stage curtain being drawn open, graceful, unnecessary, and theatrical.

“Good morning, my Lady,” he said, setting a silver tray down on the polished oak table beside your armchair. “Your preferred blend- Darjeeling with one sugar, no milk. Steeped for precisely six minutes. As requested.”

You looked at the teacup without touching it, then shifted your gaze to him like he’d brought poison in porcelain. “You annocne tea like it’s the Second Coming.”

“Presentation matters,” he replied with a slight bow. “It elevates the experience.”

“I’d prefer silence,” you said, picking up the cup and sniffing it. “Now that elevates the experience.

He tilted his head slightly. "And yet, you always engage.”

“That's because you never leave me alone.”

“Your safety is my top priority,” he replied. “And considering your tendency to provoke staff, guests, and occasionally houseplants, I feel obligated to remain nearby.”

You stared over your teacup. “You’re not obligated. You're obsessed.”

“Possibly,” he said smoothly. “But obsession, when refined, becomes loyalty.”

You blinked slowly. “And when I refine arsenic, can I use it on you?”

“I doubt it would take.”

“I could make it take,” you grumbled.

“And I could reappear before your next blink,” he countered with a faint smirk.

You groaned. “You are what happens when a chessboard gains sentience.”

“If so,” he said, straightening your curtain with one gloved hand, “you must be the pawn that thinks she's the queen.”

“Oh, I am the queen,” you said, “which makes you the court jester no one invited.”

He inclined his head. “If I were a jester, I would wear brighter colors. But alas, I must remain in black to match your mood.”

You had half a mind to hurl the tea at him- except it was annoyingly perfect, and you refused to waste good tea on a demon.

Later, in the conservatory, you were reading, rather, pretending to, when you felt a distinct, irritating aura enter the room. Without needing to look up, you already knew.

Sebastian stood behind your chair, posture flawless, as if posing for a portrait of smug competence. “You left the parlor door ajar. Drafts are hardly ideal for one of such…delicate disposition.” 

You turned a page of your book. “If you're calling me delicate, I'll be forced to shove you through the greenhouse window.”

“I didn't say fragile,” he replied. “Just temperamental.”

“I wasn't aware you were fluent in irony.”

“Oh, I'm fluent in many things. Including your daily patterns. For example- insulting me three times before breakfast, threatening physical violence by noon, and passive-aggressively ignoring your appointments until I subtly shame you into attending.”

You looked over your shoulder, slow and unimpressed. “You keep a record?”

“I do,” he said, producing a small black notebook from his pocket. “It's quite thorough.”

“Let me see that.”

“No.”

“Let me see it, demon.”

“Demon, yes. Fool, no.”

You stood. He stepped back with theatrical elegance.

“If I find that notebook,” you said slowly, “I will feed it to Tanaka’s koi fish.”

“They eat anything,” he noted.

“Exactly.”

By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were in the drawing room, glaring at estate paperwork like it had personally offended you. Which, in fairness, it had.

Sebastian stood nearby with a list of appointments that you had no intention of acknowledging.

“Piano tuning at two o’clock, correspondence with the Countess by three, and the meeting with the baker regarding your highly specific bread texture preferences at four.”

You looked up. “You make it sound like I'm unreasonable.”

He glanced at your notes. “‘Soft but with crust that crunches at exactly 0.6 seconds into the bite’ is an ambitious request.”

“It's called standards.”

“It's called exhausting.”

“You're exhausting,” you snapped.

“Indeed,” he said with a mock-sigh. “And yet I remain. Unappreciated. Overworked. Elegant.”

“You forgot ‘overconfident’. And ‘deeply punchable.’”

He smirked. “Ah, so you do appreciate me.” 

You set your pen down with exaggerated care. “If I threw you off the roof, would you scream?”

“I’d land on my feet.”

“Would you bounce?”

“I could, if you prefer a performance.”

That did it. You stood up, grabbed the nearest throw pillow, and launched it at his head. He caught it mid air, of course- damn him- and fluffed it like it was part of the decor.

“I'll take that as your way of saying ‘thank you for your service.’”

“You can take it as ‘i hope you step on a rake.’”

He nodded solemnly. “I shall pencil that into the schedule.”

Dinner came, and with it, an even greater challenge, tolerating you both at once. Ciel, who had joined the meal, glanced between you and Sebastian with the exhausted resignation of someone supervising toddlers with vocabulary.

“Are you two ever civil?” the boy asked, setting his fork down.

You and Sebastian answered in perfect harmony. “No.”

You pointed your knife at him across the table. “He breathed in my direction again.”

“She glared at me for breathing,” he added lightly.

“He started it.”

“She finished it. Poorly.”

“Your face is poorly.”

“Your handwriting is.”

Ciel groaned and slumped into his seat.

“I’ll fetch tea,” he said calmly.

“I’ll fetch a shovel.” you said.

Ciel muttered something about headaches and let you both carry on.

Later that night, Sebastian delivered your evening tea and set it on the nightstand without a word. You sat on the edge of your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Still breathing?” you asked dryly.

“Vigorously,” he replied, smoothing the corner of a blanket. “Would you like your pillow fluffed? Or perhaps violently beaten into silence?”

“Don't tempt me.”

“I wouldn't dare. You might try.” 

“You know I would.”

He bowed. “Sleep well, Lady Y/N. I shall be outside your door should you require anything. A midnight snack, a sharpened quill, a dagger for dramatic effect..”

“I require your absence.”

“Tragically, not on the menu.”

You hurled a pillow again. He caught it, again, fluffed it, again, and placed it back with that same maddeningly smug air. 

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Go haunt someone else.”

“Only when you're asleep.”

With that, he vanished down the hall, leaving behind nothing but faint amusement and the sense that you’d somehow lost again.

You stared at the door, muttering to yourself. “I really, truly hate that butler.”

Your tea, or course, was perfect.

Damn him.