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pretentious-blonde · 4 months ago

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aftermath

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve is wrecked, haunted by the thought that he’d lost you for good. but when he finally braced himself for the worst, your answer shattered him in a way he never saw coming

warnings: 18+ emotional distress, angst, depression, major self-hatred, crying, smut, but like make up smut, minor bruising/scratches during intimacy (consensual), this is heavy guys

a/n: i hope this makes up for the cliff hanger. you do need to read this to fully understand what is going on. hope i did the make up justice!

series masterlist

You’ve been living in your pajamas since Friday, the same ratty jumper and threadbare bottoms you’ve slept in for days. The curtains in your living room are half-drawn, letting in just enough gray light to remind you it’s daytime—though you’re not quite sure which day it is anymore.

Tuesday, probably.

You’d asked for the whole week off, a near-unheard-of request, but you couldn’t face the world after what transpired. Your hoarse voice must have been enough to convince your boss of your current state, though he most likely believed it was a result of a bug or the flu. You were grateful he didn’t press further.

Everything in your flat reminds you of him. The bookshelf he painstakingly built and shoved into the corner. The stupid T-shirts he left behind, folded on your desk. The toothbrush tucked in next to yours in the bathroom. You’ve cried more than you ever thought possible, especially as day after day passes with no call, no communication. Nothing.

That’s why you’ve barely left, lying low in your own sorrow. You should be out celebrating your first ever published article—yes, that finally got the green light—but even that feels tainted now. Steve had helped you with the idea, reading every paragraph you placed in front of him for inspection. Thinking about it only reopens the wound.

By late afternoon, you’re in a numb haze, scrolling absentmindedly through the same TV channels, when a sudden knock on your door makes you freeze. Your pulse spikes with pure dread. You beg some higher power as you take a few tentative steps toward the entrance, pleading for it to be anyone else but him.

“Who—who is it?”

A boy’s voice answers.

“It’s Dustin.”

Surprise fills you, but you tug the door open anyway, still half-hidden behind the frame. The teenager stands there, head tipped back to look at you with wide eyes. He takes in your rumpled clothes, your blotchy cheeks, the dark circles under your eyes—and his face softens with genuine concern.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi?” You can’t hide your confusion. You’ve met him enough times to be friendly—even invited you to his birthday party—but this is definitely not the level of closeness where you expect him on your doorstep.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone polite.

“Uh—yeah,” you say, stepping aside. You’re mortified at the state of your living room—blankets and tissues strewn around, half-eaten toast on the coffee table. But Dustin doesn’t so much as blink. He just walks in, glances at the chaos, and settles himself on the couch.

“Have you heard from Steve?” he asks gently, but the question punches you right in the gut. Your breath catches, tears immediately threatening to spill. He sees the way your eyes go misty and holds up both hands in alarm. “Whoa, hey. No, wait, why are you crying?”

“Sorry,” you manage, swiping at your face with the edge of your sleeve. “I just—I don’t think me and Steve are… together anymore.”

“Alright.” The boy exhales, like the missing piece just slid into place. “Well, that… would explain a few things.”

“Explain what?” you ask, voice shaky.

He glances around, looking conflicted. Then he pats the space next to him on the couch.

“I think you need to sit down.”

Something about his earnest, grown-up tone makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time, but you sink down anyway. You stare at your own hands, picking at a loose thread on your jumper.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea?”

“Um… yeah.” You blink, surprised by the shift. “Top cupboard in the kitchen.”

“Okay… You stay there.”

He heads into the kitchen and starts rummaging through your cupboards like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You watch him, baffled as to how this kid is behaving.

He returns, balancing two mismatched mugs in his hands. He places one gently on the coffee table in front of you and then settles next to you on the couch. You notice the way he glances around at the mess once again, but he doesn’t comment on any of it—just holds his own mug close, like it’s offering him a little comfort.

“Um,” he begins, voice hesitant, “I need to ask you… about Steve.”

Your grip tightens on your mug.

“Have you…have you spoken to him?” you try not to let your voice crack.

“Sort of.” Dustin exhales. “That’s why I’m here. He didn’t show up on Sunday when he was supposed to, and when I tried talking to Robin, she just told me to stay out of it.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking troubled. “I’m worried. Robin says he’s gonna quit—his job, I mean—and I haven’t been able to get ahold of him since Thursday. I was hoping maybe you knew what was going on.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears pressing at the corners of your eyes again. The puzzle just kept getting more complicated, first his outburst, and now he’s quitting? None of it made any sense to you.

“Dustin, I wish I fucking knew what was going on,” you admit, voice trembling. “But I don’t. Steve made it very clear how he felt about me.”

Confusion crosses his face. “He…made it clear?”

“More or less.” You manage a bitter laugh, though it hurts. “Let’s just say…there’s no chance of me diving back in to figure out what’s wrong, okay?”

“You won’t?” he presses, leaning forward, his mug clutched between both hands. “I know it’s a lot. But the only time I’ve seen him act like this was when…” He hesitates, almost like he’s afraid to say something more.

You speak before he has the chance to elaborate.

“Yeah, well…” You suck in a breath, blinking away fresh tears. “I’m pretty sure it’s over between us.”

He sets his mug down so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t spill and scans your face, as if trying to analyse the best approach to this situation.

“I wouldn’t be asking, except… I’m scared.” His lower lip trembles, and suddenly you realise how much this is hurting him, too. “He never talks to anyone about how he’s feeling. Not really. You were my last option.” He swallows, looking away. “Whenever I call and he hears it’s me, he hangs up. He’s shutting me out. And Robin. And—everyone.”

Something tightens in your chest. You see Dustin’s fear written all over his face, and it hits you how much he looks up to Steve—how much he cares.

Without thinking, you set your own mug aside and pull him into a hug. At first, he’s stiff with surprise, but then he slumps against you, like the weight of this worry is too heavy for him to carry alone. You press your lips together, forcing the tears back as you hold him.

“Okay,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I’ll try. I’m not making any promises, but…I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” he says, relieved. “Thank you so much. I just—I don’t know how else to reach him.”

You nod, your throat still thick.

“I’m not making any promises,” you repeat, needing him to understand that you’re as shaken as he is. “But I’ll figure something out.”

He offers you a small smile, picking up his mug again. You both take a few moments to sip your tea—hot and soothing, but not nearly enough to un-knot the anxiety in your stomach. Still, Dustin’s presence is oddly comforting; it’s nice not to be alone in this, even if it’s a teenager by your side.

“So…” You clear your throat, stealing a glance at him, gaining the courage to lighten the sullen mood. “Are you gonna tell me how you know where I live?”

“I’ve seen Steve practically sprint here a bunch of times.” A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Took me about three tries before I got the right door.”

You let out a laugh, but then something clicks.

“Wait—three tries?”

Steve had never felt so low in his life. Five days holed up in his room, only sneaking out to the ensuite to splash water on his face or raid the kitchen for whatever snack he could grab—mostly stale crisps and soda—before retreating back inside.

The place was still a wreck, remnants of that explosive outburst he couldn’t even remember starting. Not that it mattered, really; he’d be getting kicked out in a few months, so why bother cleaning up?

He’d turned off the ringer a while ago, but the calls still came, filtering distantly through his phone on his bedside. Sometimes he picked up the receiver out of some faint, mechanical impulse, but he never spoke. Except once, to Robin.

’M not feeling so good… might quit, but I dunno.

He’d mumbled it out, half-delirious, knowing she’d recognise the alarm in his voice. She’d shown up at the door not long after—he could feel her worried presence behind the wood—but he couldn’t make himself stand, couldn’t find the will to undo the lock and let her in. Plus, he’d moved the key.

She had her own life anyway, right?

Her own happiness, her own girlfriend.

His body ached from lying in bed so long, muscles protesting every slight movement. His mind felt worse, drifting in a haze of guilt and regret so heavy that sometimes he wondered if he could even take another breath.

He had no more tears left to cry, not after everything that went down—especially with you. The memory of your face—that hurt, that fear—was seared into his brain. Even when his eyes closed, he saw it.

Part of him wished you had stayed, just so he could apologise or explain or… something. But another part felt a grim sort of pride that you walked out. You deserved more than the pathetic shell he’d become, and he knew it. He’d flung the ugliest parts of himself at you and he couldn’t even figure out why.

It felt like some twisted reflex, lashing out the moment he’d felt cornered.

It stung especially hard because he remembered every time you’d cried into his arms about your job or life in general, how he’d held you close and never once used your own aspirations against you. He’d admired your drive—even if it sometimes left him feeling insecure.

So how had he ended up painting you as the villain for doing what you love?

Now, it all felt rotten inside him. He could see exactly how cruel his words had been—every insult sharpened by his own self-loathing. And there was no taking them back. He’d never understood before what it meant to watch someone you love crumble right in front of you and realise it was your own damn fault.

It hollowed him out, left him lying in stale sheets, counting the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for the strength to rewind time.

But it was too late. And with each hour that passed in that cramped, messy room, he felt himself caring less about fixing anything—less about everything. Because when he closed his eyes, you were always there, the memory of your wounded gaze burning behind his eyelids.

And he didn’t think he deserved a way out of it.

The moment you pull into the driveway, your hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckles. You can’t shake the memory of your last conversation—if it even counts as a conversation.

Part of you wants to slam your car into reverse and leave Steve to his own devices. He hurt you, humiliated you, and you haven’t forgiven him. But you made a promise, if not to him, then to Dustin. The kid all but worships him, and someone has to check on Steve.

Seems like you were the logical option here.

So you climb out and make your way to the front porch, heart pounding with each step. The absence of his parents’ car in the driveway tells you they’re gone; the Harrington house is eerily still. You knock, loud and firm, each rap echoing in the silence.

No answer.

A chill snakes up your spine as you bend down to lift the mat—nothing. You bite down on your lip, anxiety churning. But then you notice the pot beside the door. You reach in, fingertips brushing over cold metal, and pull out the key. You feel bitter that this is the thing he decides to listen to.

Stepping inside feels like walking into a tomb. The air is dank, a smell of something musty that makes your nose wrinkle. You notice the coffee table, still shoved askew from wherever he’d kicked it last time.

A glimpse of the kitchen stops you in your tracks. The muffins he must have finished are perched on the counter, days old now, untouched. They look sad, deflated. You can’t decide if you’re more confused or hurt by that. Mail lies in a messy pile on the table, corners curled, unopened envelopes scattered. It’s like the whole house has been abandoned.

Each step up the staircase feels heavier. Despite the countless hours you’ve spent here—movie nights, lazy mornings, heated make-out sessions on the couch—it all feels foreign now. Wrong. The hallway is silent, the lights dim. The air clings to your skin, intensifying the sense that you shouldn’t be here.

You notice his bedroom door, slightly ajar. You pause, trying to calm the growing panic in your chest.

You didn’t come to intrude. You just needed to make sure he’s alive.

But a quick glance through the gap reveals a sight that stops your breath short. Clothes strewn everywhere, books and tapes littering the floor, a desk chair toppled on its side. The place looks destroyed.

Not in a casual, messy way—this is carnage.

You push the door open, and the state of the room hits you like a punch to the gut. This isn’t just sloppy. It’s the aftermath of something far darker. A breakdown. And there, at the center of the chaos, is Steve—sprawled on his bed like a shadow of the person you once knew.

He stirs at the creak of the door, blinking groggily. When his gaze lands on you, his face pales even more, if that’s possible. He looks so different, like a ghost wearing his skin. His cheeks are hollow, hair unkempt, eyes ringed with shadows.

He doesn’t speak—just stares, wide-eyed and stricken, as if he can’t believe you’re really standing there.

Anger simmers beneath your ribs, fighting with a rush of pity so strong it nearly chokes you. You’re furious with him, furious for how he treated you, but the sight of him like this—broken, listless—makes your stomach lurch.

No one deserves this.

You snap into problem-solving mode. No words, just action.

You stride to the window and yank it open, letting a sharp gust of air sweep into the stale room. Behind you, Steve finally rouses enough to realise what is happening, but you cut him off by walking past him, heading into the bathroom.

The pipes groan as you turn the faucet. Steam fills the air, and you test the temperature with your fingers. Your mind runs on autopilot:

Get him up.

Get him clean.

Breathe some life back into him.

When you return, he’s half-upright in bed, blinking in confusion. You hold out a hand, expression set in stone. For a moment, he just stares.

“Come on,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but firm. He looks at your outstretched hand like he isn’t sure what it means.

You try again, gentler.

“Steve… let’s go.”

Slowly, he sets his feet on the floor, wincing at the effort. You guide him toward the bathroom, every step feeling like treading on eggshells—somehow both intimately familiar and gut-wrenchingly new.

You still hate what he said, what he did—but seeing him like this, you hate the situation more.

No words pass between you as you ease him toward the tub, your body moving on memory. Your gaze flicks over his clothes—so easy to remove in moments of warmth and laughter, but now the act feels unnatural.

You pause, fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt, and look up into his sunken eyes for permission. His nod is barely there, just the smallest tilt of his head, but you accept it.

Stripping off his clothes feels like undressing a corpse; his limbs move sluggishly, offering no resistance. You gather his T-shirt and jeans, tossing them aside on the sink, your stomach twisting at how distant he feels in your presence. By the time he’s left in nothing but his underwear, you can hardly meet his gaze.

“You got it from here?” you ask unsure.

He nods again, a weak gesture that does nothing to reassure you. You scoop up the discarded clothes, slip out of the bathroom, and softly shut the door behind you.

Outside, his room looks just as you left it—an absolute wreck, the fallout of some internal war. Despite the roil of anger and pain under your skin, something in you is set on fixing whatever can be fixed.

So, you get to work.

You gather wrappers and empty bottles, muttering under your breath as you fling them into the bin. Next, you scoop up the random VHS tapes littering the floor, shoving them onto the shelf in a messy row.

He can reorganise later if he wants to. Not your problem.

The clothes get tossed into a laundry basket, clean or not—it doesn’t matter anymore. You strip the bed, sheets and blankets in one swoop, hauling it all downstairs and stuffing it into the washing machine along with the rubbish.

You don’t even know why you’re doing this, not when your own place is a disaster. But each step feels necessary in a house that’s clearly falling apart from the inside out.

In just under half an hour, you’ve turned the carnage into something that resembles a house again—no longer a battlefield. Even got rid of the stale baked goods in the kitchen.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you head back upstairs, nerves jangling when you hear water draining from the tub. You catch sight of his half-open drawers and rummage for something soft—a pair of old joggers, an oversized sweatshirt.

At the bathroom door, you knock lightly before pushing it open just enough to slip inside. Steam clings to the tiled walls, but the sight of him makes your chest tighten. The towel wrapped around his waist might hide him as he brushes his teeth, but you can see the exhaustion carved into every line of his shoulders.

Even clean, he looks terrible. Empty.

He notices the clothes in your arms, glances between them and your face, then finally takes them from you without a word, toothbrush hanging awkwardly out his mouth.

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” you say softly.

It’s the only explanation you can offer before turning on your heel, escaping the suffocating press of sadness that fills the bathroom.

He emerges, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing the sweats you picked out. He looks like he’s expecting a lecture—or worse—and some part of you can’t help but want to give it to him.

After all, he hurt you. Yet the sight of him, freshly washed but still sunken-eyed, strips away most of your anger, leaving something more complicated in its place.

He glances at the newly cleaned space.

“You… you didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, voice scratchy. He won’t meet your eyes.

“I know,” you shrug, your tone clipped. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He swallows, nodding once.

“Okay.”

Silence.

He moves to sit on the far edge of the mattress, opposite you, as if he’s afraid to cross an invisible boundary. You can feel the tension stretching between you—a chasm carved out by wounded pride.

“Are you seriously not going to talk?” you finally bite out, the frustration tightening your chest.

He flinches, as though your voice itself is too sharp.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“A ‘sorry’ would be nice,” you snap, though your anger is already warring with pity. He looks so frail.

“I’m… sorry.” He ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes.

A beat passes, and you feel your patience fray.

“Great.” You swing your legs off the bed. “If that’s all I’m getting, I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” His voice cuts through the air, urgent and tremulous. “No—please. Don’t. Just—”

You pause, catch a glimpse of his face, and see raw panic etched into every line of it. With a sigh, you sink back onto the bed, crossing your arms.

His relief is almost palpable, but it’s quickly replaced by shaky breaths. His hands tremble, and he can’t seem to keep them still on his knees. Panic floods his features, twisting them into something agonised.

“Steve,” you say quietly. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“I—I can’t—” he stammers, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I just—fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

You shift toward him without thinking, placing a hand on his quaking shoulder.

“Shhh, hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, gentling your voice. “Just breathe. Start from the beginning, okay? We’ll work from there.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, haunted and glassy. The weight of everything unspoken hangs between you: all the damage he’s done, all the nights you spent upset and alone, all the ways you once trusted him.

You can’t forgive him—not yet. But you can’t leave him like this either.

“Please?” you add, your own voice betraying a shaky undercurrent of worry. “Just… talk to me.”

Like you once did.

He takes a ragged breath and nods, swallowing hard. His hands cling to the bare duvet as though it’s a lifeline.

You wait as he struggles to form the right words. And he tries—is trying—lips parting and closing in fits and starts, heart pounding so loud you can almost hear it.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he says, voice ragged. “Never should’ve spoken to you like that. I—I don’t even know where it came from.”

“It clearly came from somewhere, Steve. But we’re not talking about us right now.” You quietly shake your head, eyes fixed on him. “We’re talking about you.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping as he stares down at his unsteady hands.

“Okay,” he whispers, “yeah. Okay.” A deep breath. A hesitant glance at your face. Then, almost in a flood, the words come out once more.

“My dad… my dad got in my head. T-told me I was nothing, a disappointment—couldn’t even bear the thought of me.” His voice quivers, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to block out the memory. “I just—I don’t know how—don’t even know who I am anymore. He just—just looked at me, like I wasn’t even worth the conversation.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t speak—just let him continue.

He scrubs his hand over his face, eyes flicking to the doorway as though someone might burst in at any moment.

“I was going to come see you on Friday, I swear—you have to believe me, angel—I really was. But he caught me on the way out, and…” His breath hitches, panic threading through his words. “He was just confirming what I already thought—what’s already true. That I’m a fucking failure.”

He presses a palm to his chest, as if trying to steady his heartbeat.

“And I know that,” he says, voice shaky. “I know I’m nothing special. And in that moment, I just— I wanted someone to feel what I felt—even…even you.”

You swallow, stunned by how raw and desperate he sounds. Even in your worst nightmares, you never imagined him this broken.

“I know it’s not fair—but I’ve seen this story before. You’ll get bored of me—I know you will.” He glances up at you, eyes pleading for understanding. “You say you won’t, but you will. And I’m sorry—so fucking sorry. You have to believe me. I never meant to be mean to you or—or scare you.” His mouth twists in self-disgust. “God—I can’t believe I made you feel that way… Like you were ever unsafe with me.”

You reach out, gently placing your hand on his arm, and he flinches—more out of self-loathing than fear.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft, but firm, “Breathe for me, okay?”

A shuddering exhale racks him, and he bows his head, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, you think he might push you away—tell you not to touch him, that he doesn’t deserve it. But the words never come.

Instead, he stands there, quietly shaking under your hand, a broken boy who’s convinced himself he can’t be saved.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in at the sight of him—at the guilt, at the rawness, at how he’s clinging to these warped ideas of his own worthlessness.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” He keeps going, voice splintering as he tries to get it all out before he loses his nerve. “There’s no fixing this—I’ve got three months.”

“Three months?”

“He’s kicking me out… basically—my dad. If I don’t get my shit together, I’m done here.” His breath comes in ragged gulps, the admission shaking him. “And I know—God, I know this is so unfair. So fucking unfair on you, sweetheart. I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. I never should’ve—” His voice breaks, and he drags a hand across his mouth. “Never should’ve asked you out that day you came into the store—never should’ve done this to you.”

You want to protest, to tell him he’s talking nonsense—but your words get stuck behind the wave of memories that crash over you from all those months ago.

That first day, his dorky smile lighting up the entire shop. The way he nearly jumped out of his skin when you said yes to hanging out. Building that bookshelf together in your living room, both of you laughing as he insisted he didn’t need your assistance.

The time he showed up at your door unannounced because he just sensed something was wrong. Showing you off to all of his friends. All that progress, all those private jokes, all that slow, deliberate peeling back of each other’s layers—cut to ribbons by a single night’s outburst.

Now, here he is. Tears still clinging to his lashes, voice choked with regrets. The ache in your chest flares hot—hurt and a fierce tenderness all mingled into one.

You couldn’t bear it any longer.

You slide closer without a word, pulling him into your arms, and he clings to you. Trembling so violently it’s like he might shatter if you let go. His breaths come in spurts, each exhale sending a tremor through his body. You press your forehead to his shoulder, eyes burning.

“Steve?” you ask softly after a minute, voice muffled against his sweatshirt.

His head lifts, eyes rimmed in red. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, brushing the hair off his clammy forehead.

“Have you eaten?”

“Uh, no?” His brow furrows. “That’s not really—why are you asking?”

You pull back just enough to fully meet his gaze, then lean in, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. He freezes, almost like he doesn’t believe what you’ve done is real.

He doesn’t question it, just grateful that it means you’re not leaving him alone. He won’t read too much into it now, doesn’t want to assume that you’re here for good.

“Because,” you say, “we’re gonna go downstairs and make something to eat.” Your voice is calm, like talking to a scared child. “And then we’re going to figure out what to do.”

“You’re staying?” He stares at you, confusion and hope warring in his eyes. “But—why?”

“Because, Steve,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching in a sad smile. “You said it yourself. I’m independent.” You pause as you cup his jaw, running a thumb over his cheek as you gaze up at him. “And you’re going to learn how to be, too.”

He sits at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the way you move around in front of the stove. If he blinks just right, he can almost pretend it’s a normal day—just you and him, making an impromptu meal after a long shift.

He watches you crack eggs into a pan, stifling a sigh when you scrape the shells into the trash. You’d hoped for something more elaborate, but the fridge was nearly empty—most of the produce spoiled. He curses himself silently for not taking care of it.

A pang of guilt floods him, prompting him to stand, to do something. He goes to the cupboard, rummages around until he finds the familiar box of tea bags you keep here for yourself. He lifts a mug, glances back at you.

“Tea alright?”

You shoot him a quick look over your shoulder and nod.

“Yeah. Tea’s good.”

So he gets to work, carefully measuring out just enough hot water, placing a teabag in each mug. He adds a bit of sugar and a splash of milk to yours.

Just how you like it.

When he turns back around, you’re already plating the eggs—fried sunny side up, edges crisp and a little burned around the rim—along with a couple of slices of toast.

Just how he likes it.

The two of you sit down across from each other at the table. The clink of cutlery against plates sounds almost unbearably loud in the silence. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch him push at the meal with his fork, taking tentative bites at first. Then something shifts. He goes from nibbling to devouring the entire plate in a matter of moments, like a man who hasn’t seen food in days.

A pang grips your stomach. Clearly, he hasn’t had anything decent to eat in a while. You slide your plate toward him. He gives a shaky protest.

“No, I’m good.”

But you shake your head.

“I already ate,” you tell him gently. “Not really hungry. Please, eat.”

He studies your face, then seems to accept it, nodding slowly. Within seconds, he’s finishing off your portion, too. You sip your tea, quietly reeling at how hollow his cheeks look, the bones more pronounced than you remember.

When the food is gone, he rubs his hand over his face and slumps back in his seat.

“You’re not at work?” he asks, voice low.

You exhale a thin breath. “I… took the week off.”

“What?”

“Yeah, well,” you say, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, “I was kind of upset. Didn’t want to hide in the red room if I needed a cry.”

Remorse surges in his eyes, and he ducks his head.

“Sweetheart… I know it doesn’t make up for anything I did, but from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

“Steve,” you begin, voice trembling slightly, “it’s fine. We’re focusing on you right now—”

He shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I know, and that’s important. But there’s something I gotta ask...” He presses his palms to the table, steadying himself. “What I did was unforgivable. If we’re over—if you can’t do this anymore—tell me. I just—I need to know.”

Your heart lurches; the raw plea in his voice stabs at you.

“Steve—”

He lifts a hand, begging you to let him finish.

“I don’t care if you—if you need space, or if you don’t want to see me for a while. I get that. I just… I need to know that I still have a chance. That once I figure this shit out—I haven’t—haven’t lost you completely.”

You swallow hard. The weight of his gaze feels almost too much to bear, but there’s no hesitation in your reply.

“You haven’t lost me.” Your voice softens. “I....I love you too much.”

His face crumples with relief, a choked exhale leaving his lips. You reach out, tentatively resting your hand on his, and for a moment, the two of you stay like that—clinging to the thin thread of hope that still binds you together.

Finally, you clear your throat, pulling your hand away.

“So,” you say, steadying yourself, “we need to figure out what you’re going to do. Are you sure your dad will kick you out?”

“Yeah. He will.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t lie. He cut me off already when I didn’t go to college—he follows through on every threat.”

“Okay. So what about renting? You make enough to cover it, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I do, but there’s hardly anything on the market. And what there is…” He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.

You know all too well how soul-crushing it can be to search for a decent place in Hawkins. It took you months to find yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, nodding, “I know.”

A hush settles between you, the quiet palpable, almost electric. He fiddles with his empty plate, pushing around the leftover crumbs with his fork, while you stare at him, mind churning over possibilities.

Then a single thought sparks—a ridiculous, terrifying idea that sets your heart pounding.

“Steve?” you say softly, and his eyes lock with yours. “I… I might have an idea.”

His eyes scan your face, searching for any hint of hesitation. And then, suddenly, it all clicks into place for him.

No.

There is no way you’re suggesting that. It’s absurd. It’s idiotic. It’s not even something he’d ever let himself consider.

“No,” he rasps almost immediately, shaking his head. “No, angel, I can’t—I can’t do that. Are you serious? That’s yours—not mine. I can’t just—whatever you’re—I mean, after what I said? After what I did to you?”

Finally, you see what you’ve been searching for all week—you see your Steve.

The Steve you’ve always known. The one who never wants to impose, who refuses to be a burden, who won’t ask for more even when he desperately needs it. The remorse in his eyes is painful, and it only solidifies your decision.

This is your boyfriend, Steve. And God, if it meant keeping this version of him—the one you cherish, the one you love—you’d let him stay with you forever.

“This is my offer,” you say. “I’m offering it to you. If you want to treat it like a last resort, that’s fine. But…” Your throat bobs with emotion as you draw in a shaky breath. “I really, really want to wake up with you every day. Split the rent. If your dad’s so concerned about your future, why don’t you make one? One you’re actually proud of... One with me.”

He blinks, tears shimmering in his eyes, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he struggles to compute what you’re saying

You’re insane for doing this.

In his eyes, at least. You’re supposed to be the smart one—the one who thinks things through, who knows better. And this? This is the furthest thing from a smart move.

But he sees it—the way your eyes shine with conviction, how your expression doesn’t waver, how every fiber of your being is offering this to him, fully and completely.

You’re not lying.

He knows when you are. And this?

This is real.

“You… You really mean that?” His voice trembles, and the raw hope shining through makes your heart twist.

You nod, eyes glistening with your own tears.

“Yes. I really mean that. I’m ready to do this—seriously.”

A choked sound escapes him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His body aches with the need to have you near him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Come over here, please?”

You push your chair back, crossing the short distance in two steps. The moment you’re within reach, he pulls you onto his lap, arms locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His hands come up to brush the hair away from your face, the gentleness almost undoing you. Then his lips meet yours in a lingering kiss. It tastes like promises and second chances, and he pours every ounce of relief, every fragment of devotion into it.

“You’re not gonna regret this,” he murmurs between soft presses of his lips, voice thick with emotion. “Swear on my life, I’m gonna spend every single day showing you how much you mean to me. You’ll never—ever have to worry about anything again, long as I’m around. You know that?” He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough. “You’re an angel—call you that all the time, I know, but you have to understand I mean it—fully. You’re a godsend—straight from fucking heaven.”

You feel your heart swell, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. A little laugh slips out—half joy, half disbelieving relief—while you bury your face in his neck, letting him cling to you as if letting go might shatter the fragile moment.

Eventually, you have to pull back, your lips still tingling from his.

He inhales shakily, a new determination igniting behind his tired eyes. A tear slips down his cheek, but he doesn’t look away.

He couldn’t.

Even if he wanted to.

Because this girl—this stupid, stubborn, impossibly insane girl in his lap—has just given him the one thing he never thought he’d have.

Salvation.

A way out. A chance to live his life—not the one dictated by his father, not the one shaped by expectations he could never meet, but his life. The way he’s dreamed about since leaving high school.

It’s been a few days since that heart-to-heart—since all the raw emotions and apologies spilled out and brought you two back together. You find yourself trudging up the stairs to your flat, a small duffle bag clenched in your hand.

It’s not your bag. It’s Steve’s.

He insisted on carrying the heavier stuff, so he’s right behind you with a large cardboard box balanced carefully in his arms. He keeps throwing concerned glances your way, reminding you not to overdo it, especially after the whirlwind you both survived these past few days.

When you offered him your place—opened the door to your home, and more importantly, to your future together. It felt cathartic at the time, but neither of you were naive enough to think it would be easy. Later that same day, the two of you ended up at his dining table, drafting a meticulous list: bills, rent, utilities, a hundred different phone calls you’d need to make to set everything up.

You were both determined to do it right. He kept emphasising that he’d pull his weight, that he’d take on more than his share if it meant showing you how committed he was. The idea of this new life with him thrilled and terrified you—but mostly, it filled your chest with a heat you could hardly articulate.

Hours passed, and by ten at night, you were rubbing at your eyes, complaining of a headache from all the numbers and paperwork. He looked at you, concern shadowing his features. He’d noticed your exhaustion well before you said anything and felt guilty for letting you push yourself so far. Relenting, he agreed that you both needed to step away and breathe.

That night, you slept at his place, and the sensation was immediately familiar—like returning home. Wearing his old Hawkins Phys Ed shirt, you crawled under the covers and felt his arms circle around you. He held you so gently, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. You could feel his shaky exhale against your hair as he tried not to tear up, clearly thinking about how damn lucky he was.

Even after you drifted off, he found he couldn’t sleep. Not with the guilt still gnawing at him, not when the knowledge of how he’d hurt you weighed on his mind.

Call it self-inflicted punishment or penance, but he carefully slipped out from under your arm, doing his best not to stir you.

With measured steps, he made his way back downstairs, returning to the scattered papers on the table. He picked up the old calculator he thought he’d never use again, muttering every sum under his breath. Even though it was late, the methodical tap of buttons and scribble of pencil across paper soothed him.

Each calculation that confirmed a real, shared future gave him the momentum to keep going, no matter how sleep-deprived he felt. Some of the equations he did twice, not wanting any part of this to be left up to chance.

When you woke up sometime later, you realised the bed was still cold on his side. Anxiety prickled through you as you called his name into the darkness, flipping on the lamp to peer through the dimly lit bedroom. The quiet of the house led you downstairs, where you found him hunched over the table, eyes rimmed red from strain, pencil in hand.

He didn’t even notice you right away, so lost in thought—tallying numbers, crossing them out, re-checking them. Your heart melted at the sight of his serious expression, that little line between his brows telling you just how deep in concentration he was.

Padding across the floor, you stepped into his line of vision. He glanced up at you, and the softness in his eyes nearly made your breath catch. Leaning back in the chair, he waited—almost timid—until you climbed right into his lap. His arms came around you instantly, hugging you like he was grounding himself in your warmth.

“Should be sleeping, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice husky with fatigue. “S’almost two.”

“You’re not in bed.” You told him in a drowsy mumble as you burrowed yourself further into his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. “Thought I’d finish what we started. Want to make sure all of this works out.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” you gave a small shake of your head.

It was true. All these papers and logistics would still be there tomorrow. There was a movement in his eyes but he still wasn’t quite ready to give it up. Wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn’t going to lose this too.

“Please?” You pleaded, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “Wanted to sleep with you... Haven’t had the chance all week.”

At that, he broke. His expression gentled as he brushed a few stray hairs out of your face.

“Okay,” he whispered, like he was surrendering to something bigger than both of you. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

You led him quietly back upstairs, exhaustion weighing down both your limbs. The moment you slipped under the blankets and into his arms, you felt a warmth settle through your bones. He held you close, and you could sense his heart thudding in his chest as he finally let himself relax.

Within minutes, he was drifting off.

That was four days ago. Now, everything’s official—all the logistics sorted, all the phone calls made. You stand in your bedroom, setting his duffle bag in the corner of your room. Behind you, he carefully places a large box on top of the dresser. When you turn, he meets you with a soft, lopsided grin that crinkles the edges of his eyes.

“Is that it?” he asks.

You cross your arms over your chest and nod slowly, taking in the modest stacks of his belongings that are now scattered around your bedroom.

“Thought you had more stuff than this,” you say, frowning.

“I decided to get rid of a few things.” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “New start and all that.”

“You threw them away?” You scowl in mock indignation. “Instead of giving them to me?”

He chuckles, stepping closer to hook an arm around your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he lets out a low chuckle, nudging your chin with a gentle finger. “You now have full access to my entire wardrobe, and you’re complaining?”

“Hmmm.” You pout as he leans in, you let him kiss you—warm and tender. When you finally break away, you clear your throat. “Did you call Keith?”

“Yeah,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “Got my job back—already squared things away about my time off. Robin forgave me for being a complete idiot, and Dustin too.”

He’s got a second chance, and he’s not going to blow it.

When you told him how Dustin had turned to you for help, you saw the panic ignite in his eyes again—fear that he’d let everyone down, especially the kid who looked up to him like a brother.

So you’d forced him into the passenger seat, driven to Dustin’s house, and watched from the window as Steve hesitated on the porch before finally knocking.

You weren’t sure what was said in that living room—he spent an hour in there. You do know that, by the time you joined them, Dustin had tears in his eyes, but they were happy tears. And Steve looked lighter. Like he’d scraped the burden off his shoulders and left it on the welcome mat.

The three of you ended up sprawled in Dustin’s living room, eating too many slices of pizza, and watching a random comedy on TV. By the time you left, your heart felt a little sturdier.

No more tantrums. No more breakdowns.

You’d believed him too, especially with how his eyes shone with fresh resolve.

“I, uh, moved some of my stuff around in the bedroom,” you tell him. “Had a few spare drawers or whatever—you’ve got the bottom two, and there’s some free hangers in the wardrobe.”

His eyes flick to the space you’ve made for him, you catch the gratefulness that softens his entire expression. He looks at you like he still can’t believe this is real—that he’s here, that you made room for him. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in for a slow kiss, his lips lingering on yours.

When it ends, he presses his forehead to yours, murmuring a playful “thank you.” But before you can reply, the gentle press of his mouth becomes more insistent. His hands shift to cradle your jaw, and you melt into him as the kiss deepens—hungry, a little desperate.

“Steve,” you mumble, pulling back just enough to speak, though his lips still ghost over yours. “We need to unpack…”

He hums, not letting you stray far.

“We can unpack later,” he murmurs. “Got all the time in the world.”

You want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters—makes your heart ache. When he dips his head to nip gently at your neck, you let out a breathy laugh, your hands coming up to clutch his shoulders. In one swift move, he lifts you onto the bed, settling you against the pillows.

Your pulse skitters in your chest as he looms over you, his warm, steady gaze sweeping across your face.

“Can I?” he asks, voice hushed. “Wanna say thank you properly—wanna make you feel good.”

A little huff slips past your lips, your cheeks hot. He’s ridiculously sweet, and he knows it. He sees you hesitate for half a second, so he leans in, pressing a series of gentle, coaxing kisses along your jaw, his hands finding purchase at your hips.

“Please?” he murmurs, breath fanning against your skin. “Wanna take care of you. You gonna let me, angel?”

His thumbs begin to knead soft circles into your sides, and you feel your heart skipping a beat—or maybe five. You tug him closer, inhaling the comforting scent of his shirt as your arms loop around his shoulders, deciding then and there you’ll never get enough of him.

You blink up at him, heat already flushing across your cheeks. The second you mumble your agreement—“Yeah, all right. Okay.”—his face lights up with a grin so bright it makes your stomach flip.

He leans in, giving you a quick kiss before pulling back to yank off his shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest shift, and you can’t help the way your eyes trail over his skin. Your own shirt follows suit as well as your bra, stripped away and tossed onto the floor, and then he’s on you again—breath warm and urgent against your mouth, hands skimming over your bare sides.

He’s nipping gently at your bottom lip, then your jaw, and you feel that fevered press of his body. Each touch says he needs this. Each breathless kiss says he’s missed you.

“Wanted to do this all week,” he murmurs, voice raw with relief. “Can’t believe you chose me, sweetheart—I mean—could’ve had anyone.”

Your heart clenches at the genuine wonder in his tone. You cradle the back of his neck, pulling him down for another firm kiss.

“I want you,” you say, voice catching on the words. “Only you.”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes falling shut as though your confession alone is enough to undo him.

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk. “Well, I gotta show you how grateful I am, then. Gonna make you see stars, baby. You deserve it—so fucking beautiful.”

Heat crawls up your face, and you instinctively try to duck your head, flustered by his praise. He catches the motion, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Oh? You getting shy on me?”

“N-no…” you protest, but it comes out smaller than you intended.

“That sounds like a ‘yes.’” His voice is teasing as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. Before you can work up a witty retort, your trousers and underwear are slipped down and off, leaving you bare. His gaze darkens appreciatively. “You don’t like it when I say nice things?”

You shake your head, but the denial dissolves the moment his hand slides between your thighs. Calloused fingertips brush against your slick skin, and the breath escapes you in a shaky exhale. His responding chuckle warms your ear.

“Oh, baby, I think you're lying—just look at you.”

A mortified whimper bubbles out—though your body clearly isn’t complaining. It’s a mess of conflicting emotions: the embarrassment of his unabashed words and the molten desire pooling low in your belly.

“It’s—it’s embarrassing when you talk like that,” you manage to squeak, squirming under his touch.

“Embarrassing?” he echoes, sounding far too amused. He presses his hand more firmly, and a moan slips out of you, your thighs quivering at the sensation. “Can’t have that,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss down your neck. “Was so mean to you, angel—don’t deserve you.” Another slow swirl of his fingers has you arching up. “Gotta make it right—s’only fair.”

You part your lips to respond, but all that comes out is a broken, breathy sound. The rhythmic press of his hand is driving coherent thought right out of your head. He watches you, clearly reveling in how easily he can undo you.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping to a low hum. “You sure you don’t like it when I tell you how pretty you are? How perfect you are for me?”

You give a pitiful whine, your cheeks practically on fire. It only seems to spur him on, his fingertips slick as they work you open. Each thrust of his hand feels so sinfully good that you can’t tell if you want him to keep talking or just shut up and kiss you senseless.

Steve was always all sweet words and gentle smiles in bed, but this was different. He was savouring you, getting off on calling you names—not the degrading kind, but the ones that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten.

His cocky little grin flashes again.

“Aw, baby, you’re so sensitive.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against your ear.

You let your eyes fall shut, surrendering to the flurry of sensation he’s stirring inside you. The desperate tingle in your stomach builds with each curl of his fingers, and just when you think you might be careening toward the edge, he pulls away. You open your mouth to protest, only to watch him stand up and strip out of his jeans and boxers.

He shifts back onto the bed, bracing himself over you, and a sharp bolt of arousal lances through your core when you feel him—hot and hard—rubbing insistently against your clit.

“Gonna fuck you, baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Gonna show you how much you mean to me—how good you are to me—”

He guides himself to your entrance and pushes in, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside you. Your jaw goes slack at the delicious stretch. Both of you gasp at the same time—like you’ve just remembered how good this can feel when all the walls are down, when you’re both so desperately in need of one another.

A shudder runs through him.

“God, I missed this,” he groans, beginning a slow, steady pace. “Missed you.” He leans in, mouthing at your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can get his lips. “Gonna do this every day—after every shift—hell, before every shift. Want you on my cock anytime I can have you.”

The rhythmic drag of him thrusting deeper and deeper has you arching your back. Your nails instinctively rake down his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. The sting must register because he lets out a rough moan.

“You gonna scratch me up, huh?” he rasps, his pace growing more determined. “Gonna leave a mark on me?”

“S-sorry.” You freeze for half a second, peering up at him through hazy, pleasure-blurred eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt you—”

“Could never hurt me—not after what I did.” He shakes his head, eyes burning with intensity. “I—I want it, baby. Wanna feel you tomorrow—everytime I move—wanna remember who’s at home waiting for me. Our home.”

Something about that—our home—sends sparks of electricity tearing through your veins.

“Steve,” you breathe. Your voice cracks with urgency. “Shit, I’m gonna—”

He knows what you mean before you even said the words. Bearing down, he snaps his hips a bit faster, and his words become even more ragged and desperate, tumbling from his lips in quick succession.

“So fucking smart—so fucking pretty,” he manages between thrusts. “Always so sweet for me—God”

His chest is heaving, damp with sweat, and he’s pounding into you like he can’t hold anything back. He feels you squeezing around him, and it only drives him further—spurs him on like he has something to prove. He can’t give you much, but what he can offer, he gives tenfold.

This is what he can give you, and fuck, he wants to give you so much more. He’d give anything to make you happy—to make you feel even a fraction of what you’ve given him. He needs you to understand. Needs you to feel it.

“Always working so hard—taking such good care of me—making me feel so fucking good—aren’t you, angel?” he mumbles brokenly, delirious. He’s teetering on the edge, and you feel it in the way his strokes start to falter. “Need you to know how much I—Fuck—need you to cum on my cock, baby. Won’t stop ’til I feel it—please.”

You’re too strung out to do anything but obey that fierce longing in his voice. With one more thrust, you tumble into release, your body seizing beneath him. The rush has you clawing at his shoulders, your head thrown back as waves of ecstasy roll through you. You vaguely register him letting out a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, the tension in his body snapping as he spills into you.

For a few seconds, you both just hover there—lost in the throbbing aftermath that feels electric and tender. Your vision spots with warm, dizzy bliss, and you’re semi-aware of him collapsing onto you, his lips brushing your temple in a dazed kiss.

You pull away from him, chest still heaving, and the giggle that slips from your lips sounds almost delirious in the quiet that’s settled around you both. his flushed cheeks crease into a satisfied grin as he tilts his head, studying you.

“What is it?” he asks, brushing his fingers through his damp hair.

You push at his chest—just enough to make him tumble to the side—and roll your eyes.

“You talk too much.”

“Me?” He gives an exaggerated gasp. “That’s weird. Usually you love my mouth.”

Heat crawls up your cheeks as you huff, trying to will away the memories of just how much you do love his mouth.

“Yeah,” you grumble, “but when you talk like that…makes my head all scrambled.”

“Oh, I know, baby. I’m so mean, aren’t I?” He pouts exaggeratedly.

Another huff leaves you, though you can’t hide the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement. He leans over the side of the bed to grab his discarded shirt and jeans, and you start to do the same—only to freeze when you catch sight of his back in the low light.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe out, eyes going wide.

“What is it?” He whips around, alarmed by your tone.

“I, uh…I actually did leave marks on your back.” You grimace a little, shifting your weight to your knees. The faint, reddened lines stand out against his skin—four vivid stripes that trace the path of your nails from earlier.

He glances over his shoulder with a casual shrug, though the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his real reaction.

“Oh yeah?” His voice dips lower, interest obvious.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, feeling a hint of guilt.

“I wanted you to,” he replies without hesitation, and you notice the flicker of heat in his eyes. “Shows I was doing a good job.”

“Still feel bad,” you mumble, cheeks burning. You move closer, fingers ghosting over his shoulder blades.

“You know…” His grin widens. “Could always kiss ‘em better. Hear that helps.”

You scoff but lean in, pressing soft kisses to each mark, and he practically melts under your touch.

“Better?” you ask softly, lips brushing the raised skin.

“Much,” he murmurs, letting out a shaky sigh. There’s a definite pink tinge staining his cheeks now—you’ve managed to fluster him now.

"Aw, you getting shy on me?" You tease as a giggle bubbles up your throat.

"Shut up." He huffs as he leans down to pull on his boxers, holding out his shirt for you to slip on. "Shower?"

You nod as you pull on your clothes, letting him guide you to the bathroom, his touch gentle.

He doesn’t let you lift a finger—cleaning you up was his job tonight, just like making dinner, just like everything else.

He promised you wouldn’t have to worry about a damn thing ever again, and Steve keeps his promises.

Any stress?

That’s his job now. Not yours.

Because you’ve already given him the greatest gift anyone could ask for. You. Your trust, your future. And he’s going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.

He didn’t tell his dad he was leaving. Didn't see the point.

If the old man wanted to find him, he could, but it wouldn’t change anything. He had made his choice, and for the first time in his life, it wasn’t about living up to someone else’s expectations.

He blocked out the past, because the only thing that matters now is you—safe, warm, cared for, loved. He would spend every day proving that you’d never have to doubt that again.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #stranger things smut #steve harrington smut #stranger things fic #stranger things x you

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

Text

Eros and Empirics

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby expresses his desire to know you fully, not just in the heat of your secretive moments but in the quiet details of your life.

Word Count: 3.2 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times.

Robby woke slowly.

The moonshine filtering through her linen curtains was pale and gold, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. The sheets were too soft, the room too warm. And then he felt the press of a small body curled against him, her bare leg tangled between his, her breath steady against his collarbone. Y/N.

Her apartment.

Her bed.

His heart gave a traitorous twist.

It was early, maybe five, maybe earlier. He was used to it. The world always started for him before anyone else. But this morning, for once, he didn’t feel the need to move. He just wanted to stay. Absorb it.

Her.

She was tucked beneath the covers, face half-hidden, messy brown hair spilling over the pillow, one hand fisted gently in the fabric of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go even in sleep.

And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

Carefully, he slipped from the bed, trying not to wake her. Her sheets smelled like vanilla and clean linen. Her nightstand had a half-drunk glass of water, a novel with a cracked spine, and a worn tube of lip balm. Things so small and intimate it made his breath catch.

He padded barefoot into the rest of the apartment, soaking it in without the haze of last night’s heat between them. It was still quiet, early-morning hush over everything. Outside, the street was just starting to stir, birds, a garbage truck rumbling down the alley, a dog barking distantly.

Inside, her world was still.

He moved through the living room slowly. The details of her life were everywhere. Art books and first-edition novels, a framed psychology degree from NYU next to her coat hanging neatly on a hook by the door. A small vase of dried lavender. A Polaroid camera. A silk scarf draped over the corner of a mirror. Every detail was curated but unpretentious, lived-in. Personal.

He paused at the piano in the corner.

It was old, upright, chestnut wood with a few chips in the varnish, but well-loved. Music sheets were stacked carefully, tucked with bookmarks and scribbled notes. His fingers grazed the keys, but he didn’t press them down. Instead, he looked at the photo sitting on top of it: a younger Y/N, maybe seventeen, at a recital. Her hair was longer, pulled half-up, and she was smiling, really smiling, in a way he’d rarely seen in the hospital. Free. Unburdened.

He didn’t know if that version of her still existed. But God, he wanted to meet her.

There were more photos in the hallway, Sheri as a child with scraped knees and a gap-toothed grin, her parents in a vineyard, some older relatives at what looked like a christmas dinner. The more he looked, the more he realized just how much of her life she’d never talked about. Not because she was hiding it, but because she’d never been asked.

And now she was offering it to him, open-palmed and quiet and brave.

He lingered by the bookshelf, picking up a slim volume of poetry and flipping through it. A note was scribbled in the margin in her handwriting: for the days that hurt in silence. He stared at it for a long time.

When he finally returned to the bedroom, you were just beginning to stir.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering against your cheek before you focused on him, shirtless, barefoot, leaning in the doorway with the moonlight at his back like some ghost she hadn’t expected to stay.

“You always wake up this early?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep.

He smirked faintly. “Some habits die hard.”

You stretched, a soft sigh escaping you as you rolled onto your back and pushed the covers down, bare legs curling into the sheets. The moonlight caught the dip of your waist, the slope of your collarbone, and for a moment he felt something primal twist in his chest.

But he didn’t move toward you yet.

Instead, he watched you.

“What?” you asked quietly, voice hushed in the still morning.

“I’m just looking,” he said honestly.

“At what?”

“At everything you are.”

You flushed. “Do I disappoint?”

He crossed to you then, kneeling beside the bed, brushing his hand through the mess of your hair. “You’re beautiful.”

Your eyes softened.

“I’ve never—” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I never let myself want this.”

“But you do,” you whispered.

He nodded, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder, just above the curve of the sheet.

“I do. I want you. Not just your body, not just the secret, not just the adrenaline of getting away with it in a fucking supply closet—though, Christ, that too—but you, in this bed, with your stupid candles and your crooked piano and the way you write in margins.”

Your throat worked around a swallow. “You read my poetry book.”

“I want to read everything,” he murmured, kissing you again. “All of it. All of you.”

You leaned forward then, kissed him like you meant it, soft, slow, unhurried.

And in that morning light, tangled in sheets and sunlight and honesty, something in Robby settled for the first time in years. Not silenced, not quieted. But held.

—----------------------------------

The ER never slept, not even on days when the morning light broke in slow golden strands across the windows of the trauma bay. But this morning felt different. Calmer, somehow. As if the universe had paused for breath and let in something softer between the crash of stretchers and the clatter of coffee cups.

You stepped onto the unit just after 6:30 a.m., hair tied in a low ponytail, hoodie unzipped, and a takeaway tray in your hands. You moved with quiet certainty, your expression unreadable to most, but not to him.

Robby was already there, early as always, leaned against the counter outside trauma room two. He had a pen between his fingers, flipping it with the idle precision of a man who never really stopped thinking. He looked up the moment he sensed you.

Not turned. Sensed.

Your eyes met for a fraction of a second longer than would’ve passed for casual. Something passed between you, warmth, reassurance, the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

He said nothing. Neither did you.

But you handed him a second coffee as you passed, the exact way he liked it, no words exchanged. You wore a small smile and a steady step, and the minute Dana caught sight of you across the nurses’ station, the charge nurse pointedly raised one eyebrow and offered a slow, approving nod.

“Well, finally,” Dana drawled.

You froze mid-step. “What?”

Dana sipped her coffee with exaggerated calm. “You know what.”

You didn’t have to turn to feel Robby behind you, his presence like gravity, like the steady pressure of a star. He appeared at your side a second later, expression unreadable but eyes brighter than you’d seen in weeks. He looked like a man who’d exhaled for the first time in years.

“Morning,” he said to Dana.

“Mmm,” Dana said, her grin widening. “So… HR knows?”

“HR knows,” Robby confirmed, nodding once. “We disclosed it last night.”

You added quickly, “We submitted everything by the book. It won’t affect patient care. We’re both still professionals first.”

Dana held up her hands. “Hey. No judgment. Just… it’s about time.”

There was a short pause.

“Is there a betting pool I should know about?” Robby asked dryly.

Dana didn’t even blink. “There was. Santos won it. Said it would happen this quarter.”

Santos appeared from behind a curtain, pulling off gloves with a triumphant smirk. “I always knew you two were going to combust. But I didn't think it’d be in an alley. Bold move.”

You flushed from the neck up.

“I told you not to talk about it—” Robby began.

Santos grinned. “What, you think I didn’t recognize that look you had the next day? Man was walking like he’d been struck by lightning. And Sheridan couldn’t look anyone in the eye.”

Whittaker passed by with a chart, looking nervous. “Should I… come back later?”

Mel piped up from across the room, smiling gently. “No, Dennis. You’re witnessing love in a hopeless place.”

You buried your face in your hands. But Robby, for once, didn’t seem phased. He chuckled—a real, low sound—and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“All right,” he said. “Everyone gets one day to harass us. But then it’s business as usual.”

Dana lifted her coffee. “Cheers to that, Dr. R.”

You flushed, but Robby only gave a soft exhale that might’ve been amusement, might’ve been relief. There was something easier about the set of his shoulders this morning, something almost unrecognizable to the ones who’d known him longest. He looked... lighter. The storm behind his eyes was still there, but it had a quiet in it now. A steadying calm that hadn’t been there in months.

He turned to you and said quietly, just for you, “You ready for rounds?”

You nodded. “Always.”

You walked together toward the huddle, footsteps falling into rhythm. You didn’t reach for his hand. He didn’t touch the small of your back. But there was an unmissable closeness in how your bodies moved near one another. Not possessive, just connected.

At the patient board, the rest of the residents gathered: Santos with her sarcastic smirk, Whittaker with his usual nervous energy, Mel with her careful warmth. A couple of interns hung in the back, eyes wide, obviously new.

Robby cleared his throat. “Morning. Quick huddle before rounds. Interns, evaluations start today, make sure to shine with your seniors and show them what you’ve learned, and make sure you drink water, because no one else is going to tell you when your brain is turning to soup.”

Soft chuckles. Santos rolled her eyes. “He says that like he ever drinks water.”

“I hydrate,” Robby said, deadpan. “It’s just black and roasted and comes in a mug.”

A few more laughs.

His gaze flicked to you, just a second’s glance, but enough for her to feel it settle on her skin. He always saw you, not just in the obvious ways. He noticed the minute tension in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your lips when you were too tired to fake it. And now that they weren’t pretending anymore, he let that concern show in soft, quiet ways.

He handed you a protein bar later that morning, just before the next trauma came in.

“You didn’t eat,” he said. “You’ll start shaking again.”

“I don’t shake,” you said.

“You do when your blood sugar tanks.”

You took the bar. Your fingers brushed and then he held your hand. He held the contact and your breath caught in your throat.

Around you, the ER pulsed with life, alarms, footsteps, orders barked and nonstopped charting, but in that second, it was just the two of you again. The unspoken tether of months, years, threading you closer with each quiet kindness.

And it wasn’t all sweetness.

When a difficult peds trauma came in later, you took the lead without hesitation. You were measured, firm, voice steady as you called out orders, but Robby hovered just within your orbit—ready if you faltered, ready if you needed him. You didn’t. You never did. But the fact that he was there mattered more than you could admit aloud.

Afterwards, he pulled you aside, voice low. “You did good in there.”

You smiled, tired but grateful. “You doubted me?”

“Never,” he said. “But I worry anyway.”

Your heart tightened at that. Because that was him, always, the man who kept every worry locked tight behind those cool gray eyes, but who noticed everything. The man who fought the world with his hands and himself with his silence.

You stood by the trauma board, arms crossed, squinting at the cluster of cases lighting up in red. You were waiting for the next wave. They always came in waves.

“Quiet before the chaos,” came a voice behind you.

You turned slightly. Dr. Collins stood there, coffee in hand, her usual expression unreadable but not unfriendly. She was in scrubs, her red jacket slung over one shoulder, the picture of poised competence.

You gave a small smile. “You know, everyone says that, and it’s always true. Creeps me out.”

Collins chuckled. “You get used to it.”

“I heard about you and Robby.”

You stiffened. Just a little. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that Collins noticed.

“I’m not judging,” Collins added quickly, sipping her coffee. “He and I... that was a long time ago.”

You turned toward her fully now, brows raised. “Yeah?”

Collins nodded, leaning against the counter beside the trauma board. “Before you were even in medical school, I think. It didn’t last long. We were fire and ice—too much heat, not enough glue.”

You hesitated. “I knew it happened, but didn’t know why it ended.”

Collins smiled wryly. “We don’t advertise it. Didn’t end badly, exactly, just… ended. He was complicated. Still is.”

That made you laugh under your breath. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Collins glanced over at you, eyes sharp but not unkind. “So… can I give you some unsolicited advice?”

You looked wary but nodded. “Sure.”

Collins shifted her coffee to her other hand, her tone growing quieter, less clinical. “Robby’s spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length. It’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he cares too much. And somewhere along the line, he decided that if he let people in, they’d either leave, or he’d lose them. So he built walls. Really good ones.”

Your voice was soft. “I’ve seen them.”

“Then you know how hard it is to be let in. He’s let you in, hasn’t he?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. He has.”

Collins studied you for a moment, then said, “Then don’t waste it. But don’t expect it to always be easy. Loving Robby is like… like trying to hold onto something that doesn’t always want to be held. You have to be steady. Patient. And maybe a little selfish, too. You have to ask for what you need.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. You leaned against the counter, mirroring Collins. “Did you love him?”

Collins didn’t answer right away. She took a slow sip of her coffee, then set it down gently on the steel counter. Her eyes went distant, thoughtful.

“I think a part of me did,” she said finally. “But I also think I loved the idea of fixing him more than I loved who he really was. And you can’t fix Robby. You can only choose to stay.”

You looked down, chewing on that. “I don’t want to fix him.”

Collins smiled softly. “Then you’ve got a chance.”

Just then, a trauma alert crackled through the intercom. You and Collins both stood a little straighter.

“Back to it,” Collins said, straightening her scrubs.

You looked at her, something flickering in your eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. “Thanks. For saying all that.”

Collins gave a half-smile, already turning toward the trauma bay. “You’re welcome. Just don’t break his heart, Sheridan. He doesn’t have many lives left.”

You stood there a moment longer, the trauma board now lighting up like a Christmas tree behind you. But your mind was still on Collins’s words. On what it meant to be let in by someone like Robby. And what it meant to stay.

Robby didn't touch you in front of the others. Not once. But when you passed in the hallway near radiology and no one was looking, he let his knuckles graze yours. When you came back from the break room, jaw clenched from a phone call with a combative family member, he reached over and brushed a loose strand from your cheek.

“I’ve got your six,” he murmured, just low enough for your ears only.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Later, in the staff lounge, Dana caught Robby refilling your water bottle.

“You’re ridiculously smitten,” Dana said, not bothering to hide her grin.

Robby gave a weary exhale. “Don’t start.”

“I mean it. She softens you.”

“She grounds me,” he said.

And he meant it. Because whatever weight he carried—whatever ghosts still lurked in his chest from COVID, from Adamson, from years of holding back, you had become the one person who could coax him out from behind the walls he’d built.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t commanding. But you saw him.

And now, finally, he let himself see you back, not just as a resident, not just as a colleague, but as the woman who made him want more. Who made him remember what it felt like to want something for himself.

By the end of the shift, the teasing had faded. The work had taken over again. He let his hand rest lightly at the small of your back for just a breath. You stood at the computer terminal. Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, but your posture was more relaxed than it had been before. More grounded. You hadn't been rattled. If anything, you'd been unnervingly steady.

Robby watched you for a moment. Something was different.

“You okay?” he asked casually.

You glanced up, then gave him that small, almost imperceptible smile he’d come to read like a pulse. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Sure,” he said, but his tone was knowing. “Still… something’s on your mind.”

You hesitated, saving the chart and logging out. “Talked to Collins earlier.”

Robby's eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You looked up at him now, her gaze direct but unreadable. “She said you’re complicated.”

Robby gave a soft huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck. “She would say that.”

“She also said you build walls.”

That made him pause.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you, searching your expression, trying to see what else might be behind those words. You didn’t push. You just let the silence stretch, comfortable in a way that still surprised him sometimes.

“Was she warning you off?” he asked finally.

You tilted your head, your voice soft but certain. “No. She was telling me not to waste the opportunity” Robby looked down, that answer hitting deeper than he expected. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “She’s not wrong.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at you. And for a moment, everything, the years, the baggage, the ghosts fell away. There was just you. And the quiet certainty in your eyes.

“Good,” he said. Then softer, more to himself than to her, “Good.”

She squeezed his hand once more.

“You want me to wait and walk out with you?” he asked.

You looked at him, smile soft. “Always.”

And maybe the world hadn’t changed. Maybe the hospital was still loud and unpredictable, and their jobs still unforgiving.

But the weight was different now.

They weren’t pretending.

They weren’t hiding.

They were them.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

———————————————— Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers @andabuttonnose @luvr4miya @cannonindeez @hagarsays @captainoates @lemonlime09 @delicateflorencia @iceb1ink1uck @moonshooter @qardasngan @penbridgertonn @foreverchangingfandoms @msdariaknight @kmc1989

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fridgemissionmaster · 5 months ago

Text

Can’t Sleep, Love: You can’t sleep and bug your demon about it (bros)

It was too hot. Well, your body was, the world beyond your bed freezing. Your mind could not stop racing, paranoia screaming at you to turn on the lights, look around the corner, to not keep your back to the door. Stress squeezed your lungs, breath shuttering.

It was the middle of the night, and you could not sleep. Even if you tried something deep in your belly knew it’d be restless, nothing but nightmares.

Was this any better though, being stuck in your head, waiting through every agonizing second, eyes flickering to the clock just waiting for morning to come.

Stomach churned, acid threatening to crawl up your throat, that disgusting aftertaste clinging to the back of your tongue, the stress of… everything, making you sick.

You just… could not stand to stay in bed anymore. What then though? Doom scroll knowing you’d only get a headache and placing the final nail in the coffin of you getting ANY rest at all?

Warnings: Lucifer: alcoholism, Leviathan: references to lesson 16, Satan: allusions to death/murder, Beelzebub: references to lesson 16

Lucifer

Surely the workaholic was still awake, signing papers meant for the prince, responsibilities not his own being shoved his way.

Your heart raced, was it the wide awake-exhaustion or the paranoia pricking at the back of your mind, you couldn’t discern.

Foot falls quickly and quietly padded across those wooden floors.

You weren’t sure why Lucifer’s office was hidden away, everybody knew where it was, it practically being treated as another common room like your bedroom or kitchen, yet there was still something… enchanting about having to tug on the out of place book to make the bookshelf jolt, before sliding to the side, just enough for the entrance way to be revealed as well as that staircase beyond it.

You froze for a moment on the top of those steps, those piercing eyes already on you. You expected to find them possibly leering from the desk, but no.

An arm lazily draped over the backrest of the couch, head smooshed and resting against the shoulder he peered over to you, face completely flushed, just about as red as his eyes or his nail polish.

A piano and violin duet drifted through the air.

He just stared for a while before a dopy smile slowly drew on his lips.

The sleeves of his button-up were rolled up, gloves discarded on the table beside bottles, several knocked over empty of their contents.

You knew the man had some alcoholic tendencies but…

You hoped it wasn’t as bad as it had appeared in the moment and that he was just very stressed from whatever nonsense Diavolo discarded for Lucifer to clean up this time.

He made no move but those eyes following after you as you crept down those steps. Once you couldn’t be followed any more, he turned around, grabbing one of those bottles, almost knocking another one over in the process before filling that empty champagne flute.

Cheerily he held it to you, the glass slightly tiled, off kilter in hand, that blue liquid almost spilling out. Quickly you took it, fearing Lucifer would lose his grip.

Those fingers twitched as they brushed against your’s, a soft sigh escaping him as he reached out, a hand on your own feeling that warmth. Delight played across his face as he squeezed your hand. A little giggle came spilling out, lightly jostling himself much more than a giggle should.

His breath reeked of this pungent fruitiness, practically burning as it hit your skin.

You let yourself be pulled in by that weak tug, the pair of you swaying across the room, the situation feeling almost dream-like.

He looked to you smiling ever so bright, so unguarded. Even as he tripped back, not crashing with you there to pull him up, his head thrown back in uproarious, almost hysterical, unnerving laughter. It was a new angle to see how sharp his chin was from the underside, his neck surprisingly thick and sturdy, shoulders broad, hair pulled back obscuring none of his face.

He did not refuse as you pulled him close to sway, his face flopping into the crook of your shoulder, a light pitiful laughter still escaping him, almost like crying.

Somehow you managed to drag him along, the man stumbling and humming all the way, the pair of you still in a dance. You regretted going up the stairs, Lucifer almost falling back, making you swear you got a heart attack from the incident.

Finally you managed to get back to his room. It was easy enough to get him to take those last few steps to bed.

You felt the bed bounce under you, Lucifer’s grip on your shoulder tight as he did as told. Even laying down he still swayed a little, incoherent mumbles melding into soft hums.

He felt so pliant under your touch yet you didn’t have the heart to pull away, not with THE avatar of pride nuzzling into your neck, holding you meekly like he didn’t have the strength to but wanted to keep you close. You couldn’t pull any quilts or sheets over yourselves but you did manage a throw blanket.

He melted and crooned as your fingers carefully brushed through his hair, brushing it out of his face. You shushed him sweetly as he tried to speak, you both needed rest.

WARMTH!

He awoke with a start, almost obliterating the intruder beside him before he saw, it was you.

You were beside him on the bed.

Sleeping soundly.

With a groan Lucifer clutched his head, it pounding and throbbing, that awful pain pulsing through it.

You

That wasn’t a dream, dancing together, not this time. But it was always a dream, having that quiet moment in the late night hours. It HAD to have been! Otherwise!

Desperately he tried piecing together those fragmented moments.

What the hell did he say to you in his drunken stupor!? Did he scream out his love for you? Did he say something unbecoming or beg you to stay with him or…

With a sigh he laid back down.

Just what were you doing up so late…

He didn’t like the dark spots under your eyes. Did he keep you up, had you only started getting sleep in the early morning hours to make sure he didn’t get up and do something stupid?

Holding you close he decided it was best to simply wait and rest after placing you back in your own bed. He could inquire about the night once he sobered up and you hopefully forgetting the incident, thinking it simply a delirious dream.

Mammon

He always broke into your room, why couldn’t you do the same to him. It was only fair.

Dashing down those empty halls, tripping over the stairs, you practically sprinting to his room.

It was always surprising how bright the man’s room was at night, soft glows from game systems, lights in display cases, and most notably of all the ones in the headboard of his bed, keeping the area around it gently illuminated more than the rest of the room.

It was easy for one’s eyes to adjust to this unlike the harsh florescents of Levi’s fishtank.

With a flop you fell on the bed, it shifting more than you expected, but you had awoken your first man, him practically leaping out of the thing with a loud, cutoff yelp.

Damn, and you wanted to poke his sleeping face, it’d of been funny.

Buggy eyes stared at you, your hand clamped over his mouth, a finger over your own, after all if the eldest caught you two surely he’d lecture you both the whole day through, for breaking bed time curfew, DESPITE YOU BEING GROWN DAMN ADULTS!

He glared, the look having no bite before it quickly melted away as it always did.

WHAT TH-

A hand clamped over your mouth before that squawk could escape you, Mammon trying to keep in his cackling, shoulders trembling, a bright smirk on his face, dewy sleepy tears in the corner of his eyes.

He LICKED you hand! THE CHEEK OF THAT MAN!

And you were too slow, seeing the glint in your eye and pulling back, leaving you to look the fool with your tongue sticking out.

Damn it, that smile and laugh too infectious, you couldn’t help joining in as much as you wished to stop yourself and feign indignation at his antics. Then again, you did kinda start this from his point of view, didn’t you…

You fell over, face landing on his pillow. Your demon looked to you, confused. He studied you, Mammon always did, why would anyone not want a closer look at the most precious treasure?

…

He laid down next to you.

Mammon always had that rugged charm, even with hair tussled and drool dried to the corner of his mouth he looked handsome. It was hard to read his expression in that moment, but there was definitely something. Calm… serious perhaps? Well dragons always took guarding their hoard seriously.

And he got up and left?

You sat up, watching as he went up those steps, pausing for a moment tilting his head to the top before continuing.

Well… what else was there to do but follow?

A door to his Demonio open for you, him already behind the driver’s seat, an arm hanging across your seat. But wasn’t this car THAT one? Literally the first thing he ever bought after…

Normally, being in such an expensive and sentimental piece one would be nervous to touch the thing fearing hurting it, and it’s owner’s feelings, however… just like ALWAYS, Mammon made you feel comfortable, relaxed.

He quirked a brow as you just stood there before smirking and coaxing you in.

That sort of… confidence, or whatever one wanted to call it, that sort of soft cockiness. That was one trait one could never deny the man had, even under all that impulsive recklessness that got him dismissed, that stride, that swagger of a man with the whole world in his pocket. A jewel to be held only in a velvet case. Strong, and soft.

Those eyes slightly droopy from sleep and unguarded.

Truly a beautiful contradiction of a person at first glance.

Smile sharp, a fang on full display, giddiness beginning to overtake him. He gripped the wheel tight, the pair of you were going to have to peel out of there fast once the garage door opened, the thing a bit too loud, especially in the middle of the night.

Engine roared the moment his foot slammed on the pedal, tires screeching for but a moment sharply turning!

Colorful lights raced by, the car slowly slowing down after that sudden burst. You were at one of the high paths, the heart of the city seemingly far down below, the castle now in the distance the only thing near your level.

Neither of you reached for the radio, the purr of the engine enough.

Soon lights disappeared, fading into the distance, roads slightly bumpy, gently rocking the car, the occasional soft bump disturbing the consistent movement.

… Were the seats heated? Or had it just been that long since you had last been in a car at night, you didn’t remember it being this cozy though. You looked to Mammon as if that’d magically give you an answer. He still faced the rode, yet he was looking to you too from the corner of his eye.

Actually where were you going anyway?

It didn’t matter really, whatever plan Mammon had, you’d follow, just as he would for you, hell, you didn’t ask questions when following him to the car, so why would you now?

It was nice though…

The road ahead seemed endless.

Damn his neck hurt. As comfortable as his 666 Lexura was, it wasn’t meant to make for a good bed.

Maybe for a demon at least, you seemed just fine.

…

Good, the dark spots under your eyes faded some.

He leaned back, taking in that gorgeous moonrise. He was so tempted to startle ya, it was only fair after the scare you gave him, but… he couldn’t, you were finally asleep after looking so exhausted.

He’d just get his revenge later. For now, since the pair of you were out anyway, where should you go next? Maybe just keep driving, he’d run into something you’d like eventually.

Leviathan

At the very least, you knew with almost certainty that you weren’t the only one awake.

Up the stairs, around the corner that place was not far.

It was almost instinct to knock and recite those phrases when standing before that door, however on nights like these, you had to use a different key. Before even leaving your room you sent ‘.’ in the group chat, then when arriving at that door it was already open a crack.

You always had to cover your eyes when sneaking into the room, the screens and fishtank too bright and blinding, the space no different than it would be during the day.

Keys softly tap, tap, rapped away, the only sound other than the hum of the computer and tank.

You took a minuet to sit on the floor behind that thick bookshelf, it’s shadow blocking just enough so it all wasn’t as much of a strain on the eyes.

It these moments you really got to take in Levi’s room, usually whenever you were here you were dragged straight before some screen or there was an emergency, it was rarer to just… BE there.

Watch as the reflection of the water above shimmered and danced across the floor. It always felt so cold there, but it wasn’t bad like air conditioning blowing directly on you in a winter’s day. No, there was no movement constantly reminding out of it, the feeling hung still in the air tenderly enveloping you.

Occasionally a warped shadow would come by, it broken up into what seemed like many and you’d look up, being greeted by Henry happily swimming along.

Eventually, when you were no longer blinded you’d creep out of that space, taking a blanket out of the tub as you made your way to the beanbag chair in the corner.

His back was to you still, so your gaze drifted back up to those hypnotic waves.

Not long and you heard his voice say something, assumably to the mic on the headset.

In that cozy console corner Levi always had your game within arm’s reach. There was a time when you were here almost every night with the only other one still awake in that haunting house so it was convenient to not have to dig it out every time.

Even after it’s long since been the time of Belphie’s return, and sleep choked your lunges, mind terrified to rest, something screaming this would be the last, there was always a place for you here, every night, no matter what.

A calm farming game…

What were you doing last? It had been so long you had forgotten.

Levi’s character kept waving to you, and you waved back. After taking a few steps away he waved again. Might as well follow.

Through the tunnel, onto the boat, it then dawned on you. You and Levi just unlocked a new farm land.

And so you followed him around, gathering materials and cleaning up the land while he ran around finding whatever was near by.

…

He played thousands of times before you were even born, and yet he always seemed so excited, running around your character and taking you someplace like the waterfall that had that rarer ore or to show you one could recharge more stamina when there were capybaras in the hot springs.

It was a long time after you started to play this together and a long time ago when Leviathan once admitted to you this was one of the first games that really made him happy, no matter how rough the day, it was this one that made things easier, that was why when you came to him that very first time, he brought out this one. You just didn’t want to be alone and would have been content with just sitting beside him… he couldn’t stand it.

All the files were filled and he ended up deleting them all, telling you they were all completed and he’d be needing more room to play again anyway some time soon.

Even this time there was only one file, all the others still empty.

The game wasn’t tedious, but there were repetitive tasks like watering the crops until you implemented sprinklers or petting the animals while gathering their products. The daily pattern was calming, engaging enough to keep your mind away from your thoughts but easy enough you could just… do them not over think about it.

Levi would collect you by the time you were done, give you a meal to recharge your stamina before taking you on an adventure, sometimes a side quest for one of the town’s folk, sometimes going to the woods to befriend a new monster to add to your ranch, sometimes to actually continue the main story of the game for once, sometimes you arrived at a festival or friendship event.

Honestly such a peaceful life, it was no wonder this was once of Levi’s favorites.

It always caught you by surprise when Levi save at the end of the day before quitting, not continuing to another day. Gently he pulled you up before filling his tub with blankets and pillows before leading you inside, and…

…

It was always easy to tell when you were falling asleep, and he didn’t want a repeat of that first night together when he kept you up the whole night and Lucifer ended up getting mad at you for napping in class.

He never went back to gaming too quick, paranoid you’d stumble into a nightmare soon after closing your eyes. He’d simply watch you for a little bit.

Truly a filthy, disgusting person, wasn’t he. To like knowing you’d go to him out of all his brothers, even if it was only for the convenience that he was already awake. Didn’t even have the confidence to tell you he couldn’t play that game without you, with you in his life, he didn’t need the escape, that you brought him more joy in the time spent together than all the happiness accumulated in his endless life.

Pathetic.

The least he could do was keep watching over you, play on one of his portable systems as to not be a TOTAL creep, keep his headphones off and volume low to hear you, glance over to check just in case.

Satan

There was just a chance, maybe Satan had gotten so absorbed in a book he hadn’t realized the time and was still awake too. But did you really wanna risk death by angry demon or collapsing mountain of books?

…

Yeah, you did, better than this torture at least.

Scampering down the halls, holding your breath you tried remembering that light spell, you certainly were not going to attempt going in there blind, you weren’t that eager for eternal rest.

You just hoped no books blocked the door as you tried getting in, you couldn’t stand being stuck in that echoing, creaking hall for long.

Perhaps you used a bit too much force for those imaginary books, the door easily slamming open, before immediately shutting due to the pile behind it collapsing.

…

So it was now an excellent time to run for your life!

Hell, even get caught on your own foot and crash down the stairs, certainly much faster than running down them, right!?

Fumbling in you practically threw your door shut.

Wait…

HE PROBABLY HEARD THAT!

Damn it, and you couldn’t even remember if there was a light in his room or not, did you just wake him!?

HOLD ON maybe, maybe he’d just assume it was a cat??????

OF COURSE HE WOULDN’T WHO WERE YOU KIDDING, YOURSELF!?!?!! AS IF!

Look, he liked you, you’re special and get privileges, maybe he wouldn’t be too mad… Even so you weren’t sure you could look him in the eye. Hi Satan I couldn’t sleep so I thought to wake you up about it. That was just rude and annoying, wasn’t it.

You proceeded to scream into your pillow from the anguish of it all.

Why couldn’t you just sleep like a normal per-

creek

…

RUNRUNRUNRURNRUNRUNRUNRURNRUNRUNRUNRUNRNRUNRUNRUNRRN

Items knocked to the floor, window thrust open with such force for a moment you wondered if it cracked before throwing yourself out hearing the door crash open.

Okay, OKAY woods! Woods are good! Hell, Satan literally got lost in em and thought the pair of you would never make it back in them! PERFECT!

Breath caught in your throat, heart pounding, vision blurred you kept running, even as your bare feet hurt, howls and scratches rang out, branches snapping you kept running.

You j-

Air was knocked out of your lungs as you were tackled hard in the back, yet never did you meet the ground.

And you… fell back? Your view was filled with leaves and branches, the occasional light of a star peaking through as the wind swayed that dark green curtain back and forth.

You didn’t dare move, strong arms trapped you, squeezing you, but not too tightly. Hot breath crawled across your neck in puffs. You could feel a pulse beat against your back.

And there you stayed for a long time, you thought at least, it certainly felt like it.

Slowly you were sat up.

There you were, in Satan’s lap. His eyes, they seemed feral, pupils sharp and thin that dark reflection somehow wider and brighter, his gaze boring through you.

And they closed before nestling his forehead against your’s. His jacket was draped over your shoulders. Despite his slim figure he seemed to lift you up with ease, carrying you along.

Funny how this time it was like he knew the woods like the back of his hand already getting the pair of you out. Admittedly the House of Lamentation was a little off in the distance but still. Of course after that incident he’d memorize the place like the back of his hand.

… Wait, then shouldn’t he have caught you sooner!? How did you get so far!? He seemed to know what you were thinking, his little proud smile shifting to something charmingly smug, simply holding you closer somehow.

It was going to be a lengthy walk back. You were tempted to tell Satan you could walk on your own and he didn’t have to carry you, but something in you knew better.

Under his breath he muttered a spell, any nicks and scratches on your feet and ankles going numb. You almost missed it, his voice so quiet amongst the sound of insects chirping and humming around.

And warm… he felt so warm against the cold.

With you he looked up to those shimmering stars above.

Huh…

He could wake up like this every day.

You and he in one another’s arms, warm and cozy in the quiet.

Idly he smoothed a hand up and down your back watching your peacefully sleeping form.

It was cute how when he tried placing you in bed you still held on to his neck, who was he to refuse your wishes.

He had plenty of time to ponder why you decided to start that little game of cat and mouse last night, but he had to admit after the initial worry that something was wrong and he saw you simply couldn’t sleep and wanted to play a game, he couldn’t help but hug you tighter, a twinge of excitement sparking in his chest!

You could be so cute, did you know that?

But now what? He knew for certain he wouldn’t be wanting to let you go any time soon. Maybe, you were trying to ask for attention in a round about manner, it’d only be fitting to ask you out and get away for the day.

For now, maybe he’d try getting more sleep, a moment like this with you was rarer what with his brothers always around so he should take advantage of this opportunity to simply be with you.

Asmodeus

No, you couldn’t. Asmo was very particular of his routines, including his beauty sleep, you couldn’t interrupt that.

…

Then again, how was he always able to fall asleep like clockwork? Maybe it’d be alright to just wake him up for a moment, ask, then let him go back to sleep. It’d be like nothing happened!

Quickly you tiptoed across the house, making sure not to make a sound as you passed the other’s rooms.

It was easy enough to slip in, no curses to keep others from getting in to pull pranks, steal things or some such.

The only light there was came from moonbeams through the window casting the place in a soft, pale, ethereal glow. Honestly whith how particular the man could be about his athletics he probably arrange for his room to look as such at night purposefully. That and all the flowers around and for a moment your mind genuinely wondered if you had accidentally stumbled into a fairy’s garden for a moment.

… You couldn’t help that twinge of annoyance that even when dead asleep the man was gorgeous. When he was trying he was beautiful but even when he’s NOT trying he still is! Or did he manage to make sure he always slept in the most perfect way to be oh so alluring to any possible passersby…

Who were you kidding, he probably did, if you didn’t know Lucifer you’d think Asmo to be the world class workaholic in the family.

His perfection had always been eerie to an extent, maybe it was something like ‘too good to be true’ that there had to be a catch to all this, you felt getting too close would spell your doom, that this moment was simply a trap. Yet still you dared to sit on the edge of the bed and… just took it in for a moment. The peacefulness.

And you poked his cheek. Very soft. Very squish and plush. 10/10 would poke again, and so you did a few more times, just to temp fate and prove to yourself that your anxiety was panicking over nothing.

It was funny seeing him unconsciously and languidly bat at whatever kept poking him. He was a surprisingly deep sleeper, you just needed to pause for a minuet before he seemed to be knocked out again for you to keep up your timid, ticklish assault.

You froze when those eyes cracked open.

He seemed confused blinking once, twice slowly. Then a pout formed on those lips. Your face cradled in the palms of his hands, thumbs pressing over the area under your eyes.

Did you have dark spots? Could he see them even in the dark? The moon’s borrowed light was at your back casting you in shadow so surely he couldn’t have noticed such a minor difference so easily, right?

With a little high pitch groan and stretch he sat up, an airy sigh escaped him, the one that always did when he had to state the obvious.

Of course he’d notice, he could never overlook a single thing about you even if he wanted too.

Before you could speak and ask your question you were gently shushed, Asmo weakly tugging on your shoulders. Not sure what else to do you followed that force laying down on the bed, silk sheets and fluffy quilt draped over you.

Leaving a peck on your forehead and he was gone.

It was not long and he was back by your side, tugging on your arm. The moment you got up a fluffy robe matching the one he wore was wrapped around you.

Of course it fit you perfectly.

He hung off your arm, leading you along out the house.

You often forgot there was a whole garden here, it was rarer for you to ever come by it, when chores were doled out Beelzebub almost always volunteered to look after it so it was not like you ever got a chance to work on it, and you certainly never had the free time what with angels, demons, monsters, reapers, ghosts and all manner of other beings fighting for your attention for you to take time to properly explore the place.

Rose archways, wall shrubbery, patches of various flowers you didn't know the name of, even a little pond water reeds grew out of. Simple compared to the sprawling maze like gardens of the royal palace that you had grown accustomed too but it seemed lovely all the same, you really needed to make time to properly explore it at some point.

It was nice though, to think there were still things for you to learn of this place and the brothers.

The pair of you stood under one of those archways, Asmo inspecting those closed buds, eyes half closed, an arm still loosely wrapped around your own. After picking a few you were taken back to the house.

Placed back on the bed you waited for him as he disappeared into his bathroom.

A warm moist towel was draped over your neck, a light floral scent drifted from it, likely from those little dark petals.

You didn’t question it as Asmo sat behind you, his hands finding purchase under the towel and robe on your shoulders, his thumbs slowly rubbing circles into you. It felt nice…

When was the last time you just… did nothing like this.

Oh, and when did this cutie crawl into his bed?

It took a moment of admiring you to notice not you or him things like the towel almost falling off your shoulders and those petals…

Did you two do something last night? Surely he would remember, but he couldn’t…

Wait!

…

Nope, still nothing.

But he did recognize those petals and that scent Midnight Bloom Roses, his go to whenever he couldn’t sleep, the scent so relaxing, but what were they doing around you? You looked perfectly well rested and relaxed but were you already like that or was it the flowers?

Well, you seemed content so what did it matter, he’d let you sleep, in in the mean time he could prepare some things to pamper you! You’d surely have the best, most relaxing morning with him setting everything up for you! You deserve it~

Beelzebub

Well, you might as well as wait for him.

You laid in bed, a couple of the hanging lights above you lit, watching as shadows danced through that colored glass.

…

Or would he.

Sometimes he managed through the night. As much as you wanted to see him, you hoped you wouldn’t, it’d mean that maybe, just maybe, no nightmares came to torture him that night, that his stomach didn’t eat him alive, that… that he wasn’t hurt again.

Knock knock knock

It was very soft, so soft that even in deafening silence where one could hear only their breath and the house’s silent groans one could have missed it.

Slowly you got up and made your way for the door.

There your gentle giant stood, he too seemed conflicted about your opening the door, but since you were together, you might as well as make the most of it.

The wall shared by your room and the kitchen was surprisingly thin even after Beelzebub tore it down so you always heard him when he went on one of these midnight kitchen raids. It was actually rather comforting hearing him in those early months into the exchange program, knowing your friend was awake and nearby.

How many times had you done this you wondered.

Beelzebub raiding the fridge while you found something from the snack cupboard. Sitting on the counter, picking at some dried fruit while Beel devoured all that was placed on the table. Eventually on the floor in the corner huddled beside one another trying to not grab something else to fill the void. Quiet talks about everything and nothing that only existed in the moment never to be brought up again.

How many sleepless nights had you been there for one another?

He used to apologize thinking he was too loud and had awoken you which… yes he did sometimes, but he long since learned that wasn’t the only reason you’d be up.

How at times it was… easier to spend time with one another under the shadows of night, his face obscured, his shared eyes behind darkness, hidden away so you could be with only him, in the present.

Only one time did he try apologizing for his twin but you immediately cut him off. Beelzebub had no reason to feel guilty yet he still did all the same like he had hurt you.

This was a mutual need, this time together.

Even after so long and getting on better terms with his twin, it was just hard to sleep some nights, school overwhelming or chaos wrought the day prior still buzzing around in your head.

It wasn’t always like this, before the incident it was because you were unfamiliar with the Devildom, Beel actually ended up giving you a lot of advice in those late nights like how it was rude to look ghosts directly in the eye or if one ever got lost in the Devildom they needed carrot tops or wheat grass on them to find help.

Sometimes it was still like that. But there was something about the night that tended to make one’s mind wander to darker thoughts. And tonight seemed like it had been a rough one for your friend.

Warm milk and honey was simple enough to make, and it was harder to tell if any had gone missing unless the jug was finished. The man was practically perched on your shoulder once he saw you pouring some milk into that pan.

It was more a off hand comment, but he did tell you once the drink was special for him, after all it was the first thing you had ever made for him. You didn’t know he had awoken from a nightmare, that it felt even worse with his twin gone yet somehow you knew he was hurting and made some for the pair of you, you admitted you were hoping to sneak some without anyone noticing to help you sleep, it was hard to what with being in a new place.

Once the milk was heated and divided into mugs Beel set about washing the pan while you mixed in the honey, something he could do for you as thanks.

A deep hum rumbled in his chest taking that first sweet sip, watching as steam gently drifted up, wispy and shaking from the cold.

He wrapped an around you, pulling you close. He was practically a heater, no matter the weather, hot to the touch, in the human world his touch may have been unbearable in the summer or day time, but in the eternal chill night of the Devildom it was so comforting.

… Hesitantly you reached up a hand, wrapping your pinkie around his. With a gentle squeeze he finished his drink before quickly washing and putting away your mugs.

Some nights neither of you wanted to be alone, your silent signal to ask the other to stay a while longer.

If felt childish sometimes however you knew Beel wasn’t a judgmental person and you never judged him whenever he asked the same of you.

Once pinkies were linked he refused to let go, even after you got into bed.

By morning he’d be gone, it was for the best really, his brothers would throw a fit if they found out about these moments and would demand the same. But you couldn’t, this was something for just you and Beelzebub.

There were times where still you couldn’t sleep, but the time didn’t feel as long or the world so harsh. However it seemed like this time maybe you would.

In your bed with you, Beel could understand Belphie better. Body refusing to move, too comfy despite knowing better.

He always hesitated, staying a bit longer than he needed, worrying about making the wrong move and waking you up. And so he watched for any sign, a twitch, an unhappy face, for mumbles in your sleep. Only once he was sure you were resting well could he manage to get up.

He’d sneak away for his early morning stretch and run.

He couldn’t help smiling every time upon his return, breakfast ready and you looking fine and well, if a little sleepy at the table chatting with his brothers or eating something delicious looking.

He could never help reaching out, patting your head as he walked by to the kitchen or nudging your shoulder as he sat beside you. He was just too glad you seemed better and had to do something about it.

Belphegor

The Avatar of Sloth, literally who better to go to when one could not sleep.

It was nostalgic skittering up those hidden stairs, heart racing from the strange shadows that chased after you as you made your way.

The door was already partly open, and peeking in you spotted your prey.

Ironic how he was so desperate to escape and now he freely came back for sleep most of the time…

You noted to yourself to bring this up to Satan, very cat like behavior.

Despite the attic becoming a new lounge area for the brothers it was still about just as dusty as you found it the first time, the dust tickling and getting a few sneezes from you. At least the bed wasn’t with how often Belphegor came to it for rest… Although in the end he was usually covered in dust.

With an unceremonious flop you crashed onto the bed beside him. All you had to do was turn your head a little to see him from the corner of the eye.

Gently you rocked him, calling his name. For you at least he tended to get up more easily than he ever would for any brothers not named Beelzebub.

Now that you thought about it though… you don’t think you ever seen Beel wake Belphie. Maybe something to try some time just to see, if he gets up instantly the info would be good for future emergencies.

Running a hand through his hair got you nothing, poking his cheek got you nothing, shaking his shoulder got you nothing. Odd usually at this point he’s at least grumble something about letting him sleep in a little longer.

If it were anyone else you might have felt guilty for going to extreme measures but, this was Belphegor, he’d just fall asleep instantly again in a minuet and it’d be like nothing had ever happened.

You warned him that if didn’t get up you’d do whatever you had to get him up.

Still no response.

…

So, time to shove him off the bed!

He was surprisingly much heavier than you had expected. That meant you should not have been as surprised as you were at the volume of that thud, yet still it caught you of guard a little.

Leaning over the bed you asked Belphie to wake up once again only to be taken aback!

He was schmunzling! AND DOING A BAD JOB AT HIDING THAT SMI-

WAS HE AWAKE THIS WHOLE TIME!?

Finally that snickering burst out of him and he cracked an eye open to see your ridiculous expression. He playfully groaned about how mean you were, how could you do this to him, so cruel, and at such a late hour too.

It was only fair that he got revenge.

And that was how a pillow was chucked at you with so much force you too fell off the bed.

HOW WAS HE STRONG!?

Already he was curled up on the bed looking at you oh so innocently all the while smirking! What a puntable face, just BEGGING to be smacked, yet he dodged your attack!

Even as you leapt up, going in for a swing, he blocked it with a new pillow!

War broke out! Swings from all directions, blow after blow of fluffiness crashing into another, war cries dissolving into fits of giggles and laughter leaving one out of breath and vulnerable to attack! Truly one for the history books.

Unfortunately so caught up in this little game you fell for Belphegor’s trap, him tackling you knocking the air out of your lungs.

You laid there a moment trying to breath despite all that dust flying about.

Belphegor was surprisingly heavy as you had learned that night, plenty of time he had used your shoulder or lap as a pillow, but it was something else to have all of you be his pillow. Or perhaps mattress would be a more apt word.

Try as you might to push or toss him off the man would not budge. And just as you thought, he was already asleep.

So was this your life now, to be stuck here forever unless the ever napping demon awoke?

…

The demon snuggled into you, so warm and soft, mindlessly you brushed your fingers through his hair again, it wasn’t like there was much else you could do other than follow his lead and try closing your eyes.

What a racket.

He tried ignoring the yelling and crashing that came from down stairs. It’s your fault really, he used to be able to tune out their antics but ever since you arrived and stuck your nose in every one’s business and made the house actually peaceful, disruption from that was harder for his mind to unconsciously gloss over.

For once you were not being dragged around some place or another, his brothers needed to learn that you needed to rest too, aka take more naps with him.

Maybe this scare of you being missing would teach them something about appreciating you and giving you the time and space you need to recharge, hell, they all got you so wound up he had to exhaust you to finally force your body to let you sleep.

And guess what, if you wanted rest, the only demons you could be with without you being dragged into some other world ending crisis was him and Beel, just a coincidence really.

So he let himself drift back off with you. You better remember this favor though, it’s not everyday he sees fit to put effort in for just anyone you know.

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justletmesmokeandsleep · 5 months ago

Text

Is this what you read about?

GHOSTFACE!RHEA RIPLEY X READER

Summary: rhea takes you to an abandoned library as a surprise date, with another little surprise in store

Warnings: rough sex, strap on, name calling (mami, baby, angel, darling, slut), slight spanking, mask kink, knife play

Let me know if I missed any!!

"Rhea, where the hell are we?" You say as you pull into a dark parking lot. About an hour ago rhea came up to your shared bedroom and stated she was taking you on a date. You got dressed in a cozy sweater and grey skirt with some patterned tights and loafers. You had been sitting in the passenger seat, reading your newest book, when you looked up.

"Just a little spot I caught wind of" Rhea states with her signature devilish smirk. She parks the car and you both get out. As your walking to the front of this building you catch glimpse of a sign that reads 'north orange branch library'. You remembered reading about this, the library was shut down a few months ago and had been completely abandoned since, though it still seemed to be in pretty good shape.

You reach the door right as rhea unlocks it, not bothering to question how she got the key as you walk inside. You walk through the lobby and as you're standing near the front desk you realize the whole place was practically untouched. Shelves and shelves of books, dvds, magazines, and even computers. As you're standing there you hear footsteps approaching behind you, instantly recognizing the sound of your girlfriends boots

The footsteps come to a stop directly behind you. You can feel her body heat from how close she is. Just as you're about to say something you hear her speak.

"Run."

She states simply. You're confused "what?" You question, nearly laughing. You're about to turn to look at her when you feel a cold steel blade against your throat. You gasp at the feeling on the metal against your skin

"I said run."

The raven haired woman removes the knife from your throat and without a second thought you run through the library. The mix of fear and arousal fueling your every bound. You rush part rows and rows of books, looking for a hiding spot. You finally spot a desk nestled nicely in a far corner of the library, you scoot the chair out enough to wedge yourself under the desk. Once you believe yourself to be well hidden you shed your sweater, leaving you in your undershirt, and start to try and listen, straining your ears attempting to hear the footsteps of your hunter.

And then you finally hear the heavy footsteps of combat boots on the thick carpet, and they're close by. Your breathing picks up and you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the breathing. The footsteps, your trying desperately to hear them again, figure out where she could be. You finally hear something "gotcha." The familiar aussie accent echos through your ears as the chair in front of you is abruptly pulled away. You were found. You had choice to make and you had to make it fast, so before rhea could get you in her grasp you duck under the side of the desk and take off down another row of books.

You turn to see if the tall woman was following you and to your surprise when you glance back you're not met with the stunningly crystal blue eyes you're used to but instead the black ones of a ghostface mask. You gasp at the sight and stumble backwards, falling right onto the floor. Watching in an intoxiacating mix of shock, fear, and arousal as her masked figure stalked towards you. Still on the floor you start to crawl backwards until your back hits a bookshelf "nowhere to run now, pretty girl" you hear the tattooed figure announce as she places down her bag.

Your breathing quickens as the tall figure reaches you and squats to your level. She brings the sharp blade to your face, trailing the sharp tip of the knife from your ear to the corner of your lips. Not sharp enough to cut but sharp enough to feel the scratch. She then places the blade at your throat like before, you can't help but gasp and squirm slightly as cold steel contacts your skin. You hear a dark chuckle from rhea as she turns the knife, now using the side of the blade to tilt your head upwards to make eye contact with her. Or with the mask.

"Such a little slut for mami, aren't you?" You let out a slight whimper at her words, she trails the tip of the knife from your throat to your shoulder. Your eyes shut and you continue to breathe heavily as the cool blade glides against your skin. "I asked you a question and I suggest you answer, sweet girl" still trying to regulate your breathing, you don't register her words until you feel the sting of the blade leaving a small slash into your upper arm. You moan in a mix of pain and pleasure at the sensation. "I said answer me." She states sternly, you look up at her "Yes mami" you respond. Her body relaxed at your words, satisfied at the answer.

She leans back slightly, retracting the knife from you skin as she does so. She looks at you for a moment, deciding her next move. "Off" she states gesturing to the grey tank top you had been wearing. You take a second to register the words but quickly do as she says, not wanting another lick of the knife, kicking off your shoes in the process. She admires you for a bit longer before leaning back into, placing the knife back at your throat. She leans in more, slipping a hand behind you, at the base of your spine. You gasp slightly and arch your back into her, she let's out another dark chuckle. Her hand slowly travels up your spine to your bra clasp, snapping it open easily. You let the straps fall down your shoulders and arms before tossing it to the side with your shirt

She looks down, admiring you. "Such a pretty little angel" she says before moving the knife again. She trails the sharp tip down the center of your chest before turning it sideways and pressing the side of the blade against your nipple. You groan and arch into the cold sensation. She then continues trailing the knife around your body, she appears to be following the knife with her eyed but you couldn't tell with the mask. "Please" you half whimper, "Please what, baby? Gotta use your words angel" she responds without missing a beat. You take a breath before continuing your plead, "Please can I see you, mami?" She halts her movements. "You wanna see mami?" She asks as she stands and turns to walk away, you sit there confused until she continues, "you're gonna have to come earn it." She unbuttons and slides off her black jeans and hops onto a near by table, you sit there, dumbfounded and admiring her. "Come here, angel" she says, and pats the inside of her thigh. You finally get up, slightly shaking, and walk over to her. You're standing maybe a foot away from her face, awaiting your next command. "C'mon baby, on your knees"

You drop to your knees without hesitation, you look up at her and she moves her hand to the back of your head. "You know what to do, be a good girl." You move your eyes to her clothed core, placing a gentle kiss against the fabric, causing rhea to gasp slightly, before tugging her panties down her legs and discarding them with the rest of the clothes. "Fuck" you mumble under your breath, even in the dim light of the library you can see her wetness glistening. She applies a slight pressure to the back of your head and you waste no time following her silent command. You dip your tongue down to her entrance, sliding through her folds and up to her clit. You feel her grip your hair tighten as you repeat your movements, she tilts her head back. You can tell she's trying to keep herself together. You move your tongue up to slowly circle her clit, she let's out a drawn out groan. You continue your circles, slowly but surely increasing your pace. "Cmon baby you can go a little harder for mami" she states in a tone clearly telling you she put of breath. You smile slightly knowing that your the one making her lose her composure like this. As you continue your circles on her clit you push your tongue into her harder than before. "Oh fuck! Just like that angel!" She nearly screams as her thighs close around your head, but your movements never falter, determined to make her cum on your tongue. And with just a few more flicks of your tongue she releases with strained whine, clearly biting her lip under the mask.

You pull back and look up at her catching her breath. Having gained some confidence you ask "did I earn my reward mami?" She chuckles darkly before replying, "not quite, darling, now let's see how much of a good girl you can be." She then stands and lifts you on to the table as if you weighed nothing. You then watch as she walks over to where her bag was place, pulling out her favorite deep purple strap. You continue to admire her as she adjusts the harness around her hips. "Like what you see, pretty girl?" She chuckles. "Mhm" is all you can manage as she makes her way over to you. She makes it to you and flips you over on the table, having you now on your stomach. You gasp at the quickness of her actions and watch as her hand moves to grab the knife laying on the table. Next thing you know the blade is being dragged up the the back of you thighs. You can feel the way the nylon of you tights stretches to try and follow the blade as trails closer to your ass. She reaches the hem of your underwear and you feel a small prick along with hearing the sound of tearing fabric as she cuts through your tights and through the back of your underwear, leaving the perfect rip in the fabrics for her to fuck you.

Her hand moves to your hair, leaving soothing scratches, it's only then that your realize how quickly you had been breathing. She let's you catch your breath for a second before taking the tip of the strap and rubbing it up and down your newly exposed slit, you let a loud gasp at the touch and lean your head back into the hand still resting on your scalp. She repeated this movement until you where whimper under her, "Please...rhea" you breath out only to be answered with a sharp smack to your ass. "You know better, baby, try again" she states as she continues her movements. "Please mami" you correct "please fuck me".

You finally feel her slide the tip of the strap into you, "good girl" she moans out as if she were truly entering you. You gasp at the fullness and reach one hand out to grip the end of the table, the other is folded under your chin. Once she bottoms out she gives you bit to adjust before moving, but the moment she does you let out a moan of pure pleasure before pushing your face into your arm to silence yourself. Apon noticing this rhea grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your hair back as her quickly goes for slow and gentle to fast and rough, "If I wanted you to be quite I would have told you too, now don't hide your pretty noises from me, okay darling?" At this point her rough pace has your eyes rolled to the back of your head with your mouth dropped open in a silent scream but you manage to pull yourself together to whimper out a "Yes mami". She releases your hair from her grip but continues her rough treatment of your cunt, both hands gripping your hips as she thrusts in and out of you.

She’s so rough with you that tears start to brim in your eyes and soon enough your gasping for breath while moaning and screaming for her. Unable to focus on anything but her strap and the way it stretches and fills you with every thrust. “Mami” you moan out to her, “yes, what is it darling?” She asks, already knowing what your about to say. “I’m so close mami please can I cum for you?" You plead in a rather pathetic manner, but you’re too fucked out to care. She then rather abruptly pulls out of you, flipping you over onto your back, pulling the mask off and tossing it to the side. “I want to look into your eyes while you come for me, okay baby?” She wastes no time and thrusts the strap back into you, “okay mami” you manage to whine out between gasps me moans. The pleasure is to overwhelming to keep your eyes open and you allow them to slip closed, only to be met with rheas firm grip around your throat. “I said I wanted to look into your eyes, angel, now open them before I stop” not needing anymore warning other than that you snap your eyes open. You are instantly met with rheas beautiful crystal blue eyes, her face red and flushed from the heat of the mask, her hair that was neatly pulled back now has strands falling into her face. The look of her alone could’ve been enough to make you cum but that plus the feeling of her relentlessly pounding into you throws you violently over the edge. You cry out her name as you cum around her strap, still not breaking eye contact, no matter how much your eyes wanted to close.

You simply lay there a moment, catching your breath before rhea pulls some wet wipes from her bag to clean you up. Once you are both redressed you walk out of the library together and you sleep the whole drive home.

Thank you everyone for reading and I am once again so sorry for the wait, I hope it was a good read cause I’ve never really written something like this before ❤️

#mami rhea #rhea ripley #rhea ripley smut #fanfic #the judgment day wwe #rhea ripley x reader #demi bennett x reader #wwe x reader #wlw smut #ghostface #wwe smut

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never-rxne · 2 months ago

Text

─── and throughout all eternity,

─── i forgive you, you forgive me.

18+ summary: you are the new english professor at a hidden university. sevika, professor of greek history, takes an interest in you. content warnings: light angst (very light) with a hopeful ending, fluff, smut (fingering, oral sex) wc: 2.6k notes: why do all my side quest fic ideas occur at the worst possible time? why am i not able to resist them? anyway this was my first time writing smut within a story. pls be nice i am a small asexual hiding in a hole inspired by this poem and this fanart.

──── ୨୧ ────

present—may 3rd.

“close the door behind you.”

her tone, as if she is addressing a student, is blunt, no-nonsense. you raise an eyebrow, but you shut the door with a click.

and just like that the two of you are alone in her office. you lean against the bookshelf, crossing your arms. the room is a little too warm. sevika walks around her desk, taking off her glasses. she cuts her gaze at you. you stare back. a silent challenge.

an eternity seems to pass between you, the ruthless flow of time counted in the stone-heavy ticks from the clock hanging above sevika’s desk. tick…tick…tick.

and then sevika finally breaks the silence.

“we should stop this.”

you don’t say anything. not at first. you just watch her.

“this…” sevika goes on, slowly, as if it hurts to talk. to breathe. “...whatever this is.”

“whatever?” you echo. “this is ‘whatever’?”

she sighs. she looks more tired than the last time you saw her, as she looks down the rings under her eyes look carved into her skin. when had she begun to hold her secrets in her heart again? when had the door closed against you?

back to where we started, you think. because this is how it all began. you in her office. six months ago, in the dead of november. the fallen leaves blanketing the campus grounds. the steam rising from your coffee in the cafe on church street where you and sevika would sit, talking about literature and politics and the woes of grade inflation.

this is how it started, is this also how it ends?

──── ୨୧ ────

past—november 20th.

sevika is poetry. you know this from the moment you first saw her at the reading, some release party for an anthropology professor whose book was recently published. she was standing near the back of the room holding a glass of champagne. the stem of the glass looked as fragile as a blade of grass between her fingers. in her other hand she held a cigarillo, and as she raised her head to exhale the smoke toward the ceiling her eyes fell on you.

it hadn’t been long since you settled at the university. you had come alone, wearing the only formal clothes you owned. her sharp gaze made you feel stripped naked, and you had the uncanny sense that she could see right through you—for all the bravado you showed your students, for all the pure grit you got through the hellish years of grad school with—she saw you for who you were: an unmoored ship. a stranger on the east coast, seeking refuge from her past in a small liberal arts university.

she was easily the most striking person in the room. among the white-haired, stooped male professors and the women in slightly outdated pantsuits sitting stiff in their seats, sevika stood tall, relaxed, as serene as a rock. her strong brows and jaw, the dark lipstick painting her mouth. her straight hair was pulled back from her face, but some dark strands had escaped and framed her eyes in a way that made you unable to look away.

she wore a tweed vest with a white shirt underneath, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. her forearms were the first thing about her that your eyes were drawn to. she looked impossibly strong. she looked more like a god than a human.

if she was a poem, she would have been written by the most tortured poet. if she was a letter, the drawers would overflow with pages of her. the ink of her would always stain your fingers. you think this as she begins to walk toward you, as her low, smooth voice cuts through the mindless chatter of the reception.

she gives you her name and card by the end of the night. sevika jain, professor of greek history.

you don’t know what drew her to you. she tells you, in an offhand voice, that you’re always welcome to drop by her office.

“if you need something like support,” she says. “emotional support.”

you laugh. “does it already look like i do?”

“sure. like a deer in headlights.” she smiles down at you for you to see the joke, revealing the gap between her front teeth.

every one of your colleagues had offered the same invitation. a nicety, a kind of promise you were welcome to let drop. but you took up sevika’s offer, whether or not she meant it. by the end of that week you had knocked on the door marked ‘jain’, and she had offered you tea.

you quickly find that you can talk to her about anything. she has just as much interest in literature as she does in history. you talk about the backwards politics of the university, the shortcomings of its president.

both of you had built your careers from scratch. neither of your parents had gone to college, and sevika understands the grueling come-up from public schools to university circles where everyone seemed to have come from a different universe. sometimes you imagine that if you had opened the language of your soul to her, she would be able to read it fluently.

──── ୨୧ ────

past—december 8th.

it’s quiet now. late night, the wind whispering against the window of sevika’s apartment. on the way back here from the restaurant, the air smelled of coming rain.

little things. the taste of wine. the way sevika held your elbow when you walked over icy patches of the street, to keep you from slipping.

“this is the hardest stretch,” she tells you.

“are they flooding your office hours as well?”

“you’d think they never had to write a paper in their lives.”

her apartment is just a twenty-minute drive from campus, small and cozily untidy. her neckties are thrown over the backs of her chairs, and stacks of books sit in precarious towers on the bare hardwood floors.

“you think the students would guess their scary professor jain lives like an alphabet city boho?”

she takes off her jacket, tosses it onto the couch. then she strikes a match and lights a stick of incense by the window. “make yourself comfortable.”

and because she says so you take off your jacket as well, placing it on top of hers. she goes into the kitchen and takes out a couple glasses.

you follow her and watch her pour out the cups of wine, watch the muscles flex in her forearms, the way her dark brows arch over her eyes. she gives you the first glass. you lock eyes with her as you drink. those intelligent, maddening eyes.

“do you often invite new english professors to dinner?” you ask. “then bring them over to your place?”

she raises her eyebrows. “no. last one taught archeology. the one before that, french.”

“priceless.”

the corner of her mouth turns up. “you’re the only one.”

“why’s that?”

she sets the glass down, walks over to you. she brushes a knuckle over your cheek, then tilts your chin up toward her face, as gently as if you are a piece of antiquated art to be examined. “you always need an answer to everything?”

“if i did, i wouldn’t be teaching english.”

“damn right. you’d be teaching history.”

when she kisses you it feels like coming home from a journey you hadn’t even realized you were travelling. you feel your limbs melt into her, until she’s got you backed against the wall and is all but holding you up with her strong hands gripping your hips. you wrap your arms around her neck and hook your legs around her waist, and she carries you this way, into the living room where the incense burns, and she lays you down on the mattress in the corner of the room, reverentially.

her hands snake beneath the fabric of your turtleneck and you raise your arms to let her pull it over your head. a rush of cold air kisses your bare skin, which sevika follows with her lips, kissing against the goosebumps, unhooking the clasp of your bra. she undresses you slowly, methodically. she slips out the belt of your trousers, flings it to the side. you lie limp beneath her, feeling the cloth pulled away from your skin, feeling like a ripened fruit that shucked off its old shell, fresh and glistening for her.

she grazes her callused fingers over your lips, tender from kissing, and taps against your mouth with her index finger, a quiet request, a gentle question. you open your mouth and let her in. she slips two of her fingers inside your mouth, slides them deeper in until you feel your throat close against the tips of her fingers, the salt and human taste of them filling your mouth. already your core is throbbing in wait. already you feel the wetness gather between your legs. you close your lips tighter around her fingers, forcing yourself to wait. close your eyes and feel her in your mouth. the mingled smells of her cologne and the incense burning on the windowsill. the wine from earlier in the back of your throat.

“open,” she breathes, sing-song, teasing. you’re too deep in want to do anything more than sigh and let her part you like water.

her fingers, glistening with your saliva, travel down the length of your stomach and hover over the waiting folds of your clit before she slides a finger along the tension-filled lips like the fine tuning of an exquisite instrument. you feel a small whimper well up in your throat as she touches you. your core throbs in too-eager anticipation of her touch. you feel your hips buck as she curls her forefinger against you, thumb pressed to the bud of your clit.

“god,” she whispers. “you wanted this, didn’t you, honey.” it is not said as a question. it’s a statement, as sure and devastating as the fall of rome. she means, you wanted me.

and then she enters your rose-wet cave, and momentarily the world goes dark with your heat. you arch your back, trying and failing to suppress the whines rising from your throat by biting down on your lower lip, trying to wait for her. sevika takes her time. lets your wetness coat her fingers. leans forward to find your mouth, kisses you softly as she makes a mess of you below. her tongue finds your tongue. her thumb keeps circling, gently, lazily.

you can’t wait. you can’t. you’re grinding against her hand, chasing the friction she’s withholding. you feel her move inside you, and you know she’s waiting for you to ask. you know she will not take you until you give yourself to her.

this is what you have been: stoic and unshakable for years. buried in the books, completely inaccessible. you’d always taken a grim pride in your ability to focus, how nothing could distract you from your goals.

this is what you are: falling apart at sevika’s touch. her smell, her taste, the essence of her permeating the room, mingling with the scent of your arousal, with the small obscene sounds of her finger moving inside you.

“give it to me,” you whisper against her mouth, eyes closed tight against the tears from the stimulation. “fucking give it to me, please.”

she laughs, low. she holds you in the sound of it. then she’s making the downward journey to where you need her mouth, she’s slipping a second finger inside you, makes her thrusts rhythmic. her tongue circles roughly against your folds until any remaining thought melts away from your mind. until you’re reduced to nothing but incoherent sounds and the sparks of rising tension coiling in the pit of your stomach. your thighs ache from clenching against her, and when she groans something into your clit, your name, like a prayer, the reverberations throb through you and it’s enough. you let yourself go. you give yourself to her, entirely. when you cry out it echoes through the quiet apartment.

the moon rises outside the window, cradled by the bare tree branches.

sevika raises her head, and you reach for her, blindly, as your body rides through the aftershocks. her pretty eyes, her shining mouth. you think she can see it in your eyes, how no one has touched you this way for a long, long time.

“god,” is the only thing you can say. your pulse throbs through your body, the heat high in your cheeks. “god, god.”

and you fall over again into the sheets, together.

──── ୨୧ ────

present.

you both knew it couldn’t be serious; you both didn’t have the time. if you were smart you would never have started it.

but with sevika… with sevika the fall was inevitable. you can’t walk across the campus without looking for her. you can’t enter a coffee shop without expecting to see her sitting near the back, reading a book with an espresso steaming in front of her.

when she tells you she is going on sabbatical for the next year, it is the casual tone of her voice that cuts you deeper than the news itself. that she can let drop, like it is nothing, that she’ll be across the globe for a year, oceans away from you. you realize then that nothing will matter to sevika more than her work, her research. you always told her, jokingly, that you had finally met your match in academic zeal. but now the truth of it sinks into you like an anchor.

she doesn’t pretend to believe it can work. she isn’t some lovesick high school senior, swearing their love can survive years in separate colleges. you respect her for it, but all the same it leaves a bitterness in your heart. was it fair? was it fair of her to give so much to you, make this place mean so much more than it did when you first received tenure, only to refuse to accept anything you could offer?

you think of the way she first approached you. you think of her hands on your body, the way she smiled when she spoke to you, only half a sentence away from teasing you. you think of the softness of her eyes when she thought you were sleeping. the smell of tobacco and incense that gradually wove itself into the fiber of your clothing, your hair, your skin.

she was telling the truth when she said you were the only one, and you believe this.

now you stand in her office, staring at the patterns in the wood of the bookshelf as she tells you, we should stop this.

“i thought you felt,” you begin, “at least i did—that this meant more. that what we had meant more.”

something in your voice makes her look up.

“i’m willing to wait,” you say quietly. “if you’ll let me wait.”

she shakes her head. “i can’t let you.”

“because you don’t want me to?”

“no,” she replies, quickly. too quickly. she turns her face away in embarrassment, pinches the bridge of her nose. “doesn’t matter what i want. i don’t want to be a distraction to you.”

“you’re not.”

“listen, you’ve worked too hard. you get what i’m saying?” she searches your expression. “an affair won’t look good to the board. you’re gonna get that grant, you’re gonna move up.”

“you won’t be seeing me for a year anyway. is that really your concern?”

she doesn’t answer.

“can’t you for once let yourself have something, too, sevika?”

she looks at you.

another stretch of silence. the clock counts the beats of your heart, the emotions that struggle just beneath the coolness of her eyes.

at last she says, “you’ll change your mind.”

you look at her across the room. a smile plays over your lips. “try me.”

──── ୨୧ ────

─── as our dear redeemer said:

─── "this the wine, and this the bread."

#i wrote this in one fever dream-like sitting so i kind of hate this but idk #i am so sorry for saying i'll focus on one thing and then completely derailing to another fic... it may happen again #rune's fics #throughout all eternity #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika arcane #arcane #sevika smut #sevika fluff #sevika fanfic

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