#guilt cw

[dizzociating]

*does something* *feels guilty about it*

*does nothing* *feels guilty about it*

[grapesodatozier]

Insight Check

my contribution to @reddieweek this year!! thank you so much to the mods for putting this all together <333

written for Day 5: Books/Games/Movies/TV

Richie Tozier is a bard harboring a secret crush on his best friend and a secret power he has no control over. When an ambush against Richie and Eddie brings the latter secret to light, Richie's guilt over putting Eddie in danger makes him distance himself from Eddie. He can at least still keep the being in love with him a secret, right?

dnd 5e au!! richie is a tiefling bard/wild magic sorcerer multiclass, eddie is a halfling ranger!

word count: 6,378

rating: mature for mild violence and raunchy sex jokes lol

tags/warnings: pining, secrets, insecurity, guilt, miscommunication, angst, angst with a happy ending, love confessions

read on ao3 or below!!

Richie sat perched in the tree, purple tail swishing behind him as he watched Eddie check over his components list once more. He had everything he needed, and his pronunciation was pretty good, but he was struggling with the somatic components. Richie watched him try a few more times, his wrist and fingers refusing to make the shapes he needed, before he slid down from his perch. 

“I knew you were there,” Eddie said without even turning to face him. Eddie never let Richie have the satisfaction of thinking he’d snuck up on him.

“Is that why you keep choking?” Richie teased, walking leisurely up to his friend. “You trying too hard to impress me?”

“Fuck off,” Eddie said, his brow furrowing further in concentration. He said the incantation again, but again, nothing happened. He let out a frustrated breath and his posture slacked.

“Eds, it’s called wind wall,” Richie said, coming up behind him. “You think wind is that stiff?” 

Eddie let out a frustrated sigh, but he didn’t move away from Richie. “Walls are supposed to be pretty stiff, dumbass.” He looked over his shoulder, having to look up quite a bit to meet Richie’s eye, given that Richie had about a nearly three foot height advantage over Eddie. Nonetheless, Eddie bumped his shoulder against Richie as he ribbed him. 

“Still,” Richie said, concealing the lump in his throat he always got when Eddie looked at him like that, all big brown eyes and long lashes, “you need to loosen up a little. You’re gonna need to be able to do this on the fly, which means you need to find what feels natural.”

Gently, carefully, Richie put his hand on Eddie’s. Richie’s hand was a light lavender, speckled with spots of darker purple, Eddie’s hand tan and sun kissed. Eddie’s hand was a lot smaller than Richie’s, with a bit of dirt under his short nails, but their fingers were both covered in similar callouses—turns out, lute strings and arrow strings have similar effects. Eddie gave another little huff, but once again, let Richie show him. Richie pressed so gently against him, a barely there touch, to help Eddie even his breathing. He loosened Eddie’s fingers, encouraged his wrist to relax. 

Being this close to Eddie, it felt like everything around them was utterly still, like the only tangible thing was the beating of Richie’s own heart, and the smell of Eddie’s hair, the warmth of his skin which Richie was barely touching.

He stepped back when he caught himself lingering too long. “Uh, there, try it now.”

This wasn’t a new thing, Richie wanting to be close to Eddie. It was just new that he’d realized what it meant, and that maybe it wasn’t just what good close friends felt for one another. None of their party had ever really commented on it, and while Eddie would playfully shove him away, he’d just as soon cuddle up to Richie.

But lately… Lately Richie found himself wanting things that didn’t strike even him as particularly platonic. He wanted Eddie in ways that were selfish. In ways that weren’t fair to Eddie. He kept doing this, kept leaning closer to Eddie than he should, kept staying there for longer than he should, making up reasons to touch his hand, his arm. 

Meanwhile, Eddie had no idea. Surely he wouldn’t let Richie touch him so constantly if he knew how Richie truly felt, if he knew that Richie wanted to hold him closer than anyone else, that he was constantly thinking about Eddie, about holding him close, how much he treasured the moments he had Eddie to himself. How even when he made Eddie smile and laugh it was selfish, because Richie got to bask in the warm glow of Eddie’s attention. 

So Eddie didn’t know, and Richie was trying to keep it that way. And it turned his stomach sour thinking about it, because it was just another thing that Eddie didn’t know about Richie.

But it was for the best Eddie didn’t know. Especially about the other thing.

That thing Richie had known about for even longer. That thing had been happening since he was about twelve, and only Bill knew about it, and even that was only because he was the only one there the first time it happened. Bill checked up about it, but Richie assured him it was fine, that it was under control. And Bill had promised not to tell any of the others as long as Richie promised that he was okay. The honesty in those promises, Richie wasn’t proud to say, was shaky at best. But he didn’t want his weird mysterious magic shit to be another problem for Bill to deal with. It was dangerous, Richie knew that. So he tried to tamp it down, tried to suppress it so he wouldn’t hurt anybody. He was perfectly happy making magic come out of his lute, he didn’t need some shit he didn’t understand and couldn’t control coming from fucking within him, thank you very much.

Yet it kept growing inside of him, even as he tried to ignore it and cover it up. He tried to focus on his instrument, to focus on learning spells, safe spells. But the other abilities just… kept coming. And he never knew what it was gonna be that came next.

He couldn’t put his friends through that. 

More selfishly, he couldn’t put himself through how they might react if they found out.

Richie had a bad habit of getting too in his head like this. It helped, at least, that he always had Eddie looking out for him—just like he was when he stiffened even further just then, his hand flying to his bow. “Richie,” he said under his breath, “I think we need to go—” 

“What’s this?” a voice called out, the interruption bouncing off the trees around them. Richie scanned the area, spotting Henry Bowers sauntering out of the trees northwest of them, with Belch, Victor, and Patrick behind him. “Your party lets you two out on your own? You barely stack up to a competent adventurer combined.”

Eddie drew his bow and knocked an arrow, pointing it in warning, not yet releasing it. “Fuck off,” he growled. 

Panic began to well in Richie, and with it, the sparkling, prickling feeling that shot from the center of his body to his fingertips. But he wasn’t about to let Eddie be the only target here.

“I think you need to get out more Bowers,” he said, “if you think skulking around in the woods of your hometown like a creep makes you an ‘adventurer.’” 

It was a lot easier to suppress his panic when they had five other people backing them up. But here, they were outnumbered. Richie thought maybe there was a chance he and Eddie could take them, but he wasn’t betting on their odds, no matter how much shit he was talking.

“You really shouldn’t hang out in the woods alone like this,” Patrick said, his voice dripping a slimy, cold delight as he ignored Eddie’s warning and Richie’s heckling. He stepped forward. “Your friends are probably gonna be pretty sad when they find you.”

Richie reached for his lute, but something deep red was already falling over Patrick’s eyes, his hands forming a shape Richie thought he recognized as a shatter spell. 

His hand slipped on his lute.

Eddie let the arrow loose, and it thudded into Patrick’s shoulder. It looked like it hurt, but it didn’t stop his casting. 

Patrick’s wrist twisted.

Fuck.

There was no time. 

Fuck.

There was no time for math—only the chill down Richie’s spine as Eddie’s spell faltered and Patrick’s went off.

Richie pushed his glasses up, letting the panicked prickling surge forward into sparks.

“Revertis.” He ground the word out between his teeth as though that might keep the consequences at bay and waved his hand in the air, wiping the energy that came at him and Eddie away like brushing the dust off a library tome. He felt it ripple against him, the energy of Patrick’s thwarted spell mixing with the fear that hatcheted away at Richie’s rib cage.

It stirred something.

Richie had tried to tap into it carefully, but he could feel that familiar sensation of something becoming dislodged.

The sparks staggered statically in his fingers for a moment before shooting rapidly inward, concentrating and swirling like an inferno in his chest.

Fucking fuck fuck.

“What the fuck?” Belch called out.

Henry was seething, already reaching for his blade, rusty and worn, stained proudly with old brown hints of previous violence.

Patrick… Patrick just tilted his head and smiled at Richie like he was some sort of interesting bug. 

Richie didn’t look at Eddie. He couldn’t afford to; it might break him.

And for once, Richie’s shame was on his side—for as Henry, Victor, and Belch surged forward, the inferno surged up Richie’s throat, ripping his jaw open farther than he thought it ought have been able to open, and a cone of flame and heat burst forth, igniting not only the assholes in front of him, but the grass and brush around them as well.

The meadow was alight.

“R-Richie?”

Eddie’s voice was like a bucket of cold water over Richie’s head.

“You can’t do that,” Henry gritted out, frantically trying to shake off the flames. He was hurt, but not out of the fight, not even close. “You don’t… You’re a fucking bard, and a shitty one! You don’t know that kind of magic—”

Shit, the flames were spreading fast, chasing toward Eddie, and Henry was getting his blade out again.

“Richie,” Eddie said again, pulling him out of one panic into another. “Are you okay?”

Richie did something then that he knew he’d be apologizing for until at least the end of the month: he threw Eddie over his shoulder, using the momentum to swing his instrument into his hands, and turned from the fight. 

“Portat ianua,” he said, his voice seeming to warp as he plucked at the lute’s strings. Suddenly, the heat and screams were gone completely. Instead, Richie’s feet were pounding against clearer grass, a stream running behind them, the parting of the trees that led to the garden behind the library within sight. Richie set Eddie down as soon as it was safe. 

“Richard fucking Tozier—”

“We should still be running,” Richie said, grabbing Eddie by the hand. “They could be behind us, but we’re almost there—”

“Okay, fine, we can run first and talk later,” Eddie begrudgingly allowed, taking Richie by the hand. 

A new thrill shot up Richie’s arm, one that was almost as terrifying as the other sparks had been, almost as volatile. 

They made it to the back of the library without incident, Richie’s lungs burning by the time they arrived. But the physical exertion wasn’t the only thing that had Richie’s heart racing, and they certainly hadn’t run far enough to excuse the bile that was forming in Richie’s throat. He froze in place as Eddie opened the back door, the one that Mike let them use.

Eddie began to step through, then paused when he saw Richie wasn’t following. He looked worried, the expression always clear on his face when directed toward Richie, but then another familiar one came along: frustration. In his head, Richie saw it turning into anger.

“Richie—” Eddie stepped toward him. 

But all Richie could feel was the fire that had come out of him, the fire catching on the grass.

He was looking at Eddie, but he was seeing Bill, around twelve years old, his eyes going wide. Richie had been practicing spells on his lute, but he wasn’t getting very far. The frustration and shame had burned hot inside of him, swirling in a way that felt potent and new, yet somehow familiar, like deja vu, or an old favorite song he’d forgotten about. He’d just meant to shake out his hand, to loosen his cramping fingers, but a jolt of ice and chill had burst forth from his hand, hitting a rock to his side. It had been fun, when it was just that. Richie tried to do it again, getting there quite easily. Bill had laughed and watched him, Richie shooting them out left and right, getting fancy with it. He still remembered Bill, giggling and running for cover. He remembered feeling that heat within himself, the power of it dizzying. He remembered when he’d assumed it was just the thrill of learning he could cast without his instrument.

But then, suddenly, as the frost shot forth from his fingertips, Richie had become paralyzed for just a moment, no longer the one in control of his body as the thrill concentrated, turning suddenly much too hot, so hot Richie needed it out—

And out it had come, in a line of lightning that burst from his chest. It was so bright it nearly blinded him, and the sound of it was almost as bad as the sounds of the trees it had hit creaking and popping.

Richie’s face burned when it was over, movement returning to his limbs in the form of violent tremors. Where the power had built inside of him before, he had felt after it sickeningly empty. Like he always did when he was terrified, he had looked to Bill. Only, Bill had worn the same expression, and it was directed at Richie. 

After the initial shock, Bill of course grabbed Richie by the arm and made him run alongside him, keeping him safe as the trees began to fall. But Richie would never forget the tightness in his grip, the sweat on his palm. He would never forget the crashing of the trees behind them so close behind them. All of that horror, with him forever, yet the worst of it all was that look of horror on Bill’s face. Bill, Big Bill, endlessly brave and stubborn and headstrong, had looked at Richie like he was the scariest thing he had ever seen.

He thought he sometimes still caught glimpses of that look in Bill’s eyes even now, when Richie got angry, or if a combat came on suddenly.

The lightning was only the first time the power had been released, but Richie had made sure that it was the last time he ever released it around another person.

That was, at least, until today.

Richie couldn’t handle Eddie looking at him like that. He couldn’t handle explaining himself to Eddie. And he couldn’t forgive himself for risking something so unpredictable around Eddie. If he had hurt him…

No. He was way too chickenshit to face this.

And Eddie, apparently, could tell.

“—don’t you dare—”

“I’m sorry, Eds,” Richie said, his voice weak and gravelly. He cast invisibility on himself through his lute, clinging to it like it could somehow stop the turmoil inside of him. Eddie lunged forward for him, but Richie just managed to side step him.

“Richie, you shit—” Eddie grumbled, throwing his hands out. But Richie teleported away. Eddie was safer at the library anyway.

He made it back to the apartment he shared with Bev in one piece, reluctantly making himself visible again before entering.

He didn’t end up leaving the apartment much for the next few days, skipping out on group events. He went out a little with Bev and Stan, but he avoided the library and any other places Eddie might be.

This behavior, of course, did not slip by without comment.

“What happened?” Bev had asked plainly the next morning. “You went to bed at a responsible hour last night. Something’s gotta be wrong.”

“I’m getting my life together,” Richie had said, then ran through a handful of other bluffs until Bev gave up, huffing in frustration.

Stan had gotten a little further, as he had updates about the world outside of Richie’s bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Updates about Eddie, also put fairly plainly. “Why are you avoiding Eddie?” he’d asked. “He asked me to go to the stables with him. He always takes you to the stables, and when I brought it up he said to ask you why you weren’t going with him.”

“Maybe I’ve got a cold.” 

“I’m not gonna be happy if you’re hanging out with me while you’re sick.”

“Okay, I’m not sick.”

Stan didn’t press; just went back to his books.

“You’re not gonna ask me any more questions?” Richie asked.

“I’m not the one you need to be talking to about this,” Stan answered. “Besides, I know you and Eddie can’t stay away from each other for longer than a week. One of you is gonna break in a few days.”

Richie turned bright red at the implications of that and saved himself the analysis of his habits, personality, and desires by finding something else to occupy himself with.

It was Bill who ultimately got through to him. In retrospect, Richie figured it had to be.

“Rich, Eddie’s really upset that you keep blowing him off,” Bill told him. They were hanging out in the temple to Maturin, which helped calm Richie’s nerves. It wasn’t really a temple—more a community organized space, not much more than the hideout they’d made together as kids, only this one was open to people other than just their inner circle. Still, it was empty now, save for the two of them. He wasn’t the most devout person in the world, but all seven of them had felt the protection of Maturin in undeniable ways, and not just through Bill and Mike. Being here brought him a sort of peace—or, at least more peace than a person who has unpredictable magic boiling up inside of them at any given point tends to feel.

“I don’t think that’s what he’s upset about,” Richie finally said. It was the first time he’d budged on the topic since it happened. He blamed the turtle. Or maybe Bill had a zone of truth on him.

No, Bill wouldn’t do that. Not unless he really needed to anyway. Besides, Richie was too good at dancing around the truth without lying, so it wouldn’t have been that effective anyway.

He was letting Bill in because Bill was already in, and he was the only one. He was letting him in because it was Bill. 

“It’s what he told me he was upset about,” Bill said. “He didn’t mention anything else.”

Something stirred inside Richie as he pictured Eddie grumbling to Bill about him. As nice as it was to think that Eddie had just been pouting about wanting to see Richie, he knew that wasn’t what had happened. Maybe it was what Eddie was telling people. Maybe Eddie was covering for Richie—no one had come knocking Richie’s door down or acting scared around him, so he assumed Eddie was keeping what he’d seen to himself. But surely he was upset about it. It was probably only getting worse; Richie was isolating Eddie, making him keep secrets. He was probably terrified but felt too bad to say anything about it. Eddie probably resented him, and with good reason. God, it made Richie sick to think about it.

“Rich,” Bill said, placing a gentle hand on Richie’s shoulder, “what happened?”

For the first time in days, Richie let the act drop. He stopped acting aloof. He let his eyebrows draw together as he looked up at Bill through his glasses. He relaxed all the muscles he’d been tensing in his relentless pursuit of a casual disposition. He finally let himself toy with the bracelets on his wrists like he’d been aching to do, pulled his lower lip between his teeth. The anxiety rolled around in his chest like a landslide with nowhere to go but back in a circle, building.

“It happened,” he said, a small quiver in his voice, “around Eddie. Bowers and those assholes, they were trying to start shit in the woods, and it was just Eddie and me, and I got scared and I panicked and—” Richie stopped abruptly, unsure if he wanted to share the details of the fucking dragon’s breath that had burst forth from Richie. “That’s what he’s upset about.”

Bill gave him an understanding look. Richie waited for the anger. He waited for the lecture about safety. What came instead was a smile that almost looked… amused?

His bewilderment must have shown, because Bill was quick to walk it back. “Sorry, sorry I don’t think it’s funny that that happened! That sounds really scary, and I’m sorry it happened. And we should definitely plan better as a group for Bowers encounters. Although it kinda seems like you scared the shit out of them… I saw Vic the other day and he basically ran away from me. So whatever happened ended up being pretty sick.” 

Richie allowed himself a small glow of pride that the gamble had at least succeeded in protecting his friends a little bit.

“Still, though, I know that’s always scary for you when it happens. Why didn’t you tell me? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, I just…” Richie scrunched his face up to mitigate the sudden urge he felt to cry. “I really didn’t want anyone to know. Eddie… I can’t look at him and know he’s afraid of me.”

This time Bill fully laughed. Richie whipped his head around, ready to smack Bill across the back of his head.

“Dude, I’m serious—”

“Shit, okay, I’m sorry, I know, it’s just… You’re gonna have to work a little harder to make Eddie afraid of you, Richie. He’d kick your ass if he heard you say that you thought you could scare him.”

“He should be scared!” Richie raised his voice in indignation. “We should all be scared!”

“You’re scared,” Bill said, rubbing Richie’s shoulder. “And it’s understandable. But you should let us help. You should let Eddie help.” His expression softened. “He’s worried about you. You know he wants to help. He wants to know why you’re avoiding him, and I bet he wants to know what happened. He won’t be mad; he’ll know you were just trying to protect him.”

Richie considered that quietly.

Bill gave him one last soft bit of encouragement. “Go talk to him.”

Richie almost went home after that. But he played Bill’s words over and over in his head, telling him that he couldn’t scare Eddie, that Eddie was worried about him. It was messed up. He didn’t deserve Eddie’s worry. Eddie at least deserved to hear that. And he deserved an explanation, Richie supposed. 

Stan’s words also echoed in his mind, reminding him that he wasn’t fooling anyway acting like he could stay away from Eddie. His cheeks flushed from learning how obvious it was, but it wasn’t like he could deny it; the days away from him had been torture. He missed Eddie like a plant misses water. He missed his laugh, and his rants, and how he’d shove Richie with his shoulder but then stay close to him. He missed his smile, and his voice. He missed his snarky retorts and his dreamy contemplations and the way his freckled nose scrunched up when Richie poked and squeezed and teased him. He missed the feeling of being around him: a giddy thrill that drowned out all the rest of the noise that was constantly buzzing inside Richie and a peace not even Maturin could muster. 

It didn’t take long to find him; Richie didn’t find him on his favorite hill, the grassy one with the little white and yellow flowers, the one that overlooked the main road that headed into town, so he figured Eddie must be in the library.

Mike beamed at Richie from the front desk when he walked in. “Hey, Rich! Been a few days.” Coming from someone else, Richie may have taken that as a dig. But the only thing that hinted at any feeling other than the joy Mike projected was a tinge of sadness in his eyes. Richie gave him a guilty smile, and he could tell that it was enough. “You got a book you’re looking for?” Mike asked. 

Usually Richie would just make some joke about books with pictures (or, occasionally, actually check out a book on political theory—always a toss up), but this time he paused, unsure how to explain what he was actually there for.

Luckily, Mike excelled in both intuition and knowing what was going on in the town at any given point, especially with his friends. So he gave Richie a grin and said, “I’m fucking with you. He’s upstairs in the archives with Ben.”

Richie turned bright red. He could try to deny it, but what would be the point?

“Right, thanks,” he said. He started for the stairs, then paused and leaned dramatically backwards to look at Mike. “You’ll at least say that I asked, right? You won’t just tell people it was obvious?”

Mike laughed and shook his head. “Richie, it’s been obvious for over a decade now.”

Having heard enough of that, Richie carried on his way.

He felt his heart pounding again, getting louder with every step he took toward the archives. 

It was quiet when he got there, which wasn’t unusual for Ben, nor Eddie when he was with Ben, but it was eerie all the same. Though as Richie got closer, he realized it wasn’t quite silent—Eddie and Ben seemed to be speaking in hushed whispers Richie couldn’t quite make out. Whispers which stopped abruptly once Richie came into view. 

Richie was positive his heart actually stopped for a second, seeing Eddie again. It had only been a few days, but it felt like an eternity. Eddie looked like a deer in headlights for a moment, which made Richie’s stomach drop, but he quickly schooled his expression into something closer to a scowl. Which was at least better than fear, Richie supposed. 

“Hi, Richie,” Ben said, smiling at Richie with all the subtlety of a dog who’s just eaten something it definitely shouldn’t have. Richie didn’t have to cast detect thoughts to figure they’d probably just been whispering about him. Not that he could blame them.

“Hey, Benny boy, good to see ya.” Richie grinned, covering any quiver in his voice with a false bravado. “Nothing personal, but you mind if I kick you out for a second? Gotta talk to Eds real quick.” Richie flitted his eyes toward Eddie, who was looking pointedly down at the book that laid open in front of him. “That is, if he’ll allow it.” Eddie raised his gaze to Richie’s, shrugged, and went back to reading. I’ll take it, Richie thought. At least nothing had been thrown or cast at him. 

Ben made a face that was somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Sure thing, Richie.” He put his book back and slid out of the room. “See you guys around!”

“Like a wheel,” Richie grinned over his shoulder.

And then it was just Richie and Eddie again. Like it was so often. Like it had been right before Richie had gone and fucked it all up.

This wasn’t the first time Eddie had been angry with Richie—you didn’t get through almost two decades of friendship without a spat here and there. But this was different. Eddie had seen Richie in a way Richie had hoped he never would. And he wasn’t even looking at him.

“Watcha readin’?” Richie asked, sticking his hands in his pockets and moseying over to the other side of the table to peek across at what Eddie was reading while still keeping a respectable distance.

“Nothing,” Eddie said. “Just about the history of the town.”

Richie could see that this was technically true—that was the book that Eddie had open. But there were various other folders and tomes and notebooks beneath that one that really piqued Richie’s interest. 

“Since when do you care about the history of Derry?” Richie asked. “Mike and Ben putting you to work now? You getting good wages?”

Eddie just glared at him. 

Richie felt like he’d been hit with a hold person spell.

And yet—he kept going, because his courage was waning significantly now that he was realizing he’d have to actually address what had happened.

“I bet you’re hiding something under there,” he teased. He’d said it lightly, but he wasn’t really joking, and his methods proved effective when Eddie looked up at him with a look of guilt clear on his face. “Edward Kaspbrak!” Richie gasped. “Do you have porn under there?” 

He pushed the book aside while Eddie was slightly off guard.

“Richie, stop—”

Eddie shoved the book back in place, but Richie had glanced enough of the papers he’d uncovered. His breath caught in his throat.

A lot of words jumped out at him.

“Casting without components…”

“Dragon’s breath…”

“Sudden new powers…”

Wild Magic.

Richie felt it again. The panic. The buzzing. The itch he couldn’t scratch that clawed up his throat.

He staggered back. 

“Richie,” Eddie said, his voice much softer this time. Richie clenched his hands into fists, as if he could hold back whatever might spring forth from them. He knew logically that there was no risk as long as he didn’t cast anything, as long as he kept to his bard spells, but he could feel the power swirling in him, coiling like a snake, even when he had no desire to tap into it.

He hadn’t realized that Eddie had stood and come closer until he felt Eddie’s hand on his arm. He nearly jumped.

“Richie,” Eddie said softly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Richie cut him off quickly. He brought his hand to Eddie’s side, then quickly pulled it away. “Shit, Eddie, I came here to apologize to you, please don’t say you’re sorry.”

Eddie shifted then, ambivalence written in every move of his muscles and dilation of his pupils. He kept his hands to himself, but he didn’t move away.

Richie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Eds,” he said. His voice shook, all too loud in such a silent room. “That was so fucked up of me. We could’ve gotten out of there without that, I never should’ve put you in danger like that. I had no idea what would happen, and I knew fucking anything could’ve happened. I just… I panicked, and I needed to get us out of there. But it was still horrible of me, and I understand if you don’t…” Richie forced himself to speak through the rapids surging in his chest. “If you don’t feel safe around me anymore. I thought I could protect you from it, but that was selfish too, because I should’ve known I would never be able to keep that up forever. So yeah, I just… just wanted to say sorry for putting you through that. That’s all I came here for.”

Eddie was silent for longer than Richie could handle without looking to see what was happening. He looked… confused. And pissed again. 

“You think that’s what I’m mad about?” 

Shit. How had he managed to make things worse?

“What else?” Richie asked.

Eddie punched him on the shoulder. Richie let out a little wince. “I’m not fucking afraid of you, Richie!” he exclaimed. “I’m pissed because you ditched me! I’m pissed because you were clearly really fucking freaked out about what happened and then you wouldn’t even talk to me about it! I’ve been worried sick about you but you fucking turned invisible and teleported away before I could even get the chance to talk to you and comfort you about it! I’m pissed because you’d rather cut me off than let me help you!”

Richie thought that scaring Eddie was the worst possible outcome.

He hadn’t realized that making Eddie sad was a possibility in this scenario. And god, it was so much worse than any response of fear or anger would’ve been. Eddie was biting his lip, trying to maintain his scowl while his eyes became watery. He crossed his arms, and Richie’s heart sank. He wanted to pull Eddie into his arms, to make all his pain go away, but wouldn’t that just be the most selfish thing he could possibly do? Pull Eddie closer?

And the worst part was that Richie didn’t see a way to be honest with Eddie and not make things worse.

“Eds,” Richie said through a hitched breath, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I appreciate that, but this isn’t something anyone can fix.” 

“You don’t need to be fixed, Richie,” Eddie sighed, exasperated. “I don’t want you to change. I just want you to let me in. And I was mad that you didn’t let me in, that you kept it from me, and I realize now that that’s not exactly fair and that you telling me should’ve been on your terms, but I just… I was so worried about you, Rich.”

Richie felt a stinging pressure behind his eyes. “I don’t want you to have to worry about me.”

Eddie almost seemed to seethe at that. “Richie. You fucking numbskull. Don’t you worry about me? Don’t you want me to be safe?”

What the fuck kind of question was that? “Of course I do—well, I mean, you know, not that you can’t handle yourself, but of course I want you to be safe.”

Eddie stepped closer, narrowing his eyes at Richie. “Then why shouldn’t I worry about you? Why shouldn’t I want to keep you safe?”

“What if I’m not safe to be around?”

“I think I can handle it,” Eddie snorted. 

“But I can’t predict it—”

“We’ll figure it out together. It’s okay.”

“No, Eddie! It’s not okay!” Richie threw his hands up in the air, running them through his hair. “You say you don’t want me to change but I keep changing all the time in ways I don’t understand! What am I supposed to do with that? What are you supposed to do with that?”

“I just wanna be there for you!” Richie hadn’t realized his voice had been getting louder until he heard how loud Eddie said that. “I don’t know what to do with it or if there even is anything that needs to be done, but I wanna be there with you when it happens because you shouldn’t have to handle scary shit happening to you on your own!”

“But it’s my problem, why should you have to figure it out?”

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

That shut Richie up. Sure, he knew Eddie loved him, the way he knew all of his friends loved him. But that… Was he imagining it? He didn’t think that sounded so platonic.

Eddie softened, and some air came back into the room. “I love you,” he said again. “I wanna be with you. All the time. I wanna know when you’re struggling with something and I wanna help you with it. I wanna take care of you, I want… I want you. I miss you.” 

Richie’s breath hitched again, and he started to crumble. “I miss you so fucking much Eddie—”

Eddie grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down. Richie needed to lean so far down to meet him he almost fell over, but he caught himself, and Eddie lifted up on his toes to meet him halfway, and then their lips were pressed together, and Eddie’s lips were so soft, despite the force behind them. It took a moment for Richie to realize he could kiss Eddie back, but when he did, he was like a man starved. 

Quickly growing frustrated with the lack of leverage his position afforded him, however, Richie lifted Eddie by his waist and sat him on the table, stepping between his legs. He cupped Eddie’s face in his hands and slotted their lips together more neatly, forcing himself to slow down and really appreciate what was happening, to process it. Eddie’s hands slid over Richie’s shoulders and up into his curls, holding on tight. “Eddie,” Richie breathed against his mouth, “Eds, I love you so much.” 

Eddie pulled away to catch his breath and pressed his forehead to Richie’s. “Don’t call me Eds,” he panted, but he was smiling.

“Mhm, sure, definitely won’t,” Richie grinned, then kissed him again. “Whatever you say, Eds.” He kept kissing him and kept talking, the words murmured against Eddie’s lips. “And I won’t pick you up again either. I can tell from that little squeak you made that you really didn’t like it.”

Eddie slapped him playfully on the shoulder, but he didn’t argue.

They traded a few more kisses before Richie pulled back, his body thrumming with adrenaline—it was still a little scary, but overwhelmingly it was good. He let himself really look at Eddie, at his pretty brown eyes and kiss swollen lips. He’d probably spend forever convincing himself this was real.

“You really aren’t scared?”

Eddie scoffed. “You wish you could scare me.” He kissed Richie deeply and ran his fingers through hair, grazing his thumbs gently over Richie’s horns in a way that had Richie shivering. “Honestly,” Eddie said, his voice low, “it was kind of hot.”

Richie groaned, his brain fizzling out for a second. “Okay, well, I’m not really sure I can do it again, but I’ll keep that in mind. But you should probably cool it on talking to me like that until we’re in a bed or something because I don’t think Mike would appreciate me getting jizz all over his pristinely maintained archives—”

“Richie!” Eddie screeched, kicking his thigh lightly. But he was cackling, and Richie kissed the dimples in his cheeks and nuzzled his face into Eddie’s neck, where he would’ve been happy to stay forever, with Eddie shaking from laughter in his arms.

“I love you,” Richie repeated against his skin. He couldn’t believe it was all out there—all of it, every single thing Richie had sworn to keep to himself for the rest of his life was sitting in Eddie’s lap, and Eddie loved him. “I love you,” he said again, “I love you so much.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] || Also on AO3

Chapter 14: December 2005

Something’s wrong and Gerard knows it.

In all fairness, it’s pretty obvious. Martin’s name wasn’t even on the program, let alone him not being at the concert, and the place they’ve lived since the wedding is currently occupied by two yuppies and a Doberman. But even beyond that, Gerard just has a…sense that something is off.

The trouble is that he doesn’t know what he can do about it. Or how to fix it.

He’s tried everything he can think of…well, almost everything. He’s checked the phone book, but it still lists their old address; he’s tried asking at a few places, but none of the people there have seen Liliana or Roger; he’s wandered aimlessly around London, but that was always going to be a shot in the dark. He’s even taken his life into his hands and gone to the Magnus Institute to see about trading a statement for an address, but the Archivist and two of her assistants were out, leaving only a too-eager young man who, somehow, doesn’t seem to have the faintest idea of what he’s in the middle of. Gerard doesn’t have the heart to clue him in, despite his personal feelings on people being involved in this shit without their knowledge or consent, so he writes out a “statement” he’s pretty sure he cribbed from a pub song and pretends not to understand when the guy turns fuchsia after an awkward, fumbling attempt at flirting.

He’s cute, actually, and doesn’t look like he’s much older than Gerard, but since he doesn’t intend to stay in London longer than it takes to collect his brother and sister, he won’t be using the number scrawled on the back of the business card.

There is one other option, Gerard supposes, but he doesn’t want to do it. At all. If he walks back into his mother’s shop, she’ll have him again. And he’s got away. He doesn’t have to be in London anymore. Yes, the world is full of ignorance and stupidity and fear and people doing awful and terrible and thoughtless things in the face of it, but it is also full of fresh bread and comfortable armchairs and art museums and brightly-colored poisonous frogs. And he can see it, he can experience it all for himself, and maybe he can finally get a job he wants instead of running errands for his mother. He can be an artist, or a photographer, or a journalist. He can become a train porter or a flight attendant or a steward on a cruise ship. He can be a homeless drifter and get by on the kindness of others. He can fuck off to the Eurasian Steppes and live in a yurt. Anything is possible, as long as he stays away from Pinhole Books.

He sighs and looks at the business card again. Gods above, the guy drew a winking face in the tail of the Y in his last name, he couldn’t be more obvious if he tried. Gerard should just throw it away, but instead, he tucks it into the back of his pack of Woodbines, shakes one out, and cups a hand around the end to light it.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know.”

Gerard almost swallows the cigarette. He whirls around to see Melanie standing a couple feet away, hands on her hips, denim jacket open enough to expose the college logo on her sweatshirt and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Neens!” Gerard drops the cigarette and barely remembers to grind it out with a heel before he steps forward, arms outspread for a hug. Melanie practically leaps at him, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly pulling him over. “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing. I thought you were gone for good.” Melanie drops to the ground and looks up at him accusingly. “Aunt Mary said you’d said you weren’t coming back.”

“I’m not staying. I just came to visit.” Gerard looks Melanie up and down. “Came to see you and Martin. I figured you’d be home for the holidays.”

A strange look comes over Melanie’s eyes. “Yeah. Home for the holidays.”

Anxiety tugs at Gerard. That sense of wrong flares up again, and he studies Melanie again. “What’s wrong? You didn’t get kicked out, did you?”

“No, but—” Melanie breaks off and lifts a hand. “Hey. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Gerard turns around and grins. “Hey, Martin.”

“Gerry?” Martin looks dumbfounded. He’s wearing a jumper Gerard can tell he knitted himself—mostly because he bought him the wool last Christmas—over a button-up and a pair of khakis, a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and he’s made a pathetic attempt at growing facial hair that doesn’t suit him. “I—y-you were supposed to be gone, I thought you finally got away!”

“You didn’t think I was going to miss spending Christmas with you two, did you?” Gerard steps forward and hugs Martin tightly; Martin hugs him back, maybe a little desperately.

“If you go back to that shop, she won’t let you leave,” Martin mumbles in his ear.

“Yeah, that wasn’t my plan.” Gerard releases Martin and steps back.

Melanie comes forward to give Martin a hug, too. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. How are…things?”

“Okay. Dad’s having a better day. I fixed dinner for him and Lily and said we were going to go skating at the National History Museum.” Melanie shrugs. “We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, but at least it means they aren’t expecting us home for a bit.”

Gerard grins and waggles his eyebrows at them. “Great! If they’re not expecting you for a while, c’mon. We can be halfway to the Continent before they miss you.”

Martin laughs, but it sounds tired. “Skating sounds fun, but I need something to eat first, I think. I didn’t get a chance to grab lunch today.” He reaches under the collar of his jumper and tugs—is that a necktie? “There’s, um, everything around here is kind of expensive, actually, but—”

“No, wait, hang on,” Gerard interrupts. “What are you even doing up this way? Where is ‘home’ anyway? I went by your place and someone else was living there…”

“Yeah, we had to move over the summer. I didn’t quite meet the income requirements for the rent.” Martin sighs and rolls up the tie before stuffing it in his bag.

“Inc—you’re a student!” Gerard throws his hands up. “What income requirements can they expect out of you? And why you?”

Melanie folds her arms over her chest. “Told you he’d throw a fit.”

“Yeah, imagine how he’d react if I let you have your way,” Martin shoots back.

“You shouldn’t have to make all the sacrifices!”

“And what would be the point of you giving it all up if—”

“What. Is. Going. On,” Gerard says emphatically.

Melanie’s scowl deepens. “Dad got fired.”

A chill runs through Gerard’s body. He looks over at Martin, who nods silently. “So…what, you had to get a seasonal job to help out? Surely Mum’s not so stingy she wouldn’t pay Aunt Lily more. She needs her, after all.”

“Apparently not. Mum’s not doing well either, Ger. She…I don’t know. I think she’s been Touched, but I’m honestly afraid to Look.” Martin looks away from Gerard, out over the river. “Anyway, she can’t work any more. And Aunt Mary said she didn’t need my help when I offered to take over.”

“She probably just meant she didn’t need you part time,” Gerard says. “What with you being away at school and all.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Martin says quietly. “I’m not going to school anymore. I dropped out. Someone has to support the family, and if it had to be one of us, it had to be me.”

“It should be both of us,” Melanie says pointedly. “I could’ve—”

“Look, as hard as it was for me to find anything without a degree, it would’ve been harder for you and you know it,” Martin cuts her off, with the tone of someone retreading a well-worn argument. “This is the best option. Trust me.”

Gerard stares at them both, feeling the bottom drop out of his world. He left home—he thought for good—ten months ago, secure in the knowledge that Martin and Melanie were free. They’d both done well for themselves in school, both achieving places in colleges outside of London. They had futures, they had their whole lives ahead of them, and Gerard knew that for the first time, all of them were away from his mother and Martin’s and the lives they’d tried to trap them in.

But if Martin dropped out…

“Hang on,” he says slowly, dread creeping up his spine. “Where are you working around here? One of the shops or—?” He freezes, looking across the street at the looming, imposing building he was just in a few minutes ago. “No. Don’t tell me—”

“Just the library,” Martin says, but the defeat in his voice is obvious.

“Martin Blackwood.”

“Look, it’s not like I had a choice. Nobody was hiring, and I mean nobody. I’d picked up a bit of change working at the tea shop again, but that wasn’t…we didn’t have much of a grace period on rent, you know?” Martin sighs heavily. “Everybody wanted degrees, o-or experience or…I had to do something.”

“You lied on your CV,” Gerard guesses.

“And the Magnus Institute was the only place I could successfully fake the credentials they were looking for,” Martin agrees. “Or, well…I mean, I’m pretty sure Mr. Bouchard knows the truth, but he hired me anyway.”

Gerard swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “So…you’re working for them after all.”

“Yeah.” Martin lowers his eyes and turns away. “Guess so.”

The glare Melanie shoots Gerard is almost enough to burn holes in his leather duster, but he doesn’t need her to do that to know he’s fucked up. A sickly spiral of guilt swirls in his gut, and he steps forward and takes Martin’s arm, not really turning him to face him, but just kind of maintaining contact. Letting him know he’s there.

“Hey,” he says softly. “No, I—I didn’t mean it like that, Martin, I just—God, l thought you two were safe. I would never have left if I’d…i-if I’d known you were in trouble, I’d have come back in a heartbeat. I hate that you’re stuck. And it’s my fault.”

“It’s not. It just…it just happened.” Martin wipes his eyes and looks at Gerard. “Knowing you and Neens made it out…that’s enough for me.”

Melanie’s snort echoes off the surrounding buildings. “You don’t think we’re going to leave you to this, do you? I told you before, when you were worrying about whether you’d even get into that program, that I wasn’t going to go off and get away from this if you couldn’t. I’m not dropping out because you’ll kick my ass—”

“Damn right—”

“—but I’m not going to stop helping, either,” Melanie concludes. “Fuck it. If you’re in it, I’m in it. Not like they’ll let me stay away forever anyway. Might as well make them regret it, right?”

Martin gives her a small, watery, but genuine smile. Gerard takes a deep breath and squeezes Martin’s arm. “She’s right. One for all and all for one, yeah? I told you last time I wouldn’t leave without you, so if you can’t leave…I won’t, either.”

“You’re not going back to your mum, though, right?” Melanie’s voice is sharp, but her eyes are worried.

Gerard smiles, and doesn’t answer. His mother isn’t gifted with prophecy or anything, but she knows him, and his brother and sister to a certain extent, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find out this is why she refused to hire Martin full-time. She knows how he feels about them, and knowing Martin is trapped at the Institute is going to be the perfect cat’s-paw to get him back under her thumb for good.

“Come on,” he says, looping his arm through Melanie’s and pulling both of them closer. “Let’s go get something to eat. My treat. And then I think you mentioned ice-skating.”

One last moment, he thinks. One last taste of freedom before he puts his neck back in the yoke to be worked to death. He can do this. It’s fine.

It’s worth it. It has to be.

[jackiemonroe5512]

CW: angst, death, grief, guilt

My brain is doing a thing….

S2 au where instead of D’art killing Mews he kills Dustin’s mom….

How would that change the course of not just S2, but the rest of the series?

Does Steve take Dustin in after? How does that go? The grief and guilt Dustin feels? Feeling responsible for his mom’s death?

Is this a thing? If so, someone write this and break my heart and soul with it! And tag me if you do please please please!!

[grislyintentions]

What are your thoughts on the Traveler possibly purifying/curing Xiao's karmic debt like they did with Dvalin's Tears?

[Hello anon! Thank you for the question, it made me real happy ^w^ &lt;;3

I personally like to think that all Yakshas are affected by their own karmic debts differently. In reference to the HC I have made regarding Xiao's past and the ways his karmic debt affect him (here x), the strongest source of his suffering is himself.

The core of his turmoil is guilt and fear, leading to anxiety, self repression/punishing and self destructive behavioural patterns. That compounding with having to accept the added weight of hatred, resentment and grudges in order to vanquish the remnants of fallen gods will take shape as his 'debt'.

Since his greatest enemy is himself, then being able to overcome his own karmic debt naturally will be something that falls on him instead.

While I don't think the Traveler can fully purify/cure him of his karmic debt, I think they can be the catalyst that drives him towards the path of eventually learning to better manage/cope with it. And that their presence is something that greatly comforts/alleviates the effects of his debt.

Much like how the Traveler was also the key component responsible for removing the "tainted blood" that has taken root on Dvalin. They were able to give Dvalin the opportunity and clarity of mind to reconcile their perception towards Mondstadt's citizens. What Dvalin chooses to do, in the aftermath of their destruction and temperament, was a decision left to the dragon themself. In the same vein, the decision to actively cope and offer himself forgiveness can be bolstered by the Traveler's support.

To me, the greatest thing you can do for someone who had gone through an eternity of feeling helpless/hopeless/consumed by their ownself, is to empower them. And that is what the traveler does. That makes a world of a difference to someone like Xiao.]

[ch0c00n]

sunflower week 1: nightmare

+closeup and bonuses

[mossspond]

BOLAVLK/WEREAWOLF sournoodl - 2023

CW: Flashing imagery (6:07-6:27), online grooming, mentions of zoo/pedophilia

[blue-rose-soul]

Vaggie: Alastor, what the hell!?

Charlie: You can't hit a kid!

Alastor: That child was acting like an insufferable brat. Someone had to set it straight.

Charlie: It doesn't matter! You don't hit kids, that's no way to teach them to behave!

Alastor: Well, that's how I was raised.

Vaggie: Who the hell raised you?

Alastor: My mother's murderer.

Charlie: ...

Vaggie: ...

Everyone else in the hotel: ...

Husk: ...Yup, that tracks.

Alastor: ??? :)

[solargeist]

a lesbian in the woods is offering you mystery meat . accept it

[ibrithir-was-here]

Rosemary is for Remembrance Part 5

Part 1

Part 4

Part 6

[dominicsorel]

The sadness of knowing you forgot someone who matters to you, something like that’ll gnaw at you forever.

[thecruellestmonth]

Honestly really curious about the “Jason feel triggered by Dick’s kindness thing” if you feel like elaborating?

Every betrayal begins with trust. Jason Todd trusts Dick Grayson, and so Dick is a glowing, ticking timebomb.

-The Past-

Dick and Jason have history, not all of it good. Not all of it bad.

Nightwing: Year One

Batman #416 // The New Teen Titans (1984) #31

Skipping the early years all the way to the Red Hood era, Dick is someone who pretty consistently tries to give Jason a chance. Dick keeps up his guard and doesn't trust blindly, but he also tries to listen to Jason, reach out to him, and even work together when possible. Although Jason is an enemy, although it'd be much easier to believe the worst, Dick still generally chooses to keep his heart and mind open.

Outsiders #44-46 (2007), written by Judd Winick. When Jason obtains information that could free an innocent man from prison, he chooses to turn to Nightwing for help. In turn, Dick also chooses to believe in Jason.

Nightwing 2021 Annual, written by Tom Taylor. Despite (falsified) video evidence of Red Hood committing a murder, Dick doesn't jump to assume the worst in Jason. Dick chooses to trust and verify.

As Red Hood, Jason doesn't really like to ask favors or depend on others. Yet Nightwing tends to show up and help him anyway.

Now if Jason were healthy, then Dick's kindness would be comforting and reassuring. But in Jason's experiences, the most crushing pain comes from the people he's supposed to trust the most.

Catherine Todd, Willis Todd, police officers, social workers, a schoolteacher, Sheila Haywood, Bruce Wayne. Those people were supposed to protect Jason—those people ended up hurting him. After these experiences, Jason has become fixated on anticipating others' behavior (look up "fortune telling" as a cognitive distortion). Dick has become the latest source of safety. And so Dick's kindness is a trigger, as Jason anticipates more betrayal and pain.

-Dreams-

Jason's dreams have implied two things about his inner feelings:

1) Jason trusts Dick in ways that he no longer allows himself to trust Bruce—in his dreams, Dick is the first one who shows up for him when he's scared. Dick is the one who anticipates Jason's questions without being asked, and notices the fears that Jason tries to suppress.

2) Jason fears Dick is going to betray him, reject him, humiliate him. Because Dick is in a position where he can hurt Jason, then past experience says he inevitably will hurt Jason.

Examples:

Nightwing #121 (written by Bruce Jones, AKA the infamous tentacle monster arc) - Jason has been ingested by a mutating alien tentacle monster (long story). He dreams that Dick is in the darkness with him—but Dick mocks Jason for hoping that Dick would care to rescue him.

Truth & Justice #11 (written by Trammell) - When Jason has a fear toxin-induced nightmare of being buried alive again, Dick is the one who appears at his graveside and offers him help. However, the nightmare Dick then proceeds to ridicule Jason and attack his worth.

Task Force Z #7 (written by Rosenberg) - Jason has a nightmare of being surrounded by enemies attacking him. The nightmare culminates in the scariest part when Nightwing and Batgirl (Babs)—his older sibling figures—make him feel like a little Robin again, and tell him that all his efforts are just making everything worse.

DC vs. Vampires #6 (2022), a vampire apocalypse Elseworld written by Tynion & Rosenberg

Now Elseworlds (alternate universe) comics aren't canon to the main universe, but can still offer possible insight into characterization… In DC vs Vampires #6, Jason tells Dick (who has revealed himself as an evil vampire): "I always knew someday you'd screw up worse than anyone." Yet up until the moment when Dick reveals himself as an evil vampire, Jason never has a rational reason to anticipate that. So either Jason is just now lying to cover up his own shame for having misplaced his trust yet again, or Jason really has been harboring fears that Dick would betray him.

-The Present-

Circling back to recent happenings in the main universe: Task Force Z #8 (2022). Jason is behaving very suspiciously on a solo mission. Dick wants to know why—whether the greater good is at stake, or whether Jason is in trouble and needs help. And so Dick asks Jason to have a reasonable conversation... to which Jason responds by punching him and running away. Just the slightest suggestion of misgivings on Dick's part, and Jason chooses fight and flight. Another turn of the cycle, and Jason leaves the family circle again as quickly as he rejoined.

Task Force Z #8 (2022), written by Rosenberg

So Jason does cherish his brotherhood with Dick… but Jason is also watchful for the tiniest possible warning signs that Dick could hurt him, so he can cut off that bond before it can be used against him.

Dick Grayson is irresistibly trustworthy. Jason can't stop himself from trusting Dick. That's exactly why he can't trust Dick.

[mayasaura]

I am never going to forgive Cristabel for what she did to Mercymorn. Inflicted on her the same "cruellest thing anyone has ever done to you" that Gideon did on Harrow, but without the same pressures. No one was banging down the door threatening to kill them both. She didn't have to choose between watching Mercy die and dying for her. When Cristabel violently manipulated Mercy into lyctorhood, she did it with fore-thought. She planned it. Fuck her.

[sidecast-deactivated]

faith doodles

[fizzytoo]

made a bottoms (movie)/“fight club” inspired oc :D —leah dawn (she/her, 21, physics major) joined her university's "secret" self-defense (fight) club to impress girls and get pussy 😞

[frenchfrywrites]

Simeon’s new neighbor

MINORS DNI

Warnings: trans masc top vampire reader, trans human bottom Simeon, blood, both of yall r fucked up.. so like morally gray/dubious things and such, attempt at religious themes and guilt, fingering, humping, blood drinking, fear wetting (nonsexual (if you can believe)), strap on, scent kink, lmk if i missed anything..

tysm to @pulpbeing for helping me w inspiration w this fic :)

It’s a spring Sunday morning when Simeon wakes to find the house across the street from him– the one nobody had lived in for years, and he was certain would never find a buyer– has finally found its new owner. He smiles to himself at the sight of the vintage car in front, and the new doormat placed outside the front door. While there’s not many other signs of life, yet, Simeon hopes that the homeowner will settle in nicely and make the place their own.

It’s out of the ordinary that his new neighbor moved in during the night, Simeon thinks briefly, but refocuses on how happy he is that someone moved in at all. He hums as he brews himself a cup of coffee, exciting himself with imagining what his new neighbor is like. He wonders if they’re friendly. He wonders if he’ll see them at church this morning. Knowing he’ll be seeing a new face around the small town leaves Simeon energized, and truth be told he probably doesn’t need the coffee at all. There’s enough pep in his step anyways.

But his age is catching up to him, and in order to keep from yawning during the service, he downs the cup he’d prepared (though not before adding copious amounts of milk and sugar to make it bearable). 

Simeon does little else before going to morning mass, and when he gets there he scans the familiar faces. All the grannies swarm at him, asking him about his week, how he’s been, among other things. He does his best to give them his attention, but he’s losing focus as he continues to analyze the congregation. 

He tries not to let disappointment sink in as no new face enters the church. The sunny day turning cloudy does little to help his emotional state. Simeon rationalizes that perhaps his neighbor is tired from the move, and even if you never go to church that doesn’t automatically make you a bad person. Smiling to himself, he decides he’ll make you a dessert as a welcoming gift.

It’s not long before he’s standing in front of your door, reaching out to ring your doorbell, holding the sweet treat in the other hand.

“Who’s there?” a beautiful voice calls from within, and Simeon feels rejuvenated, excited, and giddy all over again.

“Your new neighbor!” he responds, figuring that if he only responded with his name, you’d be entirely confused.

“Hello?” you open the door, and Simeon’s heart nearly stops. You’re nothing short of impressive and deeply intimidating in your beauty. He thought he was wearing his Sunday best, but compared to your outfit he might as well be wearing rags. Every strand of your hair is perfect, and you’ve no blemishes or disfigurements. In fact, if it didn’t sound silly to say aloud, he'd say you’re glowing. And what impresses him even more so, is that your beauty seems so effortless. 

His jaw drops slightly, leaving him gaping at you like an idiot. He’s embarrassed to be standing before you like this, as he imagines he must look so frumpy and boring compared to your elegance. You don’t seem to mind though. In fact if Simeon were to guess by your expression alone, he’d say you’re endeared and pleased with him at your doorstep.

“Ah, hello!” he finally shakes himself out of his stupor. “My name is Simeon, I live across the street,” he gestures behind himself, to his house. 

You don’t even spare his house a glance, your eyes instead staying locked on him, and Simeon feels his heart throb at how they’re an unusual, but mesmerizing, bright amber color. He licks his lips, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. “Um- I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, so I made you a-” he prattles on, telling you about what he made, and what’s in it. From there he rambles a bit about allergies, anxiety setting in over the fact that he may have presented something inedible for you.

“Simeon,” he gasps softly at the sound of your voice cutting him off. You’re smiling, and Simeon finds himself mimicking you, though his smile is a far more bashful one. You introduce yourself to him, and Simeon thinks your name is as beautiful as you are, “would you care to come in?” you ask, opening the door for him. He enters your home without a second thought.

The two of you get on like you’ve been friends for years. You make him tea and guide him to your living room where you’re able to talk to him for hours, about a myriad of topics, until Simeon’s grumbling belly regrettably leads to him excusing himself for dinner. You walk him to your door, waiting and watching at your doorstep until you see him wave to you from inside his house.

Simeon is a social butterfly, and gets on with just about anyone, but he feels different with you. He feels like a kid with a crush again, and it’s not just that you’re good company, he feels utterly at ease and refreshed in your presence. For the rest of the night he flits around his own house in a haze of bliss, already thinking about what he wants to discuss with you next.

He finds himself at your doorstep the following evening, because that’s the time you told him you were the most available. You welcome Simeon into your home happily, and insist on making dinner for him. Strangely you don’t eat, but you tell him it’s because you had a filling lunch, and promise him you’ll eat later in the night. Simeon feels only mildly awkward being the only one eating at the table, but that feeling melts away slowly as you start up conversation again.

Like the previous night, the two of you talk until Simeon’s body catches up to him and he’s yawning more than he’s speaking. He leaves with a smile on his face, and waves to you happily from his house. He knows that his feelings towards you may become an issue later, because he can’t imagine a world where they’re reciprocated, but he’s enjoying himself too much to worry about it now. He figures he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

The next few nights he finds himself too busy to see you, but that doesn’t mean you’re off his mind. Rather, Simeon finds himself thinking of you nearly obsessively; until the first body turns up.

The town Simeon lives in is a small one, and when someone is found dead, everyone knows the details and feels their absence. The community mourns, and Simeon feels shock and fear ripple through it. This body was mangled and gored, and the main theory is that an animal did it. Despite there being an official theory, all eyes are on Simeon’s new neighbor, the outsider.

Whispers only die down once the family receives a bouquet from you on their doorstep. You’re not welcomed yet, but you’re no longer a suspect.

Simeon finds himself confused, and seeking someone to talk to. Before you, he would have gone to confession, but now he hurries across the street when the world around him turns a deep blue and twilight sinks across the sky.

“Simeon,” you greet him happily, ushering him in immediately. 

“Hi,” he breathes, again taken aback by your presence like the first day he met you. The memory of you that’s been running through his mind doesn’t even hold a candle to the real thing before him. 

The two of you stare at one another in the foyer. You clap your hands, “I don’t think I ever gave you a tour of my home, did I?” Simeon shakes his head, grateful for you taking the lead of the conversation. 

He follows you eagerly as you guide him through the first floor that he’s seen most of. You go through the kitchen, the dining and living room, your study, and the downstairs bathroom. Then you lead him upstairs. Simeon finds himself entirely distracted from the grim events of the week as you move from room to room. 

Upstairs you show him your little library– and you pause here for a while, because of course Simeon has to jealously browse your collection– the room where you do your work, and finally your bedroom. Simeon can’t help but feel bashful when you kindly show him your room. He hopes you don’t notice. If you do, you’re kind enough not to mention it.

Your house is like a museum, Simeon thinks. There’s more artifacts, antiques, and collectables in each room than he’s ever seen in his life. You have things from every era, and he can’t help but be in awe of how much care and love you put into them. 

There are some oddities within your home as well. He notices you have every mirror and window covered. Simeon wouldn’t dare bring it up though, fearing that he’d come off as rude or invasive. 

After leading him through the upstairs, you bring him back down to the living room. 

“There’s a basement too,” you mention offhandedly as you sit down, “but it’s unfinished.” 

“Your house is amazing,” Simeon confesses. You smile, and he continues, “thank you for taking me on a tour, I was…” he trails off for a moment, “I was having a rough time with the recent events, and this was a needed distraction.” In response to that you hum,

“I’m happy to have been able to help, Simeon,” you rest your head on your hand looking at him through your lashes, and Simeon feels a guilty pang of lust grow in his loins. “When death presents itself so violently and suddenly, it can be so consuming,” you muse. “I wish I could have done more for the family, I hope my condolences provided a moment of comfort.”

“Ah, I was going to tell you,” Simeon starts, “I’m sorry that some of us worried that you had something to do with this! I didn’t think that at all of course. I don’t think you could hurt a fly,” he reassures you. You laugh at that, and Simeon feels his cheeks heat with flush. 

“I see how grief could make some see a coincidence where there is none,” you say once your laughter dies off, “but let's not talk too much about all this. You came over for a distraction, no?” Simeon nods, “then let’s talk about something more lighthearted. You said you’d read some of the books you saw in my library?”

From here the conversation turns, and the two of you talk deep into the night. 

“I’ll walk you home,” you tell Simeon once he finally admits he needs to leave. Suddenly, any and all exhaustion is gone from Simeon’s body. 

“Are you sure? I’m just across the street,” Simeon says, though deep down he wants you to come over. 

“I know, but it’s so dark. It’d make me feel better even if it’s just walking a few feet,” you say, pulling on your shoes. 

The night is quiet, save for the chirps and calls from nocturnal critters. There’s light conversation between the two of you as you walk Simeon the very small distance between your houses. 

“Here I am,” he says awkwardly, unlocking and opening the door to his home. You stand outside the doorway, illuminated from his porch light.

“Good night Simeon,” you say softly, reaching out to tuck a stray hair away from his face. Awestruck, Simeon stands in his doorway dumbly, watching you turn to leave.

“Bye,” he breathes, when you’re already halfway across the street. 

He watches you enter your own house, and it’s only when you’re out of sight that he closes the door, and grabs at his chest. He laughs, a relieved and elated sound. 

“Oh Father, thank you, thank you,” he murmurs between his giggles. He goes through his nighttime routine, feeling like he’s walking on air, like he’s in a dream.

Simeon had believed that his crush was silly, that there was no possibility of his feelings being returned. Perhaps that’s still true, that your intentions were purely platonic, but it felt like so much more than that. He sighs wistfully, looking out his bedroom window at your home. You’d done something that felt so intimate so easily, like it was nothing at all. It was everything to him.

The weeks pass, and spring turns to summer, and summer eases into fall. Simeon finds himself at your house more often than not as the months pass. Helplessly he falls deeper and deeper in love with you as you make him dinners, and talk with him, and do puzzles, and quietly read together, and drink fine wines on your living room loveseat with him. He texts you during the day, and during most times that he’s not able to be with you.

Simeon’s not been this happy in a long time, and everyone around him knows it. His community has eventually warmed up to you too. It’s hard when they don’t see you in the day time, and you not going to church is certainly a difficult thing for some to stomach. Simeon praises you enough that they finally come around to accepting you.

It’s not all love and bliss surrounding him, as there’s been more deaths. It’s no big city, so typically Simeon’s town deals with maybe two to three deaths a year, and very rarely are they violent ones at that. The police say there’s leads, but when they issue a curfew, the town begins to doubt them. Simeon feels safest when he is with you, but he can’t deny the way that terror has settled into his town.

Another person is reported missing a week before Halloween, and Simeon feels like he’s going crazy. He knows the curfew is quickly approaching, but the urge to see you overpowers his logic and he finds himself in front of your door. 

It’s only then that his typical anxiety surrounding breaking rules– and even more powerful, his catholic consciousness and the fear of always being watched– sets in. He worries that even knocking will alert someone that he’s breaking curfew, and instead gives the door a try. To his surprise, it turns under his palm.

Simeon pushes in and finds himself in the house he’s grown to love. 

He calls your name, but there’s no response. Quickly, he hurries through the rooms on the main floor, but finds each space empty. As soon as Simeon attempts to take the first step upstairs, he hears the crash from below him. 

The basement.

Simeon would have never guessed to check there, so he thanks God for the noise you’ve made. He honestly forgot you had one, but as he searches for an entrance he remembers how you’d mentioned it when you’d first given him a tour of your house. 

He finds the door relatively easily, now that he’s looking for it. It’s cracked open, an invitation to join you if Simeon’s ever seen one. The lights are off, and he finds that strange, but he’s gotten used to your oddities by now. Softly, he calls your name as he makes his way down the stairs, trying not to startle you. 

Simeon’s brain takes a second to process the scene before him as he reaches the basement floor. At first he thinks it’s a lump of clothes, but he soon realizes there’s a body inside of said clothes. A body. Not your body, either. He registers that there’s blood everywhere, and he can’t believe he didn’t notice that first. He can’t believe anything he’s seeing.

A soft, choked sound leaves him at the massacre displayed before him. He’s stunned, unable to think of how to react, or where to begin. Simeon’s hands are shaking, his pulse beating rapidly in his ears. Distantly– hardly audible at all compared to the pounding in his head– he hears the soft puttering sound of liquid dripping. At first he thinks it’s blood from somewhere, but then he notices the wetness in his pants. Weakly he nearly laughs (it comes out as a strained moan), because now he feels more shame than he does terror.

“Simeon?” a familiar voice shocks him to his core. He turns to look at where the sound came from, and is not entirely pleased with what he finds. 

Your familiar, beautiful face is covered with blood, your eyes shining a bright gold, staring right at him. Simeon should run, he should turn and scramble up the stairs out of your house to the comfort of his neighbors. But he’s frozen. 

“Simeon,” you coo his name, stepping towards him. He has a million thoughts at once, adding to the powerful headache he has growing. 

“A demon?” he whines weakly, finally finding the strength to speak. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then you’re smiling, showing off your animalistic, lethally sharp canines. 

“No, no,” and maybe it’s because Simeon’s brain is working really hard to keep up with him, but weren’t you further away before? “I know I don’t have the sparkly skin like some more popular of my kind,” you nearly giggle and he feels his knees try to buckle. “But can’t you guess what I am?” you tease. 

“Vampire,” he breathes, no uncertainty laced in his voice. You nod, 

“Oh good, that’s right,” you praise, slowly taking him into your arms. Simeon melts like butter into you. You coo, “aw sweet thing, don't fret, I won’t hurt you, I could never hurt you,” you assure him. Simeon doubts you, but there’s not much else he can think to do. 

You hoist him up carefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up, hm,” you start slowly making your way up the stairs. “I didn’t mean for you to see this, of course. I don’t mind others' opinions of me– though you seem to care a great deal on my behalf– anyways I do care what you think. We could have gone a while without you ever finding out. Naughty Simeon, you shouldn’t have been breaking curfew anyways,” you tease, rambling as you take him swiftly all the way up to your room, and into the adjoining bathroom there. 

“Would you take off your clothes?” you ask, setting him down on the toilet, and starting hot water for him. Simeon sits motionless, feeling confused and still quite terrified. You look back at him, and your eyes glow a bright yellow, “You’re safe,” you assure him, “and it’s going to be okay,” and with every word you speak Simeon feels relief and calm wash over him. He exhales a soft breath, almost forgetting what he was scared of in the first place. He remembers your request, and does as he’s told, 

He shakily, with your help, finds himself comfortable in your tub. 

“If I had the working blood to do so, I’d be blushing,” you tell him as you sit next to him, on the floor of the bathroom. When he doesn’t respond you sigh, “lots on your mind, I suppose.”

The two of you sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“God forgive me,” Simeon finally breathes, turning to face you. There’s still blood caked on you, and it makes him gag. You frown, clearly upset by this. Laughable that you’re more upset by his disgust than the dead body in your basement.

“I’m sorry, I should let you go, and– and leave in the morning. I apologize for ever–” Simeon cuts you off with a sad sound.

“It’s not you,” he confesses, “I– I’m disgusted that I still love you, even though you’re…” he gestures vaguely. 

“A cold-hearted, bloodsucking, undead, uncaring killer?” you prompt, smiling at him. Simeon, despite it all, smiles back.

“Yes," you tongue licks your blood stained lips,

"And you love me?" You sound so hopeful. Simeon doesn't hesitate,

"Yes," he breathes. You reach out tucking a stray hair behind his ear like you did so many nights ago. 

"Can I kiss you?" You ask, and instead of answering, Simeon closes his eyes and leans in.

Your lips are cold, but Simeon soon finds he doesn’t mind so much. He’s dreamed of this moment, and while it didn’t come about in the way he imagined, his heart still flutters and soars at the feeling of finally having your lips on his. He reaches up, cupping your cold face with his warm, wet hands, pulling you closer. You moan softly, licking his lips with your cold tongue. 

Briefly, Simeon thinks that God must be watching him right now and cursing him for his choices. Then again, if He is all knowing, He knew Simeon would never stop loving you. Maybe God thinks creatures of the night deserve some love too.

You pull away, your eyes so bright Simeon wonders if they’re actually glowing. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since you knocked on my door all those months ago,” you confess. Simeon smiles bashfully, 

“Me too,” he whispers. You lean in and kiss him again, and Simeon knows he’s in the deep end now. There’s no way he’ll ever return to his normal life again; if it meant not having you in his life, he’s not sure he’d want to. 

This time, Simeon can taste the blood that’s still caked on your lips, and it grows harder and harder to ignore the fact that you’re still clothed and covered in gore. He pulls away this time.

“Get in the bath with me?” he requests softly, never feeling so emboldened in his life. You moan softly,

“Are you sure?” you ask, and the slow heat that had settled in Simeon’s body (just from a bit of kissing) now feels like a raging fire. 

“Yes, please,” and you don’t need to be asked twice. It’s like he blinked and there you are naked in the tub with him. Simeon doesn’t hide the way he ogles your now bare body. He shimmies his way forward, closing the space between you, and grabs a washcloth. You watch him carefully, unblinking, as Simeon carefully washes the blood from your face. 

“You’re too good to me,” you whisper sincerely when he removes the cloth from your face, and sets it down elsewhere. 

“Hasn’t anyone told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” Simeon jokes, smiling at you. He pauses, “speaking of mouths,” he mumbles, looking at you hopefully. You laugh, catching his drift and opening your mouth for him.

Carefully, like you’re a wild animal, Simeon runs his fingers along your teeth, marveling at how sharp your canines are. “Would you suck my blood?” he asks breathlessly. You lick his finger, and he pulls back a bit.

“If I ever started, I’m not sure I could stop,” you tell him honestly. Gently you take a hold of his wrist, and press your nose against his pulse point. You look at him as you lick across his skin, “it’s hard not to, when you smell so good,” you confess. Simeon flushes and squirms under your gaze. He glances down, trying to avoid eye contact when it becomes too much for him. 

“You’re hard,” he breathes, noticing your clit peeking out from between your pubes, his voice cracking with excitement. He looks back up at you and you’re grinning.

“Yeah,” you let go of Simeon’s wrist, “and you are too. You’re so wet for me” you sound proud, but more than that you're thrilled. Simeon furrows his brow, because how could you tell when you’ve not yet touched him? “I can smell it,” you explain, sensing his confusion. 

Simeon flushes from being found out, and because he is- to his surprise- wildly turned on by the way you’re able to smell his arousal. 

“Oh,” he breathes softly, and there’s a moment of stillness between the two of you. Then, your lips are pressed against his, and Simeon is wrapping his arms around your neck, pulling you between his thighs. You hold onto his hips to prevent yourself from slipping, and Simeon can tell you’re holding back your strength, but your grip is still pleasantly strong. 

Now, instead of his fingers running along your teeth, Simeon uses his tongue to explore your mouth. Your fangs are scarily sharp, and your mouth is cold, but none of that bothers him. He can feel your pussy rut against his thighs, and he moans into your mouth.

“Will you,” he pulls away to start, “would you make love to me?” you groan at Simeon’s request. 

“You’re so cute,” Simeon opens his mouth to argue but you cut him off, “is that really something you want?” you ask, rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

“It’s all I’ve been able to fantasize about for the last few months,” Simeon confesses easily, and you groan again. 

“Fuck, okay, yes, me too,” you seem thoroughly flustered, and Simeon feels a sharp bit of pride jolt through him at the fact that he’s able to make you feel that way.

You kiss him again as one of your hands drift from his hip to his cunt. Simeon gasps and curls in on himself a bit when he feels your fingers against him. For so long he’s only been the one to touch himself, and it’s exhilarating to feel someone else press against him. You rub easy circles onto his throbbing clit, and Simeon hiccups. 

“Fuh-oh-feels so good,” he whines against your lips, slipping a bit in the tub and mashing his mouth against your chin. You huff out a laugh,

“Are you going to last long enough for me to get my fingers in you?” you tease. Simeon takes your words seriously, and shakes his head, jerking his hips and making the water slosh,

“Probably not,” you coo, leaning down to nuzzle against his neck. You inhale deeply, and moan,

“I want you to be able to take my strap,” Simeon’s breath hitches, “will you be able to after cumming, or do you want me to make you wait?” 

Simeon whines, his eyes fluttering shut. It feels too good to have you playing with his most sensitive bundle of nerves, he can’t think straight enough to give you a response. You pinch his clit and his eyes shoot open,

“Yes sir,” he rushes out, “yes, I-I can do it.” You smile, showing off your fangs. 

“Good,” Simeon’s back arches when one of your fingers slips down and into his aching hole. You’re so cold, he wonders if he feels like a furnace inside. He squeezes around you, panting for air, feeling far too close to cumming already. Faintly Simeon can feel you still rubbing yourself against his leg, and the water splashes gently against the sides. 

One finger quickly turns to two, and you’re stretching him open, your thumb still rubbing insistently against his clit. In the brief moments before his orgasm comes crashing into him, Simeon remembers how the French call it the little death. He’d laugh if he weren’t so busy spasming around your fingers, his eyes rolling back into his head and his mouth dropping open in a silent cry. His legs tremble, and his hands shake. It’s never been as intense as this. 

“There we go, there we go little angel,” you coo, “ohh, look at you,” you sound foggy and far away as Simeon rides out his orgasm. He can vaguely sense that you’re still rutting against him, and feels the way you’re licking at his skin.

It takes him a moment, and then he’s coming down, breathing heavily and slumping into the cool water. 

“Simeon?” you test, but he’s downright dumbstruck, only mumbling incoherently in return. You huff a laugh, and instead let him warm your fingers until he hums softly. 

“Hi,” he says dumbly, a bashful smile on his face. 

“You’re back,” you tease, pulling your fingers from him– causing Simeon to whine. 

“I still want to,” he clears his throat, “um, take your," he coughs, "cock,” he stumbles a bit but finally gets out, “if you’d let me.” 

“Oh angel,” he feels butterflies in his stomach at your use of the nickname for him. “I’d love to.”

The next few minutes are filled with you moving from the bathroom to your bedroom. You insist on drying him down yourself, teasing and touching Simeon all over until he’s squirming and giggling. It’s frightening how easily he can forget about the body in the basement. It’s like it never happened at all.

You guide him to your room, your cold hand fitting perfectly in his, and lay him on your bed. Simeon thinks it’s funny that you have a bed at all. He wonders if you ever sleep. Absentmindedly he plays with his hair while watching you take out your harness. He feels heat growing between his legs as he catches a glimpse of your strap.

Soon, you’re on top of him, with lube in your hand. Simeon spreads his legs making room for you between them.

“You finished pretty quick in the bathtub,” you muse popping open the lube. Simeon covers his face, feeling a bit embarrassed. You coo, using one hand to move his arms so you can see his face, “aw don’t be shy, I’m flattered, really.” 

“It’s because it’s been so long since I had someone– um– touch me like that,” it’s not something that’s bothered him much, the fact that as he’s aged he’s had less and less people make advances on him, but confessing it to you suddenly feels so embarrassing. You don’t seem to judge him though,

“That’s alright sweetheart, I’ll be gentle,” you promise, spreading lube along your fingers. Simeon smiles, again finding himself feeling safe in your presence. 

Just to be safe, you slip a couple fingers in him, stretching him out, slicking up his insides for you. Then you lather your cock with lube, and press against him.

“Wanted to have you like this for so long,” you tell him, rubbing against Simeon’s hole, then against his clit. He presses his hips back against you, so desperate to have you filling him up.

You lean down, taking one of his nipples into your mouth as you slowly push into him. One of your fangs lightly grazes against it, and Simeon gasps. Mistaking it for a sound of pain, you pause, looking up at him with a worried gaze.

“It’s okay, keep going, keep moving, please,” he babbles desperately. You switch to his other nipple, and comply with his request, slowly moving deeper into him.

“Oh,” Simeon sighs when your hips press flush against his.

“Okay?” you pull off his chest to check in. 

“Yeah, yes,” he groans, “feels so good,” he tells you as he wraps his legs around your waist, keeping you impossibly close to him. “You’re so deep, ‘m so full,” you lean down to kiss him, stopping him from rambling more about your cock. 

Slowly but steadily, you begin to fuck into him. It’s an agonizing pace at first, but Simeon realizes you’re trying to be careful with him, and he’s lovestruck all over again. 

Finally he can’t take it any longer. “Faster,” he whines against your lips, “please sir.” You’re happy to comply, picking up the pace to satisfy him. Simeon keens, letting your tongue into his mouth. He drools and pants around your tongue, losing his composure and control. Simeon can’t believe how free he feels.

“Mhmm, angel,” you pull away from him to groan, licking your lips, “you’re so good, you taste so good,” Simeon whimpers at the praise, feeling his pussy gush. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, lookin’ like that, smelling like that,” you drawl, your speech slurring.

“Bite me,” Simeon begs, wanting so badly to have you drunk off of him. Your brows furrow, like you’re upset by the idea, and yet your hips stutter. “Puh-lease,” and with his wanton plea, you lean down and lick at his neck. 

You’re fucking him hard and fast now, getting Simeon closer and closer. He lets out a pleased noise when your fangs sink into his flesh, and then you’re drinking from him. It’s a weird sensation, not one that hurts at all. 

It takes him a minute to realize it, but Simeon thinks you might be cumming. If the gurgled moans, and the way you’re ramming your hips into him at such an erratic pace is any hint. The idea of you getting off from the taste of his blood sends him over, and for the second time tonight you make him cum. 

Minutes feel like hours and milliseconds simultaneously, but soon Simeon feels woozy. 

“Ah,” he moans, feeling lightheaded. You dislodge from him, licking at the fresh wounds on his neck. Then you’re pulling away from him. All Simeon can manage is a weak whine. Shushing him gently, you pull your strap out of him, and gracefully plop down next to him, taking him in your arms.

“Sorry, I think I got carried away,” Simeon says what he thinks is “it’s okay,” but it sounds like a whole lot of nothing coming out of his mouth. “I think I should get you a snack or something,” you muse. 

Exhaustion hits and when Simeon wakes up again you have water, juice, tea, and ten types of snacks available for him. He feels sluggish and nauseous. 

“Do you need any help?” you ask, and Simeon looks over to find you sitting in the armchair in the corner of your room, looking at him.

Simeon shakes his head, shakily grabbing the glass of juice and drinking it down. His body, eager for sugars and nutrients, immediately feels better. 

“What are you doing over there?” he asks carefully. You look nervous, an expression that he can’t remember ever seeing on you before. 

“I didn’t want to scare you,” you say. Simeon laughs,

“A bit late for that,” he teases, and pats the bed. You come over slowly, settling in next to him like a guilty dog. He smiles at you, “if you’ll have me, I don’t expect that I’ll be leaving you any time soon,” you light up.

“Oh what a relief,” you cuddle into him, “because I wasn’t planning on letting you go.”