ANGEL | Having a best friend who wants to be the one to take your virginity…
Male Best Friend!OC x Male Reader
Warnings: Smut, you’re both 18 (still in high school), purity kink (oc), cheating (oc on his girlfriend, anal sex, blowjob, fingering, fucking while his parents are home…
Summary: He’s your fuckboy best friend who wants you…
(A/n: First OC fic I’m posting, hope you all like it)
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• He’s your best friend who you’ve known since you were both toddlers. And you’ve stuck together ever since, even late in to your High School years.
• He’s one of the most popular guys in school, known for being the schools biggest fuckboy, with a new ”girlfriend” every other week.
• While you, yourself, weren’t unpopular but you were more so ”popular by proxy”, known for being the guy who has some weird sexual tension with his popular best friend.
• The best friend that buys you a red heart shaped lollipop everyday on the way to school insisting that it’s a completely normal platonic thing to do as he unwraps it and sticks it in your mouth. But who really does it because he loves seeing you suck on it, imagining your lips around something else.
• The best friend who’d never do that for any of his girlfriends cause he dosen’t really like any of them, at least not the way he likes you.
• He has a thing for virgins, loving the idea of deflowering someone, being the one to take their purity, ruining them. He usually gets tired of them afterwards.
• One day he invites you over to his house after school, the two of you hang out, sit outside tanning by the pool, play video games and later you eat dinner with him and his parents. After that you and him lay in his bed watching a movie on his tv.
• You’d be laying on your stomach, making him easily see the outline of your perky butt through your shorts.
• He knew you were still a virgin, you’d have told him if someone had popped your cherry.
• But yet he found something so whorish about you. The way you dressed, you were currently wearing a tank top and short-shorts. The way you sucked on the lollipops he bought you, as if hinting something at him. And the way you had that ”dumb slut” tone of voice.
• You were like a walking contradiction of your own wholesome and sweet personality.
• He’d lay down next to you, as close as he could, then pull you into a hug. And once you started getting confused by his clingyness and asked him what was up, he’d kiss you and you’d kiss back.
• The two of you would roll around in his bed making out. You crothes grinding against each other.
• He’d get you on your knees infront of him, pull down his underwear to reveal his hung thick juicy cock, dangling it in front of your face. And when you’d look up at him from the floor with innocence in your eyes and ask him ”What about your girlfriend?”. He just answers ”What about her?”.
• He’d love finally getting to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead of a lollipop. His dick stuffed in your mouth until you almost choked on it.
• Then he’d undress you, let you lay on the bed as he fingered your ass, he’d then lube his cock. And as you turned on to your back and he’d spread your legs he’d start pushing himself in to you.
• He’d love finally getting his cock inside your tight virgin hole, it clenched hard around him. He loved the sound of your moans and whines from having his dick shoved deep inside you.
• He’d say things like ”Fuck your loving this aren’t you, you’re not as innocent as I thought” and ”My little virgin, Y/n, finally losing it and to me of all people”.
• He knew that his parents definetely heard what the two of you were doing upstairs, hearing their son taking his friend like he did with every other girlfriend he’d ever had. The sound of his creaking bed, the sound of your moans, the sound their son’s rough thrusts. They could hear it all.
• The moans coming out of your mouth were music his ear. It helped encourage him and roll his hips so reach deeper inside you.
• He’d fuck you so good you came early and watch your embarassed face as you both knew he was far from done with you. But he’d just smile continuing his thrusts deep into until you got hard again.
• Once he’d gotten you to cum two more times he finally started getting close to his own orgasm and he pushed his full hard self into you erupting inside you, his cum taking what little you had left of your innocence.
• He’d pull out of you watching as your gaping hole leaked with his seed. The sight could make him hard all over again.
• He’d lay down and pull you close to him and whisper how good you had been. And he’d hold you as you drifted off to sleep as he layed awake thinking about you.
• Once the virginity was taken he grew tired of whoever he slept with, he only liked the part of having them first, ruining them for those who came after.
• But you were different to him, now that he’d deflowered you, he needed to be by your side to protect you from the sinful world he’d now taken you into.
Summary: (Y/N) (L/N) and Ilya Rozanov are the cutthroat duo of the Boston Raiders who are attached at the hip. Until (Y/N) makes a choice that puts Shane Hollander at his side instead.
Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader
CW/TW: Typical Heated Rivalry warnings, hockey inaccuracies, mixture of show and book, these bitches will get sooo messy
Divider by @/zclhs!
~~~
2013, Boston
There were flashing cameras everywhere he looked, leaving his vision blurred and spotty whilst he tried to focus on each reporter that shoved a microphone in his face and rattled a million questions at him.
(Y/N) loved the attention, usually. He'd flash a smirk at whichever camera was closest and purr his answers to whichever reporter had their microphone up in the air so the tabloids could publish more about the Boston Raiders' very own notorious captain.
He couldn't muster more than a tight-lipped smile and flatly spoken words as he went down the line of reporters eager to get every juicy last detail on his decision and further ignite the drama already circulating. He'd heard plenty of absurd rumors floating around, and that'd been before the announcement.
He wasn't sure whose job it was to inform the team of his choice, if they'd even been told at all before the press conference; thankfully, looks can't kill, because whichever unlucky bastard it was had definitely been on the receiving end of a Rozanov glare.
"(L/N)! (L/N)!"
One woman pushed through the swarm of bodies, managing to catch herself before she toppled over the barrier that kept them from crowding around the tired hockey player. Her pay can't be that high for all this action.
"What could have possibly spurred your decision to abandon the Boston Raiders for their archrivals, the Montreal Metros?"
His laugh was dry, empty.
Abandon was a helluva word. Plenty of players in all kinds of sports were traded around constantly, jumping from team to team, sometimes within the same year. He supposed it wasn't often that captains casually agreed to leave their beloved teams to join the very team they shit-talked every other week.
He would've considered Detroit had his body not been buzzing with fiery spite.
"Change of scenery, I guess," (Y/N) replied smoothly, biting down on the gum in his mouth.
It'd lost its artificial flavor half an hour ago when his jaw had begun aching from how much he chewed on it, but it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His heart was ready to burst out of his chest from how fast it was beating.
"Trust me, this wasn't personal. It's purely business."
"You're denying you clashed with now-former teammate, Ilya Rozanov? I hear he'll be replacing you as captain, and some speculate he may have pushed you out on purpose for that very reason."
"Oh, please," Ilya would've killed him had he mentioned the conversation he'd had a week prior regarding his contract and the Metros' interest in him. The insistent buzzing in his back pocket solidified it. "Nobody can tell me what to do.. aside from my mother, of course."
There was some laughter and amused murmurs of agreement scattered across the crowd. That was good. Everything he said would be quoted across various newspapers, magazines, and internet pages. The least he could do is keep up the humorous charm that'd earned him so many fans off the ice.
Maybe it'd win over the Montreal Metros. Maybe.
"Rozanov is good. I'll always be better, but the Boston Raiders are in great hands."
A statement like that would've normally been mocked back at him in a thick russian accent, followed by a gently murmured tease and a vow to prove him wrong during training. Ilya had always been like that, ever since he joined the team with a near flawless record.
Young, egotistical, snarky, with skills to back up his smug mouth. He was exactly the type of right-hand man (Y/N) loved having on the team.
An equal. A partner in crime. A best friend. Something more, something blurred.
The reporter nodded and spared the cameraman with her a glance to check in before she continued, her words coming out with the rapidness of someone who'd been reporting for a long time. "How do you think future games will proceed with you now on the opposing team?"
"I expect everyone to bring their A game, regardless of how they feel. This is hockey, not high school."
A good line, supposedly, seeing as his mother buzzed on about all the tabloids already quoting it on the ride back to his place. He was good with the press, most of the time.
They loved someone they could slap on the title of golden boy with a playboy streak, never mind the fact he'd never publicly been in a relationship with anyone since the start of his career. Unfortunately, they'd be losing the good cop, bad cop dynamic he and Ilya had formed.
He would never be able to top Shane Hollander's humble and down-to-earth persona. The press loved him even more. He wondered what the boring little Canadian would be saying about it all the next time the press crowded him.
He'd miss making fun of him with Ilya late at night, mocking the polite, earnest voice he always spoke in until their stomachs ached from how hard they laughed.
While his mother read off articles from the tablet on her lap and his father hummed absentmindedly in response, (Y/N) finally wriggled his phone free from his back pocket and took a peek at the flood of messages and missed calls.
A few from friends and acquaintances, a handful from some of the guys on the team, but most from Ilya. He couldn't imagine the type of temper tantrum the Russian had thrown when he heard the news.
There was nothing funny about Ilya heatedly cursing in a mixture of Russian and English, but (Y/N) had never been able to conceal his snickerings when Ilya got really worked up. Usually, because of Hollander. Or (Y/N). Mostly (Y/N).
His laughter would either earn him a glare and a barked insult he couldn't understand, or a huff before Ilya's warm face pushed itself into his neck, seeking comfort without saying it.
His phone buzzed. A name appeared.
Crybaby.
Ilya never liked the contact name.
"I do not cry like a baby." He grumbled the first time he'd seen it, his brows knitted together in genuine confusion and lips pressed in a faint pout. "I do not cry. Ever. Have you ever seen me cry? No? Is because I never cry."
He'd decided to switch (Y/N)'s contact name from '(L/N)' to 'Fuckboy' once he learnt of the word from a page a magazine had written about him. (Y/N) had chosen not to argue with Ilya's smug smirk and victorious eyes.
They'd only go around in circles, demanding the other change the name until one of them groaned and the other switched the topic. There was no use in bickering with a man as stubborn as Ilya.
(Y/N) stared at his phone until the screen turned black. He only had to wait a few seconds before it brightened again. Crybaby. Ilya was ironically being one right now, and (Y/N) dug his teeth into the gum still stuck to his teeth to resist the urge to grin. He felt half-tempted to point it out, but when he was able to view the messages sent, his throat tightened.
Crybaby
Answer
Crybaby
Answer
Crybaby
Please
(Y/N) inhaled sharply, set his phone over his thigh, and watched the city lights pass them in a blur. The hardcore fans would either be enraged or disappointed, but he preferred their wrath and gloom over Ilya's.
Boston had been home for a long time, and now he'd be moving away somewhere far from everything he knew. From everyone he knew.
And God, for a team he didn't even like.
He could've gone with Detroit. Should've. But Detroit was too close to Boston, and thus, too close to Ilya Rozanov.
Their argument still rang fresh in his mind. It'd been filled with insults and taunting remarks neither of them truly meant, but spat regardless in a needless competition of who could hurt who more.
Ilya's jealousy and (Y/N)'s dismissiveness never mixed well, much less when alcohol was involved. They'd usually get over it by the following evening, silently showing their remorse in their own ways before things fell back into place.
This time, however, (Y/N) ensured to avoid the blond all day. He wanted to say it paid off, that he'd be able to catch the morning flight to Montreal with no guilt or regret, but he wasn't so sure anymore.
The night air was crisp when he stepped out of the car, prickling his throat when he took in a breath. His mother gave him reminders he paid little mind to, and then leaned down toward the window so she could peck his cheek and bid him a goodnight before the car peeled off down the street. They'd join him in Montreal later in the week, once they had the time for it.
He wished he could say he was surprised to see a figure standing by his front door, their shoulder pressed to the wall and head lowered to stare down at their phone. (Y/N) stilled on the pavement path leading up to the oak double doors, watching them lift the phone to their ear. His phone began vibrating a second later.
"You're going to run out of battery."
Ilya hissed a few words in Russian, his shoulders jerking with a flinch, then sagging as he lifted his head. His brows remained knitted together, but his chest deflated with notable relief. Those icy blues of his locked on (Y/N)'s face, following him as he approached.
"Do not ignore me." He frowned, shoving his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. "You know I do not like it."
(Y/N) hummed, stepping past the tall hockey player and unlocking one of the doors, his feet instinctively brushing over the welcome mat. He lingered in the doorway, contemplating.
Allowing Ilya inside would be like inviting a famished vampire into a hospital. He'd leave only when he felt like it, only when he got his fill.
"I have an early flight to catch, Roz," (Y/N) told him lightly, unable to look him in the eye, so he stared at the distant city lights twinkling over his shoulder.
"Yes. Montreal. I heard." Bitterness slipped easily into Ilya's otherwise stoic voice. "You cannot be serious, (Y/N). This is bullshit. You cannot stand Hollander."
(Y/N)'s mouth twitched. "You can't stand him. He's a boring, goody-two-shoes, yeah, but he's also a decent captain."
"Decent is not enough to leave." Ilya's jaw shifted, his eyes fluttering shut. His nostrils flared with a breath, and he roughly wiped his fingertips over his forehead, likely attempting to soothe away an approaching headache. "You are upset, no? About yesterday? I can fix it."
Ilya moved to shoulder past him into the house, but (Y/N)'s hand shot up to stop him, his palm firmly pressing over Ilya's chest. He could faintly feel Ilya's heartbeat through the fabric, thrumming the same beat as his own. His fingers curled, crinkling the hoodie beneath them. The action was familiar, something he did a million times before, usually right before dragging Ilya close.
Not this time.
"I have an early flight, Roz." (Y/N)'s arm fell limply to his side.
Ilya's nostrils flared again, his own fingers twitching at his sides. He was irritated, but (Y/N) wasn't blind to the panic beginning to seep into his eyes.
"You are being ridiculous." His voice was hard, controlled. It wouldn't be for long. "You are leaving because of what? Why?"
"I need a change of scenery."
"Bullshit."
Because, as he knew very well, arguing with Ilya was pointless, (Y/N) rolled his eyes, mustered up a half-hearted grunt of annoyance, and gave up on blocking the doorway. He kicked his shoes off, leaving them in the doorway to be hurriedly snatched in the morning, and finally spat out the gum into the kitchen trash can.
At least the house would remain his.
"Think of it as a summer house," His mother told him, "You can vacation here whenever you want. Though I hear Montreal's nice year-round."
He barely had time to wipe the little trickle of drool on the corner of his mouth before arms were encircling his waist and tugging him back into a sturdy chest. "What you need is a good fuck, yeah? I will fuck you, and you will feel much better." Ilya spoke in a comically earnest way.
(Y/N)'s short laugh was breathy, tired, his fingertip rubbing over the bridge of his nose. "You're a real romantic, Roz." He mumured, prying his arms away from his waist and creating some much-needed distance.
"Romantic?" Ilya repeated with a slight tilt of his head, his hawk eyes continuing to follow (Y/N) as he sat on the stool and propped his arms on the island counter. He tolerated the space between them for three seconds before he was back at his side, his arm propped on the back of the stool. "You don't like romantic. Is why you will not date anyone."
(Y/N) drummed his fingers over the marble counter, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he spoke. "You don't let me date anyone, Roz. You scare everyone away."
The piercing glares were enough to make both girls and guys think twice before approaching, regardless of what their intention was. Ilya could only deal with a few minutes of him dancing with someone else, and then he'd hear Ilya's voice in his ear, demanding a ride back to his place or whichever hotel they were staying at.
"Because you have me, and I am all you need." Ilya's shrug was lopsided, and he leaned in to drag the tip of his nose over (Y/N)'s cheek. "I give you everything you want. You are spoilt." His palm fell over (Y/N)'s knee, squeezing in tender affection.
(Y/N)'s mouth pressed into a tight line, and he tore his eyes away from the pretty light brunette to stare forward. His stomach twisted, and his instincts told him to brush Ilya's hand away. "We can't do this anymore, you know. We'll be too busy to make time for each other, anyway."
"You are so dramatic." Ilya groaned. "You come here for offseason. Problem solved."
"Roz-"
"You are supposed to be problem solver between us, (Y/N). Said so yourself." Ilya kissed his temple, further crowding into his space. His curls tickled the skin along (Y/N)'s forehead, light and quick kisses pressing along the side of his face. "You had long day. I will make you feel better. I have been needing you all day-"
"Ilya."
The Russian's mouth clamped shut, and he leaned back, one arm bracing on the counter. To anyone else, he might've looked calm and collected, maybe focused. But to (Y/N), he looked nervous, like a child about to be lectured. He could tell simply from the way his eyes flickered between (Y/N)'s and the subtle tension in his shoulders.
(Y/N) reached up, cupping Ilya's chin and squeezing gently. His throat felt tight, and his stomach churned again, this time with anxious nausea.
"I don't want to do this anymore." He uttered softly and watched a million emotions pass through Ilya's eyes. "This-" He motioned between them. "-has spiraled out of control."
"You do not even believe yourself," Ilya murmured. "You started this."
"I know. I'm sorry."
2009, Boston
"I hear this kid is an asshole, man."
"Shit, aren't we all?"
Their combined laughter echoed through the arena, masking the sound of the doors rattling shut and the scraping of skates on ice from Kane and Marleau's practice around the rink.
(Y/N)'s eyes followed them despite their insistence that they were training out of boredom because he'd be damned if he wasn't there to ensure they were still at their very best, especially with a newbie on the way. The last thing they needed was to make an awful first impression on the guy meant to impress them.
The Boston Raiders had drafted well-known rookie Ilya Rozanov, and the kid was finally going to meet his new team.
Kid was hardly the right word to call him. (Y/N) only had two years on the nineteen-year-old, but he enjoyed being patronizing toward new faces now and again. It kept the hierarchy in proper balance, and it fed his ego.
"He's an actual Russian, right?" (Y/N) crinkled his nose, his tongue clicking. Kane needed to work on making sharper turns. "Like, plucked from the country? Not just some guy with grandparents from there?"
"Moscow born and bred, or so I've heard. His English is a work in progress." Dariel Castro nodded, his words slightly muffled from the hoodie drawstring in his mouth.
His legs were sprawled out atop the seat in front of them, though he was quick to drop them at the sight of their coach heading toward them. While albeit lazy and somewhat of a troublemaker, Dariel was talented enough that the Coach cut him some slack. Most of the time.
"Speak of the devil, man."
(Y/N) leaned over toward his assistant captain with a grin that undoubtedly reeked of mischief. "There's at least three presidents rolling in their graves right now, D." He lowered his voice and spoke in the exaggerated accent he'd hear on television shows. "We've got the big bad Russ on our team."
Dariel barked out a laugh and swiftly stifled it by slapping his hand over his mouth when Coach turned his stern stare onto them. (Y/N) straightened up in his seat and launched up onto his feet, his grin melting into that cheeky smile the paparazzi loved to photograph. Coach looked a little more satisfied with that than Dariel's laughter.
"If it isn't the talk of the city," (Y/N) cooed, pointedly ignoring the quiet snickers that slipped from Dariel's mouth in favor of approaching their newest teammate.
Rozanov was taller than he'd expected, and the cameras dulled his otherwise piercing blue eyes. He seemed.. alright. Not completely relaxed from the boxy shape of his shoulders as he took in his surroundings, but he wasn't actively sweating or flushing or babbling like young rookies usually did.
Calm, expressionless, and without a twinkle of awe or excitement in his eyes. Ilya Rozanov reeked of youthful arrogance. He was right up (Y/N)'s alley.
"(Y/N) (L/N). Pleasure meeting you, man. You should know-" (Y/N) swung his arms around the kid's shoulders, and felt him stiffen immediately. "I'm a hugger."
Rozanov smelled like cigarette smoke. His skin was cool from the chilly weather outside, hardly helped by the temperature inside the arena.
Boston was almost always cloudy and consistently on the cusp of raining, and the arena was always kept at a cold temperature for the ice. (Y/N) preferred the warmth of summer.
Rozanov kept his arms hanging limply at his sides, only releasing a low, barely audible hum in the back of his throat.
Coach looked hardly amused. "(Y/N)."
"What?" (Y/N) leaned back, his voice purposefully breathless with feigned innocence, and his hands planted firmly on Rozanov's tense shoulders. His face was stoic for the most part, except for the faint furrow in his brow. "I am, I swear. D, you see me hug everyone, right?"
"All the time." Dariel nodded quickly, despite the fact the most either of them did was high five outside of celebratory embraces on the rink and locker rooms. Coach rolled his eyes. "Sweetest guy I know."
"Yeah, just-" (Y/N) squeezed Rozanov's shoulders. His stare was penetrating, narrowed with the look of someone trying to decipher a puzzle. "Don't touch me without permission, da?"
"(Y/N)." Coach gave a heavy sigh from deep within his chest. "You're twenty-one. It's about time you start acting like it."
"I'm being welcoming!"
Coach muttered something under his breath and turned his attention to the two men still out on the rink, that familiar intense focus returning to his eyes whilst he began walking along the rink's barrier. (Y/N) jerked his head, and Dariel quickly fell into step with Coach to tell him the things they'd noticed to focus on in training.
"You, uh," The deep voice that vibrated beside him was startling, especially coming from a clean-shaven, youthful face like Rozanov's. The furrow in his brows deepened, and his gaze slid away, searching, translating. "You making fun of me, no?"
(Y/N) cocked his head to the side, his smile widening. "A little, but it's all in good fun. We're brothers now, Rozanov. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, all that bullshit."
"What?"
(Y/N) couldn't help the chuckle that slipped out at the genuine, puppy-like confusion on Rozanov's face. He blinked at him a few times, his mouth pressed in an unamused line, but (Y/N) thought he looked... adorable. Mildly intimidating, sure, but adorable nonetheless.
"What I mean is: you take care of me, and I'll take care of you, alright? As much as these guys may try to convince you, I'm not the devil. I'm your captain, and now that you're one of us, you're my responsibility. If you need anything, you come to me, and I'll handle it. All I ask is that you don't fuck up our games."
"Never."
"Good."
There was a beat of silence, of observing. Ilya continued staring at him with that penetrating look, like he was waiting for (Y/N) to rip the rug out from under his feet and continue his light teasing. A hint of sympathy slipped into (Y/N)'s gut, so he patted Rozanov's clothed bicep, offering him one of his more genuine smiles.
"You competed against that Hollander kid, yeah?" Canada's biggest prospect rookie that year. He looked relatively harmless in interviews, but he was a good player once he got on the ice. "You promise to beat him when we go against the Metros?"
A spark ignited in those otherwise empty blues, and Rozanov's mouth twitched into a smirk. There was that rivalry everyone had been whispering about.
"Yes, always." He nodded swiftly, a curl tumbling loose from beneath his beanie and bouncing on his forehead. "Hollander is.." His nose scrunched up. "Okay."
The kid was more than 'okay', but (Y/N) suspected that was as good as compliments would get with Rozanov. Hollander was a problem, even more so now with his draft to the Metros. He and Dariel had already agreed on ensuring Hollander never got close to the goal next time they played, just to give him a taste of real battle.
"Don't bullshit me, then, Rozanov," (Y/N) told him pointedly, turning on his heel to approach his backpack slumped on one of the seats. He began rifling through it, pushing snacks and hand towels around. "I expect a big win when we face them in three months, alright?"
Rozanov lingered beside him. "Bullshit?"
"Uh, means nonsense or lie, I guess." (Y/N)'s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, and he wondered briefly if he'd have to add English teacher to his resume. He angled his head over his shoulder to send him a wink. "It's my favorite word."
Once his fingers grazed the small cardboard box at the bottom of his backpack, he gave a hum of relief and tugged it out. "You'll have to quit smoking. A cigarette here and there won't hurt in the offseason, but Coach is strict about health." He explained, pinching the box of nicotine gum between his fingers and offering it to him.
Rozanov pursed his lips, but reluctantly took the box from him. "You smoke, too?"
"I've had urges here and there, but nah, never. Some of the guys like Castro and Marleau do, though, so I like to keep a pack on me in case they need it. Like I said, I'll take care of you as long as you take care of the team and me, too."
Rozanov gazed down at the nicotine gum in his hand, contemplating, and then raised his head to stare at him again. His eyes, then, raked down (Y/N)'s figure, from his shoulders down to his sneakers with slow purpose. His mouth curled into a crooked grin when their gazes met again, and when (Y/N) returned it, the grin grew.
"I take care of you, too, (L/N)." Rozanov rumbled, his voice low. This guy is trouble in pretty packaging. "Very good care."
Steve harrington x male!reader[Henderson reader! Dustin’s older brother][goth/punk reader? Kinda more 90s style but Shh]
Since when did you start coloring your hair?
Steve couldn’t believe his eyes, or, couldn’t stop them from staring you down. Dustin was busy getting his shit together while you, bathroom door wide open, leaned over the counter table putting dye into the strands of hair.
Your shirt stopped right at your hips, your chain belts and dark low pants showed off the black ink on your lower back… since when did he like that style?
And since when did Dustin’s brother get so hot?
“Can you stop staring at my brother? Oh Jesus-” Dustin hit him with his heave bag and caught sight of you.
“Close the door!” He yelled at you, making you finally turn their way. First you turned with a glare that hit dustin, cold and annoyed then at him- Steve was terrified. And enjoying it.
Slamming the door shut after flipping dustin off, and him returning the gesture, Steve could finally think straight.
“When did he start coloring his hair? And was that a tattoo-”
“Don’t start with me.” Dustin groaned and walked out of the house with Steve on his trails.
Summary: While waiting for Peter in your hotel room you find Brad at your door instead. You didn’t want him there, you wanted him to leave, but he refused to listen. When Peter shows up, and his knock is met with silence, his spidey senses start going haywire. (established relationship, europe trip is just a normal trip)
TW: unwanted flirting, sexual advances, non-con touching, non-con kissing
Peter Parker Masterlist
Male Characters Masterlist
You were in your room getting ready for bed as you waited for Peter. He was over in Ned’s room right now, the both of them probably playing video games or something. Even all the way in Europe they just couldn’t stop acting like dorks. Well, you were too, hence why he had been so excited when you became friends.
You had met Peter on your first day of kindergarten, the two of you just happening to choose the seats beside each other. He had been so scared and lost then, stumbling and rambling on as he tried to tell you his name. You liked him instantly, and you had been best friends ever since. But then last year something changed, you realized you liked him as more than a friend, and you were terrified that he wouldn’t feel the same. But then there he was, the two of you always on the same page, even if it took quite a few months for either of you to say anything.
You were the first person Peter had told about being Spider-Man, him just bursting out with it one night just a week after getting bitten. You helped him train both with his powers and how to fight, you helped put together his first suit with him, and you had even taught yourself first aid after the third night in a row he had knocked on your window covered in cuts and bruises.
Knock, knock
You smiled to yourself as you crossed over to the door, tired from the traveling and walking around all day and just wanting to lay in bed with him. He always loved to wrap himself around you, face smooshed into your chest or the crook of your neck. A few times, after having fallen asleep, he had somehow found his way on top of you. Literally his entire body flopping over onto yours as he breathed softly against you. God, Peter was so adorable when he was asleep.
“Hey, Pe—“ You instantly cut yourself off, your movements coming to a halt and leaving the door half open, smile instantly gone.
It wasn’t Peter at the door, it was Brad. What the hell did he want? He kept trying to talk to you during the whole trip, even forcefully paying for your food at the museum when Peter had run off to use the bathroom. He was so annoying, yet the girls all fawned over him.
“What happened to that smile?” Brad mused, his own smile in place, but you knew it was fake. “You were smiling when you opened the door.”
“I thought it was someone else.” You said dryly, already moving the shut the door in his face when his hand suddenly flew out and blocked you.
“I just wanted to talk.” Brad laughed, forceful, full of self importance. “You seem like you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“What gave you that impression?” You said sarcastically, moving once more to close the door when his foot flew out that time, putting your movements to a dead halt. “Leave me alone, Brad. I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.”
“You didn’t look like you were ready for bed.” Brad stepped forward, past the threshold, and you felt your anger beginning to rise. But you forced it down, not wanting to cause a scene. “Who did you think it was, anyway?” He asked, grabbing the door and pulling it from your grasp as he shut it behind himself.
“Peter.” You grit out, now pissed at him for inviting himself into your room. Whatever, you could handle a few minutes of Brad’s bullshit until Peter showed up.
“Jesus.” Brad laughed, continuing to stroll even deeper into the room, as if he owned the place. “I think you need to raise your standards. And I don’t just mean physically.”
You felt an urge to punch Brad, to send a swift hit to his jaw, or maybe even his nose so you could break something. Peter was always a bit sensitive about his height, always far behind the other boys as a kid. He still complained about you being an inch taller than him.
“Get out of my room.” You said sternly, having to physically force yourself not to resort to violence. Although, you weren’t opposed to it if need be.
“You always this forceful with Peter?” Brad asked, friendly demeanor now gone and replaced with annoyance as he picked up the little silver spider charm on the dresser.
“Put that down.” You demanded. Peter had bought that for you that afternoon, and you were planning on putting it on your keychain.
Brad didn’t listen, or he just didn’t care, and he continued looking at the spider. Screw it, you thought as you crossed over to him. You ripped the spider out of his hand and shoved it into your pocket, sending him a harsh glare. He needed to get out of your room right now.
“God, you’re always so defensive.” Brad rolled his eyes, as if you were the nuisance. “You need to learn to lighten up a little. You really think Parker likes you being moody all the time?”
“Get out.” You demanded, your anger turning to rage at the insinuation. Peter loved you exactly how you were, you being the one to draw him back to reality when he refused to think of anything except the good in those he fought.
“I know what’ll lighten you up.” Brad smirked, and before you had a chance to react his hand reached out and grabbed your crotch, giving it a small squeeze that had bile rising in your throat. “I bet Peter doesn’t touch you like this, huh? Probably doesn’t even know how.”
You really wanted to punch him right now, but you felt frozen, your brain nearly short circuiting. You wanted him off of you, you didn’t even want to look at him. He was disgusting, vile, someone Peter would knock right out if he came across him as Spider-Man. But Peter wasn’t here, only Brad was. You could take him. Probably. You looked about equally matched, and you had some actual fight training given the fact you feared becoming a target for Peter’s enemies. But your body was refusing to listen to your brain.
“Let go of me.” Your words came out as more of a whisper, but luckily they held steady.
“Oh, come on.” Brad mused, his other hand landing on your hip. “I’ve seen you looking at me, Peter doesn’t have to know.”
His hand trailed up beneath your shirt, his touch like fire against your skin, and you felt the bile rise again. Peter had touched you before, sure, but that was only little things while making out. You wanted to take it slow. You certainly didn’t want anything from Brad. You wanted him off of you, you wanted him out of your room. You wanted him to stop looking at you like you were a piece of meat. You wanted Brad’s hands off of you.
You reached up and grabbed Brad’s arms, pushing them off of you, his hands finally leaving your body. But he was stronger than you thought, and you were still shaken up by what happened. His hands grabbed your arms, your own still holding onto him, and he spun you around, slamming you backwards into the dresser. He held your arms pinned against the drawers as he leaned in, his body going flush with yours. He was hard and he grinded up against you. You wanted to vomit.
“Don’t play dumb, I can tell you’re into this.” Brad rolled his hips against yours, a wave of terror and panic washing over you as he leaned in so close you could smell his breath. “I know you’ve been checking me out. Don’t worry, I don’t mind.” One of his hands let go of you, and then it was back on your hip, snaking its way up until he was fully caressing your side. “Peter doesn’t have to know about this. It can be our little secret.”
Knock, knock, knock
Both of your heads whipped towards the door, your mouth opening to call out to whoever was on the other side. You didn’t even care who it was, it could be Flash of all people, you just needed someone to see what was happening. But before you could even get a single sound out Brad’s hand flew from your side and clamped down around your mouth, a murderous look in his eyes.
“Don’t you say a fucking word.” He hissed, and terror coursed through your veins.
“Hey!” Peter’s voice called out. “It’s Peter!”
Brad continued to stare at you, hand gripping your face tighter. But all you felt was relief, because Peter would know something was wrong. That spidey sense of his, you didn’t even need to speak for him to know you were in danger.
Knock, knock, knock
“You awake?” Peter asked. “Hello? Sorry I’m late, I just—me and Ned got distracted. Hello?”
Come on, Peter, you thought, just sense it already. You always answered the door—or more likely window—when he knocked. You had never not answered him. You had fallen asleep early before and you always sent him a text to let him know so he wouldn’t worry. That’s probably what he was doing right now, checking his phone. Any second now he’d see his blank screen.
It was silent for a while, too long. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears now. Did Peter leave? Did he really think you were sleeping? You didn’t hear any footsteps. Then again, you could barely hear anything over the pounding of your own heart.
“See?” Brad whispered. “That wasn’t so hard.”
He removed his hand, and you were so prepared to scream or shout or even just whisper for Peter to help you, but you were cut off by Brad crashing his lips into yours. You flinched in surprise, free hand flying up and shoving at his chest, but you were at such an awkward position against the dresser and with him pressed up against you that you had no leverage.
You really felt like you wanted to throw up that time, your stomach churning at the contact. His lips felt like they physically burned you. He was forceful and demanding and suffocating, the exact opposite of the soft, sometimes hesitant, but always loving kisses of Peter.
With Brad’s hand now off of your mouth he reached back down, but not for your hip that time, for your ass. Your hand flew to his arm, trying desperately to pry him off of you, but damn this awkward position. Brad squeezed your ass hard and pulled your hips forward, forcing all of you to go flush with all of him.
“Get off of him!” Peter’s voice shouted, loud and full of rage, and Brad went flying off of you before Peter had even finished his sentence.
Brad went crashing to the floor, Peter having rushed him from the side. You felt like you could finally breathe again, as if there had been a noose around your throat before but now it had vanished. Peter was fuming in front of you, Brad quickly trying to scramble to his feet. Peter looked like he was about to break his no killing rule.
“Jesus Christ, Peter.” Brad huffed as he pushed himself to his feet. “You didn’t have to shove me like that.”
“I should throw you out the window!” Peter shouted.
“Oh, come on.” Brad waved him off, trying to feign innocence. “It’s not my fault, man, he was begging me for it.”
“No the fuck he wasn’t!” Peter rushed forward, Brad having no time to react as Peter’s hands fisted themselves into the front of his shirt and he started dragging himself towards the door. “If I ever see you near him again, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Peter literally threw Brad out of the room, the sound of Brad’s body slamming against the floor bringing you some relief, and Peter slammed the door shut and turned the lock.
“Peter, I’m sorry.” You apologized quietly, slowly peeling yourself away from the dresser. “It was my fault, he came into the room and I couldn’t get him to leave.”
“What?” Peter came running over to you, hands flying to your arms, warm eyes raking across your face. “Of course it’s not your fault. You didn’t let him in here. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve fought harder.” You argued, slinking your way over to the bed, Peter letting you slip from his hold for just a moment before he sat next to you. “I should’ve punched him or something when I had the chance. I just… he started touching me and…”
“And you froze.” Peter said gently, and you slowly turned to him, his face slightly blurry through the forming tears. “It’s normal to freeze, you were scared. I see it all the time.”
“Yeah, but I—“ You tried to argue when his arm wrapped around you.
“It’s not your fault.” Peter said, voice dripping with earnest. “Nothing about what happened was your fault, and your reaction was normal.”
You let the tears fall, burying your head in your hands as Peter pulled you closer, his head leaning down to rest against yours. His other arm wrapped around you, just holding you there as you cried softly. It was like you could still feel Brad touching you, but the longer Peter held you, the more you listened to his steady heartbeat, the fire on your skin began to disappear.
“I’m sorry.” You whispered.
“It’s okay.” Peter whispered back. “You don’t have to be sorry. And I’m not leaving, okay? I’ll be right next to you for the rest of the trip.”
You let out a small laugh, half choked around your tears as you turned your head to look at him, him moving away slightly so that you could. God, Peter was always just so sweet, a heart way too big for him. He really did deserve to be Spider-Man, was probably one of the only people kind enough to put on that mask and never go down a darker path despite all the pain.
“What?” Peter smiled, and you realized that you had just been staring at him.
“You’re just so nice.” You admitted.
Peter let out a small, nervous laugh, a blush slowly forming on his cheeks. He was never good at taking compliments. “Thanks. I think you’re nice, too.”
“Thanks.” You laughed.
Peter smiled, leaning his head against yours again. “I love you.” He whispered against your ear.
You leaned into his side, letting him block out the rest of the world. “I love you, too.”
↬ warnings: some freak shit with henry, but nothing nsfw
↬ notes: there's sort of an established relationship between you and the guys here! can you tell i don't really write a lot of kissing scenes... don't answer that
𝐊𝐞𝐧
• the first time ken tried to kiss you, it was quite possibly the most awkward thing in the world. a combination of too much teeth, and an odd amount of smacking noises to accompany it. if you hadn't known any better, you would have thought he was trying to replicate something off of a cartoon show.
• actually. knowing ken, thats exactly what was going on.
• he gets better at it, the two of you make sure of that. you had originally introduced kissing lessons as a joke, but ken had been so damn excited about learning that you couldn't find it in you to say no— even if your face felt like it was on fire the whole time. thankfuly the doll didnt seem to mind.
• its a lot for him to remember at first ("don't rush into it, the other person may be caught off guard," "some teeth is okay, but too much and you'll get hurt," "take care of your dental hygiene," "make sure that they aren't trying to pull away before,") but youre a good enough teacher that he can't bring himself to care.
• really the whole thing is a charade merely disguised as lessons in order to spend disgusting amounts of time together. but when both of you are sitting on your living room couch, one hand on ken's chest and the other cupping his jaw softly while you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you can't help but think it was the greatest idea you'd ever had.
you pull away from ken for the first time in nearly a minute, tongue coming out to dart at your swollen lips as you looked at him.
the blond was sitting against the far side of the couch, chest heaving and eyes scruntched up at the corners as he looked at you. his shirt (a tasteful hawaiian flannel, with striped shorts and flip flops to match) was wrinkled and unbuttoned. he looked, for a lack of better words, dumbstruck.
"is it always like that?" ken asks after recovering a little, scooting towards you more as he asks the question. his tone is one of excitement and wonder, and you cant stop a grin from breaking out on your face. "can we do it again?"
"woah woah, hold your horses cowboy." you huff out a small laugh, not missing the way his head perks up at the mention of horses. "give me a second to breathe. i don't know exactly how your lungs work, but i need at least a minute to recover after a kiss like.... that."
"was it not good?" came the next query. you heard the blatant insecurity in his tone, and read even more of on his face. you couldn't stop your chest from seizing a bit at the sight, immediately doing your best to reassure him.
"it was amazing ken, really." you spoke with a broad smile. you weren't just saying that, either. compared to the first kiss he had given you, this was worlds ahead. better than some of your past partners, if you said so yourself— not that they provided any real competition. none of them had tasted like fruit or whimpered when you ran a thumb over their jaw. god, you could listen to that sound all day...
"there are different kinds of kisses is all." you continue your explanation, weaving your fingers with kens in the meantime. running your fingers over his pulse point, you feel it jump a little. "some are shorter, some are rougher, and some are more intense. doesn't mean one is better than the other— that decision is up to you and your partner."
"that's you, right?"
"yes buddy, that's me." ken preens at you, doing a little arm pump at the confirmation that he was right.
"so which one do you like more? 'cause i could do all of them— can we do all of them? i mean, if you want to!"
right, back to the task at hand.
you feel a mischevious grin tugging at the corner of your lips, reaching out to grab the proverbial opportunity that had been given to you.
"i don't know ken, i've never thought about that before. you know, we may just have to try them all. what do you think?"
the giggle he lets out is a good enough answer for you.
• theres a certain charm to the way that ken goes about asking you for a kiss after he gets the hang of it (or about as much "hang" that a living doll can get). sort of akin to a child who wants to ask for something, but is too shy to speak up. more often than not, you'll find him hovering around or behind you. never close enough to touch, but definitely close enough to crowd. he barely registers it either, only stepping back if you ask aloud, and always with a bit of a crestfallen expression. its those moments that you have to take the extra time to explain 'no ken, i'm not mad, i need you to move so i can reach the stove'
• you've, essentially, created a monster. a tall, beach blond monster who can only be satiated with a kiss. good luck trying to explain the do's and don't of PDA to him... you're going to need it.
𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦
• with henry, the kiss always comes from a sense of desperation. a crushing need to be close to you, to grab you as tight as he can and not let go— almost like he's afraid you'll dissapear into smoke if he doesn't.
• his favorite place to kiss you, aside from the obvious, would be your hands. he positively preens when you run your hands through his hair or dance them across his face as gentle as can be, so it's no surprise that he takes a special interest in them. henry always leans into them with a careful look, placing a slow kiss to your palm or knuckles before saddling closer by your side to plant more. they're never less passionate than the ones he pressed to your mouth, just.. different.
• henry likes knowing that he's yours, and vice versa. a kiss reassures him, in a way, that you're still there— wherever there happens to be that day. often times it's your appartment or walking down the streets together. occasionally a shop or two if no one seems to be around to complain.
• theres a deeper part of henry, a darker part of him, that yearns for the taste of copper during a kiss. the urge to bite at your lip until blood spills into his mouth, tongue immediately soothing over the mark in reassurance, is constant. even in the sweetest moments those feelings will show their ugly head, prompting a shudder to roll through his body at the very thought.
• occasionally, he imagines you doing the same to him.
henry is burning up. he can hardly breathe as his hands search for purchase on your clothes. he's panting heavily, pupils blown out to the point where you could barely see the ring of blue around them. his head feels like it's full of static— his lips even more.
a stray drop of blood drips onto the floor unceremoniously, barely staining the tip of his shoe. a few more lie beside it, having fallen just moments before. a testimony to the teeth-shaped indent on his bottom lip that tasted like you.
you're in no better shape than henry is, really. you're breathing just as hard as him, and there's a splotch of red smeared messily by the corner of your mouth, ("like lipstick," henry thinks faintly) although he knows it isn't yours. did he want it to be? no, that was for later.
"was that okay?" you have the audacity to ask him that while he struggles not to beg for more. you, staring at him with a curious expression and that worried look in your eye— as if you hadn't just given him everything he wanted.
henry doesnt answer you; not verbally anyways. he doesnt need to when he's already back to kissing you again, practically moaning into your mouth as he tastes the tangy salt and blood between you all at once. you reciprocate the action, your tongue occasionally poking at his wound in what he hoped was an attempt to tease him. it was filthy and quite possibly derranged, but that made him love it even more.
• freak to the max about that kind of stuff, what can i say. "always the quite ones," as you once put it. he had just taken another drag of his cigarette at that, blowing the smoke to the side as he grinned that small grin of his. the one he knew you loved.
• any sort of relationship with henry letham of all people is going to be weird and sort-of-macabre, and by extent the kissing, but the two of you make it work. he'll ramble on about the work of the late-great tristian rêveur while you lie there next to him patiently, a little bit of his blood still clinging to the corner of your lips. it's not perfect, but it's undoubtedly and irrevocably the two of you, and that's all that matters.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫
• okay. we've all seen the movie. there's no sense in pretending that this man would kiss you with anything less than the passion of a thousand supernovas. that's just a fact.
• whether you believe it comes from a place of self-confidence and heat, or a much more desperate part of him, driver will always give you his undivided attention. thats just who he is. methodical— obsessive, even. every word and small touch to your back as he pulls you closer is carefully planned out beforehand.
• it's a sign of trust to him, really.
• he's no stranger to soft pecks on the cheek or lips, don't get me wrong, driver just prefers the ever-encompasing feeling of your mouth on his, tongues dancing around each other as you both take your time mapping out each individual detail. everything about you is intoxicating to the point where driver wants to drown in it.. sometimes he thinks he just might. wouldn't be the worst way to go.
• he definitely uses chapstick. nothing too flavorful, (unless you like that, then he'd reconsider) just enough to keep them from cracking or drying out. he finds that it makes for a much more enjoyable kiss either way, and you agree.
• it's also my strong belief that driver has definitely forgotten to take his toothpick out once or twice before going in for a kiss, resulting in a little poke. you always wave it off, but the first time it had happened he'd looked positively mortified (or about as mortified as he could get). thankfully, driver's been pretty mindful about it since then, always making sure to toss the thing or settle it behind his ear before pecking you.
• in spite of the rest of his fast paced lifestyle, driver is not really a big fan of PDA. it's simply too much attention on somebody with too many criminal ties, and he'd rather die than risk your saftey. but on the off chance that he's feeling risky, it's usually after a nice cruise through the streets with you.
driver's steady hands are cradling the sides of your face as the two of you stand beside his car— a new one he just picked up from sharon. you had asked to tag along that day, always jumping at the opertunity to be in the front seat with him. his favorite habit of yours was how your hand always seemed to find his on the road, fingers interlocking as you let him whisk you away on whatever road he had in mind.
the flickering white light from above casts an irregular shadow across driver's face while he recalls all of this. it draws out the intensity of his eyes as his gaze darts from your eyes to your nose and to your lips. even here, standing in a dingy underground parking garage, he can't help but think that you looked stunning.
your own arms were wrapped around drivers middle, squeezing lightly as you admired him back. the two of you often had moments like this. moments where driver seemed incapable of doing anything but soaking you in, almost overwhelmed with the realization that you loved him just as much as he loved you. living on one's own for so long takes its toll on the importance behind human touch, and driver had been deprived of it (of you) for far too long.
nothing was said as you craned your head slightly upwards, lips carefully capturing his own in a soft kiss. nothing had to be; it was a familiar motion between the two of you by now.
driver accepts the display of affection with a barely audible hum, showing his appreciation as his mouth begins to move in tandem with your own. he can taste the faint remnants of the toothpaste you used this morning before he picked you up, and it brings him comfort. everything about you to him is comforting. safe. the one part of his life that he's been allowed to really, truly enjoy. and enjoy himself, he would.
eventually you had to break away, much to driver's disappointment. if he had it his way, he'd be glued at your side at all times, there to angle your lips towards his at any point. but then again, if he had it his way, nothing would end up getting done. your appartment had seen enough evidence of that— you'd lost count of the amount of times you'd shown up late to something because driver couldn't keep his lips (or hands) off of you.
you reach to press one last kiss to his lips, an unspoken promise for more. "come on, let's get inside before someone complains."
"let them." came his only response before dipping back down for another. he ends up chasing your lips instead, mouth twitching into a barely-there smile as you pull away with a teasing laugh. you're already making your way towards the elevator, grinning at him as if to say 'catch up'. you barely make it there before he's got you by your wrist, interlocking your fingers and pulling you into his chest gently.
"sucker." you mummble against his jacket, but driver hears the unmistakeable smile in your tone.
as he leans down for yet another kiss, he can help but think that you're right.
toxic attending! dennis who inherited some of robby’s..unsavory traits, he has a bit of an affinity for bedding med students. he’s not brazen about it, no. it’s a slow development, testing the waters really. he’s weirdly sweet about it, more intimate. a gentle hand a kind word…
“so much potential” he says. voice full of nothing but pride.
brings you in on the interesting cases under the guise of teaching which technically, he is. talking you through procedures softly always standing a bit too close. tips of his shoes brushing the backs of yours. his breath on the back of your neck causing you to waiver, indiscernible to anyone else, but obvious to him. coaxing you through every incision every suture. voice steady and low.
reverberating around your skull as you take in the information. lodging deep into your brain as you attempt to concentrate. every word sliding down your spine sticking to your spinal cord in an utterly satisfying way they really shouldn’t.
then it’s the compliments, starting small. your perfume or cologne, a new hair style, how nice your smile is. he eyes you in a way that hides his intentions gaze impossibly soft— especially for what he’s thinking about doing to you. doing so that creates plausible deniability if he were to get caught in his stare.
you feel him lean towards you a moment before pulling back. you yourself leant up against the hub, ipad in hand looking over the charting for your last patients. the warmth radiating from his skin gone before you can even properly process it.
“you smell different, it’s nice.” clean, simple, like it’s an obvious observation.
“you know how I usually smell?” is what you want to say, but you don’t. you lick over your bottom lip tugging it between the blunt of your teeth and reply.
“I don’t— have anything on today. I was rushing this morning and forgot it so..”
he hums, knuckles rapping twice against the counter eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. nodding, then looking back into your eyes. something that mirrors amusement swimming in the striking blue.
“you, smell nice then.” he corrects. smiles and walks away. leaving you reeling from the small comment. the most minuscule of changes to the sentence making his words take on a completely new meaning.
—
his hands somehow always finding an excuse to rest on you. herding you in the direction he needs you in while speaking out commands. fingers resting at the base of your neck curling around the sensitive skin there. barely sparing you a glance when he feels you take in a sharp breath. nudging you when he passes, a silent way to say “follow me” incredibly pleased when you follow dutifully behind him.
always finding some exposed skin to brush over, enough to make you feel it. to feel how his touch sears at your flesh minutes after he’s long gone. hand an inch too low on your back finger tips barely dipping below your waistband in a way that can be written off as an accident.
it’s gradual, his acquisition of you. persuading a soft obedience into your psyche. molding you up into a student who feels most comfortable with him. who always looks to him, seeks him out. seeks out his guidance, his praise, his correction. it’s not hard really, not when you already look at him like he’s your answer. eyes bright and eager, he loves how eager you are. to please him specifically, you light up so brightly when you do something to his approval. like your entire body becomes feather light when he smiles at you offering kind words like wine at communion. each step bouncier than the last, smile a little wider and eyes soft.
“good work in there, not every student would have caught that.”
he muses, pulling off the bloody blue latex to dispose of it in the trash. chancing a look at you over his shoulder and the sight nearly does him in, he could almost coo. there you stand scrubs blood soaked, face sweaty with a beaming smile on your all too enticing lips. matching the glimmer in your eye and— oh, there it is, that full bodied reaction to his simple words. your entire body preening under his view.
“thank you— dr. whitaker!”
your mouth moves quicker than your mind does making your words stumble out between clumsy breaths. no doubt due to the adrenaline pumping through your veins. your pulse must be hammering through the thin flesh over top it, he’s certain. wanting to press his fingers to the line and count the beats. 115? 130? he wants to know now, right this second but he’s patient, you have to be with these things. robby taught him that much.
how far would you go to please him he wonders, how far would praise get him with you. he hates to say it but, you’re easy. so very easy it’s almost laughable. so, pretty far he assumes, far enough to have you bent over in his backseat after a shift. sun barely dipping past horizon when taking him to the hilt like it’s your job and to an extent it is because he made it that way. made it your job, one you seemingly enjoy based on how your body responds to his every touch.
he always knew you would end up beneath him, that eagerness you showed in the scrutiny of the emergency department. translating beautifully into how you throw yourself back on him trembling hands gripping the door in front of your head. meeting his thrusts like it was routine— as of now it wasn’t but soon it would be. moaning his name through the gaps in his fingers that attempt to muffle your sounds like secondary nature. never dennis though, not his name. purely his title, because that’s not who he was to you now or ever would be. he was your attending. plain and simple.
“d-octor whit—whitaker..!” you stutter. the title you’d called him so many times before now sounding completely new to his ears.
Can I request Dennis older brother Reader coming to Pittsburgh to check up on him because he hasn’t answered his calls and texts and just worries about his little brother being all alone in the big city
Overprotective Older Brother (Dennis Whitaker x Whitaker!Brother!Reader)
Hiya!! Thank you so much for sending this request, I live for familial fics lol! I hope you enjoy it!!
Warnings: mentions of abuse, homophobia, feels, the f-slur is used once in reference to something someone said (trying to keep it vague but informative), reader has a black eye, swearing
It had been a long journey filled with planes and bus rides. But finally, finally, PTMC was in front of you. Heading in, you give your name to the receptionist and explain that you need to talk to your brother and she lets you head on in after checking your ID. The emergency department is chaotic but you ignore it in favour of trying to find your brother.
“Excuse me?” You approach the nurses station, as a woman with blonde hair looks up, Dana her badge says.
“What can I do you for?” She asks, placing her pen down.
“I'm looking for a Dennis Whitaker?”
“(Y/N)?”
“Dennis,” Relief floods through you, seeing your brother alive and okay in front of you. He was thinner and dark circles had taken residence under his eyes - both things you were going to have to sort out later.
“What are you doing here? And what happened to your eye?” He took in the bruise that was beginning to darken around your eye.
“You weren’t answering my calls,” You said, “I was worried.”
“You came all the way here, because you were worried?” He asked, leading you to a quieter corner of the ED, not wanting gossip to spread like wildfire.
You frowned, “Of course. You're my little brother.” You study him for a moment, seeing the apprehension in his eyes, the hesitation. “Kid, I'm not pissed that you left.”
His shoulders deflate and you can see the redness starting to form under his eyes almost immediately. “Dad called me after we spoke just before Christmas, you know.” Dennis admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “He told me to cut contact with you, that he wouldn’t have you tainted with my sins, that it would ruin you.”
“He said what?” Your face drained of all colour, “I can’t believe him. He’s full of shit.”
When Dennis stays silent, fiddling anxiously with the bottom of his top, your frown deepens. “What else did he say?” You ask, “I know dad, he doesn’t meddle by halves.”
Dennis sighs, running a hand over his face, “He said you were too nice to tell me yourself that you want nothing to do with a fag like me.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill him.” You growl, “He told you that? Denny, I couldn’t care less if you’re gay, or that you left the farm to pursue your dreams. Fuck, I’m proud of you for doing that, and having the balls to be who you are.”
“It wasn’t that ballsy,” Dennis mumbled.
“Dennis, you stood up for yourself, you chose what you wanted to do in your own life, you looked that big bastard in the eyes and told him you wanted to be a doctor and that you’re gay, that’s the ballsiest thing I’ve seen in my life.”
Dennis looks down at his hands at that and your stomach sinks, “Kid, I have never been prouder of anything or anyone else.” You said, “I tell anyone who’ll listen about my kid brother who’s a doctor- hell, I told three people on the plane alone.”
“You are?” His voice is small, timid. And all you think about is the five year old boy who would wake you up during the night from bad dreams about your parents yelling. You don’t think, simply pulling him into a deep embrace. God, he was shorter than you remember, unless he’d shrunk?
“Always.” Your voice is hoarse, the thought that your brother has gone months - minimum - thinking you weren’t proud of him hurt. “I always will be. Don’t listen to our parents, especially dad, he’s always been a dick.”
Your brother can’t help but huff a laugh at that and it eases the ache in your chest a little. “You really mean that?”
“Kid, you liking guys changes absolutely nothing.” You reassure, letting your chin rest on top of his head. “You’ve always been my favourite brother.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, have you seen Ethan and Caleb?” You snort and Dennis gives a quiet laugh and a sniff. “I’ve always got your back, kiddo. I don’t care who you end up spending your life with, as long as they make you happy and as long as they treat you right.”
“Is that where you got the shiner from? From Ethan and Caleb?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” You dismissed.
Despite your reassurances, Dennis pulls away, “Seriously, (Y/N), what happened?”
“Dad,” You gave a shrug, quickly continuing when Dennis goes to speak. “I’m fine, Denny, I’m an adult, it doesn’t hurt, and I got a hit in too.”
“You punched dad?” He asks, eyes wide.
“He was being an ass.” You scoffed, “He deserved it, trust me.”
“Jesus, (Y/N)-!”
“No, you’re not allowed to lecture me, you’re younger than me.” You cut him off, grinning when he groans.
“He’s gonna be so pissed at you when you go back.”
You shrug, “It was worth it.” You answered, “I needed to check in on my little brother.”
“But still-”
“Dennis, I am an old man, I can take care of myself.”
“You’re not that old.”
“Dude, I’m like thirty six.”
“Still.” You shrug, “Besides, I’m debating finally moving out,”
“Yeah?” Dennis frowned, “Where were you thinking? Has Mr Brown’s property gone up for sale yet?”
“Yeah, Caleb’s talking about pricing with him.” You said, “But I was thinking somewhere a bit further out, like, pfft, maybe Pittsburgh?”
